Quick Fix

by Linda Grimes

  Later, when we had finished eating and James was speaking to me again (What? Anyone would have laughed—flour flying everywhere is intrinsically hilarious), we drew straws to see who would be the one to deliver Molly back to her mother. James thought it should be Billy because he was, after all, her brother. Billy thought it should be James because the whole orangutan thing happened due to a mishap at his lab. I didn’t really care, as long as it wasn’t me. I was still trying to live down my postparty encounter with Auntie Mo and the wastebasket.

  “Hey, no fair,” I said after holding up my piece of the broom next to the others. “You guys cheated somehow.”

  “Impossible,” James said. “Molly held them while we drew. Now, if you want to accuse her…”

  The innocent look on my youngest cousin’s face was the same one I’d seen on her brother a thousand times before. Of course she’d cheated. She wanted her girl time.

  “Fine,” I said. “But just so you know, when Auntie Mo goes off on a rampage about why we didn’t tell her about Molly as soon as it happened, I’m throwing you guys under the bus.”

  Chapter 24

  Auntie Mo took the whole thing better than I thought she would. And by “better,” I mean I was still alive. My ears would take a while to recover, and Molly might not see the outside of her room this side of thirty, but all things considered it wasn’t too bad. I’d be concerned about what Mo said she was going to do to Billy when she saw him again, but, as Molly so eloquently put it in the taxi on the way over, “Billy can get away with anything with Mom. He’s a boy.”

  Uncle Liam was a whole ’nother ball of wax, though. I’d like to have a glass against the door when he found out what had happened to his baby girl on Billy’s watch. The legendary Doyle charm Billy had inherited from his father didn’t work nearly as well when it was directed back at its source. It’s tough to charm a charmer.

  But I suspected Billy wasn’t fretting about it at the moment. He was more concerned with finding out Harvey’s part in whatever was going on. He thought there might be a connection between Harvey and Suze—that Suze might even be a spook sent to find out if Brian was an adaptor, the same way Billy feared he himself might be Laura’s assignment.

  Personally, I was trying hard not to worry about Brian. If Suze was a spook, and had the kind of training I knew Mark and Laura did, Brian wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

  Walking over to a bigger street to catch another cab, I dialed Thomas, hoping not only to find out more about Laura, but also to see if he’d had a chance to question Monica. Billy had, of course, told James that Monica was still alive, which relieved my brother greatly, but we were all still concerned about her involvement in the whole mess. Who had asked her to refer Thelma Parker (if that was even my client’s real name) to me?

  It went straight to voice mail. Fuck, I thought. Or perhaps I left it on his voice mail. Whatever. Maybe he’d return my call sooner.

  Next, I tried Brian. Same thing. No answer. I hung up without leaving a similarly pithy message, since he was still recovering from the shock about Suze and all.

  My phone vibrated as I was stuffing it back into my pocket. Sure it was Thomas responding to my less-than-ladylike language, I answered fast, without looking to see who it was. Big mistake.

  “Ciel Colleen Halligan, you better be on your way home right this instant. I just talked to Mo, and she told me what happened to sweet little Molly. I want to hear everything. You can tell me on the way to the photo shoot.”

  Gaaah! “Mom, I can’t work for you today. I’m busy.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you can. You’re here in town, and I know you don’t have a job of your own scheduled until next week.”

  “Who told you that?” I was going to kill the rat bastard, whoever it was.

  “Molly mentioned to Mo that you girls had plans for the day. And since Molly has now been grounded, I know you’re free.”

  Damn. Back in D.C., I’d promised Molly plenty of girl time after the party, since I’d had to work while she was there visiting. Cursed by my own kindness. “What about Auntie Mo? She’s your partner. Shouldn’t she be working with you?”

  “Well, she was going to, but now she isn’t going to let Molly out of her sight for the foreseeable future,” she said, skipping the usual filial-duty spiel and heading straight for guilt. There is no good argument against maternal guilt. Trust me, I’ve tried them all.

  “Fine. I’m on my way.”

  As soon as I disconnected I redialed Brian to remind him of our bargain. Recovering from heartbreak or not, he owed me. Besides, it might help take his mind off Suze. When you really thought about it, it was the nice thing to do.

  Only he still didn’t pick up. This time I left the pithy comment.

  *

  Central Park on a nice day is spectacular. You can see why so many Manhattan-based photographers choose it as a backdrop. Well, that and the fact that it’s a damn handy outdoor space. The clock is the clock, and paying models by the hour is expensive enough without adding travel time.

  Mom was in her element as a tall, willowy black model who was a dead ringer for Iman in her younger days. (Mom had made it a point to collect celebrity energy whenever she had the opportunity, going back years.) She always added a few differences other than the age, of course, so no one would get suspicious. For her “Immie,” they were green eyes instead of brown, a slightly larger bust, and a generic American accent instead of an exotic Somali one. But all the charisma was there for the camera, and that’s what counted.

  I was “Krissie,” the Christie Brinkley knockoff aura. Mom thought her Krissie was wholesome, like me. A way taller, immensely curvier, tons more gorgeous wholesome than me (my opinion, not Mom’s; she thought I was the prettiest thing ever to grace the earth—moms are deluded like that), but wholesome nonetheless. Krissie’s main difference from the real thing was her sherry-colored eyes.

  After two hours in the back of the photographer’s van I practically jumped out of my seat when the makeup artist released me. My claustrophobia was kicking in, and pit stains on a ten-thousand-dollar designer dress would not make Mom’s client happy. Besides, I was in a hurry to get somewhere I could answer the umpteen messages that had vibrated against my thigh while I’d been painted, polished, and poufed. (Seriously, what was with the sixties hair and makeup? It wasn’t pretty the first time around.)

  Hiding the phone had been necessary—Mom didn’t allow personal cell phones along on her jobs. She wanted everyone to stay on task.

  “Daaarling, that’s perfect!” Crap. Waylaid by the photographer as soon as I stepped out onto the street. “You’re perfect! The day is perfect! And I am going to improve upon that perfection!” He was tall (half a head taller than model-me in heels, which was saying something), lightning-rod thin, and humming with creative energy. Dressed in black from beret to wingtip ankle boots, he was flanked by two (short, nondescript) assistants, each yoked with three cameras, ready to anticipate his every photographic need.

  We’d worked together on a shoot the previous summer—and no telling how many more when I hadn’t been the one called into service as Krissie—so I suppose I should have remembered his name, but apparently I’d blocked it from my mind. Something Frenchified. Andre? Phillipe? No, wait … Lumière. Like the candlestick in Beauty and the Beast. Somebody had illusions of lighting up the world of fashion photography.

  “Oh you!” I said, playfully batting my fake lashes at him. “You’re always such a flatterer.”

  “Every word is true. You mark my words: After this job, demand for your services is going to skyrocket! You won’t be able to breathe for the attention, I promise. I’m probably shooting myself in the foot by giving you this kind of exposure. Why, I won’t be able to afford you myself!”

  I demurred, as expected, and was spared from any more gushing by my mother’s exit from the van. Lumière and his bookends dropped me like yesterday’s gossip and hurried to the true star of the shoot.

>   “Immie! Daaaarling…”

  While Mom soaked up their adulation (if only they knew how she laughed about it at the end of the day, imitating them to perfection for Dad), I wandered down the street a bit (under the watchful eye of yet another of the photographer’s assistants), and tried to sneak my phone out from under the dress.

  “Can I help you with that?” a familiar fuck-me voice said, making me wince. I lifted my head to look straight into Devon Spencer’s violet eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked without thinking.

  “Same thing you are,” he said with a lazy grin. Those pouty lips were definitely model material.

  I bit back the urge to ask if James knew what he did for a living. How could I explain knowing James?

  “Um, yeah. Duh. Silly me.” I shrugged it off, hoping he’d take it for dumb-blonde ditziness.

  “It’s been a while,” he said.

  Okay, so he must have worked with Krissie before, when either Mom or Auntie Mo was using the aura. “Yeah, it has,” I said, and then jumped as my phone vibrated again.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine—” Bzzz! “—really. Just a little, um—” Bzzz! “—you know…”

  He cocked his head in a very attractive manner. I was sure he’d practiced it in front of a mirror. “Listen, if you need something…” he said casually, with just the slightest emphasis on “something.” What the fuck? Was he offering me drugs? Mom sure as hell wouldn’t tolerate that.

  “No! I don’t need a thing. Well, except a … a ladies’ room.” Preferably one with a private stall. “You know how it is. Drinking all that vitaminwater for the glowing complexion…” I shrugged, keeping it casual. Just two models talking shop.

  He nodded sympathetically, and my thigh buzzed again. I shook my leg surreptitiously—it was tickling the hell out of me—and my garter slipped. I grabbed for my phone. Too late. It hit the sidewalk faceup, displaying a picture of James.

  Devon, playing the gentleman, reached down and picked it up for me before I could get to it. And, of course, immediately recognized my brother’s face. Crap.

  “Well, well. It seems we have an acquaintance in common,” he said, narrowing his eyes and holding on to my phone.

  “Um, yeah. He’s … he’s just a guy my, um, sister is trying to fix me up with. He’s the TA in one of her classes. She’s in college. She’s the brainy one.…” I trailed off into a weak laugh.

  “Is that a fact?” He still didn’t seem inclined to hand over the phone.

  “Yeah. But he doesn’t seem all that interested, you know? I thought he’d be a nice change from photographers and male models…” Oops. “Er, not that there aren’t some very nice male models. It’s just that so many of them are…” Crap!

  “Gay?” he supplied helpfully.

  I felt my cheeks blaze. “Look, just give me back my fucking phone, okay?” I grabbed it from him and stalked away.

  *

  The shoot went pretty much without incident, except for Devon looking at me curiously whenever he wasn’t obeying the photographer’s orders to make love to the camera (which he was really good at—I suspected he practiced that in front of a mirror, too). He and “Immie” got along very well. They’d obviously worked together before.

  We’d been to several locations in the park, each time driven there by a hired stretch limo (the van being used for equipment and props), which disappeared when it wasn’t needed to transport us. Can’t just leave vehicles parked anywhere. The park police frown on that sort of thing.

  The makeup artist touched us up every few minutes, blotting shine or adding glow as necessary, per the photographer’s orders. What the difference between “shine” (bad) and “glow” (good) was, I hadn’t a clue, but I bore with it, reminding myself that at least my bank account would be substantially healthier at the end of the day.

  We wound up at the Conservatory Garden, next to the Untermyer Fountain, where Devon, Mom, and I held hands and danced like the three maidens in the statue.

  “Now for the money shot!” Lumière yelled.

  Devon seemed to know what he meant, and started twirling faster, his customary sexy pout replaced with a wide smile. When he had us sufficiently disoriented, and situated in just the right spot, he let go of our hands. Mom and I tumbled backward into the fountain pool.

  I came up sputtering. “Shit on a shingle! Why the hell did you do that?” I yelled.

  “Keep going!” the photographer shouted, switching cameras with one of his lackeys, and shooting away.

  Mom, who’d looked every bit as surprised as I had been, recovered quickly and got into the playful Zen of the moment. She beckoned to Devon, who, to his credit, stepped right into the water and held out his hands to resume our warped game of Ring Around the Rosie. I, of course, took the first opportunity to trip him.

  “Fantastic! Beautiful! Perfect!” Lumière proclaimed.

  Well, yeah. I thought so. But I resisted the urge to bow.

  Lumière’s directions continued, loud and fast. “Stand up, Devon. Shake your head. Good … now, all of you hug! That’s right. Now look at me. Make love to the camera!”

  It’s hard to be sultry when your dripping-wet beehive is straggling around your face, but for Mom’s sake I tried. Think I managed pretty well, too, until Devon, his mouth close to my ear, whispered, “Which Halligan are you?”

  What the fuck? He knew? My mouth fell open.

  “Perfect!”

  *

  While Mom was in the back of the van changing, I dragged Devon aside. “Just what did you mean by that?”

  “Scrappy. You must be Ciel.”

  Crap. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re not making any sense. Have you been taking something?”

  “Nice try, but I don’t use. My body is a temple, and all that.” He said it with an ironic twist of his lovely lips, but I suspected he meant it. You don’t maintain looks like his without a certain reverence for the flesh.

  “Maybe somebody slipped something into your wheat germ smoothie when you weren’t looking,” I tried.

  “Give it up, Ciel. I know who you are and what you can do.”

  I was about to panic when it hit me. “Billy?”

  He laughed. “Took you long enough, cuz.”

  I slugged his arm. He yelped.

  “Hey, don’t blame me. It was your mother who called me in a tizzy because she couldn’t find Devon anywhere.”

  “Why would Mom call you about Devon?”

  “She didn’t. She called me to find out if I knew why James wasn’t answering his cell phone. When I told her I hadn’t a clue, she begged me to track down Devon using whatever nefarious means I had at my disposal—what on Earth does she think I do, anyway?—and haul his ass to the shoot. When I couldn’t find him, I did the generous thing and took his place. It was the least I could do for my dear aunt.”

  “Whoa. Mom said ‘ass’?”

  “Of course not. She asked me to ‘escort him firmly.’ I was paraphrasing.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me who you were sooner?”

  “Because, my darling twit, at first I thought you were my mother. I do not want Mommo to know I did this for Ro. God knows, I don’t need either one of them thinking I’m available for this sort of thing in the future.”

  Okay. I could buy that. “But after you saw my cell phone?” I pressed.

  His violet eyes glinted with a suspiciously Doyle-like shine. “Well, after that it was just fun.”

  I wound up for another slug, which he easily blocked, taking me in his arms and pinning me for a kiss. After a token resistance, I joined in. It was Billy, after all, and if I was honest, I had been curious. The luscious mouth might have been Devon’s, but that thing he did … well, that was pure Billy. And it got me every freaking time.

  Chapter 25

  “Never again, Mom.”

  We were back at the parental homestead, Immie and Krissie dropped as soon as we were thr
ough the door. We’d each had a hot shower, and I was curled up next to her on the deep, overstuffed, red velvet sofa, my head on her lap as she stroked my damp hair.

  While in the bathroom, I’d returned James’s call. Fortunately, after Devon—or rather, Billy—had discovered my phone at the shoot, I’d stowed it with my street clothes, so it hadn’t been dunked along with me. All James had wanted was to find out how it had gone with Auntie Mo, and to ask if Molly’s aura was holding. I reassured him that Mo hadn’t killed me and that Molly hadn’t resprouted any fur, and hung up without going into Devon’s lack of job responsibility. That wasn’t James’s problem.

  On the limo ride home I’d asked Mom about Devon. “Oh, he’s one of your brother’s friends,” she’d said, and explained how she’d met him one day when she was delivering a calamari casserole (with sweet cream drizzle—urk!) to James’s apartment. She’d been blown away by his beauty, and had given him one of her business cards. They’d worked together several times since, though he was under the impression she just owned and operated the agency, and didn’t realize most of the models he worked with were her.

  She was a little afraid he might not prove to be reliable, since she’d had to send Billy to find him this morning. But she supposed that was just his artistic temperament, and he had apologized sweetly for his tardiness (must have been when I was getting sewn into my dress), so she guessed she could make allowances. Especially since he was such a good friend to James.

  She hadn’t gone into what kind of friend, and apparently didn’t know about the breakup (and possible subsequent make-up), so I hadn’t, either. Time enough for all that when things settled down.

  “I mean it this time. No more photo shoots,” I stated. Firmly.

  It was part of the ritual we went through after every job I worked with her. I complained; she listened. She’d think something was seriously wrong with me if I didn’t whine about it.

  “Yes, dear,” she said, and patted my cheek.

  “No, really. I’m not putting on one of your model auras ever again. Something always goes wrong.”