I recognize the bride.
It’s the photographer’s own niece Kimberly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The little finagler is married?
Of that, there can be no doubt. This is a wedding if ever I’ve seen one, complete with church ceremony, horse-drawn carriage, release of doves, and gigantic candlelit reception. Hundreds of people are in attendance.
And the bride is Kimberly. There are no names on the site, but even massively dolled up I recognize the Machiavellian schemer. She went all out on her wedding day, from her beaded Jimmy Choo stilettos to her upswept curls studded with pearls. The poor dupe who married her, traditionally referred to as the groom, is a moderately attractive dark-haired man who looks a few years her senior.
These days Kimberly doesn’t wear a wedding or engagement ring, but there is a close-up of both in the photo gallery. I am struck by their modesty relative to the rest of this nuptial extravaganza.
With a wedding of this grandeur, I bet there was an announcement in The New York Times. Sure enough, there was. It appeared on Sunday, August 24. So it was five months ago that Kimberly Drayson married … Damian Paganos.
As this shocking news careens from one end of my brain to the other, I struggle to remember what I know about mystery man Damian Paganos. One fact comes to mind: to quote Uncle Jerry, Damian was “seeing” Lisette. And as I recall, it is clear from Lisette’s phone that they exchanged a goodly number of calls and texts.
So Damian was seeing Lisette even though he was married to Kimberly?
Yes, Uncle Jerry, I agree wholeheartedly with what you said in the ladies room: a man seeing one woman while being married to another creates a conflict of interest between those two females.
Maybe it would even create—I catch my breath—a motive for murder.
As that idea bats around in my head, becoming less outlandish by the second, I realize that something doesn’t add up. In the ladies room, Uncle Jerry was angry that he hadn’t known Damian was hooking up with Lisette. Shouldn’t he have been angry simply that Damian was hooking up with Lisette? Shouldn’t he have wanted to string up the brand-new husband of his beloved niece, whom, along with “Nonni,” he apparently played a big role in raising?
And why wasn’t Kimberly either spitting mad or sobbing buckets that her groom was involved with another woman?
Maybe because by that point her rival was lying in a chilled drawer in the morgue—and Kimberly had helped put her there.
I skim the wedding announcement, which contains no bombshell information. I do learn that Damian Paganos works as an electrician in theater production. That sounds like a fun job though not a very highly paid one. Maybe that explains the unassuming nature of Kimberly’s rings.
Why would Lisette have been drawn to Damian, I wonder? He’s good-looking enough but hardly god-like. His job isn’t prestigious by Longley standards and I’m guessing his bank account isn’t, either. Was she rebelling? Did she and Kimberly have a longstanding beef and Lisette was dating Damian to get revenge?
I toss my coffee cup in the trash and ponder the other question that looms large in my mind even though it has nothing to do with potential homicide. Does Jason know Kimberly is married? Somehow I believe he does not. I believe Kimberly has not seen fit to tell him.
It is a contemplative Happy Pennington who makes her way back to the box she departed an hour earlier. While Trixie and Bennie both appear riveted by the ongoing rehearsals, Shanelle is absent. Trixie leans over Bennie to whisper in my direction. “Shanelle left to call her mother. She wanted to take a walk.”
We exchange a meaningful look. Poor Shanelle. For both her sake and her mother’s, I hope she is not now receiving devastating news. At this very moment she could be standing on a street corner bawling her eyes out.
A half hour later, Oliver disrupts the action onstage. Bennie glances at his watch. “I miss your mom,” he tells me. “It’s really great that you let me come here, but do you mind if I go back?”
I’m starting to think that if you look up Really Nice Guy in the dictionary, you’ll find a photo of Bennie Hana. I pat his arm. “Not at all.” I force myself to add that I’m sure my mom misses him, too, though I doubt she really does.
Bennie stands up. “I had a really good idea. Room service from the Palm Court!”
That’s one of the Plaza’s restaurants, probably its most famous, world-renowned for its High Tea. People say the space is especially beautiful since its gorgeous stained-glass skylight was restored. You feel like you’re thrust back to the Great Gatsby era: F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda just might show up, throw back one glass of champagne too many, and dash off to do the Charleston in the nearest fountain.
“I don’t want your mother to miss High Tea,” Bennie tells me, “even though she won’t leave her room. So let’s have High Tea up there! You both come. Shanelle, too. My treat.”
Yet more proof of Bennie’s generosity. And while Trixie and I demur briefly, neither of us can resist that invitation for long. Trixie texts Enzo, who releases her and Shanelle until the evening’s preview, and then I text Shanelle, who says she’ll meet us at the hotel. I’m okay, she adds, which is mildly reassuring.
Since Bennie wants to place the order in person, Trixie and I beat him to my mother’s room. After we explain that Shanelle will be coming soon, I’m about to make a snide comment about how my mother honored us by actually getting dressed—quite nicely, too, in a black-and-white sheath with diamond and zigzag patterns—when the snark catches in my throat. “Your skin looks fabulous!” I cry.
Trixie’s hazel eyes bug out of her face. “It’s positively luminous.”
I thrust our coats in the closet next to the imposter fur and pull my mother to the window to scrutinize her in natural light. “The shininess is gone,” I report, “and your skin is amazingly radiant.”
My mother preens. “I did apply some of that leftover collagen this morning. Maybe that did it.”
“I wonder how long the effect will last,” Trixie breathes.
“It better last until tomorrow,” my mother says. “I told Jason that’s when I want that Kimberly to take photos.”
I’m sure that wily operator agreed, if for no other reason than to impress Jason with her sweetness and light. I wonder if she still makes that kind of effort for her husband.
I sink into an upholstered chair. Maybe it was the mention of Kimberly, or maybe I’m upset with my mother over her fur or how she treats Bennie, but for some reason I can’t resist needling her. “Since you’re so intent on holing yourself up in this room, Mom, you could be sitting around in a housedress.”
She looks horrified. “I didn’t bring any of those on this trip!”
“I guess not. But it really is a shame how all of us are dressed up and your skin isn’t shiny anymore but we still have to eat here rather than at the Palm Court.”
“That’s okay, it’ll still be fabulous,” Trixie says, proving once again that her spirit is more generous than mine. “But how will you explain it to Bennie, Mrs. P?”
“What’s to explain?” My mother waves a dismissive hand. “Men don’t know the first thing about skin. I told him those pores got opened up and now I’m prone to infection.”
“You’re going to get into trouble,” I say, “when he finds out you lost your fur.”
“I did not lose my fur!” my mother cries. Then she simmers down and perches on the edge of the bed. “Anyway, I’m not too worried. You’ll get it back. And as long as you do it by tomorrow morning, no problem.”
I can’t even protest that impossible assignment because Bennie shows up at the door. And I must say that in anticipation of the Palm Court’s High Tea, my mood lifts.
In Bennie’s wake is room service: two rolling trays rolled by servers who are also bearing additional chairs. They make quick work of arranging a seating for five by the window, which now in daylight I see affords a Central Park view. As they work, we ooh and aah over the stunning table
ware, china, and silver tea service.
The selection of sandwiches is dazzling, from the cucumber and egg salad you would expect to turkey with apricot chutney and prosciutto with gruyère on a baguette. Of course the scones are warm and served with clotted cream, preserves, and lemon curd. The three-tiered sweets tray makes my knees weak: éclairs with pink frosting and edible gold, pistachio macarons, mint-chocolate ganache, and a few varieties of fruit tart. There are over twenty tea options, their aromas described in detail, originating not only from China, Japan, and India, but Africa, too.
Thanks to Bennie spoiling us rotten, we start with sparkling wine. It’s a festive rosé, too. Bennie raises his flute. “It’s January, so we can still toast to the new year. Kanpai!”
Privately I’m also toasting to getting back my mother’s fur. We clink glasses and vow to toast again when Shanelle joins us. I’m not shy about digging into the food. “This is an incredible feast, Bennie. Thank you so much.”
“Just so you know, I’ve got big plans for this year,” Bennie says a few minutes later, drawing out the word big.
My ears perk up and I note that both Trixie and my mother stop chewing. I’m almost afraid to ask. “What kind of plans?”
“Hazel?” Bennie peers at her intently.
I steel myself, half expecting him to drop to one knee.
“I know you’ve never been outside the United States,” Bennie goes on. “So I want to take you to Japan!”
“Japan?” my mother squeals. She looks so shocked it’s as if Bennie proposed an intergalactic voyage to Mars.
“For the cherry blossoms! This spring. To my home prefecture of Aomori.”
“Your home prefecture?” I say. “Like where your family lives?”
“Wow! Japan!” Trixie yelps. “Mrs. P, how exciting!”
“Do I have to eat raw fish?” my mother wants to know.
Bennie roars. “Yes! But don’t worry about that.” He leans close to her. “I’ll take you to Hirosaki Castle, the best place to see cherry blossoms.”
“Is that where your family lives?” I ask again.
“Not at the castle!” Bennie cries. “In Hirosaki City, yes.”
There can no longer be any doubt, if there ever was. Bennie Hana has been kicked in the butt by love and the object of his affections is my mother. The fur coat and this trip to the Big Apple were only the start. Now he wants to escort her to his ancestral homeland, not only for the cherry blossoms but to meet his family. Forget Maggie’s bridal hopes and dreams: I think my mom is the one Fate is conspiring to send to the altar.
And amidst this exhibition of blossoming romance, all of us are gleefully enjoying Bennie’s kindness and generosity while covering up several big, bad factoids. Namely that my mother still hankers after my father, and to such an extent that she couldn’t be bothered to keep a firm grip on the Russian sable Bennie handpicked for her Christmas gift.
I feel horrible. My mother can’t keep leading Bennie on like this.
And if she won’t do something about it, I will feel compelled to intervene.
We hear a knock on the door. Trixie races over to admit Shanelle, who, despite her claim of being “okay,” nevertheless exhibits telltale puffiness around the eyes. “I’m fine,” she asserts as she hangs her coat in the closet. “Not that I couldn’t use some bubbly.”
I hand her a flute as she takes her seat. “Is there something in particular you’d like to toast to?” I ask.
She grins. “How about my mother’s good health?”
“Yay!” Trixie and I both cry, and again we raise our glasses in a toast.
“What’s this all about?” my mom wants to know.
Shanelle brings Bennie and my mom up to speed as she selects a few items for her plate. Then she relays the details of the conversation with her mother. “She swore on a stack of Bibles that she isn’t sick. She insists she’s absolutely fine, that there is nothing wrong with her health.”
I rub Shanelle’s back. “That is such great news. You must be so relieved.”
“I am, but I’m not, too. Because I pried out of her that there is something going on.” She pauses as if she has to muster the strength to say more. Then: “My mother told me that someone from her past contacted her on New Year’s Day.”
“Someone she hasn’t been in touch with for a really long time?” I ask.
“Decades,” Shanelle says.
“Who could it be?” Trixie breathes.
“She refused to say over the phone. But from the way she’s acting I bet I know.”
Shanelle falls silent. On Fifth Avenue a dozen floors below, sirens wail, but inside this lovely hotel room not a soul makes a sound.
Until again Shanelle speaks. “I bet it’s my father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bennie’s expression is aghast. “Your mother hasn’t spoken to your father in decades?”
“Not since before I was born,” Shanelle says. “You see, my mother was only sixteen when she got pregnant with me.”
My mother glares at me. “That’s been known to happen.”
“The two of them just went their separate ways,” Shanelle goes on. “My mother raised me on her own. All she would ever tell me was that she made a mistake, but that something wonderful came out of it.”
I rub Shanelle’s arm. “That’s certainly true.”
“All that was back in Texas,” Shanelle says. “My mother was born and raised in Dallas.”
“Does your father even know you exist?” Trixie wants to know.
“My mother says he does. But he’s never shown a speck of interest.”
“Maybe he’s the one who’s sick,” my mother suggests, piercing a macaron with her fork. “So now late in life he wants to make good.”
“If he’s the person who contacted your mom,” I say to Shanelle. “It could be somebody else.”
“It could be.” Shanelle takes a dainty bite from a cucumber sandwich. “But I have a feeling. And sure, I know I thought she was sick and I was wrong, but still. Even after all these years I can tell she has strong feelings for him. And if it were any old person who got in touch, wouldn’t she just tell me over the phone who it was?”
“She is being kind of secretive,” I allow.
“And she doesn’t want to tell me about it until we’re face to face and the timing is exactly right.”
“With all that, I can see why you think it’s your father,” Trixie says. “And if I were your mom, I’d be thrown for a loop, too.”
“Did your mother ever get married?” Bennie asks.
Shanelle shakes her head. “She wouldn’t date while I was growing up. She said she didn’t want to put me through her romantic drama.”
How different from Consuela Machado, the mother of Mario’s daughter. Call me catty, but I think Consuela wants every day to be a drama, so long as she gets to play the starring role.
“My mom’s been in long relationships,” Shanelle goes on, “but somehow the guy is always more serious about her than she is about him.”
I arch my brows at my mother. Talk about things that have been known to happen. I turn toward Shanelle. “It’ll be tough waiting until you get home to know the whole story.”
“Yup.” She sighs. “I get to trade one worry for another.”
Trixie rises from the table. “I hate to eat and run, but I have to get to my hair appointment.” She thanks Bennie again for the High Tea and gives him a kiss on the head, which gets him grinning from ear to ear.
“So you’re going through with it?” Shanelle says to Trixie. “You’re going to let that nutcase we met outside the theater near you with a pair of scissors?”
“I thought she was very nice,” Trixie says.
“She thinks everybody’s very nice,” Shanelle tells Bennie.
“So the next time we see Trixie, she’ll have a pixie,” I add, which requires some explanation.
A short while later, Shanelle heads for Saks Fifth Avenue’s flagship store, which
among other notable features boasts an entire floor dedicated to shoes. Believe it or not, the department even has its own vanity zip code: 10022-SHOE. As for me, I return to the apartment to ready myself for my Oliver Tripp Sr. assignment, after running a few preparatory errands en route. And Bennie settles in with my mom for more Food Network binge watching.
A bit past five o’clock, with darkness already settled over the island of Manhattan, I find myself once again in the Carnegie Hill neighborhood of the Upper East Side. Beneath my wool coat I am outfitted in a cocktail dress meant to wow. Featuring gold sequins in an Art Deco pattern, it’s short-sleeved, dips to a low V in back, and is cut from a lightweight fabric that clings to every curve. Despite the frigid temps, my legs are bare. All this adds up to one thing: I am showing a lot of skin. And in addition, my heels are high, my hair is loose, and my makeup has been applied for drama.
Am I trying to look awesomely sexy for Oliver Tripp Sr.? You bet. At the mere sight of me, I want his mouth to drop open, so I can launch into my spiel and present the champagne, white roses, and chocolates—yes, chocolates—I brought with me.
My plan is straightforward: to use my feminine wiles. After all, before I caused chocolate to cover his windward side, Senior gave me quite the wink. If I can get him to warm to me again, I may be good for tonight. What I’ll do on future nights, I have no idea. Until I come up with something clever, I’m playing this one night at a time.
Now I stand before the not-so-humble abode in which the man resides. It’s several stories tall, narrow, and made of white stone. I found write-ups about it online, which cannot be said about my own address in a Cleveland-area subdivision. The townhouse is described as Beaux-Arts style and “truly one of a kind.”
I open my coat to reveal my skimpy cocktail dress and ring the bell. As I wait, I am keenly aware that several frustrating things might occur. It’s possible no one will answer. It’s possible someone other than Senior will answer, for example a housekeeper who gets paid to keep strangers like me at bay. (I did confirm with Junior that his father lives alone, so at least no wife or live-in lover will appear.) And it’s possible all this will take a while, which would be a real shame because my teeth are already chattering from the cold.
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 18