“I caught the mouse Friday night,” Chelsea said. “You haven’t used the bathroom since then? What have you been doing?”
“The guys next door let me use their potty,” Starshine said. “Honestly, couldn’t you get a normal pet, like a shih tzu?”
Chelsea liked big dogs but not yappy little ones. On the other hand, an apology was in order. “I’m sorry. You should have told me. I’d have caught him sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I think Wiley let him out.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“He took the mouse out of his cage the other night to play with him, and kind of forgot about him,” she said. “Anyway, I dumped Wiley. He made fun of my role as a bunny rabbit.” Starshine’s current job was performing in a children’s Easter show that toured day-care centers.
“Go hang up your drippy underwear,” Chelsea said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were avoiding the bathroom.”
“That’s okay. The guys next door are kind of cute.” Swaying with innate seductiveness atop her high heels, Starshine headed for the bathroom.
“You can hang your clothes in the kitchen, too!” Chelsea called after her. “I’m going out tonight, so I won’t be cooking.”
“Thanks, but it’s already full.” Her roommate’s voice drifted back.
Oh, yes, dinner at Grace’s. Realizing she needed to prepare herself, Chelsea went to pick out what to wear.
It was going to be awkward, encountering Barry again in a social situation. On the other hand, it would be fun to watch him squirm as he tried to pretend they’d never met.
It was going to be an interesting evening.
BARRY’S SPORTS CAR was already here, Chelsea noted as she halted her Honda hatchback in the curved driveway of the Menton home. So was a luxury sedan that belonged to Andrew’s brother and former partner, Hugh. He’d been good-natured about Chelsea’s many mistakes when she was new in the office, and she’d been sorry when he left to join a research project.
In the fading light, she applied fresh lipstick. Then she swung out of the car, and nearly tripped over the sky-high stacked heels she’d borrowed from Starshine.
They hadn’t been the wisest choice of footwear, Chelsea reflected as she limped toward the column-lined portico. She was still sore from Friday night’s tumble in the bathroom.
Also, she probably should have worn something more conservative than a bright green halter top and a flowered sarong-style skirt that barely hid the bruises from her fall. The fake emerald in her navel was a nice touch, though, in her opinion.
Besides, she wasn’t here to impress Barry. She’d been asked to make contact with Planet Angela. What better way than to dress outrageously?
When she rang the bell, it reverberated through the cavernous house. Inside, the quiet slap of shoes approached, only to be superseded by light, running footsteps.
The door flew open. Standing there, staring out raptly, poised a girl slightly shorter than Chelsea, with dark eyes and short, green-tipped spiked brown hair. Behind her, the butler-chauffeur, Marek, retreated quietly, his gray-haired dignity intact as he yielded his job of answering the door.
“Hi, Angela.” Chelsea knew better than to exclaim over how much the girl had changed in the few months since they’d attended the ballet together. Still, it was disconcerting to realize that she’d grown a couple of inches, not to mention chopped off her hair.
“Chelsea! Hey!” The girl grinned at her. Her mother must have chosen the conservative skirt and plain blouse, but Angela had partially unbuttoned the shirt so it gapped open at the top. The necklace of black alligator-shaped beads was, no doubt, her own contribution. “I’m so glad somebody I like is here tonight.”
“You mean I’m the only one?” Chelsea teased, slipping inside.
“I guess you can count my Aunt Meg and Uncle Hugh,” Angela conceded. “And Uncle Barry.”
“Me! Count me!” came a small, high-pitched voice as a red-haired preschooler hurtled into the entryway. Chelsea recognized the new arrival as Hugh and Meg’s three-year-old daughter, Dana, who had once been a patient at the office.
“Sure thing, cutie.” Angela scooped up the tiny girl. “Come on, Chel, I’ll introduce you to my cousin Barry. He’s hunky.”
He certainly was, Chelsea noted with a catch in her throat as they entered the living room. Standing in profile, talking to his blond cousin Hugh, the man filled the large room with his quiet self-possession. Not even a business suit could disguise that sculpted body, she noted with a twinge of regret that she would likely never see it unclad again.
Before he could notice her, Chelsea heard her name called and turned to greet Grace Menton. Tall and erect, with an energy that belied her sixty-three years, the family matriarch looked relieved to see her guest.
She didn’t bat an eye at Chelsea’s clothes. Why on earth did Angela imagine her grandmother wasn’t cool?
Cindi, a shy brunette with sculpted cheekbones, joined the welcoming committee, along with down-to-earth, red-haired Meg. It was several minutes before Chelsea glanced at Barry again.
He was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Alarm? Dismay?
“Cousin Barry, this is Chelsea, and she’s absolutely perfect,” Angela announced. “You ought to fall in love with her.”
“He’d better not.” Andrew, who was sitting on one of the couches with his fourteen-year-old son, William, gave his daughter an indulgent smile. “They’ve got to work together. Office romances are bad news.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” Barry’s remark at first made no sense. Then Chelsea realized that he, apparently alone of everyone in the room, had noticed her slight limp.
“I had a close encounter with the edge of my shower stall while in pursuit of an escaped felon,” she said. “A small, furry one.”
“Oh, your mouse,” said Barry, and then froze as everyone turned toward him.
“Did I miss something?” asked Andrew. “I didn’t realize you two were acquainted.”
To Chelsea’s relief, Barry recovered quickly. “We met at the nightclub. She introduced herself as one of our staff members.”
Chelsea noted a slight narrowing of his eyes, a clear request that she comply with his white lie. Surely he didn’t think she was so indiscreet that she would blurt out the truth in front of his family, she thought indignantly.
“I recognized him because he looks so much like you,” she told Andrew. “The coloring. Those shoulders. How could I miss the family resemblance?”
She saw Grace’s attention fix on a pair of portraits hanging over the fireplace. Her late husband, Frederick Menton, stared solemnly out with the bright green eyes that he’d passed on to Hugh and Andrew.
Next to it hung a picture of Grace’s father, the fabled Benedict Hancock. He was the one from whom Barry had inherited his memorable shoulders and dark hair.
The subjects of the two paintings, who had been medical partners, as well as in-laws, fixed their descendants with nearly identical quelling looks. No wonder the family members felt driven toward high achievement.
Chelsea hadn’t grown up with any such demands. Only a few tattered film posters had made the move with her and her parents from one low-rent apartment to another. Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind was the closest thing to a patriarch in the Byers family.
Angela squirmed beneath the stern regard of her ancestors, or perhaps from the way her mother was frowning at her half-open blouse. “Come here. I want to show you something,” she said, and pulled Chelsea away.
They swept through the dining room, its Victorian table set with exquisite china, and into the den that ran along the back of the house. Through the windows, Chelsea could see the broad lawn lined by banks of flowers, and the swimming pool beyond.
She tried to think of the Menton mansion as a movie set. That made it less intimidating.
Angela plopped onto a couch. “Look at this.” She handed Chelsea a flier that said, Join Our Talent Show! It bore the
name of the private girls’ school that Angela attended. “Doesn’t that look like fun?”
“It sure does.” Chelsea sat beside her. “Are you going to participate?”
“Mom and Grandma won’t let me.” The girl flopped against the arm of the couch. “They say dancing at a mere talent show would be an insult to my ballet teacher.”
“I don’t see why he should care,” she said.
“I don’t think he does. I think it’s Mom and Grandma that care.” Angela’s face burned with rebellion. “It’s so unfair! My friends aren’t going to see me dance a solo at the FOB press luncheon in May. I want them to see me at school.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.” Chelsea decided there was no point in pretending she didn’t know what was going on. “Grace tells me you want to quit dancing. I was surprised.”
“I don’t want to quit dancing. I want to quit being yanked around like a puppet!” the girl cried. “Mom drives me to my lessons and then hangs around, watching every move I make. She even picks out my practice clothes. Now she and Grandma won’t let me dance for my friends.”
“So you feel like they’re trying to run your life.” Chelsea sympathized. She hadn’t received that kind of treatment from her parents because she’d been more responsible than they were, but she’d gotten plenty of it at school. And hated it.
“I knew you’d understand.” Angela folded her arms defensively. “I just want to dance for myself. Otherwise it’s no fun.”
“Maybe I can help,” Chelsea said. “If you like, I’ll talk to them.”
Angela’s look of gratitude was more than enough reward.
BARRY HOPED no one noticed his daze as he consumed his dinner of poached salmon, roasted new potatoes and steamed vegetables. Thank goodness for the busy conversation around the table.
He couldn’t stop sneaking peeks at Chelsea. Did she have any idea what that emerald in her belly button did to a man? Of course, he couldn’t see it over the table, but he knew it was there. Worse, his body knew it was there.
After two years of celibacy, he’d underestimated his needs as a man. As well as his reaction to this particular woman.
When he’d agreed to keep his distance from her, he’d had no idea that she socialized with his family. It was hard to understand. In her bizarre getup and with that hairstyle, she looked as if she’d just dropped in from another universe, although she certainly held her own in a lively discussion about new films.
Apparently she was a friend of Angela’s. It seemed odd that his family would encourage such an unlikely relationship, but it wasn’t up to Barry to interfere.
Hannah, the housekeeper, served coffee. After she left, Angela said, “Well, Chel? Will you talk to my parents like you promised?”
“Sure,” said Chelsea.
Barry wondered why she believed she had the right to intervene between a child and her parents. It seemed presumptuous even for a family friend.
“Talk to us about what?” asked Cindi.
“Giving up ballet,” Angela said.
Tensely, Grace stirred cream into her coffee, then stared at it in surprise. His aunt usually drank her coffee black, Barry recalled.
He couldn’t drink his coffee at all. Being in the middle of a family disagreement, however polite, made his muscles stiffen and his jaw ache. He’d endured so many ruined dinners as he was growing up that for years he’d preferred to eat alone.
“You’re not going to dance anymore?” Hugh said. “Angie, I love to watch you dance.”
“She’s not giving it up.” Andrew smacked his coffee cup into his saucer, sending drops flying. “This is childish nonsense. She’s been taking ballet since she was five and she’s the star of her class.”
“It’s not childish nonsense!” Angela flared. “It’s my body and I don’t have to move it any way I don’t want to!”
“Angela!” gasped her mother. “That was inappropriate and rude.”
“As far as you’re concerned, everything I do is wrong!” the girl cried. “I’m not even allowed freedom of speech around here!”
“Hey, I thought I was your designated spokesperson.” Chelsea’s light tone stemmed what, to Barry, looked like a tantrum in the making. “May I speak now?”
Angela nodded. Chelsea gave them all a smile and brushed her hair behind her ears, revealing a mismatched pair of large earrings. The right one featured a tiny dragon in a circle, the other a sunburst.
“Dancing is something Angela wants to do for herself,” Chelsea said. “She feels as if other people are trying to control her.”
Andrew frowned. “We’re doing no such thing.”
“For one thing, she wants to select her own workout clothes,” Chelsea said.
“She picked a crop top!” Cindi protested. “And tights with holes already cut in them. It was the ugliest thing.”
“It might be easier if you don’t have to look at them,” Chelsea said quickly. “Marek could drive her to ballet classes.”
“That’s my responsibility…” Cindi’s voice trailed off. “I guess it would leave more time for my fund-raising, though.”
“She also wants to dance in her school’s talent show,” said Chelsea. “For her friends.”
“We always invite her friends to her dance recitals,” Grace said.
“Just my closest friends! I want all the girls to see me,” Angela said. “And the boys from the Academy, too. It’s a joint talent show.”
Cindi opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again without a word. Whatever objection she’d had to seeing her daughter dance at school, it didn’t appear to hold up to the scrutiny of this impromptu family council.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she said.
“Then I’ll do it,” Angela said.
“Do what?” Barry couldn’t believe the conflict was resolved. In his family, flare-ups between his parents had only increased the sense of ill will.
“What they want me to do,” said his young cousin. “Dance at the press luncheon that Friends of the Opera and Ballet is holding in May.”
“It’s to publicize our subscription drive for the fall and winter season,” Grace explained. “Angela has a solo. It’s a tremendous honor.”
“I’m glad you’re going to perform,” said Hugh’s wife, Meg, who’d been quiet until now. “A wonderful gift like yours should be shared with others.”
“So we’ve got this worked out?” Andrew asked. Everyone nodded. “Good. Hannah, would you please bring in the dessert?”
The apple pastry with whipped cream soothed any leftover hurt feelings. Barry was relieved. It especially surprised him that Chelsea’s meddling hadn’t made things worse.
Something in the back of his brain nagged at him. Barry tried to focus. May…the press conference…
Lew’s visit was planned for May. His father would want to see Angela dance, if he were in town, but that might throw him together with Aunt Grace. They’d never gotten along when they were brother-and sister-in-law, and he doubted they’d see eye-to-eye about much now.
Barry hoped the dates didn’t coincide; that would let everyone off the hook.
“I hope I get to dance before that snotty young tenor from New York sings,” Angela said. “Otherwise I won’t be able to keep a straight face. Have you heard of Fiorello Magnifico, Cousin Barry?”
“He wasn’t a big news item on Prego Prego,” he admitted.
“Well, his real name’s Albert Cork, and someone ought to stick a cork in him for sure,” she said vehemently. “He’s American. He likes to pretend he’s Italian, but I doubt his ancestors ever set foot in Italy.”
“He has a beautiful voice,” Cindi said. “He’s a bit pompous, I suppose, but you have to forgive him.”
“You should have seen him walk around with his nose in the air last year, when he was in Rossini’s Cinderella,” Angela said. “He was always hogging the stage, blocking his costar and trying to drown her out.”
Andrew shrugged. “Opera singers all have
big egos.”
“I was backstage one time during a performance. You should see the way he wiggles his rear end when he’s getting ready to sing.” Angela jumped to her feet. “Like this.” She turned around and gave an exaggerated bump and grind. “Then he puffs himself up.” She faced them and blew up her cheeks. “I wish there were some way of giving him a mouthful of helium so when he sings, his voice comes out like this.” She began singing in a high, squeaky voice, then plopped into her chair.
Everyone applauded. “If you don’t want to dance, I think you’ve got a future as a stand-up comic,” Meg said.
“I’m surprised he’s been invited to perform for the press, if he’s so disagreeable,” Barry said.
“Oh, he’s very well-known, always appearing on talk shows,” Grace said. “Besides, he’s close friends with Werner Waldheim, one of FOB’s biggest backers. Werner made a fortune in the computer games business.”
“I heard he was kind of a recluse,” Meg said.
“He stays behind the scenes,” Cindi agreed. “But he’s a big political donor with lots of influence. He enjoys having famous friends like Fiorello.”
“If you can imagine that!” Angela rolled her eyes.
After dinner, Chelsea excused herself. “I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. My boss is a real slave driver.” She shot Andrew a mischievous look. “I hope his new associate isn’t such an ogre.”
“Barry’s worse,” Andrew said. “When he was doing his residency, I hear he was such a perfectionist that the interns referred to him as—Was that Simon Legree, or Mussolini?”
“Genghis Khan,” said Hugh with a straight face.
“Attila the Hun,” joked Barry, enjoying his cousins’ teasing. He hadn’t really been given any such nicknames, to his knowledge, although he had been a stickler for following the rules.
He still was. A doctor couldn’t be too careful about adhering to proper procedures.
“Well, good bye until tomorrow,” Chelsea said.
Barry got to his feet and shook hands with her. After she left, he breathed a little easier even though the company felt suddenly incomplete.
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 5