by Nancy Martin
Grace clapped one hand over the spot where she remembered Luke nibbling just hours earlier. Fortunately, her mother couldn’t see the other places that still stung just a little bit. “I just got out of bed, Mama. I haven’t had time to--”
But Mama wasn’t looking at Grace anymore. She saw the tray on the coffee table and pounced like a starving raptor. “Strawberries! You don’t mind if I have one, do you?”
“Help yourself to whatever--”
“Puffy, stay off the furniture, please. And Humper, my precious boy, what are you doing?”
Mama’s lapdogs were either Maltese-Lhasa mixes or some exotic breed Grace could never remember, but the two of them were obnoxious little beasts that Grace would like to send to the countryside to live out their days chasing rabbits. Or rattlesnakes. One of them jumped onto the sofa and began excitedly sniffing exactly the spot where Luke had just vacated a minute earlier, and Humper made a beeline for the bedroom door through which Luke had disappeared. The dog began to furiously dig at the carpet as if he could excavate his way to the other side.
Mama ignored them. She waltzed around the room as if taking inventory while she munched a fat, juicy strawberry. Grace sent a silent thank you to Emmanuel, who must have cleared away Luke’s beer bottle during the night—that, and all other trace evidence that he had ever been in the suite.
“What a view you have from up here! And a billiards table—such an ingenious amenity in a hotel room! My stars, publishers spare no expense to send authors on tour anymore, do they? In my day, I had to sleep on lumpy futons in the apartments of old friends. And I ate stale tuna sandwiches from the Automat.”
“Mama, the Automat went out of business before pantyhose were invented.”
Grace’s mother pretended not to hear that, but spun prettily around to give her daughter a more thoughtful inspection.
Grace did the same. She couldn’t help noticing that her mother wore her highest boots, her favorite, slimming Armani coat with the fox fur collar fetchingly turned up to frame her still uplifted face, and multiple ropes of pearls that caressed her bosom--which needed no surgery or sturdy undergarment to stay as perky as they had always been. Mama religiously spent twenty minutes a day exercising to the chant, “I must, I must, I must improve my bust!”
Underneath the coat, Grace caught a glimpse of flowered silk—probably the Dior dress kept in its own special garment bag in Mama’s closet. It was her battle outfit.
Twirling around the room, Mama patted her hair—still bright blonde and worn ravishingly disheveled. Her diamond earrings—inherited from the first Dear Miss Vanderbine—glinted from inside tufts of that carefully arranged hair. The diamond rings—gifts from admirers Mama still refused to reveal—flashed on her fingers.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Grace said, feeling dizzy. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ve been sitting on the train all morning, dearie. I could use a little stretch of the leg.” Mama picked up a pool cue and twirled it like a baton.
“You look like Sherlock Holmes searching for clues,” Grace muttered under her breath.
Mama stopped twirling. She had excellent hearing. “Clues to what?”
“Mama,” Grace summoned her most authoritative tone, “what are you doing here?”
Caroline put the cue back down on the table. “Can’t I come to visit my only daughter while she’s on her first book tour?”
“I mean, how did you find me? How did you know I was in this hotel?”
“Are you hiding out for some reason?” Mama demanded. “What’s the big secret?”
“I asked first.” Grace managed to remain calm. “How did you track me down?”
“I called Nora,” she admitted. “After you refused to take my increasingly frantic calls, what choice did I have? And if you must know, I practically had to torture the information out of her. Nora is a very tough nut to crack.”
Grace could hardly blame Nora. Withstanding the onslaught of Dear Miss Vanderbine required razor-sharp survival instincts. Lately, Nora had been weakened by her search for her sister Emma. No wonder she caved.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Grace inquired.
“I’m making sure my daughter is safe, of course. I was worried. I heard about the snowstorm in Peoria and—“
“Pittsburgh.”
Mama waved her hand. “One of those outer provinces. I feared you were trapped in a snowbank, dear, or perhaps you were being chased by starving wolves. From the looks of your neck, maybe that’s exactly what happened.”
“As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”
Her mother cast another glittery eye on Grace. “Then you can explain who answered the telephone when I called up here a few minutes ago.”
Grace rubbed her neck, not sure how to respond without risking an agonizing cross examination that would no doubt end—she knew from long experience--with slamming doors and a wounded exit. Meltdown mode seemed inevitable.
Grace was saved by a soft knock on the door. She dashed to open it and found the butler standing at the helm of a large catering cart laden with fragrant dishes and a gently steaming pot of coffee. Puffy and Humper bolted to the doorway and began to yap.
“Brunch, miss?”
“Thank you, Emmanuel. You’re just in time.” Grace held the door wide for him. “My mother has arrived.”
The butler kept his face bland, but Grace caught the flick of his eye and knew he understood. Whatever Luke had tipped Emmanuel, Grace owed him double. He was a jewel.
Emmanuel wheeled the cart into the dining room and set about arranging the feast on the table. Puffy and Humper followed, yipping for attention.
Mama peeked after him, but whispered to Grace, “Who is this charming man?”
“The butler,” Grace whispered back. “Don’t frighten him.”
Affronted, her mother stalked back to the sitting room. “I don’t know what you think of me, Grace, but it’s very offensive to come to see my daughter and not be welcomed with open arms.”
“My arms will be wide open,” Grace said. “As soon as you tell me what you’re up to.”
Mama took off her coat and dropped it on the sofa. “All right. I am here to rescue you.”
“Rescue me? From what?”
Mama sank down on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap, the picture of gracious attention. She mustered a doe-eyed expression of solemn sympathy. “I read the review in the paper, dear. That scathing bit of work inflicted on you by Pamela Waldrop-Hicks.”
“Oh.” Grace sat in the armchair and prepared herself for a lecture. She had pushed her mother for approval to heavily revise sections of Miss Vanderbine’s Modern Manners, but Mama had resisted. The book had been a success for generations, why meddle with perfection? But Grace had felt addressing some truly modern issues was the only way for the book to be taken seriously now, so she’d gone ahead and made the changes despite her mother’s howling to the contrary. Now, it seemed, Mama had been right.
But Mama wagged her head. “Don’t take it personally, Grace. That awful woman has always had a grudge against me. Despite that saccharine act she puts on any time she sets foot outside the ugly Main Line manse she calls home, she is a reptile underneath the mask. A snake with poisoned fangs.”
“I haven’t read the review. I hear she hates the book.”
“She hates me, dear, not the book.”
“She hates you?” Grace was surprised. “So she wrote a bad review?”
“She doesn’t hate me, exactly. She envies me. Big difference.” Caroline selected a strawberry from the tray on the coffee table and nibbled it. “You see, her mother also tried to write an etiquette book, but it was a dismal failure. Let me tell you, the Waldrop book was a total bore. Who wants to be lectured ad nauseum about good manners? Dear Miss Vanderbine has a fresh approach—we engage in an entertaining dialogue with friends! It’s a totally different concept and the secret to our success. Pamela Waldrop-Hicks wouldn’t know an
entertaining dialogue from drowned cat.”
“So you’re saying … ?”
“That review was bogus. Don’t take it to heart.” Mama swallowed her strawberry, dabbed her fingertips on a napkin, and reached for her daughter’s hand. She patted it comfortingly. “Grace, I haven’t been able to tell you, but now I can be completely honest. You were right. The book needed to be updated, and you did a wonderful job.”
If the Queen of England had suddenly admitted colonizing America was all a big mistake, Grace wouldn’t have been more astonished. But surprise quickly faded into a funny squeeze in her throat and the sting of tears in her eyes.
“Mama, that’s---that’s so nice of you to day.” Grace could hardly find the words. “Thank you.”
“But you’re paying the price now,” Mama said seriously. “The likes of Pamela Waldrop-Hicks are going to try to make you feel like some kind of coarse bumpkin who deserves no respect.”
“Well, I don’t quite feel that bad, but--”
“She wanted to humiliate you.”
“It worked,” Grace admitted.
“You must keep your chin up in the face of adversity. Come to think of it, Pamela has the face of adversity. She should have embraced Botox the minute it was invented.”
Grace laughed unsteadily, suddenly very glad to have her mother’s support.
Mama looked triumphant. “That’s my girl. Laugh it off.”
“I’m trying.”
“You couldn’t have done that a few weeks ago.” Caroline gaze sharpened. “What’s changed?”
“I’m gaining my confidence,” Grace said. “Look, you’re very kind to claim the review was part of some ancient vendetta with you. But I sold very few copies yesterday. Your sworn enemy might have an impact on national sales.”
“Let’s not use that word ancient too freely, please,” Mama regained her poise. “That’s why I’m here. To strike a blow against Pamela before her review goes viral and does you any serious damage.”
“Strike a blow? Mama, that doesn’t sound good.”
Emmanuel emerged from the dining room and murmured, “Brunch is served, miss.”
“Thank you, Emmanuel.”
Mama had already leaped to her feet and was chugging toward the dining room. “In the knick of time! I’m famished. Hello, Emmanuel. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Grace’s—well, I’m Caroline Vanderbine. Some people say we look like sisters.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Caroline brushed past him and arrived at the table, her dogs dashing feverishly around her ankles. “My goodness, this is quite a spread. Who are we feeding here, a starving horde?”
Eggs in a warming tray, scones and muffins on a tiered cake stand, bacon and ham steaming on a hot plate. It looked like a breakfast fit for a football team. Mama plucked a fork from the table and began to sample the fare.
Grace thanked Emmanuel and saw him to the door. When she returned, she took a bowl and filled it with fruit salad for herself, thinking of poor Luke missing out on the food he’d ordered. “What kind of blow were you thinking of striking, Mama?”
Her mother was already sitting at the head of the table, dropping tidbits to her alert little dogs. “It’s simple, dear. You have to out-perform Pamela on the field of battle.”
“Out-perform her?”
“Sit down, and I’ll outline my plan.”
Grace sat at the other end of the table. “Should I take notes?”
“No need.” Mama waved her fork. “I already have the gears in motion.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you haven’t packed an evening gown. Here’s what we’re going to do. You have next Monday night free, am I right?”
“Next Monday?” Grace paged through the schedule in her head and tried to remember what the following week looked like. “That’s the night I’m supposed to go home to rest before going on the second half of the tour.”
“Who needs rest? You’re coming back to Philadelphia, dear, and we’re going to attend a ball. That night, there’s a black tie gala being held at a nearby hotel. It’s a shame we can’t re-book into this one, because it’s a lovely establishment, impeccable service, but those plans have already been made, deposits paid, and deposits are hell to get back these days. It’s a fundraiser for some charity or other—I forget exactly, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s definitely small potatoes if Pamela is in charge. But we’re going to turn it into the social event of the season! And show Pamela Waldrop-Hicks exactly how it’s done.”
Grace added up the clues, and reality dawned. “Mama, are you staging a publicity stunt?”
“Of course I am! We’re going to make sure this shindig is a blowout that will attract major press for the book--definitely the New York newspapers, maybe even the television networks. I’m working on the guest list now.”
“How will people feel about you bursting on the scene and taking over like this? Hasn’t the guest list already been created by the charity?”
“Yes, but it’s beyond dreary. We have to beef it up a little, Grace. Add some sparkle and sex appeal.”
A second later, Mama took a deep breath and said in a completely different tone, “Speaking of sex appeal.”
Humper and Puffy barked. Grace glanced up and saw Luke standing in the doorway. He was dressed, shaved, and looking almost calm. At the back of his eyes, however, Grace thought she could detect early signs of panic.
“Oh,” Grace tried to sound composed. “Mama, this is Luke Lazurnovich, who drove me from Pittsburgh. Luke, this is my mother, Caroline Vanderbine.”
Humper and Puffy were already barking up a storm and leaping at Luke’s legs. Mama scrambled to her feet and approached Luke as if creeping up on an exotic animal that might take flight at any moment. “What a pleasure,” Mama said, extending her hand, palm down, as if expecting him to kiss the back of it. “Mr. Laz—Mr. Luzern—May I call you Luke?”
Luke took her hand and shook it. “Sure. Hey. Nice meeting you.”
Mama looked Luke up and down, absorbing his height, his body, the way his sweater clung to his shoulders. She made a careful inspection of the fit of his jeans. “The pleasure is mine, of course. You were very kind to bring my daughter out of that blizzard. You’re a chauffeur?”
“Mama,” Grace said sternly. “Before you start the Inquisition, let’s give him some breakfast.”
“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? It’s nearly noon! What on earth have you been doing all morning? Humper, stop that! He’s confused sometimes, but always excited. I should have him neutered, but that seems so unkind, don’t you think?” Mama snatched Humper into her arms, but continued to measure Luke with avid eyes. “My dear boy, you have the same sort of wound my daughter seems to have suffered. Is there something wrong with your ear? It looks as if--”
“It’s nothing.” Luke rubbed the spot just behind his jaw where Grace might have been too exuberant during the night. “I nicked myself with the razor.”
“Maybe we could call a doctor,” Mama said. “I’m sure this fine establishment keeps a professional on call for little emergencies--”
“The only emergency,” Grace said, “is getting him a cup of coffee. Mama, will you pour?”
“Of course, dear. Luke? Sugar? Cream?”
“Just black, thanks.”
Mama resumed her seat at the head of the table, petting Humper into silence, and Grace eased into the chair at the other end. Luke took a seat halfway between them and accepted a cup of coffee from Grace’s mother. He sipped it uneasily while Grace prepared him a plate with eggs and a muffin and slices of fruit. She passed it to him with a fork balanced on the edge of the plate. Puffy took up a sentry position at Luke’s feet, whining.
“Now then,” Mama said, grip firm on Humper. “We were just discussing an event that’s going to save Grace’s reputation in time to get her book on the bestseller lists. It’s a gala—although how they have the chutzpah to call it a gala, I don�
��t know. As planned, it sounds perfectly dreadful to me. They should be delighted I’m here to make a few changes. We’ll have it spiffed up in no time. It’s a dinner dance—cocktails, music, fine dining and afterwards---dancing!” Mama snapped her fingers. “Now I remember. It’s a gala to raise money for a ballet company. Are you a ballet aficionado, by any chance, Luke?”
“Ballet?” he repeated, saying the word as if it came from another language.
“Luke is a sports aficionado, Mama.”
“Sports,” she said blankly. “What a shame. Of course, you should have seen Grace when she was a little girl, taking ballet classes. I thought she might have become a dancer, but no. She was adorable in her little pink slippers. Nobody looked sweeter in a tutu either.”
Luke smiled. “I believe it.”
Before the meal deteriorated into a walk down memory lane--which would most certainly include a trap to ensnare Luke along the way--Grace said, “Are you sure Pamela Waldrop-Hicks is going to appreciate any changes? Maybe she has everything already planned the way she wants it.”
Another wave of her hand. “She won’t like it, but then, the blind don’t know what they can’t see, am I right, Luke?”
“Uh …”
“Anyway, I know a florist who is delighted to be able to do me a favor—especially if we get the kind of publicity I’m in the process of attracting. He’s a genius with moss. As for musicians—well, I have fired the hopeless amateurs Pamela hired and invited my jazz-playing friend from New York to come. He’s agreed to bring his entire ensemble as long as I land the local music critic as a guest. Which shouldn’t be too much of a trick for me. And the food definitely needs an upgrade, which I will see to myself, even if it means rolling up my sleeves and rolling out the pie dough with my own two hands.”
During Mama’s recitation of her plan, Luke had poured a cup of tea from the teapot and he passed it silently to Grace, who accepted it gratefully. He must have seen how desperately she longed for caffeine. He sent her a look that said he’d add a shot of whisky if he could manage it, but she shook her head. He picked up his fork and ate a bite of melon. He let it melt on his tongue for a second, and Grace found herself remembering his tongue and how it felt. He gave her a smile, too—his mind clearly traveling in the same direction.