A CLASS ACT

by Pamela Burford

  Gabe placed a reassuring hand on Ham's shoulder, urging him to lean back. Ham slumped wearily, exhaustion warring with agitation on his expressive face.

  Dena knew Gabe was as worried as she. He kept his expression carefully bland, but his anxiety was evident, at least to her. Ham had never been one to panic like this, for no good reason. She didn't want to think of her old friend suffering mental or physical frailty, but he was eighty years old, after all.

  Gabe sent Dena a pointed look. "Everything will be fine, Ham. No need to worry. Dena and I will both be here for you."

  How dare he speak for her! "I still don't see why it's necessary for us both to stay," she said. "What exactly do you need done, Ham?"

  He patted his pockets distractedly. "Oh, the shopping. And running people around to all these reunion activities. You two brought your cars. The others … they flew in."

  She said, "Well, in that case, I'm sure Gabe can—"

  "Seven people in the house!" he fretted. "I'll never manage with seven people!"

  Gabe said gently, "Ham, there are eight of us altogether."

  "What?"

  Dena did a quick count. "Gabe's right. Him and me, you and Reba, Scott, Frank, Rhonda, and Andrea. That's eight."

  "Frank? Who's Frank?" Ham's eyes darted around; he had a death grip on the arms of the chaise. "I don't know any Frank!"

  "Frank Runkey," Gabe said. "An old student of yours. He lives in Minnesota now and you invited him to stay here this week. Didn't you?"

  "I don't know any Frank!"

  "Sure you do," Dena said soothingly. She placed her hand over his. "He sat next to you at breakfast this morning."

  "I don't know any Frank!"

  Dena looked imploringly at Gabe.

  "They, uh, used to call him Hunky," Gabe offered.

  Ham bolted upright again, eyes bulging with outrage. "Hunky Runkey's staying here? Who told him he could?"

  "I was wondering the same thing," Gabe muttered.

  "I believe his mother is a friend of Reba's," Dena said. "You invited him as a favor to her. Isn't that right?"

  "Reba?" Ham blinked in confusion. He patted his pockets again.

  "What are you looking for?" Gabe asked.

  "My pills. They're not here."

  "I'll be happy to stay," Dena said quickly. "So will Gabe. Don't worry about a thing, Ham. Everything's under control."

  Ham leaned back with a gusty sigh. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

  Gabe said, "I'll go get your pills if you tell me where they are."

  Ham waved off his concern. "I'm fine now. It passed."

  Gabe caught Dena's eye, and she read his silent gratitude. With the barest nod she conceded the necessity to put their own preferences on hold, for Ham's sake. It was a small price to pay for their old friend's health and peace of mind.

  We're doing it again! she realized. Communicating without words, flawlessly deciphering each other's slightest change in expression. Just as they'd done last night when she first encountered Frank. Just as they used to do back when she thought the sun rose and set on Gabriel Moreau.

  A splashing sound drew Dena's attention to the pool. Scott levered himself out of the shallow end, and with a start she wondered how long he'd been standing there and how much he'd overheard. Not that everyone didn't know what had happened fifteen years ago, but that was fifteen years ago, and she had no desire to make her private life public yet again.

  He quickly toweled off and sat against the raised end of the chaise Dena occupied, propping a leg behind her. She started to get up.

  "Sit," Scott ordered. "There's room for both of us. So what's with the Leona Helmsley comparison? Can I assume you're no longer Going to the Dogs?" he asked, referring to the dog-grooming business she'd worked for part-time during high school and full-time after graduation.

  "I worked there for five years," Dena said, "while I lived at home, put in all the overtime I could, and saved every nickel. And I'd started breeding pugs and selling them. All so I could start my own business."

  "Let me guess," Scott said, with a beguiling grin. "Could this business possibly be related to dogs?" Her love of canines had never been a secret.

  "Dena's a real go-getter," Ham put in. "She saw a need and addressed it. And look at her now!"

  "Pet owners never like having to board their dogs and cats when they go on vacation," Dena said. "They feel guilty. Kennels can be so dreary. So I came up with an idea for a pet hotel. Real swanky, with all the comforts of home. Private apartments, a huge yard and plenty of personalized attention from the staff."

  Scott laughed. "No kidding. What do you call it, the Waldog Astoria?"

  "Xanadu Pet Resort. I just opened the sixth one, in Litchfield, Connecticut."

  "Xanadu? That's yours?" Gabe's astonishment was delicious to behold. "I don't believe it!"

  "Why? Did you think I was going to spend my entire life giving poodle cuts at Going to the Dogs?"

  "No, no, of course not," he said, obviously forgetting she could read his thoughts like a billboard.

  "As I recall, we used to talk about our goals, you and I. More than once I mentioned that I wanted to start my own business."

  "Well, maybe you did," he mumbled. "It was a long time ago."

  Gabe could pretend he'd suffered a memory lapse, but Dena knew he'd simply discounted her aspirations as adolescent dreams. Wishful thinking. Whereas his own future plans had been carved in stone from an early age. He'd have been indignant if she'd expressed doubt in his ability to follow through on those plans. In this, as in the freedom he'd felt to cheat on her, the old double standard was alive and well.

  She made no attempt to school her expression, openly inviting him to follow the direction of her thoughts. He held her gaze for a few moments and looked away.

  "Six pet hotels," Scott said. "You must be raking it in."

  "I'm doing better than I'd hoped. You'd be surprised how much people will pay to be relieved of guilt where their pets are concerned. They want Fido to have as much fun on vacation as they do."

  "Dena's one of Briarfield's proudest success stories," Ham said, "a wonderful role model for the current crop of students, especially the girls. She's gone into the school a couple of times to talk to the kids about what it takes to make something of yourself. Namely, sacrifice, perseverance and good old-fashioned elbow grease—concepts some of them seem to have a hard time grasping in this era of instant gratification."

  "Better watch it," Gabe said, with a tender smile. "You're beginning to sound like an old fogy."

  "I don't know about that," Scott said. "Nowadays the idea of hard work is considered downright radical."

  "Listen to us," Dena said. "We've turned into our parents." She held Gabe's gaze for an extra beat, until a subtle narrowing of his eyes told her that her remark had struck home.

  The entire time she and Gabe had dated, Lucien and Cynthia Moreau had done everything in their power to break them up—especially Lucien, who'd actively lobbied for a union between his son and Andrea Pittman, the daughter of his law partner. Gabe's father had envisioned the marriage as some sort of glorious dynastic merger.

  Gabe's relationship with Dena had caused his parents no end of grief. She wasn't "suitable." She wasn't from their lofty socioeconomic stratum. That Gabe had defied his parents and refused to give her up had reinforced Dena's romantically naive assumption that theirs was a meeting of soul mates, a match destined to last a lifetime.

  Gabe had been born into an affluent life-style completely alien to her: the money, the servants, the lavish trips to Europe, the gated estate she'd dubbed Chateau Moreau. He'd exhibited a confidence and sense of entitlement that had made him seem older, more sophisticated, than his years.

  Dena, on the other hand, had lived in a ramshackle rented bungalow on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, with her parents, four siblings and her beloved black pugs, Mildred and Horace. Her dad had worked as a janitor in the Briarfield school system until two years ago,
when severe back problems had finally forced him out on disability. Her mom had quit her job as a nursing-home aide and they'd retired to Maine, with some financial assistance from Dena and her two older brothers.

  She and Gabe were from different worlds, but it hadn't mattered because they'd been young and in love, and when you're young and in love, you can make anything happen, as long as you're together.

  At least that was what they'd told each other. Until the moment of truth when Gabe had taken Andrea out on that golf course, and Dena had learned that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much love she had to give, she'd always be "the janitor's daughter," as his parents used to refer to her—too tawdry, too lowbrow, too déclassé to ever fit into Gabe Moreau's rarefied world.

  The yawning emptiness had taken a long time to heal, but eventually it had and she'd moved on. Nevertheless, she often found herself wondering how different her life would have been, if only…

  If only Gabe had shown more moral fiber. If only she'd been the kind of girl he'd wanted and needed. So many ifs.

  Was Gabe turning into his father, as she'd so spitefully implied? Thus far, Dena saw scant evidence to the contrary, and it saddened her. All things considered, perhaps it was for the best that things hadn't worked out between them.

  The sound of Andrea Pittman's cultured, slightly nasal voice yanked Dena out of her reverie. "Sorry I missed everybody at breakfast. I'm not trying to be unsociable, I just had a ton of paperwork to get caught up on. I rarely eat breakfast anyway."

  Andrea wore an elegant black one-piece with gold accents that matched her gold leather sandals, delicate neck chain, and understated earrings. A sheer floral chiffon pareo was tied around her slender hips. Andrea was five foot two and a hundred pounds at the most. Everything about her was petite and perfectly formed, from her slim thighs to her tiny feet to her impossibly narrow waist, which Gabe could probably span with his hands.

  Her dark hair was cut in a very short yet feminine style, feathery around the face and nape. Her eyes were pale silver gray, set off with a minimum of makeup. An impeccable French manicure adorned her nails. Andrea Pittman was as sleek and polished as a strand of pearls.

  Next to her, Dena felt more like the macaroni necklace she'd made for her mother in kindergarten.

  A smile tugged at her mouth. Mom, God bless her, had put that string of painted wagon-wheel pasta around her neck and worn it to church with her best Sunday outfit.

  In truth, Dena had long ago come to terms with her size. She'd never be five foot two, which was just as well, considering her fondness for good food and hearty portions. The surplus vertical inches helped keep the surplus horizontal inches off her ample but shapely figure. Her active life-style didn't hurt, either.

  Ignoring the pool, Andrea said, "As long as we're all sharing," and moved to join Gabe on his chaise.

  Dena bristled at the reference to sharing. Was that what Andrea had been doing fifteen years ago? Sharing Dena's boyfriend? Funny. She'd always thought that was called stealing.

  Andrea lifted Dena's neon-aqua, rhinestone-studded cat's-eye sunglasses from the chaise to avoid parking her itty-bitty butt on them. "My God, whose are these?"

  As if there could be any doubt. Which didn't stop Scott from saying, "Oh, so that's where I left them." He plucked them out of Andrea's hand and put them on. He looked ridiculous and adorable and perfectly at ease.

  Ham said, "Where can I get a pair?"

  Andrea turned to Dena. "I have to hand it to you, wearing shades like that. I wouldn't have the nerve. But then, you've always had your own unique sense of style."

  Gabe glanced at Dena, as if to assess her reaction to this backhanded compliment. The old Dena would have been too embarrassed and flustered to respond. The old Dena hadn't yet learned to take pride in her "unique sense of style."

  "Funny, you putting it that way," Dena said, "that you wouldn't have the nerve. Which only goes to show, audacious behavior is in the eye of the beholder."

  An experienced lawyer, Andrea kept her expression neutral. Only her heightened color and the muscle tic near her eye revealed that Dena's none-too-subtle jab had hit its mark.

  Glancing at Gabe, Dena saw the same secret little smile he'd worn last night when she'd put Frank and Dave in their place.

  Say goodbye to the old Dena.

  "Well." Ham slapped the arms of his chaise. "If I don't get hopping in the kitchen, I'll have to run out to the burger place."

  "You?" Gabe asked, rising with him. "Patronizing an exploitative, bloodsucking multinational corporation? I don't believe it."

  "You ever taste that Humongo Supreme? With double cheese?"

  "Don't tell me you eat that stuff?" Dena asked, gathering her things and joining Ham and Gabe on the walk back to the house. "What about your heart condition?"

  "Ah, once in a while won't make a difference," Ham said. "Speaking of grilled flesh, Rhonda made out a shopping list for tonight's cookout on the beach. You two don't mind running out to the supermarket after lunch, do you?"

  "Well, no," Dena said. "What about Rhonda? Doesn't she want to come with us?"

  "I need her here."

  He left it at that, and all Dena could say was, "Sure. We'll go shopping. No problem."

  "Whatever we can do to help," Gabe seconded.

  "In that case, you can start by giving me a hand in the kitchen," Ham said as he ascended the deck steps.

  "We'll be right in." Gabe grabbed Dena's elbow to hold her back. "In a minute."

  When the door had closed after Ham, Gabe said, "I'm worried about him."

  "So am I, but there's something I don't get. This place is an active bed-and-breakfast inn. Ham often has all three upstairs rooms filled. That's six extra people right there if it's couples, and sometimes there are kids, too."

  "So?"

  "So why is he all of a sudden freaking out over a few guests?"

  "Well … maybe he feels an increased responsibility because we're honest-to-God invited guests, not the paying kind."

  "Did you know he was having trouble with his heart?"

  "Not until today."

  She sighed. "Damn it. I don't want him to get old."

  Gabe smiled gently. "It's a little late for that. He was getting on in years when we first met him. He retired the year we graduated, remember?"

  "Well, I don't have to like it." Ham had been like a grandfather to both of them—though their real grandfathers hadn't been nearly so eccentric, iconoclastic or opinionated. Ham had been so certain, back then, that Dena and Gabe belonged together, had tried so hard to mend the rift, or at least to get them talking. Always the idealist.

  "I know you'd rather be anywhere else this week, Dena." Gabe glanced toward the pool area, where Andrea sunned herself while Scott swam. "This has got to be uncomfortable as hell for you, what with Andrea staying here, too." He sighed. "She sort of wangled an invitation, and I didn't know you'd be here."

  "Yes, well, I don't want to cramp your style. If you two want to share a room or anything, just pretend I'm not here."

  Gabe scowled. "What makes you think we have something going on?"

  Dena let her raised eyebrows say it all.

  He looked off into the distance for a moment. When he spoke, his voice reflected frustration and more than a little resentment. "Not that I'm trying to force any unwanted explanations on you, but for your information, Andrea and I are work colleagues only. End of story. We haven't been anything more since that night fifteen years ago."

  Dena didn't know whether to believe him, given their history. "You're assuming I care. Your personal life doesn't concern me, Gabe. Let's just try to get through the next week with a minimum of excitement. Then, if we're lucky, we won't have to deal with each other for another fifteen years."

  * * *

  3

  « ^ »

  "You can set that down right here," Rhonda said. "Thanks, Gabe."

  He positioned the huge cooler chest, loaded with ice and bottles of be
er and soda, on the sand near the wooden picnic table Rhonda indicated. She shook out a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and he helped her position it. His gaze kept straying to the nearby volleyball game. No sooner had he volunteered to be the designated pack animal than the game had started.

  Figures, he grumbled to himself.

  "So forty-one people are going to be around for the whole week, including spouses, and a lot of them are local," Rhonda said, smoothing out the plastic. "Of course, most of the locals have to go to work, so our daytime events won't be as well attended as the evening ones. My Don would've stayed if he could've gotten the time off, but the senior guys get the pick of vacation time, so he had to go back to Cincinnati. Would you put stacks of paper plates on the corners? The breeze is blowing the tablecloth up."

  Gabe obliged, one eye on the volleyball court. He caught occasional glimpses of a headful of pale blond curls, and long, long legs emerging from short, short cutoffs. Dena's snug, sleeveless, white T-shirt had been tie-dyed aquamarine, making it appear, from a distance, as if her torso had been painted to resemble a cloudy sky. Like the other players, she was barefoot.

  Rhonda had chosen a South Shore beach for this cookout, and the longer drive had been worth it. Instead of the ubiquitous rocks and tame waters of Long Island Sound on the North Shore, they were frolicking in fine white sand against the backdrop of the raucous Atlantic. Gabe filled his lungs with the brine-scented ocean breeze. Overhead, screeching seagulls wheeled against a brilliant azure sky.

  "Luckily Don can set his hours," Rhonda continued, "so there's no problem getting the kids off to school, and a neighbor will pick them up and keep them till he gets home at six. Did you buy the heavy-duty foil? I want to cover the grills, they look kind of icky, and the regular foil won't—"

  "I'm not sure," he lied, having watched Dena javelin-toss a long roll of heavy-duty foil into their shopping cart at the Waldbaum's supermarket earlier in the day. "I'd better go check."

  Grabbing a beer from the cooler, Gabe made his escape, hiding out on the far side of the volleyball court where Rhonda wouldn't be likely to spot him. Dena, in center forward position, appeared absorbed in the game, passing the ball and returning volleys with a joyous enthusiasm that made her seem eighteen again.