More Lipstick Chronicles

by Emily Carmichael

  “Mitch, I don’t think I want—”

  “Mr. Chancet, you do extraordinary work. I’ve never seen jewelry like this.”

  “Thank you,” Jacques said.

  “Mitch, I don’t really wear a lot of—”

  “The real question is do you have anything we can afford?” Mitch said and slipped a folded piece of paper across the desk.

  Jacques opened the paper, glanced at a pencilled figure and put the paper in his suit jacket pocket.

  “Not a problem,” he said. He pulled a worn leather case from under the desk and opened it to bring out several velvet boxes. “You missed a most delightful meal last evening, Monsieur Evans. I understand you were delayed by business?”

  “Politics,” Mitch corrected him.

  “But of course.”

  Carole stood up.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “What?

  Three simultaneously, hopelessly, tiresomely clueless men.

  “Mitch, I’m very sorry. I’m just not in the . . .”

  Mitch’s expression was painful to her—he was so bewildered. And frankly, so was she. Why would the presence—or absence—of Jacques Chancet make any difference at all as to how she felt as she sat there with Mitch?

  “I’ve got to go,” she said abruptly. Adding, as she backed out of the office, “Thank you, Mr. DeLaCroix, Mr. Chancet. Mitch, I’m getting one of those headaches. I think I need to get back to the room.”

  The next thing she knew she was on the sidewalk, puffing crisp clouds of steam. Mitch followed a few moments later, a cheery bell announcing his exit through the jewelry store door.

  “What was that all about?” Mitch asked as he sidled up to her.

  “Nothing. I have a headache.”

  “It was something. You like to shop. Maybe as much as you like to—”

  “Mitch, nothing happened.”

  “Are you talking about last night? Having dinner with that guy?”

  “I didn’t ‘have dinner’ with ‘that guy.’ He just happened to have been sitting across from me. There weren’t enough tables in the restaurant.”

  “And that made you so jumpy you had to leave just now?”

  “Are you suggesting that there was anything more to it?”

  “Oh, boy, this is one of those relationship fights. Men are from Mars. Women are from wherever they’re from. No, I didn’t think there was anything more than dinner involved. But I don’t understand how a simple dinner can turn into this weird little scene,” he said with a bewildered shrug.

  “You’re right. You don’t understand.”

  For a moment, they were at odds. Then Carole softened.

  “I don’t understand either, Mitch. He just made me feel funny.”

  “We don’t have to see him again.”

  “Good,” she said more forcefully than necessary, and more than she felt.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We get out of here. I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too.”

  He put his arms around her and she leaned against him as they walked back in the direction of the hotel. Once, just once, she looked back—under the guise of checking to make sure her purse was closed—and she saw Jacques standing on the sidewalk outside the jewelry store watching them.

  While she changed into a smoky gray cashmere tank dress and black heels, Mitch returned phone calls. The manager behind the front desk had confided that he had never known a guest to receive so many phone calls in one afternoon. She came out of the bathroom where a swipe of mascara and a spritz of Thierry Mugler’s Angel Innocence had worked wonders—Mitch was finishing up a rather contentious conversation.

  Carole brushed her hair and pinned it up with two black enamel combs.

  “Todd’s stuck in Helena, Montana, now,” Mitch said when he hung up.

  “How’d he end up there?”

  “His flight got rerouted.”

  “Poor Todd.”

  He put aside the pile of pink slips.

  “He’ll survive. I’m the one who’s hungry.”

  Later, after a dinner at the Bar Maritime overlooking the river, they made love. Slowly, very slowly, and she caught herself only once thinking of Jacques. Every choice, she thought, meant giving up the opportunity of something else. Being with Mitch meant giving up everything but him. Not so much a case of so many men, so little time. More a matter of so many choices, so much a woman has to give up to enjoy any one thing.

  She drifted into a shallow sleep and felt him inch away from her and slip from the covers to the desk where he opened up the small handheld Jornada that served as his link to the Capitol. When she woke up at two A.M., he was still working.

  The desk clerk called at ten o’clock the next morning.

  “Bon matin, mademoiselle,” he said cheerily. “Your flight is in two hours.”

  “Umm,” Carole murmured. She hung up. “Mitch, it’s time to wake up.”

  Mitch pulled the covers over his ears.

  “But, Mom, vacation can’t be over!”

  “Mitch.”

  “I hate school!”

  “You do not.”

  He shoved aside the blanket, revealing his long, lean muscles.

  “You’re right, I suppose. But I do think we need a vacation—a real vacation.”

  “Longer than a day?”

  “Hey, we used to get three months in the summer, right?”

  Mitch threw on a pair of jeans so he could go down to the lobby. He brought back a tray of café au lait and croissants and assorted jams. Carole dressed in jeans and a sweater and shoved everything else in her bag. Mitch showered, shaved and packed in less than half an hour. The desk clerk called for a cab, which was unaccountably prompt.

  “A bientot,” the clerk called out. “And have a safe flight.”

  The cab pulled out of the old city and followed the downward slope of the hills to the flat, unforgivingly gray industrial sections of Quebec City. The airport was even more depressing than usual because not a single passenger in the terminal looked as if they wanted to leave. Even the people waiting for the incoming flight from Montreal looked forlorn.

  There seemed to be something not quite finished about their time together. But they were herded onto the 727 and shown to their seats. First class, of course, since Air Canada, like any other airline, automatically upgraded congressmen, Cabinet members and assorted celebrities. Carole and Mitch had met on a flight from Chicago to Washington when Mitch was still a senior Senate staffer. He hadn’t been entitled to an upgrade but on that particular flight from hell—delayed, noisy, chaotic—Mitch had shown his Capitol I.D. and the flight attendant had shown him past the curtain to first class. And he had had the gallantry to get his seatmate Carole upgraded as well.

  Carole and Mitch settled into their seats, accepting a preflight glass of orange juice and steaming-hot hand towels to freshen up. Outside, snowflakes tumbled from puffy gray clouds.

  “Bonjour,” the pilot announced.

  “Give me your hand,” Mitch said.

  When they took off, his fingers entwined with hers, Carole remembered again why she loved him. Why she needed him. Why she could never leave him. She could endure anything, even the plane crashes she rehearsed and reviewed in her head every time she flew—if he were with her. If plane crashes were truly as rare as statisticians claimed, it was hardly enough to base a relationship on. But being with Mitch was more than that—he made her feel that she could live every part of her life in happiness and courage. And Lord knew that every day was just a little like hugging your shoulders against a seatback, your face tilted up to the heavens, your mind rattling off terrible scenarios—and the only way to get through it was with someone holding your hand.

  “Carole, I know it’s not the most romantic moment to ask ...”

  “Don’t ask me anything.” She stopped him with a touch of her finger to his bottom lip. “Things are perfect just the way they are.”

  Chapter 6

 
; Carole needed java bad. She hadn’t visited the pushpot since she got into the office at six. Already it was ten and the phone calls and e-mails had been flying. It was time for a little mental downtime. A small crowd was huddled around Dana, who was seated at the table in the lunchroom.

  “Check this out,” Dana murmured.

  “What is it?” Carole asked brightly, breezing over to the coffeepot.

  Alix, Elyssa and Robyn jumped as if they had been caught shoplifting or something. Dana slid a folded copy of what looked like the Washington Post onto her lap.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Nothing,” Alix agreed.

  “Nothing at all,” Elyssa said.

  “Did you get the ring?” Robyn asked.

  “ROBYN!” her tablemates screamed.

  “What are you talking about?” Carole said. She filled her cup at the pushpot and sat down across from Dana.

  “Noth—”

  “Don’t give me that nothing crap.”

  “Okay,” Dana said. “But I didn’t think it was a good idea to spoil the surprise.”

  “If she reads a newspaper she’s going to see it,” Robyn said indignantly. “So I didn’t spoil anything.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Elyssa said.

  Dana pushed the newspaper across the table to Carole, pointing to a page. It was Mitch standing on the sidewalk outside Tiffany’s. The caption read “Sen. Mitch Evans (R-COL.) was spotted at Tiffany’s buying a two-carat princess-cut diamond ring. Sources close to the senator say he’s planning to pop the question to Internet exec Carole Titus in just a few short days. I’ll be wearing black and not just because it takes off a few pounds—I’ll be in mourning when this hunk is taken out of circulation.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Carole sighed.

  Robyn squealed.

  “Aren’t you excited!?!”

  “Congratulations,” Elyssa said. She patted Carole’s hand. “I’m thrilled for you.”

  “You say congratulations to the groom,” Dana corrected. “That is to suggest that he’s accomplished something of great importance in persuading the woman to marry him. Best wishes are offered to the bride-to-be because congratulations suggest she had to work to capture the man.”

  “So why do you say best wishes?” Robyn asked.

  “Maybe because all brides need them?” Dana offered.

  “When did you become the etiquette expert?” Elyssa demanded.

  “I think of it as part of my job,” Dana said. “We have to set the right tone with every one of our cards. And the ones that celebrate marriage and engagement are the trickiest.”

  “I’ll just give you a high-five,” Alix said. “And I don’t mean anything by it. Congratulations or best wishes—whatever.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but this is just gossip,” Carole said shaking her head, but staring at the photo. Mitch wore his usual impeccable suit, white shirt, dark tie, but he looked somewhat vulnerable as he stood alone on the sidewalk. Was he really going to ask her to marry him? Newspapers got so much wrong so much of the time and this gossip columnist was one of the worst purveyors of speculation. “I haven’t heard a word about any of this.”

  “Well, of course, you didn’t know about this,” Robyn said impatiently. “That’s why they call it ‘popping the question, ’—because it’s supposed to be a big surprise.”

  “Not if it’s up to you,” Carole snapped. She was instantly sorry for snarling at Robyn, whose enthusiasm and joie de vivre were her most endearing features.

  She put her arm around the young woman and gave her a squeeze. “Look. All I’m saying is this is all news to me. If and when Mitch Evans asks me to marry him—and if I have an answer for him—you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Girlfriend, if he asks you, say yes or some other gal will snap him up like that!” Alix snapped her fingers.

  Carole felt a headache coming on.

  “Ladies, I am just not in a frame of mind for marriage right now. If anything I think we’ll live together for a while.”

  “Right,” Elyssa said. “With a senator from a conservative western state. That would do wonders for his career.”

  Carole stood up. Her headache was now promising to be a big one. “Okay, girls, enough.”

  She strode out of the lunchroom, hearing Robyn’s wounded “What’s got into her?” just as the door slammed shut.

  Shouldn’t the prospect of marriage to Mitch make her happy? she thought as she sat down at her desk. Her keyboard—and every other available inch of space—was covered with paper printouts, message slips, letters and contracts. She cleared away enough space to put a coaster down. Her coffee was steaming.

  Marriage. The word felt like a brick on her brain. This would have to be the last time. Women who divorced once had simply made a mistake. Twice, they were flighty. Three times, clearly not able to manage their lives. And four? Certifiable! Unless they were in a soap opera, and Carole shook her head, remembering that her mother’s character in The Beautiful and the Damned had been married seven times, twice to the same man and once to a bigamist with amnesia. If she listened to her mother—or her mother’s character—she would say, “Go ahead, get married, next season you can get a divorce. Hal was just a practice husband.”

  If she were younger, it would be easier to just go with her emotions. She loved Mitch. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to laugh at his jokes and have late-night conversations. She wanted to live in the same home and share the same bed. She wanted, even, maybe to have children together. Someday.

  But her first marriage was a big issue for Carole. Hal had been a musician, talented and fiercely ambitious. Carole had felt honored to be sharing his life. And that was the point—it was always about his life. His group, his gigs, his problems, his creative blocks, his groupies and ultimately his struggle with drugs. Her life? Well, did Carole exist if Hal wasn’t there to need her? That was the koan of her marriage!

  When she had left him, Hal had accused her of being too uptight. Too conventional for him. Too, well, boring. At the time, she had been terrifically wounded.

  How would Hal have known whether I was boring? she thought now with a scowl.

  If in every relationship there is the beloved and the lover, Carole had been the lover to Hal’s beloved.

  Could Mitch be just the same—albeit with a better job and no musical talent whatsoever? Did women always end up being Mom to their man?

  Screw this, she thought. I’m not solving anything here.

  She picked up the phone and made some calls. Within minutes, she had her itinerary, which she handed to a temp in her office named Lisa.

  “Okay, I have an appointment in Dallas on the fourteenth and I can stay overnight there or take a late afternoon flight to Phoenix. Either way, I have to be in Phoenix by noon. Make reservations under my name at a good restaurant in the downtown area.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Does your mother know you have all those piercings?”

  “Yeah. She’s cool with it.”

  “What do guys think?”

  “I don’t care. I’m a lesbian.”

  Now that’s a solution, Carole thought.

  “I’ll have your shuttle tickets for New York on your desk by noon,” Lisa said. “And if you ever decide guys are not worth the hassle . . .”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  She called Pepper on her cell phone and was mildly surprised she got through. The two had been exchanging messages for a week.

  “When we ran into each other at the party, I thought it’d be fun to do lunch one day,” Carole said, not adding that she was just a tad worried about her.

  “I’d love to, but I should warn you my schedule’s a little up in the air right now.”

  “Oh, because of the mess at the White House?”

  “No, I’m actually taking a leave of absence.”

  “Why?” Carole was surprised. There wasn’t anyone more devoted to the Washington news scen
e than Pepper.

  “Carole, I’ll tell you because Mitch and the rest of the Hill crowd will find out soon enough. I’ve been diagnosed.”

  “Oh, God, with what?”

  “Ovarian cancer.”

  Carole couldn’t help the cold, hellish tingle up her spine.

  “I’m so sorry.” Stupid phrase. Impotent. Weak. But what else can be said?

  “I am, too. I was trying to have a baby and took a lot of hormone shots. And I guess there were consequences.”

  “Pepper, what can I do?”

  “Take me to lunch. Funny thing, I spent all these years hoping I’d lose some weight, and now, between chemo and radiation, I’ve got to keep as many pounds on this frame as possible. So let’s eat something fattening.”

  “Pizza.”

  “And ice cream. And Carole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you’ve got friends up there somewhere, talk to them about me.”

  “You’ll be in my prayers. How does week after next sound? I’m looking at Thursday. One-ish?”

  She told Mitch immediately, but asked him to not say a word to anybody. He promised, though he’d already heard rumors that she was taking some time off.

  “Why don’t we invite her and her husband over to my house tomorrow for dinner?” Mitch offered.

  “I can’t. I’m taking an early shuttle to New York.”

  Mitch had brought dinner to her house—Dean & DeLuca caviar, fresh salmon grilled with soy and sesame, baby veggies and a box of dark chocolate truffles. He also brought a bottle of champagne, which he only opened after he established that he had an invitation to spend the night and could send Sam home with the car.

  Carole told him about New York while they ate the caviar on thin, toasted bread. Mitch had a strict no condiments policy—no hard-boiled egg, no sour cream, no onion. He liked to say that condiments were only for those occasions when bad caviar happened to good people.