I gritted my teeth. I have absolutely no patience, and Jim knows it. What a stinker.
He took one hand off the steering wheel and patted mine. “It will all become clear very soon. And I promise that you’ll be thrilled. You know how you love surprises.”
“I love surprises when I’m the surpriser, not the surprisee,” I said. “If those are real words.” Okay, I admit it. I’m a bit of a control freak.
We turned into the driveway of the Westfair Country Club, one of the snootiest places in Fairfield County. We’d only been here a handful of times during the thirty plus years we’ve lived in Fairport, the most recent time being right before Jenny and Mark’s wedding, for a bridal show. Which, in case you don’t remember, turned out to be one of the most stressful afternoons I’ve ever had.
“Jim, why are we here? We’re not members.”
Jim winked at me. “Patience, my love. Patience.”
“If you say that to me one more time, I swear I’m going to let you have it,” I said. To my complete surprise, we cruised up to valet parking, rather than self-parking so far away from the entrance that we needed a GPS to find the car again.
Jim hopped out and gave the keys to an attendant, who didn’t look old enough to drive. “Here you are, son,” he said. “Take extra special care of this car, and there’ll be a nice tip for you later.”
Then Jim turned and offered me his arm. “Ready, Carol? We’re meeting someone inside. Someone you’ve heard a lot about, but have never met. We’re having dinner with my old boss. Mack can’t wait to meet you. He has a little proposition he wants to talk to you about.”
It’s a good thing that I was holding Jim’s arm when he gave me that bit of news. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have fallen right on my keister in the lobby of the Westfair Country Club.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked Jim as he led me to the coat check, helped me out of my five-year-old faux fur, and handed it to the attendant for safekeeping. I hoped my faux fur didn’t feel inferior nestled among the genuine minks, foxes, and heaven knows what other kind of animals that seemed to be having a private convention in the coatroom. I consoled myself with the fact that, this time, I didn’t have to worry about my coat being stolen, or mistaken for someone else’s. In this crowd, who’d want it?
“Give me a second to powder my nose,” I said. “I need to be sure I look all right.”
Jim gave me the long-suffering sigh of a long-married husband. “I’ll go inside and find Mack. I don’t want to keep him waiting. Don’t be too long. And, if it means anything coming from me, I think you look fine.”
“I wasn’t going for ‘fine,’ ” I snapped back. “I was hoping for ‘fabulous’ or ‘gorgeous.’ ” Now it was my turn to sigh. “Never mind, Jim. Lead on. There’s not enough time in the world for me to make myself look the way I wish I did. Unless someone figures out how to turn back the clock about thirty years.”
Jim gave me a puzzled look. I squeezed his arm. “I know you have no idea what I’m talking about.” I squared my shoulders and sucked in my stomach. “Let’s go.”
I started to head toward the ballroom, site of the very few events we’d attended at “the Club” over the years. But Jim stopped me. “We’re eating in that room,” he said, pointing in the direction of The Grille Room. “But, Jim,” I protested, “the sign at the door says ‘Members Only.’ Is Mack a member? I thought he lived in Greenwich.”
“Mack moved to one of those Fairport mega-mansions north of the Merritt Parkway last year,” Jim said. “And, of course, he was immediately invited to join the Westfair Country Club, despite the fact that there was a long waiting list of potential members ahead of him. He made sure to tell me that.” For just a second, I caught a glimpse of bitterness on Jim’s face. And who could blame him?
Mack Whitman was responsible for easing Jim out of his job at Gibson Gillespie Public Relations because Jim didn’t “fit the demographic” of the clients the agency was targeting. In other words, Jim lost his job because he was too old. Not that anyone ever came right out and said that, of course. Age discrimination is grounds for a lawsuit. But there was no doubt, to me at least, that was the reason.
This was going to be some dinner. Although, I was more than a bit curious about Mack’s “proposition.” Plus, I was hungry. So I was prepared to keep an open mind, at least until dessert.
“There’s Mack now,” Jim said, gesturing in the direction of a blond man seated at the bar next to an attractive brunette woman who was the object of his undivided attention. “Stop bothering me,” she said, and slid off the barstool. She grabbed her mink coat and stalked off.
“Well, I guess that’s not his wife,” I whispered.
“He’s not married,” Jim responded. “At least, not at the moment. Come on, Carol. He’s seen us.”
“Jim Andrews, so good to see you,” the blond man said, threading his way through the crowd at the bar and greeting us like we were long-lost royalty. “And twice in one day! What a treat. And you must be Carol. I’m so happy to finally meet you.” He gave Jim a hearty handshake and a clap on the back.
I resisted saying that, if Jim hadn’t been encouraged to take early retirement, Mack could have seen him every day. At the office.
I gave Mack a phony smile—I know how to play the suck-up game. “Lovely to meet you, Mack,” I said. “I’ve heard so much about you from Jim.” I felt Jim stiffen next to me. I knew he was worried about what I’d say next. But I was on my good behavior.
“Our table is ready,” Mack said. “I’ve arranged for a quiet corner so we can talk.” He gave us a toothy smile.
After we had settled in our seats, and drink orders were taken, I took a moment to check out our host. I knew my friends would want a complete description, especially Nancy.
According to Jim, Mack Whitman was thirty-eight, but he looked several years younger. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey business suit that probably cost more than I spend on clothing in a year—and that’s saying something. A lock of hair dipped over his forehead (which I’m sure took plenty of time to arrange in front of a mirror). The required two days’ growth of stubble proclaimed, “Aren’t I cool?” His brown eyes, framed by wire-rimmed eyeglasses, frequently darted around the room. I wondered who he was looking for. Or maybe he was just checking out who else was there, looking for another nubile young female to hit on. Or for more important dinner companions than Jim and me.
I know. I’m being mean. But this man had turned our lives upside down a few years back, and I wasn’t predisposed to like him, no matter what his supposed business proposition was.
Except that, when I glanced at my husband, Jim was more animated than he’d been in a long time. He was relaxed and clearly enjoying himself as he and Mack traded gossip about agency clients, past and present. It suddenly dawned on me how much Jim missed being part of Gibson Gillespie, even after all this time.
I know. I should have figured that out before. But I’m a little dense, sometimes. I took a sip of my chardonnay and settled back in my chair. I figured the men would get to the point of this dinner meeting eventually; meanwhile, I intended to have a good time.
Then, Mack lifted his own glass and looked directly at me. “To you, Carol. And to new adventures. Welcome aboard.”
Huh? Welcome aboard what? Was a train leaving the station that I knew nothing about? I glanced at my husband for clarification, but he had a silly grin on his face, which didn’t help me at all.
“I don’t mean to appear dense, Mack,” I said, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You mean Jim hasn’t told you the news?” Mack said. He punched my husband in the shoulder. “Why, you old dog, keeping this as a surprise, were you?”
“I wanted Carol to hear the idea from you, Mack,” Jim said. “After all, she may not want to do it.” He shot me a little boy, pleading look—the same look the kids used to give me when they really wanted me to let them do something.
“Oka
y, Carol, here goes,” Mack said. “The short version. GG has a brand new client, a television production company. Charles King Productions. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
I shook my head “no.”
“I guess you don’t watch any of the reality television shows, then, Carol,” Mack said with a frown. “Oh, well. That doesn’t really matter. But the point is that CKP wants to start a series of new shows aimed at an older demographic, like you and Jim.” He looked at Jim. “No offense, Jim.”
“No offense taken, Mack,” Jim said.
I wanted to say, “Speak for yourself, Jim.” But Mack was paying for dinner—at least, I hoped he was—so I remained silent. And by now, I was really curious about where this was leading.
“I want to hire you and Jim to be the GG agency reps for CKP. The first show, which is now in the final stages of development, is The Second Honeymoon Game. So, what do you say, Carol? Do you want to get into television?”
Chapter 9
My mouth is frequently off and running and my brain never catches up with it.
For the second time in an hour, I was speechless. Hard to believe, but absolutely true. Then, I started to laugh. I figured out in a flash that Jim had put Mack up to this. It was a gag, pure and simple. Payback for all the times over the thirty plus years of our marriage when I’d told Jim I’d gladly switch places with him. Let him be the stay-at-home spouse, trying to be a successful freelance writer/editor while taking care of two kids and an antique house, instead of leading the glamorous life of a NYC public relations guru. I always managed to ignore the fact that Jim left the house to toil in the Big Apple before the sun was up, and usually returned home after it had set. He often complained he’d forgotten what color our house was, because he rarely saw it during daylight hours.
“You almost got me,” I said, shaking my finger at Jim. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. But I’m not falling for it.” I turned my baby blues onto Mack. “I don’t know how Jim talked you into this little joke.”
Mack started to respond, but, naturally, I didn’t let him.
“I’m thrilled, of course, that Jim’s coming back to Gibson Gillespie,” I said, trying to sound sincere. Because part of me was thrilled. And the other part of me, well…. “He’ll be very good at this job. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
Mack turned to Jim, and said, “You’re right, Jim. She never lets anyone else get a word in edgewise.”
Well! I didn’t have to sit here in the swanky Westfair Country Club and be insulted. I felt my face flush. Lemme out of here. I started to push back my chair and stand up, but Jim put a restraining hand on my arm. “Carol, honey, sit down. Listen to what Mack has to say. Please.”
He flashed his boss a “What can you do? She’s a woman?” look. Jim doesn’t dare use that look very often, but I recognized it immediately.
I plopped back down and folded my arms. “Okay, I’m sitting.” And I flashed Jim a look of my own.
Mack took a healthy swig of his libation of choice—straight Scotch, no rocks—and then spoke. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot here, Carol, if you’ll forgive me for using a tired cliché. I apologize for my wisecrack to Jim. I was way out of line. I don’t even know you.”
I was mollified. A little.
Mack waved away the server who had arrived to take our dinner orders, then said, “I can assure you, Carol, that this is no gag that Jim and I cooked up. This is a serious business proposition, and I need your help. In fact,” he cast Jim a sideways glance, “I’ve got to have it. Yours and Jim’s. You two fit the demographic this client is aiming for perfectly.”
Mack reached into his briefcase and took out his iPad. In a few seconds, he had pulled up a website. “Take a quick look at this,” he said, sliding the device across the table toward me. “It’ll give you some background information on the idea behind the show.”
I rummaged in my purse for my eyeglasses. Jim is forever telling me I should wear them all the time, but it bothers me if the frames don’t match the clothes I happen to be wearing. I’m betting a lot of you agree with me about that, right? Forget about eye-hand coordination. At my age, it’s all about coordinating the outfit.
I focused on the iPad screen, then looked at Jim and Mack. “This is about an actual television show,” I said.
Jim sighed. “That’s what we’ve both been trying to tell you, Carol. This is on the level.”
I swear, at that point I was so excited that I thought I was going to faint. Imagine me, Carol Andrews from Fairport Connecticut, a television star! My friends would freak out when I told them. Even Claire would be impressed. I was lost in a sea of klieg lights and red carpets, signing autographs for my adoring fans.
Jim immediately figured out what I was thinking. (Hey, he hasn’t been married to me for over thirty years for nothing.) And—pop!—my darling husband burst my bubble. Sort of.
“You’re not going to be on television, Carol,” Jim clarified.
My face must have mirrored my disappointment. And my confusion.
“GG has been retained to do the promotion for the show,” Mack said. “Not to provide the talent.” He framed his hands, tilted his head and looked at me. “Although you’re very attractive, Carol. You’d look great on television. I can tell you have charisma that would translate well on the tube.”
My spirits (ego) soared. Maybe there was still a chance for me to be a star.
Mack sighed. “But, of course, that wouldn’t work. We could be accused of nepotism, using our own people as talent on the show.” He covered my hand with his own and looked deeply into my eyes. “I hope you understand, Carol.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Truthfully, I don’t understand any of this,” I admitted. “Jim’s role is perfectly clear. But what exactly would you want me to do? I’m no public relations expert.”
Of course, I’m an expert in so many other areas. But I didn’t think it was appropriate to confuse Mack with those. At least, not right now. And I had to admit that I was beginning to warm up to the guy. After all, he immediately recognized that I had “charisma,” something Jim has yet to realize.
“It might be simpler if I forwarded you the treatment CKP has come up with for The Second Honeymoon Game,” Mack said, giving his iPad a few quick taps. “Now you can look at it at your leisure, and you’ll have a much better idea about the show and your role in promoting it. I guarantee you, Carol, that it’s going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for you and Jim.”
Mack beamed at us. “Now, who’s hungry?”
For once in my life, I refused to be diverted by food. “I really want to understand this, Mack,” I persisted. “What exactly is it that you want me to agree to do for the show?”
Mack once again shot a sideways glance at Jim, who appeared to be engrossed in studying his menu. No help there.
“Well, you’d be sort of like, Jim’s assistant,” Mack said. “You know, provide womanly input when called upon. The position’s very flexible. There’s really no job description for it.”
“Is there financial compensation for this ‘flexible’ position, Mack?” I asked. “Or is it for love only, like marriage?”
Mack laughed. “That was a good one, Carol. Jim told me you had a terrific sense of humor.”
I continued to stare at him, waiting for an answer. “We’re still hammering out the details, Carol,” Mack finally said. “Isn’t that right, Jim?”
Jim nodded. He knew a cue when he heard one.
“But no matter what, you’ll have an all-expenses-paid trip to Florida when the show’s pilot is shot.” Mack focused his huge smile on me. “Sort of like a second honeymoon for you and Jim. How does that sound?”
It sounded like I needed to skip dinner tonight, if I wanted to be presentable in a bathing suit anytime soon. Or, maybe, just skipping dessert would do the trick.
Chapter 10
I never respond to flattery. Since I’ve been married so long, I’m way out of pra
ctice.
“I still don’t get it,” I said to Jim over breakfast the next morning. “What’s the deal? What am I supposed to do—trail around after you all the time, carrying your iPad or laptop?”
Of course, I didn’t give the poor man a chance to answer.
“I checked out the information that Mack sent me when we got home last night. I didn’t understand one word. What the heck’s a logline, anyway? This is like a whole other language.”
“Carol, you really are overreacting,” Jim said. As I opened my mouth to defend myself, Jim handed me my coffee cup. “Here, drink this. I made it with a touch of cinnamon this morning, just the way you like it. And for Pete’s sake, calm down.” He ran his fingers through what was left of his hair in a gesture of frustration that I knew all too well.
“Don’t ruin this for me, Carol,” he said. “This is my big chance at a comeback. To prove to the young geniuses at Gibson Gillespie that the old man’s still got what it takes. And I wanted to bring you along for the ride. I thought you’d get a kick out of it. But instead, you spent most of last night’s meal interrogating Mack Whitman like he was on the witness stand in a criminal case. Which. Was. Not. Helpful.”
“That’s not fair, Jim,” I said, tears stinging my eyes.
Lucy and Ethel, always attentive to my moods, nuzzled my hand in sympathy. Or maybe they were just reminding me they were still waiting for their breakfast.
I immediately snapped to it and filled both their bowls with kibble. I know who really runs the Andrews house, and hell hath no fury like two hungry English cocker spaniels. By the time I rejoined Jim at the table, I had calmed down. Thankfully, so had he.
“I apologize for what I just said.” I started to answer, but Jim held up his hand and stopped me, signaling that I shouldn’t interrupt. “Here’s the short version of what happened yesterday. Mack called me back into the office to handle the P.R. for a new account the agency had just landed, because I fit the profile of the show’s target market. In other words, I’m over fifty. And I thought you’d get a kick out of being involved, too. So I finagled an assistant’s position into my contract. Details to be determined as the project went along. I figured you’d jump at the chance. Plus, it’s a terrific way to celebrate our anniversary, since the first show will be shot in Florida around that time. I guess I didn’t handle it very well. I told Mack you’d love the surprise element, and had him set up the dinner. And…well….”
Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 6) Page 4