by Josie Brown
I join him in a chuckle, but only because it beats crying.
At Henry’s suggestion, I spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing.
First, I run a nice soothing bath with the hotel’s signature orange rosemary bath salts. They do their magic. I almost fall asleep in the tub.
After my bath, I wrap the hotel’s sheer chiffon kimono around me and I move to the bed in order to take a nap. The mattress feels like a cloud. Still, I toss and turn whenever my mind wanders to thoughts about Jack.
When I awaken, it’s to the sound of my own voice, praying for his safety.
I look at the clock. Aunt Phyllis and the children aren’t due to arrive for another hour, so I go out on the balcony to catch the last rays of the sun. It’s warm enough to sunbathe, so why not? I open the robe as I lay down on one of the terrace’s many chaises.
Except for the traffic noises wafting up from the Avenue of the Stars some thirty floors below me, I hear nothing. But for some reason, I don’t feel alone. I look around. The hotel towers over every other building in Beverly Hills. And as Henry pointed out, I can’t look into the penthouse immediately adjacent to mine.
Sighing, I adjust the back of the chaise so that it reclines. When I lay back, I see him: a man, on the balcony of Penthouse G, which also faces the ocean.
His terrace juts out far enough that when he looks back, he can look down onto me.
He smiles at what he sees.
He’s gray-haired and over fifty. His face is tan, but his eyes are light.
“Walther, darling! Hurry, dearest, we don’t have much time.” The woman’s purr is loud enough for me to hear.
My new friend, Walther, shrugs. Our staring contest is over. Still, he shows his appreciation with a bow and a tilt of the hand before sauntering back inside.
Thanks for the mammaries? I think not.
So much for quote-unquote affording your guests complete privacy.
Angrily, I whip my kimono around me and walk back inside. I barely push the sliding glass door and still, it slams behind me.
I guess I don’t know my own strength.
He may not want to, either.
Chapter 18
Keeping out the Riff-Raff
Realizing the importance of your upcoming fete in the hierarchy of your social set’s must-attend events, it is wise that you devise a plan to keep out the riff-raff while your celebrated guests trod the red carpet to your abode. To ensure their security, consider the following:
1: Electric Fencing. Ideally, it will go all the way around the perimeter of your estate. That being said, anyone whose hair is standing on end, glows when the lights dim, or shocks you when shaking your hand is a possible interloper and should be shown the door immediately.
2: Retinal Scan: Installing a retinal scanning device at your front doorstep will not be as off-putting as it may sound! In fact, those who like to feel exclusive at all times will love it, I promise! That is, unless you install the wrong machine–say, an excimer laser, which is used for refractive eye surgery. In that case, expect a malpractice suit.
3: Code Words. Much simpler than a retinal scan! By embedding a code word in each invitation with strict instructions to use it upon entry to the party, you’ll be able to determine if someone is a legitimate guest.
Important Tip: Do not–I repeat, do not–make it the same as your S&M safety word, because not all of your guests will appreciate a lash across the back with a cat-o-nine-tails. (That being said, you’ll be surprised at those who do.)
My party attire–a fitted black raw silk tuxedo ensemble, worn over a blouse of sheer black illusion–earns a wolf whistle from Evan. “Looking good, Mrs. Stone!”
I honor him with a smile. Evan and Mary have met me in the lobby, along with the other brave souls who have offered to chaperone.
Everyone except Aunt Phyllis.
Oh, well. We don’t have a lot of time, so I dole out the security cards for their rooms, and those of their young charges, and then I explain the rules to everyone:
The children will be here in an hour. Once those students staying on their floors have arrived, the chaperones are to walk them into their assigned rooms, and to read them the rules and regulations for staying out of trouble. At six-o’clock, the children are to go into the ballroom, but the chaperones hold on to the room keys during the dance. At midnight, everyone turns back into a pumpkin and goes back to their rooms. If a child gets ill or tired, one of the chaperones is to accompany him or her back to a room, and stay there with them. If others feel the same way, they can join the first child for some quiet time activities, such as reading, listening to music, or watching television.
I’m happy to see that the chaperones are excited. They’ll be taking lots of pictures to capture the moments.
I hand Evan my second security card. “When you see Jeff, give this to him. I’ve got a suite on the nineteenth floor, and it has a second bedroom. We’ll be roomies.” It’s now obvious to me that Jack won’t be joining me. That’s okay. This evening was supposed to be about Jeff. I look forward to listening to my son’s thoughts about his very first dance.
I look around. “Where are Aunt Phyllis and Trisha?”
“She’s watching the band set up.” Mary rolls her eyes. “She’s asked two of the guys for their telephone numbers. She wants to see if they’ll play for her on Bingo night.”
I smother a laugh. “Is Trisha with her?”
Mary shakes her head. “Janie flew into town. She called to see if Trisha could sleep over at Lion’s Lair–”
I grab Mary’s arm. “Did she say whether the president was with her?”
“There was a large Secret Service detail there,” Evan pipes up. “But it must have left right after us because it passed us on the 405.”
Oh, hell–Lee is in town after all! And wherever he’s headed will be Ground Zero for the terrorists.
I have to let Jack know–now.
“Do you know which exit they took off the freeway?”
Mary and Evan shake their heads.
“I’ve got to call Jack. You two are my eyes and ears. If you need anything, text me.”
I run off to find a quiet spot in which to have a life-or-death conversation.
The closest place in the lobby that affords any privacy for my conversation is the VIP elevator bank, so I slip into the alcove with my security card.
A housekeeper is standing in front of the concierge floor elevator. Beside her is a cart loaded with caviar and other delicacies from chef Édouard’s kitchen.
The alcove may be getting busier, so I make the decision to go up, too, in order to call from my room.
Try as she might, her security card won’t work.
Not out of politeness, but because I want my privacy, I say, “Here, let’s try mine.” I swipe it, and the door opens.
“Gracias,” she says, but she is so shy that she keeps her eyes firmly on her cart.
When she rolls her it into the elevator, I notice her limp.
Suddenly, I feel guilty for having been so rude. It’s a long ride up. So that we don’t have to make it in silence, I say, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She nods and looks over for just a second, but I can’t see her eyes through the thick-framed glasses that sit high on the bridge of a nose bent to one side. She forces herself to grin, but it only makes me feel sorrier for her. Several of her teeth are missing. She’s around my age, but the deep scar on her cheek makes her look older.
It’s obvious that she’s been abused, poor thing. It was good of Henry to give her a job. Even with one of the highest minimum wages in the country, Los Angeles’ cost of living far outstrips that difference. I can’t even imagine what it would cost to get her teeth fixed, let alone to have a doctor see about her leg.
We ride up in silence. Before the doors open, I put a twenty-dollar bill in her palm. She purses her lips as she stares down at it. “Gracias! Gracias!” she whispers, but she is still too shy to look at me.
&nb
sp; The doors open on the concierge level, which is bustling, to say the least. Not a party, but some sort of business reception. Lots of suits: mostly men, but at least one woman too. They come and go from their private rooms toward the large reception room at the far end of the hall. Through the babble of voices, I make out snippets of French, German, Japanese, and Chinese.
The maid waits for me to get off first, but I shake my head. “No, I’m going up to the penthouse,” I explain. When she gives me an uncomprehending look, I demonstrate by pointing up, then slipping my card into the elevator’s card slot.
“Ah!” she says, impressed.
“Adios,” I say as the doors close.
Once in my room, I call Jack. When he doesn’t pick up his phone, I call Ryan’s cell phone. He’s not picking up either.
I text both of them LION IN TOWN.
That should get their attention. It’s our code name for Lee.
My next text is to Lee. It simply says, URGENT.
Where the hell are they?
I spend the next hour pacing the floor, but when it’s five-thirty, I realize that there is nothing I can do except to go down and play hostess to a ballroom full of middle-schoolers.
Thank God they won’t know what’s happening.
Innocence is fleeting.
So far, the prom is a raging success.
The children squeal and hug at the awesomeness of it all: at how well they’ve scrubbed up, at their own preciousness in their dresses and tuxedoes, and at the wonderful setting for their first big prom.
Margot and her decorating team have done a fantastic job of creating a wonderland out of balloons and tiny starry lights. After the children are done eating, one of the ballroom walls will break away to reveal the bandstand and dance floor.
In the meantime, they are swaying to the deejay’s mixes, going in and out of the fortune-teller’s glass gazebo, and lining up for the photo booths. (I picked them up at a police auction. Gee, I wonder where they were seized from?)
I seek Margot out to thank her. She laughs. “Thank you. Mrs. Bing’s response was less appreciative. She was livid that you changed the color scheme again.”
“That’s just too bad. If she gives you any more grief, find me. I’ll take care of her. Where is she, anyway?”
Margot nods toward the buffet line.
Penelope, in a formal red one-shouldered gown lined with gold piping, is arguing with some boy who refuses to take the plate in her hand. When our eyes meet, Penelope glowers at me.
I curtsey in return. Giving her the finger would be more appropriate, but considering our surroundings, it would be déclassé, and it certainly wouldn’t set a good example.
Margot mutters, “The food is the only fly in the ointment. All you hear about it is ‘Oooh, yuck’, and ‘disgusting.’”
I shrug. “Still, a good time will be had by all.”
The shrill scream proves me wrong.
Margot and I turn to find that a ruckus has broken out at the far end of the room. It seems that Cheever figured out what to do with the oysters: shove them down the bodice of the dress of the girl who spurned him: Jeff’s date, Gabrielle.
When she screams, her knight in shining armor, Jeff, takes a handful of caviar and shoves it in Cheever’s face.
In no time, an all-out food fight ensues. Caviar is the weapon of choice.
“Stop it! Stop it! This stuff is fifty bucks a pound!” Penelope shouts, but she’s outnumbered.
Margot is about to walk into the fray when a waiter walks up to her. He points toward the breakaway wall. She thanks him. Turning to me, she sighs with relief. “Oh, thank goodness! Taylor is here, and has already set up on stage! That should calm the children down.”
She gives Penelope the high sign. Penelope tries her best to shout commands that the children stop, but they can’t hear her.
My taxi whistle stops everyone cold.
With as much dignity as she can muster, Penelope wipes the caviar off her face and proclaims, “The dinner portion of our dance is now over. As your hostess, I’d like to introduce you to tonight’s special guest–Miss Taylor Swift!”
The walls fold away, to reveal an elaborate raised proscenium stage. Over it hangs a banner that reads TAELOR SWIFF.
Henry’s staff misspelled the name of one of the world’s top entertainers. Yikes!
Seeing it, Penelope turns bright red. Her head whips around so that she can glare at the likely culprit: me.
Suddenly, the lights go dim, and the first rifts of Taylor’s song, Shake it Off, can be heard throughout the ballroom. The children rush toward the stage, clapping, and swaying to the music.
When the stage curtains slowly open, they let loose with a frenzied squeal. You hear the singer’s voice before you actually see her:
I stay up too late
Got nothing in my brain
That’s what people say
That’s what people say…
Did I say her? Make that, him.
The giveaway is the bobbing Adam’s apple.
Hmm. Well. That explains the difference in the spelling of her name, and the rock-bottom price for the booking.
Taelor’s back-up singers aren’t all as petite as she. At least the ones with the more prominent five-o’clock shadows are all the way in the back.
Margot must notice too, because she grabs my arm. Her eyes are open wide, but she keeps her mouth shut because Penelope is within scratching distance.
In unison, we shift our gaze to Penelope for the inevitable moment in which this unexpected surprise dawns on her, as well.
We don’t have to wait too long.
Penelope’s shock is revealed in how wide her eyes get, and how she clutches her throat. She takes a step forward because she can’t believe what she sees. When, finally, she can move, she practically runs backward–
Into one of the buffet tables.
If the food doesn’t make it to the floor, it’s only because it lands on her first.
Margot runs over to help her up.
Not me. My phone is buzzing. I look down at the Caller ID: Lee.
Finally, some answers. I head out of the ballroom, toward the VIP elevator room.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I love you, too,” Lee mutters.
The call has too much static. I can barely hear him. “I’m not playing games! Look, I know you’re in town.”
“Oh, yes? How is that?”
“Janie called Trisha and invited her over.”
“Damn it!” he mutters. “Babette begged to come west with me. When I told her it was to be a quick trip–in and out in twenty-four hours–she used ‘mommy-daughter’ time as her excuse. You’d think she could spend a full day with her own daughter without getting bored.”
I wince at his bluntness. “Lee, I think you’re in terrible danger. Please tell me where you are.”
He sighs, but says nothing. Finally, he murmurs, “The Savoy, in Beverly Hills. In a few moments I’ll be meeting with some international delegates to have a serious discussion about ISIL–”
“I’ll be right up!”
“It’ll take you too long to get here. Even with my police escort, The 405 was a God-awful mess–”
“No, I mean I’m already here, in the Savoy! For my son’s prom!”
“Oh! …Well, in that case–aw hell, our connection is awful! Call me on the house line. Ask for Lee Lyon’s room.” He hangs up.
There is a house phone on a side table in the alcove. I ask the operator to connect me with Lee’s pseudonym.
Even before I’m able to say something, Lee answers. “I’ll send someone from my Secret Service detail down to the lobby to get you.”
He must have put his hand over the phone for a moment, because the sound is muffled. When he finally gets back on, he says, “Ed is on his way. Head over to the elevator room for the penthouses. It’s hidden behind–”
“I know where it is,” I interrupt tersely. “In fact, I’m in the alcove o
utside of it as we speak. I have a penthouse here too.”
“That’s…convenient,” he murmurs.
The only thing I can think of is to say, “Jack thinks so.”
“What do I think?” Jack’s voice says behind me.
I turn to see him standing behind me–
With Mara, Ryan, and Arnie. They’re dressed formally, in suits, although Arnie’s is a size too small in the gut and the arms. Everyone looks shocked to see me.
“And what the hell are you doing here, Donna?” Jack mutters.
“Hello to you, too,” I say coldly. “Excuse me? Have you forgotten that Jeff’s prom is being held here, right now–and that I’m in charge of it?”
Before I have time to respond to him, the door opens. A burly man sticks his head out. I recognize him as one of the Secret Service agents I’ve seen before, who’s always trailing Lee.
Jack frowns. “Lee is here, too–and you conveniently forgot to mention it?”
Ed looks suspiciously at Jack. “If you’re ready, Mrs. Stone, the president will see you now.”
I follow him toward the elevator.
And Jack, Ryan, Mara, and Arnie follow me.
The man puts his hand on Jack’s chest. Nodding in my direction, he says, “Just her.”
Jack knocks it away.
I wedge myself between them. “Ed, POTUS is expecting them too.”
My eyes don’t waver. Finally, he steps aside to let us enter.
I go to the back of the elevator. Jack makes it a point to stand beside me. Like everyone else, we stare straight ahead. “By the way, I did leave you a message,” I mutter to him. “Several, in fact, from the moment I learned Lee was in Los Angeles. You should check your cell every now and then.” I look him up and down. “For that matter, where have you been for the past twenty-four hours?”