The Devil's Interval

by Linda Peterson

  The crowd was starting to move away from the bar and swarm together, in the proscribed social ritual—exclaiming, air-kissing, exercising the face-to-face greet, while peering over shoulders to see if someone more interesting was lurking behind pillar or post.

  Brand and I leaned against the bar in companionable silence. Key or S&M, where should I go first?

  “You didn’t want to model?” he asked.

  “One of our writers is a member of Junior League,” I said. “As was her mother in Connecticut, and I think her grandmother before her. In fact, were there Junior Leaguers on the Mayflower? I’m sure some Storch ancestor was there, probably organizing an onboard fashion show.” I paused. “So, Andrea was the best choice. In fact, her mother is here today from the East Coast to support her.” I waited a moment. “Ginger is in the show, isn’t she?”

  Brand nodded. “Absolutely. Fifth year running. She’s a veteran. Well, actually, she skipped the year that Grace died. Too hard to revisit something the girls had done together, I guess.”

  “I can imagine.” I said. “What’s she wearing?”

  He shrugged. “She doesn’t tell me much.”

  “In general?” I asked. “Or just about this event?”

  Brand looked annoyed. “Are you conducting a survey, Ms. Fiori?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Communication practices of the privileged and powerful.”

  “Ah,” he said, “that would make you part of the study group, yes? Media people have the power of the pen.”

  “I think what matters these days is the power of the YouTube,” I said.

  “Evasive, I see.” He rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “Do you and your husband exchange every little secret?”

  “We do now,” I said, tersely.

  “Pity,” he said. “Spoils the mystery and intrigue a bit, I would think.” He gave me a sidelong smile.

  “I guess that’s what BFFs are for,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know, how kids say ‘best friends forever’? Isn’t that what Grace and Ginger were?”

  He shrugged. “A little sophomoric for two sophisticated, grown women, I’d say. But yes, definitely the best of friends.”

  “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Ginger,” I said. “Losing Grace like that—the person you confide in, who has your house key and can check on things when you’re gone. The one you call in the middle of the night if you’re lying awake worrying about something.”

  “They were close,” said Brand, “but I don’t think there were any midnight calls to exchange girlish confidences. And I would be very surprised to learn Ginger and Grace had exchanged keys. We both have housekeepers and security systems; nobody needs to be handing around keys. You’re describing some nostalgic view of friendship from fifty years ago.”

  I was about to protest that my next-door neighbor and I have keys to each other’s houses, but I thought it would just prove Brand’s point about how quaint and retro our lives are.

  I scanned the room, wondering if Gus was somewhere. This hardly seemed like his kind of hangout, but then, Gus had shown up at the garden party and watched Ginger with particular enthusiasm. “Is Ginger’s father coming?” I asked.

  “You mean Gus?” drawled Brand, elongating the name into something that sounded like it was best treated with multiple doses of strong antibiotics.

  “Yes,” I said. “He seems so proud of everything she does.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea. I don’t even know if Ginger invited him. I just know,” he paused, and took a healthy sip of his Scorpion, “he’s not a guest at my table.”

  I was silent for a moment, then mused aloud, “Too bad for Ginger, I guess. Not having all her guys in the same cheering section.”

  Brand’s face resettled into its bland, pleasant, revealing-nothing expression. “Well, where are you seated, Ms. Fiori?” he asked, refusing to rise to my not-so-subtle bait. “We do have one seat open at our table, and I’d be delighted to have you join us.”

  I smiled politely. “So kind of you, but Small Town is actually a media sponsor, so I’m hosting a table as well.”

  He drained his glass, and turned around to put it on the bar. He caught the bartender’s eye and tapped the glass. The bartender immediately whisked the glass away and began making swift pours into a shaker.

  Brand turned back to me. “Need a little liquid sustenance to sit through these things in the middle of the day,” he said.

  I scanned the room, nodding, and then I caught sight of a familiar face. “Look,” I said, “Gus is here.” Ginger’s father was moving through the crowd like a broken-field runner, coming our way. I gave a little wave. He caught my eye and smiled.

  Brand picked up his fresh drink with a snap of the wrist, touched his index finger to his forehead, in an encore of the way he’d made his escape from Michael and me at the event honoring Plummer, and said, “Enjoy the program.” It was fascinating to watch him. Even with a substantial amount of alcohol in his system, he looked unruffled, precise in every word and move.

  I caught his arm. “Don’t you want to say hello to Gus?” I asked directly.

  He shook free of my arm. “Try not to be obtuse, Ms. Fiori. Does it appear that I want to greet that charmless old man?”

  “So sorry,” I said, holding his eyes.

  “No, you’re not,” he retorted, and headed purposefully away just as Gus drew near.

  Gus greeted me enthusiastically and knocked on the bar. “Bloody Mary,” he said, “and hold the celery and all that other crunchy, vegetable crap.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “Did I see you shooting the shit with my stick-up-his-ass son-in-law?”

  “You did,” I said. “I gather you’re not best pals, hanging out watching the Friday Night fights and playing poker.”

  “Man wouldn’t know a good poker hand if it fell out of the sky and arranged itself in his manicured little girly-paw,” said Gus. “Plus, he doesn’t need to play poker. Makes plenty of money doing all that hocus-pocus with other people’s money.”

  “You mean his partnership with Frederick Plummer?” I asked. “I don’t think it’s hocus-pocus. It’s just what VCs do.”

  Gus tossed a five on the bar as a tip to the bartender, who pushed his “vegetable-free” Bloody Mary to him.

  “Yeah, well, any work that doesn’t involve a little honest sweat seems like bullshit to me,” he growled.

  “Oh, really?” I said. “Were you sweating when you won all that money on Jeopardy?” I asked.

  Gus laughed. “You bet I was, sweetie,” he said. “Those were hot lights. Hey, if you don’t believe me, you can rent a compilation of those old shows—I’m on one of the ‘best of the big winner’ DVDs. Sweating like a pig.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “So, where are you sitting? Since I gather you’re not sharing your son-in-law’s table?”

  Gus shrugged. “I get too restless to sit at these shindigs. I just want a good vantage spot to watch Ginger steal the show. I’ll have a couple of drinks, and watch from the sidelines. She’ll know I’m here. Then, I’ve got to make a quick getaway. I’m doing some repairs on my cabin in the Sierra foothills. Getting it ready for summer.” He sighed. “I’ve never talked Ivory into going up there with me. Maybe this will be the year.”

  “She doesn’t like the woods?”

  “Who knows? Too much time in the car with me, probably. And it’s pretty middle-of-nowhere. Once you’re there, you’re not going anywhere. Nope. Take that back. You can hike to a bait shop that also sells the best mountain trout po’boys you’ll ever taste.”

  “Stout’s Trout?” I asked.

  He looked amazed. “That’s the place. How’d you know?”

  “I used to fish up there with my dad when I was a kid. Hiking to Stout’s for lunch was the culinary highlight of my childhood.”

  He shook his head. “Amazing. Most people can’t even find the place.” He took another swig of his Bloody Mary
.

  “How’d you get into this reception? Don’t you need to be a sponsor or something?”

  He grinned, and pulled a crumpled card out of his pants pocket and waved it at me. “My little Ginger gave me a ticket. She looks out for her old man, even if she’s always worried I’ll embarrass her.”

  He raised his glass to me. “Here’s how.”

  “So, Gus,” I began, “I was wondering.”

  He shook his head. “You ask a lot of questions. Don’t you remember what killed the cat?”

  “Nothing,” I said grimly. “My kids have two of them, and they seem to have nine thousand lives. The cats, not the kids. But, I was just wondering what all the tension is between you and Ginger’s husband?”

  “No tension,” he said. “He thinks I’m a carbuncle on Ginger’s perfect little life. And I think he doesn’t treat my daughter right.”

  This was getting interesting. “What do you mean?”

  With that, Gus launched a small litany of wrongs he felt Bill perpetuated on Ginger from not taking her arm to cross the street to not having children, etc. etc.

  “Whoa!” I said. “Maybe Ginger doesn’t want children?”

  He frowned. “She’d be a great mother. She’s terrific at everything she does.”

  “You really know he never takes her arm when they cross the street?” I asked.

  Gus put down his glass and curled his hands into two circles and brought them up to his eyes, mock binoculars at the ready. “I miss nothing,” he said flatly, “when it comes to the people I love.” He glanced at me. “You’ve got kids, right?” I nodded.

  “Thought so. Then you know, it’s your job to protect them. I wasted a lot of years not looking out for Ginger. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “How about kids looking out for their parents?” I asked.

  “I can take care of myself,” he said gruffly.

  “I didn’t mean you.” I said, “I meant Travis looking out for his mother.”

  Gus shook the ice cubes in his glass and polished off the rest. “You mean, Travis protecting Ivory from an unclassy guy like me, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know exactly what I’m asking,” I said. “But Travis seems very proprietary about his mother, even from prison. Seems like a hard club to get into.”

  ”Damn near impossible,” said Gus. “I’ve tried. The Prince of the manor will always be first in her heart, and Ivory tells me to chill because Travis hasn’t approved of any of her boyfriends. And believe me, I know I’m not the first.”

  A horn fanfare sounded in the next room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” called an amplified voice. “Please find your seats in the dining room. Luncheon is served.”

  I reached out my hand to give Gus a farewell handshake, and he ignored my hand, pulling me close for a hug. “I like you, little lady,” he said, directly into my ear. “Even if you ask too damn many questions.”

  He released me, and made a general swat in the direction of my backside. I sidestepped, waggled my fingers goodbye, and hurried off into the dining room.

  Small Town was definitely a “second-tier” sponsor, so it took a few minutes to navigate halfway back and to the side to our table. I spotted Andrea’s mother and Calvin first. Mrs. Storch was simply a slightly faded version of Andrea—her skin a little paler, her hair a slightly washed-out blond, her cashmere twinset a softer gray than Andrea usually wore. Regulation pearls, in place, but unlike Andrea’s standard single strand, Mrs. Storch featured a double-strand.

  But, here was the surprise. Even from several tables away, I heard her let loose with a delighted shout of laughter. Her head was close to Calvin’s, and as I watched, she dug in her handbag, and pulled a handkerchief out to dab her eyes.

  The rest of the table—advertisers we had invited as our guests, the columnist who covered the social scene, and Gertie—were all chatting amiably, but sneaking surreptitious glances at Calvin and Mrs. Storch, wishing they were part of their conversation. Calvin stood as I came to the table, and gestured to the empty chair next to Mrs. Storch.

  I slipped into the seat and shook hands with Andrea’s mother. “So lovely to have you here,” I said. “I know it means a good deal to Andrea.”

  “I’m delighted to be here. And Mr. Bright promises me that Andrea is wearing neither tweed nor Burberry. This is a bit of a thrill!”

  Thrill, huh? Hold that thought, Mrs. S.

  A few speeches, a multiscreen presentation on the Junior League’s projects, a breeze through the artfully arranged seafood salad, and it was time for the show. The lights went down again, and then came up on the elevated catwalk, edged on either side with larger-than-life white orchids.

  It was about what you’d expect—a local anchorman plus a SF Chronicle fashion reporter providing commentary, an onstage combo that changed tempo and tune every time the clothes changed theme—casual wear, mom-about-town wear, sports clothes, elegant work clothes. Mrs. Storch leaned over to me, “I told Calvin I thought they’d put Andrea in one of those handsome tennis outfits,” she said. “She’s such a tennis addict, you know.”

  “Guess not,” I said, blandly. “I think the sports part of the show is over.”

  “He did tell me that he thinks she’s dressed for indoor sports.”

  “Really?” I whispered noncommittally, not anxious to hear Calvin’s speculations on Andrea’s participation in indoor sports.

  The lights on the runway dimmed once more, and came up with a little silver sparkle edge to them.

  “And now,” intoned the fashion reporter, talking directly into the mike in a hoarse, sexy voice, about an octave lower than she’d been speaking. “Here’s a little segment we’re calling Fashion on the Edge.”

  “Oh, goody,” I said aloud, realizing that this segment had to feature our own leather-and-lace prepster.

  The musicians laid down a disco beat, and the notes of “I Will Survive” began rocking the room.

  Andrea was the first model out. Gone was the hesitancy and apprehension I’d seen as she’d slid off the high makeup chair. Instead, she strode out on the catwalk as if she were taking possession. The impeccable Starchy Storch posture was there, shoulders back, chest out—and oh, my, what a chest it was. But in addition to that classic New England field-hockey/tennis-playing stance, she’d clearly had some model-coaching as well. She led with her hips, seemed completely secure on the spike heels, and had a look on her face that suggested decadent-European-film-star-as-dominatrix. Charlotte Rampling in The Night Porter. I could hardly bear to look away, but I had to watch Mrs. Storch. She leaned forward, back no longer touching the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She blinked a few times. And then leaned over to Calvin and whispered something. He listened intently, shook his head, and pointed to me. “What?” I asked.

  “Shh,” said Mrs. Storch, “we have a question. We’ll ask you after Andrea is offstage.”

  The anchorman was speaking: “Lovely in leather and lace from Ella True,” he said, “a local designer who’s all about the bad girls. Welcome our first-time model, Andrea Storch.” A ripple of applause and a few whistles pierced the clatter of cutlery in the dining room. “Andrea’s a film critic from Small Town, one of this year’s media sponsors,” he added. “And her friends tell me that her nickname is…” He looked down at the card in his hand, “Starchy Storch.” Laughter washed across the room. Andrea had reached the end of the catwalk, posed, one hip thrust at an angle. Her mouth twitched, and then she broke into a wide grin.

  The anchorman waited ’til the laughter died down. “I’d say Miss Storch needs a new nickname—and fast.”

  The smile disappeared; Andrea was all business again. She turned smartly on her spikes, and strode back down the runway and disappeared.

  The rest of the segment featured other models in edgier fashion—shredded shirts, miniskirts with seams on the outside, a shocking-pink, faux-fur tankini, and the closer, a spiky-haired mom in black hot pants and a fringed, black leather jacket over a red lace bu
stier pushing a twin-stroller with towheaded kids, also dressed in black. All very homage to Vivienne Westwood.

  The big finale segment, as always, was evening wear. Ginger was the last model out in that segment, before the traditional bridezilla closer. Dressed top to bottom in Ralph Lauren British racing-green, beaded silk, with a knockout heavy emerald-green necklace topping the strapless bodice. “My word,” said Mrs. Storch. “Those emeralds must weigh more than the model.” When Ginger paused to strike her pose, a yodel-like “Yahoo” pierced the air, punctuating the applause. Gus, I felt sure, was expressing his fatherly approval. And then, the music changed once again, and lush strings played poor old, worn-out Pachelbel’s Canon in D to signal the parade of brides. Since it was the San Francisco Junior League, in addition to the elegant Vera Wang zillion-dollar white slip dresses, there were models in traditional red Chinese wedding gowns and an Indian bride wearing a gold-embroidered red sari.

  A final round of applause, the lights came up, and at last—dessert on the table. Mini chocolate éclairs. Mrs. Storch took a ladylike sip of her wine and dug into the éclairs with gusto.

  “Isn’t this fun?” she asked. “Éclairs! In the middle of the day. It’s like being on holiday. All we ever have for dessert is fruit. Melon balls in the summer, apples and cheese in the winter. But chocolate—this is an immense improvement.”

  “So,” I leaned toward Mrs. Storch and Calvin, “what did you think about the show? And what were you trying to ask me?”

  “I thought Andrea looked very sexy,” said Mrs. Storch. She turned to Calvin, “What did you think, dear?”

  “Hot,” said Calvin. “Hot, hot, hot.” I raised an eyebrow at Calvin. He added hastily, “But in a wholesome way.”

  He watched Mrs. Storch polish off her éclairs, and gently pushed his untouched plate toward her.

  “Aren’t you eating yours, dear?” she asked.

  “All yours,” said Calvin, gallantly.

  “Oh, tell Mrs. Fiori what we were trying to remember,” she prompted Calvin.

  “You always have all this ridiculous trivia in your head,” said Calvin. “Mrs. Storch thought Andrea looked like Marlene Dietrich when she was vamping that old professor in The Blue Angel. But we couldn’t remember her character’s name.”