by Jane Heller
15
“We haven’t even thought about the menu for Tony’s publication party,” I said with yet another glare in her direction. “We’re not publishing his book until next year. It’s your publication party we should be talking about, Tara, so let’s get started. We should have the party here, I think. That way, all the media people and bookstore buyers and members of L and T’s sales force will be able to observe your simply beautiful idiom firsthand.”
“Oh,” she said, sweeping her hair off the back of her neck. “What a wonderful idea.”
Of course she thought it was wonderful. It was the same idea she’d thrown at me to convince me to come for lunch. “Yes, we should definitely have the party here, and it should be cocktails and a light supper, and you should come up with party favors for each guest—you know, the way you write about in the book?”
“Party favors! Yes! We’ll do the favors and the gift baskets and the personalized poems—the whole enchilada,” said Tara, who was easily distracted from the taboo subject, since the new subject revolved around her. I shouldn’t have worried so much. The minute I started tossing around scenarios that placed her at center stage, she was putty in my hands. For a full half hour, she talked to me about herself while Stuart pumped Tony for a preview of the next Joe West mystery. Stuart was thrilled to have the chance to pepper his favorite author with questions about the books, and Tony was good-natured about explaining how he couldn’t discuss the specifics of his research but that the crimes Joe West solved were based on real ones. Most important, nobody mentioned marriage.
Eventually, Tara departed for the kitchen so she could oversee the plating of the food by Michelle, her cook/housekeeper, who had probably been preparing the meal all day, in between cleaning chores.
We were assigned seats at the dining room table (yes, there were place cards, even though we were only four) and served our herbed game hens—perfectly plump little birds that were accompanied by a green salad and a very impressive-looking side dish involving chanterelle mushrooms in puff pastry. We all oohed and aahed and said everything smelled and tasted delicious, and just when I was about to return the conversation to the exciting things in store for Simply Beautiful and its author, there was a ferocious crack of thunder, which stunned everyone.
“This storm is turning out to be much worse than they predicted,” said Stuart.
“Can you imagine having a wedding on a night like this?” said Tara.
“Why?” asked Tony. “Do you know someone who’s getting married?”
She and Stuart thought that was hilarious, while I nearly spit out my mouthful of game hen.
“Someone’s getting married all right,” she said with another wink-wink smile at me. She turned to Stuart. “We’d better start thinking about a gift for the lovebirds, sweetheart.”
“You’re the creative one,” he said. “You’ll come up with something.”
Tara turned back to Tony. “Are you registered?”
“You bet,” he said. “I’m a lifelong Democrat.”
She and Stuart laughed again. Ha-ha-ha. What a scream that Tony Stiles was.
“No, really, Tony,” she said when she’d caught her breath. “Is there anything you can use?”
“Anything I can use?”
“Yes. In your home, for instance?”
“I can use a new fax machine. My old one just died.”
“Tony, Tony.” She blinked at him, as if he were such a kidder. “I meant—well, you know what I meant.”
“Speaking of home,” said Stuart, “have you been looking at apartments? Or are you staying where you are?”
“I love my place,” said Tony. “I’ve got a loft in SoHo and it suits me just fine. Why would I move anywhere else?”
“SoHo’s fine for now,” said Tara, “but what about when you have kids? You’d have to send them to private school, wouldn’t you?”
Tony glanced at me as if to say, Are these people weird or what? Either that or: Why are they acting as if we’re getting married when we’re only on our second date?
“Don’t saddle him with kids before he’s even taken the trip to the altar,” Stuart chided Tara.
O-kay. That did it. I had been sitting there in silence, hoping the storm—the one outside and the one at the table—would blow over, but now I had to act fast in order to reroute the conversation once and for all. I had wanted to choke Tara, but the person I needed to choke at that moment was myself.
“Oh”—cough—“my”—cough—“God.” I grunted, clutched my chest, coughed again as I pretended my throat was closing up. “I think a piece of meat is caught in my—”
As I pointed frantically at my windpipe in an effort to prove how dire the situation was, Tony leapt from his chair, stood me up like a rag doll, and grabbed me around the middle.
“Try not to panic, Amy,” he said.
“Yes, don’t panic,” Tara chimed in. “Tony’s going to Heimlich you.”
“Be gentle,” I said in short grunts, hoping he wouldn’t crack one of my ribs. Yes, I wanted to pay back Tara, but not at the risk of injuring myself.
“I will,” he said. “Just stay calm.”
Tara and Stuart watched wide-eyed as Tony pressed his fists against my midsection. It only hurt a little, but the best part was that nobody in that room was thinking about anything except the morsel of herbed game hen that was allegedly threatening my life. I figured the drama I had created was good for at least another hour, what with the maneuver and my hair-raising brush with death, not to mention the concern everyone would show for my welfare and the need to have me rest quietly on a sofa in the aftermath.
As it turned out, my pseudodrama was trumped yet again by Tara. Well, not by Tara herself, but by a force of nature, which was the same thing.
After I told Tony that he could stop Heimliching me because I had successfully swallowed the piece of game hen and was out of danger, there was another clap of thunder, then a loud crash.
Tara and Stuart flew around the house, checking to see which priceless, ridiculously expensive, one-of-a-kind object might have fallen.
“The minute they come downstairs, we’re leaving,” I said to Tony. “I’ve accomplished everything I needed to here, so there’s no reason to stay any longer.”
“Ready when you are,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what: I have new respect for you after tonight, the way you have to deal with off-the-wall authors. Tara’s even more high-maintenance than I am.”
“You have no idea.”
When our hosts reappeared, Tony and I announced that we were going home.
“I’m pretty exhausted from my choking episode,” I said as the four of us stood in the threshold.
“And I’m not sure how bad the roads will be,” Tony added. “We’ll probably have to take it very slowly.”
“We understand,” said Stuart.
“Of course we do,” said Tara.
Tony and I thanked them profusely for the dinner and the hospitality. There was much hugging and shaking of hands, and when Stuart wished Tony the best of luck, Tony thought he was talking about the drive back to the city, not the stroll down the aisle.
As for me, I was seriously relieved. I was getting out of there without anybody catching me in my lie. (Okay, lies.) I could spend the rest of my life replaying the look on Tara’s face when I showed up with Tony Stiles as my fiancé. It was so worth all the aggravation.
“Let us walk you out to your car,” offered Stuart. “I’ve got a golf umbrella that’s bigger than the one you brought.”
“Yes, we’ll both walk you out,” said Tara, “since the rain has let up for the moment.”
I didn’t object. I figured it would be icing on the cake when they saw Tony’s trillion-dollar Ferrari.
My feelings of well-being were short-lived, however. When we all stepped outside, we gasped in horror when we saw that a huge tree had fallen during the storm—right smack across the driveway. No, Tony’s car wasn’t damaged, but the tree
was completely blocking our escape route.
“We’ll never get anyone over here to move it at this hour,” said Stuart, who did indeed flip out when he spotted the Ferrari. I could tell he was dying to ask Tony how much he’d paid for it, how fast it went, and all the other things men want to know about cars that are essentially penis substitutes, but he held himself in check.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” said Tara. “That tree isn’t going anywhere tonight, and neither are Amy and Tony.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Well,” she said, “you won’t be able to get your car up the driveway.”
“But you must have a handyman on staff,” I said, feeling helpless, desperate, as sick as if I had choked on the game hen.
“A handyman can’t move the tree, Amy,” said Tony, who started to wipe the debris off his windshield, then gave up. “It’ll take someone with a chainsaw and maybe heavier equipment, and nobody’s coming tonight. There must be hundreds of people needing help after this storm.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t move the tree ourselves,” I said, my dread mounting. “I could lift one part and you could lift—”
“Amy,” said Tony, “the tree weighs more than all of us put together.”
“But I’ll bet we can sort of drag it to the side of the—”
“It’s settled!” Tara said. “You and Tony will spend the night; then we’ll worry about the tree tomorrow. We’ll start by having a lovely, lovely brunch. I’ve got eggs and Canadian bacon and some fantastic French bread. We’ll eat in the sunroom and drink Bloody Marys and talk some more. It’ll be just like the grown-up slumber parties I write about in Simply Beautiful, where couples stay over at each other’s houses instead of booking rooms at country inns. Remember that chapter, Amy?”
This isn’t happening, I thought. This cannot be happening. I was so close to getting out of there, so close.
“Sure you’ll stay with us,” said Stuart, patting Tony on the back. “It’ll be our pleasure to have a literary luminary sleeping under our roof. That’s what the guest house is for.”
The guest house. The too-precious-for-words little replica of the castle. It was just as opulently decorated as the main house, with its sitting room, mini-kitchen, and full bath. Oh, and it had a very romantic bedroom. That’s right. One bedroom. With one bed in it. A bed that Tony and I would be sharing even though we were not engaged or going steady, and certainly not having sex.
“Tony has to get back to the city,” I said, my voice sounding screechy and pained. “He has a strict writing schedule, which includes working on weekends. The only days he takes off are Christmas and his birthday. Right, Tony?”
“Right,” he said, “but even if we arranged for a cab to meet us at the foot of the driveway and take us home tonight, I’d still have to come back during the week to get the car. That would use up more of my writing time than staying over.”
“It just seems that if we call around—Tara, you must have contacts within the police, the fire department, a towing company, somebody—we can get the tree moved,” I said. “Then there’d be no need for us to stay over.”
“Don’t be silly, Amy,” she said, taking me by the elbow and escorting me back inside. “You won’t be imposing, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
What was bothering me was that I had lied, cheated, and choked my way through the evening and had managed to emerge unscathed. I had impressed Tara with the man I’d landed, and that should have been that. But that was never that when it came to her. Never.
16
Naturally, Tony didn’t understand why I was so upset about us having to sleep over in the Lashers’ guest house. While I was pacing frantically around its small living room, which was furnished with a love seat and two chairs and more flowers than a funeral parlor, he was sitting calmly. “Look,” he said, “I want to get away from these people as much as you do, but it’s not as if there’s anything we can do about the tree falling in their driveway. We might as well just grin and bear it.”
“You grin and bare it,” I said as I continued to pace. “I overheard that exchange between you and Stuart, where he offered to lend you something to wear for the night and you told him you didn’t need it because you sleep in the nude.” Tara had given me a sheer black nightgown to wear to bed. I’d taken it only because I couldn’t very well sleep in my clothes without looking rumpled the next morning—and because it was really fetching—but I assumed Tony would sleep in his underwear or a sheet or something.
“What’s this? Is the fearless publicist to the stars afraid of a little male nudity?” he teased.
“Of course I’m not afraid.” Well, I wasn’t. I was merely caught off guard by the idea of spending the night with a naked author. Okay, with a naked Tony Stiles.
He laughed. “You’re a nervous wreck, but you can relax. I do sleep in the nude—when I’m alone. I was only busting Stuart’s chops when I made that comment. He’s such a pompous jerk, he probably sleeps in that Brooks Brothers suit.”
“Actually, he sleeps in pajamas. Light blue pinstriped pajamas with his initials monogrammed on the sleeves.”
Tony did a double take. “And how would you know that? It’s not as if you’ve ever slept with him.”
I sighed. There was no point in trying to keep the game going any longer. No point in trying to keep Tony in the dark about his unwitting role as my fiancé and my past history with Tara and Stuart. No point in trying to fool any of them. I wouldn’t be able to. The tree in the driveway took care of that. There was no way I could spend another whole day lying to everybody and not get caught.
Yes, I might as well tell Tony the truth, I decided. He and I didn’t have a future together, so what did I care if he hated my guts for being yet another woman in his life who had a hidden agenda? He was adverse to commitment. He’d admitted it. We might have had a fling. A torrid fling even. But then in three months, we’d have been in the same situation I’d been in countless times: He’d stop calling and I’d start wondering why, and eventually we’d have the “I don’t think this is working out” conversation. Who needed it?
“Tony, there’s something I have to tell you,” I said wearily, sinking into the chair next to his.
“I already know what it is. Judging by your reaction to the mere thought of me in the buff, I’d say you’re about to tell me you’re not up for sex tonight.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not about sex. This will be hard for you to comprehend, but I can live without ever seeing your body up close and personal.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in case it is the sex thing that’s got you so rattled, let me assure you that I’m perfectly capable of sleeping in the same bed with a woman and not ravishing her. I’ll stay on my side and you’ll stay on your side, and you won’t even know we’re in the same room. I’ll make sure you get a good night’s rest and then return you to the city tomorrow—with your virtue intact.”
So he was saying he wasn’t attracted to me now? After all that business about our chemistry and compatibility? Call me a hypocrite, but I would have preferred that he at least try to have sex with me.
But back to my first order of business. “I really do have something to tell you,” I said. “No more kidding though, okay? It’s serious.”
“Fine. No more kidding. Talk.”
“Will you promise you won’t leave L and T because of what I’m about to say?”
“Leave L and T? Why would I do that?”
“Promise first.”
“I promise, but I don’t see—”
“Just listen.” I cleared my throat. “For starters, here’s how I know that Stuart sleeps in monogrammed pinstriped pj’s: I was engaged to him.”
“Engaged?” He blinked at me, his expression one of bemusement. “You were actually going to marry that twerp?”
“At a big fancy ceremony catered by the one and only Lasher’s Meats & Eats.”
“Wow. I can’t picture the two of you together at all. He seems like such a lightweight, not to mention slippery.”
“Slippery?”
“Yeah. You ask him a question and he answers by asking you a question. All night long, I tried to get him to tell me about his business, his hobbies, his house, his wife, something, and he was evasive every time, throwing the attention back onto me.”
“Probably because you’re his idol. He loves your books, Tony. Maybe he was starstruck.”
“Or maybe he’s got something to hide. I’ve interviewed plenty of crooks over the years, and they can be evasive that way. This is just instinct, but I wouldn’t trust Stuart Lasher if you paid me.”
I nodded ruefully. “I wish you’d tipped me off to that before I met him. You see, Tony, Stuart ended up dumping me for Tara. The two of them had been having an affair behind my back. I caught them in a compromising position a couple of weeks before the wedding.”
His trademark smirk vanished. “What a hideous story. I’m so sorry.”
“It gets worse. Tara was my best friend growing up—the one I mentioned to you at dinner the other night.”
“The queen bee who stung you?”
“Yes.” I explained about Tara then. About how I’d loved her as much as I’d resented her throughout our childhood and teenage years; how I’d needed to be around her as much as I’d needed to separate myself from her; how her beauty and popularity had made me feel inferior even though it had opened doors for me; how we’d continued to get together as young women, even as our interests took us in different directions; and how I’d asked her to be my maid of honor for old time’s sake. “After I found out about her and Stuart, I severed my relationship with her and didn’t expect to see her again. Then all of a sudden, her book turned up on L and T’s fall list and it became my job to promote it.”
Tony pulled his chair closer to mine, took my hands in his, and held them. “For you to have to hype her to the media, given what happened, sounds above and beyond the call of duty to me.”