Mavis interrupted her. “You don’t owe me an explanation. As long as you’re happy and safe.”
Ida contemplated what to say and what not to say. She was an adult and didn’t like all this sneaking around. In fact, she was going to tell Sammy it was time to go public with their relationship. They were both free, there was simply no reason to keep their feelings for one another hidden. With a lightened conscience, Ida found her voice. “I have been seeing someone.”
Mavis continued with her ironing, though Ida saw the slight smile on her face. “I guessed it was something like that.”
“You don’t think I’m a tramp, do you?” Ida asked.
Mavis placed the iron on the edge of the ironing board, then unplugged it from the outlet. “Oh Ida, of course not! I would never think such a thing. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve met someone.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure how you would react. Toots and Sophie are always teasing me. They think I can’t live without a man, but that’s not true. It’s just . . . I just seem to attract them.” Ida smiled. Well, it was true. She didn’t go searching for them. They came to her.
Mavis dipped her head like a bashful teen. “Actually I’ve met someone, too. His name is George. He has a dachshund named Albert.”
For once Ida smiled a genuine honest-to-goodness straight-from-the-heart smile. “Let’s go outside and sit on the deck.” Any thoughts of spending the afternoon bathing and sleeping were gone. Ida perked up when the topic turned to men. “And you can tell me all about him.”
With a lightness in her step, Mavis beamed when she spoke, “I’ll bring a pitcher of lemonade. I can’t wait for you girls to meet him.”
“Let me help you,” Ida said.
“No, no, you go on out and wipe the sand off those old deck chairs. I’ll only be a minute.” Mavis grabbed a damp sponge from the sink. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Ida took the sponge from her. “I’m okay now. Truly. I can sit on sandy deck chairs, Mavis. As a matter of fact, I want to sit on dirty chairs. It reminds me just how grateful I am for Dr. Sameer’s help. I don’t know what I would do without him.”
Mavis took the pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and grabbed a tray of ice and two glasses. “Come. I want to hear all about your new love,” she said.
Out on the deck, Mavis poured them each a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade before settling into the weather-beaten chair next to Ida’s. “So tell me about George,” Ida said cheerily. She simply loved to talk about men.
“We met on the beach. Coco saw his dachshund, Albert, and fell madly in love. I’ve never seen her so taken with another dog. Albert refused to walk when he saw Coco. I think it was love at first sight for the two. George and I just started talking, and one thing led to another. We’ve been meeting on the beach for the past two weeks. We’re going out to dinner as soon as we can find a sitter for both dogs. He’s very hesitant to leave Albert with just anybody. Of course I understand, and I told him so. I said Toots and Sophie would watch the dogs, but he said he wasn’t sure and would have to meet them first. So, when they meet, and if Albert takes to Sophie and Toots, then we’re going out on a real date.”
Ida couldn’t recall Mavis ever being quite as animated as she was at that moment. Her eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed like she’d just had one of those facials that Ida paid hundreds for in Manhattan. Love. Mavis looked like a woman in love!
“I can watch the dogs, Mavis. You don’t have to ask Toots or Sophie.” Ida said this knowing Mavis wouldn’t accept her offer. Coco hated her, and she figured Albert would, too. Dogs didn’t seem to like her for some reason.
“Oh no, but thank you. Coco really likes Toots.” Mavis shifted her eyes downward. “Not that she doesn’t like you, it’s just that Toots is more of a dog person.”
Somewhat chagrined and not exactly sure why, Ida just nodded. “Well, the offer still stands. You know, in case of an emergency. So tell me more about your George. Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”
“Yes, he is. He’s also kind and loves animals. He is a widower, too.”
“He sounds nice,” Ida thought. Just like dear Mavis.
“Oh, there’s much more to him than that. He owns a string of dry cleaners, and says he’ll never fully retire. He travels a lot, too. He’s never been to Maine. I asked him if he would like to come and visit me sometime in the future, but he didn’t answer. I wonder why? Do you suppose he doesn’t like easterners?”
Ida almost fell out of her chair. Mavis was so naive. Poor thing. Ida would have to teach her a thing or two about men. Maybe she should start a dating service or an advice column; she certainly had enough experience. Something to do with her free time. Or maybe she would just enjoy herself by taking pictures of whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. She’d thought about that many times but never dreamed it was possible. Once she took the photographs of the Pitt/Jolie kids, who knew where that would lead? Ida promised herself she would be open to all the possibilities regardless of where she was in her romantic life. She really did not have to have a man in her life. Someday she would prove this to Toots and Sophie. She smiled at the thought.
“Ida? Are you all right, dear?” Mavis asked.
Ida shook her head, “Yes, I was just woolgathering. No, I don’t think being an easterner has anything to do with George’s not answering you. It’s quite possible he didn’t hear you.” Ida smiled. Poor Mavis spoke in such soft tones it was all Ida could do to hear her.
“Really? Now that you mention it, I suppose it is possible. He does seem to lean toward me when we’re talking. I’ll just have to speak loud and clear the next time the subject comes up. What do you think?”
“I think you should invite George and Albert over for dinner. I’m sure Toots wouldn’t mind. You could make that fish dish of yours that I like so much. Of course we could call out for something if you don’t want to cook. This way we would all get a chance to meet George, and he could decide if Toots and Sophie are worthy enough to dog-sit.”
Mavis clapped her hands together. “That’s a wonderful idea. Why didn’t I think of that? We meet every morning at sunrise. I’ll make sure to ask him. Of course, I want to clear it with Toots first. She’s been so good to me. I would hate it if she thought I were taking advantage of her generosity. And I’m not sure if she would even want a stranger in the house now. Maybe I should wait until all the remodeling is finished. I wouldn’t want to embarrass Toots.”
Ida took a sip of her lemonade. “I’m sure Toots wouldn’t want you to wait, but it’s probably a good idea to ask her first. She can be moody when she wants to be.” Ida shouldn’t have said that, but it was true. Toots could be as big a bitch as Ida. That’s why they fought like cats and dogs. They were very much alike, though Ida was sure Toots would never agree with her. As the old saying goes, “It takes one to know one.”
“Well she did just lose her husband, Ida. Of course she’s moody. It took years for me to recover from Herbert’s death. Sometimes I’m still not sure that I’m over it. I still miss him, and it’s been almost fifteen years.” Mavis gazed longingly out at the Pacific.
“She’s had eight husbands. I think grieving has become routine for her. It’s an event for her, she told me so herself. I don’t believe Toots’s moodiness can be attributed to grief.”
“Well, I for one don’t care what kind of mood Toots is in. She’s my dearest friend.” Mavis paused as though she’d made a massive blunder. “And of course so are you and Sophie. I love each one of you.”
“Oh Mavis, you’re too sweet to be hanging with three old women who do nothing but complain about one another. You should be with people who are more like you.”
“And what kind of people would that be?” Mavis asked.
Ida brushed sand from her lap. “Nice people, people who don’t bitch all the time.”
Mavis laughed. “I wouldn’t change one thing about any of you, so you can stop right now. Now, you haven’t said one word about thi
s mysterious man that you’ve been sneaking out to see every night for the past few weeks. I want to know all about him.”
Shit, it was confession time.
Chapter 11
Abby had checked her e-mail at least ten times since she’d replied to the publicist’s message. Nothing. She thought that she should have heard something by then. E-mail was practically instantaneous. If the Pitt/Jolie publicist wanted to arrange for an interview, one would assume they would check their e-mails often enough to get the process going. Abby glanced at her watch again. Damn, only four minutes had passed since she looked at it the last time. Chester lay curled up in a ball on the Barcalounger, fast asleep. Dogs, they could sleep anywhere. Almost like men. Men. No, she would not think of men because thinking of men would remind her of Chris Clay. And Chris Clay was not someone she wanted to think about. Not after she’d seen his face plastered on the cover of People with that sleazy-ass star of the month. No, men were jerks. Men made promises they couldn’t or wouldn’t keep, unlike women, who always kept their promises. At least she did.
She remembered her so-called date with Chris right before the fire. They’d gone to Pink’s, a hot-dog stand made famous for its “cuisine” and the stars who often dined there. They’d gone together. She’d eaten three hot dogs. He’d kissed her fingers. Each and every one of them. One at a time. Abby had promised herself she wouldn’t wash her hands for at least a week, but she had eaten those words almost as fast as she’d gobbled down the hot dogs.
She’d spoken to Chris on the phone in the wee hours of the morning, had asked him for a favor. And he’d flat out told her no. He hadn’t minced words either. She’d been avoiding him ever since. He’d told her he liked her. As in really liked her. Her mistake, she’d believed him. Her dear stepbrother, whom she’d had a crush on since she’d first laid eyes on him. She had been fourteen and he was eighteen, and now at twenty-eight she still couldn’t stop thinking about him. Damn!
She heard the bell on her computer ding, letting her know she’d received a new e-mail. Maybe the publicist. She clicked on the yellow mailbox. An e-mail from Victoria’s Secret. Yes, just what she needed. A sexy pair of panties with a matching bra. No one to appreciate them except herself, so she definitely wasn’t in the mood for designer lingerie. No need. Her love life had been stuck in slow motion for so long, it would take more than sexy lingerie to lure her out of . . . what? There wasn’t anyone she wanted to date, except Chris. He’d ruined any chance they had when he’d refused to offer his legal advice, telling her he was working for her mother. Abby believed him; she’d even asked her mother just to double-check. Still, he could’ve helped her out. Conflict of interest, he’d said. Conflict of interest my ass, Abby thought.
Chester stood up in the Barcalounger and stretched languidly before jumping off his favorite chair. “You want out, I bet.” Abby found his leash on the back of her chair. She clipped it to his collar, grabbed her keys, and headed outside for Chester’s afternoon stroll so he could water the bushes.
Once out in the parking area, Abby removed Chester’s leash. Now that the parking lot was completely fenced in, there was a nice safe area where Chester could run loose and do his business while she didn’t have to worry about keeping him collared. Rag would’ve had her ass if he’d known she allowed Chester to roam freely. He’d been real big on insisting she keep him on a leash, always reminding her of the liability if he were to bite an employee or, God forbid, an advertiser. She wished that Chester had taken a bite out of the old bastard. Would have served him right after all the trouble his leaving caused. Abby had high hopes that he would be found someday. Until then, she had more important things to worry about.
The Jolie/Pitt interview would put The Informer up against The Enquirer and The Globe. They would pay millions for this interview, she knew that. Hell, The Informer would pay big bucks if they could. But luckily for them—and for her—they didn’t have to.
A germ of an idea began to form in the back of her mind. What if she were to build up this interview before it actually took place? What if she hinted to the readers that The Informer was about to land the mother of all exclusive interviews? She could do it, build up reader momentum, not to mention sales, then boom. She’d have every tabloid reader in America lining up to buy The Informer when her interview, with pictures, was front and center at every grocery store, airport, newspaper stand, and every discount department store in the nation. Yes, she could do it. She was sure it would be at least two to three weeks before the interview actually took place. That would allow her enough time to write the teasers. She’d do them herself. Of course, she would have to have the approval of the new owners, but Abby figured if they were smart businessmen, or women, they would give her the go-ahead. The only way she could contact them, though, was via e-mail.
“Come on, Chester. We’ve got work to do.”
Upon hearing his name, the German shepherd raced to Abby’s side. She stooped down so he could cover her face with dog kisses. She ruffled his ears, then patted his muzzle. “You’re such a smart boy, you know that? I do believe you’re smarter than Mr. Clay, the jerk.”
Chester barked.
Abby grinned. “I see you agree with me. A smart move, old boy.”
Back inside her office, Abby refreshed Chester’s water and grabbed a Coke from the minifridge before sitting down to draft an e-mail to her unknown employer, LAT Enterprise. How was she to address them? she wondered as she clicked on her e-mail account. She went with the obvious.
Dear LAT Enterprise:
Yesterday I received an e-mail from the publicist for the Pitt/Jolie team. They have granted The Informer an interview. They also requested photographs of their twins. As of this writing, we have not scheduled an exact date. I would assume two to three weeks before all involved are ready. I believe The Informer’s sales would skyrocket if we were to build up our readers’ anticipation with teasers on the upcoming exclusive interview. As editor in chief I will take full responsibility for writing them and doing the upcoming interview.
I ask your permission to begin this project immediately.
Respectfully,
Abby Simpson,
Editor in Chief
She read through the e-mail twice before hitting the SEND button. That was direct and right to the point. She had no clue if the actual owners would read it, but assumed the information would somehow reach the decision maker. If they were smart, they’d jump on this like white on rice. Done properly, the interview could launch a whole new readership and keep their regular subscribers satisfied as well.
Abby scanned her new e-mails, hoping for a response from the publicist, but so far, nothing, nada, zilch. “Damn, come on, answer your e-mail,” she thought as she typed short, succinct answers to her three stringers covering Revlon’s Woman of the Year luncheon, which amounted to nothing more than older out-of-work actors vying for a chance to rub shoulders with producers and directors. Still, one never knew. She’d instructed Elizabeth to hide in the ladies’ room on the off chance she’d hear something newsworthy, tabloid newsworthy. She hated to sink so low, but it was commonplace in the business nowadays, almost so much so that it was next to impossible to overhear the tiniest bit of gossip. Today’s stars were savvy where the press were concerned, yet they knew how to play right into their hands when they needed a headline. Trouble was, The Informer’s “hands” always seemed to be last in line.
When she finished answering her e-mails, Abby turned off the computer, covered her keyboard with a protective plastic cover, and grabbed her purse and Chester’s leash. “Come on, boy, it’s time to go home. Maybe we’ll both get lucky tonight.”
Chester leaped off his chair and followed her to the door and down the long hallway to the back exit. Once inside her MINI Cooper, Abby strapped Chester’s seat belt in place before adjusting her own. She had promised Chester a steak that night. She’d make a pit stop at Ralph’s. She needed food, real food. She’d been existing on takeout for weeks. Between
running The Informer out of her garage, then settling into her new office, not to mention trying to stay on top of her remodeling projects at home, Abby hadn’t bothered with grocery shopping, let alone cooking. As her mother would say, that’s what restaurants are for. While she agreed wholeheartedly, she was sick of fast food.
She weaved the little car in and out of traffic, stopping every so often for one of LA’s world-famous traffic jams. Forty-five minutes later, she hit Brentwood, where she lived just minutes from a Ralph’s grocery store.
“You’ll have to stay in the car, Chester, but I promised you a big steak, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna get.”
Before she got out of her car, she lowered the windows just enough to allow fresh air to flow through the car, but not enough that Chester could jump out after her.
Abby entered the store, grateful for the wash of icy air. She was about to reach for a shopping basket when her hand collided with another hand, another large male hand. “Wait a minute buddy . . .”
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite reporter. Abby Simpson. What are you doing in a grocery store? Please tell me you’re not making dinner tonight.”
Her first instinct was to run out of the store, her second was to sock him right in the kisser, but her third, the one she acted on, was to remain calm. She was an adult. She could handle this.
“I suppose I should ask you the same. I hope you’re not making dinner for one of your Hollywood starlets. I might have to report that some of them actually eat real food.” Abby yanked the shopping basket out of Chris Clay’s hand.
He jumped back. “Testy today, aren’t we? News must be slow. I remember that about you. You’re always pissy when you don’t have something to write for that sleazy paper.”
Abby had turned her back on him. She was going to purchase her groceries, go home, and cook dinner for herself and a steak for Chester. But no, Chris just had to remind her what he thought of her chosen profession. Something he knew would tick her off.
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