The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan (The Mimi Chronicles Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  He yanks back and agrees, “That’s right, Mimi, time for bed.” And he pulls me down on top of him. Before I know what’s happening, Elliot has rolled over and pinning me beneath him. He groans, “You’re mine, Mimi Finnegan, and don’t you forget it.” Then his mouth is on mine and he’s kissing me with all the passion of a sex-starved cowboy. Elliot leans up long enough to slide the strap down on my nightgown. Once his mission is complete, he runs his hand up my bare leg, dragging the hem with it. At this moment I’m not sure I have the willpower to hold him off until he is officially broken up with Beatrice. I’m not sure that I even want to. I’m just so lost in the pure physical heat the two of us seem to generate I can’t even think straight.

  Elliot props himself up on his elbows and uses his knee to open my legs. He devours me with his eyes and repeats, “You are mine, Mimi Finnegan, do you understand?” Then he collapses right on top of me in an unconscious heap. What in the hell? This is simply not like love scenes in the movies. Why does something always happen to keep Elliot from fully declaring his true feelings? I’m so irritated I could spit.

  I push him off of me and sit up wondering what I should do with him. I decide to roll him over and remove his tuxedo jacket in an attempt to make him more comfortable (as if he’d even know in his passed out state). I eventually get it off, and as I do, a bottle falls out of the pocket. It’s a prescription for Percocet and it clearly broadcasts an alcohol warning. “Drinking may increase drowsiness.” Well that’s for sure. So I take his shoes and tie off as well and settle him in bed next to me. As I crawl under the covers I briefly wish that Stan, Ollie, and Edith had gotten their own room. I would have happily paid for it.

  I wake up the next morning wrapped around Elliot. I am nearly on top of him and my arms and legs are encircling him like he’s a tree trunk I’m attempting to climb. This is an apt description as I do indeed feel some wood between us. It takes me a moment to remember how exactly we came to be in bed together. Then it takes me another moment to remember nothing really happened.

  The tricky part was going to be disengaging myself without waking him in the process. Slowly, I try to roll off of him but he merely slides his hands up my silky nightgown and settles them on my bottom. Now what? I gently push his hands away but he replaces them more firmly. Elliot is obviously a morning person as the next thing I know, he’s flipped me onto my back and begins nibbling my earlobes. I try to get his attention by saying, “Elliot, could you please let me up?”

  He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does he claims, “Oh Mimi, this is better than any of the other dreams I’ve had about you.”

  He dreams about me? This is good news but I still feel I should tell him this is in fact real and not a dream at all. I don’t want him under false pretenses. So I say, “Elliot, this is no dream. We’re in my bedroom at The Plaza in New York, remember?”

  I can tell instantly when he comes to his senses, as I can feel the return of the frosty Brit.

  Elliot slowly moves off of me and asks, “How did I get here?”

  I remind him about last night and inform him about the alcohol warning on his pain medication. He asks where Richard is and I say, “He’s obviously not here, Elliot. It’s not like we had a threesome or anything.”

  Looking worried, he asks, “Did we have a twosome then?”

  I’m so fed up with his passive aggressive behavior I shout at him to get the hell out of my room. He gradually staggers to his door and I throw his prescription bottle after him.

  Elliot doesn’t close the connecting door, so once I hear him in the shower, I write him a note and drop his itinerary on his bed. I’m effectively telling him to have a nice day as I have no intention of joining him at his signings. Of course it’s my job to be there, but there are going to be enough folks around from the New York Parliament office. I can’t imagine I’ll be missed.

  As I walk back into my room, the hotel phone rings. I wonder who’s calling me on that line instead of my cell phone. So I demand, “Hello?” in a way that suggests that this better be worth my time.

  It’s Richard. He says, “I’m just guessing here but it doesn’t sound like you slept well.”

  I immediately soften my tone, “Good morning, Richard. I slept fine. I’m just irritated with the Englishman, again.”

  Richard suggests, “Then why don’t you spend the day with me? I’ll show you the sights only a true New Yorker knows about.”

  I’m sold. Not that I need any real enticement to spend time with him. Richard has so far been the high point of my trip and if things work out for Elliot and me, I’m seriously considering introducing him to Muffy. Of course I won’t be doing that until I’m safely married. After all, he is my fallback guy. Richard tells me to meet him in the lobby in forty-five minutes and to dress comfortably. I assure him Edith Bunker will be delighted.

  I wear a long A-line denim skirt with an orange T-shirt (which looks surprisingly good with my hair), a big brown and gold gypsy belt and ballet flats (with Edith Bunker’s pad). I smile when I see Richard. He’s wearing jeans and a light weight summer sweater. He looks years younger than his James Bond persona when he dresses like this. I accept an easy kiss on the cheek from him and we’re off to enjoy a day of play.

  At breakfast I fall off the wagon with tremendous abandon. We eat at a cheery restaurant on 92nd and Madison called Sarabeth’s Kitchen and we share a sticky bun, a pumpkin muffin, and a raisin scone served with a trio of homemade jams. I complain to Richard and tell him that Edith Bunker is going to give me seven kinds of hell for this. He tells me not to worry about it. If she so much as breathes a word of complaint, he will personally write her a check for any exorbitant sum she demands.

  Our first stop after breakfast is The Metropolitan Museum of Art where we don’t take time to actually tour the museum; instead we go to the gift shop and buy a coffee table book on Ireland for my mother. I try to tell Richard that I’ve already bought my family souvenirs but he doesn’t think chocolates are very New York. The next stop is The Frick where we buy Ginger a T-shirt that says, “My sister went to New York and all I got was this “Frick”en T-shirt. He assures me, as an art person, she will love it.

  Before hopping into a cab across town to The Museum of Natural History, where we buy Finn a large plastic dinosaur, we stop off at FAO Schwartz to get another baby doll for Camille. On our way downtown, we stop at the hotel and ask the front desk to take my bags to my room. I try to insist I’ll just run them up but Richard claims we are on a very tight schedule so he slips the bellman a twenty to take care of it.

  Next stop, the Village, where there’s cart after cart of people selling the coolest things right on the street. I buy Kevin another T-shirt that says, “My other wife is a model.” And I buy my dad a Guinness wardrobe, complete with T-shirt, hat, and beer mug that hangs on a chain so he can wear it around his neck. On impulse, I drag Richard into a racy lingerie store where I purchase a pair of five-inch hooker heels, for Renée, as a joke replacement for her five hundred dollar Giuseppe Zannotis.

  As we hike through Chinatown to get to our Little Italy lunch destination, I buy Muffy a Chinese paper umbrella and pick up tire tread sandals for Jonathan and Laurent. Then in Little Italy I purchase wife beaters for LaRon and Fernando. One of them asks, “What size do you wear in a cement loafer?” The other one boasts, “There’s No Salami Like an Italian Salami.”

  I’m exhausted by the time we sit down and order a meal that will have me confessing my sins in church before repeating the fun to Marge. But I don’t care; I’m having the best day. Plus we’ve walked more in the last six hours than I think I’ve walked in the last six weeks. I learn all kinds of things about Richard too. For example, he was married when he was in his twenties and was divorced by the time he was thirty, no kids. He’s had several girlfriends but no one has moved him to thoughts of marriage. He claims he knew he could marry me on sight, as a woman who enjoys her food as much as I do must have her priorities straight. And even t
hough his business is thriving, he has decided there is more to life than constant work. Richard is ready to have a family and enjoy all the fruits of his labors.

  I’m quiet when he announces this and he says, “I’m just telling you where I am in my life, Mimi, I’m not trying to pressure you.” Then he jokes, “Although, if you don’t marry me, I may be heartbroken and have to move to Romania to take up with a tribe of gypsy women for consolation.” I tease him back and tell him to send me a postcard.

  It’s three o’clock by the time we finish lunch and I inform Richard I should really stop by Elliot’s second book signing. He claims we can walk it faster than we can cab it and I’m delighted for the chance to burn off some of my lunch. By three-thirty we are standing outside of Book Stew where a long line has formed down the street. I ask Richard if he wants to come in and he says, “You couldn’t keep me away. I want to see the look on His Highness’s face when he realizes the reason you weren’t with him today is because you spent the day with me.”

  I admonish, “Richard that is very childish.”

  He smiles, “Yes, darling, but you should know I’m a child at heart.”

  When we walk into the bookstore I immediately see Marcus scurrying around lining up stacks of books. He waves when he spots us and asks me to run in back and get Elliot a cup of black coffee. Of course I do it, as it is my professional duty to be as helpful to our client as possible. The non-professional part raises its ugly head when I almost spit in his cup. At the last second I manage to refrain.

  Elliot is surprised to see me. He icily thanks me for the coffee and asks where I’ve been all day. Enter Richard. “Darling, are you ready to go?”

  I answer, “In a minute Richard,” at the same time Elliot announces, “She’s not going anywhere. She’s staying right here where she’s needed.”

  Richard claims, “No one needs her as much as I do.”

  Elliot smirks and counters, “Yes, but I’m paying her.”

  Richard lunges towards Elliot and announces, “You bastard…” and Elliot stands up as if to roll up his shirt sleeves for a fight.

  Believe me when I tell you that no one appreciates this potential scene as much as I do. I’ve been hankering for years to be the reason two grown men beat the shit out of each other but the bottom line is I think way too much of both of them to risk either of them getting hurt at my expense. So I stand up and demand, “Stop it! Richard, I’ll call you later and thank you for a truly wonderful day, and Elliot, sit down before I kick your good leg out from under you.”

  Richard leans down and captures my mouth in a tender kiss and promises we’ll do something extraordinary before I leave. Elliot nearly shouts, “Get your lips off of her!”

  I say goodbye to Richard and then lean into the Brit and demand, “What in the hell is your problem? As far as I’m concerned Richard can kiss me anytime he wants and until you are in a position to reasonably object, you are to keep your mouth shut, do you understand me?”

  He responds with a curt nod and I look up and notice that Marcus has witnessed the whole scene. He asks for a moment of my time and I follow him into the back room in sheer dread. I’m convinced he’s going to fire me but Marcus just grins and declares, “Every PR firm needs a good dominatrix! I’m prepared to offer you double your current salary if you’ll move to New York and become ours.”

  I thank him for the kind offer and promise to think about it. Then I return to Elliot’s side and help in any way I can. I can’t stop wondering why I can’t just let myself fall for Richard. After all, he’s the perfect man, right down to the fact he’s not almost engaged to another woman. But then I look at Elliot and my heart skips a beat in the yearning I feel for him. I say a silent prayer for Stan and Ollie to get taken off their current assignment. I need some honest to goodness romance writers to take their place as I can’t bear the thought I might yet wind up alone.

  Chapter 24

  The rest of the afternoon is excruciatingly long. It’s amazing how many people come out to get autographs and tell Elliot how fabulous they think he is. One lady even says he is her hero. I can’t quite figure why she says this as how can a novelist she’s never met before be her hero? But I think it’s awfully sweet. Elliot signs all her books and asks for her address. He promises to send her a signed copy of his new novel when it comes out. I’m not sure why he does this, but the turban wearing young woman is beyond thrilled and before she leaves, she tearfully announces, “I wish there were more men like you in this world.”

  It’s past six by the time we finish the book signing and get back to the hotel. Elliot trails behind me as I stride to the elevator. He’s off his crutches and seems to be doing pretty well for himself. When we get off on our floor, I walk to my room and open the door without saying one word to him.

  He on the other hand states, “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes to pick you up for dinner.”

  My reply is delivered with arctic chill, “Sorry, I think I’m going to order in tonight.”

  He demands, “Fifteen minutes, be ready.”

  That arrogant son of bitch. Who does he think he is? Just because weird women in turbans think he’s the end-all-to-die-for, doesn’t mean it’s true. I’ll show him. But the whole time I’m ranting in my head, I’m putting on more make-up and brushing my hair. By the time I’m changing into a frilly summer dress, I realize I must have decided to eat with him.

  When Elliot knocks, I open the door without saying a word and merely follow him down the hall to the elevator. The summer evening is so beautiful I stop and breathe it in as soon as we’re outside. There’s a slight breeze and the sun hasn’t quite set. It is the most magical moment of my life. I feel as though I’ve been lifted out of my normal humdrum existence and have been given a glimpse of heaven. I become so overcome with emotion that I don’t know I am crying until twin tears slide down my cheeks. Elliot doesn’t ruin the moment by saying anything; he just takes my hand in his as we walk to our destination. I let him do this, I reason, as it is part of my definition of heaven.

  Elliot and I walk up the park several blocks before he turns right and leads me into it. That’s when I see he’s taking me to Tavern on the Green. Of course I’ve never been here, but like the restaurant at the boating pond, I recognize it from the movies. The maître d' greets Elliot and gushes, “Mr. Fielding, we are so happy you are joining us this evening. If you’ll follow me?” He leads us to a beautifully set table right by the window and offers us menus. Mine curiously doesn’t have any prices on it.

  Finally I utter, “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  Elliot smiles at me across the table and acknowledges, “Yes. I made the reservations the other day after our lunch at the pond. You seemed so delighted the restaurant there was real and not just in the movies I thought you would appreciate this institution as well.”

  I don’t know what to make of Elliot Fielding. He is so thoughtful and considerate and lovely, all at the same time he is a stuck up, tight-assed, English prig. I wonder, not for the first time or even the fifteenth, why the combination is so appealing to me. I simply stare at him and reply, “Thank you.”

  Elliot reaches for my hand across the table and asks, “Mimi, is there anyway you and I can enjoy our evening tonight, just the two of us? No Richard, no Beatrice, just us?”

  I don’t answer right away as I’m not sure that’s possible. Both of the people he mentions are sitting here with us whether we acknowledge them or not. The question is, can I make it through the night without listening to what they have to say? So I answer, “We can try, Elliot. But you have to know that just because we pretend they don’t exist, doesn’t make it so.”

  “I know,” he acknowledges. “Believe me, I know. But please, let’s just try, okay?”

  I agree and we spend the next two hours getting to know each other even better. The more I learn about Elliot, the more I know that my heart recognized him as my mate the moment we met. I fought it because it terrified me. But now I know the
instant I laid eyes on him, I had come home. I pulled my hand away from his by the pool that day because I was panicked if I let him take it I would never be the same again. And guess what? I will never be the same again.

  After dinner we walk through the park hand-in-hand and I am full of such melancholy I feel like my heart is breaking. Why won’t Elliot just leave Beatrice? He can’t possibly feel for her the things he claims to feel for me. I want to ask him about it so badly, but I’ve promised not to bring her or Richard up in conversation tonight. It’s just so hard not to mention them when they are walking right behind us.

  Elliot and I stroll over to Strawberry Fields at Seventy-Second Street and sit down on a park bench together. We sit quietly for several minutes when an older gentleman comes and joins us. He asks us if we mind sharing our bench.

  Elliot answers, “Certainly not. It’s such a beautiful night. We’d be delighted to share.”

  The man introduces himself and says, “My name is Joseph Collins, and tonight is my sixtieth wedding anniversary.” My eyes immediately fill with tears as it’s obvious that Joseph is sitting on the bench alone, without his wife.

  I manage to keep the emotion out of my voice and say, “Congratulations Joseph, that’s a marvelous accomplishment.”

  Joseph tells us that he and his wife, Elizabeth, were married across the street at The Majestic when it was still a hotel. He reminisces it was the most magical night of both of their lives. So much so that years later, when the building broke up into apartments, he and Elizabeth, sold their place on the East Side and bought one in The Majestic. He says, “The West Side wasn’t at all fashionable then, but to us, it was like coming home.”

  My heart is positively breaking for this wonderful man and I ask, “Do you still live there, Joseph?”

  “No,” he answers, his voice fraught with emotion. “After Elizabeth died, I couldn’t manage living in the city on my own.” He takes a moment to compose himself and says, “I live in Westchester now with our son, Joe Jr., and his wife.” He points to a parked car on Central Park West to show us Joe Jr. is waiting for him. “But I come into the city every year for our anniversary and I pay tribute to the woman who gave me the best gift of my life. Elizabeth made me whole.” Elliot and I are both crying at this point and he squeezes my hand to offer me some small degree of comfort. Then Joseph continues, “We used to bring our babies right here and let them play in the grass.” He looks at the ground as though he can still see them and gentle tears stream down his face. Then Joseph pushes himself up and announces, “I wish you kids the love Elizabeth and I shared,” then he smiles and adds, “I hope you’ll bring your babies here too.” As he walks away, he thanks us for sharing the bench and queries, “Maybe I’ll see you here next year, okay?”