by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)
“Tell him thank you,” Dorothy said. “How’s Denny?”
“Turns five next month. Has his heart set on going to Disneyland and eating lunch with Mickey Mouse, but the cost for gas, hotel, Disneyland... I’m trying to convince him Chuck E. Cheese’s is as much fun as Mickey. Wish me luck.”
She reached over to another table, picked up a small object and set it on their table. Frances saw it was a rock with writing on one flattened side.
“Menu for Rocky’s Deli,” Jan explained. “We started serving their food a few weeks ago. I recommend their pastrami on rye.”
“Got a roast cooking at home,” Dorothy said. “Hungry, Frances?”
She was starving, but wanted to wait to eat dinner with her dad. “No, thanks.”
After Jan left, Dorothy said, “Jan’s a single mom. She had it rough when Denny was diagnosed with epilepsy a few years ago, but fortunately medicine is helping control his seizures.” She made an amused noise. “Lunch with Mickey Mouse. When Braxton was that age, he was all about Donald Duck. Bought him a pair of Donald Duck pajamas, which he insisted on wearing every single day. I explained they were pajamas, to be worn at night, but once that boy gets his mind stuck on something, watch out, world. I gave in—bought four more pairs of Donald Duck pajamas so there’d always be a clean set handy.”
“Donald Duck,” Frances mused, thinking of his classy clothes style. “The first of a long line of designer labels.”
“Ha! Never thought of it that way, but too true. He also loves nice cars, nice restaurants...although he’s a better cook than most chefs, if you ask me. The way he makes spaghetti alla puttanesca, you’d think he had an Italian mama. You like to cook?”
“I make a mean slice of toast.”
Dorothy laughed, clinked her glass against Frances’s. “We all gotta start somewhere, dear.”
After they sipped their wine, Frances edged into a topic that had been weighing heavily on her heart.
“Did I blow it with Braxton?”
For all the times she’d told herself getting involved was a bad idea, now she was second-guessing herself.
Dorothy mulled that over for a few moments. “I’d love to say no, but I’d be lying. Once he’s made up his mind about something, he tends to stick to it. Too much pride, like me.” Pause. “Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Neither has Braxton.”
“Has he ever been engaged?”
Dorothy arched an “are you kidding me?” eyebrow. “Let’s just say there was a time he made Hugh Hefner in his heyday look like a wallflower.”
“Wow.”
“Wow’s right. He didn’t get that playboy streak from his father or me. But those days are behind him.” She paused. “Have to say, I’ve never seen him carry on about a woman the way he has over you.”
Frances’s heart shrank a little. He won’t be carrying on about me anymore.
“What time is your father getting here?”
“It’s a half-hour drive from my condo, but with Strip traffic being bumper to bumper...”
“Good idea to call him, check his estimated time of arrival.” Dorothy rummaged in her purse. “I’ve got to stop buying monster-size purses,” she muttered. “I can never find a damned thing... My other sock! Wondered where that was. Okay, found it....” She set her cell phone on the table. “Parking’s a hassle, so tell him to wait in the loading zone across the street, and I’ll walk you to his car.”
Frances hesitated, again questioning the wisdom of leaving a digital footprint on any device. Seemed silly to worry about it, but...
“Same problem using my phone as my son’s?”
A bit stunned by the older woman’s accurate assessment, Frances fumbled for what to say. But she couldn’t lie. Not to Dorothy, who’d seen the scar and Frances’s panicked reaction, without feeling the need to pummel her with questions. How’d it happen? When? Where? How do you feel, what is it like, will it ever go away....?
Who’d accepted Frances without conditions.
Not only did she trust Dorothy with the truth, she owed it to her.
“You’re right,” she finally answered.
“I like your honesty. As my husband, Benny, used to say, honesty is less profitable than dishonesty, but it feels better. Have to say, anybody who’s this nervous about borrowing someone’s cell phone is hiding something. So, let’s start at the beginning. Is your name really Frances Jefferies?”
Frances almost laughed at the older woman’s forthright approach, the exact opposite of her own mother, who’d had a tendency to be soft-spoken and overly polite.
“Yes, that’s my real name.”
“And...you really work at this company where my son interviewed today?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“You seem unsure.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Most things in life are, dear. Braxton’s security position seems fairly straightforward, however.”
“As part-time bodyguard positions go, I suppose.”
Dorothy pursed her lips. “I didn’t know that.”
“I only know about the bodyguard position. There’s another job Dmitri’s hired him for, but I know nothing about it.”
After the older woman took a sip of wine, she asked, “Are you really a vice president?”
“No. I’m an...insurance investigator.”
“Oh, dear God.” Dorothy downed several sips of wine in quick succession.
Of all the possible reactions, that was the last one Frances anticipated.
“I’ll call my dad now,” she murmured, picking up the phone.
A moment later, he answered. “Baby girl, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad. A friend is with me.”
“Charlie?”
“No. Her name’s Dorothy. I’m using her phone. When you get here, park across the street in the loading zone and call me. You should have the number in your call log.”
“I’m glad you’re with someone. I’ve been worried sick about you.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, whatcha want for dinner?”
After a brief discussion about Spam, Chinese take-out or frozen pizza, the latter winning out, she ended the call.
“He should be here in ten minutes,” she said, putting the phone down.
“Good.” Dorothy paused. “Sorry about my outburst.”
“Sorry about my meltdown earlier.”
The older woman’s eyes softened. “You’re a naturally beautiful woman, Frances.... Don’t let that scar get in your way of living life. Besides, we all have scars—most people’s just aren’t visible.”
“Thanks,” Frances said quietly, circling her finger around the base of her glass. “Since we’re being honest, is there a problem with my being an investigator?”
Dorothy gave a wry smile. “Oh, I hate the profession and refuse to have another family member work in that field. But other than that, no.”
“But...I’m not a family member.”
Dorothy didn’t say anything, just gently laid her hand on Frances’s.
Frances looked down at the older woman’s hand, so large it swallowed hers up, the skin threaded with veins, yet so warm. She imagined Dorothy’s hands tending to her children, writing, cooking, caressing a loved one.
They finished their wine and headed toward the bar. Dorothy paused in a private area next to a fake palm. “I need to pick up my jacket from Ross—wait here for me?”
As Dorothy walked away, Frances smiled to herself, thinking about five-year-old Braxton wearing Donald Duck pajamas.
Hit with another thought, she quickly crossed the few steps back to their booth, where she fished the four one-hundred-dollar bills out of her pocket and placed them under the rock menu, imagining another five-year-
old boy’s glee when he finally met Mickey.
* * *
EXITING BALLY’S, DOROTHY and Frances scurried down the sidewalk packed with pedestrians, vendors hawking tickets and street performers. They paused at the corner of Flamingo Road to wait for the light to turn green, hunching into their coats as chilly winds blustered past.
“There’s my dad,” Frances said, pointing to a metallic blue Honda Accord parked in a loading zone across the street.
As they approached the Honda, her dad jumped out of the driver’s side, jogged to the passenger door and opened it. Frances quickly introduced Dorothy to her dad, then kissed him on the cheek and slid inside the car.
He slammed shut the door and Frances sank into her seat. The motor chugged quietly, the heater on high, and she luxuriated in the warmth.
She looked through the windshield at Dorothy, who stood on the sidewalk, bundled in her brown hooded jacket, talking to her dad. With the windows up and the heater running, Frances only heard bits and pieces of the conversation.
“I insisted...coat home,” Dorothy said.
Sounded like Dorothy was explaining she insisted Frances wear the trench coat home.
After an unintelligible exchange, her dad looked down at his bulky Miami Heat sweatshirt, then back at Dorothy. Frances swore he said thermals. Was he talking about his thermal underwear? Whatever it was, it made the older woman smile.
They exchanged a few more words before Dorothy waved and headed back to the crosswalk.
Her dad got into the driver’s seat.
“Warm enough?” he asked, adjusting the heat settings.
“Yes, car’s nice and toasty,” Frances answered. “Thanks.”
“Dorothy seems very nice. Appreciate her son loaning you his coat.” He fiddled with the radio, jumping from station to station. “You like him?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Some things happened today. Tonight. We can talk about it on the way home.”
“Sure thing, baby girl. This station okay with you?”
He’d landed on some kind of new age music with airy flutes and chanting. “Isn’t there a basketball game on?”
“Yeah, this stuff is getting on my nerves, too.” He played with the dial again.
“So...you told her about your thermals?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah...after I expressed concern that her son was coatless, she said I was one to talk. So I explained I was wearing a T-shirt and my thermals under this sweatshirt.”
Frances wondered if that was the comment that had made Dorothy smile. Her dad might be a man of mystery when it came to his magic, but in his everyday life he was a straight-up, no-nonsense guy.
“Here we go.” He found the sports station and turned up the volume.
“Thompson on the drive...nails a three!” the announcer exclaimed against a background of music and cheers.
“Lakers versus Golden State Warriors,” her dad said, pulling out into traffic. “Should be a dynamite game.”
They drove for a few moments, listening to the rapid patter of the announcer, the yells of the crowd in the background. They drove past throngs of people on the sidewalks along the Strip, and the flaming volcano in front of the Mirage hotel and casino.
When they stopped at a red light, her dad turned down the volume and said, “I liked something Dorothy said.”
“And that was?”
“When I thanked her for helping you, she said, ‘That’s what we’re here for. Our kids.’”
An odd mix of emotions came over Frances...a momentary longing for her childhood, which had been a world where her family had shared an unshakable bond. She missed how it had been with all of them together, but at some point in the past three years she’d accepted it was gone forever.
Of course, there was still a wonderful closeness with her dad, but she didn’t want him living for her. He was barely sixty-four...had twenty, thirty more years to live...decades to discover new things, fulfill untended dreams.
That was when she realized that as much as he’d been living for her, she had been living for him, too.
And at some point, one of them would fly away.
* * *
LATER AT DINNER, Braxton took his seat next to Grams. Dorothy, wearing a powder-blue bib apron decorated with the words I’m Not Aging, I’m Marinating, walked into the dining room carrying a platter with prime-rib roast and potatoes.
Val closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Releasing the breath, she murmured, “Mama D., that smells divine. I can smell the garlic...and thyme...”
“Rosemary, too,” Dorothy said, setting the platter on the table. Straightening, she looked at Val’s top. “Is that a vintage maternity top?”
“Yes. From the forties, I think.” Val smoothed her hand down the tomato-soup-red fabric. “It reminded me of something Lucille Ball would’ve worn in those early I Love Lucy shows.”
“Just like my ’87 BMW, my entire wardrobe is also vintage.” Richmond adjusted his polka-dot bow tie, which he’d paired with a button-down denim shirt. “Probably worth more today than when I bought it.” He picked up a long, sharp knife. “I’m ready to do the honors, Dorothy. Is Maxine sequestered?”
“We can only hope.” Braxton laughed. “Still haven’t figured out how she made her great escape.”
A smattering of chuckles as everyone remembered how Maxine, Gram’s maniacal Siamese cat, had escaped her crate right before they sat down to Thanksgiving dinner and “took down” the turkey. When Dorothy discovered the star of the meal on the kitchen floor and Maxine feasting on a leg, she’d screamed. It had taken Richmond, Drake and Braxton nearly ten minutes to shoo away the cat, who hissed and bared her fangs at them, determined to keep her quarry.
“She’s in her crate,” Grams said, adjusting the sleeve of her fuchsia caftan, “with treats. I locked my bedroom door, so even if she gets out, she’s stuck in there.”
“Richmond, are you ready to live with Maxine?” Drake asked, spooning creamed corn onto his wife’s plate.
The older man looked up from carving the roast. “In ancient times, cats were worshipped like gods. They have not forgotten that...and neither shall I.”
“See why I love the man?” Grams turned her attention to Braxton. “Darling, mind getting that lovely silver canister over there on the bar cart?” She twiddled her fingers in the general direction, the diamond heirloom ring sparkling under the small crystal chandelier. “It’s full of ice and gin. Just needs a shake.”
As he headed to the cart, Braxton saw Val exchange a look with Drake.
“Now?” she whispered.
His brother, whose wolf-gray eyes, prickly hair and brutish ways often intimidated people, suddenly looked like a shy kid who’d just been called on to give a book report.
“Everyone,” he said, wrapping his arm around the back of Val’s chair, “I’d like to share some news.”
Braxton, heading back to his chair, stopped.
Drake, blinking back emotion, looked into his wife’s eyes. “We’ve been keeping this news to ourselves for a while.... Selfish, I guess, but we wanted some time to enjoy our secret.... We’re having a boy.”
In the middle of the joyful exclamations from the rest of the family, Val cupped her hand to Drake’s cheek. “Tell them the rest,” she said gently.
Smiling sheepishly, Drake looked around the table. “But this next part we only decided last night. We’re going to name him Ben,” he said, his voice breaking, “for Benedict.”
“Ben,” Dorothy whispered, holding her hand over her heart.
Braxton had never understood when people said they’d experienced something so intense that “time stood still.” He’d accept time feeling as though it had slowed down or sped up, but standing still? What was that s
upposed to mean?
At that instant, he knew.
As time stood still and silent, Braxton saw the smile of their father drift across his brother’s face.
Then everyone began clapping and talking all at once. Scents of roasted meat and yeasty bread refilled the room. Braxton could once again feel the chilled canister in his grip.
“Congratulations, my darlings!” Grams said, dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue.
Richmond resumed slicing the roast with the precision of a neurosurgeon while Val chatted to Grams about the new baby’s room. Dorothy, holding Drake’s hand, retold the story of when she and Benny learned they were having twins.
And Braxton shook the martini canister, the ice and liquid sloshing and rattling, grinning so hard his face hurt.
Finally, everyone settled down to eat, and for the next half hour the room filled with the clicks and scrapes of utensils, spurts of conversation and laughter.
Drake, waving off an offer for more roast, asked his brother, “How’d that first workout session with Li’l Bit go?”
“He got a little dizzy after a few biceps curls, but it passed. And he wasn’t happy not being able to wear his flip-flops at the gym, but otherwise, fine.”
Grams laughed, a happy sound like tinkling bells. “My, he does love wearing those thongs. I bet he has a dozen pairs.”
“Plus a brand-new pair of Turbo cross-training shoes that set me back a hundred bucks,” added Braxton, “and that’s with the family discount.”
Grams reached over and touched his arm. “Li’l Bit called me earlier, said he’s texted you a few times about coming over tonight to teach you some dance moves, but hasn’t heard back from you. I told him he didn’t need an invitation, he’s family, and to just come over.”
He’s family. Here we go again. “Grams,” he said, trying to sound more benevolent than he felt, “Li’l Bit is a great guy, but he’s not—”
“Brax,” Val called out, “I know what can help you get some hot dance movies. Rent Saturday Night Fever. John Travolta does a hip-thrust action that could cook a chicken without an oven while lyin’ down on the dance floor!”