by Noreen Wald
“Marlene…”
“I’m telling you, Kate. This will be a date to die for.”
Three
In addition to her reservations about living in paradise, Kate had reservations about Mary Frances Costello. Conflicting emotions, as her Dr. Phil-obsessed, Harvard pre-law granddaughter would say. God knows she admired the ex-nun’s dancing, especially her exotic tango. And with that red hair—probably artificially enhanced, though Kate had never spotted a root—and those emerald eyes and firm figure, the woman would be considered beautiful if she were thirty-five, instead of the “well over sixty” that Marlene insisted she “had to be.”
Still, something about Mary Frances bothered Kate. Though she served as an advocate for the homeless, volunteered in a soup kitchen, and seemed both friendly and sincere, Kate couldn’t decide if Mary Frances was less than swift or sly as a fox. And, with her bare midriff tops, her bedroom turned into a mirrored dance studio, and her searching for a date online, while “seeing” the only unattached widower in Ocean Vista, Mary Frances’ self-promoted chastity irked Kate.
Most puzzling of all, Ballou’s tail never wagged when Mary Frances arrived to play cards during the lonely Hearts club’s monthly meeting at Kate’s apartment. And his body tensed if Mary Frances tried to pet him.
Having lived most of her married life in Rockville Centre, a Nassau County community filled with cops, firemen, and stockbrokers, where she and Charlie had raised their two sons, Kate had never met anyone from Minnesota—and the only former nun she knew well was Sister Jean, her favorite high school teacher who’d introduced her to Graham Greene and then a decade later—post Vatican II—had eloped with a Jesuit from Fordham.
So after nine months, Mary Frances remained an enigma—and, apparently, an innocent, making meaningful dialogue difficult.
As they walked the short distance from Ocean Vista’s ornate, faux Roman-and-Greek lobby to Mancini’s, whose decor was more Mott Street than myth, Kate let Mary Frances lead the casual conversation, nodding and agreeing with her hero worship of Swami Schwartz. Truth be told, Kate, though too embarrassed to admit it, felt pretty much the same way.
Mancini’s, located on Neptune Boulevard and a block from the Atlantic Ocean, abounded with burned-down candles in Chianti bottles, dark paneling, and red and white tablecloths. It might have been any Southern Italian restaurant in any New York City neighborhood. At seven p.m., late dining by Palmetto Beach’s standards, every table was taken and the small bar to the left of the front door was standing room only.
In his usual Friday night tribute to Dean Martin, the seventy-something piano player with the really bad rug was singing “That’s Amore.” He sounded a lot like Dino. The twinge of nostalgia sent a shiver of reminiscence through Kate.
Blonde and ponytailed Tiffani Cruz, the perky waitress at Ocean Vista’s dining room who drew red hearts over the last “i” on her name tags, moonlighted at Mancini’s. Balancing her cocktail-laden tray above her head with one hand, she waved at Kate and Mary Frances with the other. Kate smiled broadly and waved back. The lithe and lovely Tiffani also worked part-time and took classes at the Yoga Institute—where she’d helped Kate to almost master a headstand—and attended Broward County Community College, “majoring in massage therapy.”
Danny Mancini, the restaurant’s owner and operator, grabbed Kate’s hand mid-air and, with a flourish, kissed it, performing in the manner of a French diplomat rather than a self-proclaimed high school dropout from Brooklyn with reputed mob connections. Tall and very thin, he reminded Kate more of Tony Randall than Tony Soprano.
As Mary Frances simpered while Mancini raised her hand to his lips, Kate found herself wishing she had a napkin to wipe away the wet spot he’d left on her wrist.
“Ciao, Bella Katarina.’’ Danny’s reedy voice oozed sincerity; however, he’d already turned his attention to Mary Frances. “All in yellow, you look like sunshine, Maria Francesa. Like a tulip in the spring. Like a…”
“Is Swami Schwartz here yet?” One more simile and Kate would have screamed. “I think we’re running a little late.”
“But of course, Bella, though Swami hasn’t arrived. I’ve seated some of the party. Please follow me.”
When Mary Frances had invited Kate, she explained that she’d served on the Yoga Institute’s board of directors for less than six weeks, but had been taking classes there and helping out with fundraising for over a year. Swami Schwartz volunteered at the Palmetto Beach Medical Center’s Nursing Home, teaching its residents yoga stretches and meditation techniques, and the money Mary Frances and other students solicited was used to buy mats and loose yoga-appropriate garb for those elderly practitioners.
Three well-turned-out people, whom Kate gathered were all board members, sat at a large round table smack in the middle of the restaurant, apparently awaiting the guest of honor.
Kate recognized one of them. Sanjay Patel, her yoga instructor. The small, slim young man had arrived in the United States from India where he’d been a surgeon, and a year later was still waiting to take his Florida State Medical Boards.
A seemingly gentle soul, patient yet determined, he’d taught his yoga sessions with a quiet energy that made Kate eager to master the positions. Sanjay had introduced her to a special Indian blend of tea, and they often enjoyed a cup and conversation together after class. Kate missed her sons, who both lived in New York, and Sanjay’s company made her a little less lonely.
Tonight, dressed all in white, Sanjay Patel looked pure and princely. Kate thought about her pre-law granddaughter, Lauren. Any chance Sanjay could be a fan of Dr. Phil too?
Nearing the table in Danny Mancini’s wake, Mary Frances whispered, “The important-looking gentleman with the silver hair and the two-hundred-dollar Palm Beach haircut is Dr. Jack Gallagher, the CEO of the Palmetto Beach Medical Center. So suave. He’s a darling man.”
Oh, Mary Frances, aren’t they all? Kate thought rather uncharitably.
“And such a humanitarian. His HMO is advertised as the best example of managed care in South Florida.”
Kate figured “best HMO” had to be an oxymoron.
“I joined last month and the benefits are wonderful. Why the plan even covers a liver transplant.”
Kate had a sudden urge for a double martini.
Mary Frances smiled as Dr. Gallagher stood to greet her.
Sitting next to Gallagher, a glamorous blonde in black—well preserved and doggedly elegant—tugged on his arm. “But you haven’t finished telling me about the Lazarus Society.” A pout punctuated her words.
A flash of what? Fear? Anger? clouded the doctor’s eyes just before he patted the blonde’s shoulder, then greeted Mary Frances with a kiss on each cheek.
“Jack Gallagher,” he said, now extending a large, well-manicured hand to Kate. A mid-Atlantic accent honed to perfection. He had to be at least 6’3”, all of it toned and covered in Armani, with any visible skin—face and hands—tanned and glowing. And no one could have eyes that blue…must be contacts. His features were too ragged to be handsome and he had to be in his late sixties, but his smile, slightly crooked and baring strong white teeth, came across as both overconfident and disarmingly charming.
In the background the piano player crooned, “Everybody loves somebody sometime.”
A shiver of attraction startled Kate. She hadn’t felt anything remotely like this since Charlie had died still clutching the pen he’d used to sign for the condo. The shiver passed, replaced by guilt and a snarly stomach.
She prayed she’d put a Pepcid AC in her purse.
Four
“I’m Dallas Dalton.” The blonde had a Texas twang and a diamond necklace that would have crushed a less imposing bosom. “I’m new to Palmetto Beach, but I knew Swami in South Beach. I’m just thrilled to death to have the chance to serve on his little ole board of di
rectors.” She drawled “directors” into a paragraph.
Sanjay Patel sprang to his feet, pulled out a chair for Kate, then seated her between himself and Jack Gallagher. Great—surrounded by doctors. Maybe one of them had an antacid in his pocket.
Mary Frances on Sanjay’s left leaned across the table to shake hands with Dallas. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Dalton. I’m Mary Frances Costello. Aren’t you Shane Dalton’s widow? I heard you bought a couple of condos in Ocean Vista.”
“Indeed I am, sugar. And call me Dallas. I purchased all five apartments on the right wing of that little ole condominium’s top floor. Just as soon as the contractors knock down all the walls, remove those ugly old kitchens, put in a huge new one, and then redo all five bathrooms in Italian marble, I’m moving in.”
While the ladies were chatting, Kate rummaged in her purse, found the Pepcid AC, popped it in her mouth, and swallowed it neat. Why hadn’t Mary Frances mentioned that a famous cowboy star’s very rich widow was about to be their new neighbor?
“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Kennedy?” Sanjay’s soft brown eyes registered concern.
She sighed. “I’m wondering why I’m here. Everyone else seems to be a board member.”
“Didn’t Miss Costello tell you why you were invited?”
Kate shook her head.
Sanjay smiled. “Like Palmetto Beach, the Yoga Institute is growing. Swami is most impressed with you, Mrs. Kennedy, and he plans to offer you a position on the board.”
She’d like to twist Mary Frances into a pretzel position.
“And what about you, sugar?” Realizing a beat late that Dallas Dalton was addressing her, Kate spun her head to the right “Are you studying under Swami?”
“Why, yes, I am.” Kate hesitated. “Although I’m working with Sanjay.”
“Well, just among us board members, the amount of hands-on yoga instruction you get from Swami Schwartz seems to be directly connected to the number of zeros in your bank account. I can tell y’all he never let go of my legs.”
In the dead silence that followed Dallas’s observation, a heavy scent of flowery perfume filled the air, overpowering even Mancini’s ever-present smell of garlic.
Jack Gallagher—as if in anticipation of the aroma’s owner—was on his feet in a flash, but it was Dallas Dalton who greeted the new arrival, “Well, howdy there, Magnolia. My gracious, aren’t you smelling like a gardenia-filled funeral parlor on the last night of a three-day wake?”
Kate knew Mrs. McFee had endowed the Yoga Institute and served on its board. Though she’d never met the tobacco heiress, she’d seen a portrait of Magnolia, dressed in a blue velvet gown trimmed with amine and topped off with a diamond tiara, prominently displayed in the meditation room, and a photograph of her in leotards along with a paragraph praising her philanthropic history graced the institute’s brochures.
In person, Magnolia McFee’s white hair resembled a cumulus cloud and her thin frame appeared frail. Her portrait and photograph had more than flattered the eighty-seven-year-old woman; tonight the fourth wealthiest woman in America looked like the little old lady she was.
“When are you going to give up that cheap cologne?” The Texas twang grated.
Though Kate had decided Dallas Dalton must be the rudest woman she’d ever met, Magnolia McFee threw back her head and laughed. Color flooded her face, making her instantly appear younger and healthier.
“I see inheriting Shane’s millions has done nothing to improve your manners, Dallas. But then what can you expect from a sharecropper’s daughter?” Magnolia McFee embraced Jack Gallagher and then took his seat. “Have the waiter rearrange the chairs, Jack. I want to sit next to Dallas, but I want you on my other side.” She turned to Kate. “No offense, Miss…”
“Kate Kennedy. And it’s Mrs.” She offered her hand, trying to ignore the sickening scent. She’d be delighted to move another seat away. “No offense taken. I gather you and Mrs. Dalton are old friends.”
Magnolia McFee’s pale blue eyes met Kate’s. “Old enemies, my dear. So much more fun, don’t you think?”
As Kate resettled in her new location, she heard Magnolia McFee ask Dallas Dalton, “Have you joined the Lazarus Society yet? We need fresh blood.”
Jack Gallagher made an abrupt and rather rude shift in his chair. His broad shoulders now blocked Kate’s view and prevented her from hearing Dallas’s response.
A face Kate had seen in the society pages approached the table. Laurence McFee IV, a handsome, if chronically unemployed, soap opera actor, lived in his grandmother’s Palm Beach mansion—the society editor always was gushing about how Magnolia’s manor rivaled Mar-A-Lago and had been decorated in much finer taste—between acting gigs. Tonight the blond young man ware a navy blazer and a sour expression as he slid into the seat next to Mary Frances.
“Sorry, I had trouble parking the Rolls, Grandmama. And I’m a tad worried.” Frown lines formed on his tanned brow. “This is such a dicey neighborhood.”
Kate wished she could click her heels and be transported back to her cozy living room where Ballou waited loyally. With the exception of Sanjay and, for the most part, Mary Frances, all the other guests seemed so shallow, so self-serving, so unpleasant. She felt tense and ached to go home. And where was Swami Schwartz?
A deep voice answered her question. “Hello, my friends.” The guest of honor took the last available chair between Laurence McFee IV and Dallas Dalton.
“Rats,” Mary Frances whispered, leaning in front of Sanjay Patel. “If Swami had only arrived a minute earlier he’d be sitting next to me.”
Kate added Mary Frances to her list of undesirable tablemates.
Five
Swami Schwartz had never hidden his Brooklyn roots. The son of an American father and an East Indian mother, Swami, known as Allen while growing up, took off after high school graduation to find himself in India. He’d stayed there for twelve years practicing yoga and meditation techniques, fasting and praying, then moved to Miami. With the help of a few rich friends like Magnolia McFee, he’d opened the Palmetto Beach Yoga Institute five years ago. At forty-six, he remained reed thin and, despite a pronounced Brooklyn accent, exotically attractive.
Never as attractive as tonight, Kate thought.
Danny Mancini trotted behind Swami carrying a magnum of Moet. “On the house. Nothing’s too good for my friend, Swami.” He balanced a sterling silver tray holding eight Waterford flutes. They all, including Danny and Tiffani, toasted Swami with only Sanjay abstaining, hoisting his water glass instead.
Hours later, Kate would recall how quickly attitudes had improved after Swami’s arrival. How his charisma captivated her fellow diners and made them smile instead of snipe. How tension evaporated and her stomach felt fine. How with Swami’s easy conversation, the mellow music, and the fabulous food, Kate was enjoying herself.
Jack Gallagher had danced with Mary Frances. Laurence McFee led Granny Magnolia in a smooth foxtrot. And Swami Schwartz two-stepped all over Kate’s new shoes. But she didn’t care and, after a second glass of champagne, agreed to serve on the board.
When they’d returned from the smaller-than-her-balcony dance floor, Dallas Dalton was gone. “Ladies room,” Sanjay said in answer to Jack Gallagher’s questioning the Texan’s whereabouts.
Yet Kate, while dancing, had observed Sanjay in a close encounter with Tiffani near the espresso machine at the tiny bar and had watched Dallas heading toward the front of the restaurant, away from the restrooms.
From that moment, Kate’s mental images had moved to fast forward.
Dallas Dalton returned to the table from the direction of the ladies room. Had she gone out the restaurant’s front door, walked around the corner to the parking lot, and reentered through the back door? If so, why? And she’d left her Chanel clutch on the table. Dallas didn’t strike Kate as the
sort of woman who’d go to the ladies room without her lipstick.
A Baked Alaska presented with flair and flames, both somehow striking Kate as overkill, was followed by an inordinate amount of discussion led by Danny Mancini regarding who wanted cappuccino or espresso and, if espresso, who wanted Anisette or Sambuca.
Swami waved away the Baked Alaska and requested tiramisu, saying, “I might as well have my favorite.”
Magnolia McFee, passing on dessert, asked Jack Gallagher to dance as the piano player segued from “I Get a Kick out of You” into “Anything Goes.” They managed a more than passable Charleston, and by the time they took their seats again, Tiffani was placing a double espresso in front of Swami Schwartz. “Brewed it myself.” She spoke softly, in a tone meant to show intimacy.