Kiki’s porn-producing neighbors had been shut down, the Muffs were enjoying my book club choice, and all seemed right with the world, even if there was still no man in my life. I was so okay with it, I even cancelled my membership on NowLove, determining that life is too short to go on bad dates, and I really wasn’t the gambling type. At least if you meet a guy in the course of living your life and decide to go out with him, you have some information ahead of time—
what he looks like, how he talks, and how he presents himself. You can read his body language, too, so the whole enterprise isn’t as big a risk.
I also decided I loved volunteering. I loved fundraising. The feeling of being able to contribute to something important was stupendous, and it was amazing how different and energized I felt worrying about something other than what I was going to wear—not that I’d given that up entirely. I really got it this time, on a visceral level: it can’t be all about you. Yeah, we hear it every day, but there’s a reason why we hear it—we need to be reminded. At least I do, or did. As I said, this time I got it.
Frank had vanished for good, it seemed, which made me sad because I felt like there had been something kindled between us at the end. I considered asking Lauren to find out if there was, in fact, a work protocol that might keep him from contacting me, but she had enough to worry about with the benefit.
Though it hardly compares, I now empathized even more with Maddie’s feelings about Udi. To wit; it was easier for a woman to put a man (or try to put a man) out of her mind than to imagine him not having her in his. So, apropos Frank, I tried not to think about him, but he still popped into my head. I’d gaze out a window—between attempts to lock-in a contract renewal for Naomi Watts’ Clairol campaign or a booking for Will Ferrell to hawk Windex in Malaysia—and visualize Frank turning to face me as he pulled off his mirrored shades and say, “Ms. Cunningham, would you come this way…?”
It was okay, though. The mind wanders, and K-Love says to let it. Though the mind may wander, thankfully, it does return.
CHAPTER 27
Flowers spilled out of Grecian urns, tiny lights crisscrossed the patio and doves cooed in several large, white, antique birdcages strategically placed around the opulently accented home. Elegant women served imaginative-looking hors d’oeuvres, while spring-themed cocktails, along with any other alcoholic beverage one desired, were available from well-tended bars positioned around the palatial site of the benefit.
Lauren had outdone herself. It wasn’t all Lauren, of course. She had lots of help from the Muffia—all of whom she’d comped—and her sister, Kristin, had flown in from Chicago a week earlier to help with the final arrangements. Kristin was a publicist and known to the Muffs only by reputation. Among other coups, she had been the party planner for Chelsea Handler’s vodka launch—an event each Muff remembered for all the free bottles of vodka we got post launch. The two sisters had overseen the transformation of the swanky home of the head of E! Entertainment (and Kristin’s new squeeze) into a luxe fantasy location, and from all outward appearances, it was going to be a party no one would want to miss.
Kristin met E!’s CEO, Keith, at the vodka launch, and the two had hit it off immediately—funnily enough over Alzheimer’s disease. Turns out Keith’s father also had the “Big A” before he passed. Anyone who’s witnessed the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease first hand has a dreaded fear of getting it himself. So the fact that they’d both experienced this devastation created an immediate bond between them
Like Vicki says, “ ‘In the end, it’s either the big “C” Cancer, “A” Alzheimer’s, “S” Stroke, or “H” Heart Disease that’ll get you. And that’s exactly what it’s going to cost to keep you going—CASH.’ ”
“Rachel, you look so nice, but what’s with the red cloth bracelet?” Sarah said, joining Rachel and me standing in line for one of those themed drinks. “It doesn’t go with your outfit.”
“I’m trying a new outlook,” said Rachel. “It’s from Ruth.”
“Ruth who?”
“Bible Ruth,” I said, speaking figuratively. “It’s a new religion she’s trying.”
Sarah looked puzzled.
“It’s not new,” Rachel said.
“New to you,” I said. “Sorry, I should have been more precise.”
“How did you get it?” Sarah asked.
Rachel smiled. “It’s not actually the one she wore.”
“Duh,” said Sarah, realizing. “I’m so gullible. I didn’t even know you were religious.”
“I’m more spiritual,” Rachel said. “A searcher.”
“Does that explain why you became a lesbian or why the guys you date end up in paintings with their faces removed?”
Thankfully, Lauren appeared. She walked up and threw her arms around me. “Quinn, thank you. What a gorgeous dress!”
“It’s a Cate Blanchett cast-off from the Golden Globes.” One of the amazing perks of my job is having access to the designers who want stars to wear their gowns. This particular dress was a couple of years old but had never been worn by Ms. Moore. It was a shimmery, navy blue taffeta, strapless and fitted through the bodice to a skirt that went out from the waist; very simple, but so elegant and chic.
“Everyone just loves Viggo,” Lauren was saying. “I completely understand why you have a crush on him. And not only did he agree to be auctioned off for the cause, but he donated one of his paintings! I had no idea he was so talented. When I talked to you that day and you said he’d probably prefer to paint a kitchen, I wasn’t expecting oil on canvas.”
“Oh, he’s really good,” said Jelicka, joining the group, a cocktail with some sort of plumage firmly in her grip.
“I think he’s a tad overrated.” Rachel wasn’t as enthused.
“It turns out Viggo’s grandmother had dementia, so he really wanted to be involved,” I explained. “He’s even interested in being on the board for the next one.”
“What do you mean, ‘auctioned off’?” said Sarah.
“Sold to the highest bidder,” Lauren replied.
“To do what exactly?” Sarah frowned.
“Well, to go...” Lauren started.
“It’s one way to get a date,” interjected Jelicka with a snort. “Unfortunately, I have to watch my pennies until my crooked career path straightens out.”
“When Viggo came on board, he pulled in a lot of his cute celebrity friends, too,” I said.
“Really, who?” said Jelicka as Madelyn approached the group of us, her date in tow and not wearing a kilt. Was this the Scot or a last minute replacement?
“And if it weren’t for Quinn, we wouldn’t have gotten any of them,” Lauren said.
“Come on,” I protested. “That’s not true. You would have gotten them without me.” It wasn’t false modesty talking, either. The cause spoke for itself.
“Possibly,” said Lauren, “but you were the one who got everything going.”
The Muffs are generally great about giving credit where it’s due, and it’s always nice to be acknowledged. But on this one? I just made a few phone calls.
I glanced over at Maddie’s boyfriend, whom I still assumed was Rory, standing patiently by her side. She hadn’t told us he was so handsome; or maybe I’d forgotten. This man with her tonight was extremely good looking—good looking enough to be auctioned off for charity with the celebrities—but was he, in fact, the Scot?
The mystery was solved when she introduced him as Cullen. Cullen I’d heard all about; Cullen I remembered. And if I’d gone to Babeland that day when Maddie went vibrator shopping, I would have met Cullen. I couldn’t remember what she said about why it hadn’t worked out with him, but maybe now they were giving it another try.
“We’re not sleeping together,” she said, sotto voce, when Cullen went for drinks. “Just so you know. He’s only my date. It’s probably no surprise, but I couldn’t take it anymore with the jolly Scot—too much effort trying to be his bonnie lass.”
“Well, Cullen’s
pretty hot,” I said.
“Not when you’ve seen him with his mother. It’s actually a huge turn off.”
“She won’t be around forever,” I pointed out. “Besides, isn’t it nice he cares about his mother?”
“Yes, but you need to experience the two of them together to fully understand just how odd their specific mother-son relationship is.”
I supposed I would, though it was probably a question of degree; many mother-son relationships being fraught.
“The trouble is I think Udi’s spoiled me forever,” she said. “I’ve tried to date, but I still think about him. Then you call me to say you saw him… ” She gazed around the room, clearly trying to get her emotions in check.
I reached out to touch her arm. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know,” she said, softening. “I like your dress.”
“I like yours.” She had on a simple black chiffon sheath at cocktail length, but her calves were the real draw.
“Anyway, Cullen is very sweet and available—if you’re interested.”
Part of me was interested. But I still had my own obsession. I hadn’t told the Muffs about my crush on Frank Sexton yet but I planned to come clean at the next book club. I guess I’d held off telling them because I worried my feelings for Frank weren’t real. I supposed a shrink would say they came from a mistaken belief that he’d saved my life. The thing was, he did save my life. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in handsome Cullen.
Kiki, dressed in a long, pale yellow gown that showed off her well-toned body, appeared with Saul just as Lauren’s sister, Kristin, entered our little circle, holding the arm of an older woman—seventy, perhaps—wearing a peach-colored St. John knitted suit. Lauren greeted the woman with a kiss, and it was instantly obvious that this elegant woman was their mother.
“Hello, dear. What a nice party.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Lauren said. “I hope you’re having a good time.”
“Yes, dear. But where is the birthday cake?” Mom’s eyes widened, a look of mild panic appearing. “Where is the cake?”
“The cake will be here,” said Lauren, doing her best to reassure the older woman.
Mom pulled her arm away from Kristin’s and did an emotional one-eighty, snarling, “I told your father you didn’t like carrot cake, but he doesn’t listen.”
A few of us glanced at each other, instantly on alert that “Mom” was not at the same event we were. A couple of awkward seconds went by, then Lauren smiled and whispered conspiratorially to Mom: “We’ll just dump that cake on his head.”
Another couple of awkward seconds passed, and Mom burst into giggles.
“We’ll smoosh it all over him,” Kristin agreed. Mom giggled some more. It was the giggle of a schoolgirl. Clearly, both daughters had learned how to steer their mother into safer territory.
“I think she needs another Derazapan,” Kristin whispered. “I’ll get it.”
“What are you talking about behind my back?” Mom snapped. “I’m not in crazy town, you know.”
Kristin once again dodged. “Mom, these are some of Lauren’s friends in L.A., and they’ve come to celebrate with you. Ladies, this is our mom, Joy.” Joy beamed at us.
So far, Joy was aptly named fifty percent of the time. We all chimed in with our hellos.
“You’re all so pretty,” Joy said, giving us her appraisal. She spotted Jelicka’s shoes. “Those are hooker shoes.”
Jelicka held up her glass. “You’re right.”
Joy’s brow suddenly furrowed, and she extended her hand out toward me. It looked so frail it might break, her skin so thin you could see her skeleton. The several rings she wore no longer fit, and the weight of the gemstones threatened to drag them off her fingers. “Who are you people?” she asked, as if Kristin hadn’t introduced us.
“They’re all Lauren’s friends, Mom,” Kristin repeated.
Joy knew there was some formality that was supposed to take place, but the details were no longer clear. Her hand sort of hovered for a second or two—elbow bent, rings slipping—as I raised my hand to meet hers. Then, she suddenly pulled hers back as if burned, her left hand coming up to grab the right one.
“You stupid, stupid boy. Get back in there. Don’t do that!” said Joy, slapping her right hand repeatedly with the left, as Kristin tried to calm her.
“Mom—your hand is sorry.”
“Bad boy; bad, bad. Get—”
“Her caregiver went to the restroom,” said Lauren quietly, by way of explanation. “It seems to have set her off.”
Kristin wasn’t having much success in calming their mother down. Joy was now trying to lift her dress up so she could look underneath. “Something is getting into my panties,” I heard her say.
Kristin and Lauren exchanged a look, and Kristin began leading Joy away. “Mom, guess what!” said Kristin, full of excitement. “They have fresh lobster tail over there.”
Joy suddenly stopped. “Goody-goody. Can we watch them crawl on the floor?”
“Of course we can!”
As Kristin led Joy away, across the floor to the buffet tables, Lauren said, “I hope by the time they get over there, Kristin can take her mind off the lobsters because the ones they’re serving will never crawl again.”
“It’s got to be so difficult,” said Sarah, with great empathy. “I had no idea.”
“Brutal,” I agreed.
“Not to mention just plain sad,” Rachel said.
“My parents aren’t there yet, but it’s coming,” said Sarah.
Lauren sighed, a look of resignation on her face. “But what do you do, you know? She told us never to let her get like this, but now it’s too late.”
Not much you can do. Personally, I’d rather die, but it was obvious to any half-wit that when you actually get as old as Joy, you don’t feel that way anymore—or else you don’t know how you feel.
“So now you know what it’s been like,” said Lauren. “Generally, she’s funny and easy to deal with, but if she starts taking her clothes off, we’re going to have to take her home.”
“Oh, God, my dad has started taking his clothes off in public, too,” said Sarah. “Maybe it’s already started.”
Over Lauren’s shoulder, I saw Viggo approach the microphone. He looked dashing in a tuxedo with his hair a little wild. Glancing around, I saw most of the women lower their cocktails and give him their undivided attention.
“While you’re enjoying your drinks,” he began, “I’d like to get you all thinking about one part of the evening that will be coming up later. It’s the live auction when you’ll be able to bid on any one of us you see standing here.”
Eight gorgeous men, including Viggo, stood for our pre-bidding pleasure. Not all were Hollywood actors. A couple of them were stars behind the scenes, and one had to be the finest- looking neurosurgeon ever. Viggo also directed the attendees’ attention to the silent auction items and encouraged everyone to bid. What an asset he turned out to be. Sigh.
As we all sat down to dinner, Paige arrived with Richard, her on again/off again/live-in/kicked-out significant other. She looked fabulous in a red and black dress with marcasite jewelry. There was no sign of the supposed shiner of a few weeks before, but something was different—it was subtle, but it was there. She looked rested and then some.
I glanced at Lauren and Sarah, both of whom had seen Paige soon after the alleged tennis ball incident and denied she had any plastic surgery. Neither of them gave anything away now, either. Though we generally don’t keep secrets in The Muffia, a person’s privacy is still something each of us has a right to. Oh, what did it matter? Paige looked great, seemed to feel great, and plastic surgery isn’t something one should be concerned about at an Alzheimer’s benefit.
Richard had a few more gray hairs since the last time I’d seen him, but he was a distinguished-looking man. Paige was wearing her engagement ring, so I guessed all that must be back on, too. For a couple of years, Paige and Richard had been attempting
to blend their families. But like the proverbial oil and vinegar, they just kept separating. Now maybe the mix was right. I took Paige’s hand and examined the ring.
“For sure this time,” she said. “In two months—a very small affair at his family’s place in North Carolina. You’re all welcome to come, but we know how far away it is.”
“How to make a girl feel welcome,” I said.
“Seriously, it’s going to be very low key. It may end up just being us at the courthouse with a party after.”
A few courses of inspired food landed at our places delivered by attractive volunteer servers, all of them standing up for the cause. And before we knew it, it was auction time.
The auctioneer was a SmartCar-shaped man hailing from Witchita named Walker Talbot. He wore a tight-fitting suit made of shiny gray sharkskin, and he looked completely out of place among the chic, overwhelmingly dressed-in-black crowd. George was the one responsible for Mr. Talbot’s presence at the benefit, and I knew Lauren was concerned about people judging him by his size. But it wasn’t long before the man’s larger-than-life smile and attitude won everyone over. He started the auction off with a trip to Paris that Maddie bid on first, knowing full well that she’d be outbid soon thereafter. The price became too high for any of us almost immediately.
There were four pieces of donated art to auction off, including a painting of Rachel’s that she must have done before the “Nude Men Without Faces” series. It fetched a thousand dollars. The next piece was a drawing—a lesser Chagall, according to the art appraisers—that had come from Lauren’s father-in-law’s collection and had been in his closet for twenty years, such was the family’s art collection that they could leave a Chagall in the closet. Walker, the auctioneer, whipped the bidders into such frenzy, recounting Chagall stories that he pulled out of who knows where? And by the time bidding ended, he’d gotten the price up to $300,000. It was a huge amount of money for Lauren’s organization, the still too-long-named Alzheimer’s Search for the Cure at the Sweet-Busch Center for Neurological Research, or in its acronym form: the ASC-SBCNR. I’d decided Sweet-Busch really was the most uplifting way to spin the name, but there was no ideal way to say it.
More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Page 24