The primary of these was the threat of being cut off from the Charbonneau hair depilatory dynasty, an empire founded by Jacque Charbonneau, Canadian fur trapper, when he created a salve that not only did a first-class job of tanning hides but also dissolved the hair from his knuckles. However, Solange’s threat had little effect on Mimi, whom nature had cunningly outfitted with a major disinterest in possessing things. Besides, Solange’s father had already bequeathed a small annuity to all of his grandchildren, including Mimi—only, Solange insisted, because at the time of his death Mimi had not yet shown herself as a slacker.
As this sort of comment was an example of what Solange considered a winning emotional appeal, it, too, fell on deaf ears. And the devastation she claimed Mimi’s half sisters had felt upon her leaving was equally unconvincing since Mimi knew for a fact—after all, she’d been there—that the day she’d left, Mary had lugged her Baby Brilliant Building Modules trunk into Mimi’s room, pushed back the furniture, and set about erecting a fifty-story skyscraper. All this passed through Mimi’s mind’s eye as she stared at her phone console.
“Mignonette?”
“Gee! My phone console just lit up like a Christmas tree!” she lied. “Gotta go, Mom. The dead wait for no man. And well you might ask why? Them being dead and all. But there you go. The dead call, I answer. Love you!”
“Wait!” Solange’s commanding voice could have stopped a stampede.
“What?”
“Remember not to tell anyone about…this.”
“This” being her career. Job. Work. Whatever.
“It doesn’t reflect well on you,” Solange said.
Strangely, Mimi knew her mother meant it. She didn’t really care how Mimi’s profession reflected on her, Tom, or the little barracudas, also known as Mimi’s half sisters. She sincerely wanted the best for Mimi. She loved Mimi. Mimi loved her. They were trapped by love. Deliver me, Mimi thought, but said, “You got it.”
“Good. And I am going to send over your grandmother’s pearls. We just had them reset and I expect you to wear them.”
“Expect” had to be Solange’s favorite word.
“Right. Gotta go, Mom. Bye.” Before Solange barked out another command, Mimi gently depressed the END CALL button and wondered whether she could find a “suitable dress” at Nordstrom’s Rack or whether she should just borrow one from the rich and powerful (and crossing-dressing) Ozzie.
She’d try Ozzie. He bought only the best.
“I think we achieved a lot this afternoon.” Delia Bunn, a tall, athletic-looking woman in her early thirties casually reached across the corner of the conference table and let her hand drop over Joe’s wrist. Delia was D&D’s CIO, D&D being the London-based company Joe was assessing for possible purchase.
“More than I’d planned,” Joe said, smiling at her. Her accent was pure Sloan Street, and like her, well-bred, elegant, and smart. “At this rate I’ll be able to wrap things up here in a week. I can’t remember the last time I brought a project in ahead of schedule. I have to thank you for that. Thank you.”
Delia smiled and crossed a spectacular pair of legs, angling herself sideways on the chair as she bent over the open file folder on the table and did some last-minute checking of figures. He watched her. He knew she knew he was watching her. They both pretended otherwise.
Delia wore a dark navy pencil skirt and a cream-colored shirt with gold cuff links. She’d coiled her thick honey-colored hair into a smooth knob at the nape of her neck. The masculine wear and severe hairstyle only accentuated her femininity. And she knew it. Here was a woman who understood image and its power to influence public opinion. From the height of her heels to the rims of her reclaimed tortoiseshell reading glasses, every element was designed to make a statement about her self-confidence, her sense of self-worth, her status.
Mimi Olson could have borrowed a few lessons from Delia’s book, he thought in amusement. But then—his smile grew wry—why? It would probably never occur to Mimi Olson to make a statement via fashion. Except she had. Her clothing said uncategorically, “I don’t give a damn what you think about me. I know who I am and that’s enough.”
He couldn’t recall ever having met someone quite like Mimi Olson, and it wasn’t just her career choice, though that was extremely off-putting; try as he might, he could not come up with any possible way to view telemarketing dead people’s advice as anything more than a legitimate con game. Unless she actually believed she was talking to the dead. In which case, she was even more peculiar than he thought. Which only made the fact that he not only thought of her often, but wondered about her, and, in fact, liked her, all the stranger. She wasn’t like anyone he liked. She was unique and uniquely her own person. All her own.
Which made it unfair to compare her to others. Her situation, like her, was unique. She didn’t have to worry about what impression she made on strangers. Mimi Olson, up there in her odd little commune, didn’t meet many strangers. She was surrounded by a vast and vastly odd conglomeration of relatives and friends who apparently knew her so well and had known her for so long that all her quirks and traits were comfortably familiar, not only tolerated but embraced.
What would it be like to be so open? To have all your idiosyncrasies, your vulnerabilities and peculiarities, exposed to the public? No, not the public, he reminded himself, your family. Who knew him so well he’d feel comfortable letting them see the chinks in his armor…?
He frowned. What chinks? He didn’t have any chinks. More important, he didn’t have any armor. Christ. Next time he was channel surfing he was not stopping at Dr. Phil.
“It all looks good.” Delia closed the file folder and straightened the edges by clicking it lightly on the counter. “I must say, I’m famished. You must be, too. What do you say we find ourselves a bite? There’s excellent curry just down the street and a decent Thai just a bit farther on.”
The way her warm gaze held Joe’s telegraphed an interest in something more than a meal. He considered, but he had strict rules about mixing business and pleasure, at least until the business aspects were complete. Of course, she might simply be suggesting they share a meal, in which case he was being an egocentric ass. On the other hand, why test it and make both of them uncomfortable? True, she was lovely, but—and this was sadly the biggest factor—he felt not one iota of physical attraction. Appreciation? Yes, of course. You couldn’t help but appreciate a lovely, elegant woman like Delia, like you would appreciate any fine work of art. But he didn’t want to go to bed with Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, either.
Joe was forty-four years old and he hadn’t been seriously involved with a woman since Karen. He didn’t want to be involved. If it hadn’t worked out with Karen, whose intelligence, work ethic, sense of purpose, and commitment reflected his own values so closely, how was it supposed to work out with someone who didn’t, at least discernibly, share any of those traits? Except the intelligence thing. Mimi was undoubtedly intelligent. Joe always took the measure of a thing, weighed the pros and cons, and projected relative outcomes before acting. He’d given up impulsiveness when he’d found out Karen was pregnant…. And how had he gone from considering dining with Delia to why he didn’t want to become involved with Mimi?
“I’d love to, but I have a phone conference in an hour and I’d like to prep for it,” he lied.
“Oh.” Her mouth puckered with disappointment. “Well, another time.” She stood up and he followed suit. They discussed the next day’s agenda as they walked to the elevator and from there down to the building’s lofty marble-sheeted lobby and to the taxi stand outside, where he saw her into one and took the next for himself.
At the hotel, he greeted the desk clerk and made his way to his suite on the second floor. The rooms were lovely, the trio of small sofas surrounding an electric fireplace imbued the suite with a cozy feel, the black granite bar separating out a discreetly situated and well-stocked wine cooler and tiny refrigerator. The original artwork gracing the walls was excellent. In
the large (at least by London standards) bathroom, thick towels toasted on a brass warmer rail, and thousand-count Egyptian cotton linens dressed the immense bed. The walls were soft sage, the furnishings a deeper hue of the same, only accented by a plummy color. It was distinct from any of the hundreds of other hotels in which Joe had spent the majority of his adult life, and in that, exactly the same. An expensive, well-planned poser, some outrageously expensive designers’ ode to gracious home life.
It might almost pass, too, except for the lack of clutter, unpaid bills and half-read paperback novels, jewel cases carrying mismatched CDs, a brush with a few curls of dark hair in it, out-of-focus photographs, half-completed crossword puzzles, shoes hiding under sofas and stickie notes with intimate instructions about dry cleaning or grocery lists, the detritus of complicated and rich relationships.
He tossed his jacket over the back of one of the sofas and sat down, reaching for the universal remote on the coffee table in front of him, noting idly that the maids had replenished the perfectly fanned stack of glossy magazines this morning. He picked up the phone and punched room service’s number.
“Good evening, Mr. Tierney,” the voice on the other end, a voice he’d never matched to a face but to which he had spoken at least once daily over the last month, greeted him. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, just a sandwich. Do you have…pastrami?”
“Of course.”
“Great—no, wait. Do you have corned beef?”
“Yes, sir. A corned beef sandwich? How about a Reuben sandwich, sir? The chef makes a really stellar version.”
Joe shrugged. “Fine.”
“Right away, sir. Can I tempt you with dessert?”
“No, thank you, Ahmad.”
“You’re quite welcome, sir.”
He ended the call and sank back into the cushions, feeling subtly unsettled. He probably should have hit the gym before ordering dinner. He hadn’t gotten enough exercise lately. But logging mileage on a treadmill, or climbing a perpetual ladder, always with limited appeal, tonight had less. He found himself wishing he knew where they were playing a pickup game of basketball. Or no-contact football. He missed the camaraderie of team sports.
He probably should have gone to dinner with Delia. If for no other reason, he would have enjoyed the company. Most of the time he was perfectly content with his own company. He liked himself, he enjoyed his job, the travel, the people, the challenges. Probably, he admitted, because he was good at them. The only thing he wasn’t good at was being Prescott’s father.
And being Karen’s husband.
No, he thought, slipping off his shoes and putting his feet on the coffee table. All in all, strict rules about mixing business and pleasure aside, it was a good thing he hadn’t gone out with Delia…
There was a good reason Joe hadn’t become seriously involved with anyone since Karen’s death. He used to think that it was because no woman could match Karen in dedication, drive, and smarts and because all women paled in comparison. That was partially true. But as the years passed, he hadn’t been able to ignore the objectivity that time allots, and that objectivity made it brutally clear that his marriage hadn’t been a smashing success.
He and Karen hadn’t been a team, as much as independent franchises of the same company, existing apart but under an umbrella of mutual benefice. He attributed this to the fact that they’d married without knowing each other very well and that soon afterward distance and different obligations kept them from getting to know each other better. He would not make that mistake again, and he didn’t know when his life would allow for the time and proximity he would need to have before giving a committed relationship (let alone marriage) another shot. The career that had kept him from Karen and Prescott nine months out of the year still kept him from having adequate time to get to know a woman well enough to take the next step in any relationship.
Someday, maybe. But not now.
A discreet bell tone announced that room service was at the door. He swung his legs down from the table and went to open the door. A pleasant-faced young woman stood in the hall on the opposite side of a cart, a silver-domed plate in its center. “Good evening, Mr. Tierney,” she said without her usual sparkle. Her dark hair was drawn into a bun so tight it stretched the skin back from her temples, lifting her eyes in an expression of faux surprise, but there were shadows under her wide-spaced eyes.
“Good evening, Esther.” He stood aside and she wheeled the tray in.
“Where would you like to eat tonight? Fireplace or by the window overlooking the park?” She tipped her head toward the window and he could see the hair on her temples stretching with the motion. She winced.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“I just have a bit of a headache is all,” she said. Small wonder, with her hair being dragged back so ruthlessly like that. “Thank you for asking, though.”
“Just leave it there and I’ll decide later,” he said, handing her a folded five-euro bill.
“Thank you, sir.” She accepted the bill and turned and he noted that a coil of dark curls had somehow escaped the strict confines of her severe bun. It reminded him of something…. Mimi Olson’s dark coils. He wondered whether her hair, like Mimi’s, made tiny corkscrews when wet, and if dried under its own volition, would cloud about her shoulders like Mimi’s. He bet Mimi never got a headache.
As soon as the door shut, he lifted the dome off the plate on the cart. A triple-decker sandwich sprouting all sorts of crisp-looking julienned vegetables and deep-fried, à la Monsieur Croquette in some fabulously fragrant batter, lay amidst a bed of matchstick potatoes. It looked unlike any Reuben he’d ever had. Quite unlike the corned-beef sandwich Mimi Olson had slapped together for him at Fowl Lake. It looked wonderful.
Unfortunately, his mouth had been set on a Fowl Lake rendition.
Chapter Seventeen
November
Mimi gazed longingly out the tall French doors of the Calhoun Beach Club’s second-floor solarium at the beach across the street. Though the sun had set on Lake Calhoun, one of the most popular of the twenty-four lakes within Minneapolis’s city limits, dozens of hearty individuals were still out, bent on squeezing every last minute outdoors before winter arrived. Dog walkers, runners, in-line skaters, and strollers emerged into the pools of light beneath the lampposts circling Calhoun and just as abruptly disappeared in the shadows between. Mimi wished she were one of them.
She turned back into the room. The solarium’s cheesy white trellises had been hidden beneath midnight blue bunting that matched the imported slipcovers on the chairs. On long, linen-clad tables, florists and chefs had competed to see who could create the most sumptuous display. Tom and Solange’s guests seemed to have a similar agenda: diamonds and gold, platinum and silver, crystal beads and lamé. Mimi’s eyes hurt just looking at all the stuff winking at her from the crowd. It was too bad some of those necklaces couldn’t speak because she was sure the stories they could tell would have been far more interesting than any she’d heard so far this evening.
Not that the Werner guest list was shy on wit, intelligence, or humor. It was just a very public party, attended by very powerful people who were very discreet, a combination that led to a lot of requests for club soda and innocuous chitchat. Any really interesting conversations—and Mimi had no doubt there were at least a few of those—would be taking place in more private venues: the parking ramp, or the restrooms, or the lobby downstairs.
Mimi spied her oldest half sister, Mary, making nice with another woman a short distance away. Mary, as short as Mimi and as dark and square as Solange, was smiling and sipping from a nearly empty highball glass, her gaze darting around the room. Mimi watched her, trying to dissect Mary’s game plan for success, which apparently depended on looking dumpy, because though only twenty-eight, Mary looked like a Doric column, a squat, black, Doric column. A tube of stiff black brocade encased her from wrist to ankle without betraying any of the female curves beneat
h. Sensing her scrutiny, Mary glanced up and spied Mimi. She spoke a few more words to the woman and chugged purposefully toward Mimi.
“So, Mignonette,” she said upon gaining Mimi’s side. “Still seeing dead people? Or are you dating someone new?”
“Better watch out Mom doesn’t hear you wrenching open the family’s closet doors.”
Even though she hadn’t seen Mary in six months, nothing had changed. Mimi had hoped Mary’s feelings might have slowly segued into the same sort of vague, distant affection toward her that Sarah, the youngest, had. But nope. Mary still disliked her.
It hadn’t always been so. When Mimi had flown the coop, Mary had been five, just memorizing the periodic table when she wasn’t following Mimi around, adoration in her dark little eyes. But Mary had deeper feelings, and not positive ones, either. At some time during junior high, Mary had taken up Solange’s “Mimi must be saved from herself” banner. Over the years, as it became apparent that Mimi wasn’t going to be saved from herself but instead live blissfully on just as she was, the crusade had become more acrimonious. Mimi thought she understood the source of her sister’s animosity. Mimi was happy and Mary was not, and poor Mary, a clinical specimen of workaholism if ever there was one, could not figure out why.
“Why bother?” Mary said, patting her dark, spray-fixed helmet of hair. The flash of a giant sapphire ring on her finger nearly blinded Mimi. The gaudy rings were the only vulgar display Mary allowed herself. “Girl gifts,” she called them, which made them seem sophisticated and clubby at the same time.
“New ring?” Mimi asked, pointing at the ring.
“Yes. Dishy Manfranke gave it to me when Sub-Surfer went public.” Sub-Surfer was the cyber Peeping Tom company Mary had founded her senior year of high school. She’d made a fortune selling the means to spy on one’s family members undetected.
Skinny Dipping Page 14