Good Man, Dalton

by Karen McQuestion

  Plus, as her mom often said, life is short. If you don’t live now, when will you?

  Cece turned her attention back to Dalton. “Do you want to get a tour of the apartment?”

  “Sure.”

  Really? Cece was offering to show a stranger the apartment, when Greta hadn’t even gotten a full tour yet? Oh well, she’d be seeing it now.

  Cece led them through the apartment, throwing open doors and showing them rooms Greta didn’t know existed. The Vanderhavens, it turned out, had a media room with theater seats, surround sound, and a freestanding popcorn machine. It was clean and empty but still gave off the faint smell of butter.

  “Do you have a media room like this at your house?” Dalton asked Greta.

  “Not exactly.” Did anyone else in the world have a media room like this? Probably, but not in her social circle.

  From there, they kept going, with Cece noting focal points in each room. One room had floor-to-ceiling glass cases that held her mother’s collection of figurines. Then there was the library with a display of her father’s first-edition copies of all the American classics. The two kitchens were next, each with its own style: one more industrial, the other as pretty as a magazine feature. Once done with the main floor, they climbed an expansive open staircase up to the third floor. When Cece flung open the door to Greta’s room, Greta was glad she’d straightened up earlier. “Nice,” Dalton said, peering inside. “Very tidy.”

  “Greta just got here,” Cece said. “She hasn’t had enough time to make a mess.”

  After seeing all the unused rooms on the third floor, they ventured down the stairs, ending up at Cece’s room on the second floor. Greta had seen it in bits but only on the small screen in video clips, usually when she was opening the door to let Vance and Katrina in, or when they’d come in to surprise her and wake her up. She’d always wondered what was on the edges of the screen, hoping they’d pan around her room, but they never did. Greta went inside to get a closer look. The room was big, but then again, all the rooms were big. It was a little untidy, with random clothing on the floor and the bed unmade. Dalton and Cece followed behind her.

  “I like it,” Dalton said, nodding approvingly. “It’s the first room that’s made me feel at home.”

  Cece smiled. “I don’t let them come in and clean unless I’m here to watch. They always want to move things around.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I have things I like to keep private.”

  Greta wanted to ask, Like what? But that seemed intrusive, and Dalton was nodding again, like he understood completely. She wandered over to Cece’s desk, which was cluttered with odds and ends of jewelry, a random pile of paper, and a sketch pad. She flipped the cover to find fashion drawings, all of them featuring Cece as the sketched model. The drawings were bold and crazy: One set had wild colors and a 1960s vibe. Another was flapper-inspired, complete with fringed dress and headpiece. Yet another few pages hinted at the wide skirts of the 1950s.

  “This is so cool,” Greta said, flipping through the pages. “Is Firstborn Daughter, Inc. going to come out with these?”

  “I wish.” Cece rolled her eyes. “They never let me use my designs for the company. They say they’re not mainstream enough. They don’t have widespread appeal. They’d cost too much to mass-produce. So other people design different fashions, and I get my name put on them. I don’t even like most of them.” She sighed. “I have so many good ideas, but no one ever listens.”

  “What kind of ideas?”

  “Like, for instance, I think every evening gown should have hidden pockets. Deep ones that can be secured—so that you don’t have to take a purse along.”

  “That is a good idea.” Greta always hated getting up to dance and having to ask someone else to watch her things. Sometimes there was a coat check, but that wasn’t always secure, and when she wanted something—lipstick, a tampon, whatever—retrieving it was always an ordeal. “Why don’t they put pockets in automatically?”

  “It brings up the cost,” she said with a sigh. “So they would never do it for me. But”—she brightened—“I begged and begged, and finally they made two of my own designs for my own personal use, and they did them just the way I wanted.” She came over and stood next to Greta and flipped through the book. “This one.” She jabbed her finger at a dress that had an old Hollywood look to it, white with a halter neckline and feathered skirt. “I found a place that makes artificial feathers, so it doesn’t use any animal products. The other dress was one I had them make for Katrina.” She flipped to the next page to reveal a sleek black evening gown with crisscrossed panels across the midsection. “Isn’t it cool?”

  “It is cool.” Lucky Katrina having an elegant dress custom-made just for her. “You have a talent for design.”

  “No one else thinks so.”

  “Well, they’re wrong. Your designs are stunning.” Greta had seen the Firstborn Daughter, Inc. designs, and while they were pretty enough, nothing stood out for her. She didn’t see any dress in that clothing line that made her want to buy it, but the dress Cece had designed for Katrina was something else. Any woman who put it on would be transformed. It was glamorous and elegant, like old Hollywood with a modern twist. And Cece’s dress, the white one with a feathered skirt, was even better. It was an evening gown that would make an entrance. Once someone saw that dress, they’d never forget it.

  Greta laid a finger on the page. “When are you going to wear it?”

  “I don’t know. I ask every time, and they always put it off.”

  “Why?”

  “They say it’s not appropriate for the event, or that I have to wear a certain designer because we owe them a favor or something. It’s never the right time.”

  Cece closed the book and turned to face Dalton. “I guess that’s about it. Now you’ve seen my whole house.”

  “Except for the roof,” Greta said, not thinking.

  “What’s on the roof?” Dalton asked.

  A flash of emotion came across Cece’s face, like a shadow passing. Then she smiled. “There’s a pool up there. We don’t use it anymore. Not since the accident. They keep the door locked so no one can get in. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get up there to show it to you.”

  “There was an accident? What happened?” Dalton asked the million-dollar question, the one Greta had wanted to ask.

  Cece said, “A few years ago, I was swimming with my little sister. She dropped her bracelet in the pool, so I ducked down to get it, and then something happened and I lost consciousness.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Brenna got out of the pool and ran for help, and one of the maids came running up and pulled me out and revived me.”

  “So the maid saved your life,” Dalton said.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a story. Your sister must have been pretty little when that happened.”

  “She was only four years old.”

  Dalton whistled. “Four years old, and she knew to go and get help like that. Your parents must be very proud of her.”

  “I wouldn’t know. We never talk about it,” Cece said. “Please don’t repeat it to anyone. My parents don’t want people to know.”

  “I won’t.” He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I won’t say a thing. I promise.”

  He sounded sincere. Greta hoped he was a man of his word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After Cece was done giving them the tour of her apartment, things happened pretty quickly. They were joined in the kitchen by two more people: Brenna and her nanny. Nanny seemed only a little surprised to hear that Cece had a new friend named Dalton who was going to be her date to the Forgotten Man Ball. If she objected at all, it didn’t show.

  If anyone was concerned about Dalton’s presence, it was little Brenna, who gave him a suspicious stare. “Do you like my sister?” she finally asked.

  “I just met her, but she seems very nice.”

  “She is very nice. She’s the sweetest and the b
est.” Brenna narrowed her eyes and frowned, giving him the once-over. He got the unspoken message that she was putting him on notice. Brenna obviously treasured her sister.

  “Then I guess I should be on my best behavior,” Dalton said.

  “Don’t let anything bad happen to her.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  For such a big apartment, there didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Cece explained to Dalton that he wouldn’t be meeting her parents because they were in Europe, so that saved him from having to get patriarchal approval. He could generally pull off meeting someone’s father, but in his current hygienically challenged state, it would be more difficult to convince someone he was an upstanding young man. He wasn’t sure that a firm handshake and extreme politeness would override his uncombed hair and rumpled clothing.

  They made small talk in the kitchen, something Dalton recognized as being the epicenter of most people’s homes. One of his friends from prep school had an entire mansion at his disposal, but every time Dalton slept over, they had breakfast on barstools at the counter while his parents fluttered around nearby, going over the day’s events and filling their mugs with coffee. Meanwhile, in an adjacent room, there was a dining room table that could have seated their whole soccer team.

  Greta never took her gaze off him, especially when he was talking to Cece. Dalton wasn’t sure if it was because they’d had a moment and she was a little jealous that he was going to be her cousin’s date, or if she still wasn’t sure whom she was dealing with. He got his answer when there was a pause in the conversation. “What did you say your last name was again, Dalton?” she asked.

  Dalton knew the last name he’d said. He had it locked in his brain because he’d settled on that particular alias before he’d even started this project, but the suddenness of the question threw him off. He hesitated for just a second and then tried so hard to force it out quickly that he stammered. “Buh-Bradshaw.”

  “Buh-Bradshaw?” she said, one hand on her hip.

  Dalton sighed. “Just Bradshaw. I used to stutter when I was a kid, and sometimes it still comes out.” Only a little true. He did have a speech impediment as a kid, but it wasn’t a stutter. As a toddler, he did the classic Elmer Fudd switcheroo, substituting a w for the r sound. Wabbit. Wainbow. That sort of thing. The way his mom told it, his speech was very cute for a little kid, but she was relieved when he outgrew it.

  His phony explanation did the trick because now, he could tell, Greta felt terrible about pointing out his speech flaw.

  “Oh.” Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I’m not usually rude like that.”

  “I like the name Dalton Bradshaw,” Cece said, smoothing things over.

  “Yes, it’s a great name.” Greta smiled weakly. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The wardrobe team arrived, along with two makeup artists and a camera crew carrying all kinds of gear. The wardrobe people had multiple black-zippered garment bags, which they wheeled in on a rolling rack. One guy flipped open a large silver reflector while directing his assistant to set up the tripod. Dalton’s family was financially well off, but he’d never seen anything like this circus.

  Cece watched the cameraman with her arms folded across her chest. The chatter in the apartment echoed off the ceilings. Cece opened her mouth to speak. “Just a minute,” she said, but her voice didn’t make a dent in the wall of sound. “I’d like to say something.” She held up a hand as if she were a third grader with the correct answer.

  Greta nudged Dalton’s arm. “I think Cece needs your whistle.”

  He stuck two fingers in his mouth, and a second later the sound that came out was deafening—part whistle, part shrieking teakettle. The crew stopped and looked at him. “I think the lady has something to say,” Dalton said, indicating Cece.

  Cece clapped her hands. “We won’t need the camera crew tonight. You may leave.”

  The crew exchanged a look, not knowing what to do. It was almost as if they weren’t used to her being in charge. Dalton glanced back and saw that Nanny and Brenna had already slipped out of the room. “Are you sure?” asked one man, consulting his phone. “We’re scheduled to film the preparation, including you getting ready and putting on your jewelry, and then we’ll follow along when you leave, filming you going into the limo and documenting the ride to the hotel where the ball is being held. We’re booked for two and a half to three hours. The directions I got said we can extend it up to four if it takes longer. Regardless, you’re paying us for a two-hour minimum.”

  “I don’t care about the money,” Cece said. “I just don’t want you here.”

  “Are you sure?” This guy was either afraid of getting in trouble or thinking about his lost income.

  “I’m sure I don’t want to be filmed tonight,” Cece said.

  “Sweet,” said the assistant, folding the reflector up and slipping it into its case.

  “But . . .” The first guy didn’t want to let this go. “Was this cleared with Vance? Because when I talked to him, he was pretty clear on what he wanted.”

  “Vance isn’t here right now,” Cece said. “I’m here.”

  “Has this been approved?”

  Greta stepped forward, and her voice rang out loud and clear. “It’s been approved. You can go.” She stood over the guys as they packed up, then told Cece she’d see them out. Dalton heard her thanking them for coming as they left the room, as if they were party guests.

  “That’s my cousin,” Cece said happily. “She looks out for me.”

  “I can see that,” he said.

  “I heard that when Greta was a little girl, she was painfully shy. Painfully,” Cece said, emphasizing her point. “And she was scared of her own shadow. But over the years, she’s come into her own.”

  “Has she ever.” So little Greta was the mouse that roared. Dalton thought of her pulling Cece down the concrete steps away from the paparazzi. And now, walking the camera crew out to make sure they would actually go. She could be bold when necessary, yet she’d immediately felt terrible for mocking him when he’d stuttered. What an intriguing woman.

  When Greta returned, she had a tall, thin man with her. “Look who I found,” she said, gesturing toward him. This was the kind of thing people usually said when they were excited to run into someone, but her tone lacked that kind of enthusiasm.

  “I’m here,” the man said with a sigh. “Right on time.”

  “Hi, Michael.” Cece turned to Dalton. “Michael is our driver. He’s going to be Greta’s date tonight to the ball.” She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “He would have been my date if I hadn’t found you.”

  “Lucky thing you found me then.”

  “You’re right about that.” Cece threw her arms around Dalton’s neck and raised herself on tiptoe to speak in his ear. “I don’t really care much for Michael.”

  Dalton took her point. Michael resembled the bad guy in every cheesy late-night movie. His slicked-back hair had comb marks as distinct as furrows in a farm field. His forced smile was a grim line, and he twitched even at rest. The way he sighed while looking at his watch gave the impression he wished the night were over already.

  Cece addressed the woman who seemed to be in charge of wardrobe. “Libby, Dalton will be wearing Vance’s tuxedo tonight.”

  Libby frowned, then whipped out a tape measure and measured his waist, inseam, arm length, and shoulder span. Finally, she stood and compared the numbers to the size on the suit. “His measurements are close enough. It should work.” She instructed one of the young men to take Dalton to a guest room where he could shower before getting ready for the evening.

  “Honest,” Dalton said, “you can just give me directions, and I can figure out where to go.”

  She shook her head and continued explaining to the young guy, whose name was Duffy, how to get to the right room. “I want everything done correctly,
” she said.

  “Okay, Libby.”

  Duffy accompanied Dalton up the stairs, enthusiastically telling him about his experiences as a film student. “Working on the prep crew for Cece Vanderhaven is going to look good on my résumé. I mostly just carry stuff, but I had to go through all kinds of screening to get cleared. They tested me for drugs and had me fingerprinted and interviewed my professors.”

  “Sounds intense.”

  “Libby is a piece of work, but I just keep my mouth shut and do the job.”

  A lot of talking for someone who prided himself on keeping his mouth shut.

  Duffy kept going, even though he hadn’t been encouraged. “This would all be worth it if I could get some kind of endorsement from the Vanderhavens. I’d love to ask Cece for a letter of recommendation, but we’re not supposed to talk to her. Most of the time they keep her secluded, and I never even hear her speak, except for the lines they have her say for the filming.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, maybe you could put in a good word for me? Even if it’s not a letter, a note saying I was an asset to the team would help. Are you a good friend of hers?”

  Dalton shook his head. “I wouldn’t say very.”

  He was glad to end the conversation and head into the bathroom. The shower in the guest room had a rainfall showerhead and jets that shot out water from all sides. Dalton’s family had one like this at their house, and it got mixed reviews. His mom loved it, while his dad said he hated getting pelted with water. Dalton appreciated any shower at this point, and being able to use shampoo seemed the ultimate in luxury.

  After he toweled off, he found a terry cloth bathrobe hanging on a hook next to the sink. He wore it while shaving with the travel-size disposable razor and shaving cream he found along with other assorted toiletries in a basket next to the sink. Here he’d been sleeping in the park when a room like this stood empty, proving once again that life was so much easier when you had friends in high places.

  He left the bathroom to go into the adjacent bedroom and almost fell over at the sight of Duffy sitting on the bed, next to a garment bag. On the floor next to his feet sat a pair of shiny black shoes. Despite the reflexive clench of his jaw, Dalton was able to say, “Can I help you?”