A silver bucket of champagne, dripping with condensation, is displayed on an ornate pewter stand next to our table. I look at Josh, surprised. I’d made the reservations for our tomorrow-our-engagement-goes-public dinner, but I did not order champagne. And who is Miss Tolliver?
Josh pulls out my chair. I’d specified dinner for two. But this is a table for four.
I’m juggling the unexpected champagne, the hovering maître d’ and the mysterious Miss Tolliver when another glossy navy-suited woman arrives. She’s carrying a sleek briefcase and holding a bulging Filofax and hefty expensive-looking pen.
“Renata Tolliver, the Paramount’s wedding consultant.” LaVinia performs the introductions, then returns to her post.
I look at Josh, questioning, but he’s shaking hands with the newcomer.
The consultant smiles at him, then me, then Josh again.
She’s my mother’s age, just as well preserved and even more professional. Chunky gold earrings, conservative pearls. Her platinum hair is snipped into a flawless bob, which swings effortlessly as she motions to a nearby waiter. She points him to the champagne. Instant hostess. Instantly in charge.
“Champagne with the hotel’s compliments, Miss McNally,” she says. “Your fiancé called me, thinking you might be interested in having a brief chat before dinner. As I’m certain you know, Paramount weddings are the crème de la crème.”
We’re each handed a crystal flute, and Miss Tolliver raises hers in our direction. “To your own wonderful ceremony. We would be delighted to arrange the most perfect Paramount event for the two of you.”
I’m still flummoxed. My Josh? Made an appointment with a wedding consultant? I take a wary sip. I’m so not buying that.
“Your mother called. I happened to mention our dinner here tonight. The rest is history,” Josh says. He touches a quick kiss to the top of my head, then pulls out his own chair. “She who must be obeyed.”
Twenty minutes later, champagne half-gone and Josh still looking amused, Miss Tolliver is winding up the sales pitch for her vision of our wedding: the Paramount Platinum Package. My first wedding, twenty-five years ago, was the City Hall Package: fluorescent lighting and flowers from the vendor outside the Government Center subway stop. Sweet Baby James and I didn’t last a year. Now, I’m struggling to stay skeptical, but every luscious photograph of pink-peony garlands and intricate butter-cream frosting exposes some long-forgotten, deep-seated wedding fantasy. I know I should want to elope or do something simple. But I feel more like simply signing on the dotted line.
Miss Tolliver pulls a glossy white folder from her briefcase, points her pen to the embossed Paramount lion on the cover.
“My card is enclosed. Here are suggested menus. Flower arrangements. Tablecloth swatches. Photographs of cakes. The Platinum Package, as your mother suggests. And she says to tell you—” Miss Tolliver pauses, purses her lips “—well, I don’t understand it, but she says to do this.”
She holds up two fingers in the peace sign. “Is that right?” she asks.
“Mother is pulling out all the stops,” I say. Even long-distance, she can never quite let go. “That’s our sign that means ‘the two of us, in it together.’”
“She seems to love you very much,” Miss Tolliver says. She hands me the folder and stands to leave.
“She loves that I’m getting married,” I reply.
“So do I,” Josh says. He holds up his glass, saluting me.
So do I, I think. So do I.
“I can’t believe she gave us samples of wedding cake to take home.” I’m clutching my white wedding folder and two beribboned boxes of cake and psyching myself up for the big moment. And it’s not just about our wedding.
“I can. The woman’s a wedding machine and your mother is relentless,” Josh says, teasing. “Much as we love her.”
We peer through the front doors of the hotel, waiting for the parking valet to return. Josh had nothing new to report about Bexter, no more menacing phone calls. No matter how creatively I inquired, it seemed as if he’s really told me everything he knows. Which gets me nowhere.
There was no time during dinner when it felt right to bring up New York. We promised each other no secrets. I’m determined to keep my promise, but I refuse to pull another all-nighter discussing our future. So during the
car ride home it is. Fifteen minutes, Boston to Brookline, and I’m dropping the bombshell. Life is suddenly very complicated.
“There’s the valet with our car.” Josh points outside. “Finally.”
We race through the snow, past the marble lions and into the car. The doors slam.
Here we go.
“So I have news,” I say as we pull away from the hotel. Trying to keep my tone light. “Guess what Kevin told me today?”
“He’s quitting,” Josh says. He punches a few buttons on the dashboard radio, tuning it away from raucously grating sports talk. “Who changed the station? Anyway, I predict he’s giving up TV to become a used-car salesman. Why not use his skills where he can really—”
“Yeah, well, funny. But yes, Mr. Clairvoyant. He’s quitting.” I adjust the boxes in my lap, hoping it won’t be the only time I get wedding cake, and turn to Josh. I hadn’t planned to say it this way, but it’s kind of ironically sweet. “Can you keep a secret?”
It took five minutes to tell Josh about my New York offer. And almost every minute after that, he’s been silent.
“Let me think” was his only reaction. In TV news, we often have to make split-second decisions. And when it’s not necessary to decide instantly, we debate the pros and cons until the very last minute. With Josh, I’m still trying to learn his rhythm and not be afraid of quiet. The comfortable jazz from the radio disappears. Chatty voices from some talk show now make his silence more profound. But I can wait. And it won’t be long. We’re almost there.
We turn onto Bexter Academy Drive. Penny will be asleep, Annie waiting up for us. Josh will leave to drive her home. Here we go.
The porch light is on as we pull up to the curb. Josh turns the key and unbuckles his seat belt. As I’m trying to read his expression, the ceiling lights click off. We’re in the darkness, snowfall ending, a few final flakes disappearing as they hit the hood of the car.
“Victoria left Penny and me because of her job.” Josh is staring out the windshield. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
I grab his hand. One box of wedding cake tumbles to the floor. “No. No. No, no, no. We just need to talk about it. I don’t even know what I want to do. It’s just—sudden. And big. And I wasn’t supposed to tell you. And maybe I shouldn’t have.”
My chest tightens. This is new territory for me. Am I already lost?
“Maybe I should have worked it all out by myself,” I continue. “But we promised, right? No secrets?”
“Sweetheart, I can’t ask you to give up your dreams. You’ve wanted this for your entire career.” Josh looks at me, as if he’s trying to smile. Then he shakes his head. “I adore you. You know that. But you know Penny and I can’t move to New York.”
Okay, statistics guys. Maybe you’re on to something. But I’m not going down without giving it my best shot. And maybe my dreams are changing.
“Drive time to New York is only about three hours,” I say, testing this prospect. I’m still clutching Josh’s hand. “If I drive fast. And you know I do. I could commute, live here on weekends, New York during the week. When school’s back in session, your schedule is just as crazy as mine. It would hardly be different from the way it is now.”
Josh picks up the box of cake from the floor and hands it to me. “We’d better go in,” he says.
The bluestone walkway to the front door is lined with graying piles of shoveled snow. We leave footprints in the
newly fallen white. Through the front curtains, I see Annie’s gauzy image and the flicker of the television.
“It’s more like four hours of drive time,” Josh says. “But we’ll do what we have to do.”
“Honey, I—” I see something. A piece of paper taped to the glass of the storm door.
Josh gets there first. In two more steps, I see the message, too.
I recognize Penny’s artwork. Nine-year-old primitive, but instantly understandable. A bride, billowing veil and extravagant skirt. She’s holding hands with the top-hatted groom. Next to the Crayola couple, a beaming flower girl (or maybe junior bridesmaid), enormous pink dress, masses of curlicues around her skirt. And scattered across the page, dozens of red hearts, flying through the awkward drawing like happy butterflies.
“Looks like the votes are in,” Josh says. He snaps down the drawing with one hand and reaches toward the doorknob with the other. “From Penny, at least.”
And from me, too, I want to say. I know our future is together. I’m just not sure how. Everything good is happening at the same time.
One hand still on the knob, Josh turns to me, his face softening as he holds up the drawing. “She’s never been so happy. I’ve never been so happy. So, there’s a bump in the road. And I’m sure there’ll be more. But we’ll ride them out, sweetheart. Together.”
I hold up the boxes. “Piece of cake,” I say.
I hope I’m right.
“I
f he’s such a hotshot, why isn’t he still in Beirut, or wherever he was? Whoa, look at me. Even after Max and Molly, I still can’t believe this. This is like—three basketballs’ worth of baby.”
Maysie takes a sip of her morning tea, standing sideways in front of the mirror of the fourth-floor ladies’ room. She’s scrutinizing her alarmingly pregnant profile and chattering nonstop, as usual. Just back late last night from covering Super Bowl preparations in Dallas and soon to give birth to her third child, she’s the only woman who works in Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, so she’s been able to commandeer the fourth-floor ladies’ room as her exclusive salon. It’s also a private spot where we can share our scoops without fear of interruption. And this morning I’ve got the biggest one yet.
“Mays?”
“And you’re going out on these undercover shoots with him? Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, like, do you know whether he got fired? Or flipped out? Or some unimaginably hideous other thing that he’s keeping a big secret? Somehow? On the other hand, he’s truly hot. Those cheekbones alone…” She eyes me appraisingly. “Think he’s single?”
I’m standing with my hands behind my back, leaning against the door, carefully hiding my ring. Maysie and
Matthew Green are Mr. and Mrs. Suburban Married Bliss, and for years, Mays has indefatigably analyzed every available single man for what she calls his “Charlie potential.” Margaret Isobel DeRosiers Green has been my cheerleader and confidante through a succession of unsuitable suitors who turned out to be either too attracted to my success or too intimidated by it. When
Bride’s Magazine
started appearing in my mail a few months ago, it could only have come from Mom or Maysie. Maysie confessed. She’s a top-notch reporter, tough and knowledgeable as any guy in the sports trenches. But I’m about to spring some real breaking news. As soon as she stops talking.
“Mays?”
“Still, why would he give up the network to come to Boston and work with you?” She’s tucking her brown hair into the usual ponytail and yanking on a Celtics cap. “No offense, Brenda, but I mean, who wouldn’t want to work at the network if they could? And hey, you’re still guest-hosting my Wixie show, right?”
Brenda Starr, the glam comic-strip reporter who never gets old. The nickname always bugs me, since I’m a real-life reporter whose aging is all too apparent. Still, Mays is just being affectionate. I wonder what she’d say about Kevin’s network offer. I wish I could ask her.
“Mays,” I say, stepping into the room. “We’ve gotta go on this shoot in about three minutes. I have no idea about J.T. Shaw. Maybe he’s secretly some kind of ax murderer, okay? I’ll keep a lookout for an ax. Yes, I’m doing your radio show. Josh had WWXI on in the car just the other night. But listen—”
“Gotta love radio,” she says. “Don’t even have to comb your hair and lipstick is optional. And I told you they’re paying, right? Not much, though, kiddo. Probably enough for a new pair of shoes, the way they’re chintzing out
these days. But thanks, Brenda. Soon as little Maddee or Malcolm arrives, you take over the microphone.”
Time’s up. Franklin and J.T. are waiting. I’ve never kept a secret from Maysie before.
I hold out my left hand.
And I don’t say a word.
Her scream echoes down the hall as I head out the door.
“Can you hear me now?” Franklin’s voice is muffled. He’s walking across Route 1, the so-called Auto Mile, headed for one of the many car dealers lining this section of the highway. We’re talking by cell phone, making sure we’re connected.
My laptop and I are stashed in the wayback of our “undercover car,” the unmarked black SUV we use for stakeouts and surveillance. The one-way windows are tinted as dark as they can be and still pass state inspection. I can see out perfectly from my vantage point in the McDonald’s parking lot, but no one can see in.
This is the annoying part about being recognizable. I can barely go undercover anymore, around Boston at least, unless I’m deeply in disguise. So we’ve devised a scheme where I can stay hidden while Franklin and J.T. act as my eyes and ears.
“Ten-four, gotcha. I hear you loud and clear.” Phone clamped to my shoulder, I twist out of my hunter-green down vest and fold it against the back of the front seat as a makeshift headrest. No telling how long this is going to take. My boots are off, too, and my legs are stretched out the length of the back compartment, my black wool pants already attracting a coating of carpet lint. I’ll have to change clothes before the Bexter party tonight. But now I’ve got my computer on my lap. Latte in the cup-holder. A pretty good view out the back window.
Red-white-and-blue-striped banners flutter across a
block-long used-car lot. The mammoth sign on the flat-roofed showroom behind them proclaims Miracle Motors. Lines of glossy vehicles with grease-pencil prices scrawled on the windows glisten in multicolored rows. Towering above, on a two-story metal contraption, a bright yellow minivan rotates like the car lot’s own moon. On its windshield: Take me Home—I’m Your New Honey.
Just as Franklin walks onto the lot, J.T. pulls in, driving his dark blue Audi. Right on schedule. J.T. emerges in a burnished leather jacket, black jeans and black turtleneck. He looks like a walking American Express gold card. Franklin, sacrificing style for the benefit of the story, wears a too-big Celtics hoodie he snagged from the sports department and some garish basketball shoes.
Let’s hear it for stereotypes. The salespeople lock their sights on conspicuous consumer J.T. Franklin is just a guy in a sweatshirt with a Bluetooth earpiece. Again, our plan works.
While Franklin heads for the back of the lot, J.T. tries to engage as many of the salespeople as possible. I burst out laughing as J.T. takes out a pocket-size digital camera and gets the slavering employees to snap his photo with car after car. Our cover story is that he wants the photos to show his wife her new-car choices. The snapshots will prove dangerous cars are for sale. If we can find any. And I’m betting my job we can.
“Try to find a 2006 Cambria,” I remind Franklin. I tap the keyboard, check that my battery level is nice and plump and click open my notes. “They’ve been recalled for transmission failures. Look for the first character in the Vehicle Identification Number to be a one. A two means the car was made in Canada and we don’t want those.”
All the way across the street, I see Franklin gesture to wave me off. He knows. The seventeen-digit VINs on each car are the key to this story. They’re like a car’s
social security number. Its unique fingerprint. Once we grab the VIN, we can look up the car’s repair history.
“Here’s a pale blue Cambria, 2006,” Franklin says, opening the driver’s-side door to see the metal plate on the inside of the doorjamb, one of the places where the VIN is always stamped. “Yes, one is the first number here. And now, confirming that the tenth character is six for made in 2006. Yes. Ready, Charlotte?”
Franklin reads me a string of letters and numbers. I type it into the computer database we’re creating. He moves down the row to the next Cambria, and then the next and the next. It’s time-consuming and there’s absolutely no room for mistakes. If I type even one digit incorrectly, we’ll be looking up the wrong car and our story will crash and burn.
Franklin moves away from the line of Cambrias. I see J.T. leading his entourage to get the same cars on camera. Little do they know.
I get a little flare of goose bumps. And it’s not because the heat in the car is off. We’re a great team. And this is a great story.
“Franklin, you there?” I say into the phone.
I just had two more ideas about how we can make our story even better.
I flip open my reporter’s notebook. Although we’re verging on late for the Bexter party, my eye-wearying day of transcribing VINs is not over yet. Josh is still inside changing, so there’s just enough time.
“Just read me the numbers and letters, okay?” It’s probably the last thing Annie Vilardi expected me to say about the new—well, new to her—Ombra sedan her parents just gave her. She’s helping to make payments with the money she earns sitting with Penny. Now the two of them, wearing identical Bexter jackets and tasseled ski caps, are
delightedly demonstrating every gadget and gizmo on the white four-door. It’s the automotive version of a refrigerator, safe and boxy. But my research is about to prove even cars like this could have unrepaired recalls. So practicing what I preach, I’d better check out Annie’s car.
“Look through the windshield, on the dashboard. Nope, tucked in farther. The numbers are on a little metal placard.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it!” Annie says. She calls out the rest of the VIN as Josh trots down the front steps, checking his watch.
“Keep the porch lights on,” he says. “Don’t let anyone in. You have our cell numbers. And turn off the oven after you take out the pizza.”
“Of course, Professor Gelston,” Annie says.
“Duh,” Penny says.
One Bexter Academy Drive, the most prestigious address in Bexter faculty housing, is just five houses away from Josh’s number six, though we can’t see it through the neighborhood’s stand of evergreens. Tonight is Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s annual open house, a command performance for Bexter faculty and staff, as well as parents of new students.
And it’s my first appearance as a parent. At least, step-parent-to-be. I link my fingers through Josh’s as we approach the Head’s ornately carved oak front door and ring the bell. It feels as if I’m stepping into a new life. It’s also my first real opportunity to sniff out the truth about those phone calls. If I’m a parent, I don’t want my daughter to be in danger.
“Sweets?” I say. “They all know we’re getting married, right?”
Before Josh can answer, the door sweeps open and a cultured voice comes from behind it.
“Indeed. It’s our Josh and his beautiful Ms. McNally. Welcome, welcome. And my most sincere congratulations to the happy couple.”
The Head himself has answered, looking as stereotypically predictable in his prep-school mode as Franklin and J.T. did in their undercover outfits this afternoon. Our coats are whisked away. The Head is clipped and almost military, compact and square shouldered in his double-breasted blue blazer and yellow Bexter tie. Gray slacks match his gray temples.
As the Head leads us into a cozy living room, all firelight and candles and buzzing with low-key chat, it looks as if every other man is dressed almost identically. What’s more, someone must have sent the women a twin-set-and-pearls e-mail. I adjust the collar of my black turtleneck dress. Close enough.
“Biscuits and brandy, of course, for you both. Our little tradition.” The Head gestures to a gleaming array of silver trays and cut-glass decanters matching crystal glasses. “Then do look around the cottage, my dear.”
Very lord of the manor. I don’t sense any hesitation or nervousness. I guess he assumes Josh didn’t tell me the Bexter secret. He’s quite an actor.
“You’ll see I’m a history buff. As your Josh will explain. Our meeting starts in just a few moments.”
The Head strides away, leaving the faintest scent of—scotch? Josh pours brandy. Which I couldn’t possibly drink at this hour.
“‘Cottage,’ did he say? History buff?” I ask softly, close to Josh’s ear. His living room is twice as big as what I’d consider a cottage, and twice as elaborate. Handsomely patterned rugs. Majestic fireplace. Mahogany paneling. Elaborate ship models, sails full. Swords, betasseled and polished. Glowing sconces. I steal a closeup look at a framed parchment document, elaborate and unreadable, then at a stand holding an open leather-bound book, pages yellowing and brown edged. “Looks like a Revolutionary War museum in here. How does he afford
all this valuable stuff on a school administrator’s salary? Or is that a lot higher than I’d imagined?”
A tweedy couple, her scarf recognizably expensive and his tie yellow, both holding brandy glasses in hand, pass by us with polite party smiles. I see the woman do a fleeting double take. I’ve seen that look many times before. She’s realized who I am.
“One Bexter Academy Drive is endowed, so it’s rent free,” Josh whispers after they’re out of earshot. “Plus, he’s single. Uses all his salary on his colonial history obsession. That book on the stand is his latest treasure, scuttlebutt is he outbid some museum for it. But there’s nothing old-fashioned about his alarm system. He showed me once. It’s state of the art.”
“Who’s that? In the Hermès scarf?” I ask. I tuck myself behind Josh, scanning the room. I hide my brandy snifter behind a massive white poinsettia. “Dorothy Wirt is here, right? Where? Who’s the guy with the—”
Someone claps for attention, instantly silencing the cocktail-time chatter and the beginnings of my detective work.
Josh shoots me a “you’re not fooling me” look. “Tell you later,” he says.
The Head is the center of attention.
“Welcome all, to our annual gathering. New parents, tonight we’ll discuss rules and regulations. Responsibilities. And of course, my favorite topic and yours, fundraising.”
My brain clicks off a bit, scanning faces in the crowd, as the Head natters on in the plummy voice Josh imitated so perfectly. Luckily, I manage to hear my name and look attentive again before it’s too late.
“…and we’d like to extend a true Bexter welcome as she enters our little community. Now we have our own in-house investigative reporter.” He raises a glass in my direction.
Dear Miss Manners.
“Always looking for a good story, Headmaster,” I say. My most congenial. I went to Chicago’s Public School 11, and I may not ever be comfortable calling someone “Headmaster,” but here I am in Rome.
There’s a smattering of applause as the formal part of the evening ends. I grab Josh’s arm, pull him to a corner. “Show me everyone,” I demand.
Josh looks perplexed. “Everyone who?”
“You know. The people you said know about the calls.”
Josh’s arm stiffens. I watch his expression change.
“I just want to know,” I say, attempting to cut off his inevitable protest. “I just want to see them. I promise I won’t say anything.”