Five's A Crowd (2 page)

The homely green condo was, in a word, perfect! “Not exactly slumming, Taylor,” she complimented herself as she skipped back down the stairs and let herself into the dining area once more—only to jump back out onto the landing and slide the door half-shut, narrowly avoiding being slammed in the gut by a half-pint, steely-eyed old lady wielding a broom like a baseball bat.

“Turn my back for a minute, and what happens?” the little old lady asked, clearly talking only to herself. “One of them football groupies sneaks in here, all blond hair and legs up to her neck, hoping to get lucky. Sam, dying was too good for you, leaving me alone like this, a defenseless old widow, made to fend for myself!”

Taylor took a deep breath, admonishing herself not to laugh, and opened the sliding glass door another half inch. “Mrs. Helper?” she called out tentatively. “You are Mrs. Helper, aren’t you? The housekeeper? I’m Taylor Angel—Mr. Masters’s therapist.”

The old woman snorted, which had to be difficult to do, what with the lit cigarette dangling out of the corner of her Ida Lupino red lips. “Sure you are, honey. And I’m Miss America. Now, get out from behind that door and then get yourself out of my house. Therapist, my eye! And what sort of name is Taylor for a girl, I ask you?”

“A fairly miserable one, I admit,” Taylor said, taking her life into her hands and stepping into the room, warily eying the broom. “But there’s no nickname possible with Taylor, now is there? And using my initials wouldn’t work, because I’m officially Taylor Noreen Angel, and that would make me T.N.A., and let me tell you, I have enough problems without that.”

“T and A? Ha! I haven’t heard that one since Sam gave up watching that there ‘Charlie’s Angels’ show on the television!” The old woman dropped the broom and sat herself down at the dining-room table, laughing so hard tears squeezed out from under her heavily mascara-caked eyelashes. “Oh, sit down, girl,” she commanded at last, indicating the chair across from her. “I don’t bite. Bark a lot, but don’t bite.”

As soon as Taylor was seated, Mrs. Helper hopped up and went into the kitchen, talking as she went. “You’ll have some iced tea with me, and then we’ll sort things out, all right? Too damn many steps in this house, don’t you think? I mean, what’s an old woman to do—lugging groceries, dragging laundry. Eight weeks of this, and I’ll be joining Sam—not that he wants me. Probably has himself two or three good-looking angels all to himself.”

She came back into the room, carrying two glasses she then plunked down on the table. “There—you want sugar? Rot your teeth, sugar. But those substitutes
are chock-full of chemicals that’ll probably rot the rest of you. Drink it plain, honey. It’ll put hair on your chest. Do you watch the soaps? I never miss my three o’clock show, so if any of you go asking for anything between three and four, you might as well ask the air. Don’t budge an inch away from the set between three and four. Not in this lifetime anyway. That Masters fellow gets here first thing tomorrow, you know. Maybe you can lug the groceries up from my car. I’m parked right out front. You’ve got the legs for it, but I don’t. Aren’t you going to say anything, girl? Don’t talk much, do you? My Sam was like that, yes, he was.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Taylor said, taking a sip of bitter tea and trying not to wince. “And I’d be happy to help you, Mrs. Helper,” she continued, unable to hide her wince anymore as she verbally tripped over “help” and “Helper” in the same tongue-twisting sentence. “Did you know you could park your car out back? There’s a dumbwaiter there, and that should make it easier to bring in the groceries.”

Mrs. Helper leaned forward, grinning around her cigarette. “A dumbwaiter? You’re kidding! So that’s what those little doors are in every hallway, huh? Shoulda known. Sam and I went to a fancy hotel in the Catskills once, years ago. There was a dumbwaiter there, too. Sam got a little well-to-go one night—stinking drunk, you might say—and stuffed me into the dumbwaiter and sent me for a ride. I’m
just a squirt, in case you haven’t noticed, so I fit in just fine. Best fun I had in years. Want to try it? You can give me a boost up?”

Taylor’s eyes watered as she choked on her bitter iced tea, trying to compose herself. “Another time, perhaps?” she got out at last, rising from her chair and wondering if Ocean City was just another name for the rabbit hole in
Alice in Wonderland.

“Whatever you say, Taylor,” Mrs. Helper agreed cheerfully enough, picking up a huge bunch of keys on a chain decorated with several plastic disks advertising different brands of beer, and then following Taylor down the steps. “Let’s just get cracking. I’ve got to get home and feed Killer.”

“Of course you do,” Taylor answered, barely able to stay ahead of Mrs. Helper as the older woman sped down the stairs behind her. “Um…who is Killer?”

“My parakeet, of course. Used to have two of them. Called them Fred and George. Then…well, Fred is now Killer, if you take my meaning.”

“It’s going to be a
long
summer, Ms. Angel, and you’re going to earn every penny of that bonus,” Taylor muttered under her breath as the housekeeper began telling her about the time she and her Sam had gone to a plumbers’ convention in New York and dropped water balloons off the hotel roof.

H
OLDEN
M
ASTERS FELT
naked without his mustache. But that was the least of his problems.

It had been a week since Sid had dropped his bombshell about the Ocean City condo, a long, boring week during which Holden had been able to lose the sling, but none of the stiffness in his shoulder and back, although his bruises had faded from deep purple to a pretty disgusting-looking orange-and-yellow mix.

He’d hidden out in his Philadelphia condo, his phone disconnected, ignoring the ringing doorbell and successfully dodging Rich “The Nose” New-some this morning as he’d been snuck out the back door of his building in, of all things, a laundry cart. Just like in the movies—although in the movies, Holden was pretty sure, the star was smuggled out with the
clean
laundry.

He was even driving himself to Ocean City in a nondescript dark blue rental car—an automatic, as he couldn’t use his right-arm well enough for his favored five-on-the-floor stick shift.

After a week of hiding, he was more than ready for Sid’s plan, eager for company, a little sunshine, maybe even a pair of dark sunglasses and a trip up the coast to one of the casinos. After all, pulling on those one-armed bandits could only be considered good therapy.

He saw the sign for the 7S exit off the Atlantic City Expressway and skillfully steered onto the ramp using only his left hand on the steering wheel, easing his foot off the gas as he came up against two lanes of bumper-to-bumper shore traffic and bade a wistful farewell to the speed he loved so well.

As he sat in his car going nowhere, he mentally traveled back to what really bothered him—and to the near future, which would probably quickly drive him out of his mind.

If only he had never given Woody his private number, and Woody hadn’t passed it along to his younger sister, Tiffany. Then, all things considered, Holden wouldn’t have believed the next eight weeks to be too bad.

But Tiffany had called. And, after fifteen minutes of abject pleading mingled with a few threats (a few of them from her father, who had grabbed the phone out of her hand), Tiffany was now coming to Ocean City. Tiffany and Woodstock LeGrand, his stepsiblings. The two of them. Together. In Holden’s house. Under Holden’s feet. Holden’s responsibility.

It sounded like the cast and plot for a Grade-B horror movie.

He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel as he thought about his odd, but strangely lovable family.

His mother, Miranda Masters LeGrand Higgins Tuques, was off touring some Greek islands with her fourth husband, Harry Tuques, self-proclaimed king of Pre-Cut Carpet, Inc., so at least he didn’t have to worry about her swooping down on him with maternal tongue-cluckings and her three damn poodles in tow.

Holden smiled, shaking his head as he thought about his mother. Dear, sweet, lovely, flighty Miranda, who had too much money, too little sense and a firm belief that, to go to bed with her, a man must first make a detour to the nearest wedding chapel.

Which is how Holden had ended up with Woodstock and Tiffany LeGrand, two of Peter LeGrand’s children, both from different marriages Peter had squeezed in before Miranda, who had been his third wife in a string of five? six? total trips to the altar.

Marriage. The bane of the world. The dumbest sort of bondage. Brief, disposable, but damned expensive if you did it in a community property state—which is why Miranda unfailingly did her divorcing in Nevada and her marrying in California.

She’d done all right with Holden’s late father, the tennis-shoe magnate, but she’d hit the jackpot with
her slightly reversed May-December marriage to Peter LeGrand, who’d first shown up on the pop charts in his teens and was still one of the acknowledged megastars of rock and roll. In fact, he was going out on tour with his band again this summer, which was one reason Woodstock, better known as Woody and just graduated from college, was coming east to stay with his big brother.

Tiffany was coming along because she was eighteen now, which made her only sixteen months younger than Peter’s latest gum-popping bride—an awkward situation, to put it mildly.

When you got right down to it, both kids were too old to look good alongside their father, who was fifty-three now, but still trying to maintain his image as a sex magnet on tour. Way too old. But, unfortunately, not too old, or even close to too mature, to need a baby-sitter while Daddy Peter was away, smashing guitars on stage.

Holden forgot about his stepsiblings as traffic thinned out as he crossed the Ninth Street bridge into Ocean City and began looking for the turnoff to the condo Sid had rented for the summer.

Well, at least he didn’t have to deal with Amanda Price, his girlfriend of the past six or so months—ever since they’d shot a jeans commercial together in Barbados. Amanda was a beautiful woman, a top-ranked supermodel, who looked great on his arm when he was out and about. Yes, a lovely woman. Ambitious.
Maybe even driven. But without a lot of humor. And she’d been making noises about marriage lately, which always sent Holden running for the nearest exit.

Miranda was marriage. Peter was marriage. Holden did not believe in marriage!

Holden slowed the car as he searched out the address of the condo, peering out the passenger window to make out house numbers displayed in everything from seashells pasted onto railings to hand-painted knotty pine signs that displayed house names like Wistful Hideaway or Pop-Pop and Nana’s Nest.

His attention was caught by the official Indy pace car parked in front of one of the larger condos—or at least it was, until a jogger passing along the sidewalk in front of the impressive car pushed all coherent thought from his mind and he nearly ran into the curb as he quickly switched his gaze to the rearview mirror.

The sight of the jogger moving away from him was on a par with the recent vision of her coming toward him. He had, he decided, rarely before seen spandex put to such good use as it was in the hot pink shorts and halter top of the ponytailed, honey blond female just now turning the next corner and disappearing from view.

Holden considered circling the block, eager for another, better, look at the young woman, then decided
against it. He was here for a rest, and to work. Playtime would have to come later, after his arm was completely healed—and after Woody and Tiffany were back in California driving Peter nuts, not him.

“This Puritan work ethic of yours is becoming pretty damn boring, Masters,” he grumbled aloud as he pulled the car to the curb in front of a building that instantly, crazily, reminded him of his long-ago love of lime Popsicles.

Leaving his luggage locked in the trunk, he climbed out of the car, stretched his cramped muscles—wincing as he tried to raise his arms above his head—and made his way up the brick path that led to the door at the side of the condo.

And then, he thought, the gods smiled at him. Because, just as he was fitting his key into the lock, he caught a glimpse of hot pink spandex out of the corner of his eye, coming toward him from the back of the condo.

“Lost the mustache, huh?” the honey blonde said, not even breathing hard as she continued to jog in place. “Can’t say as I blame you. I’ve often wondered about that thing, you know. I mean, didn’t it ever get caught on your face mask?”

There was no possible response to such a question, so Holden ignored it, although he did look at the young woman, deciding to give her the full benefit of the Masters smile. “Take a wrong turn, Pink Lady?”

She continued to jog in place, her own smile still pasted on her incredibly lovely, disturbingly intelligent face. “Nope. I’m your slave driver, Mr. Masters, here for the duration. Name’s Angel. Taylor Angel. I got here yesterday. So, how
do
you feel about pain?”

Sid had sicced a female therapist on him? Was this his idea of a joke? If so, Holden wasn’t laughing. He reached up to stroke his mustache with thumb and forefinger, then remembered that it was gone. “Depends on who is inflicting the pain, I suppose,” he said without inflection, turning the key and pushing open the door. “Right now, I’d say I’m in favor of it—if my agent was within strangling distance. You coming in, or were you thinking of running a marathon before lunch?’

She shook her head. “Nope, no marathon. I already put in my two miles for the day. Just cooling down, you know,” she said, then jogged past him into the condo, which gave him a mind-boggling vision of long. legs, short shorts and games two interested people could play.

“Your room is on the top level,” she told him before he could ask. “Mrs. Helper—Thelma—is upstairs, probably baking something sinfully fattening. There’s a dumbwaiter in the garage if you can’t carry your luggage yourself, although you should, as it would be good therapy. Not bad for a quarterback to keep his legs in shape, either. These stairs will come
in handy on rainy days, so you don’t have to miss a workout. You need more than bedroom eyes and a killer smile to play in the NFL, you know.”

Holden decided he hated Taylor Angel. Hated her a lot. Beautiful women were supposed to look great draped on his arm, but keep their mouths shut. This one might have the looks of a Christie Brinkley, but she had the mouth of a Joan Rivers, and he had to beat down an impulse to gag her with her own ponytail.

“I’ll remember that, Miss Angel,” he said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm, “if I decide to try batting my eyelashes at the defense before airing one out to Bill Evers in the end zone.”

The sarcasm floated right over her head, or she chose to ignore it. He was pretty sure it was the latter, for this woman wasn’t the least bit dumb. “Evers? Good man, though sometimes he looks like he’s afraid of the ball. When he dropped that pass against Dallas in the play-offs last season, I nearly kicked in the television screen.”

Oh, good. She thought she knew football. Just what Holden didn’t need. “I never talk shop, Miss Angel,” he told her as he went over to the staircase and looked up, all the way up, to the top floor. Why didn’t Sid book him into a sixth-floor tenement? It probably would have had fewer stairs. “I think I can smell brownies.”

“Thelma,” Taylor reminded him, looking smug, most probably for his benefit. “Queen of the mix. If she can just add eggs and water, she’s a gourmet baker. But she’s a whiz with roast beef—just ask her. Come on,” she added, turning for the door once more, “let’s get your luggage. I want to see you on my table, so I can get an idea of how much work we have ahead of us.”

See you on my table.
The words stopped Holden in his tracks. “You’re really a physical therapist? Why am I having trouble with this?”

“Physical therapist
and
licensed massage therapist, actually. You’ll need more massage probably, according to what Sid told me about your injury,” she responded as she walked outside, so that Holden had no choice except to follow her. “So Uncle Sid really didn’t tell you about me? I wonder why.”

“Uncle
Sid?”
Oh, yeah. I’m going to kill that man.
“Sid’s your uncle?”

She stood next to the trunk of the car, waiting for him to open it. “Courtesy uncle, actually. His parents and mine played bridge together eons ago, before his parents moved to Florida and mine to the boonies, as they call it. I was surprised when I got his call last week, but he said he wanted somebody he could trust not to go running to the tabloids with the story of your injury, either now or after my job is done. It made sense. Lots of people make money on you, don’t they, Mr. Masters?”

“Dozens of them. And Sid makes most of it,” Holden grumbled, opening the trunk and reaching in to pull out one of his suitcases, only to have Taylor reach out and grab his arm.

“Not that way, Mr. Masters,” she admonished him, putting one hand on his forearm, the other on his back. Her pink spandex-encased body touched his from shoulder to hip, which did strange things to his concentration. “You’re not using the correct muscles.”

He ignored the ripple of awareness that cut through his body, concentrating on Taylor’s words, rather than her hands, her slim body. Which wasn’t easy. “What?”

“I’d give you the technical names for everything if I wanted to bore you out of your skull,” she answered, “but it would be easier to say that you have injured your shoulder and, because it hurts when you do certain things—make certain moves—you have begun to overcompensate, using muscles that aren’t injured to do what the injured ones used to do.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. And too much of that for too long a time, my friend, and you’ll end up with lost muscle memory and a frozen shoulder, which also isn’t a laughing matter. Now—stop shoving your elbow into your side to help yourself move and reach out with your whole arm to pick up the suitcase.”

He did as she said. He didn’t want to, hadn’t even noticed that he had been moving incorrectly, but he wanted her to move away from him; move her honey blond hair and perfumed scent and strong hands far, far away from him.

Or closer.

“Damn!” he exclaimed as he fully extended his arm, then tried to lift the suitcase—sending a stabbing pain and a disturbing weakness through his right arm and shoulder. “That hurts.”

“We’ll fix it,” Taylor said matter-of-factly, stepping in front of him and lifting out both suitcases at once, which made Holden long to fire her on the spot.

“We,
Miss Angel?”

“Neither one of us can do it alone, Mr. Masters. I’ll set up my table after lunch, and we can do a thorough evaluation then—take a few measurements, check your range of motion, that sort of stuff. Until then, you and Thelma can get acquainted,” she flung back at him, then left him standing in the street.

“Will I see you at lunch?” he called after her, wishing he could have thought before he spoke. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d miss her if she went away.

She turned and looked back at him. “I do plan to eat, yes. And this isn’t some social experiment, Mr. Masters. This is my job and I plan to do it very, very well. You’ll see me morning, noon and night for the next eight weeks. Get used to it!”

“I’ll work on it,” he snapped, then added, slamming down the trunk lid with his left hand, “and I’m still going to kill Sid.”