Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (23 page)

“What it comes down to,” Jason says, “is that Kimberly has been a helluva champion for me.”

“Wow.” Since I’m momentarily speechless, I force a laugh. “Maybe
I’m
the one who should be jealous here.”

I expect Jason to scoff at that, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me. And as he does, somehow the years slip away and I’m back in high school hoping against hope that I have a chance with Jason Kilborn—the hottest
and
the nicest guy in the junior class, who also happens to be a football hero. Even though we got married because I was pregnant with Rachel, so it was pretty much a shotgun wedding, in the seventeen years since I’ve never doubted that Jason wanted me and me alone. But now for the first time, I get an idea what’s it’s like not to be so sure that’s the case.

I lean across the table and take his hand. I’m not crying exactly, but there are tears in my eyes. “I love you, Jason.”

“I love you, too, Happy.”

“Nobody can come between us if we don’t let them.”

He rises from his chair and pulls me up against him. “I don’t see anybody coming between us right now.”

There sure as heck isn’t. And we make good use of that state of affairs; believe me.

The next morning does not allow for continued indulgence, as Jason has to meet Miss Kimberly at 7. We’re up well before dawn and again order room service, this time both selecting omelets. Jason, who’s already showered and shaved, chooses the Parisian—with white ham, gruyère and mushroom—and I go for the egg white and veggie option. I am not so noble that I opt for one of the truly low-cal choices, like grapefruit segments with honey, which would leave me famished by the time I walked to the elevator bank down the hall.

By this point Jason has given me the lowdown on yesterday’s shoot. “Where do you start today?” I ask him.

He sets down his coffee. “Central Park.”

“Even though it’s a total whiteout?” I can tell from looking out our window that a few inches of snow accumulated overnight.

“Kimberly says it’ll be stunning.”

I bet the shameless hussy is right about that. But I also know that Jason is far from fully clothed for these photos. “You’ll freeze!”

Jason winks. “My photographer can keep me warm.”

I toss a napkin at his face. “She’d better not.”

He leans over to kiss me, then hurries to get dressed. “Kimberly says Central Park is one of the few places she still likes in this city. She’s pretty much had enough by this point. She’s even talking about moving to the South.”

My coffee cup halts halfway to my mouth. “Doesn’t she have a sister in Charlotte?”

“Yup. She loves it there.”

I just bet. It has lots of attractions, including the six-foot-two-inch hunk I’m currently eyeing, who’s shrugging on his leather jacket and slipping his wallet into his jeans pocket.

We say goodbye for the day and share a lingering kiss. I want Jason to have no trouble remembering what he’s got waiting for him tonight.

Since I married my high-school boyfriend while we were still in high school, I never participated in that fine American tradition of the Walk of Shame. But I get to do it this morning, via the subway. I’m back at the apartment, showered and wearing my swishy robe by the time Shanelle and Trixie are up and at ‘em.

We have a lot to catch up on. Armed with coffee, with Trixie and Shanelle still in their PJs, we settle at the sleek glass table in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not far away the Art Deco wonder of the Empire State Building reaches toward the heavens, its spire disappearing into clouds the color of dirty dishwater.

Swearing both my BFFs to secrecy, I share Mario’s worries about his show and that he finds Esperanza a little too interested in what he can do for her career.

“It wouldn’t be the first cynical Hollywood romance,” Shanelle opines.

“It would be horrible for Mario, though,” Trixie says. “To be used like that?”

“Let’s get down to the really important stuff.” Shanelle directs her laser-beam gaze on my face. “How did you feel being out and about with Mario?”

I glance at the view, at all those windows in all those buildings behind which people are living their lives. I wonder how many of them are as bewildered by it all as I am. “I can’t deny that every time I see him, I find him amazingly attractive. And I’m always stunned that somebody like him seems attracted to me, too.”

“He is, girl,” Shanelle says. “That’s been crystal clear from the get-go.”

“And it’s not just him, as incredible as he is. It’s also that whenever I’m around him everything seems fresh and new and exciting and full of possibility—”

“You get lots of wonderful things from a long marriage,” Trixie says. “But I’m not sure you get that.”

“The point is that our marriage started when Jason and I were both seventeen. What did we know? We were kids.” All of a sudden, I slam my jaws shut. I don’t want to say what I’m thinking. The moment you say something, it has a way of becoming a lot more real.

Shanelle reaches across the table. I take her hand and Trixie lays her hand over mine. “These here four walls are a safe zone,” Shanelle murmurs. “Nothing you say leaves here.”

I nod. Tears prick behind my eyes. A few seconds pass before I can speak. Then: “I just don’t know if I would’ve married Jason if I hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

We let that hang in the air. Outside a helicopter buzzes across the gray and white sky, somebody taking care of important business even though it’s Sunday morning.

“You’ll never be able to answer that question,” Trixie says. “But you could’ve gotten divorced a million times in all these years and you never did. And not just because of Rachel.”

“That’s true. I loved Jason then and I love him now. But sometimes I can’t help wondering ...”

And not just in the man department, either. In the going-to-college department. In the career department. I was raising a child when I was still a teenager myself and I had to put everything but Rachel on the back burner. I’d do it the same way again, and Rachel is the most precious thing in my life, but that’s not to say I didn’t pay a price.

Of course, to be fair, Jason did, too.

I rise to fetch a tissue then decide it’s safer to bring back the whole box. When my sniffling self sits back down, Shanelle is reminding Trixie that she got married in her late twenties and Trixie is nodding that she did the same. “When I met Lamar,” Shanelle says, “I’d been around the block enough times to know I’d found a gem.”

“Same for me with Rhett,” Trixie says. “It is amazing how young you and Jason were, Happy. You both had so much growing up to do. It’s hard to grow up
and
stay together. Because you both change so much.”

“And you know what, girlfriend?” Shanelle says to me. “You’re changing again
now
. First you win the Ms. America crown. Then you solve all those murders. Your world’s a whole lot bigger today than it was a few months back.”

“I think that’s what’s got you in a tizzy,” Trixie says. “Not just Mario.”

“I agree,” I say. “But Mario is a big part of it.”

“The good news,” Shanelle says, “is that Jason’s life got bigger, too.”

Between the NASCAR job and the two calendars, that’s certainly true.

“Which might be scary,” Trixie says, “but it’s much better than him being in a rut while you’re soaring.”

I give Trixie a smile. That girl is Ms. Congeniality through and through. “I wouldn’t go
that
far. I did just get semi-fired from
Dream Angel
and I know Mr. Cantwell is mad at me even though he hasn’t said anything yet. Still, I get what you mean. And it’s ironic that I’m the one who pushed Jason to chase his dreams. Because now that he is, it’s taking him in directions I never could’ve predicted.”

And that I’m not sure I like. For example, how he’s launched into the orbit of one Kimberly Drayson. I tell Shanelle and Trixie what my husband had to say about
her
.

Trixie shakes her head. “It may be turning Jason’s head to have that twenty-five-year-old all into him—”

“But believe me, girl,” Shanelle interrupts to say, “Kimberly Drayson can’t hold a candle to you.”

It’s good I carried back the whole box of tissues. Because I need them as I look across the table at these fantabulous BFFs of mine. I may have a lot to worry about, but with Shanelle and Trixie on my team, I feel like I’m strong enough for anything.

An hour later, dressed, fed, and caffeinated, we three queens depart for the theater. I figure that until I’m thrown off the premises, I’m going in. I simply cannot countenance wasting my backstage pass to a Broadway production. (Well, Off-Broadway, but you know what I mean.) As it is, I have to miss the preview performances, not to mention opening night.

I will say, however, that in the clear light of Sunday morning we’re not finding much by way of glamour on the Great White Way. Not only are we mere hours past the bacchanal that is Saturday night, meaning nothing is cleaned up yet, but under the onslaught of vehicle traffic and pedestrians the once white snow is now grungy slush.

I am ruing the damage being done to my black booties when Trixie pipes up. “Happy, how are you going to investigate Violet Honeycutt?”

Shanelle and Trixie were both riveted by the news that the famous magazine editor—in fact, it’s probably safe to say she’s the best known in the country—was Lisette’s sole remaining rival for the apartment in the Belfer.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that!” I cry. “You thought it was ridiculous for me to do any investigating.”

“For Violet Honeycutt, I’ll make an exception. Maybe Lisette
was
murdered,” Trixie allows. “Anyhoo, I’m hoping you can score face time with her and I can come with. You, too, Shanelle.”

“Gee, thanks,” Shanelle mutters.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do about Violet Honeycutt,” I admit. As for Oliver Tripp Sr., there is of course the obvious ploy of using my feminine charms. I drank copious quantities of java this morning, but so far that has failed to prod the gray matter into generating any ideas more inspired than that one.

Speaking of which, as of tomorrow my brain will reach the ripe old age of 35. Ugh.

As we do most days, we pass Dorothy and the Tin Man. “How’s business?” Shanelle inquires.

The Tin Man shrugs. “Not bad. It’s still early. I hear your opening night got moved up to Wednesday.”

“Wow!” Trixie says. “Almost nobody knows that yet.”

“You really do know what’s going on around here,” I add.

He points to his tin head. “It’s very simple, ladies. I keep my eyes and my ears open.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Plus, Oliver told me. Gotta run,” and he and Dorothy snag a photo-op with an excited little girl and her mom.

By arrangement, we meet Bennie in front of the theater. Again today he is outfitted in his field jacket and herringbone flat cap and his grin has enough wattage to compete on Broadway.

I introduce him to my BFFs then grab him in a hug, guilt piercing my insides. Yes, for all you other lapsed Catholics out there, there is such a thing as a sin of omission. And by not telling Bennie that the fur he gave my mother has gone AWOL, I am committing one. On Sunday morning, too. Eventually I pull back from the hug. “Did you have a good time last night even though you stayed in?” I ask him.

“Your mother’s a card!” Bennie tells us. “She wanted to binge watch Food Network. I could do that at home!”

We head for the alley that leads to the stage door. Bennie gets a kick out of that, as I still do. “Your mother’s face is still super shiny this morning,” he tells me.

That makes me feel guilty all over again. Bennie is cheerfully going about his business ignorant of why my mother got the shine-inducing facial while all the rest of us know it had to do with the ex-husband she’s hoping to win back.

“When room service comes,” Bennie goes on, “she’s so embarrassed she hides in the bathroom.”

“What does she plan to do today?” Trixie asks.

“First she’s going to say the rosary. After that, anybody’s guess.”

I wonder if my mother’s prayers have more to do with my father or her lost fur. Whichever the case, she might segue from the rosary right into a novena. And that’s nine straight days of special prayers.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I can do anything about the fur today. I’ve discovered that the Fifth Avenue salon in question is closed on Sunday, thank you very much. So I have to let that huge worry fester for at least another day.

Bennie is highly enthusiastic about his backstage tour. “What’s the difference between Broadway and Off-Broadway?” he wants to know as we shamelessly fondle costumes hanging on a rolling clothing rack.

By this point Shanelle, Trixie, and I are all pretty knowledgeable about Broadway, but I answer first. “I used to think it was just location, but it’s not, even though there is an official theater district. For one thing, all Broadway productions have to be staged in a theater that’s got at least five hundred seats.”