Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (33 page)

I expect him to say no, but he doesn’t. “This trip wasn’t just for the calendar. It was also for your birthday. The calendar might still happen, you know.”

“Absolutely” is the word I force through my lips, though in fact I’m highly dubious about the calendar’s prospects. Hunky though Jason may be, he is not a celebrity. A calendar featuring him and only him always struck me as a long shot. But I don’t want to deprecate him by pointing that out.

Jason releases my hand so he can skate backwards in front of me. “I’m impressed that Kimberly funded this whole trip even though she may never get reimbursed.”

At that I almost slip on the ice. That’s another reaction I didn’t expect. For one thing, Jason and I both know that Kimberly is affluent enough to risk not being reimbursed. And since by now I’m pretty darn cynical about the little missy, I totally believe she calculated that whether the calendar came to fruition or not, she’d get something she wanted out of Jason coming to New York. Like his time and attention, which may be what she desires above all else anyway.

Since I don’t say anything, Jason goes on. “Like I said the other day, Kimberly really champions me. This time she was willing to go pretty far out on a limb.” He smiles. “You know what? I think that’s cool.”

Okay. Now I’ve officially had enough. “You know, Jason,” I say, “you seem to be forgetting that Kimberly brought you to New York on false pretenses.
You
should’ve been the one to decide if you wanted to make the trip knowing the calendar wasn’t signed and sealed. But she didn’t give you that option.”

He shakes his head. “She knew you’d see it that way.”

“I’m amazed you don’t!”

Jason spins back around to skate in the forward direction, but this time he doesn’t take my hand. “Admit it, Happy. You don’t like Kimberly.”

“I’ve got no problem admitting that. But that’s because it couldn’t be more obvious that her interest in you goes way beyond professional.”

“Well, doesn’t that describe Mario and you?”

“Maybe. But I understand why it upsets you and I’m sorry about that. You don’t seem bothered at all that Kimberly upsets me.”

We’re skating faster now. I guess it’s hard to skate slowly while arguing.

“What you should care about,” Jason tells me, “is what I do, not what Kimberly does. Besides, you don’t give her credit for anything. She spent a lot of time today taking pictures of your mother and Bennie, all for free, and from what she told me it was no picnic.”

I’m sure my mom was a royal pain in the patootie, especially given her attitude toward Kimberly. That said, the photo session wasn’t entirely free: until the end of time I’ll have to put up with how saintly that blonde strumpet was for spending a half hour of her time to do it. “It just seems to me that Kimberly keeps way too many secrets. First about her being married— ”

“I don’t get why you even care about that.”

Now Jason has sped up so much that we’re weaving among the slower skaters. I have to hustle to keep pace with him or we’re going to be shouting at each other across the rink. “Did she tell you who her husband is?” I pant.

“What does it matter?”

Meaning she didn’t. Yet another factoid she kept to herself. “A guy named Damian Paganos. Who just so happened to be dating Lisette Longley, the woman who wrote
Dream Angel
and died falling down the stage staircase last week.”

Jason stops so suddenly I nearly barrel into him. I’m forced to grab him around the waist to stay vertical. “Listen to me, Happy,” he says, holding onto me so I don’t fall. “It was bad enough that you accused Kimberly of texting when that woman fell. I don’t want you to start badgering me about it now, too.”

“Don’t you think it’s a reasonable thing to want to know?”

“She already told you she was backstage! Isn’t that enough? Besides, how is it any of your business?”

“Hey, get off the ice or keep moving,” a male skater snarls at us.

At that moment I realize we have created quite the obstacle for our fellow skaters. Not only that, our quarrel has drawn attention from the gawkers on the plaza level. Several people are pointing at us and one woman just took a photo.

“They’re going to throw us out of here if we’re not careful,” Jason says.

That would make for quite the birthday memory. “All right, I’ll shut up about Kimberly,” I say, although I can’t resist one last jab. “But I do find it surprising that you automatically believe her when she says she was backstage when she’s been far from truthful about other big things.”

Jason grabs my hand and pulls me to the side of the ice. There, skaters can stand still, especially if they’re clutching the plexiglass wall for dear life. “You know what I think is really going on with you?” he says. “I hate to say this on your birthday, but I think you don’t like the fact that Kimberly sees so much potential in me. I think you’d rather be the only one in our family getting all the attention.”

“That’s not what’s going on here,” I manage to say.

“I think it is. That, and your obsession with murder. You just can’t believe that woman Lisette died accidentally. There’s got to be something suspicious about it. And of course who’s the first person you think might be guilty? Kimberly. You always think the worst of her. That really fries me.”

He’s right that I find it awfully easy to dislike her. “I guess we’re going to have to agree to disagree about Kimberly.”

“I guess we will.”

“But you should not for a second believe that I don’t want you to succeed, Jason. I totally do.” Now a tear escapes my eyes. I’m creating quite the spectacle for my fellow 30 Rock visitors. “It was me who pushed you into pit-crew training in the first place, remember? I did that because I wanted you to pursue your dreams like you’ve always wanted me to pursue mine.”

Jason leans down close to me. “I know you pushed me and I’m grateful. But I think all you expected was for me to do the training and then come home and go back to working at Joe’s. You expected everything to go back to the way it’s always been. Now that’s not happening and you don’t like it.”

“That’s not fair, Jason. I knew that if you did the training, something in our lives would probably change. And I encouraged you anyway.”

“You didn’t expect anything to change
this
much.”

I have no comeback to that.

“Anyway,” he goes on, “I’m never going to be the kind of star Mario is, but I am pretty excited about all the new stuff that’s happening for me. Plus, who knows what else it could lead to? I would’ve thought you’d be excited, too, but I guess not.” He pauses and I’m shocked to see an expression that looks a lot like disgust cross his face. “Anyway, do you want to skate more?”

What I want to do is curl up into a ball and sob. But what I say is “Not really.”

“Then I’m going to meet up with Kimberly again. We’ve pared down the gallery to about a hundred shots, but it would be good if we culled it even more.”

“Okay. If you’ve got work to do, I understand.”

“Can you get together with Trixie and Shanelle or your mom and Bennie? I don’t want you to be alone the night of your birthday.”

“Don’t worry about me. You go work on the calendar. I understand. Really.”

We say very little as we turn in our skates and leave the plaza. On Fifth Avenue Jason kisses me on the cheek, says he’ll see me later at the hotel, and disappears into a stream of pedestrians.

I hope the black cat is happy. Job well done.

Since I don’t know what else to do, I check my phone. I see I have a voicemail from Senior. His message may not be the most charming I’ve ever received, but the bottom line is excellent: he and I are to be Violet Honeycutt’s guests at a fashion show in the morning.

Even in my distraught state, I realize that is remarkable. I will be front row center at a fashion show with Oliver Tripp Sr. and Violet Honeycutt. Other A-list celebrities will no doubt be sitting all around us. Paparazzi will snap our photo like nobody’s business. And the catwalk fashion will be incredible. Violet Honeycutt doesn’t attend just any old fashion show.

Talk about something to tweet about! Ms. America Happy Pennington will be at the center of the New York fashion action tomorrow. Take that, Sherry Phillips! I’ll have to make sure Mr. Cantwell gets wind of this. Since he loves all publicity, this should boost my standing with him at least a little.

If I weren’t an emotional wreck, I’d be overjoyed. As it is, I’m kind of numb. And true, it will be challenging to make the Violet Honeycutt get-together valuable from an investigative point-of-view. Though I must admit that after that back-and-forth with Jason, I’m back to feeling silly thinking about homicide. Maybe I should call Mario and tell him not to bother getting a DNA test run on that ball bearing.

As shocking as it is that Jason and I are spending the evening of my birthday apart for the first time ever, he and I can get past the argument we just had. I don’t doubt that for an instant. We love each other and that hasn’t changed. Plus, even right after our fight, he showed how much he cared by worrying that I’d be alone this evening and by making sure we’d be together overnight at the Sofitel.

But all that said, I must step back and examine my heart. Clearly Jason thinks I’m not supporting him the way I should. If there’s any truth to that, and there probably is, I have to dig deep and change my ways.

Now that I have a plan for moving forward, I feel a smidge better. I also realize how hungry I am. I haven’t eaten since this morning’s waffle and partial muffin. I need to get some food into me but quick.

And, let’s be honest, an adult beverage, too.

I text Trixie, who replies that she and Shanelle just sat down to eat Mexican food with hairdresser Cynthia at a place in her Murray Hill neighborhood. Even though I would much rather be alone with my BFFs, I have to smile. Trixie can’t be anywhere for longer than a day without making at least one new friend.

The restaurant turns out to be the most cheerful dining establishment I’ve ever seen, which is exactly what I need tonight. One wall of the small square space is red brick and the others are painted a wild mix of red, orange, and yellow. Tiny multicolored lights dangle from the ceiling, bright Mexican art festoons every wall, and tables are draped with striped serape cloth. Cheery music fills the air. It might be mid January, but it feels like Cinco de Mayo.

I find Trixie, Shanelle, and Cynthia at a table in the far corner. Four tall golden drinks are set in front of them. Cynthia looks as stylish as the first time I met her, outfitted in a black-and-white patterned dress cut from an interesting woven fabric. Shanelle rises to greet me with a hug. “Everything okay, girl?” she whispers.

“Jason and I got into it, but I’m fine.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she murmurs.

Trixie also gives me a worried look when I sit down, but contents herself with squeezing my hand. Both my friends know how odd it is that I’m not with my husband tonight. “Happy birthday,” Cynthia says.

Shanelle hoists her drink, garnished with mint leaves and a slice of lime. “This here’s called a Tia Mia.”

“It’s got mezcal in it,” Trixie says, “which some people say is like tequila.”

“It’s also got rum and curaçao,” Shanelle adds. “We’re told a bartender in Brooklyn came up with it, but it seems plenty Mexican to us. Drink up!”

The first sip packs a punch, but I’m hardly complaining. Our order soon arrives, all to share: pork chimichangas, grilled chicken breast with chipotle sauce, black beans, and red rice. We dig in.

“So Cynthia’s seen
Dream Angel
six times,” Trixie says.

“Five,” Cynthia corrects.

“Wow,” I say. “I’m not sure the star’s mother has seen it that many times.”

“I’m kind of a Broadway geek,” Cynthia says.

“She knows all kinds of trivia,” Trixie says.

“You must love the beauty-pageant storyline,” Shanelle puts in. I hear the wryness in her tone and gather that Shanelle has yet to morph into a Cynthia fan.

“It’s just that some musicals I see over and over,” Cynthia says.

“What’s your favorite of all time?” Trixie wants to know.

She thinks for a moment. “
Cats
.”

“Isn’t Andrew Lloyd Webber amazing?” I say. “I wonder how many Tony awards he’s won.”

“Seven,” Shanelle says. “But Stephen Sondheim has him beat with eight.”

“I wonder how many Lin-Manuel Miranda will win,” Trixie says.

“I’ve never heard of him,” Cynthia says. “Who’s he?”

Silence descends on the table. It’s like one of those horrible pageant moments that go viral, when a contestant can’t answer a basic question. I wouldn’t expect everybody to know this, but a self-described “Broadway geek” certainly should. “He’s the creator of
Hamilton
,” I say. “He’s also the star.”

Across the table, sitting next to Cynthia, Shanelle rolls her eyes. “Which has only been the hottest ticket on Broadway for six months.”