Skinny Dipping (14 page)

Someday, maybe. But not now.

A discreet bell tone announced that room service was at the door. He swung his legs down from the table and went to open the door. A pleasant-faced young woman stood in the hall on the opposite side of a cart, a silver-domed plate in its center. “Good evening, Mr. Tierney,” she said without her usual sparkle. Her dark hair was drawn into a bun so tight it stretched the skin back from her temples, lifting her eyes in an expression of faux surprise, but there were shadows under her wide-spaced eyes.

“Good evening, Esther.” He stood aside and she wheeled the tray in.

“Where would you like to eat tonight? Fireplace or by the window overlooking the park?” She tipped her head toward the window and he could see the hair on her temples stretching with the motion. She winced.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“I just have a bit of a headache is all,” she said. Small wonder, with her hair being dragged back so ruthlessly like that. “Thank you for asking, though.”

“Just leave it there and I’ll decide later,” he said, handing her a folded five-euro bill.

“Thank you, sir.” She accepted the bill and turned and he noted that a coil of dark curls had somehow escaped the strict confines of her severe bun. It reminded him of something…. Mimi Olson’s dark coils. He wondered whether her hair, like Mimi’s, made tiny corkscrews when wet, and if dried under its own volition, would cloud about her shoulders like Mimi’s. He bet Mimi never got a headache.

As soon as the door shut, he lifted the dome off the plate on the cart. A triple-decker sandwich sprouting all sorts of crisp-looking julienned vegetables and deep-fried, à la Monsieur Croquette in some fabulously fragrant batter, lay amidst a bed of matchstick potatoes. It looked unlike any Reuben he’d ever had. Quite unlike the corned-beef sandwich Mimi Olson had slapped together for him at Fowl Lake. It looked wonderful.

Unfortunately, his mouth had been set on a Fowl Lake rendition.

November

Mimi gazed longingly out the tall French doors of the Calhoun Beach Club’s second-floor solarium at the beach across the street. Though the sun had set on Lake Calhoun, one of the most popular of the twenty-four lakes within Minneapolis’s city limits, dozens of hearty individuals were still out, bent on squeezing every last minute outdoors before winter arrived. Dog walkers, runners, in-line skaters, and strollers emerged into the pools of light beneath the lampposts circling Calhoun and just as abruptly disappeared in the shadows between. Mimi wished she were one of them.

She turned back into the room. The solarium’s cheesy white trellises had been hidden beneath midnight blue bunting that matched the imported slipcovers on the chairs. On long, linen-clad tables, florists and chefs had competed to see who could create the most sumptuous display. Tom and Solange’s guests seemed to have a similar agenda: diamonds and gold, platinum and silver, crystal beads and lamé. Mimi’s eyes hurt just looking at all the stuff winking at her from the crowd. It was too bad some of those necklaces couldn’t speak because she was sure the stories they could tell would have been far more interesting than any she’d heard so far this evening.

Not that the Werner guest list was shy on wit, intelligence, or humor. It was just a very public party, attended by very powerful people who were very discreet, a combination that led to a lot of requests for club soda and innocuous chitchat. Any really interesting conversations—and Mimi had no doubt there were at least a few of those—would be taking place in more private venues: the parking ramp, or the restrooms, or the lobby downstairs.

Mimi spied her oldest half sister, Mary, making nice with another woman a short distance away. Mary, as short as Mimi and as dark and square as Solange, was smiling and sipping from a nearly empty highball glass, her gaze darting around the room. Mimi watched her, trying to dissect Mary’s game plan for success, which apparently depended on looking dumpy, because though only twenty-eight, Mary looked like a Doric column, a squat, black, Doric column. A tube of stiff black brocade encased her from wrist to ankle without betraying any of the female curves beneath. Sensing her scrutiny, Mary glanced up and spied Mimi. She spoke a few more words to the woman and chugged purposefully toward Mimi.

“So, Mignonette,” she said upon gaining Mimi’s side. “Still seeing dead people? Or are you dating someone new?”

“Better watch out Mom doesn’t hear you wrenching open the family’s closet doors.”

Even though she hadn’t seen Mary in six months, nothing had changed. Mimi had hoped Mary’s feelings might have slowly segued into the same sort of vague, distant affection toward her that Sarah, the youngest, had. But nope. Mary still disliked her.

It hadn’t always been so. When Mimi had flown the coop, Mary had been five, just memorizing the periodic table when she wasn’t following Mimi around, adoration in her dark little eyes. But Mary had deeper feelings, and not positive ones, either. At some time during junior high, Mary had taken up Solange’s “Mimi must be saved from herself” banner. Over the years, as it became apparent that Mimi wasn’t going to be saved from herself but instead live blissfully on just as she was, the crusade had become more acrimonious. Mimi thought she understood the source of her sister’s animosity. Mimi was happy and Mary was not, and poor Mary, a clinical specimen of workaholism if ever there was one, could not figure out why.

“Why bother?” Mary said, patting her dark, spray-fixed helmet of hair. The flash of a giant sapphire ring on her finger nearly blinded Mimi. The gaudy rings were the only vulgar display Mary allowed herself. “Girl gifts,” she called them, which made them seem sophisticated and clubby at the same time.

“New ring?” Mimi asked, pointing at the ring.

“Yes. Dishy Manfranke gave it to me when Sub-Surfer went public.” Sub-Surfer was the cyber Peeping Tom company Mary had founded her senior year of high school. She’d made a fortune selling the means to spy on one’s family members undetected.

“You’re kidding. Someone’s actually named Dishy Manfranke?” Mimi asked. The question was rhetorical: Mary did not kid.

Mary didn’t deign to answer.

Mimi reached out and disconnected a green broccoli floret from an artfully constructed vegetable tree on the table beside them. “Well, from the looks of it, I’d say Dishy wants to go steady.” She popped the floret into her mouth.

“What a wit,” Mary said. She cleared her throat and looked Mimi dead in the eye. “Speaking of going steady, seeing anyone?”

“Mom asked you to ask that, didn’t she?”

Mary didn’t deny it.

“Tell her, ‘nope.’ I am an island unto myself.”

“Then, you must have a gold mine on that island. I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before.” Mary looked markedly at Grandmother Charbonneau’s redesigned pearl necklace hanging around Mimi’s neck.

Mimi did not for a minute think Mary’s interest avaricious; whatever her faults, covetousness was not one of them, but she must be dying to know where Mimi had come by something like the borrowed necklace. Let her die.

“This? Lovely, isn’t it,” she said, then, “Hey! Truffle quiche. Yum.” She used the little silver tongs to deposit a couple on her plate. “Mary, look behind you. What are those figs stuffed with?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not the caterer.”

“Well, try one and tell me.”

“Forget it.”

“Come on. Goat cheese makes me nauseous and I wouldn’t want to spit something out at Mom’s party.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—” Mary snatched up a fig and took a bite. “Roquefort. You are
such
a child.”

Mimi smiled and rescued the fig from Mary’s hand. Old habits die hard. When Mary was a little girl, Mimi had always been able to coerce her into doing her bidding. Mary had idolized her, following her around the Werner estate, just waiting to be asked to fetch her a soda. Ah, those were the good old days.

Mimi was still wallowing in nostalgia when Sarah arrived. Or, more accurately, backed into her. Sarah spun around, her toffee-colored blond hair swinging like a satin curtain. Mimi caught her by the arms to keep her from falling. In the four-inch stilettos she was wearing, Sarah, five foot nine without the heels, towered over Mimi. Mimi found herself staring into Sarah’s exposed cleavage.

Now this, she thought, was different. Not that Sarah was tall, obviously, but that Sarah was exposing her bosom in a soft rose jersey dress. The last time Mimi had seen Sarah she’d been dressed in an ill-fitting navy blue, no-iron pantsuit, and sensible flats.

It must have been longer than she’d realized since she’d seen Baby Precocious—her pet name for the dour little automaton who, in all of Mimi’s memories, was planted in an armchair in the Werner library reading a book. Mimi did a quick calculation. Almost a year. Before that she’d seen even less of her—not on purpose, but because Sarah had graduated from high school at sixteen, finished her undergraduate degree at Penn State by eighteen and her master’s at Stanford at twenty. Now twenty-three, she was pursuing her doctorate in international economics at the University of Chicago. Sarah was not only a genius; she was an über-genius. Solange had finally hit the jackpot with her third daughter.
Boo-rah!
You’d think she’d be content with that, but nope.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah hastily apologized, looking down at Mimi. “I was just—Oh, it’s you. Hi, Mimi.”

“Hi, Sarah,” Mimi said. “You look great.”

It was true. Sarah had shed the last bits of baby fat, exposing some pretty spectacular cheekbones. Also, the Accutane Sarah had reported using some years ago had worked big-time. Sarah’s skin was creamy and smooth, a perfect foil for the honey blond hair. And speaking of foils…were those highlights in Sarah’s golden tresses? Sarah, whose idea of fashion forward was Lands’ End? Even more impressive, Sarah looked frankly happy. As in cheerful of mien and agreeable. The Sarah Mimi recalled had been a somber, earnest child with all the spice of an egg-white omelet.

“Thanks,” Sarah said, smiling.

Unlike Mary, Sarah still retained a sliver of her big-sister worship. Even when she’d been taking double credit loads at Stanford, Sarah had dutifully e-mailed Mimi at least once a month, mostly about what she was studying.

“Still working for that, ah, you know, spirit thing?”

Spirit
thing
? What was this? Sarah always used exact terminology. The fact that she’d used such a nonspecific noun as “thing” was also new.

“Oh, yes,” Mary answered for her. “Mimi’s still whispering to ghosts.”

“Actually, I often have to shout,” Mimi said. She rolled her eyes. “They are
so
distracted by the whole wings and halo thing, you know? Ghosts. Can’t live with ’em; can’t live with ’em.”

Mary scowled and drained the rest of her highball.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah said. “The common religious iconography of angels as human beings with wings can be traced back to ancient depictions of the ancient Assyrian sun god, Assur, within a winged disk. Besides, only certain orders of angels have wings. And halos, though currently denoting Christian holiness and divinity, were originally depicted in Roman art, particularly in reference to the god Mithras.”

Ah. There was the Sarah Mimi knew. “My bad,” she said.

She popped another fig in her mouth and glanced at Mary. “How’s the cyber–Peeping Tom business going? Catch a lot of voyeurs this year?”

“Sub-Surfer is an important tool,” Mary said stiffly. “We save people from financial and emotional devastation. Wouldn’t you want to know where the money that you need to pay the bills was being spent? What your significant other was doing when they shut the door on you and spent the evening on the computer? Or would you rather live in ignorance, hoping the ax you don’t even realize is hanging over your head doesn’t fall?” Mary asked.

“I choose ignorance!” Mimi declared without hesitation.

Mary made a disparaging sound and motioned a nearby server over.

“You’re kidding,” Sarah said, her expression stunned. “You’d actually choose to live in a state of ignorance?”

“Information is overrated,” Mimi answered. “Clutters the mind and muddies the priorities. Plans can be thwarted, blueprints lost, fast tracks derailed. It’s better to just go with the flow and let things slide, because what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Like not knowing where certain family members are?” Mary asked.

The allusion to Mimi’s father was as subtle as a jackhammer.

“Exactly,” Mimi said, knowing insouciance would annoy Mary far more than a counterattack. “And the health benefits are fabulous.” She gave Mary the once-over. “Are you getting enough sleep, Mary? You look peaked. Haven’t you ever heard the old saw about stopping to smell the roses?”

“Like you? Mimi, you didn’t stop, you laid down and rolled around in them, and you’ve never gotten up.” The server arrived and Mary ordered a Scotch old-fashioned.

“I
am
blissful.” Mimi nodded agreeably.

“Yeah, blissfully taking up space and little more.”

“Maybe. But it’s space no one else seems to want, so what’s it to you?”

Sarah was scowling, not anxiously, but clinically, as if she was watching a debate and hadn’t yet decided who was ahead on points.

“It’s a waste.” Uh-oh. Mary was channeling Solange again. More good-daughter points to Mary. “I used to look—”

“What are you all talking about?” Whatever Mary used to look at would remain unknown, as Solange emerged from a knot of nearby guests.

Drat. Mimi hadn’t noticed her mother there. Not that her mother lacked presence; she just lacked inches. At a firm five feet nothing in heels, Solange Charbonneau Olson Werner looked like a plump little squab, all front-forward breasts and small ass and bright little eyes. She even walked like a pigeon, little forward-darting motions interrupted by abrupt pauses. Her coal black hair apologized to no one for its artifice, and the arch of her brows had been tattooed in place of the thick ones nature had bestowed and electrolysis had removed years ago.

“Nothing of importance,” Mary said to their mother.

“Hi, Mom,” Mimi said.

“Hello, Mignonette.” Solange’s gaze frankly assessed Mimi. “Good,” she approved in a low voice. “Very nice.”

Bless Ozzie’s self-indulgence, and bless his hobby more, and bless his generosity in sharing his wardrobe with Mimi most of all. Of course, since they wore the same size, Mimi had been commandeered to act as his model–cum–stand-in on more than a few shopping trips.

“You’ve lost weight,” Solange murmured, cocking her head.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t own a scale.”

Her sisters traded openly disbelieving looks.
They can’t prove anything without a key to my apartment
, Mimi thought. “It’s incredibly liberating. You should try it.”

“There is more to life than liberation,” Solange said, her small eyes aglitter. “Have you spoken with anyone?”

For a woman whose nationality prided itself on its sangfroid, her mother sometimes displayed an amazing lack of sensitivity. Mimi made a discreet gesture toward her sisters.

“I mean, anyone who might help you
professionally
?”

Mimi’s eyes went round with feigned surprise. “You didn’t tell me you had a palm reader lurking amongst the unsuspecting. Aren’t you the mother to beat all mothers? Are they hiring?”

Sarah laughed and Mimi glanced at her in surprise. Maybe she had a sense of humor after all.

“Mignonette,” Solange said, “would you please be serious? I know you don’t really want to spend the rest of your life pretending to give strangers on the phone messages from their dead relatives.”

The quip Mimi hoped would occur to her didn’t arrive. Her easygoing smile gelled into something stiffer. Whatever else might be said to Solange’s credit or discredit, her ability to cut to the very heart of the matter was never in doubt.

“
Am
I pretending?” she finally muttered.

Her mother ignored this, patting her arm. “It’s not too late, you know. Forty’s the new thirty.”

“I thought fifty was the new thirty. And I’m forty-one.”