High Heels and Holidays (8 page)

“It's the biggest sweatshirt I have, so it has to go on top,” Maggie argued, struggling to pull up the hood of one of the other sweatshirts—the red one. “We're not going to a fashion show.”

“And aren't we fortunate for that small mercy,” Saint Just said, thinking Maggie looked fairly adorable. Round, but adorable.

Maggie finally looked at him. “Oh, great. Mr.
GQ
. How does it always end up this way? You looking so put together, me looking so . . . so—”

“Thrown together?” Saint Just suggested. “Ah, well, there's always a consolation, isn't there? It will be decidedly difficult to lose you in the crowd.”

Maggie's eyes narrowed dangerously. “I'll find the damn lint brush,” she said, stomping back the way she'd come.

“How'd you do that?” Bernice asked curiously. “I would have ragged at her and she still would have gone out like that. You say two words, and she goes off to change.”

“It's all in knowing which few words to say, Bernice. Maggie and I . . . we understand each other. Even when we wish we didn't.”

Chapter Seven

“W
e could have walked,” Maggie said as she stepped into the warm, plush confines of Bernice's limousine, one of the few possessions of her ex-husband she'd refused to part with, even before she'd discovered that dead husbands often resulted in hefty inheritances. “It's mostly short blocks.”

“Except for the long ones,” Bernie pointed out, folding her sable tightly around here. “Besides, I'm not exactly dressed for walking.”

“You mean your heels.”

“No, I mean the sable. You own a coat like this one, Maggie, and there are responsibilities that come along with it. One of them is this limousine. Alex, are you comfortable?”

“Extremely, my dear, thank you,” Alex said, completely in his element as the black Mercedes sliced through the theater traffic and beyond.

“Sure,” Maggie groused, slipping down onto her spine and plopping her booted feet on the facing seat, directly between Alex and Sterling. “He was born for this, weren't you
just
, Alex?”

“You know, Maggie, anyone would think this small sojourn wasn't your idea,” he said, smiling at her through the dark interior.

“Bite me,” she said, but quietly, because what had once been an insult now seemed to be more of an invitation he was willing to accept. “Look at that, we're here already. And no hot dogs, in case nobody's noticed. I'm starving.”

“Would you relax? There's bound to be something to eat,” Bernie said as the limousine slid to a halt in the middle of traffic. “Come on, kiddies, pile out before that nice policeman over there decides to give us a ticket. I'm pretty sure I've already hit my quota for the month.”

“We're barely into December, Bernie,” Maggie said, following her out, and pretending not to notice Alex's hand graze her backside, the louse. “And since when is there a monthly quota?”

“I have no idea. But it got you moving, didn't it? Now, where to first?”

Maggie looked around at the sea of people and the many green and white–striped tents and, damn, the ice rink. “I forgot about the ice rink,” she said, sure Alex would have hated it—those rented skates, like rented bowling shoes. They'd be an insult to his sensibilities.

The thing was, she had her own skates, and was probably just as queasy about wearing rentals.

“Oh, look at them,” Sterling said, standing beside her, his expression rapt as he watched the skaters glide by. “It's like being on my scooter—without the scooter. I should dearly love to try that, Maggie. I think I should be quite good at it.”

“Then we'll purchase skates tomorrow, Sterling,” Alex assured him as Maggie spied a hot dog cart and took off without waiting for anyone else, sure that Alex, at least, would follow. She'd give him the slip sooner or later, but for now, the aroma of hot dogs seemed more important.

“This reminds me very much of Green Park in the winter,” Alex said as they strolled the area after consuming their dinner, Bernie trailing behind, still trying to wipe a blob of mustard from her sable. “I hope it's ruined,” a red-nosed man shivering in a thin jacket told her when he saw her, upon which Bernie, without missing a beat, suggested the man perform a feat not especially easy for anyone who was not double-jointed.

“I love New York,” Maggie said with a grin, waiting for Bernie to catch up. “Everyone's so friendly.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bernie said, tucking a wad of used paper napkins into her pocket. “Are we done having fun yet, or do we have to do something else before I can call José and have him drive us somewhere warm? Not that I can have a hot buttered rum, can I? I love hot buttered rum. Mostly the rum. Hey, Maggie, did I tell you about this idea I've had? A drinking book.”

Maggie smiled in sympathy for her recently dried-out friend. “Who would read a book about drinking, Bernie?” she asked as they entered the first tent after Alex, who was already inspecting a shelf filled with handblown glass.

“I don't know. I would. The history, the lore, all that good stuff—you know, a highly illustrated coffee-table book. Or, in this case, a bar book. I've been rounding up quotes that could be scattered through the book. Observations on drinking, you know? Let me run one by you, from Jackie Gleason. Remember him? Anyway, he said, ‘Drink removes warts and pimples. Not from me. But from those I look at.' Isn't that fabulous—and so true.”

“I don't know. It's also sort of insulting. Do I have warts and pimples now?”

“Not until tonight, no. Here, I'll give you another one. ‘The trouble with the world is that it's always one drink behind.' That was Humphrey Bogart.”

“Yes, I thought I recognized the imitation. I think I'd rather buy the furniture line someone's pushing in his name. What else have you got?”

Bernie picked up a handblown decanter, and then put it down again. “No use for that, unless I fill it with pretty Kool-Aid. Okay, Bette Midler. ‘I try not to drink too much because when I'm drunk, I bite.'”

Maggie looked over at Alex, who was in the process of purchasing a tall glass sculpture that might have been a dolphin. Or a semicolon. “I don't like that one. No mention of biting, okay?”

“John Wayne. ‘I never trust a man that doesn't drink.'”

“Gosh, I don't know. Half your readers might not even remember John Wayne, and the ones who do wouldn't like reading that he said that. Honestly, Bernie, I think you should give it up.”

“One last one. And remember, they wouldn't be all that's in the book, but just sort of sprinkled through it. Elizabeth Taylor. ‘I had a hollow leg. I could drink everyone under the table and not get drunk. My capacity was terrifying.'”

Maggie turned to look at Bernie. “Okay, now that one's interesting. Elizabeth Taylor really said that?”

“I found the quote.”

“Did you
learn
anything from it, hon? From any of them? I mean, I'm mentally substituting smoking here, for drinking, and it's making me uncomfortable. But, hey, you're the publisher.”

“Hey, good for you, you finally got the point,” Bernie said, pulling her sable more snugly around herself. “It would be an exorcism, Maggie. Get that drink out of my life by writing about it.”

“Whoa.
You'd
do the writing?”

“Why not? I'd consider it a part of my rehabilitation. Plus, if I'm right—and I usually am—there's every reason to believe it would sell well. Not great, but at least fifteen thousand copies in hardback. A perfect conversation piece for the suburban whoopee room, or whatever the soccer mom and dad crowd call their home bars these days.”

“Whoopee room? Bernie, how old are you, anyway?” Maggie laughed and shook her head. “Whoopee room. That's just pitiful. But I'm betting you can pull it off, if anyone can. So I say go for it.”

“Oh, goody, I have your permission,” Bernie gushed theatrically. “I was so worried.”

“Oops,” Maggie said, wincing. “I'm being a pain in the neck, aren't I? I think I need to do some serious shopping or something. Exercise the old charge card. Christmas shopping always puts me in a good mood.”

“That sounds good to me. But not glass, not if you're looking for something for your beloved editor's stocking. Let's see what's in the next tent.”

Alex came back to them, carrying his purchase in a clear plastic shopping bag. “What a delightful place. I'm so glad you suggested this, Maggie. Shall we move on?”

“Sure, why not,” she said, wondering how she could have misread him this way. She was sure he'd hate it here. The cold, the crowds, all of it. “Oh, hey, look. Over there. Isn't that J.P. Boxer?”

“No, it can't be,” Bernie said, stepping behind Alex as she dropped back into her fractured Humphrey Bogart impersonation. “Of all the gin joints in all the world—hide me, big boy.”

“What's the matter, Bernie?” Maggie asked, watching as J.P. Boxer spied them, waved, and began walking toward them. The lawyer who had represented Bernie that fall, when she'd been suspected of murder—a fairly reasonable assumption, as Bernie had awakened after an alcoholic blackout to find a very dead man in her bed—was an imposing figure. Very tall, rather large, she was dressed in one of her trademark running suits. This one was berry red, and her high-top sneakers matched perfectly.

“She wants me to publish her book instead of taking any payment for her services, that's what's wrong. I've been ducking her for weeks.”

“Have you read the book?”

“God, no,” Bernie said with a toss of her head. “Why would I do that? I already know it's horrible. Lawyers can't write.”

“Yeah. Not Grisham, not Scottoline, not—”

“
This
lawyer can't write. It would be different if she'd told me she'd written a legal thriller. Then I might be interested. But it's science fiction. Science fiction, Mags. And if I read it, and reject it, she'll want to know why and I don't want to deal with it, okay? I hate to say it, but the woman terrifies me.” Bernie stepped out from behind Alex's back and smiled her professional smile. “Hey, J.P., gosh, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?”

The large woman said hello to everyone, including Maggie, who she insisted upon calling Little Mary Sunshine—which wasn't a compliment. “Same thing you're doing, Reds, I suppose. Soaking up Christmas spirit. Did you read the manuscript yet?”

“Well, um,
actually
, I've been really busy. You know, still cleaning up loose ends, taking the reins. . . .”

Maggie decided to rescue her friend before she dug a hole none of them would get out of without an extension ladder. This was so unlike Bernie, who could probably stare down a charging rhino. But she turned to marshmallow when it came to J.P. Boxer. “She gave it to me to read, J.P., because she's so busy. It's my fault I haven't gotten to it yet. I've been out of the country,” she ended, thinking, wow, that sounds impressive.
Out of the country
.

“
You're
reading it, girlfriend?” J.P. repeated, verbally promoting Maggie from naive little girl to girlfriend. “I suppose that's okay. I've picked up a couple of your Saint Just novels, you know, gave them the once-over. Not too shabby, actually.”

“Gee, thanks, I can die happy now,” Maggie muttered quietly through a rather painful smile. What had she gotten herself into? And all because she'd been snarky with Bernie about her booze book and figured she owed her a favor. “Well, we've got lots to see, so we'll be on our way. Have a great holiday, J.P., and a marvelous New—”

“I'll be over tomorrow,” the lawyer interrupted with all the delicacy of a charging rhino. “To hear how you liked the manuscript. Say around three?”

Oh, great. Maggie looked around for help. Now who was going to save
her
? “I . . . um, that is . . . I—”

“What Maggie's trying to say,” Alex broke in smoothly, “is that we'd be delighted to see you, J.P., but we'll be out of town for the weekend. Most unfortunate. Tuesday, however, would be fine. Wouldn't it, Maggie?”

“You picked a hell of a time to open your mouth, after standing there like a statue for five minutes. And I was looking at you so you'd rescue me, not set up a playdate with J.P. Cripes. You couldn't have said after Christmas? After the New Year?” Maggie told Alex after J.P. had checked her date book and decided she'd deign to visit them at one o'clock on Tuesday and then walked away before Maggie could untangle her tongue to disagree. “How am I supposed to read her manuscript before Tuesday? I don't even have the darn thing, for crying out loud.”

“I'll have it messengered over first thing tomorrow morning,” Bernie said helpfully, hanging on Alex's arm as they continued their stroll and Maggie continued her stomp. “You're such a good friend, Maggie. I owe you one. Oh, and let her down easy, all right? I don't want to have her mad, and overcharging me.”

“I hope she sends you a bill for a million dollars,” Maggie said in all sincerity. “How does this happen? We go out for a nice evening. A hot dog, some shopping—and
bam
. Let's all sock it to Maggie.”

“Now, now, my dear. As I recall, you did volunteer,” Alex soothed, not bothering to hide his smile. “And one never knows when one will require the services of an attorney, does one? With that in mind, as Bernice suggested—be kind.”

“She's a criminal attorney, Alex. Why would I need her, if that's what you're saying?”

“Yes, exactly. One never knows, does one?”

“One never knows, does one,” Maggie singsonged, making a face at him. “I'm . . . I have to find a ladies room.”

And she was off before anyone could follow her. It wasn't a subtle exit, but she really needed to put some space between herself and her friends. Between herself and Alex.

He made her so
mad
. And he did it deliberately, she was sure of it. She knew what he was doing. He was paying her back for bringing him here, for planning to desert him here, for—wait a minute. How would he know that?

He'd hinted, back at the condo. Saying that business about not being able to lose her in the crowd. But that had only been something he'd said to goad her into changing, that's all. He couldn't
know
, could he?

“Of course he does,” she told herself as she scooted past a couple pushing a stroller and ducked behind one of the striped tents and into the dark. “I know he's sticking to me, and he knows I know and want to get away from him because I know—ah, hell, I don't know
anything
.”