His Firm Hand (12 page)

“Oh, I get it, a father/daughter duo. That’s pretty clever given your current living arrangement. You should definitely hit him up for a million or two while you’re at it,” she joked, pausing for a response. “Come on, that was funny, and you’re not laughing.”

“Sorry, my brain is on overdrive with shopping possibilities. So, can you meet me at Nordstrom around four and help me pick out some things?”

“Not only do you have great taste, but that store has a full collection of her shoes and handbags. She even has her own fragrance line.” Marsha paused again for a moment to think. “Hey, did Paul give you a spending limit, because this little excursion could get pricey!”

“Not really, but he knows I have my heart set on winning the best-dressed prize.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Marsha giggled. “I’ll meet you at four sharp in the shoe department.”

* * *

At the end of the day, Michele walked through the revolving door, pleased to see a friendly, excited face. “I was tired when I left school, but the textile aroma in this store has instantly energized me.”

Marsha nodded. “I figured you might be exhausted after a full day of teaching, so I got here a little early to do a reconnaissance and mapped out a plan. Tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll point you in the exact direction.”

Counting on her fingers, Michele replied, “I need a dress, high-heeled shoes, a handbag, and expensive-looking jewelry. And if it’s going to be chilly tomorrow night, I’ll probably need a cape. Let’s start with the shoes and work our way up. Black-strapped stilettos should go with anything, right?”

An hour and a half later, Michele stood in front of a three-way mirror and examined the back of her skin-tight jersey mini dress. “What do you think of the transformation, so far?”

“Oh, my God, Paul isn’t going to believe it. Except for your height and hair, you could pass as Ivanka’s twin. Which reminds me, we need to find you a blond wig, and I know just the place to shop for it.”

“You don’t think I went overboard, do you? I just spent an awful lot of money for a Halloween costume.”

“Michele, think about it. The dress, handbag, and shoes can all be used again. As far as the wig goes—you’re on your own with that one. Although it might come in handy someday for a little role play.” Marsha winked. “Our next stop should be accessories and then onward to the jewelry department. Some of Ivanka’s pieces actually look real.”

“I want to surprise him, not be the cause of a heart attack,” Michele said, crossing her eyes.

* * *

“How’d it go?” Paul asked, staring down at the armload of packages Michele carried through the front door. “I’m beginning to think shopping for a costume party with Marsha might not have been such a sound fiscal idea. Were you using a credit card or did you rob a bank, princess?”

“May I remind you that this was your idea? You wanted me look
stunning
like Ivanka, remember?”

“Were those my words, or yours?” Taking the packages out of her hands, Paul raised an eyebrow, but Michele stomped her foot as he started rummaging through them.

“Hey, I wanted to surprise you!”

“I didn’t think a preview would hurt, but if you continue that little dance of yours, something else might be smarting,” he warned with a gleam in his eyes. “Not to change the subject, but I’ve been trying to perfect the Donald Trump comb-over hairstyle for the last hour, and I don’t seem to be making any progress.”

Michele stood back with a finger poised under her chin. “First, we need to work on the color.”

“What do you mean?”

“Good try, but you know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replied with hands on her hips.

“Michele, are you suggesting we dye my hair? I have a patient scheduled for tomorrow,” he said with a look of terror on his face.

“Oh, come on, it’s Halloween. And we can always dye it back on Sunday if you want. Of course, you’re going to lose that sexy, distinguished salt-and-pepper color that I love.”

“Maybe I should have it professionally dyed tomorrow—”

But before he finished his sentence, Michele grabbed Paul’s hand and led him to the upstairs bathroom. Leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms, Paul watched as his wife casually opened the cabinet door and searched through her haircare products. “Ahh, I have just what we’re looking for. Remember when I dyed my hair blond last summer? Well, it’s your lucky day, because it seems I bought an extra box.”

“But that color stayed in your hair for weeks. Don’t they have rinses that aren’t permanent?” Paul took the package out of her hands and read the label with a suspicious expression.

“Now you’re a color specialist, Dr. Fazio? Come on, take off your shirt, and let’s get started.”

Pulling the T-shirt over his head, Paul sat down on the closed toilet with a worried look on his face.

“I’m going to apply the dye first and let it set into your hair for about twenty-five minutes, then I’ll shampoo it out.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Stop worrying. I’ve done this dozens of times, and it always comes out fine,” Michele said convincingly, as she carefully applied the hair color with a plastic bottle and massaged it in.

“There, I’m all done. Now relax for a while and read a good book. I’ll set the timer and when it rings, we’ll uncover our masterpiece. In the meantime, I’m going to go through my shopping bags and put together a sexy outfit for the party.”

Humming cheerfully, Michele walked into their bedroom and pulled her purchases from the bags. Expecting the next noise in the house to be a buzzer, she stiffened upon hearing a shriek from the bathroom. Immediately dropping her new handbag on the bed, Michele ran down the hallway.

“Paul, what happened? Are you okay?” She rounded the corner and saw her husband standing in front of the mirror with his mouth gaping open.

“Gaaaah! It’s orange! My hair isn’t blond… it’s orange!” he screamed while his feet danced as though they were walking on hot burning embers. “What in the hell happened?”

Michele approached him from behind with a hand over her mouth as she stifled a giggle. “Oh, my God, let me look at something.” Picking up the package of hair dye, she silently studied the instructions and shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe it worked differently on my hair because it’s a much lighter color than yours.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Michele stood back and paused before answering. “Donald Trump’s hair has been known to carry a bit of an orange tint, so let’s rinse this out and see how it looks.”

“I can wash it out myself,” he said in exasperation, reaching for the shampoo. After lathering it twice and rinsing, Paul sat back down, crossed his arms, and protruded his lips.

“I can see you’re already starting to take on his facial expressions,” Michele observed, withholding the urge to cackle. Reaching for the hairdryer, she instantly began blow-drying his hair. After it was completely dry, she applied some mousse and combed Paul’s hair toward the front. Taking a step back, she angled her head, admiring her handiwork. “See what you think, Mr. Trump.”

Paul twisted around and instantly glared at his image in the mirror. Angling his head in several different directions, he finally said, “I have to admit it looks pretty authentic. But maybe I ought to make an appointment with a hair salon for bright and early Monday morning.”

“I don’t think too many stylists work on Mondays.”

After another glance in the mirror, he looked over at her. “No offense, but I intend to start searching the Internet for one today!”

* * *

The next afternoon, Michele sat in the kitchen and smiled at her husband as he walked through the door after his Saturday appointment.

“We’re due to be at the party in an hour, so I have everything laid out on the bed that we need to wear. Was your hair a hit at the office, Donald?” Michele joked as she walked out of the room.

“Let’s just say no one working in the building today will ever let me forget it.”

Michele happily hustled upstairs to begin her makeover. Donning her skin-tight, strapless mini-dress was first on the agenda. After easing it over her head, she shimmied the stretchy black fabric over her ample breasts before pulling it down to cover her plump behind. Quickly admiring the brand new four-inch black suede stiletto heels with an ankle strap, she plucked them out of the box and slipped one over each small foot. Hobbling over to the mirror, Michele smoothed the dress, thinking about her next challenge, which was displayed on a Styrofoam stand atop her dresser. The shoulder-length blond wig was certainly an extravagance, but it would be the pièce de résistance of her costume, and within fifteen minutes of adjustments and strategic tucks, she finally had it in place.
Almost done.
After clasping the faux diamond pendant behind her neck, she then reached for her new satchel, slipped it over an elbow and stood in front of the mirror.
Damn, I forgot the lipstick and the cologne.
Carefully applying the red matte color to her lips, she smacked them together loudly and flipped her hair to apply a few droplets of perfume on her neck. Studying herself in the full-length mirror once again, she nodded.

“It’s show time!”

Not yet comfortable with the height of the stilettos, Michele carefully descended the stairs. As she reached the bottom, Paul, dressed in his pin-striped dark gray suit and red tie, outstretched a hand.

“My God, you do look stunning and smell delicious. What
is
that scent you’re wearing?” he asked while placing a long Burberry cape over her shoulders.

“Why, thank you! It’s my own fragrance, of course.”

As they walked out the door, Paul turned to Michele. “That’s a fake diamond, right?

“Yes, daddy.”

* * *

“Are you going to answer your phone?” Paul asked as he parked along the curb of the Kurlses’ front yard.

“It’s my dad.” Michele heaved a heavy sigh while staring at the screen. “I’ll call him back later.”

“Maybe he needs something. Do you think it’s wise to ignore his call?”

“After he leaves a message, I’ll put it on speakerphone, so we can both hear. That way, I don’t have to talk with him, but we can make sure nothing’s wrong.”

Paul inhaled a deep calming breath before turning off the ignition. “I really wish things were better between the two of you.”

“I do, too.” Michele lifted both shoulders up as she stared at the phone screen. “Ahh, here’s the message he left.”

“Hi, Michele. A little birdie told me you and Paul were going to a Halloween party tonight dressed as Donald and Ivanka Trump. I just wanted to wish you a good time. Call me.”

She silenced her phone and slipped it back into her small handbag without making eye contact with her husband. “See, he’s just fine.”

“It’s obvious he’s reaching out to you. Why can’t you meet him halfway?”

“Come on, Paul, you know there’s a wall between me and my dad. Can we please not do this now?”

Paul thought about his next sentence and spoke carefully. “You’re right, let’s go enjoy the party. But this conversation is on hold for another time. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir.”

As Paul turned to exit the car, she smiled and saluted.

“Like I said, we’ll discuss this another time.” Paul turned his head and returned the smile.

Chapter Twelve

“For God’s sake, look who came to our party—Donald and Ivanka Trump!” Marsha exclaimed as she opened the front door to greet her friends.

“I can’t believe who our hosts are,” Paul said, laughing. “Hillary and Bill Clinton.”

Michele and Paul posed together as Dave pulled out his cellphone to take their picture. “You two look fantastic! Your hair definitely made the outfits,” Dave commented as he waved for both of them to enter the house. “Come on in. Everyone has been dying to see your costumes!”

“Marsha! How many people did you blab to that we were coming as Donald and Ivanka?” Michele asked, tilting her head.

Marsha shot a sheepish look to her husband.

“Don’t involve me, cupcake. You need to take responsibility for that sweet little wagging tongue,” Dave scolded, shaking his finger at her.

“No worries, Marsha. And I hate to change the subject, but you know it isn’t my thing to come to a party emptyhanded, and I’m feeling bad about it,” Michele said as Marsha linked arms with her.

“I had everything catered, so don’t worry about a thing. Let’s go see the bartender. You look like you could use a drink, my friend,” Marsha said, leading her friend away arm in arm.

Paul cleared his throat loudly and the two women turned around. “Just a minute,
my darling daughter.
Remember what we talked about. Behave yourself, please.”

Marsha’s arms crossed as she rolled her eyes. “I know you’re role playing, but surely you’re going to let her drink tonight. It’s an adult party.”

Paul crossed his arms to mirror Marsha’s and took one step forward. “Donald Trump doesn’t drink and his daughter won’t be indulging either.”

“Don’t get involved, cupcake. This is their business, not yours,” Dave interjected in a low tone.

“It’s fine with me,” Marsha replied with a shrug of her shoulders. “Come on, let’s mingle,” she said to Michele, leading her into the crowd.

“At least you didn’t have to dye your hair, Dave.” Paul elbowed him, shaking his head. “Next year I’m definitely going to be smarter when deciding on a costume.”

“Do you really think she’s going to observe the no-drinking rule tonight?” Dave interrupted before taking a sip of his martini.

“Ahh, I see we’re dispensing with the small talk. Well, she will unless she wants to be punished. And I intend to watch her closely,” Paul said with a sly smile. “Knowing Marsha, I’m assuming you’ve been filled in on much more than you care to know about our marriage.”

“Yes, and as my kids would say, TMI.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen Brenden and Kristin. What are they doing now?”