Authors: Lisa Logan
Direct, wasn’t he?
She blew out the breath she’d been holding when he pulled back, hoping to blow away the coma-inducing fragrance as she did. “I suppose not.”
Three syllables. A bare improvement.
Her attempt to meet his triumphant grin evaporated when she glanced over his shoulder—and caught sight of Twyla en route through the door. The woman halted in admirable silence, brows raised well against her forehead. Instead of responding to Ridelle’s bail-me-out look, she spun around without a word and crept away.
“
I appreciate you helping Frannie out,” he went on, “but you’ll be doing her a bigger favor by letting her reap the rewards of what’s she’s earned.”
She blinked. “You ‘appreciate’ it?”
“
Sure. I know you’re all friends. I’m sure she’s told you all about how awful it is, being a housewife with no servants. I get that this isn’t exactly a one room cottage, but I’m trying to help her. Fran’s always been spoiled. She’s used to being handed everything without giving back in return. If nothing else, I intend to make sure she learns to appreciate how easy she’s had things.”
“
Oh.”
Ridelle stared at him. Still, his I’m-doing-her-a-favor argument lost credibility when she wondered just where banging other women and making Fran feel like used shoe leather fit in.
“
I know she dragged you two in on this little scheme to convince me to hire back our housekeeper.”
Ridelle blinked as the words took sank in like molasses through a strainer. “Housekeeper?”
“
You can either tell Fran I figured it out, or it can be our little secret.”
The housekeeper thing. That’s what he thought they were up to. Relief flooded her chest until he paused, his smile dropping to near flat line. Her heart thudded as he reached a hand toward her, grazing her breast almost reverently as he plucked the dish towel from its perch. “You’ve got soap suds on your forehead.”
No words would come as he dabbed the center of her now-empty brain, then handed the towel back to her. He turned and strolled out of the kitchen, twisting at the door to call out his final play. “Great as the meal was, Fran isn’t getting her way on this one. I’d say I’m sorry you had to show up for nothing, but it seems I’m not. Not in the slightest.”
She stared into the vacant space long after he was gone.
Dominique reclined on an oversized white sofa, her stocking feet curled beneath as she pressed the phone to her ear. She toyed with a clip-on emerald cluster earring as she stared straight ahead at the view through the sliding glass door to a patio flanked with an overhang of slippery elm. The other end rang once.
Warm even by early June standards, Dominique indulged the fact that she was alone in her condo by stripping off her Ralph Lauren blouse and sat in the black satin camisole underneath. Surrounded by geometric modernistic lines in the main room downstairs, she smoothed her straight black skirt to its end point well above the thigh.
Three rings.
Pandora jumped into Dom’s lap, arching her back and rubbing a layer of white angora fur onto the camisole’s bodice. Still staring out where broad leaves waved over a black iron bistro patio set, the woman snugged the handset between shoulder and ear to stroke along her pet’s back. The feline erupted into a frenzied purr. Cats were so simple and complex. Aloof, sleek, and exotic to a near fault, the solitary creatures were unafraid and self reliant, packaged by the powers that be without requirement for the constant babysitting, reassurance of undying love, and pats on the head that dogs—and men, for that matter—possessed. Still, they did have needs that were capable of appearing and vanishing on the slightest whim, and they were quite a bitch to deal with if these whims went unmet.
Dominique could relate.
Much to Pandora’s dismay, her owner lifted the stroking hand in order to check her three-day-old manicure. Dom scowled at the French-tipped manicure. What was she thinking when she allowed the salon to talk her into nude over white? She preferred startling reds, or the occasional slick of burgundy. Hell, she was practically defined by it. Still, she had to admit that the chipping factor was well reduced by the absence of stark contrast.
The trade wasn’t worth it.
Four rings, and the machine clicked on. Rolling her eyes, she suffered through a familiar message. “Hi, it’s Ridelle. Leave a message or call my cell. Thanks.”
Short and to the point, just like her misguided friend. After a tone of epic length, she launched into action. “Ridelle, it’s me. Me being Dominique, in case you’ve forgotten. You know, your friend. Bosom buddy. One of three you stood up for lunch last week with some bullshit excuse about a headache. Pick up.”
She paused, awaiting obedience. Nothing. This might take some doing.
“
Well, then, I guess you’re either busy avoiding Frannie, being mad at me for cooking up this plan, or you’ve joined a nunnery and are even now genuflecting over a set of rosary beads.”
No reply.
She let out a dramatic sigh. “You can’t keep ducking us forever, you know. We know where you live. You agreed to this of your own free will. We’re here to support you, Ridelle. If something’s going on in that mind of yours, either let us help or at least have the courtesy to let us off the hook by letting us know you’re all right. For all we know, you’ve been abducted and even now are being gang-probed by aliens.”
A muffled click interrupted Dom’s monologue. “You’re a real Grade-A pain, you know that? The ‘A’ stands for ‘Ass,’ of course.”
A sardonic grin bent blush-kissed lips. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about a certain wayward friend.”
“
I’ve been busy.”
“
Busy feeling sorry for yourself, or planning my untimely demise?”
“
Yes. I must say, this is turning into one of the more colorful low points in my role as the family screw up.”
“
Don’t be ridiculous. And from what Twyla had to say, it sounds like screw may be an apt enough term soon enough.”
“
Twyla’s imagination likes to run on overtime. By-product of living in the land of kiddie make-believe.”
“
And yours likes to underestimate everything you do.”
A snort came on the other end. “I hope Twyla didn’t go blabbing all this in front of Frannie?”
“
Why not? You do realize we’re not exactly keeping your affair a secret from her, right?”
The girl sighed. “I know. It’s just getting weird already.”
Dominique stopped twirling her emerald earring and dropped it on the glass top of the end table beside her. “Fran wants this to happen. She can handle it.”
“
You weren’t there, Dom. You didn’t see how it got between us. Or didn’t Twyla notice?”
She shrugged. “If she did, she opted not to say.”
“
Fran acted a bit jealous. I think she’s mad at me.”
“
Maybe you just thought so because it’s a bit of an odd situation.”
“
Full blown freaky is more like it. Look, I signed on for this mission for one reason—to help Fran. If this is going to get in the way of our friendship, I’d rather back off now and not have an enemy on my list.”
Dominique scratched at a pantyhose-covered calf. “Why don’t you talk to her about all this?”
“
I don’t think she’d be straight with me if I did. She doesn’t do confrontations.”
“
She might if I talked to her instead.”
There was a pause. “Maybe.”
“
I really think you’re reading too much into this. Frannie seemed just fine at lunch last Wednesday. If you’d have showed up, you could have seen for yourself and saved almost a week of worry.”
“
I needed time to think this through.”
Dominique pulled her legs from under her, sitting erect. Pandora grumbled in protest and hopped down to the floor. “Fine, but brooding time is over. I’ll talk to Fran, and you be at lunch tomorrow. We’ve more details to cover, if nothing else.”
“
What if she is mad?”
“
I’ll call you first and let you know what’s up. Deal?”
Another pause, longer this time. “Thanks.”
Dominique’s smile returned. “Good. I was beginning to think we were going to have to execute the missing diner’s formation.”
“
Funny. Let me know how your talk goes.”
She shook her head as they clicked off their call, marveling at all the high school angst already at work when the real drama hadn’t even begun. Smoothing her chestnut chignon and tucking a bobby pin planning escape back into place, she rose from the couch and stretched. Lunch was almost an hour past, and nothing but a croissant and coffee had hit her stomach since yesterday.
Padding through thick caramel shag with the cat all but underfoot, she skirted the edge of a glass coffee table and crossed the moderate but striking room. A carpeted staircase took her up a level to the main floor, where she headed to the stark, all-white kitchen. Coffee was still baking on a warmer, so she poured her fourth cup of the day and checked the fridge. Grocery shopping was such a lackluster burden for her that she had failed to think of it yet again. After all, when one lived alone and rarely entertained at home, eating on the run was a much easier and more appetizing approach.
Then again, had life offered her a better marital bargain she could be sitting in the glass mezzanine of ultra modern L’ Atelier Renault on the Champs Elysees, dining on salmon ratatouille while overlooking the Seine instead of pulling the remains of yesterday’s deli run from a fridge in Doylestown. That was the trade off—leftovers in a modest condo outside New York for designer goods and the ability to present in a crowd as though she was still sufficiently wealthy to disavow the notion that her divorce had devoured her and spit out nothing but bones and bitterness. Perhaps a tad of bitterness remained, true. But at least she could hold her head high, particularly in circles that still intersected like the Olympic rings through her Charles Edgar Stanton’s.
Pawing through a white paper sack to find the remains of a soggy roast beef and onion sandwich, she dumped the affair in the microwave and pressed a button while turning her thoughts back to the conversation with Ridelle. The girl was young, though not prone to dramatic histrionics. Maybe she wasn’t overblowing things. Perhaps Fran wasn’t as happy with the arrangement as Dom thought. She’d studied Fran at the last lunch, especially when the topic of Ridelle’s absence was speculated on. Twyla and Fran had reflected on every nuance of the dinner party, right down to the way Ridelle had ladled food onto the man’s plate. If there had been a green-eyed monster lurking in Frannie, she’d kept it well-hidden behind a mask of laughter and happiness.
A little too happy, perhaps?
The bell dinged as Dominique made her decision. She’d grill Fran, get to the bottom of things. They had to keep their little group together. A house divided and all that.
The last thing this quartet needed was to start turning on each other.
Odette’s was busy serving a group of fifteen matrons on their way to Atlantic City, from the sound of gossip mingled with gambling strategy, when the group arrived fairly en masse the following day. Ronald was at the helm as usual, making quick work of getting the ladies started with a cheese and berry compote platter, with an assortment of salads to follow. Iced tea replaced the usual coffee as the beverage of choice.
To combat eighty-degree weather, the girls assembled in a variety of lightweight shell tanks and thin skirts—except for Fran, who had vehemently denied anything other than a mild awkwardness at the party. She graced their lunch spot with a sleek new collar-length hairdo in a blonder version of her natural red, coupled with an equally new Roberto Cavelli baby doll blouse in a flounce of teal and white silk sheer. Her white skirt hit mid-thigh, offering a grand view of female leg that might have been sculpted by a master. Strappy Marc Jacobs heels boosted her above the eye level of all but Dominique, whose five-seven stature raised to five-ten in spiked Manolos.
Snapping up a piece of cheddar, Twyla posed the thought going through most of their minds. “So, Ridelle, it seems the party went well. But you left that night before I got a chance to ask.”
“
Okay, I guess. There was one scary moment though, in the kitchen.”
“
Did he hurt you?” Fran’s voice was a whispered gurgle of concern.
Ridelle speared a cube of Jack cheese. “Not that kind of scary. I thought he was onto our scheme.”
Dominique sat up at this. “What made you think that?”
“
He came in and told me he knew what we were doing, and that it wasn’t going to work.”
Fran scowled. “That isn’t good. If he suspects anything, it’s time to rethink the entire affair.”