Duping Cupid (A Valentine's Day Short Story) (4 page)

“Out to lunch because you sent me early.”

“Right.”
Vivi sighed, but refused to drop her gaze toward the desk blotter. “Timing is everything in this world.”

Adding to her flippant tone, Sarah tossed a tress of hair over her shoulder. “If you change your mind
about Thanksgiving…” She let the offer trail away and returned to her desk.

Forgoing lunch,
Vivi buried herself in phone calls to confirm dates for the upcoming holidays, collated billing statements, and dusted her office furniture until her workday ended. She didn’t hear from Bass again that day. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t matter, but today…

Today, it did.

****

Monday turned to Tuesday, melted into Wednesday, and became Thursday. Bass didn’t get in touch at all, and the few calls
Vivi made to him went straight to voicemail. Late Thanksgiving morning, she took the Metro North to Snowflake, a small town in Putnam County, New York, where she’d grown up. At her feet, a handled shopping bag held a yellow cake with vanilla icing—and a humongous turkey sandwich with homemade cranberry sauce from 33 Gourmet Deli for her ride home later that night. She hated taking the train upstate, which left her beholden to impossible schedules. Miss the departure by a sneeze and she’d find herself sitting in a semi-abandoned unheated station for ninety minutes until the next Manhattan-bound train came around. Chalk up another reason to be disappointed in Bass. Whenever they came up together, he always drove. Embracing the life of a true metropolitan resident, Vivi didn’t even own a car.

“Snowflake next stop,” a voice announced over the static blaring through the train’s tinny
speaker. “Next stop, Snowflake.”

And here we go
.

The train slowed to pull into the station, and her stomach flinched.

Okay. Deep breaths. She could do this. White-knuckling the straps of the shopping bag, she rose from her seat and joined the cluster of holiday travelers waiting for the doors to open. Of course, everyone else stepped out with smiles and kisses of greeting for loved ones loitering in the parking lot. The crowd slowly disbursed, and Vivi stood on the edge of the platform, scanning cars and drivers, unsure which of her siblings had come for her.

An icy wind whistled
in the air, and she shivered as she took the stairs to the ground level.

“Hey, little girl,” a raspy voice said from behind her. “You need a ride?”

Stiffening with anger, she whirled and faced her younger brother, Russ, an exaggerated leer distorting his face. “You idiot,” she retorted, but her posture sagged in relief. Thank God for reinforcements.

In their
uber-ambitious family, she and Russ were the screw-ups. Mom and Dad believed in their kids grabbing the brass ring, which meant big careers, loving families, and all the trappings of success. Oldest brother, Alan, and his lousy cook of a wife, had already established themselves in their careers, popped out an heir to the family name, and hoped to be in their brand new built-to-their-precise-specifications waterfront home before Christmas. Kate, the next sibling in chronological order, was married, pregnant, and already on her way to a big-time law career. Then came Vivi, followed by Russ.

Mom had never forgiven
Vivi for giving up the legal profession for a dating business. Added to her detriment column, she had no husband, no kids, and lived in an apartment in Brooklyn—her only domicile. In Mom’s eyes, Vivi lagged way beneath the achievement bar she and Dad had set.

Russ was
Vivi’s male counterpart, rebellious and happy-go-lucky, currently pursuing a career in sports physical therapy—this semester. He’d changed majors three times in the last four years.

She hugged him, the shopping bag flying over his shoulders.
“Hey, you. Happy Turkey Day. How’d you get stuck picking me up?”

“I volunteered.”

“You did?” Suspicion slinked up her spine. Russ would never lose his seat in front of the day’s football games without a major-league reason. “Why?”

He led her toward his late-model Chevy Blazer, idling a few yards away.
“Because I wanted to talk to you before the family got hold of you.”

Suspicion intensified to dread.
“Uh-oh.”

“Nothing bad, I promise.” He waved a hand and, behind
them, the passenger door to his SUV opened.

A pretty
brunette, bundled in a pink ski parka and gray snakeskin jeans with stiletto boots stepped out, her face beaming. “Hah there.” A soft, southern twang punctuated her greeting. “You must be Vivi. Ah’m Scarlet.”

Vivi
cast a derisive glare at her brother and snorted. “Of course you are.”
Another one of Russ’s bimbo cheerleader girlfriends
.

“Be nice,” Russ murmured as he took her shopping bag. “Scarlet’s going to be your new sister-in-law.”

She stumbled on a pothole in the asphalt but quickly recovered. No way.

“Russ has told me all about you.” Her new future sister-in-law wrapped
Vivi in a hug of cotton candy perfume and pink goose down. “I just know we’re gonna be
best
friends.”

Once again, she glared at her brother, but his smile seemed reserved for Scarlet. “Your last name isn’t O’Hara, is it?”

Scarlet’s laugh, high-pitched and twittery, raised the hackles on Vivi’s nape. “Of course not, silly. Why do y’all say that?”

Over the puffy pink shoulder of her new best friend,
Vivi caught her brother’s silent plea.
Be nice
.

“I guess,” she said as she pulled out of the Southern
belle’s embrace, “it’s because we don’t know any other Scarlets.”

“
Well, she’s for sure the most famous,” Scarlet replied. “But there’s Scarlett Johannson, too.”

“That’s true,”
Vivi agreed.

Meanwhile, Russ opened the back door of the truck and placed the shopping bag on the floor inside. “Co
me on, you two.  The Patriots are playing in…” He glanced at his watch. “…twenty minutes. I don’t want to miss the opening kick-off.”

“You can sit up here, if you want,” Scarlet offered. When she swept a hand toward the front
passenger door, the sun glinted off the diamond on her ring finger.

Wow. This wasn’t just a whim on Russ’s part. He’d plunked down
hard-earned cash on a ring. And not some chip, either.

“
Oh, how sweet,” Vivi replied, her gaze pinned to the glittering rock. “But I’ll be fine in the back, thanks.”

They climbed into the Blazer, and the heated interior bathed
Vivi’s chilled face. The newly engaged couple held hands over the gear shift, the engagement ring a sparkling beacon. As Russ pulled onto the highway, Scarlet leaned over the middle console to put her head on his shoulder. Vivi bit back a snort. Ah, young love. Wait ‘til Bass saw these two. He would have a field day with...

No. Wait.
He didn’t come with her today. She stared out the window at the gray snow piled along the guardrails as they sped toward her soul’s execution. Today was going to suck wind. Everyone else would have a significant other, a supporter, an ally. Like the cheese in that old song about the Farmer in the Dell, she would stand alone.

No one would share private smirks with her over tasteless mashed potatoes. She wouldn’t get to review the more hilarious moments with someone on the way home. No voice of sanity would calm her down when she ranted, “Never again. They’re all poison.”

With Russ and his new fiancée another Maxwell success, Vivi would face her family as the last of the Maxwell screw-ups. Yippee.

Light giggling from the front seat, accompanied by her brother’s low crooning, sparked deeper annoyance in
Vivi. No doubt about it. This was going to be the longest, loneliest holiday season ever.

Chapter 3

The beautiful people.
Inside the Van Orton Art Gallery, Bass stood at Ava’s emaciated side, gaze skimming the crowd. Swallowing his disdain with a healthy swig of bourbon, he forced interest in the conversation captivating his circle of companions.

“Well, of course, we had to fire her,” some socialite—Gwendolyn Someone-or-Other—said with a sneer.

“Such a shame,” Ava tsked.

Yeah, a shame he couldn’t bolt for home for at least another three hours. He never understood modern art.
What was wrong with a nice lake scene or a portrait where the subject’s nose wasn’t replaced with a bicycle horn? Sugar white walls held bizarre paintings of melting fruit and colorful ice cream cones in tic-tac-toe squares. Marble statues of what resembled burritos with wings and top hats pierced with lollipops stood in strategic sections of the gallery’s floor. Jeez. Everywhere he turned, he saw food—none of it edible.

From the corner of his eye, Bass spotted a waiter with a silver tray. Thank God.
Real food had finally arrived.

Bad enough Ava had insisted he update his wardrobe, simultaneously depleting serious cash from his checking account.

“For heaven’s sake,” she’d scolded him like a mother with a disobedient toddler inside Saks Fifth Avenue’s men’s department. “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘Clothes make the man’?”

“And wasn’t it Coco Chanel who said, ‘Beware of any ventures requiring new clothes’?” His
ex-wife had
loved
that expression. Ava? Not so much.

“How about, ‘
The customer is always right’?” she’d snapped, and he’d backed down.

Vivi
, he reminded himself then—and now. He was doing this for Vivi. Vivi, who always cared about him, who saw the real Bass and accepted him, who knew his real name and didn’t care. Jeez, Ava wouldn’t allow him to go by “Bass.” If she knew the moniker his parents had pegged on him...

He shivered. He hadn’t uttered his birth name
, Lester Schmidt, since that night at Vivi’s place, after a dinner of nachos and margaritas. He’d sworn her to secrecy and, despite the uproarious laughter his confession had engendered, she’d respected him enough to honor the vow.

The waiter passed close enough for Bass to get a glimpse of the tray contents: dirty
cocktail napkins and half-filled glasses. Terrific. His stomach was ready to eat itself. After draining the last of his bourbon, he added his empty glass to the waiter’s burden and wondered if he could bribe this servile penguin into making a deli run for him.

Thanksgiving here was nothing like what most people experienced.
Even Vivi’s sister-in-law’s abominable spread beat the tiny turkey and watercress sandwich triangles at this holiday shindig. Every year, he and Vivi would leave her family soiree and drive the long way home in the hope of finding an open diner or fast food joint for sustenance.

Tonight, he’d continue that tradition.
Alone.

For at least the thousandth time in the last three days, he regretted selling his soul to Ava for the winter. He should be with
Vivi now, especially since he’d come to realize he loved her. Knowing his true feelings ran so deeply, he couldn’t wait to talk to her, to gauge her feelings for him—but in person, not on the phone. Which explained why he’d dodged her calls all week. Didn’t forgive it, though. And he had no idea how he would apologize to her.

“Sebastian.”

Ava’s silken prompt tied knots around his guts. Four months of this she-devil loomed on his horizon.

She
placed a possessive hand on his jacketed forearm and arched to tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “On my stage,
I’m
the star. Now, smile and fawn like I just made you a salacious offer.”

He’d rather she did salacious to herself, but his mind focused on
Vivi. He touched a thumb to Ava’s chin and kissed her. Her reaction? Nothing. He might have kissed the top hat statue for all the warmth she offered. Masking his distaste, he nuzzled beneath her earlobe. “Better?”

“
Mmm...” she replied, more for their audience’s benefit than his.

“How did you two meet?” Gwendolyn Someone-or-Other asked.

Ava snuggled closer, practically climbing into his breast pocket. “Sebastian and I are neighbors in the Hamptons.”

She didn’t elaborate. Let them put the pieces together
themselves, she’d told him when they cooked up this scenario over lunch on Monday. That same night, she’d messengered two huge loose-leaf notebooks, full of details for him to study. She included her favorite restaurants, florist, jeweler, and wines; photos and the floor plans of her home in East Hampton, where they supposedly met, and her home on the Upper West Side; names of her two Pomeranians, Debussy and Ravel; everything but her SAT scores.

When he’d asked her if she expected him to draft up a similar dossier for her, she’d replied, “Don’t be ridiculous. Your history isn’t important. Besides, I’ll have my private investigator give me all the information I need.”

Nice.

“Well, he’s absolutely adorable,” Gwendolyn cooed through her Botox-tightened lips. “I can
see why you left Cecil for him.”