A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (34 page)

Piper’s mother hugged her stiffly, shook Mick’s hand, and led them into the parlor. That’s when Piper’s heart fell into her shoes.

“You know Wallace Forsythe, of course, and his wife, Paulette.”

“Oh!” The fury rose in Piper so fast she was seeing spots. “Of course! Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe. What…? Uh, what a surprise to see you here.”

Bless Mick for being such a social butterfly, Piper thought, because she was on the edge of disintegration. The hand she’d just offered to the museum’s chairman of the board of trustees was slick with sweat and her greeting was an embarrassment.

As Mick chatted up Piper’s father and the Forsythes, she flashed her eyes to her mother, who seemed enthralled with her role as hostess. Piper tried to pull herself together—her mother had no idea that Piper was in the process of deceiving the museum trustees. She’d probably invited good ole Frosty Forsythe over as a way to grease the social skids for her and Mick. Her mother surely meant well.

“Piper? Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?”

Noting that Mick seemed at ease serving up tumblers of seltzer water and lime, she excused herself and followed her mother. Once the kitchen door swung shut her mother smiled at her and giggled.

“I thought it would be nice for you to spend some leisure time with the chairman,” she explained, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a platter of one of her standard hors d’oeuvres—thinly sliced cucumbers spread with a nearly translucent sweep of hummus and dotted with a single caper. (As a kid, Piper had called the creations “cucumbers with baby poop and dead flies.”
Bam!
)

Her mother placed sprigs of parsley and mint on the platter along with a scant number of sliced grape tomatoes. “To brighten things up,” she said to Piper. “And anyway, your father and I thought it would make it more difficult for Wallace to sack you—should that be a decision he’s faced with in the near future—being that he’d recently socialized with you.”

Piper nearly laughed. The near future? No shit—the Fall Gala was a week away, which could very well coincide with her getting sacked.

“That was nice of you, Mother,” she said.

After returning to the parlor and enduring another half hour of chatting, the group adjourned to the dining room. Under the table, Mick reached for her knee, and heat spread through Piper’s entire being. His hand felt so big and warm and real—so completely out of place in this house with these people.

She glanced up at him and tried to smile.

Things went relatively smoothly for most of the meal. Everyone complimented her mother on the presentation of the food—raw cranberry and orange relish, asparagus juice, and sautéed tempeh and green beans sprinkled with sesame seeds. Piper winced as her mother dished out precise half-cup measurements of food onto the Forsythes’ dinner plates.

“Of course, you are welcome to have as much as you like,” she explained. “We always offer a precise serving size for accurate data gathering.”

Wallace Forsythe glanced down at his plate and back up to Piper’s father, bewilderment on his face.

Piper heard Mick stifle a snicker. She kicked him under the table—if he started laughing, they were both doomed.

Conversation wound its way to Mick’s coup in snagging Ben Affleck for the public service announcements. Forsythe commended Mick for bringing in new corporate and individual accounts. “I have a feeling the gala is going to be something else this year,” he said, raising his asparagus juice.

“I’ll drink to that,” Piper said. This time Mick kicked her under the table.

Forsythe continued in that vein, asking Piper for more details about the Ophelia Harrington exhibit. “Our hope is that it has some real zing to it, you know, something flashy that will grab the attention of the press and patrons.”

Piper raised an eyebrow, thinking that Frosty would be getting some zing, all right.

Her father cleared his throat. “I think what Wallace is getting at is that everyone hopes this exhibit will be more interesting—more compelling, shall we say—than last year’s switchboard operators.”

Piper blinked.
No,
she thought. Her father did
not
just bring that up. Why would he, unless he wanted to cut her down?

Her mother smiled at her sweetly. “We’re only hoping you’ve saved some energy for the exhibit and not squandered it all on your
makeover
.”

It was so quiet in the dining room that Piper figured everyone could hear the pounding of her heart.

“I think you look fabulous,” Paulette said. “Your hair is gorgeous.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I love your bag.”

Piper gently put her fork on her plate. Mick started to say something to her but she lightly touched his forearm. “I’ve got this,” she said, standing.

“Oh, now, don’t be so sensitive,” her father said, laughing uncomfortably. “We’re just teasing you.”

Piper shook her head. “No. No, you’re not. This is not about teasing. It’s about being threatened by me.”

Her mother leaned back in her dining chair, as if suddenly hit with gale-force winds.

“You can’t stand it that I’m coming into my own, can you?” Piper paused, noting the frozen shock on everyone’s face—everyone but Mick, anyway. Mick was suppressing a smile. “You’re threatened by my appearance. It just screams lust, doesn’t it? A lust for food, for sex, for being fully alive.”

Paulette gasped.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Forsythe,” Piper said. “I have no plans to get profane. I just needed to make a point.”

Her father stood up. “That’s enough—”

“I’m not even warmed up, Father.” Piper motioned for him to return to his seat, and in doing so, knocked over her tumbler of asparagus juice. The green stain spread through the white linen tablecloth, and Piper suddenly had the mental image of roast beef sliding down the wallpaper of a London dining room so long ago. She laughed out loud.

Thank you for showing me how to do it, Ophelia.

“Mother and Father, I am not an extension of you,” she said, her voice much softer now. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me as my parents—provided me with a home and a superb education and exposure to music and art and culture. But I don’t owe you my soul. Do you understand that?”

Forsythe cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should be going.”

“Don’t bother. We’ll be leaving soon,” Piper said. At that point, Mick stood next to her and reached for her hand.

“Please listen to what I am saying to you.” She glanced from her mother’s blanched face to her father’s angry eyes. “Finally, at the age of thirty, I am becoming my own person. My own
woman
. I am blossoming on all levels—professionally, emotionally, and sexually. I am exploring everything I am and everything I’m destined to be.”

“What in the world has gotten into you?” That little squeaky complaint came from her mother’s direction.

Piper chuckled. “I think I’ve sprouted balls the size of grapefruits,” she said. “Courage, Mother. That’s what’s gotten into me. I’m finally brave enough to live my own life and tell my own story, and you know what? It looks nothing like yours. It’s full of passionate kisses and whipped cream and silk scarves and…”

Forsythe’s chair scraped loudly across the wood floor as he jumped up from his seat. Paulette was not far behind.

“No. Really—stay. Enjoy your evening. We’re going.”

With that, Piper grabbed her bag and started to exit the dining room, Mick’s warm and solid hand wrapped firmly around hers. But she stopped.

“Mother and Father, stop trying to control me. It won’t work anymore. Please respect that.”

Piper couldn’t remember walking through the foyer and out the door, but at some point she found herself on the front sidewalk, Mick’s arms snug around her, her feet spinning off into the air as he twirled her around.

“I am so proud of you,” he said into her ear, his breath hot and his voice sweet. “You are something else, woman.”

He put her down. “Whadya say we get us some real food?”

*   *   *

She stepped into the dim and cool pub and heard a chorus of voices welcome her. Piper could tell immediately that the man behind the bar was Mick’s brother, because he was an older, chubbier, balder—and much louder—version of Mick. The short woman at his side had to be Mick’s sister-in-law, Emily.

Mick introduced her, and Piper felt like a long-lost relative, there was so much hugging and kissing going on. It was like she’d fallen into a rabbit hole outside her parents’ house on Towbridge Street and popped up in another world entirely. Cullen and Emily’s two children, Maeve and Will, ran out of the office where they’d been doing their homework to get a look at their uncle’s new girlfriend.

She and Mick grabbed a couple of barstools, and that’s when she was bombarded with questions about beverages—stout or lager? How about a shot of Jameson? Powers? A mixed drink?

“I can make a Cosmo if that’s more your style,” Cullen assured her.

She felt besieged, which Mick picked up on right away. “Mind if I order for you?” he asked her.

“Please do,” she said.

Not long after, Piper was on her second glass of Murphy’s and was diving face-first into a basket of delicious fish and chips, courtesy of Emily. She sprinkled everything with malt vinegar and salt and was taking a big bite of fish, juice running down her arm, when Cullen leaned on the bar and laughed.

“The poor waif is starving, Magnus! When’s the last time you bought her a decent meal?”

Piper stopped chewing, her eyes growing big in embarrassment, but Mick leaned over and put his arm around her shoulder.

“Piper’s been a bit deprived,” he said, squeezing her tight. “She’s got some catching up to do.”

Full, happy, and glad to have met his family, Piper left the pub with Mick about an hour later. As they walked to the T station, Mick’s cell phone buzzed.

“Yes?” he said. Piper watched his face go rigid. His eyes flashed to her momentarily, then he nodded as he listened, holding up a finger to indicate he needed to stop a moment and take the call.

Piper waited. She heard a woman’s voice emanating from the phone.

“But why now?” he asked. “They’ve been jacking me around for months, and now it’s suddenly an emergency?” He paused again. “Los Angeles? Why all the way out there? I thought they were based out of New York. Can’t we do this first bit over the phone? Some kind of conference call?”

Piper watched him nod a few more times and say, “I understand. All right. Let me know when they pick a date.” He said good-bye and slipped the phone into his pants pocket.

“That was my agent,” he said, though Piper had figured it out by then. “The Compass Cable people want to meet with me soon. Apparently, the show is a go.”

Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten the fish and chips.

Twenty-eight

London

As I look back over the last seven years, I believe the greatest difference must be the sweet peace of my contentment. I do not miss the spotlight, although the Swan still reigns supreme. I think she may still own the demimonde when her golden hair turns to silver, for her elegance is ageless and her vivacity is tireless. I, on the other hand, enjoy my quiet evenings curled up with Eamon, at last with the time to read. Most would find us boring. I find us delightful.

Eamon is my lover and dearest friend, but I have never forgotten my beautiful Sir. I carry my longing for him in my most secret heart. Though I have not seen him since I woke alone that morning, I feel him with me every night as I lie in the dark and remember.

I opened my eyes in the night, suddenly and violently awake. My heart pounded, yet I knew not why. The room was utterly silent, with no danger in sight or hearing. Had I been dreaming? I found no trace of nightmare in my thoughts. I lifted my head from my pillow and slid up a little, listening carefully.

The room was utterly silent.

With a start I realized what was missing—what had been there every night of the last seven years. I could not hear Eamon’s gentle snore.

He lay with his back to me, his head on the pillow only inches from mine. With an awful sense of foreboding, I reached my hand out to stroke his big shoulder. For an endless moment it hung in the air, unable to travel that last inch. As long as I did not finish the gesture, I could hold the hope in my heart a few seconds longer.

Wake.

Turn to me in sleepy good humor.

Take me in your arms and warm my chilled feet.

Please, my darling companion.

Wake.

But Eamon would never wake again. His big heart, that generous and constant heart, had stopped in the night. I would never lay my head against his chest and hear its steady thud again. Worse than the thought that I was alone again was the notion that Eamon no longer existed. How could so much warmth and unassuming gentleness be subtracted from the world by the simple misbeat of an organ?

Those next days passed in a fog. Sadness turned the minutes to hours, and sometimes hours to minutes. The very earth seemed tilted without his strength and integrity to hold it upright. Not since my parents had died had I been dealt such a blow. In some ways I took this all the harder, for I was a woman of the world. I knew that no amount of wishing would turn back the clock, would declare it all a terrible mistake, would bring back his booming laugh to make me shake my head and smile.

Then, just when I was at last becoming accustomed to the silence, I was called to the office of Eamon’s solicitor. There was a will, it seemed. I must dress and make an appearance that afternoon.

Though it would be a presumption to wear black as if I were family, I could bear to wear nothing brighter than a pale dove gray. As I walked into the office of the solicitor, I was surprised to see pretty young Alice Wainwright waiting there as well.

I had not wished to intrude upon the mourning of Eamon’s beloved daughter by attending the funeral in full disreputable person, but I had been called here today on business. Should I leave? I backed away a step, about to slip out the door. At that moment Alice raised her head and saw me. Her green eyes were reddened with crying and her red-blond hair was pulled back tightly from her face. Clad in full mourning of the blackest black, she looked painfully pale and vulnerable. My heart went out to her at once, but any motion I might have made to comfort her was halted by the flash of pure hatred that suddenly enlivened her sad eyes.