Five's A Crowd (8 page)

Shut up,
she told herself, snapping her teeth together.
You’re babbling like the village idiot! Next you’ll be telling him how you’ve noticed that Amanda’s
mouth doesn’t move when she talks, probably because she’s trying not to get wrinkles.

Holden looked at her, rather strangely, she thought, then said, “Speaking of which, let’s head upstairs to the jewelry store, all right? There’s still the matter of a ring, remember?”

Taylor stopped in her tracks, refusing to budge, all thoughts of Amanda Price and her immovable mouth deserting her. “No,” she said succinctly. “I know I’ve gone along with everything else—and the moment I figure out why I have, I’ll be a happy woman—but I draw the line at a ring, just as I told you this morning. So, thank you, but no.”

Holden took on a long-suffering expression, as if accustomed to women turning down his offers of jewelry, as if he had expected this reluctance, believing it was now his job to convince her to do what she wanted to do all along—which would be to take the diamonds and run. “Taylor, it’s just a piece of jewelry. A gift between friends. Come on, I want to give you a present.”

“I said no,” Taylor repeated, feeling mulish, more than mulish. Feeling suddenly weepy. Didn’t he have any idea what he was asking of her? A ring was more than some gold, a cold stone, a magnificent gesture that might be worth a small fortune to most everyone else but was no more than the cost of one product endorsement television commercial to him. A ring
was a commitment, a symbol, a promise. It wasn’t a prop. Not that she could tell him that.

Holden sighed. “Taylor…”

Taylor’s temper flared, mostly because she felt tears stinging at the backs of her eyes and resented how Holden’s offhand, conventional gesture had instigated them. “Look, Holden, what part of
no
can’t you understand? My mother took off her engagement ring once—in church, to let Dad slip a wedding ring on her finger. Oh, she has it cleaned once in a while, but that’s it. Those rings have been on her finger so long her finger has shrunk around them, so that they twist sometimes. I know it’s only a stone to you, only a superstition, a meaningless symbol, a quirk, even a bit of propaganda put out by jewelers trying to make a buck—whatever you want to call it—but, damn it, Holden, not to me! Not to me.”

He reached up and scratched behind his ear, looking confused and adorably handsome. For a smart man, he certainly had a lot to learn about women and their vulnerable hearts. And she wondered why nothing in his life had ever taught him. “All right, Taylor. No diamonds. No traditional engagement ring.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor thought she saw Lance creeping toward the lobby. No, she
did
see Lance creeping toward the lobby.
Oh, brother, here we go,
she silently groaned, barely paying attention to Holden—although she was pretty sure he’d agreed
not to buy her diamonds. She let out her breath in a grateful sigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So it’s settled. We’ll get you a ruby one. Or one of those green stones. I don’t care—pick a color,” he said, taking hold of her hand and pulling her along to the escalator, leaving her no choice but to hop on the moving metal stairs and hang on for dear life—all while peeking back to where Lance had been and to where he wasn’t anymore.

T
AYLOR
A
NGEL WAS
the most exasperating woman he’d ever met!

She’d come along with him until he’d located the jewelry store, his warning grip on her hand not leaving her much choice, but she had refused to try on any of the rings he pointed out to her in the glass cases.

“Pick one,” Holden had told her, ordered her, asked her,
pleaded
with her each time the salesperson left to wait on another customer. “For the love of heaven, just close your eyes and pick one.”

She avoided his eyes as she had done for the past twenty minutes. “Why?”

He closed his own eyes a moment, counting to ten. “Because everyone in the world expects you to have an engagement ring.”

Now she looked at him. Coolly. Levelly. “No. I’d need a better reason than that.”

“All right.” He searched his brain for logical reasons, not wanting to tell her that, for some absolutely
unfathomable reason, he really did want to give her a present.

A present that he would see every day. A present that would be a gesture, more than a gesture. A mark of ownership? No. Couldn’t be that.

He struggled to find something to say and improvised, “Because Amanda won’t go away until she has some sort of proof that this engagement is real, okay? Tact, she doesn’t understand. Manners, she doesn’t understand. Jewelry, the lady understands.”

Taylor’s left eyebrow lifted a fraction. “No.”

He tried another avenue. “Woody wants you to have a ring.”

“Say that one again.”

Ah, progress! He should have thought of this sooner—she
liked
Woody. “I said, Woody asked if I had gotten you a ring yet. He expects it of me, of us.”

“Woody
wants me to have a ring. Marvelous.” She turned and walked down the long line of glass-topped cases, trailing her fingers along the edge.

He went after her, feeling stupid and clumsy, and not a little angry. “And Tiffany mentioned it to me this morning. Called me a slacker.”

She kept moving.
“Tiffany
wants me to have a ring. Double marvelous. And has Thelma gotten a vote, or were two opinions enough for you?”

Holden threw up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right!
I
want you to have a ring.
I
think it would be a
good idea.
I
owe you something for this favor you’re doing me, damn it.”

“You
owe
me? Again, thanks but no thanks. You were close for a minute there, Holden, old sport, but no cigar. Care to try again?”

He was getting desperate. “Taylor, you’ll pick out a ring now, or I’m going to kiss you,” he all but growled. “I’m going to kiss you long. I’m going to kiss you hard. I’m going to kiss you in front of all these people until your toes curl in your shoes.”

Her eyes went wide as she looked up at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He lowered his face to within an inch of hers and grinned. “Try me.”

She hesitated only a few seconds, then blurted out quickly, “I’ll take that one—over there, in the second case. Third one from the left, fourth row. The sapphire with the diamond baguettes. Gold setting. And probably worth a king’s ransom in markup. Happy now?”

“Delighted!” And then he kissed her anyway. Because she was the most exasperating woman he’d ever met.

T
AYLOR EXCUSED HERSELF
once she and Holden were back on the casino floor, mumbling something about needing to powder her nose, and immediately went off in search of Lance—and Tiffany. Because where she found one, she would be sure to find the other.

She should have known Tiffany hadn’t sought out Amanda Price’s company because she trusted the woman’s fashion sense. Fashion, to Tiffany, meant something highly outrageous and startling. To Amanda, it meant fabulously expensive and impressive.

And Amanda couldn’t care less about Tiffany or about anyone, probably, other than herself. It was a harsh judgment and one Taylor berated herself for making, but she had good reasons not to like the supermodel.

None of them, however, that she was ready to admit to herself. Not now, with Holden’s “engagement” ring on her finger.

Taylor searched a few minutes, then stopped dead, feeling she was in the middle of an endless maze. Had someone told her that the Taj Mahal was the largest
casino in Atlantic City? Even if it wasn’t true, she was more than ready to believe it as she searched the casino aisles, careful to stay out of sight of the roulette tables, where Holden had gone to join Woody.

Why did she feel so responsible for Tiffany, for Woody, even for Holden, for Pete’s sake? Why was she worried about them? It wasn’t as if any of them were more than transitory figures in her life, right? It wasn’t as if she really
cared….

“Where are you?” she muttered under her breath, giving the lie to her self-protective thoughts as she sought vainly for the sight of lime green hair.

She’d kill Tiffany if she’d tried to get onto the casino floor. Absolutely, positively
kill
her. Didn’t Holden have enough trouble without adding a sister arrested for underage gambling to the list?

Yet, Taylor was convinced that underage gambling was just what Tiffany had in mind. What other mischief could she be up to? Mischief that included Lance. Mischief that excluded letting anyone else in on her plans?

Just as she was about to abandon the casino floor and check out the shops again, Taylor caught sight of Thelma Helper out of the corner of her eye. The woman was sitting in front of a quarter machine, her eyes glazed as if she had been staring at the twirling tumblers for hours—which she probably had.

“Thelma!” she exclaimed, coming up behind the housekeeper so suddenly that Thelma’s body jerked
as if she had been shot, a movement that succeeded in pulling her gambling card out of its slot as the yellow neon strap slapped back, hitting her in the face.

“Don’t
do
that, child!” Thelma scolded, rubbing at her stinging nose. “Can’t you see that I’m concentrating? I’m up twenty dollars, would you believe it?”

“I’m sorry, Thelma,” Taylor apologized quickly, then just as quickly added, “for startling you, I mean. Congratulations on your win. It’s wonderful, really. Um…have you see Tiffany?”

Thelma replaced the card in its slot, fed three more quarters into the machine and pulled the handle. “I haven’t left this machine since I got here. Of course I didn’t see Tiffany.”

The reels spun, with no winner. Thelma fed the hungry machine three more quarters. “Why? What did she do—buy out the shoe store? That child has more money than sense, you know. You’ll be real good for her, Taylor, once you convince Mr. Masters that this should be more real engagement than dumb publicity stunt—and don’t bother telling me that it isn’t, because I wasn’t born yesterday. You know, teach the child a little of what life is really about.” A bell rang once and the machine spit out some coins. “Hot damn! Two quarters!”

“But you put in three, Thelma,” Taylor remarked, then realized the woman wasn’t listening to her. She was too busy sliding three more coins into the slot.

Turning away and knowing she could never tell Thelma how Tiffany had hit the jackpot, Taylor retraced her steps to the first-floor shops, poking her head into the ice-cream parlor and the gift store before giving in to the impulse to go out onto the boardwalk for a little fresh air. Maybe it would clear her head—if anything could. She felt as if she’d been caught up in Thelma’s soap or some other outlandish plot.

All the millions of lights, mirrors and overdone glamour of the Taj Mahal, combined with the clanging bells and the sound of coins dropping into metal trays, had taken their toll on Taylor’s nerves—not to mention the addition of the guilty weight of the ring now on her third finger, left hand. She needed to ground herself, center herself again, and to remember that this was all a dream, that Cinderella turned back into a serving girl at midnight.

As she walked along, she took three deep breaths of the salty summer air, then wrinkled her nose at the smell of greasy hamburgers from a nearby storefront wafting by on a breeze. The boardwalk in Atlantic City was a far cry from the one in Ocean City—wider, seedier and a lot more crowded at this late-afternoon hour. She had to step back quickly to avoid an electric tram carrying gamblers from one casino to another, then nearly had her ankle clipped by one of the bicycle chairs she could remember riding in as a child, when her parents had brought her to the seashore.

Looking both ways as if ready to cross a Manhattan street at rush hour, she made for the railing and the view of the sand and ocean that awaited her. Gulls screamed and laughed overhead, dive-bombing a small child trying to protect a paper cup full of French fries, and Taylor laughed at the sight before a flash of green hair caught her eye at last.

Tiffany.

And Lance, stuck to her like a tall, painfully thin tube of glue.

They were turning off the boardwalk, going down a ramp onto a side street not half a block from where Taylor was standing—or where she had been standing until she’d seen the pair of teenagers. She broke into a jog, deftly darting between pedestrians, boardwalk musicians, bicycle chairs and panhandlers, following where the green hair led while carefully remaining out of sight so they wouldn’t see her before she could catch up to them.

The couple walked the length of two long city blocks before turning again onto one of the narrow cross streets, and Taylor stopped at the corner, poking her head around cautiously, trying to see where they were heading.

But they were gone. Disappeared like a magician in a puff of smoke.

Taylor fought the urge to go back to the casino and locate Holden, but realized that would take too
long—and heaven only knew what mischief Tiffany could get herself into in the meantime.

She turned the corner, took a deep breath and began looking into the front windows of the rather seedy shops that lined the street. Pawnshops. Check-cashing storefronts. A used-clothing store. The flip side of all the lights and glamour on the other end of the street.

“I’m going to murder that child when I find her,” Taylor muttered under her breath as a man carrying a brown paper bag—and drinking from the bottle concealed inside it as he walked toward her—commented on how he’d like to show her a “good time.” She gritted her teeth, used her thumb to twist the ring so that its jewels were facing her palm and quickly walked on, looking into the dirty front window of yet another narrow shop.

And there they were. Tiffany and Lance. Sitting in a dingy room, looking toward the dingier curtain that appeared to serve as a divider to another room.

Taylor stepped back and looked up at the front of the building to read the sign nailed to the crumbling brick.
Lily’s Tattoo Emporium.

Taylor’s hands drew into fists as she once more forgot that she was
not
involved with Holden Masters and his family. “Oh, yeah. I’m
definitely
going to kill her, or at least maim her. Badly!” she pronounced angrily, then pushed open the door to the tattoo parlor, sending the tin bell above the door to
tinkling and two young heads to turning in her direction.

“Hey, Tiff,
kewl
. Your brother’s girl is getting a tattoo, too,” Lance said, nodding his head like one of those loose-headed dog statues bobbing along in the rear window of a pickup truck. “Think she’ll put Hayden’s name on her butt?”

“That’s
Holden,
you idiot. Holden Masters, best quarterback in the history of the—oh, forget it! You just don’t get beyond Hootie and the Blowfish, do you, Lance?” Tiffany responded, hopping to her feet even as she pinned a bright smile on her face. “Taylor! Boy, talk about coincidences! What are you doing here?”

“What else, Tiff? I’m waiting for a bus,” Taylor answered, wincing as she heard the buzz of a tattoo needle from behind the curtain. “You’re coming with me, Tiffany.
Now!”

Tiffany’s pretty young face turned mulish as she sat down again, crossing her arms across her chest. “No. I’m not. I’m getting a tattoo. Lance’s name—with a
lance
through it. Get it? Isn’t that just the raddest thing you ever heard? A Lance and a lance. On my butt!”

Lance’s head bobbed again. “Yeah. And I’m getting a Tiffany—with a…with a—Tiff? What am I getting with my tattoo?”

“Blood poisoning?” Taylor offered affably, still feeling in control of the situation. After all, these were
only kids. Surely she could control two silly young kids. Or could she? “Tiffany—forget it, okay? I’d list all the reasons you don’t want a tattoo, but we don’t have three hours. Holden’s going to be sending out a search party for the both of us soon.”

Mulish did not begin to describe the look on Tiffany’s face now. Determined didn’t even come close. Resolute? Resolved? Obstinate? Adamant?
Immovable.
Yes, immovable. That would be the one Taylor would pick. But if Taylor had her way, Tiffany Le-Grand’s
immovable
was going to become mobile, and in a hurry.

She counted to three in her head, then landed on a plan. “All right, Tiffany,” Taylor said, walking over to a large wall chart depicting some of the available “art” Lily the Tattoo Artist offered to her patrons. “Have it your way. Get Lance’s name on your butt. I think it’s cute—in a juvenile, stupid-stunt sort of way.”

“You do? Tiffany asked, walking over to stand beside Taylor, who was still looking at the displayed artwork and actually becoming rather fascinated by the drawing of an American eagle with at least a three-foot wingspread.
Where would you put that?
she wondered, then brought herself back to attention.

“Yes, Tiffany, I do. After all, what more personal expression of affection can there be than to have someone’s name burned into your rear end for all
time? And the pain? Why, the pain and possible infection—that’s dedication, Tiffany. Real dedication!”

“Oh, yeah? My friend, Daphne, got a rose on her ankle. In Malibu. She said it didn’t hurt a bit. Daphne wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Of course not.” Taylor leaned forward, tracing a finger over the drawing of a gorilla wearing a smiley face. “See this, Tiffany? It’s kind of like connect the dots—in a flesh-searing sort of way. The needle burns into the skin—burn, burn, burn—and before you know it, you’ve got a whole line. Let’s see. Lance. Five letters. You aren’t getting capitals, are you? They’d take more dots, you know. And then there’s the lance. About two hundred dots in a lance, don’t you think?” She made a face. “Too bad his name isn’t Ed. Shorter, you know. Fewer dots.”

“Daphne said it didn’t hurt,” Tiffany repeated, although she was now pressing a fingertip against the picture of a skull, counting dots.

“Once the swelling goes down, why, I can’t see how it could. If it doesn’t get infected, of course,” Taylor said blandly.

At that moment, a leather-vest-and-jeans-clad mountain of a man came out from behind the curtain—his beefy arms nearly all blue from dozens of tattoos—and growled out, “Next?”

Tiffany’s eyes became as round as saucers.

“Where’s Lily?” Lance asked, looking rather anemic under his tan as he slowly shrank back in the cracked-vinyl chair.

“I’m Lily,” the man mountain said sniffing, then wiping his nose with his index finger. “Nathaniel Jerome Lily. You got a problem with that, sonny?”

“Actually, Mr. Lily, I think we’ve just remembered a previous engagement,” Taylor put in helpfully, sending up a silent thank-you for Whoever had whispered in her ear that her best chance of talking Tiffany out of a tattoo was not to lay down rules, but just “go. with the flow.” With maybe just a small
nudge
in the direction of sanity.

“Um, yeah—
yeah,
” Lance said quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stood up and grabbed onto Tiffany’s elbow. “That’s it. A previous engagement. Isn’t that right, Tiff?”

“You’re
afraid!”
she countered contemptuously, sneering. For a moment, a remarkably queasy moment, Taylor thought Tiffany was going to go through with it, just to show Lance who was the stronger of the two of them, but then the girl huffed and said, “Just remember, Lance.
I
would have done it for
you
.”

They were outside on the cracked pavement within moments, Taylor leading the way back to the boardwalk. “Lance, you’re going back to Ocean City—
now
. How did you get here?”

“Bus,” he said, obviously still smarting over his poor showing as a man who would give his all—or at least a portion of his backside—for the woman he loved.

“Very well, the bus it is. Happy trails, bucko,” Taylor said firmly, sending him on his way as they stood outside the doors to the casino once more. “Say goodbye, Lance.”

“Goodbye, Tiff,” he mumbled sheepishly, putting his hands in his pockets, his chin on his chest, and wandering away like a lost Labrador. He turned back to look longingly at Tiffany. “See ya.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Taylor exclaimed, calling him back. “Look,” she said, sighing. “If I say
I
ran into Lance by accident and asked him to join us, do you suppose you could behave yourself for the rest of the day? Tiffany? I’m talking to you.”

“You’re not my mother, you know,” Tiffany stated, looking mulish again. And then she smiled. “This is like television. ‘The Brady Bunch.’ The kids get into trouble, and the stepmother bails them out. Did I learn a lesson along the way? I think I’m supposed to learn a lesson along the way.”