More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (31 page)

“To do what exactly?” Sarah frowned.

“Well, to go...” Lauren started.

“It’s one way to get a date,” interjected Jelicka with a snort. “Unfortunately, I have to watch my pennies until my crooked career path straightens out.”

“When Viggo came on board, he pulled in a lot of his cute celebrity friends, too,” I said.

“Really, who?” said Jelicka as Madelyn approached the group of us, her date in tow and not wearing a kilt.
Was this the Scot or a last minute replacement?

“And if it weren’t for Quinn, we wouldn’t have gotten any of them,” Lauren said.

“Come on,” I protested. “That’s not true. You would have gotten them without me.” It wasn’t false modesty talking, either. The cause spoke for itself.

“Possibly,” said Lauren, “but you were the one who got everything going.”

The Muffs are generally great about giving credit where it’s due, and it’s always nice to be acknowledged. But on this one? I just made a few phone calls.

I glanced over at Maddie’s boyfriend, whom I still assumed was Rory, standing patiently by her side. She hadn’t told us he was so handsome; or maybe I’d forgotten. This man with her tonight was extremely good looking—good looking enough to be auctioned off for charity with the celebrities—but was he, in fact, the Scot?

The mystery was solved when she introduced him as Cullen. Cullen I’d heard
all
about; Cullen I remembered. And if I’d gone to Babeland that day when Maddie went vibrator shopping, I would have met Cullen. I couldn’t remember what she said about why it hadn’t worked out with him, but maybe now they were giving it another try.

“We’re not sleeping together,” she said, sotto voce, when Cullen went for drinks. “Just so you know. He’s only my date. It’s probably no surprise, but I couldn’t take it anymore with the jolly Scot—too much effort trying to be his bonnie lass.”

“Well, Cullen’s pretty hot,” I said.

“Not when you’ve seen him with his mother. It’s actually a huge turn off.”

“She won’t be around forever,” I pointed out. “Besides, isn’t it nice he cares about his mother?”

“Yes, but you need to experience the two of them together to fully understand just how odd their specific mother-son relationship is.”

I supposed I would, though it was probably a question of degree; many mother-son relationships being fraught.

“The trouble is I think Udi’s spoiled me forever,” she said. “I’ve tried to date, but I still think about him. Then
you
call me to say you saw him… ” She gazed around the room, clearly trying to get her emotions in check.

I reached out to touch her arm. “I said I was sorry.”

“I know,” she said, softening. “I like your dress.”

“I like yours.” She had on a simple black chiffon sheath at cocktail length, but her calves were the real draw.

“Anyway, Cullen is very sweet and available—if you’re interested.”

Part of me
was
interested. But I still had my own obsession. I hadn’t told the Muffs about my crush on Frank Sexton yet but I planned to come clean at the next book club. I guess I’d held off telling them because I worried my feelings for Frank weren’t real. I supposed a shrink would say they came from a mistaken belief that he’d saved my life. The thing was, he
did
save my life. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in handsome Cullen.

Kiki, dressed in a long, pale yellow gown that showed off her well-toned body, appeared with Saul just as Lauren’s sister, Kristin, entered our little circle, holding the arm of an older woman—seventy, perhaps—wearing a peach-colored St. John knitted suit. Lauren greeted the woman with a kiss, and it was instantly obvious that this elegant woman was their mother.

“Hello, dear. What a nice party.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Lauren said. “I hope you’re having a good time.”

“Yes, dear. But where is the birthday cake?” Mom’s eyes widened, a look of mild panic appearing. “Where is the cake?”

“The cake will be here,” said Lauren, doing her best to reassure the older woman.

Mom pulled her arm away from Kristin’s and did an emotional one-eighty, snarling, “I
told
your father you didn’t like carrot cake, but he doesn’t listen.”

A few of us glanced at each other, instantly on alert that “Mom” was not at the same event we were. A couple of awkward seconds went by, then Lauren smiled and whispered conspiratorially to Mom: “We’ll just dump that cake on his head.”

Another couple of awkward seconds passed, and Mom burst into giggles.

“We’ll smoosh it all over him,” Kristin agreed. Mom giggled some more. It was the giggle of a schoolgirl. Clearly, both daughters had learned how to steer their mother into safer territory.

“I think she needs another Derazapan,” Kristin whispered. “I’ll get it.”

“What are you talking about behind my back?” Mom snapped. “I’m not in crazy town, you know.”

Kristin once again dodged. “Mom, these are some of Lauren’s friends in L.A., and they’ve come to celebrate with you. Ladies, this is our mom, Joy.” Joy beamed at us.

So far, Joy was aptly named fifty percent of the time. We all chimed in with our hellos.

“You’re all so
pretty
,” Joy said, giving us her appraisal. She spotted Jelicka’s shoes. “Those are hooker shoes.”

Jelicka held up her glass. “You’re right.”

Joy’s brow suddenly furrowed, and she extended her hand out toward me. It looked so frail it might break, her skin so thin you could see her skeleton. The several rings she wore no longer fit, and the weight of the gemstones threatened to drag them off her fingers. “Who are you people?” she asked, as if Kristin hadn’t introduced us.

“They’re all Lauren’s friends, Mom,” Kristin repeated.

Joy knew there was some formality that was supposed to take place, but the details were no longer clear. Her hand sort of hovered for a second or two—elbow bent, rings slipping—as I raised my hand to meet hers. Then, she suddenly pulled hers back as if burned, her left hand coming up to grab the right one.

“You stupid, stupid boy. Get back in there. Don’t do that!” said Joy, slapping her right hand repeatedly with the left, as Kristin tried to calm her.

“Mom—your hand is sorry.”

“Bad boy; bad, bad. Get—”

“Her caregiver went to the restroom,” said Lauren quietly, by way of explanation. “It seems to have set her off.”

Kristin wasn’t having much success in calming their mother down. Joy was now trying to lift her dress up so she could look underneath. “Something is getting into my panties,” I heard her say.

Kristin and Lauren exchanged a look, and Kristin began leading Joy away. “Mom, guess what!” said Kristin, full of excitement. “They have fresh lobster tail over there.”

Joy suddenly stopped. “Goody-goody. Can we watch them crawl on the floor?”

“Of course we can!”

As Kristin led Joy away, across the floor to the buffet tables, Lauren said, “I hope by the time they get over there, Kristin can take her mind off the lobsters because the ones they’re serving will never crawl again.”

“It’s got to be so difficult,” said Sarah, with great empathy. “I had no idea.”

“Brutal,” I agreed.

“Not to mention just plain sad,” Rachel said.

“My parents aren’t there yet, but it’s coming,” said Sarah.

Lauren sighed, a look of resignation on her face. “But what do you do, you know? She told us never to let her get like this, but now it’s too late.”

Not much you can do. Personally, I’d rather die, but it was obvious to any half-wit that when you actually get as old as Joy, you don’t feel that way anymore—or else you don’t know how you feel.

“So now you know what it’s been like,” said Lauren. “Generally, she’s funny and easy to deal with, but if she starts taking her clothes off, we’re going to have to take her home.”

“Oh, God, my dad has started taking his clothes off in public, too,” said Sarah. “Maybe it’s already started.”

Over Lauren’s shoulder, I saw Viggo approach the microphone. He looked dashing in a tuxedo with his hair a little wild. Glancing around, I saw most of the women lower their cocktails and give him their undivided attention.

“While you’re enjoying your drinks,” he began, “I’d like to get you all thinking about one part of the evening that will be coming up later. It’s the live auction when you’ll be able to bid on any one of us you see standing here.”

Eight gorgeous men, including Viggo, stood for our pre-bidding pleasure. Not all were Hollywood actors. A couple of them were stars behind the scenes, and one had to be the finest- looking neurosurgeon ever. Viggo also directed the attendees’ attention to the silent auction items and encouraged everyone to bid. What an asset he turned out to be.
Sigh
.

As we all sat down to dinner, Paige arrived with Richard, her on again/off again/live-in/kicked-out significant other. She looked fabulous in a red and black dress with marcasite jewelry. There was no sign of the supposed shiner of a few weeks before, but something was different—it was subtle, but it was there. She looked rested and then some.

I glanced at Lauren and Sarah, both of whom had seen Paige soon after the alleged tennis ball incident and denied she had any plastic surgery. Neither of them gave anything away now, either. Though we generally don’t keep secrets in The Muffia, a person’s privacy is still something each of us has a right to. Oh, what did it matter? Paige looked great, seemed to feel great, and plastic surgery isn’t something one should be concerned about at an Alzheimer’s benefit.

Richard had a few more gray hairs since the last time I’d seen him, but he was a distinguished-looking man. Paige was wearing her engagement ring, so I guessed all that must be back on, too. For a couple of years, Paige and Richard had been attempting to blend their families. But like the proverbial oil and vinegar, they just kept separating. Now maybe the mix was right. I took Paige’s hand and examined the ring.

“For sure this time,” she said. “In two months—a very small affair at his family’s place in North Carolina. You’re all welcome to come, but we know how far away it is.”

“How to make a girl feel welcome,” I said.

“Seriously, it’s going to be very low key. It may end up just being us at the courthouse with a party after.”

A few courses of inspired food landed at our places delivered by attractive volunteer servers, all of them standing up for the cause. And before we knew it, it was auction time.

The auctioneer was a SmartCar-shaped man hailing from Witchita named Walker Talbot. He wore a tight-fitting suit made of shiny gray sharkskin, and he looked completely out of place among the chic, overwhelmingly dressed-in-black crowd. George was the one responsible for Mr. Talbot’s presence at the benefit, and I knew Lauren was concerned about people judging him by his size. But it wasn’t long before the man’s larger-than-life smile and attitude won everyone over. He started the auction off with a trip to Paris that Maddie bid on first, knowing full well that she’d be outbid soon thereafter. The price became too high for any of us almost immediately.

There were four pieces of donated art to auction off, including a painting of Rachel’s that she must have done before the “Nude Men Without Faces” series. It fetched a thousand dollars. The next piece was a drawing—a lesser Chagall, according to the art appraisers—that had come from Lauren’s father-in-law’s collection and had been in his closet for twenty years, such was the family’s art collection that they could leave a Chagall in the closet. Walker, the auctioneer, whipped the bidders into such frenzy, recounting Chagall stories that he pulled out of who knows where? And by the time bidding ended, he’d gotten the price up to $300,000. It was a huge amount of money for Lauren’s organization, the still too-long-named
Alzheimer’s Search for the Cure at the Sweet-Busch Center for Neurological Research
, or in its acronym form: the ASC-SBCNR. I’d decided Sweet-Busch really was the most uplifting way to spin the name, but there was no ideal way to say it.

Walker kept his lively patter going in between auction items, tossing in the occasional celebrity joke. But during the bidding, he was at his best, getting the most out of his audience for each of the items. As coffee was served, it was time for the guys to be auctioned off.

The prospective bidders—women mostly, though there were a few men—drew closer to the stage with their bidding paddles held tight. Maybe they were there for the illusory promise of love, or perhaps they had endorsements or business deals they wanted to propose. I noticed Jelicka in the group and wondered what was on her mind. She hadn’t
seemed
drunk, and she’d claimed not to have the money to bid. Maybe she just wanted to get a closer look at Matthew McConaughey.

I stayed seated, taking small forkfuls of dulce de lece cheesecake. Neither my heart nor my bank account could handle the pressure of bidding. It would have to be enough just to enjoy the handsome hunks from afar.

“None of these gents look substantial enough to me, Ladies,” Walker began. “Now, I
might
be willing to offer myself on the auction block, if that would solve the problem...”

There was laughter and a couple of hoots. “Do it,” someone yelled.

“The damnable truth is, I don’t have a clue about how to auction off all these skinny boys. Sure, they’re movie stars, but not one of ’em’s got enough body fat to keep a woman warm at night.”

“Hey, we know where you live, Man,” called out the handsome doctor, to a chuckle from the crowd.

“Now, I don’t want my bias keepin’ me from doin’ a good job here; I just need a little help. So I’m bringin’ up to the stage a lovely lady so she can point out the fine attributes of these gentlemen from the female perspective. Please welcome to the stage, the
gore-gee-us
and talented—ladies and gentlemen, you know her from
Desperate Housewives
and as Ann Ewing on the new
Dallas
—Ms. Brenda Strong!”

Brenda, who was an old friend of Madelyn’s and happy to donate her time—another one whose life had been hit by Alzheimer’s—made her way to a second microphone, because it was clear that Walker wasn’t about to give his up. The two of them quickly established a comfortable, folksy rapport as they discussed the qualities of each of the men to be auctioned off.