Once Upon Another Time (26 page)

“Let’s spice up
the holiday!” she said gleefully, as she poured a bottle of what she thought
was Grand Marnier over cherries jubilee flambé.  Actually, she had mistakenly
picked up a bottle of one hundred and eighty-proof rum. 

“This will give
your dessert that dramatic flair,” she said, lifting one arm high over her
head, and with a snap of her wrist struck a pose resembling an unbalanced
flamenco dancer.

“For a more
theatric effect, perform your flambé in a darkened room,” she giggled. 

Combined juices of
cherry and rum sloshed out of the pan, as she weaved it over the prop dining
table leaving a red drizzle that traveled across the crisp white tablecloth,
then up and over the wicker cornucopia centerpiece.  

As the stage
lights dimmed to almost complete darkness, and Cacey’s futile attempts at
trying to light a match failed, someone gave her a butane lighter.  Suddenly,
it was like the Fourth of July.  The cherries jubilee went up in an explosion
of flames that ignited the drizzled rum like a wick on a stick of dynamite that
blew up the cornucopia centerpiece and set the tablecloth on fire. 

Unfortunately,
this was before networks added the five-second precautionary delay for live TV,
a lesson learned after Super Bowl’s infamous Janet and Justin incident. 

All I could see
across the TV screen were undecipherable objects and a blur of frantic
stagehands scurrying past the camera.  Muffled screams from the audience filled
the background with the clanging sound of pots and pans, presumably hitting the
floor. 

All at once, the
stage lights came back on.  Cacey stood over the dining table, her face covered
in a puff of black soot.  She looked like a firefighter who had just emerged
from a smoking building.  Bits of singed wicker from the cornucopia centerpiece
hung from her hair like tinsel on a Christmas tree.  And a thick layer of white
foam from the fire extinguisher blanketed the top of the turkey like fluffy
whipped cream on a pumpkin pie. 

Now, that was
reality TV!

As I drove around
the cul-de-sac and pulled up to Cacey’s house, I marveled at the beautiful
two-story, white stucco Mediterranean with its terracotta roof.  Tall potted
topiaries graced either side of the ornamental pewter security gate at the
driveway’s entrance.  I punched the button on the security intercom box. 

“Hey Maggie, it’s
me.” 

“Hello, might I
help you?” asked a woman with a very proper English accent.

The woman was
definitely not Cacey’s housekeeper, Maggie.  Trying to fake an English accent
with her heavy Boston brogue, she would have sounded like Fran Drescher, but
not quite as nasally.

“Who is it you
wish to see?” the voice asked.

“Cacey,” I
replied, wondering what had happened to Maggie.

“Ms.
Brooks-Bagley-Simson is busy at the moment.  Please announce yourself so that I
might let Ms. Brooks-Bagley-Simson know you are here. 

“Um, let her know
it’s Aubrey.” 

“Ms. Aubrey,
please state your last name.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please state your
last name so I can tell Ms. Brooks-Bagley-Simson who is calling.”

I could tell the
woman definitely got some kind of cheap thrill out of repeating Cacey’s name,
but she was making me crazy. 

“McCory,” I said,
while gritting my teeth.

“Was that
McCaffrey?”

Just as I was
thinking that it was easier for those two DC party crashers to get into the
White House, Cacey’s voice came over the intercom.  “Hey Aubrey, come on in,”
she said, as the tall security gates opened like theater curtains. 

Water bubbled from
the triple-tiered, fluted alabaster fountain, as I walked through the open
courtyard and made my way up the European tiled stairs to the front doors.  The
nineteenth century, ten-foot tall double arched mahogany doors, a purchase
Cacey made on a visit to Spain, magically opened before I had a chance to ring
the doorbell.

“Good afternoon,”
said the woman with the English accent.  “Ms. Aubrey I presume.” 

My heart
quickened, as I nodded and peered curiously at a woman who looked exactly like
Julia Child, but didn’t look all sparkly and iridescent like Matt had looked. 

“Aubrey, darling,
it’s so good to see you,” Cacey said, as she charged toward me.  Her voice
echoed in the huge two-story vestibule where an impressive curved black iron
staircase led up to the second story with a Juliet’s balcony that bridged two
wings of the house.  I stared numbly at Julia Child, as Cacey circled her arms
around me and gave me the California one-kiss-per-cheek greeting. 

“Aubrey, this is
Julia.  Julia this is my very good friend, Aubrey.”

“You can see her!”

Julia gave me a
strange look and walked away.

“See who?”  Cacey
asked.

I gave a nod
toward Julia.  “I thought she was dead,” I whispered, as Julia disappeared
around the corner.   

“You thought who
was dead?”

“Julia Child!”

Cacey rolled her
eyes.  “Aubrey, she’s a look alike I hired from Celebrity Helpers to stand in
for Maggie while she’s on vacation.  It’s all the rage around Sparrow Ridge. 
They have Emeril, Wolfgang Puck, Benson, even Rosario from Will & Grace,
and they all go by their celebrity names.”  

I laughed.  “I
knew that, I was just…never mind,” I said waving my hand dismissively.  I
released a deep breath and smiled at Cacey.  She had always been a natural
beauty with short spiky, flame red hair and luminous skin.  Dressed in simple
stonewashed Levi’s and a white cotton Gap blouse with upturned collar, Cacey
looked picture perfect.

“Come on, let’s
sit down,” she said, as we passed under the arched foyer with tall pillars that
led into the living room with a soaring twenty  foot ceiling.

“I’m glad you came
a little early so we can talk before the others arrive but first, what would
you like to drink; beer, wine, soda, margarita?”

“Diet Pepsi would
be good.”

Cacey, who had
been on intimate terms with the staff at the Betty Ford Center, had been sober
since her TV incident.  Although it didn’t matter to her, I’d always felt
awkward drinking around her.

“Julia,” Cacey
bellowed.  “Bring Aubrey a diet Pepsi, please.”

As soon as I
settled into the cushiony jacquard-woven tapestry sofa, and slid my hand over
the rolled leather arm, Cacey plopped down next to me. 

“Don’t you just
love it?” she said, caressing the arm of the sofa.  “It’s embossed crocodile. 
Isn’t it just too scrumptious for words?”

Purchasing home
furnishings was an obsession for her.  She once ordered three different sets of
china because she couldn’t decide which pattern she liked best. 

“I take it you
didn’t find this at Pottery Barn.”

“Hardly,” she
said.  “It was custom made in Italy and arrived a couple of days ago.  Oh, and
wait till you see Ricky’s new bedroom suite.  He’s even got a cute little
canopy over his bed.” 

I gave her a blank
stare.  Ricky is a Shih-Tzu.

“Aubrey, you don’t
exactly seem like your lively old self.  Was it rough seeing Nicholas get on
that bus this morning?”  Cacey asked soothingly.

“It was.  Although
Camp Big Foot is only an hour away, it seems like Nicholas is a million miles
away.” 

“I know what you
mean.  I remember when Spencer was finally old enough to go off to summer
camp.  With him and Madison both at camp, the house seemed so empty, quiet, I
felt lonely.  I must have cried a bucket of tears.  It wasn’t till the next day
that reality set in.  It really hit me hard.  I thought to myself, wow, I could
have hassle-free shopping sprees, sleep till noon, and eat my meals in peace
without having to break up a fight.  Best of all I was able to have two weeks
of guilt-free, wild and kinky sex with Armando.  You remember him, that Latin
actor I was dating, the one who played the detective in that TV show, Criminal
Justice.  I think we christened every square foot of my Hollywood home,” Cacey
said with a schoolgirl giggle. 

“Anyway, that
happened years ago,” she said.  “The point is you’ll survive and you should try
to take advantage of the situation, if you know what I mean.”  She gave me an
exaggerated wink.  “Speaking of which, aren’t you even a little curious to know
how I found out about your new boyfriend?”

“No.  I just
figured you stopped by the gift shop and my father told you.”

“Hmm, good guess
but no cigar,” Cacey said, with a devious look in her eyes.  “It was Mother
Paula who told me.”

Word of my
dating had spread throughout the Catholic Archdiocese?
 

“A nun told you?” 
I asked, confoundedly.

“No, silly, Mother
Paula is a spiritual advisor, the one I recommended you see for your
men
problems?”

Just as I was
trying to decide which was more ridiculous, her hearing about Gavin from a nun
or a spiritual advisor, Amanda, Cacey’s au pair, appeared in the living room. 
Little three-year-old Emily dressed in a yellow ruffle sundress with daisy
barrettes holding back ringlets of strawberry blonde hair, ran toward Cacey and
jumped in her lap.

“Aubrey, you wanna
see my new shoes?”  Emily said in a squeaky, tiny voice.  Stretching her legs
straight out, she showed off her pink shimmery, floral trimmed, Dora the
Explorer tennis shoes.  “I can put them on all by myself,” she said proudly, as
she leaned forward and pulled back on a bright pink leather daisy to reveal a
Velcro closure. 

“Wow!  You’re like
a big girl now,” I said.  Emily smiled and receded, quickly burying her face in
Cacey’s chest.

“I dropped Spencer
off at Kevin’s and now I’m going to take Emily to the park,” Amanda said,
flipping her long, chestnut hair off her shoulders. 

She was a twenty-year-old
trying to break into modeling, and was so thin her hipbones protruded through
the lightweight fabric of her white low-rise shorts.  Her shoulders were sharp
and angular looking in her navy blue tank top.

“Okay, great.  Oh,
and do me a big favor.  Pick up the dry cleaning on your way back,” Cacey said
lightly, as she gave Emily a kiss goodbye.

“I’ll be right
back,” Cacey said, as she popped to her feet and walked away muttering
something about Julia and my soda, while Ricky, looking sissified with a
ribbon-tied ponytail on top of his head, trotted into the living room.  As I
wondered how some quack mystic, frog toe, snake oil sideshow freak, a.k.a.
spiritual advisor could know anything about Gavin and me I felt something
assault my leg.

What was it with
dogs humping my leg?  I was beginning to feel cheap and tawdry.  “Ricky, no!” 

Just as I’d
finished peeling the dog off my leg, Julia walked into the room.  I took the
glass of soda from her.  “Thank you,” I said, while Ricky growled at my sandal. 
Julia picked the dog up and walked away without uttering a single word.  I
still felt a little spooked by her eerie behavior.  Seconds later, Cacey
returned, her hands anchored on her hips.  “That’s odd, I can’t find Julia.” 

I sighed, thinking
part of the drawback of having a house the size of an office building is there
are too many rooms and one too many hallways.  “She just brought me my soda and
left.  Now, for heaven’s sake, please finish what you started to say.”

“Oh, yeah!”  Cacey
said, as she plopped back down on the sofa next to me.

She rambled on
about her visit with Mother Paula and explained the ways in which Mother Paula
knew intimate details of her life.  What came to mind was the reign of the
self-appointed Queen of Con. Miss Cleo and her gang of hucksters--sued by eight
states and the Federal Government.

“Here’s another
fact,” Cacey said conspiratorially, “people who have sought Mother Paula’s
advice for years, do say her predictions are correct ninety percent of the
time.”  Cacey stated this like somewhere there was research information stashed
in a file drawer backing up the ninety percent error-free theory. 

“But here’s where
you come in,” she said.  “Mother Paula talked about a friend of mine and
described you to a T.  She told me there was a new guy in your life and
described him.  From the reaction I got from you over the phone when I gave you
his description, I knew she was right.  But she did mention there is something
very unusual about this man.  When I asked her what she meant she said she lost
the connection.”

“The connection to
what?”  I asked, thinking what a scam.  It probably would have taken Mother
Paula but a couple of seconds to spark a live wire had a few twenties graced
the palm of her hand. 

“I don’t know, but
here’s the good part.  I’m not just having a luncheon today.  I’m surprising
everyone with a psychic party.  I’ve invited Mother Paula and paid for
everyone’s reading.  So, there you go.  You can ask Mother Paula yourself!”

The information
Cacey gleaned from her session with Mother Paula seemed quite generalized. 
Although I had strange episodes of mind reading, and had communicated with my
dead husband, I certainly didn’t believe in anything as ridiculous as
psychics.  However, I didn’t want to hurt Cacey’s feelings, so I just smiled.

“I knew you’d be
speechless,” she said, as the doorbell echoed.  “I’ll be right back.”  Cacey
bounced to her feet.  “Julia, I’ll get it,” she bellowed and took off to answer
the door.  Not a minute later, I heard Katelyn screech. 

“Oh.  My.  God. 
Those Pradas are to die for!” 

“Yeah, but the
jeweled Rafe Jessica’s you’re wearing are just so cute,” Cacey responded. 
“Love the wedge heel on those sandals.”  They walked into the living room
admiring each other’s shoes, when the doorbell rang again. 

“Okay, you guys
make yourselves comfortable.  Katelyn there’s margaritas in the kitchen,” Cacey
said, as she hurried off to answer the door.