Second Chance Love (7 page)

“Are you worried that Mother is going to be there? There’s no need. She’ll be seventy-seven this summer and she’s mellowed out a lot these last few years. The only meanness in her is that she loves to gossip.”

“I’m sure. I just remember being uncomfortable around her. She always looked at me like I had lice or something. Let me ask you this: How was she with other girls you’ve dated?”

Steve clicked the unlock button on his keychain and opened the passenger door for Elizabeth, then jogged around the front and got in. “Well, there haven’t really been
a lot of other girls. I never dated anyone else seriously. Sometimes, it would be important that I escort someone to an event, and Mother would usually fix me up with the daughter of one of her friends…”

Exactly. One of
her
friends. Someone with money, or status, or both.

“… but it never came to anything.”

The Winterland Gala was held at the Men’s Athletic Club downtown, which was less than a five-minute drive from Maybelle’s. They pulled off 7
^th
Avenue into a line of limousines and luxury cars. As soon as they came to a stop, a young man hustled up to the car, opened the driver’s door and said, “Good evening, Mr. Larson. Good to see you again.”

“Evening, Dennis,” Steve said. As he got out, they shook hands. Elizabeth noticed that a bill had materialized and transferred with the handshake.
I guess in his world, that's a necessary skill,
thought Elizabeth, as an older man dressed in a red uniform and cap opened her door. The man offered a hand, but Steve said, “Hello, Jenkins, I’ve got this one.”

“Very good, sir.”

After turning the car over to the valets, Steve put an arm lightly around Elizabeth’s waist, resting his right hand just above her hip. “They’ve been serving cocktails since seven, so some people might be tipsy already. I’ve seen these events get a little crazy, believe it or not.” They walked up the steps to the four sets of double glass doors. “Right through here, Lizzie, then the Gala is in the main ballroom.”

Inside the front doors, the entryway had a surprisingly low ceiling. With all the people milling around, the cold air from outside meeting the overheated air inside, and the aroma of hundreds of different perfumes and colognes, Elizabeth felt a touch of claustrophobia. Steve kept his arm around her, guiding her through small islands of staring people who all seemed to know him. Elizabeth looked at the way all the other women were dressed, in off-the-runway fashions and the latest accessories, and remembered that her own clothing was secondhand.
No wonder they're all staring. I must stand out like a bodice-ripper in the Self-Help section.

Steve said, “I’m going to check my overcoat. Would you like me to take your wrap?”

Elizabeth considered, then said “No, thank you, I’ll keep it in case it gets cold later on.

Steve nodded and disappeared into the throng of tuxedos and stick-thin women in aggressively plunging necklines. Elizabeth shifted from one foot to another and tried to think about the J.D. Robb book she had started the day before.

“Well, hello. Who are you, waltzing in on the arm of our Steve, the most eligible bachelor in town?”

It was a tall, lithe, blonde woman, smiling to show perfect teeth. She was tanned, dressed, augmented and aerobicized into social perfection. Before Elizabeth could reply, the new arrival continued: “But, where are my manners? I’m Chelsea Stanton, an old friend of Steve’s…”

Elizabeth took a breath to answer when she felt Steve’s arm once again slide around her waist.

“Hello, Chelsea. Elizabeth, this is Chelsea Stanton. Chelsea, Elizabeth Coleman. I know that Lizzie looks young, but she’s a very old friend. In fact, you might remember that she was my best friend when we were growing up and all through high school.”

“Oh. Lizzie, is it?” Chelsea asked.

“Steve is the only person that’s ever called me that. Elizabeth is fine.”

“Fine. Elizabeth it is then…”

The amplified voice of the local NBC-affiliate weatherman came over the loudspeakers above them. “Good evening, folks, this is Thom Goodson, everybody’s favorite precipitation prognosticator. The cocktail hour is almost over, and the live auction will begin in just a few minutes, so let’s start making our way to our seats.”

“Goodbye, Chelsea, we’re going in.”

"Such a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth," said Chelsea in a voice that managed to be both perky and silky.

The grand ballroom was better designed than the entryway, with a higher ceiling and better air circulation. At one end of the ballroom, an elevated stage held a seven-piece orchestra that was tuning up. Before the stage was a podium, with room set aside for a dance floor. Tables around the sides and back of the room held various items and envelopes. The ballroom's interior was full of round tables with white linen cloths, each with eight chairs. Some brain trust had sprinkled bright confetti onto each table, topping each with a floral centerpiece and a sign saying, "Let's help those who can't...Read!"

A tall, florid, overweight man waving to them from a table in the middle of the room. Steve leaned in, just loud enough to be heard over the band's warm-up cacophony. “That’s Jim Scott. I committed to buying a whole table’s worth of seats, so I invited him and his wife to sit with us. Jim’s one of my field agents. In fact, he gave me the lead that brought me to that Christmas tree lot. If it wasn’t for him, I might have never found you again. Except for some odd ideas about property values, he's a good guy. His wife is very down-to-earth.”

“Who else is sitting with us?”

“Oh, no one else, just Jim and his wife.”

“But you bought the whole table?”

“Yep, it’s the price of admission. It’s for a good cause.”

“How much was it to reserve a table?” Elizabeth asked.

“$500 per seat, but it all goes to the charity. I could have invited some other people from the company, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you with having to remember everyone’s names. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

Upon doing the math, Elizabeth realized that tonight would buy a lot of books for inner city kids, which was a good thing.
Meanwhile, back at Coleman Manor, we debate important financial management issues, like 'is it worth it to pay the extra pennies for two-ply toilet paper?'

Steve reached down and took hold of Elizabeth’s hand, giving it a little squeeze as they worked their way around the tables to their own seats. They slowed down as they passed one table of elderly ladies sporting far too much jewelry.

“Mother, I’m sure you remember Lizzie.” Elizabeth certainly recognized her, even with twenty years of character lines: strong jaw, piercing eyes and quick, birdlike gestures.

“Yes. Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Mrs. Larson. Nice to see you again.”

“Yes. You too…”

Steve kissed the air beside her cheek. “See you, Mother. We’re off to our own table.”

They soon reached the table bearing a large gilt-lettered placard: Larson Industries & Investments. Steve said, “Elizabeth, this is Jim Scott and his wife Helen. This is Elizabeth.” Jim and Helen both stood and smiled, welcoming her. Steve pulled out the chair next to Helen Scott, and Elizabeth sat down.

Less than two minutes later, a tuxedoed waiter appeared. “What would you care to drink?”

Steve said, “Glenfiddich, neat.”

“Very good, sir, and you, ma’am?”

Elizabeth thought back to the two glasses of champagne she’d had with Gail, which were two glasses more than she normally drank in most years. “Just water, please.”

“Very good, ma'am.” Jim asked Steve about his trip to Japan, and that conversation continued until the waiter returned with a small whisky glass, a bottle of Perrier, and a glass of ice. He set the latter two before Elizabeth with professional grace.

I didn't ask for Perrier. What was that waiter thinking? Of course. Tap water is for the great unwashed.
Elizabeth poured some, pretending that each sip did not equal a dime.

Helen reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Well, you certainly know how to cause a stir.”

“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth said.

“As far as being the information superhighway, the Internet’s got nothing on the gossips in this room. You two weren’t even inside the building yet when the place was buzzing about the beautiful woman who showed up with Steve. I’m glad you’re here. The old bitches need something to talk about and get their blood pumping, or it starts to congeal. Plus, you’ve given Chelsea Stanton something to worry about. She’s been trying to bag Steve for ten years. Unsuccessfully, but she never gives up.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, “but…”

The lights dimmed and a white spotlight lit the dais, occupied by the telegenic Thom Goodson. “Good evening, friends, and welcome to the 32
^nd
Annual Winterland Gala,” he boomed.

Loud applause echoed through the room as the band played a few jaunty notes.

Thom held his hand up as though he couldn’t stand that much positive feedback so soon. “Man, it was cold out today, wasn’t it?”

Much of the audience shouted in unison, “How cold was it?”

Thom feigned surprise, then leaned into the microphone and delivered one of his many familiar punchlines. “It was so cold out, the aldermen had their hands in their own pockets.” Groans outnumbered laughs by a wide margin.

“But seriously, we’re here for a great cause tonight—raising money to build libraries and improve literacy programs in the inner city.” He paused for several seconds to let the applause die down again. “Around the room tonight, you’ll see tables with items up for bid in the Silent Auction. You’ll have until eleven o'clock to enter a bid on the sheet on each table. We’ve had so many wonderful items donated tonight that we’re going to split the live auction into two parts, with a quick intermission in the middle. I’ve been blessed to be the Master of Ceremonies for many years, and I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen a slate like we’ve got tonight. Let’s get started!”

The house lights came up, and a pretty young girl in a spangled dress sashayed onto center stage holding a poster over her head depicting a yacht. Thom boomed out the description: an opportunity to ride on the Jensen family’s yacht on the opening day of boating season, picnic lunch included. Bidding was spirited, finally topping out at $1400.

Steve and Elizabeth sat quietly, watching the bids and laughing on the rare occasions Thom Goodson said something authentically funny.

“Ohhhh, this one is something special,” Thom Goodson intoned. The young girl swayed a poster of an elegant bungalow back and forth overhead, beaming all around. “Look what we’ve got next! It’s a weekend for two from Mr. and Mrs. Mulberry, the owners of The Cottage Grove
,
the most exclusive bed and breakfast within 500 miles.” He adjusted his glasses to read the smaller print on the card. “It sits on fifty private acres with green rolling hills, a tranquil, stream-fed pond with swimming swans and… Oh, my. Really? Yes, it says it right here. Not only will you get to stay at The Cottage Grove,
but it will be over Valentine’s Day weekend, and the Mulberry’s will not book any other guests that weekend. Luxury, privacy, romance, what more could you ask? The Mulberrys have put a value of $2,500 on this package, but surely we can do better than that? Yes? What do we have for an opening bid?”

Steve raised his bid paddle and said “Five thousand dollars.”

A small ripple of applause went through the crowd.

“Fifty-one hundred,” a woman’s voice declared. Chelsea.

All right, Chelsea. Let's see how well you play.
Steve shrugged, smiled, and raised his paddle again. “Six thousand dollars.”

Heads were beginning to wag as if they'd stumbled into a Wimbledon tennis match. They swung to look at Chelsea. “Sixty-one hundred,” she said.