A Lie for a Lie (6 page)

By the time we got in her car, Lucy had already told me my green linen sundress was a shade informal, although my necklace was perfect. Oh, and I should think about getting a few reddish highlights to match the rest of the family. Lucy fills in when my sisters aren’t around.

“You’ve as much as disappeared for three weeks,” she said, pulling into what passes for traffic in our little town. “Go ahead and gripe. I know you want to.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ll turn the floor over to you until we arrive at the Hayworths’. What have you done?”

“Done? What haven’t I done?” I launched in, talking a mile a minute but skipping the basics, which Lucy already knew. After that first meeting, I had been made the assistant and resident errand girl for Grady Barber’s assistant, Fred Handlemann. And while, on the surface, being the assistant to an assistant doesn’t sound that tough, the difficulty has come in the form of one Grady Barber, whose years in Hollywood seem to have removed him so completely from the reality of Emerald Springs, that he believed his wish is our command. He had only to suggest something, and it would be so.

I gulped in more air and tried to finish my list. I was already on the third round of fingers, and not sure I had enough without starting over again. “No pillow top on the hotel mattress. It has to be firm, but not hard, preferably brand new, and he wants six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Oh, in a neutral color, since anything too dark or too bright will keep him awake—”

“He sleeps with the lights on?”

“No, he just lies awake and thinks about them, I guess. But he
does
require a certain kind of night-light, an expensive one with a motion detector. If he gets up to go to the bathroom, he wants to be able to see.”

“He doesn’t travel with this stuff?”

“Of course not. We’re supposed to get it ahead of time and have it in the room. Maybe we’ll auction everything as collector’s items after he leaves. But nothing he wants is cheap.”

I could hear my voice rising, but I went on because Lucy is a good audience, and Ed is heartily sick of my rant. “Then I’m supposed to go over the menu for every single meal he eats. We’ve arranged dinners and parties. I’ve had to talk to every person who’s cooking for him, and go over a list as long as my arm. No meat, and that means no lard in any of the baked goods, and no trans fat to replace it, only canola, soy, or olive oils, and then, only cold-pressed. His personal trainer has advised against dairy, but Grady’s going to be liberal while he’s here and allow about a cup of nonfat milk in his diet each day. It’s my job to add up every drop in any guise to be sure he doesn’t get more.”

I glanced at Lucy, who was trying not to smile. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you? I am not kidding. I have a list of ten vegetables—locally grown without pesticides or chemical fertilizers—that he likes to cycle through each week. I’m supposed to be sure he gets them in a certain order.”

I couldn’t seem to stop, although I doubted Lucy would ever ask me a question again. My personal favorite request—although that changed from day to day—was the list of requirements for the massage therapist who would be at Grady’s beck and call during his time in town. It seems Grady was particularly fond of Ayurvedic Abhyanga massage, in which herbal oils are used to unblock the whatsit from the whosit. Sometimes the therapist hangs from the ceiling, in order to apply extra pressure with his or her tootsies. This, I would not mind witnessing.

“You have no idea how much the manager of the Emerald Springs Hotel and Spa is learning to hate me,” I finished.

“Very shortly we’ll hold a one-day seminar during which you practice saying no. Over and over again.”

“That’s just the personal stuff. Somehow my job’s spilled over to making him happy at the auditorium, too. Finding the right chair, the right variety of spring water, organic fruit for snacks, making certain the temperature is exactly right and no vents are blowing on him, making certain no lights are shining in his eyes. He has to be completely comfortable so he can make our contestants as uncomfortable as possible.”

“I can’t believe you’ve stuck it out.”

Despite her words Lucy knew why I was putting up with this. Not just because I was learning that I’m good at taking care of details. Not just because I am determined to make sure Emerald Springs can offer the kind of pediatric care a town like ours needs. But because suddenly, my own daughter is involved in the Emerald Springs Idyll.

“Deena,” I said.

She nodded. “I know. I have days when I look at your girls and wish I had kids, too. Then there are days when I’m glad I don’t.”

I had been completely taken by surprise that my daughter wanted to try out for the Idyll, much less that she would be “good” enough to make it to the next round. Deena has a host of talents, none of which is best displayed on a stage. Still, without warning me, one week ago she and four of her best friends showed up at the first round of auditions, garbed in the trademark outrageous and far-too-provocative clothing of the Spice Girls. They had chosen the Spice Girls hit “Wannabe,” which was popular about the time Deena was learning to talk. Unfortunately somebody else’s mother had listened to AM radio. A lot. Probably to help survive the terrible twos.

Luckily Deena had snatched the role of Sporty, and though her tank top was tight and way too short, at least the sweatpants hid most of the rest of her developing body. The same could not be said of Carlene O’Grady, known these days as Ginger, whose spangled dress was shorter than her panties. Make that thong.

Thongs!

“I tell myself failure will be good for her,” I said. “I assure myself Grady Barber will let the girls down easily. And I did refuse to let her dye her hair brown like the real Sporty’s, so hopefully there won’t be any lasting traumas.”

Lucy was nodding sympathetically. “I saw Deena at the swimming pool with her friends. She told me she tried out for fun, that they were just dressing up and fooling around at somebody’s sleepover and decided to see what happened.”

Now this is the thing about honorary aunts. They learn all the secrets mothers are never privy to. But I had suspected the “Price” Girls—as the group calls itself—had come about like this, much the way many of the others who’d tried out had put together their acts. With little thought and lots of moxie.

During the first round of tryouts I’d been in and out of the high school auditorium, consulting with Veronica and the committee, and wheedling favors from the adolescent stagehands. This had been the round that winnowed the wheat from the chaff, using the judging talents of an Emerald College professor, a choral director from the next county, and the proprietor of a Columbus dinner theater.

The first round had seen some amazing performances. A worker from the county pound had arrived with three mutts who sat on the stage barking dutifully at his off-key rendition of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” The barking had been the high point, although all three dogs had been quickly adopted.

We’d seen acrobats whose cartwheels looked like they were on a harrowing trip down a mountainside. Magicians with bunnies that could not be found in top hats or anywhere else on stage. Tap dancers who couldn’t tell heel from sole, and ballerinas with double-jointed toes. When Deena and her friends arrived, bright-eyed, giggly, and occasionally in sync as they spun, swung their arms, and pointed their fingers, the judges had perked up. Deena’s flip over her friend Tara’s back had probably won the day. The fact that only a few of the girls could belt out anything approximating a tune hadn’t fazed anybody.

“She got the role of Sporty Price because she was the only girl who could do a flip. The others said they would lose without her,” Lucy finished.

“I wonder what else she’ll do in the coming years because somebody else tells her how important she is?”

“You don’t really want an answer to that, do you?”

I didn’t. “They were invited to attend the party tonight, but luckily they decided it was for old fogeys like me.”

Lucy parked her Concorde in a narrow space on the street that nobody else had been foolish enough to take. “In the years ahead I’ll be here for you, Ag. I promise.”

The party wasn’t starting for another half hour. Maybe I was just developing Veronica’s habit of showing up early for meetings and other events, so I could be firmly in control when they started, but I really did have to check with the caterer one last time. I also had to check all the floral arrangements to be sure there were no lilies. Lilies make Grady sneeze. Lucy had agreed to help with that and with making sure the French black olives with herbs that are Grady’s favorites sat in bowls on the bar where he could easily spot them. I draw the line at dropping them into his mouth.

Veronica’s maid answered the door, dressed the way she had every time I’d been here. Not being familiar with maids, I had wondered if there was a cocktail party uniform, something frillier and lower cut. I was disappointed.

“Hi, Winona,” I said. “Are you ready for the onslaught?”

Either Winona is not an affectionate soul, or she’s afraid Veronica will fire her if she’s seen smiling on the security cameras. Last week she did tell me her first name, which was like prying a pearl out of an oyster, but she still refuses to call me by mine. She opened the door wider and ushered us inside, but I actually saw her glance at the guest list first.

I introduced Lucy, and Winona gave the slightest of nods. “Shall I take you in, or do you want to find your own way?”

“We’ll follow the noise. Good luck with everything.”

Her nostrils flared. I figured that was answer enough.

I headed for the kitchen. Veronica’s house always looks like it’s ready for a formal dinner for fifty, but today I could see the subtle differences. More flowers. Shinier surfaces. Even the dust was dusted.

Men and women in bow ties and stylish vests bustled by. Caterer’s staff, perhaps, or bartenders, or even the valets who would park cars in a church lot half a mile away. Veronica is a member of that particular church. I’d had more than one occasion in the last weeks to say prayers of thanksgiving that she isn’t a member of ours.

We turned a corner and Veronica was there, giving credence to my growing feeling that she, like most versions of the Almighty, can be everywhere at once.

“I am so glad you’ve arrived. I was beginning to worry.” She glanced at Lucy, then back at me. “And you brought a helper. How nice to see you, Lucy.”

Since Lucy and Veronica’s husband are rivals, I waited for teeth to be bared, but both women behaved. Veronica clearly knew Lucy’s broker and all the agents were giving a large donation to the hospital—which was why Lucy was on the guest list.

“Lucy’s going to do some last-minute checks for me,” I explained.

“And you’ll do one more check with the caterer?”

Veronica was resplendent in a long, red Asian cheongsam that set off her black hair and high cheekbones. Her husband, in addition to having a successful realty, had been the only child of millionaires who had already departed this life. That inheritance showed tonight, in the imported embroidered silk as well as everything around us.

“I have a new list of forbidden foods.” I’d gotten it from my purse and now I waved it at her.

“But it’s too late to change the menu.”

“I know, but I can make sure he isn’t served the things that aren’t on his diet.”

“Grady was always such a picky eater.” She smiled fondly. “The school cafeteria was a horror for him. He rarely ate lunch. Oh, we are so lucky to have him back here. After all his success. After everything he’s done and become. I’m still just so amazed he agreed.”

Even though I’m a minister’s wife, there is little I wouldn’t do to make the kind of money we’re paying for a small outlay of Grady Barber’s time. But I knew better than to say so. This was Veronica’s night. She was Lady Bountiful and Mother Teresa rolled into one, the savior of our town’s children, the woman who was giving us a new pediatric wing, as well as something fun to think about during the hottest, driest summer on record.

“Well, let me go and do my part to make sure everything’s perfect,” I said.

“I’m sure it will be.” She dazzled us with her smile. “It had better be . . .”

Was this meant as a threat? Could a threat be delivered after such an extravagant display of pearly whites? I really didn’t know what Veronica could do to me if a mistake had been made. But not feeling inclined to find out, I smiled, too, and bolted for the kitchen, leaving Lucy to patrol for lilies.

The kitchen was simmering with activity. The caterer, a young woman named Joan, who’d probably cursed her career choice a hundred times since winning this contract, nodded in my direction. Her assistant—equally young and fresh-faced—rolled his eyes as I strode in with the new list.

“Before you say a word,” I warned, “I’ll read this latest fax, then we’ll figure out what not to serve Grady. You don’t have to change a thing. We just have to warn the servers.”

“How could anybody’s diet change this radically from day to day?” Joan asked.

“Passive aggressive behavior,” the assistant muttered.

I tried to be charitable. “Grady’s used to having his way. He’s just out of the habit of being sensible.”

“A narcissist. Or a sociopath.”

“Studying psychology, are we?”

“It doesn’t take a degree.”

Since I’d had the same thoughts, I shot him a smile and unfurled my list. “No shallots.” I looked up and saw no reaction. This might go better than I’d feared. “No porcini mushrooms . . .”

Five minutes later I was on my way. The servers would be warned not to present the stuffed mushrooms to the guest of honor, and the spinach dip would go home with Joan. Veronica hadn’t paid for a spinach dip bodyguard, and putting a Grady Beware sign beside it might detract from the carefully orchestrated atmosphere.