Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (13 page)

She sipped her coffee and stared at the photos. A whole weekend without them. Once that thought would have seemed like heaven. Today it was frightening. Would Anne-Elizabeth behave herself? Would Brad and Peter fight and get on Monica’s nerves?

The phone jangling at her elbow startled her.

“Lookin’ good, babe.”

“How can you tell, Mitch?”

“You haven’t forgotten rehearsal tonight, have you?”

“Mitch, I went over all this with your uncle. We aren’t doing anything new, and I really don’t have time—”

“Well, it’s like this, Cecilia. Since Uncle Stan left me in charge, I decided to do a few new numbers. Some fun stuff, for April Fools’, you know?”

Cecilia felt a jab of apprehension. “What are you trying to pull, Mitchell Delaney?”

“Pull? Me?” Even over the telephone, the trumpeter’s voice lacked the innocence he was striving for.

“And besides... I really don’t want to sing that night. I’m not sure that I’ll be available,” she hedged.

“Cecilia, you can’t leave me high and dry at this late date! How would I ever replace you? Besides, nobody else has your versatility, and that’s paramount at this point.”

“I’m sure you’d manage.” But even as she said the words, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Who was she trying to kid? She needed the money too badly to pass up the opportunity. And what was one more rehearsal, one more night? “Okay, what time are we on for tonight?”

“We won’t need you till 9:30. Does that give you enough time to take care of your kids?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.” She hung up. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Stan was always content to do the same material, over and over again. If anything, he was a little too stuck in his rut. But Mitch... no telling what songs he had in mind.

Well, two could play at that game. There was a particular song that had been driving her crazy lately…

She headed for the stereo and flipped through her albums until she had three in her hand. Which rendition did she want to hear—Garland, Streisand or Ronstadt?

Sitting cross-legged in front of the stereo, she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. '“
I’m wild again, beguiled again... a quivering, shivering child again
...’”

The telephone rang three times before she forced herself to cut off the music and answer. Impatient at the interruption, she responded with a breathless “Hello.”

“Well, I’ve received more enthusiastic greetings in my day.”

“Jeff,” she said, immediately straightening on the bar stool. “Hi, what’s up?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you, kid. Do you think you could get away for dinner tonight? I have a client to entertain, and he’s bringing his wife. I thought maybe you’d enjoy some time out from the heathens.”

Her mood settled even deeper into the doldrums. “Sorry, I can’t. I have a rehearsal.”

“Well, it was worth a try. Maybe I could drop by afterward.”

Mitchell Delaney, I could strangle you! She dug her nails into a coffee-stained dish towel and choked back a “yes,” settling instead for a dispirited “I wish you could, too, but there’s absolutely no way. I’ll be out until the wee hours.”

“Maybe next time.” He sounded as disappointed as she was. “How often do you have to do this—stay out so late on a week night? What do you do about the kids?”

“It happens pretty often, I suppose, though Stan lets me skip out on rehearsals as often as he can. I have a high school girl who comes in when I need her.”

Jeff’s chuckle sent a warm current bubbling through her veins. Lord, what she wouldn’t do to be able to spend a few hours, a few minutes even, with him. But she closed her eyes and thought of the money she’d be making from Mitch’s gig.

“I’m flying down to Houston for three days around the first of the month. I guess that’s next week, isn’t it?”

Her spirits plummeted further, and she rubbed her throbbing temples. Just as well she hadn’t backed out of the convention.

“Cecil,” His voice dropped a few decibels. “I wish there were some way I could do this in person, but I can’t, so… consider yourself kissed.”

“Ditto,” she replied. And then, on a gentle sigh, she added, “Thanks. I needed that.”

Cecilia entered the church basement where Stan’s band practiced, and blinked in surprise. The usual group had swelled to almost twice its dozen members, and from the youth and wild appearance of the extra musicians, it appeared Mitch had drafted some of his friends from the university.

“Hey, babe, lookin’ good,” he greeted her, showing her to the stool and mike in front of the band. “Perfect timing. We’re ready for you. Hope you’re a quick study.”

He shoved a notebook filled with sheet music at her and turned back to the band. “Okay, from the top.”

The blaring brass introduction, along with a grinding rhythm suggestive of speakeasies and burlesque, almost knocked her off the stool. “What in the world?” she asked, but Mitch didn’t hear her over the music. She opened the folder to find the vocals for “Minnie the Moocher” on top.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded. But then a giggle rose from her throat. Stan would absolutely die if he had any idea. When her cue came, she was helplessly in tears, laughing harder than she had in a long time. Somehow she choked out the first few bars, then slid into the mood.

By the time they got to the chorus of “Hidy-hidy-hidy-hoes” her reservations had melted away, and the band members were repeating each line with unleashed enthusiasm. They finished on a blaring high note, then burst into hoots and applause.

“You know,” Mitch said regretfully when the tumult had died down, “I really wanted to do 'Just a Gigilo,’ but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off with a female singer.”

“Thank goodness for small favors,” Cecilia retorted, reaching for a tall glass of water. “Mitch, I hate to tell you this, but one more like that and I won’t have any vocal chords left.”

“Okay. Once through was plenty. And we’ll save it for late—the foot doctors’ll be more in the mood for it after a few drinks under their belts, anyway.”

The podiatrists had no idea what they were in for.
 

~o0o~

Jeff had originally entered Fiona’s Shear Ecstasy establishment with an apprehensive shudder. But after seven years of sharing the same office building and handling all Fiona’s financial records from her divorces to her taxes to her buy-out of the salon, he had grown accustomed to her particular brand of panache. Pushing through the stained glass doors, he was relieved to see the back of Fiona’s blond, corkscrewed head. At least he wouldn’t have to risk Trevor and his punk scissors.

“Ready?” Jeff asked.

She nodded and gestured Jeff back to the shampoo room. Minutes later he was just settling into the yellow contoured chair in her bay, when Fiona appeared over his shoulder in the mirror, gleaming scissors in hand. “The usual?”

“The usual.”

“Oh, you conservative accountant types are no fun at all. With this hair, I could do magnificent things.” She fingered a damp, curly tendril. “It’s sinful. Just sinful.”

“The usual,” Jeff repeated firmly.

Fiona combed and clipped, spritzing with an occasional squirt of water, jabbering nonstop about her love life, her financial woes, her astrological forecast.

“How’s your little girl?” Jeff interrupted suddenly. Fiona stopped in mid-clip, mid-sentence, mid-breath. Her blue eyes widened in mock-shock and her mouth formed a perfect circle of surprise. “Why, Jeff, is this a personal interest you’re taking, after all these years?”

Flaming color crept up his neck and flooded his face. “I didn’t mean... I mean, I didn’t mean to say...”

Fiona tossed her blond head back and crowed with laughter. “Don’t lose your breakfast, sweets. You just caught me off guard. I imagine you remember every detail of my financial affairs, but somehow I never figured you’d remember Brandi.” She snipped a little more, then winked. “And she’s just fine, thank you. Gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. I’m thinking about placing her with an agency, letting her do some modeling.”

It was Jeff’s turn for dismay. “How old is she?”

“Four-and-a-half. Five in October. Blond hair, blue eyes...” Fiona grinned. “A winning combination if ever there was one.”

“Who keeps her while you work?”

Fiona’s eyes clouded. “A day-care center, right now. She was staying with a neighbor, but it didn’t work out.”

“But you’re home nights.”

“Are you kidding?” She swept a wisp of hair out of her eyes and began snipping the other side of his head. “Since Ramon quit, I’ve been opening and closing every day except Mondays, and I always work out on Monday nights— exercise to keep the mind healthy, wealthy and strong.”

“Hmm.” He thought of Cecil, whose turbulent schedule kept her life turned upside down, and how she managed to cope without shortchanging anybody, except maybe herself.

“Well, surely you’re going to explain why the sudden interest. Are you thinking of investing in a day-care center or something?”

“Not hardly.”

Fiona snatched the drape from his shoulders with a flourish. “Finis. And this time I’ve outdone myself.”

Jeff felt a twinge of panic. “What do you mean?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I do believe that curly little tail adds just the right touch.”

“What?”

She gave the chair a spin and slapped a mirror into his hand as he reached behind and felt his customary smooth neckline.

“April Fool.”

Jeff had written the check and was halfway through the door, when he stopped, spun and said, “April Fool?”

Fiona cocked her head. “Yes?”

“Damn, how could I have forgotten?” he demanded.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she deadpanned back.

“Well, what am I going to do?”

Fiona stroked her cheek with a long, emerald-tipped fingernail, then shrugged. His time was up; her next client was already grabbing the chair.

Ten minutes later, in his office, he had reassigned the Houston trip to McVay.

Jeff considered the departure of one of his most precious accounts with a shudder of apprehension, but not because McVay couldn’t handle it. She could. What bothered him was that turning it over to her was so easy. Canceling the trip to Houston was easy. Wrecking his schedule for the entire weekend was easy.

He wasn’t acting like himself at all.

April Fool, indeed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CECILIA STEPPED FROM the hotel’s service elevator and wove her way among tall, multitiered serving carts and bustling waiters to reach the grand ballroom where the podiatrists were in the midst of their banquet. Once she pushed through the swinging doors, the behind-the-scenes bustle of the hotel staff took a sharp turn to the elegant. A colossal chandelier illuminated the immense room with subdued splendor; the carpet was thick, plush green, patterned with gold fleurs-de-lis. A hundred candlelit tables occupied by conventioneers and their spouses surrounded the gleaming parquet dance floor on three sides, and the stage rose behind the fourth.

“Ooh-la-la!” Mitch’s eyes twinkled and he held his arms wide, a baton in one hand, a gleaming silver trumpet in the other, as Cecilia stepped onto the bandstand. “Cecilia, you’re wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Cecilia said primly, fluffing her curls with her red-lacquered nails. The black feather boa she’d snatched from the back of her closet on a whim fluttered with every movement, tickled her neck with the slightest breeze.

Mitch tipped his stout torso toward his trumpet case and produced a tissue-wrapped parcel from within the old-fashioned mute. “For you, my lady.”

The distinctive fragrance hit her before she’d uncovered the creamy white petals. “A gardenia. Why, Mitch, how... how quaint.” Her lashes fluttered and she laughed to hide the catch in her throat. A flower, tonight of all nights, was fitting. She pinned it high on the shoulder of her contour-fitting, black satin dress, then spun in a half circle, relishing the swirl of the gored satin skirt striking her at mid-calf.

“You look ravishing,” he said expansively. “Straight out of the forties.” He tapped his baton on the music stand, and gradually the band quieted from its subtle, warming-up sounds to an expectant silence.

Dishes clattered and glasses clinked in the background. Voices murmured and laughter crackled as the podiatrists and their spouses, sated and wined, lingered over their last evening before dispersing to the four corners of the nation.

Cecilia stood at the microphone and adjusted her boa. Contrary to custom, Mitch was foregoing the usual instrumental dance tune intended to lure the more dedicated or attention-seeking dancers onto the floor. Instead she heard his low-voiced, “One, two, one, two, three, four,” and four bars of rousing intro. It was up to her.
 

She stepped forward and flung her arms wide, then gave her shoulders a seductive shimmy. “’Come on, baby, let the good times roll!”
 

Startled faces angled up at her as the blaring music shattered the serene mood. She lowered her lids snapped her fingers, and let a sultry half smile curve her lips as she continued, "'
Come on, baby, let me thrill your soul
...”