The Cinderella Hour (13 page)

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, you were right. I have to go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I just have to—”

“
Wait
, Snow.
Please.
Listen to me. You’re very
sad. I can hear it. I’m very sad, too. We should be sad together. Shouldn’t we?”

“You could be sad with . . .”

“With who?”

“Anyone.”

“I want to be sad with you. Okay? I’ll come home as soon as I
can.”

“You have to swim.”

“I have to be with you. I
will
be. O’Hare is supposed
to reopen in the morning. I’ll get myself on the first flight out. I’ll be with
you tomorrow afternoon. Okay?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does
. Promise me, Snow,
promise me
you’ll wait for me.
Promise you won’t go anywhere until we’ve had a chance to talk to each other
face-to-face.”

“You can stay until the end of the meet.”

“You’ll be there when I return?”

“Yes.”

“You promise? Snow?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s already gone.”

“Why don’t I call Mrs. Evans?”

“Why?”

“To be with you until I get there.”

“I already called Vivian.”

“Vivian?”

“Yes.”

“She’s agreed to be with you?”

“I just left a message. She might be trying to call now. I
should go.”

“
Wait
. Snow. You’re scaring me.”

“Scaring?”

“You sound so . . . different.”

“I’m tired.”

“And sad.”

“Sad.” Snow echoed the single syllable as if it was a word
she didn’t know.

“I’ll be with you soon. We’ll get through this sadness
together. I promise.”

It was a promise Luke Kilcannon would move heaven and earth
to keep. He
was
on the first flight from LAX to O’Hare. He
didn’t
stay till the end of the meet.

But it was a promise Luke couldn’t keep alone.

Snow had to fulfill her pledge as well.

She didn’t.

Within an hour of his phone call she left Quail Ridge.

Harvest
Moon Ball

Wind
Chimes Hotel

Saturday,
October
29

7
:
00
p.m.

Upon returning to Quail Ridge,
following college and veterinary school, Mira discovered something she would
never have guessed and which she felt sure would annoy Vivian no end. She was
forever being mistaken—from a distance—for Vivian herself. Mira was seven inches
taller than Vivian. Willowy, not petite. And, at least not by any parameter she
could see, she wasn’t simply a stretched taffy version of her sister—a Vivian,
supersized.

True, their hair was roughly the same length, and both had a
habit of pulling it back, or up. But Mira’s was auburn, not mink-brown, and her
eyes were a different shade of green.

None of which seemed to matter from a distance, any more than
it mattered that jeans were a wardrobe staple for Mira and Vivian wouldn’t be
caught dead in less than St. John . . . or that Mira’s idea of makeup was a
splash of lipstick here, a flick of mascara there, and Vivian’s look was
perfection from foundation up.

Trumping all else, apparently, were the Larken bones, the
infrastructure upon which the intricacies of DNA—and life—had layered two quite
distinct faces.

But from a distance, the patrician bones were all anyone saw.

Mira had no idea if Vivian ever heard a shout of “Mira!” from
across a parking lot, followed by the happy news that Mindy, Duchess, or
Truffles was recovering nicely from whatever veterinary ailment had prompted a
recent visit.

If so, such encounters had to be rare. Of the two, Vivian was
by far the better known. So it was to Vivian’s embarrassed friends that Mira
was constantly offering the assurance that, as strange as it seemed up close,
she was mistaken for Vivian all the time.

As she and Blaine neared the Starlight Ballroom, Mira told
him about the awkward misidentifications that would inevitably occur.

“It’s going to be more frequent than usual,” she said, “with
me dressed like this and mingling with you in a crowd where Vivian’s expected
to be.”

“Lots of false positives?”

“Zillions of them. You’ll see.”

He did see, immediately. With amusement, Mira thought. And
without either irritation or surprise.

Still, after the third “Vivian—oh!” in as many minutes, she
announced, “I’m flying solo.”

“I’m losing another dance partner?”

“Vivian would kill me if I danced with you.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a wonderful dancer, as you know. And I’m not. Any
of her friends who happened to see us from a distance would assume she was
falling-down drunk. So intoxicated, in fact, they’d steer clear of us and never
realize their mistake. I can’t do that to Vivian. Or you.” And there was
something else. The idea of dancing with her brother-in-law felt uncomfortable
to Mira. Similar to providing him with a verbatim recital of the obscene phone
calls she had received. Not desperately uncomfortable, she decided. Not a deep-seated
psychological issue she needed to explore. But a reason, another reason, to
extricate herself from Blaine. “When you’re ready to leave, you’ll find me by
asking someone, anyone, where they last spotted your wife.”

Mira waggled her fingers goodbye as Blaine was smiling a
polite hello to a colleague.

Then she followed the signs to the parlor adjacent to the
ballroom where the auction was underway.

Each item’s current bid was displayed on an electronic tote
board. To top the existing bid, you spoke to any of five auctioneers, all of
whom worked in Grace Memorial Hospital’s fundraising office.

The current bid for ninety on-air minutes with Snow Gable was
twenty-five thousand dollars. An asterisk indicated it was a write-in bid, an
option Mira had herself considered. She wouldn’t have bid twenty-five, however,
and she had come up with an alternate plan anyway. A preferable plan, she had thought,
until learning of Vivian’s antipathy toward Snow. If the feelings were mutual,
Snow might well refuse a meeting with anyone named Larken.

“Hi,” she greeted a smiling auctioneer. “I’d like to make a
bid.”

“Wonderful,” the woman replied. “And thank you. I’ll need
your name, address, and phone number.”

“Miranda Larken.”

“Larken?”

Snow might have problems with the name. The hospital’s
fundraiser did not.

“Yes. I’m a veterinarian in Quail Ridge.” Mira handed her a
business card she had designed online, a collaborative effort with Bea. The
text, in teal, framed the clip-art graphic, in gold, of two puppies snuggling
with a kitten.

“Cute.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what item were you interested in?”

“Actually, I was hoping to propose a new one. I’d like to
donate fifteen thousand dollars for an off-air meeting with Snow Gable. She and
I have never met, though we’re both from Quail Ridge. I’m hoping she’ll be
willing to let me treat her to lunch. I’m not a madwoman, I promise. Or a
celebrity stalker.”

“I’m sure you’re not!”

“Thank you. Still, she would probably feel most comfortable
meeting in a place of her choosing. She’ll be working in the Towers. We could
meet at one of the restaurants there. Or, if she prefers, at a restaurant here in
the hotel.”

“She might enjoy one of those charming bistros in Quail
Ridge.”

“That would be fine, too.” As long as neither Luke nor Vivian
wandered by. Or any of Vivian’s many friends. Mistaking Mira for Vivian, they
would flock to the table, and, because they knew far more about Vivian than
Mira did, they would see she was dining with Vivian’s archnemesis Snow. Lunch
in Quail Ridge was not in the cards. But, in the interest of tossing no
obstacles in the auctioneer’s path, Mira said, “Wherever she’d like to meet works
for me. And as to whenever, I’ll be happy to arrange my clinic schedule to
accommodate hers.”

“This is very generous of you, Dr. Larken, especially since I’m
sure she would be delighted to meet with you anyway.”

“We’re all here to make money for the hospital.”

“Yes, we are. And, from what I understand, Ms. Gable feels
strongly about helping with our fundraising efforts. It may be midweek before I
can get back to you on this. She was supposed to arrive in Chicago ten days
ago, on the nineteenth. But she was unavoidably delayed. It was going to be
late last night or early this morning before she actually made it. She may be
at the ball. She was going to try. It’s probably best to defer discussing this
with her until she’s gotten settled in at WCHM.”

“There you are!”

Snow smiled at the enthusiastic greeting. It came from Helen
Wong, the WCHM producer assigned to
The Cinderella Hour
. They had met when
Snow flew in to talk with her future co-workers—and to find a place to live—and
had exchanged emails and phone calls since.

Snow looked forward to working with Helen. And it was nice to
be welcomed so warmly within seconds of setting a high-heeled foot on the hotel’s
gala top floor.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not. It’s terrific of you to make an appearance at
all. You must be exhausted. What time did you finally get here?”

“About five this morning. And I’m fine. Although I may not
last until midnight.”

“No problem. I just ran into Dr. Blaine Prescott. He’s the
psychiatrist I contacted about the postpartum depression interview. I think I
told you I’ve worked with him before and was hoping we’d be able to get him
this time. In addition to making medical information comprehensible to a lay
audience, he’s a nationally recognized authority on women’s mental health.”

“Women’s?”

“He’s knowledgeable on all aspects of psychiatry, of course.
But his primary area of interest is mental health in women. He considers it a
distinct specialty. The interaction of our hormones with neurotransmitters such
as serotonin is unique, he says, and should be viewed that way. He’s happy to
be on
The Cinderella Hour
and is available from ten to eleven-thirty on
the first.”

“Of November?”

“Yes. This Tuesday.”

“We can do it then?” Snow asked.

“We can. After your call to me yesterday, I spoke with the
guest we had previously booked. He’s okay about rescheduling.”

“Thank you for doing that.”

“My pleasure. Not to mention my job. Blaine is eager to meet
you. And, if you want, to discuss his appearance on the show.”

“You mean this evening?”

“That would be fine with him. His wife couldn’t make it
tonight. He’s only here because he’s Grace Memorial’s outgoing chief of staff. He
says he would welcome the chance to find a quiet corner and talk with you—us. I’d
like to be there, if you don’t mind.”

“
Of course
I don’t mind. And I’d love to discuss the
show with him. The trouble is I haven’t researched postpartum depression the
way I’d like to before talking with the expert.”

“Meaning you haven’t read every online article on the
subject?”

“I haven’t read any.”

“You haven’t had a chance. You’ve been immersed in the real thing.
I know Blaine Prescott, Snow. He won’t be offended that you’re not as up on the
literature as you will be by the time the show airs. And this is a golden
opportunity to talk to him.”

“It really is.”

“Wait here, then. I’ll round him up and we’ll take it from
there.”

Mira’s mission for the evening accomplished, she would have been
delighted to head home. She hoped Blaine would shake free early.

In the meantime, she felt at loose ends and on display. Not a
good combination. In fact, she mused, two of her least favorite ways to be.
Both, however, could be fixed. She would find a private spot, ideally by a
window, and enjoy the drama of the approaching storm while plumbing her
memories for the missing chapters in the story of Vivian and Luke.

She didn’t expect the endeavor to be terribly productive. But
it was the best she could do. Luke was unavailable until his return from the
floods, and Vivian might never be available—meaning honest—about Luke and Snow.
At least not to her.

Finding a private spot should have been easy. Windows
abounded. As did empty chairs that could be positioned just so.

There were also people, many of whom undoubtedly knew Vivian.
She would never make it from parlor door to secluded window without the “I’m
actually Mira, her sister” explanation.

Fine. No big deal.

She would run the gauntlet as soon as she found a parlor
where she could claim a private corner.

And here it was. Not too crowded, its guests—seated at tables
for four—were sipping champagne and speaking in conversational tones. Lattes,
too, were being served.

Perfect. No matter how many “Funny, isn’t it? Vivian and I
don’t
really
look alike” apologies she had to make.

She wouldn’t know how many such apologies there would be
until she began to weave through the tables. That was the frustration. She
couldn’t anticipate in advance who would mistake her for Vivian. All the faces
belonged to strangers.

Except, she realized, there was a not-quite stranger in the
parlor where she wanted to be, a man who knew Vivian well . . . and who, Mira
found herself wishing, would see her, smile at her,
as her
.

Where did
that
come from? She had met Dr. Thomas Vail
only once, and very briefly. “This is Mira,” Lacey Flynn had said six months
ago, in the reception line at Vivian’s wedding. “Vivian’s sister. The
veterinarian. Mira, this is Thomas Vail.”

Admittedly, Mira had known of him by then. In typical Lacey
fashion, she had shared a great deal about the doctor she had become involved
with about the same time Blaine and Vivian fell in love.

“He’s a bitter divorce waiting to happen,” Lacey had replied
to a bridal-shower inquiry about her love life. “Even though he’s not married—yet.”

Lacey was an authority on the subject of divorce. She had witnessed
her parents’ ugly breakup firsthand and had become a divorce attorney because
of it.

Lacey had a viewpoint. The invariably at-fault husband must
pay
. It was just as well, she acknowledged, that family-law attorney Vivian
had joined her practice. Someone had to watch out for the children—and
fathers—of divorce. Vivian had a fondness for joint custody agreements that Lacey
might not have developed on her own, but which, Lacey conceded, were
occasionally in the best interests of the child.

“Thomas’s future wife, who
won’t
be me by the way,
will claim alienation of affection in the divorce proceedings. The claim will
be bogus. Thomas will never have given her any affection to be alienated
from
.
No affection . . . but enough intensive care to convince her she’s the most sexually
desirable woman on the planet.”

Thomas was an intensivist at Grace Memorial Hospital. A specialist in intensive care. He had been a trauma surgeon first, but found ICU
medicine more challenging.

“More challenging in what way?” Mira had wondered.

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked. I’ve just assumed it’s
because it’s even more life-and-death than surgery. When you’re an intensivist,
it’s just you, caring for an entire ward of critically ill patients, making
decision after decision for thirty-six hours straight. That’s the schedule he
and his colleagues have devised, thirty-six hours on, seventy-two off,
thirty-six on again. Thomas says it’s best for the patients to be followed by
the same physician over significant periods of time.”

Others at the bridal shower had expressed skepticism. Wasn’t
there a national trend toward having interns and residents work no more than
twelve-hour shifts?

Mira hadn’t entered the fray. But from her own experience
with patients, the furry kind, she believed what Thomas said was true.
Qualitative changes, the way a patient
looked
, frequently appeared
before quantitative ones, such as lab data and vital signs, caught up. If you
had been watching a patient, and paying attention to what you saw, you could
perceive improvement—or deterioration—before anything measurable occurred.

It was the reason she wanted her new practice in her home.
She could keep a watchful eye on her overnight guests.

She had found herself liking Thomas Vail. The doctor.

And Thomas Vail, the man?

According to Lacey, he was a peerless lover. And, as with her
pronouncements about potential litigants in future divorces, Lacey should know.
Her experience was extensive. If she said Thomas was the best, he was.

“But you’d have to be insane to fall in love with him. He’d never
fall in love with you back. It’s going to happen, though. Some poor woman will
fall—hard—someday. Hopefully, she’ll see the light before marrying him. Or
worse, having his kids. I
really
don’t see him being a father.”

Mira hadn’t given much thought to meeting Lacey’s lover at
Vivian’s wedding. But when the briefest introduction was made and she felt the
undivided attention of his intense blue eyes . . .

It was a feeling unlike any she had ever known. And it
lingered long after the three seconds—or so—it actually lasted. Finally, and
with far more irritability than such a lovely feeling deserved, she pushed it
away.

Thomas himself disappeared moments after they met.

He wasn’t supposed to be on call, Lacey moaned. That was the
alleged
beauty of the schedule. When he was working, he was working. And when he was
off, he was off. His pager was off then, too. At least it was supposed to be. It
was arrogance, in Lacey’s opinion, to insist on being called if questions
arose. His fellow intensivists would not be on staff at Grace Memorial unless
they were as competent as the great Thomas Vail himself.

But Thomas did insist. And, from time to time, including
Vivian’s wedding day, a colleague took him up on the offer. Thomas left the
festivities—but only after making such an impression on Mira that six months
later she found herself wishing he would look away from the three beautiful
women who were seated at his table, spot her standing in the doorway, and flash
a smile of recognition not for Vivian, but for her.

I’m not a madwoman, Mira had assured the hospital fundraiser.
Ha
.

She was about to turn away when a waiter approached the
table. One of the women was obviously in the midst of an anecdote—and a
flirtation with Thomas. She must have seen the waiter. He was standing beside
Thomas. Waiting beside Thomas.

And making no move to interrupt.

Mira always stopped talking when a waiter or waitress
appeared. So did Luke. And Bea. Mira had never discussed it with them, but she assumed
their reasoning would be similar to hers. The servers had a job to do. Why
should they have to wait for her to finish saying what she had to say?

But, like the woman who was flirting with Thomas, not
everyone suspended their conversations. Mira’s parents, her mother especially,
kept right on talking. Blaine did, too. And Vivian?

No, Mira realized. Her sister stopped.

And Thomas? He raised a hand, halting the woman’s words.

As he looked up to the waiter, he glimpsed Mira standing at
the parlor door. She saw his double take. His frown.

His smile.

Mira smiled, too. And withdrew.