Part 22 (1/2)

Todd sputters, ”What's a girl supposed to be wearing with red chiffon? Spectator pumps? Did Fas.h.i.+on Plate Krouch say anything about the dress? Because it could not have been a better choice. And where did she get 'old guy'? Did you tell her that Leif Dumont is young enough to be her son?”

How lovely to have a thin-skinned champion in his corner. ”I shall immediately,” Henry says.

24. I Can't Stay Long.

DENISE, IN A BLACK PANTSUIT and exceedingly high, pointy pumps, delivers a legal-size envelope the next morning. Henry doesn't explicitly invite her in, but because he is holding a mug of coffee she chirps, ”Would love to, but I'm no longer a lady of leisure. Work starts in thirty-five minutes.”

”It's a five-minute cab ride across the park,” he points out.

She reaches into an outside pouch of her huge black pocket-book and flashes a MetroCard. ”Bus,” she says. ”It goes straight across Seventy-second, if you get on the right one.”

”The M seventy-two.” He smiles. ”You may want to write that down.” He reaches for the envelope. ”And this is for me? The pre-nup?”

”With a cover letter. I didn't know who it was going to, so I just wrote, 'Dear Attorney.'”

”George Quirke. I think you remember George. From the firm?”

Denise, who has started her descent, stops, looks up. ”The Quirke who handled our divorce?”

”Correct. Good man. Knows everything there is to know about pre-nups.”

”Is he the only divorce attorney in your old firm?”

”Yes,” Henry lies.

”I didn't mean he was a bad lawyer. I just meant is he still mad at me for what I did to you?”

MetroCard in hand, a brown lunch bag visible from the purse he recognizes as a knockoff, Denise appears atypically sympathetic this morning. He says, ”George is the consummate professional. He holds no grudges.” Opening the door wider, he says, ”How about if I give it a quick read now? You have time. I'll put you in a taxi.”

She offers her hand as if they were partners at the edge of a dance floor. ”I was telling my boss about your place,” she says.

Two steps over the threshold, she looks up. ”How would you describe your ceiling? Domed? Vaulted? And these-Did you know that sconces go with the property unless the seller specifies that they're not included? This chandelier, too.”

He gestures toward the kitchen. ”Coffee while I read?”

Denise checks her watch. ”Is it one of those French press ordeals?”

”No. Ten seconds. I just push a b.u.t.ton.”

Denise follows him toward the back of the house, high heels clicking sharply enough to cause him concern for his parquet floor. At the kitchen door he freezes. Sitting on the counter, guarding the coffeemaker, in drawstring gym pants and a Coney Island Lager T-s.h.i.+rt, is Thalia.

He has not seen this Thalia before: the cold and contemptuous one. ”How long have you been here?” he asks.

Pointing to her mug, she says, ”When this was full. Three minutes ago? Four? And then I decided to stay and eavesdrop.”

”It's nice to see you,” says Denise. ”Finally.”

Thalia executes a slow, bovine blink, but says nothing.

”I can't stay long,” says her mother. ”I have a job. Part-time.”

”Doing what?”

Denise opens her pocketbook and finds a silver case from which she extracts a business card. ”Here. This is my boss.”

”Real estate,” Henry says. ”Your mother calls herself a gal Friday.”

Thalia takes the card. ”Interesting. Girl Friday. Is that anything like my job?”

”Job?” says Denise. ”Really? Henry didn't mention a word!”

”Gee, I could have sworn you were fully briefed. I'm a paid escort, remember? Streetwalker. Harlot. Call girl. Trollop. Isn't that what a mother deduces when her daughter's picture shows up in the Daily News wearing a party dress?”

Denise stares, first at Thalia, then at Henry. ”I a.s.sume I have you to thank for pa.s.sing along that little slip of the tongue?”

”Don't worry,” Thalia says. ”I'll use this, believe me. I can already see my friends laughing, ha-hah!”-an imaginary cigarette holder in play-”when I tell them my mother saw my picture in the paper and deduced-what else would a supportive mother deduce?-that I was turning tricks. I can't wait. Another Denise anecdote for my repertoire.”

Denise swings her bulging pocketbook in Thalia's direction, a safe enough distance to miss, but close enough to make both Thalia and Henry duck. ”I lost my husband!” Denise cries. ”I can't be responsible for every little thing that slips out of my mouth. I didn't mean it. I was thinking out loud. In fact, I'd already forgotten it until you brought it up. I can't do or say anything right, can I?”

Thalia turns to Henry. ”That would be a reference to Daddy's funeral. Would you like to hear about that?”

”I did hear some of it,” he says.

”I told you all of it!” Denise cries.

”And then Todd filled me in.”

Denise asks, ”Todd was there? Did he sign the guest book?”

”Who cares if he signed the guest book?” says Thalia. ”What does that have to do with anything?”

”I only meant-” Denise cuts herself off and asks primly, ”May I have that cup of coffee to go? Black is fine.” She adds, hitching her pocketbook into place, ”I travel by bus now, and they run on a schedule.”

”In that case,” says Thalia, ”bye.”

”Bye?” Denise asks.

”Or take a seat. Tell Henry what happened at the funeral. He's fair and righteous. Maybe I'm wrong, and what you did wasn't so evil. Maybe Henry will set me straight, in which case I'll apologize for marginalizing my grieving mother.”

Denise turns to ask rather elegantly, ”Henry? Are you busy? Would you like to walk me to work?”

”You're wearing stilettos,” he says.

”Tell him,” Thalia persists. ”Or I will.”

Denise heads for the coffee machine. ”I'll do it myself. Which b.u.t.ton do I push?”