Part 12 (1/2)

”Abbey, you have nothing to thank me for,” Magnolia said, relief breaking through like sweat. ”I hope you guys work things out-if that's what you want.”

”I don't know what I want,” she admitted, ”but we're having din ner tonight. He was sweet yesterday but seemed kind of strung out.

I think he's got a lot on his mind.”

Could she ask Abbey if Tommy had made calls during his visit?

Magnolia could not.

As Magnolia entered the lobby of her office building, she stopped at the newsstand to pick up some magazines. That's when she saw him, pretending to read The Wall Street Journal. Magnolia wondered what story he'd fed the security guards to skulk past the front desk, but then a handsome Englishman in a long, black cashmere coat isn't ripe for profiling. To get to her office, Magnolia would need to pa.s.s him, and she was too late to duck out and return later. May as well swallow the big pill, she thought, even if I gag.

She walked over to Harry. ”I can explain,” she said.

”Fine,” he said. ”Go ahead.”

She looked around the crowded lobby. ”Magnolia, I'm back!” she heard someone say. ”I'll stop by your office later.” It was Phoebe, returned from a brief maternity leave and already fitting into her jeans, as if she'd produced a Barbie, not a nine-pound baby. Magnolia noticed that motherhood hadn't prevented her beauty editor from finding time to color her hair the perfect caramel, or that Harry wasn't too upset to give Phoebe an approving glance.

”Obviously, this isn't a good place to talk,” Magnolia said to Harry.

”You want to come up to my office?”

The scowl on his face said no.

”There's a Starbucks across the street.” She had no business arriv ing late to the 9:30 production meeting. Cameron wouldn't be happy having to deal with Felicity solo. But she followed Harry across the street. They stared at each other over their coffees.

”Let's cut to the chase,” Harry said. ”You've really disappointed me. I couldn't sleep all night and I doubt I can work today until you explain yourself. The last thing I need in my life is a woman I can't trust-I've had a string of those.”

Magnolia's mind flashed to their last long, luxurious day together over the weekend. It began at MoMA, the Barney's of museums, where she always found the art lovers-with their fine fabrics and well-cobbled shoes-as inspirational as the paintings. After a late afternoon stroll through a few galleries in Chelsea, they walked in the soft rain to Harry's, where he cooked a perfect dinner-grilled tuna, risotto cakes, and snap peas. For dessert, he made creme brulee. Not only did he own the cute ceramic dishes, he burned the sugar with his own blowtorch.

”You're going to be Torch from now on,” Magnolia had said. ”Sub Zero no more.”

”Then you're Mistress Torch,” he had said. But she wasn't feeling like Mistress Torch right now. More like Mistress Tortured.

”You've got to believe me when I tell you the man you saw was my friend's husband, Tommy O'Toole.” Magnolia said, fatigue draining her voice. ”He dropped in, s.h.i.+tfaced. There's never been anything between us and never will be.”

”The thing is, I wasn't seeing a whole lot of resistance going on there,” Harry said. ”Close friends? And the look on your face . . .”

Harry gulped the last of his coffee. His face was red and his knuckles, white.

”The look on my face?” Magnolia asked. ”What do you think my face is saying now?”

”You're angry,” he said.

”You got that right,” she said, ”but I'm feeling disappointed, too.

Didn't these past two months teach you to trust me? Can't you just cool off and realize that what you thought you saw wasn't what you thought you saw?” She put her hand on his. He didn't pull away.

Harry gave her an inscrutable look. But at least he said, ”I'll try.”

He got up from the table, leaned over, and gave her a kiss, more of politeness than pa.s.sion, but a kiss. ”I'll think about it,” he said as he got up to leave.

Magnolia watched him walk away. Should she ask whether he still planned to come to the Bebe launch party? She decided she could live in suspense.

Chapter 1 9.

Not Great, Not Grateful.

The Mandarin Oriental was in a glitzy tower that in any other city would rightly be called a vertical mall. Bebe stood in one of its ladies' rooms and twirled, showing off her new dress, which Magnolia recognized from Harper's Bazaar. ”Magnolia, opinion!” she said. Magnolia remembered the ”price available upon request” cap tion, magazinespeak for ”Don't even think about it.” In the photo, the ruffled pouf skirt and balloon sleeves made the model's waist even waspier. But Bebe had no waist. She looked like a bundt cake.

”Magnolia?” Bebe repeated, and struggled to undo the tiny b.u.t.tons the designer had clearly intended to stay fastened up to the wearer's neck. Apparently satisfied with her deep cleavage now on display, Bebe smiled in a way Magnolia had never seen before. My G.o.d, she thought. That smile isn't the least demonic. She's not slicing and dic ing a soul in sight. If I'm reading her right-Bebe was now s.h.i.+fting from side to side-Bebe Blake is anxious about her launch party and she's insecure about the way she looks. The woman is human!

But she stayed that way only for a second.

”I look fabulous,” Bebe declared. ”Felicity, have I ever looked bet ter?” She turned to Felicity, who was perched on the ledge of a marble sink. She was trying to attach a brooch to her suit, whose skirt and jacket had rhinestones the size of thumbtacks circling the cuffs and hem like neon bulbs announcing a Times Square attraction.

”Beebsy, you are ravis.h.i.+ng, and Magnolia-” Felicity said, talking to Magnolia's reflection in the mirror while she applied coral lipstick, ”-you look sweet.”

Weeks before, Magnolia entrusted herself to Ruthie and Elizabeth for tonight's styling. ”Not too showy,” Elizabeth insisted. 'Cause it wasn't Magnolia's show. For the occasion, Elizabeth was wearing a simple gray suit that matched her hair. For Magnolia, Ruthie had come up with an homage to Twiggy-a short, black mink pullover; tight, cropped pants; and black kitten heels. A shame the getup had to be returned the following day, because Magnolia thought she looked quite the minx. A perspiring minx, however. There didn't seem to be air-conditioning on at the hotel. It was October but unusually hot.

”Thanks, Felicity,” Magnolia said. She was saved from returning the compliment by Elizabeth's charging into the bathroom with Darlene, whose look for the party recalled Pocahontas. She wore a rust-colored, shearling-lined coat. On her feet were snakeskin sandals whose heavy soles made Darlene appear to be walking with snowshoes.

”Darlene's finished with hair and makeup and they're ready for you two, Bebe and Felicity,” Elizabeth barked. ”Magnolia, come back in forty-five minutes.”

Magnolia walked to the lobby outside the ballroom. On an ebony grand piano, red roses spelled out the Bebe logo in an arrangement that might well have been sent by Staten Island's leading crime fam ily. She peeked inside the ballroom. A caterer's a.s.sistant was construct ing a tower of glazed doughnuts. ”One, two three, testing,” blasted through the empty room, as the sound crew checked the mikes, while in the back of the room a DJ who called himself Slow Mo-he ruled Williamsburg-was setting up equipment.

”Smile, Foxy,” Slow Mo shouted, taking off his earphones. ”Life can't be that bad.”

Magnolia shot him a grin. ”What's this party for?” Slow Mo asked. He was in his late twenties, had wavy auburn hair, a closely trimmed beard, and a high-voltage smile.

”Just a bunch of magazine people pigging out on free food,” Mag nolia shouted back.

”No dancing?” Mo said. ”You're breaking my heart, Foxy.”

Magnolia considered continuing the volley. She'd dated younger, a run of T-s.h.i.+rt designers, aspiring filmmakers, and so many law stu dents she could pa.s.s Contracts. But now? She was in a mature relation s.h.i.+p. Or was she? Her life was messy enough, she decided, with no Mo.

She waved him good-bye, exited the ballroom, and walked down the winding stairway to the blissfully cool lounge on the thirty-fifth floor.

Magnolia settled herself in a b.u.t.tery leather armchair and took in the Central Park view. Location, location-that was the point of this hotel. Autumn leaves clung to the trees in a medley more opulent than anything the Mandarin Oriental's decorators had imagined. I should be happy to be here, she thought, as she began to sip her martini. Grateful. I could still be writing obits for the Fargo Forum, spending my days on the phone to funeral directors.

She was feeling her drink's first tingle of relaxation when she over heard familiar voices. Magnolia turned. Across the room, Jock and Darlene had their heads close and appeared to be making a toast.

”Magnolia” was all she could pick up of their conversation. There was no way to leave without pa.s.sing them. She paid her tab, and walked toward the lounge's entrance, hoping Jock and Darlene were too involved to notice her.

”Ms. Gold,” Jock called out. ”Magnolia. We were just saying how this night would never be happening without you.”

Right, Magnolia thought. And I am Jackie Ona.s.sis's love child.