it,” he said in an understanding voice. “It might be Mallory. It might be about your mother.”
She nodded gratefully. He was such a special guy. He always seemed concerned about her mother’s health. He didn’t even seem to mind that his new fiancée came with so much baggage.
She excused herself from the other two as she dug out the small, silver phone. The caller ID showed that he’d been right. It was Mallory.
Mindy found a quiet corner, between an untended bar and a trash can, the least picturesque square foot of the entire party. She clicked the green answer button.
“Hi, Mallory,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
“Mom’s fine,” Mallory said. That was the first sentence of every conversation they had. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
Mal sounded a little edgy, Mindy thought. Her own guilty conscience pictured the overpriced bikini. But there was no way Mallory could know about that. Mindy had bought it with her own credit card, and she’d pay for it with her own paycheck. Somehow.
“Okay. What’s up?”
“I just—” Mallory stopped. She sounded uncertain, which was unlike her. She was the big sister. Now that their mother was…sick…Mallory was the boss, and the job suited her. Just like Mom, Mallory had always been completely sure of herself and her decisions. Of all the Rackham women, only Mindy was tormented with self-doubt.
“I just wondered,” Mallory said slowly, “if you’ve thought any more about when you’re going to tell Freddy.”
God, that again? At a time like this? They’d just had this conversation three days ago, and Mindy had promised to think about it, to look for the perfect moment. They both knew she was going to have to tell him. Even in Mindy’s most selfish dreams, she didn’t imagine that she had the right to marry him without telling him the truth. It was just a matter of when.
“Mal, it’s a little awkward to discuss this right now. I’m at a party. With Freddy. It’s a political thing.”
“Oh. Oh…well.”
“What’s wrong?” Mindy could tell that Mallory was upset. “Can’t we talk about this later?” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “You know this kind of thing intimidates me, Mal. But I’m doing pretty well, I think. I just can’t let myself get upset now.”
“Yes, of course, later is fine.” Mallory’s voice resumed its normal, brisk, cheerful tones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t remember that the party was today. Good for you, honey. I’m really proud of you for deciding to go after all.”
Mindy remembered sheepishly that she’d told Mallory she might plead a headache, or the flu, and skip the party. She was so afraid of letting Freddy down. She was so afraid that someday, at one of these functions, the mist would fall from his eyes and he’d see her as she really was.
Too young, too gauche, too shy. Pretty enough to be a trophy wife, but not worthy in any other way.
In the end, a liability.
“Thanks,” she said self-consciously. “Well, I guess I’d better go see what Freddy’s up to.”
“Of course.” Mallory was back in cheerleader mode. “I’ll bet you look like a million bucks, kiddo. Now you go out there and just be yourself. Show them how sweet and smart you are. Before this party is over, they’ll all love you just as much as Freddy does.”
As Mindy put her phone away, she watched Freddy and his friend the judge, who had been joined by three other suave people with drinks in their hands and clever laughter on their lips. She tried to convince herself that Mallory was right. They would love her, too…love her just as much as Freddy did.
But that was the question, really, wasn’t it? How much did Freddy love her? When the time came, would it be enough?
FORGET FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, Mallory thought as she opened the last of the day’s mail. Thursday the twenty-second was every bit as evil.
So far her day had consisted of two obnoxious publisher’s reps, one carton of damaged books, three hefty returns, one irate mother who apparently didn’t know that a CD called All Night Long might contain sexual content, and a call from Valley Pride Property Management Inc., notifying her that they planned to raise her rent.
But she could handle all that. She’d been a bookseller for almost two years now, and she could count on one hand the days that hadn’t included similar frustrations.
In fact, ever since last week’s call from the blackmailer, she’d decided that, as long as she didn’t hear from him, every day was a good day.
But the piece of mail she held in her hand clearly hadn’t come from any blackmailer. This new insult was even more personal. It shouldn’t really upset her at all—she’d been half expecting it for weeks. And yet, strangely, it did, if only because it reminded her what a fool she’d once been.
She slid her forefinger under the flap of the big, showy, pink-flowered envelope, already sure what it was. It was a supertacky wedding invitation—the kind Mallory would never encourage Mindy to select—and it was addressed in an almost illegible curlicue calligraphy.
Which meant that her ex-husband Dan and his pretty fiancée, Jeannie, who was nineteen but clearly had the taste of a middle-schooler, were actually getting married.
And they wanted Mallory to show up and watch.
The arrogant bastard. Mallory tossed the invitation, which was embossed with silver wedding bells that looked like scratch-off squares on lottery tickets, onto the counter. She’d show up, all right. She’d sit in the front, and when they asked if anyone knew any reason why these two should not be joined together, she’d stand up and say, I do! Dan Platt is a hard-core sleazeball, she’d say, and even this ditzy little airhead deserves better.
Out of nowhere, a new suspicion skittered across her mind. Her blackmailer with the metallic voice couldn’t have been Dan, could it? When they’d been married, Dan had never had enough money. And he had always resented the way her family spoiled Mindy. He’d called her “the little princess.”
And, since he was one of the Heyday Eight’s customers, he might have known about Mindy’s involvement.
But this was ridiculous. Dan was definitely a jerk, but he wasn’t a blackmailer. She was just getting paranoid. She’d noticed it the very first day. Every male customer—or female customer, for that matter, if she had a deep voice—made her nervous. Everyone from the postman to the sales reps, from the mayor to the cop who patrolled Hippodrome Circle looked suspicious.
Was it you, she’d ask mentally? Or you? Or you?
“Mallory, stop daydreaming and get me a copy of The Great Gatsby.” Aurora York was suddenly standing in front of the counter, the blue feather on her pill-box hat trembling, which always meant Aurora was in a temper. “I need to show that fool Verna Myers something.”
Mallory smiled at her favorite customer, glad to have something fun to take her mind off the annoyances of the day. And any meeting of Aurora’s book club, Bookish Old Broads Incorporated, or Bobbies, as they called themselves, was bound to be fun.
The
