banker, had taken her to the ball regularly. Tonight, however, her escort would be the mayor himself, Bill Harper.
The man she had loved but refused to marry seventeen years ago. Also the man she had lately come to consider her nemesis.
“Something you would do well to remember,” Eloise muttered, shaking a warning finger at her image in the mirror.
Bill Harper had proven the past few months that he was no friend of hers or Manhattan Multiples. He had only invited her to attend the ball with him because he wanted to look as if he was being fair-minded. And she had only accepted his invitation so she could use the occasion to her advantage.
The heated telephone calls she’d made to his office, the op-ed piece she’d written for the New York Times and the anonymous letters she’d written the editors of various other New York papers hadn’t seemed to do the least bit of good. But maybe face-to-face, one-on-one, she could make some headway with him, and in the process garner additional public support for her cause.
Tilting her chin at a defiant angle, Eloise nodded once, strengthened by the memory of the pact she’d made with herself weeks ago. She was willing to do just about anything to save Manhattan Multiples, the nonprofit organization she’d started to benefit the mothers of multiple-birth babies. And if that included spending an entire evening in the spotlight as Mayor Harper’s personal guest at the ball, then so be it.
She was smart and funny, and in the years she’d spent as the socialite wife of a prominent New York businessman, she had learned to be at ease in large gatherings. She could, and would, make the most of her appearance at tonight’s event.
She also assumed Mayor Harper intended to do the same. She had no doubt that his reason for wanting to be seen with her that evening was purely political.
She wasn’t naive enough to believe he had the slightest thought of picking up where they’d left off seventeen years ago. Neither had she, for that matter. Even though she was now a widow and he was divorced, her reasons for refusing his proposal of marriage were just as valid now as they had been then.
Certainly they had each changed in many ways over the years, but one deciding factor—the deciding factor when she’d turned down his proposal of marriage—still remained. Bill Harper was, and always would be, first and foremost, a politician.
And tonight he was only interested in using her as a means to deflect the criticism he’d received lately. Though popular with a good many people, his campaign to divert city funds from certain nonprofit organizations, including hers, and redirect them to renewing and revitalizing the city and its services across the board hadn’t met with the kind of overwhelming support she knew he would like to garner from the city’s population.
By being seen with her, and putting just the right spin on it, he could appear to have gained the cooperation of one of his more outspoken opponents. But Eloise also had a lot to gain. By being seen with the mayor, and putting just the right spin on it, she could make it seem as if he were considering her arguments supporting the maintenance of funding for the nonprofits in a favorable manner.
From past experience, she knew that polite public dialogue, aided and abetted by the proper spin, could work miracles. And as long as it looked as if she had the mayor’s attention, there was a possibility that she could eventually rally enough support in favor of retaining city funding for nonprofit organizations, including Manhattan Multiples, to prevent significant and potentially ruinous cuts from being made.
Turning away from the mirror at last, Eloise quickly gathered her tiny black silk purse along with the ankle-length black silk coat that not only complemented her gown, but would also help to ward off the November chill in the night air. A last glance at the clock on the nightstand as she walked determinedly to the bedroom doorway assured her that she still had a few minutes remaining until her date was due to arrive.
No, not date, she reminded herself as her tummy fluttered nervously, yet again. That made the occasion seem more personal and potentially romantic than she was certain either Mayor Harper or she meant it to be. Escort was a much more dispassionate, and thus much more acceptable designation.
Her anxiety at least partially allayed, Eloise headed down the hallway toward the living room, following the sound of raucous cheering, interspersed with masculine grunts and groans coming from the television set. She didn’t dare look into her sons’ bedroom doorways as she passed. Mrs. Kazinsky, her twice-weekly housekeeper, would be coming tomorrow.
Eloise had delegated all responsibility for maintaining some semblance of order in the boys’ rooms to her, and she had to trust that the sturdy, gray-haired, no-nonsense woman would work her magic just as she always did during her visits to the penthouse apartment.
Pausing in the doorway of the long, wide, rectangular living room, Eloise checked the time again on the mantel clock over the fireplace that centered the more formal side of the room. There, also, two wing chairs and a love seat—elegantly upholstered but comfortable—framed a richly colored Persian rug.
Not quite five minutes more before she fully expected the doorbell to chime.
Bill Harper would be right on time, of course. He was punctuality personified. He had never kept her waiting. In fact, he had a reputation for never keeping anyone waiting, not the press or even the more vociferous of his rival politicians.
Eloise’s gaze traveled on to the far end of the living room where a more casual grouping of overstuffed sofa and matching recliners surrounded a television set that was quite a bit larger than she considered absolutely necessary. Such a thing now having pride of place in her living room was a testament to what a pushover she could be where her sons were concerned.
Draped over the furniture in various stages of boyish slouch were her triplets. Boxes from the local pizza parlor, last seen in the kitchen, were now scattered on the glass and brass coffee table along with balled-up napkins, a gallon jug of milk and three empty glasses.
At least they’d used glasses, she thought with a rueful smile, a surge of love for her handsome, blond-haired boys warming her heart. They had been a handful since day one. They were also the main reason why she had started Manhattan Multiples. But she wouldn’t have traded them for anything in the world. They had added more joy to her life than she had ever imagined she’d have.
“Yo, Mamma, looking good,” Carl, the eldest by several minutes, called out. Apparently having dragged his attention from the wrestling match on TV, he hung his head back over the arm of one of the recliners and grinned at her impishly.
John, her middle son, the more serious expression on his face often distinguishing him from his brothers, rolled to his feet, vacating the other recliner. He surveyed her slowly from head to toe, them emitted a long, drawn-out wolf whistle that made her blush.
“Wow, Mom, you look really nice.”
Henry, her youngest, scrambled off the sofa and demanded with a teasing grin all his own, “Who are you and what have you done with our real mother? She was last seen wearing baggy jeans and a grubby sweatshirt.”
“Guys, give me a break, will you? You’ve seen me dressed in a ball gown, although I admit it’s been a while,” she reminded them, her prim tone of voice belied by her own gratified smile.
Passing muster with her sons never failed to boost her confidence. Not that they were overly critical. They were, however, always brutally frank. Had they not liked her attire, they would have been equally outspoken, a trait she had long since learned to appreciate as well-meaning.
“It
