had its moments,” she agreed.
Douglas scratched irritably at his stiff salt-and-pepper beard after he released Octavia’s hand.
“Personally, I could do without Mab always having to sensationalize everything. No penises on men! What a ridiculous thing to say. Isn’t that right, Constance?”
Constance’s head bent back as she squinted up at the much taller man.
“Now, Douglas, Mab had a commendable point, once she got to it. Although, I do believe the use of that word really wasn’t—”
Douglas swung away from Constance to face John. “Don’t you agree Mab should be muzzled?”
John’s palms came up, a humorous gleam in his eyes. “Doctors, even ophthalmologists, always stay neutral in fights, Douglas. We have to be available later to patch up the combatants.”
Mab turned to position herself squarely in front of the horsey, six-foot Douglas Twitch.
“Stop looking for support to gang up on me, Douglas. You never got it when we were in grade school together and you’re not getting it now. Muzzle me, indeed! I’m not surprised my point eluded you. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the subtleties of ‘Sesame Street’ elude you.”
Douglas’s sallow face colored. He grabbed the pipe hanging out of his checkered shirt pocket and took it like a bit between his prominent teeth, spluttering incoherently.
Mab turned away from his reddened face and calmly slipped her arm through Octavia’s.
“I’m glad you arrived in time to hear some of the show. Your being here takes me back, Octavia. Let’s go home and I’ll fix us both something nice and hot to drink and we can talk.”
Octavia nodded. But as they turned to leave the control room, she saw Mab suddenly halt and stiffen.
Octavia followed the direction of her grandmother’s fixed gaze. On the other side of the glass barrier that separated the radio control room from the visitors’ lounge, two men stood staring.
Octavia noted and dismissed the slouching, sour-pussed shorter man with the squinty dark eyes, thin ashen hair, baggy olive pants and green-and-black-checkered suspenders. But the taller man caught and completely held her attention.
He was at least six-four with bark-brown hair and broad, imposing shoulders in an expensive custom suit of charcoal gray, discreetly trimmed with a dove-gray tie and pocket handkerchief. He looked remarkably formal and forbidding, from the tight laces of his highly polished black shoes to the obdurate shine in his black-rimmed, silver-sprinkled eyes.
Octavia knew instantly that this was a man who had made his mark in the world and would continue to do so.
Those arresting eyes held hers in an intense scrutiny. Their silver shine was stronger than confidence, deeper than desire. For no reason that made any sense, she suddenly felt the rush of blood through her heart and a tingling in her fingertips.
“Who is he, Mab?” she asked.
She could feel her grandmother’s eyes dart to her face and then back to the men.
“I don’t know who the tall one is you’re fixating on, but the short, slimy one is Dole Scroogen. We call him the Scrooge around here.”
“And as long as the other one is with the Scrooge, he’s not worth your wondering about,” Constance announced in what sounded to Octavia like a definite warning.
“What does that damn Scrooge want besides our blood?” Douglas grumbled with more vehemence than Octavia had yet heard from the man.
“He only shows up in person when he can gloat over something,” the normally cool, suave John said with surprising heat. “We’d better go see what it is this time.”
Their collective comments told Octavia that despite the seniors’ previous differences over the content and conduct of the radio show, the appearance of Dole Scroogen had united them instantly in animosity against the man.
They left the tiny control room single file, Mab in the lead, Octavia right behind her, the rest following. Octavia could still feel the stranger’s eyes. They had not left her once since the moment she first felt them.
As Octavia and the seniors approached the two men in the waiting room, Dole Scroogen raised his arm to point at Mab.
“That’s her. That’s Mab Osborne.”
The impoliteness of the man’s pointing finger and his whiny, condescending tone immediately irritated Octavia. She knew at that precise moment that she was going to thoroughly dislike Dole Scroogen.
Scroogen’s tall companion shifted his eyes from Octavia to her grandmother. He took a step toward Mab. His deep, rich voice vibrated through the small waiting room like an ominous drumroll.
“Mrs. Osborne, I’m Brett Merlin.”
Brett Merlin? Octavia felt a small jolt of surprise as she instantly recognized his name. Could this really be the Magician of corporate law standing before her? The one whose name every attorney whispered in polite reverence? Well, well. No wonder the guy exuded the aura of the anointed.
Octavia watched, her initial interest heightened even more, as Brett Merlin slipped a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. He held it out to Mab.
“What’s this?” Mab asked as she took the paper from his hand.
“It’s a copy of a cover letter I faxed to the FCC this morning, Mrs. Osborne. I’ve also sent by Federal Express a two-hour tape of recorded highlights from your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ programs. I’m demanding the FCC revoke your radio license on the grounds of lewd and immoral content.”
Octavia couldn’t have been more surprised at Brett Merlin’s words than if the man had suddenly announced he was from Mars. He was bringing her grandmother up on a morals charge before the FCC? She didn’t know whether to laugh or have this obviously overrated fool of an attorney committed.
Before she could respond to either impulse, a photographer suddenly jumped out from where he had been hidden on the other side of a partition and snapped several photos of Mab. The unexpected flashes from his camera also blinded Octavia, who was standing just behind her grandmother.
By the time Octavia could see and think straight again, it was too late to do anything. The Magician, the Scrooge and the photographer had all vanished—right out the door of her grandmother’s radio station.
* * *
“OCTAVIA, I‘M NOT standing still for this FCC threat.”
Octavia smiled. That sounded just like the fearless, independently competent Mab that she had been admiring all her life.
She poured her grandmother’s homemade hot apple cider into both their cups and slipped in a cinnamon stick. The spicy fragrance filled the room and Octavia’s senses with the sweet, nostalgic past of other cold, overcast December days spent in this bright, cozy kitchen, baking Christmas goodies and stringing popcorn for the tree.
Octavia gathered up all the marvelous memories spilling out of her mind and set them firmly
