But that’s not the point. The real issue is that you now meet the first of my ten requirements for a perfect wife.”
It was Claire’s turn to look confused.
“Long ago, I decided that I would only marry a woman who knows how to ride a motorcycle,” he said.
“Well, that’s something I’m sure your adoring fans will be eager to know. But at the risk of a little too much adoration—” Claire looked over and placed Trish’s hand on Jason’s arm. “Trish. I think it’s time you take our crowd pleaser inside.”
Trish, her hairdo and her demeanor jostled by the crowd, looked only too relieved at the suggestion. Of course, a mussed coiffure on Trish simply gave her that air of just-out-of-bed chic. Her retro Persian lamb jacket hanging precariously off one shoulder and her skimpy little cashmere sweater doing the same, added to the waiflike look. “Don’t worry about your bike,” Trish said. She patted Jason’s arm as she directed him forward. “Claire is very good with mechanical things. After a party while we were in high school, she once figured out how to circumvent the security system in my parents’ house, so we could sneak in late without getting in trouble.”
Jason seemed more impressed by that news than by Trish’s soigné appearance. Over the crowd noise she heard, “I trust she hasn’t continued this life of crime.” He looked back in Claire’s direction.
“I’m only tempted toward the end of the month when the paycheck’s run out and the electricity bill is overdue,” Claire said loud enough for him to hear.
An eager fan thrust a copy of the morning’s paper and pen toward Jason to sign, and forced Claire to take a step back, giving her a better view of her gaminelike friend cozying up to hockey’s hunk. And then the first thought of the morning hit her again. Here in the flesh was the answer to Trish’s dreams. And while the thought should have sent her leaping with the joy and grace of a member of the Bolshoi’s chorus, it was actually a little depressing. Strange. And when faced with internal confusion, Claire reacted in her instinctively glib manner. “Speaking of A-1 marriage material. You fit our bill for a fiancé.”
Her voice penetrated the din of the crowd. And Jason, who had started to turn into the building with Trish leading the way, turned his head back at the sound of Claire’s voice.
She smiled. For once, the calm assurance that naturally embued his features, seemed to flicker.
“Don’t worry. It’s for Trish, not for me,” she called.
2
BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.
She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.
She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.
Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.
And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.
“Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.
Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.
“Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”
“Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.
“I’m impressed.”
Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.
“It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.
“Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”
“You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”
“Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”
Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.
“Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”
That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials.
