Diva (25 page)

“First we’ll give her a chance to come clean,” Parker chimed in. “Our exposé will be that much better with a confession of guilt from the woman herself. And having Benji there should put the fear of God in her. We’re hoping that the sight of a familiar mug like his will put Deirdre in the mood to be as cooperative with the fuzz as possible.”

“Even if she doesn’t say a word,” Solomon said, “once Benji gives us our confirmation, my buddy on the NYPD will be able to arrest her before the wedding gets under way.”

Clara studied the picture of Benji and frowned. Even if Benji was innocent of that particular crime, his dark, flat eyes made her sure he was guilty of
something
. “And when do I get to meet this dream date of mine?”

“He doesn’t get into town until tomorrow morning,” Solomon said. “It’s the fastest he could come. We’ll have to pick him up at Grand Central and bring him straight to the ceremony. I’d much rather confront Deirdre quietly at her apartment today than arrest the girl in front of hundreds of wedding guests. But we don’t have much of a choice.” He reached his pudgy hand over to pat Clara’s. “It’s the best we can do, hon. Parker here will get his juicy story, and Marcus—well, he’ll be spared an ugly marriage.”

Clara crossed her arms. “Great. My date to the wedding of the man I love is going to be an ex-con named Benji.”

“Could be worse,” Solomon replied. “I once booked a con named Knifey McGee. His real name—I had the boys dig up his birth certificate to be sure.”

Clara picked up a copy of last month’s
Manhattanite
and pretended to flip through it for a moment, then met Parker’s pale green eyes across the table.

“Tell you what—get enough dirt on this woman tomorrow and you can consider the ‘Glittering Fools’ column officially folded.” Parker paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re too good a writer to spend all your time out gallivanting with those spoiled little rich kids anyway. You can write the exposé you’ve always dreamed of. Be a real journalist.”

Clara felt her heart flutter. She had more or less forgotten about her own career—she just wanted to help Marcus. Only … what would Marcus think if she exploited his
personal life for a story? He’d always wanted her to write about something serious, but she doubted he meant himself and his personal life. He’d be hurt enough once he knew the truth about Deirdre. What would an exposé like this do to him—to them?

Clara winced. There wasn’t a
them
anymore.

And yet she still felt she owed him something. “Parker, I don’t think I can do this to Marcus. I’m already going to ruin his wedding day. Do I really need to make things worse by showing up with an ex-con?”

“What makes you so sure he’ll even care?” Parker asked with a sneer. “I think he’ll be focused on the girl he’s marrying—not an old flame who always seems to want what she can’t have. When you were with him it was me, and when you were with me it was him. If I didn’t think this exposé would sell a heap of magazines, I’d tell Marcus he was better off with the lady criminal.”

Clara’s face flamed red. She glanced at Solomon, but his expression remained utterly blank as he lit yet another cigarette.

She pointed a finger at Parker. “A real man wouldn’t ask a woman he cares about to pretend to be an ex-con’s date at her ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”

Parker leaned back in his chair and gave her his best film-star smile. “That, my dear, is why I’m asking you. I’m over”—he looked Clara up and down—“ ‘us.’ Do you know how many women I turned down in the hope that you might
come around? Real women, too, not immature girls still hung up on boys stupid and gullible enough to get themselves engaged to con artists.”

Clara stood in silent shock for a moment. How dare he! But then her lips twisted into a smile. “Well, I’m
so sorry
to have deprived the women of New York of a prize like you for so long. I hope none of them mind that you take longer primping in front of the mirror than they do.”

She turned to Solomon. “I’m sorry you had to witness this. I’m usually quite the professional.”

Then she flung the copy of the
Manhattanite
she’d been holding straight at Parker’s head.

One thing Clara loved about New York: It had endless sidewalks for a girl with too much on her mind to wander.

After she’d left the
Manhattanite
offices hours before, Clara had thought about going home to Brooklyn. But the lonely anonymity of the crowded city streets suited her frame of mind far better than an empty apartment. Here, among the thousands of people who walked the streets, Clara felt invisible. Hidden. The wind bit at her cheeks, and the fall leaves were scattered across the pavement in beautiful shades of reds and oranges and yellows. In a way, the colors reminded her of home—before New York, before Chicago. Home with
her parents, when her concerns were so few and her life was simple.

Clara pulled her coat tighter around her waist, passing by shop windows full of furniture and clothing, and a bakery with the scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the door as customers entered and left.

Then and there, on the street, she made a vow. Marcus had been set on Clara’s going to college before she pursued her writing career. At the time it had made Clara feel like he wasn’t confident in her abilities. But now she knew that even the best writers in the business admitted that there was always more to learn.

She left the crowds crammed outside the string of theaters on Broadway, moved a few avenues east, and turned onto Park Avenue. She passed upscale shops and stopped walking when she found herself outside Sherry’s Restaurant. Bushes flanked the restaurant’s entrance, softening the skyscraper’s appearance. She knew that inside there was a huge ballroom with crystal chandeliers and enough linen-covered tables to seat hundreds.

A lifetime ago, she’d attended a charity gala there with Marcus. He’d only just found out that Clara had been keeping her job at the
Manhattanite
a secret from him. Marcus had still wanted to make things work with her.

She stood across the street from the entrance, letting the memories of being in love with Marcus fill her body and soul, warming her on this cold fall day.

And then, out of nowhere—

One of the large double doors opened, and Marcus and Deirdre walked out and stood under the entrance’s red awning.

At first, Clara was light-headed at the coincidence. Then she remembered: Not only was Sherry’s the site of the beginning of the end of Clara’s relationship with Marcus, it was also where Marcus and Deirdre’s rehearsal dinner was taking place.

Clara crouched behind a bush and peeked around the side. Marcus was devastatingly handsome in a traditional tuxedo. His hair was Brilliantined, and a handkerchief that matched his eyes peeked out of his pocket. Clara could remember the way the Brilliantine mingled with his spicy cologne, how she would practically taste it on her tongue when she kissed his neck.

Deirdre’s coppery hair was expertly curled and pinned away from her face with diamond barrettes. She wore a sleeveless deep-green velvet gown. The top was sheer, but it became opaque at just the right point on Deirdre’s chest to remain respectable enough for the tables of old society biddies inside. The girl was positively glowing. And why wouldn’t she be? Half the Eastman fortune was about to be hers.

Marcus lit a cigarette and held it to Deirdre’s to light it. His hand lingered on her tiny waist as he did so. “I hope tonight hasn’t been too painful for you,” Clara could dimly hear Marcus say.

“Painful?” Deirdre gave a charming little laugh. “I adore
your entire family. Your fazzer ees so kind and welcoming, and your muzzer ees beautiful! Zough zat ees not so surprising, you being as wonderful as you are.”

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m glad you like them. They’ll be your family too soon enough.”

Clara looked away as the two leaned in for a big Hollywood kiss. Even though she’d heard the truth from Deirdre’s own lips, it was hard to believe someone so seemingly lovely was a con artist. And Marcus looked so happy.

She was beginning to understand what Marcus saw in his fiancée. Through all her lies and sneaking around, when was the last time Clara had remembered to tell Marcus something as simple as how wonderful he was?

As soon as she heard the door creak closed, she stalked away from the restaurant. It wasn’t fair—
she
should be the one standing across from Marcus on Saturday, telling him how much she loved him and how happy she would be to spend the rest of her life with him.

Instead, she’d show up to the wedding with a former criminal as her date, and would work her hardest to ensure that Marcus’s bride-to-be would be walking out in handcuffs rather than walking down the aisle.

Clara loved Marcus so much. And yet she was about to do something that would make him never want to speak to her again.

LORRAINE

Lorraine was sure the Eastman-Rijn wedding was the reason words like
swanky
and
elegant
existed.

Tramp though Deirdre was, it was kind of a shame such a gorgeous event was destined to go down in flames before it even began. It would be like that time Lorraine had dropped the latest issue of
Vogue
in the bathtub while she was still flipping through the ads in the front.

Melvin whistled. “What do you figure they spent on candles alone?”

Lorraine shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about it. I’m all for extravagance, don’t get me wrong. But spending a fortune on sticks that are just going to melt? That’s just applesauce.”

Though as Lorraine looked around the ballroom, she
couldn’t deny the romantic, almost ethereal effect the dim lighting and hundreds of candles had. The candlelight bounced off the coffered ceilings and onto the enormous arched mirrors that lined the walls. The white linen canopy set up on the sleek wooden platform at the end of the aisle and draped with wisteria glowed with some sort of inner light.

Lorraine grabbed Melvin’s hand and pulled him deeper into the crowd. There must have been at least a hundred and fifty people milling around the rows of cushioned gold chairs, and probably twice that were still munching on hors d’oeuvres in the lobby downstairs. Lorraine had spied her own parents talking to Mr. and Mrs. Eastman in the lobby when she and Melvin had arrived—exactly why she’d hightailed it upstairs. She’d have to suffer through dinner with her mother and father later—she didn’t want to give them more opportunities to bore her than necessary.

Lorraine smiled with approval at the sight of her pink lips and rouged cheeks in one of the mirrors. The low lighting made her look positively angelic. She looked around for Gloria. She hadn’t spied her old friend yet, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do when she did. Hide? Say hello? Apologize for everything, and ask if there was any way they could possibly start over?

She recognized more than one gorgeous heiress from the pages of society magazines, or from passing by them on campus at Barnard. Sure, they never actually stopped to speak to her, but … who cared about a silly little detail like that.

“Sabrina! Hello!” Lorraine waved to a girl she recognized from her European History class, who was sipping from a champagne flute. Her father was some oil magnate. Or was it steel? The details were always so confusing.

“Do you know her?” Melvin asked.

“Of course,” Lorraine replied, waving even harder. “She’s one of my dearest friends.”

Melvin coughed. “But she’s ignoring you … and now she’s walking away.”

Lorraine’s shoulders slumped as Sabrina shot her a confused look, then continued across the room. “Oh, that’s just a game we play. She pretends to ignore me, I pretend to ignore her … hysterical, don’t you think? That Sabrina is such a hoot.”

Just then, another girl passed them by—Lorraine had to stop Melvin from stepping on the velvet train of the blonde beauty’s dress. The bodice was completely covered with intricate gold embroidery, and Lorraine was instantly envious.

The girl was hanging on the arm of a handsome fellow in his mid-forties. He wore a midnight-blue double-breasted suit. He laughed uproariously and squeezed the blonde closer to him.