For All the Wrong Reasons (49 page)

Her parents didn't have those eyes, but no wonder; Rose was adopted.

Men cat-called when she passed in the street, but usually didn't accost her. They didn't dare. That stride of hers was pure Bronx, pure menace. Rose Fiorello was permanently mad; at her mom's disease, at her father's long hours, at their filthy streets, at the Mayor, at her birth mom, at the world.

But today she had a focus. And the hatred she felt burned as strongly as the first love felt by most other girls her age.

Rose tossed her head, sending a waterfall of sleek, raven-black hair flying through the air.

“Sounds good.” She tried to temper her tone. “More cold cuts from the deli? Did they turn off the power again?”

Daniella nodded sadly. “Your dad's called ConEd already. But it's another day's worth of stuff ruined.”

“I could eat Dad's stuff all day long,” Rose said loyally. They both knew she already did. Today would just be one more day of it, before the choice Italian meats and cheeses and fish turned bad and had to be thrown out. Before her father lost even more money.

Paul Fiorello was fifty, and had run Paul's Famous Deli for twenty-five years. Despite the optimistic name, the Deli wasn't famous: it was in the wrong neighborhood and too small ever to attract the new foodie crowd that would pay twenty dollars for a thin bottle of organic olive oil. But it was good, and the food was fresh and the tastiest for ten square blocks. Her father had a regular clientele, and he'd kept his head above water all these years. The Deli paid for the medications for Mom's arthritis, and Rose's Catholic school. It was cheap, but it wasn't free. Plus, there were costs; the uniform, for one thing. The Deli took care of all that, plus their rent.

Up until last month.

Manhattan property prices were going through the roof. Even the worst areas which they said would never gentrify were already being bought up; the East Village and Hell's Kitchen to name but two. Some people said Alphabet City and even Harlem would be next. Whatever. Rose didn't give a damn about the demographics.

She cared about Paul's Famous Deli.

They were located in a big building, a tall, decrepit old skyscraper on Ninth Avenue and Fiftieth. Next to them were a pizza joint and a fabric merchant which sold buttons and sequins and lengths of dingy netting; above them were offices. But somebody had sold the entire building to Rothstein Realty.

Rothstein was a big, giant, mega-bucks real estate company. They bought and sold in the tens of millions of dollars. They had plans for the building, and those plans did not include the local salami merchant.

Already Paul's neighbors had taken the hand-out offered by Rothstein and given up their rent-controlled leases. But Paul Fiorello had refused. What would he do with a lousy fifty thousand bucks? He knew nothing but the deli, and where would he find another cheap lease? If the store moved more than five blocks away, it would lose all the regulars, and it would be competing with the smarter, bigger, cheaper delis, the ones with rows of shiny waxed fruit racked up on stands outside the store. Fifty Gs would only last them for one year. And then it would be welfare time.

“You don't have to move, Dad.”

Rose recalled talking fiercely to her dad about it as he sat in the kitchen, reading the latest letter from Rothstein. It was full of veiled menace. Nothing they could sue over, but which could be read between the lines.

“They can't force you out. You got ten more years on that lease.”

“They can do stuff, baby.”

“What, send the heavies around?” Rose glared fiercely at her father's slumping shoulders and graying hair. “If they try any of that shit I'll go to the police.
And
the press.”

“Don't use language like that in this house,” Paul Fiorello growled.

“Sorry.” She rubbed her father's aching shoulders.

“It's not about leg-breakers. All they need to do is mess with the water, the electrics…”

“You pay for that, how can they shut it off?”

“Accidents. Interruptions. There are ways. Not to mention the construction noise next door. They've already started to gut the other two stores, and they start drilling the floors during lunchtime … crowd's thinner already.”

“They can't do that to you.”

“They can and they will, kid.” Paul sighed. “Only question is, can I ride them out? If I could persuade Mr. Rothstein that he could, you know, build around me. Maybe his fancy lawyers and architects would need a good sandwich at lunchtime? I could write him a letter.”

He looked hopefully at his daughter, the straight-A student, the one who wrote all the letters in this house.

“Sure, Dad. I'll give it a try,” Rose had said.

They had crafted the letter together and sent it off. It was a masterpiece. Firm, but amiable, respectful, and accommodating. Rose walked it down to the mail herself and sent it return-receipt.

The receipt came back. Nothing else did.

That had been two weeks ago.

Today she was going to eat more spoiled cold cuts. More stuff that would have to be thrown out when they couldn't get through it, which was exactly like tossing a handful of twenties into the fire. Rose was sick to death of cold cuts, but the whole family ate them like champs, for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“When is Dad coming home?” she asked, as Daniella sliced the foccacia and put ham and chicken and ricotta on it.

“He's gonna be late. He has to try and get access to the mains, get the police to make him turn the electric back on. Otherwise it's two day's worth of food chucked right out.” Daniella swallowed hard, and Rose saw the tears glittering in her mother's eyes, tears she would not let herself shed in front of her baby.

God, how she hated Rothstein Realty.

How she hated them!

2

Poppy Allen sat in her room and stared longingly at her posters.

Uhh. John Bon Jovi. Joe Elliott. Def Leppard were just so
hot.
And Metallica, too. Lars was a real cutie. She liked the hard stuff and the soft stuff about the same; all her favorite bands featured gorgeous guys with long hair, black leather, studs, and plenty of rebel attitude … in short, the kind of babes her mom and dad would
never
let her date.

But Poppy had ways around that.

There was a knock on her door.

“Come in,” Poppy said.

Her Mom, Marcia Allen, appeared in the doorway, bedecked for another gala night on the town. Poppy's parents, Jerry and Marcia, were social butterflies, which was good because so was Poppy. Unbeknownst to them.

Marcia was a lawyer's wife, a rich lawyer's wife, and didn't she look the part, in a shoulder-padded red suit from Karl Lagerfeld and a string of pearls as big as marbles.

“You look great, Mom,” Poppy lied dutifully. “What is it tonight?”

“Opera.
Rigoletto.
”

“You hate opera.”

“I know, but the Goldfarbs had some extra tickets.” Marcia shrugged. “Daddy says it should be a fun night out.”

“How late will you be back?”

“Late,” Marcia said reassuringly, and Poppy pouted to show she was disappointed. “Don't worry, we've set the burglar alarm. I don't want any TV after eleven.”

“No ma'am,” Poppy said. “I've done all my homework for tonight. I was actually wondering if I could go out for a little while.”

Marcia frowned. “While we're not here?”

She had to be careful of her little Poppy. The girl was blooming before her parents' eyes—she had dyed blonde hair, she was slim, with natural curves which meant there was no need for that sweet-sixteenth trip to the plastic surgeon all her friends were buying their daughters. And then, of course, there was that stunning face and those wild, wolflike eyes. Poppy certainly hadn't got her looks from Joel or Marcia, people said, and Marcia smiled brightly and told them maybe it was her grandma. Of whom, conveniently, she didn't have any pictures.

Poppy was adopted, and Marcia and Jerry saw no reason to tell her so, nor to tell anybody else. Marcia was very keen her little girl should marry a nice Jewish boy, and she was sure
his
mother would have the same standards, so why rock the boat?

The trouble with her sexy teenager was that all men were attracted to her. That was Marcia's concern.

“Well, it's with someone you know. Brian Pascal was gonna take me out for a burger and fries. But not if it's not OK,” Poppy said sweetly.

Her mother crumpled. “Brian's a good boy…”

Poppy just waited her out. Mom was
always
trying to throw her together with Brian Pascal. His parents were a dentist and an orthodontist, they had tons of money, and his sister was in Hollywood, which is what Marcia wanted for Poppy. She was always on at her to take acting lessons.

Poppy had no intention of being a soap-opera star or whatever.
As the World Turns
was not her destiny.

No way. She was going into heavy metal.

“I thought I'd wear this, if you say I can go, Mom,” Poppy said, jumping off her bed and running to her closet. She showed her mother a frilly blue number with a long skirt and puffy sleeves that made her look about twelve. Her Mom loved it, and Poppy never wore it. “I just know he'll flip when he sees me in this.”

“Well … OK.” Marcia gave in. “As long as you're back by ten.”

“Cross my heart,” Poppy lied brightly. “I guess I'd better get changed now, huh?”

“Is Brian coming over to pick you up?” demanded Marcia, suddenly suspicious.

“Oh yeah,” Poppy said. Damn. “I just have to call him and let him know you said it's OK.”

Joel Allen's head appeared with his wife's. “What's going on?”

“Poppy wants to go out with Brian.”

“As long as you're back by nine,” Jerry said, disappearing.

Poppy pouted. “Mom—”

“Ten,” her mother hissed, “but don't tell Daddy.”

She waited in the doorway. “Aren't you going to call Brian? I want to speak to him.”

Poppy's heart went into her mouth. She dialled her friend's number. Brian was never going to be interested in Poppy, blue horror of a dress or not. He was strictly a player for the other team, but neither set of parents knew that, and she and Brian covered for each other on occasion. Poppy mentally crossed all her fingers and toes and hoped Brian would get it, this time. Dark Angel, the hottest band on the Strip, was playing tonight and no way did she want to miss them.

“Hi, Mrs. Pascal, can I speak to Brian? It's Poppy Allen. Hey, baby,” she added after a pause, “my mom said you can pick me up tonight whenever.”

“Dark Angel?” Brian asked.

“You got it,” said Poppy brightly, “and Mom wants to speak to you…”

“I was going to have a quiet night in. I don't feel like driving.”

“Thanks,” Poppy said, injecting an urgent note of pleading into her voice. “Here's Mom, OK?”

She passed the receiver to her mother. “Brian? Now you'll get my little Poppy back by ten? Yes, I'm sorry I'm not going to be here too, but I think we're leaving now. Yes, I know I can trust you with my little angel…”

Poppy winced. She loved her mom, but Marcia had obviously had a cool by-pass at birth.

Marcia hung up, satisfied.

“Be a good girl, Poppy,” she admonished. Poppy smiled her patented non-threatening Shirley Temple smile and agreed that she would be.

Which was another lie. But at this stage, who was counting?

*   *   *

Poppy covered her tracks professionally. She actually got changed into the blue horror and came downstairs to hang out with her parents until they left. The second their Ferarri pulled out past the wrought-iron gates that hissed back electronically, she raced upstairs, pulled it off, undid her long, dyed-blonde hair from its neat little-girl braids, and slipped into a pair of black pants, a low-cut top, and high-heeled boots.

Mmh! She looked just about good enough to eat right now.

Brian called to tell her he couldn't make it. Never mind; she had her own ride. He'd served his purpose. Poppy slipped downstairs and unhooked the keys to her mother's Porsche 911 from their spot above the sub-zero refrigerator. Their housekeeper, Conchita, lived in Daddy's guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills. She could park there and then walk down to Sunset.

Poppy caught a glimpse of her lithe, sexy reflection in the full-length mirrors by the door and blew it a kiss. The poor little rich girl who had to play nice was about to be let loose on LA. She just hoped they were ready for her!

3

“Daisy!”

Daisy stopped staring out of the window and jumped out of her skin. Her plump cheeks bore a red imprint from where her fingers had been pressed against them. The Surrey countryside was so gorgeous, all rolling hills dotted with woods and grazing cows and fat white sheep. Like something out of one of her favorite Jilly Cooper novels.

Her heart sank.

“Yes, Miss Crawford?”

“Can you give us the benefit of
your
opinion on this matter?”

Miss Crawford was staring at Daisy as though she was something unpleasant she had just scraped off the bottom of one of her stout brown brogues. Daisy heard Victoria Campbell snigger.

“Um, about this?” Daisy temporised desperately.

Miss Crawford's mono-brow rose.

“Yes, about this.
The Merchant's Tale.
One of the most gripping, funny stories in the entire cycle, which some critics take to be a proto-feminist piece only slightly less important than
The Wife of Bath's Tale.
Perhaps you feel you have nothing in common with Chaucer, Miss Markham?”

Daisy glanced down at her page. “The slakke skin about his nekke shaketh…”

“He spells like me,” she joked feebly.

“Very funny. But with your
stellar
academic record, you can afford to ignore our lessons, can't you?”