The Fiance Thief (14 page)

“Did you help her with that career choice?” Alec asked.

“Ha.” Mrs. Schibley cast a scornful glance Claire’s way. “The girl never listened to a word I said. She always had to do things her own way.”

“She’s still like that,” Alec told her.

“I’ll bet.”

Miranda finally flitted to their table, muttering to Larry, “Christine Colby is taking her job way too seriously. You promised me she wouldn’t be all over me on this first night, and she has done nothing but badger me with questions. She’s asked me all kinds of questions about Scott, and about my television series. She’s not here to do a news piece, remind her. She’s doing a tribute to me.”

That seemed as good a time as any for Alec to interrupt. He said, “Miranda.”

She turned toward him with all one hundred watts of her smile ablaze, but her white teeth clenched in the middle of the words “Roger, honey.”

“I’m afraid not,” Alec said.

“This isn’t your seat,” Miranda told him.

He pointed to his place card. “It’s the weirdest thing, but it is. I have to admit, I thought it was odd, my being seated next to you when I’m nothing more than a huge fan and your friend’s fiance.” He forced a laugh. “I just didn’t want to question my good fortune.”

His flattery seemed to do the trick. “That’s all right, Allen,” she said, peering around him to see who was beside him.

“Alec,” he said, but she was focused on Mrs. Schibley, organizing her purse at the table.

“Mrs. Schibley. What a lovely surprise.”

“I was invited, wasn’t I?” the other woman asked.

“No, I’m sorry, I meant that I didn’t realize you were at this table.” She craned her neck around, and Alec watched her as her eyes went all around the room before lighting on Claire’s table. There she was, sipping ice tea like it was the finest French champagne. Both Roger and Chris were hanging on her every word.

The frown lines around Miranda’s eyes became more pronounced, and Alec could see her debating whether to storm over to Claire’s table and jerk her wayward boyfriend and cousin back. Apparently mindful of the everwatchful Christine Colby, Miranda turned back to the table.

Waiters came in bearing salads, as Alec tried frantically to get and keep Miranda’s attention. Throughout the first course, she chewed Larry out for not chewing out her publicist about some unflattering photos that had been released the week before. During the entree, which Alec vaguely recognized as pasta mixed with something that was not meat, she picked on her trainer for allowing her to pull a tendon in her leg during a run.

There was a brief lull while she shoveled a forkful of pasta into her mouth, and Alec took that opportunity to say, “You know, Miranda, I edit a weekly paper in Ridgeville…”

“Oh, Alex, didn’t I tell my publicist to put you on her mailing list?” Miranda asked.

“Alec. Yes, you did, but I was thinking of something a little more exclusive than that.”

“I’m sorry, but no. After what they said about me, it’ll be a long time before I bare my soul or my talents for the Ridgeville press.” She waved her fork at Alec for emphasis. “You know, it’s always the hometown crowd that turns on you first. They never appreciate you, and they’re all jealous of your success. What is that saying about a poet in his own town?”

“A prophet in his own country,” Alec supplied. Now he knew how Claire felt around him. “But, Miranda,” he said, “the
Tribune
wasn’t even around then. If we had been, I’m sure we would have loved you in Chekhov. Gossip says that the only reason they panned your performance at all was that the editor’s daughter had tried out for the role.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Miranda said. She looked pleased that Alec had heard that rumor, although the truth was that he had read it in her autobiography. “But I’m so far above petty things like that now. I’m above the smallness of Ridgeville, or any kind of self-centered trivia.” That said, she turned back to Larry and began haranguing him about the hairstylist they’d hired for the trip.

Alec picked at his food. He had never given up, and he wouldn’t now. But this Miranda was a lot harder to crack than he’d assumed she would be.

Even if—and he wasn’t yet ready to admit this was a possibility—but even if he didn’t get the interview with her, he still had enough eavesdropped material to fill the inches he’d allotted for the story in this week’s paper. Not to mention the anecdote Claire had shared with him, even if she had told him not to mention it.

He watched Claire’s table for a second. Claire, obviously in vegetarian heaven, was digging in to her food with
a hearty appetite. Roger now wore his serious face as he talked to her, and she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear in that familiar gesture. It made him want to run back with his place card and kick Roger back to where he belonged.

“She was so stubborn. Perhaps that’s why we didn’t get along.”

It took him a moment to figure out the remark had come from Mrs. Schibley. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Claire. Quiet and stubborn. That’s the worst combination, if you ask me. Bugged the hell out of me, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” he said. He remembered Claire telling him that the woman would list all the reasons she disliked her, and with half an ear turned to Miranda and Larry, he listened for more. Even hearing bad things about Claire at least helped make her less of a mystery to him.

“She wouldn’t listen. She didn’t care what others thought. You know, she had just as much talent as this one,” Mrs. Schibley said, pointing to Miranda, who was once again engrossed in a low-voiced argument with Larry. “But a really good actress has to want to spend her life mouthing other people’s words. Claire wouldn’t stand for that.”

“So she acted in high school, huh?”

“In college, too.” Mrs. Schibley looked again at Miranda, still ignoring them. “She took Missy’s part in a play.”

“Yeah, Claire mentioned that.”

Mrs. Schibley leaned toward him. “The paper said, Missy Craig has shown herself to be a fine comic actress.”

So why hadn’t he heard about this glowing review? He’d assumed the daily had only mentioned her that once.

“But,” Mrs. Schibley whispered, “the next line said, But it’s Claire Morgan as the loopy Edna Louise who walks away with the show.’“

Ouch. For the first time, he felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy for Miranda Craig. No wonder she wanted what Claire had. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully and finished off his slice of chocolate torte. After Miranda had taken a few dainty bites of her own slice, she stood.

“Everyone, if I may have your attention, please. I want to thank you again for taking time out of your busy schedules to come here and be a part of this with me. Tomorrow, Ms. Colby and her assistants will begin interviewing you. I want you to pretend you’re talking to your friends back home. If I don’t like what you say, I can always edit it out later.” That got a laugh from about three-quarters of the room. “Right now, I want you all to take this opportunity to get to know everyone else who’s here. Again, thank you, and I love you all.”

At that last line, Alec sneaked another peek at Claire. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Miranda, too, was staring at Roger and Claire. They were deeply absorbed in conversation. She might have gone to their table, he thought, if she hadn’t been stopped by an onslaught of relatives.

“What I want to know is where was the meat?” asked one of her uncles.

“Uncle Jack, you are a regular character,” Miranda said, giving the man a big hug. Alec could see that he wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but Miranda moved on to the next table, still moving toward Claire and Roger. They were standing with Miranda’s parents, chatting with them. Don’t they make a lovely couple, Alec thought. Too lovely. And they were already a bit too friendly for his tastes. He resolved to dog Miranda’s every step as she made her way toward them.

After a while, it was like some terrible dream. The closer the Miranda and Alec combination got to Claire and Roger, the farther they receded. Alec thought he should interject some word about the paper with Miranda, but he
didn’t have the heart. He didn’t seem to have that old Alec thirst for the story. He had a thirst for Claire.

Miranda was in a conversation with an estranged aunt, and Alec was listening in, when he noticed that Claire and Roger were no longer with them. Not wanting to make Miranda ballistic by mentioning it to her, he did anyway.

“You don’t see Claire anywhere, do you?”

Miranda frowned at him. “She’s been with Roger all night. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere, looking like they’re glued at the hip.” She looked around, then looked around again. “How do you like that?” she asked.

Alec didn’t like it at all. Claire and Roger were nowhere to be seen, no doubt cozied up somewhere continuing their intimate dinner discussion in a more intimate setting.

“I’m sure they just went outside to get some fresh air,” Alec said. With that, he and Miranda lurched toward the deck adjoining the dining room, but it was a long hard trek, filled with people who wanted to talk to Miranda. By the time they got to the deck, Claire and Roger were gone, if they had ever been there at all.

So far, the evening was a bust. Determined to wring something from this wretched night, Alec said, “Anyway, Miranda, I hope you’ll think about the possibility of letting me write about you for the
Weekly
Tribune.”

She put her hand to her forehead and held it there, as though her temples were throbbing, then looked around with an expression he recognized as “get this lunatic away from me.” Knowing that he’d pestered her enough for one night, he couldn’t resist giving it one last shot. He said, “Maybe you’d rather I write about you than Claire.”

“Claire.” She said it with such a combination of heartbreak and venom that he immediately felt as though he’d betrayed Claire by mentioning her name. “I have tried and tried to make up for what I did to Claire.” She put her hand on her chest and said, “And you know, I did the right thing. Maybe not for the right reasons. But if she had
any idea what a loser Scott turned out to be, she’d fall on her knees and kiss the ground in front of me.” She shook her head so vigorously that Alec feared for the stability of her hairstyle. “Doesn’t she know that I’m sorry for what I’ve done? How much I’ve wanted our friendship back? Look at her. She’s walking around here in those fabulous dresses, looking more like a movie star than a movie star does. She’s got a job she likes, a fiancé she loves. I didn’t ruin her life forever. Why can’t she forgive me?”

Miranda wasn’t acting. Alec had seen most of her movies, and he knew that quite frankly, she wasn’t that good. Also, she seemed dangerously near tears, and Alec didn’t want to be the one caught beside her when they burst forth. He’d probably be lynched by the crowd for making her cry.

“You know what?” he said. “Claire was up late last night trying to finish some work before she left, and then we had to get up real early this morning. She never took a nap this afternoon, so I bet she’s gone off to our room to sleep.”

“It isn’t even nine yet. And where’s Roger?” Miranda asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure they aren’t together,” he said soothingly. He only wished he were sure. “I’m going to slip on out and keep Claire company. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waved his goodbyes to the other people who’d been at their table, then dashed out of the room and down the stairs.

He paused beside the closed door. To knock or not to knock? Claire could be in there entertaining her teen idol wannabe, and they would all be embarrassed if he simply threw the door open. On the other hand, Roger had a room, and they could jolly well go there. This was his room as well as Claire’s, and a man has to sleep.

He knocked softly, then waited. Not hearing anything, he had the awful suspicion that maybe Claire had gone to
Roger’s room after all. Opening the door, he glanced at the couch, then the desk. When he didn’t see Claire at either of these spots, his heart sank. Then he looked at the bed.

There she was, sprawled on top of the covers, fast asleep. A magazine was beside her, and he assumed that she had come to the bed to read because the light from the lamp was better there. She’d kicked her shoes off, but she was still wearing the red dress.

He went to sit beside her. “Clairé,” he said into her ear. Still asleep, she rubbed the side of her head and pushed his hand away. “Claire, can you wake up and move to the couch like you promised?” He took her sleepy groan as a “no.” He stood up and took his tie off. The honorable thing to do would be for him to sleep on the couch. The cruel thing to do would be for him to pick up Miss I-NeverSleep and toss her over there. In the end, he compromised. He took a blanket from the closet, lay down beside Claire and covered them both up with it. Lying there, feeling the almost irresistible urge to hold her close, he wondered what had ever possessed him to tackle this weekend. It would have been far better for him to have stayed at the paper. Even if things didn’t always run smoothly there, he was at least in control. There was no problem there that he, in his infinite smarts, couldn’t handle.

“
HOW DO YOU SPELL
adobo sauce?” Hank asked.

“Let’s see. Sauce is
s-a-u-c-e.
Does that help?” Mick asked.

Hank took a bite out of the barbecued rib he was holding, then put it back in its take-out container. Wiping his hands on a moist towelette before going back to his keyboard, he said to Mick, “I know what you’re doing. I know that you think if you don’t help me, I’ll let you leave. No way. Not till an adequate amount of copy is replaced.”

“Hank, it’s one in the morning,” Mick pleaded. “Let me go home and sleep.”

“I wouldn’t see you the rest of the weekend. You’d go out on your boat tomorrow and forget all about the paper.”

“You’re a machine,” Mick said.

“I remember a time when that would have been a compliment from you,” Hank said, writing on.

“You know, these last few years I’ve been thinking that maybe there’s more to life than working.”

“Boating? Gambling?”

“Lots of things,” Mick said. “Look at you. All you’ve got is your work. I’m willing to bet you don’t have a single pursuit outside of what you do for this paper.”