Marisol and Deanna exchanged puzzled glances in the mirror of the powder room at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. “Is that someone crying?” Deanna whispered.
Marisol nodded. “I think so.” Soft sobs were coming from behind the door of one of the stalls.
Deanna bent down to find a pair of pale feet in a pair of designer heels. “Block the door and do not let anyone in,” she told Marisol. “I’m going to try and get her to come out.” She knocked softly on the stall door while Marisol walked to the outer door. “Hello? Are you all right in there?”
“Leave me alone.”
“I’m not going to leave you alone until you open the door to let me see that you’re okay.”
“Use another bathroom,” Marisol called out to someone knocking on the door. “Someone just threw up in here.”
“Good girl,” Deanna crooned, replying to her friend’s quick thinking. She knocked softly on the stall again. “Open the door or I’ll get the museum’s security to do it.”
What she didn’t want was to read about an incident that someone had been found dead or unconscious in the restroom during a fundraiser and she had done nothing because she was minding her business.
“Just open it a little bit,” Deanna continued, this time in a softer tone. She heard the distinctive sound of the sliding latch and then the door opened a fraction. “A little more so I can see your face.” The crack widened and she saw the pale, mascara-streaked face with red, puffy eyes. “You know you can’t go back to the ballroom looking like a hot mess.” The blonde woman nodded. “Where’s your purse?”
“It’s…it’s back at my table.”
“Who are you here with?”
“My husband.”
“Don’t move,” Deanna ordered. Walking back to the counter, she pulled several tissues from a dispenser, pushing the wad through the slight opening. “Blow your nose.”
“Hey, Dee. I’m not going to be able to keep them out indefinitely.”
“Give me a few more minutes,” she said to Marisol. “Who’s your husband?”
There came a moment of silence. “Damon Paxton.”
Deanna whistled softly. She knew there was something familiar about the woman, but hadn’t been able to recall her name. The tabloids had had a field day when Damon Paxton divorced his wife to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter. The fact that Jean Paxton had come from an old D.C. moneyed family hadn’t endeared Bethany to those who had labeled her as a home wrecker, along with a few other four-and five-letter words that were whispered but not printed.
“Close the door. I’m going to get your purse, so you can clean up your face before you go back to your table. I’m certain you don’t want to give the old cows the satisfaction of seeing you upset.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, I do. Now, close and lock the door. Marisol, come here,” she called out when the lock to the stall slid into place.
Marisol McDonald strutted over in a pair of five-inches strappy stilettos. Instead of the requisite full-length gown, she had worn a short fitted black dress with a scooped neckline and bared back. Her inky-black curls, piled atop her head, added several inches to her diminutive frame.
“What’s up, Dee?”
“She’s Damon Paxton’s wife,” Deanna whispered. “I need you to go and get her purse so she can fix her face. If her husband asks, just tell him that she’s not feeling well. Meanwhile, I’m going to try to keep her calm.”
Deanna studied her face in the mirror while she waited for Marisol to return. She opened her evening purse and touched up her makeup. It had taken her more than two weeks to find a dress for the affair. After trying on the umpteenth dress she had decided on a strapless satin sheath gown in a becoming claret-red with a generous front slit. Fortunately, she’d found a pair of stilettos in the same shade with satin ties that flattered her slender ankles.
“Mrs. Paxton?”
“Yes?” came a soft voice in the stall.
“What’s your first name?”
“Bethany.”
“How are you doing, Bethany?”
“Just say I’ve been better.”
Deanna smiled. “You sound like a Southern girl. Where your folks from?” she asked, lapsing into dialect.
“Alabama.”
“Hey-y-y. A blonde sister-girl from my granddaddy’s home state.”
“Where was he from?”
“Mobile. Your people?”
“They’re from a little mill town in the northeast corner of the state known as Parkers Corner.”
“Are your folks okay?”
“Last I heard they were,” Bethany replied.
“What about your kids?”
“They’re good.”
Deanna knew she had to keep Bethany talking until Marisol returned. “What about your husband?”
“Damon’s good—except when it comes to…” Her words trailed off. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Deanna. Deanna Tyson.”
“Are you the party planner?”
“I’m an event planner,” she corrected. “Keep talking,” Deanna whispered when voices floated through the powder room door.
“I’ve read about some of the parties—I mean events—you’ve put together,” Bethany said in a normal tone. “Do you do weddings?”
Deanna nodded to two women who’d just come in to fluff up their hair and reapply lipstick. “I don’t think I’ve planned more than four or five. What I mean is I try to avoid them, because I don’t have the temperament to deal with young women who thrive on acting out.”
“What about small dinner parties?”
“That’s my specialty. Are you thinking of hosting one?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to give you my business card whenever you’re finished in there.” Deanna removed a card from a sterling card case and placed it on the counter. “Have fun, ladies,” she said to the two women who’d washed their hands and dried their hands.
“You, too,” they chorused.
“I’m back,” chanted Marisol as she walked into the space with a beaded evening bag. “Her husband is outside waiting for her.”
Deanna knocked on the stall door. “Come on out, Bethany, and make yourself presentable. Your husband is waiting for you.”
The door opened and Bethany walked out. She was stunning in a black fitted slip dress that clung to her slim body like a second skin. “What did you tell him?”
Marisol met Deanna’s eyes before she stared at Bethany. “I told him you had probably eaten something that didn’t agree with you, so you were in here hurling your guts out.”
Deanna gave the interior designer an incredulous look. “Did you have to be so melodramatic?”
Marisol rolled her head. “Look at Barbie. She’s a dog’s mess.”
“Don’t you mean hot mess?” Bethany drawled.
“No,” Marisol spat out. “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said. You look like something the dogs dumped on.” She waved a hand. “Get some tissues and clean up that mascara. You look like a raccoon.”
Bethany rolled her head on her neck. “Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Barbie.”
“I have a name.”
“What is it?” Marisol asked.
“Bethany.”
“Beth or Barb. They’re both the same.”
Bethany extended her hand. “May I please have my bag?”
Marisol gave her the small bag that had probably set Bethany’s husband back by at least five figures. “Everything’s in there.”
A becoming flush suffused the blonde’s face. “I know you’re not a thief.”
“How would you know that?” Marisol asked.
“You have enough bling on your hand and ears to choke a horse.”
Marisol touched the studs in her ear. They had been a wedding gift from Bryce. “Fix your face before your husband comes barging in here.” Turning on her heels, Marisol walked out of the powder room, leaving Bethany and Deanna staring at her back.
Deanna closed her purse. “Marisol is right.”
Bethany nodded. “Thank you, Deanna. May I call you?”
“Isn’t that why I gave you my card? You may call me even if you’re not planning a party. Good luck.” Deanna gave Bethany a tender smile and walked out the powder room.