XV

Oops.

The odd trio plods homeward. Phillip groans on the ascents, moans downhill, and carries on like a child where a man would be mum. Mulroney could break away to prep the ice packs, the drinks, and reefer. But the slow pace feels right, and he’s slow to service or cocktails with these two chipmunks—and he doubts they drink beer. They’d prefer a nice Gewürztraminer or something sweet and pink, what they won’t get at Mulroney’s. Best to ice the bruises and get them on their way.

Yet alas, in the hundred yards before the last curve into the homestretch is Betty Burnham’s, where the front garden is enjoying a horticultural manicure at the hands of herself, in a bikini top, baggy Bermudas, and a floppy hat recycled from the original wagon train. Oh, God; Mulroney winces at the sizzling effect Betty Burnham’s billion dollar celebrity has on the good-time boys.

“Oh, my!” she titters from thirty yards.

“Betty Burnham!” Steffen’s hoarse whisper is rife with urgency, fulfilling his post as social administrator for Phillip, keeping Phillip en scene. Like now, providing thumbnail curriculum vitae for the elder’s edification. “Burnham’s. Highborough! Billions.”

But of course, Phillip knows the coordinates, having visited only last night. He moans up the two-percent grade. “But does she have ibuprofen?”

“Michael! How are you? Staying fit, I see. Can I offer you and your friends something to drink? Iced tea or lemonade?”

“No, thanks, Betty. My elderly friend here took a fall and has to get some ice on his injuries.”

“Oh, God. Did you say lemonade?” asks Phillip with slippery ingratiation.

“Yes!” Betty replies. “You men wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re an angel,” calls Phillip.

“Hardly!” Betty insists.

“Friend of yours?” Steffen pries.

“No. Never met,” Mulroney says, as Steffen and Phillip smirk. “Yes, we’re friends. Nice lady.”

“Does she know?” Steffen asks.

But Mulroney is fluent in bullshit. “Does she ever,” Mulroney assures. “You guys would never guess what I come here for. Well, maybe you could.”

“My God, Michael. What makes you that way?” Phillip asks sincerely, for the good of society.

“What way?”

“Forget it,” Steffen says.

“Here we are,” Betty announces with a tray, a pitcher, tumblers with ice, and a little bottle of pain pills.

Phillip takes them and says, “Thank you. You’ll have to forgive our absent-minded friend here. I’m Phillip.”

“Enchanté, I’m sure. I’m Betty.”

“Oh, I didn’t forget. They know who you are, Betty, and you’ll find out soon enough about them. I mean who they are.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Betty says, happy to gloss the apparently rough surface. “I’m new here, you know, and I do like to make friends.”

“Too bad you got mixed up with the riff raff,” Steffen says, jutting his chin sideways and forcing a laugh to show humorous intent. Mulroney makes bottoms up in a glug, glug, glug, down to the cube slurp and the grand finale sigh. And a belch.

“Pardon me. Ready, boys?” But they’re not ready. They’re sipping cool, delicious lemonade with genteel aplomb in the presence of a billionairess. They linger in the mists of heady numbers. They savor the growing potential for osmosis, after all, until interrupted by the Big M yet again. “See you, Betty. Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” He clicks into one pedal and rolls, aware that the talking magpies might stay back for some high end, high level schmoozing. Who cares? Not him. In fact, this could get him off the hook from another tedious round.

“Uh, Michael,” Betty calls. So he stops and waits for her to catch up. She speaks softly, in confidence. Stern as a God-fearing citizen she says, “It’s really quite none of my business, but I was over at your house a short while ago …”

“Wha?”

“What wha? Don’t give me wha. I wanted to say hello to your wife. It is a neighborhood, so I wanted to introduce myself and …”

“Isn’t that pressing the issue a bit? I mean, how many other neighbors have you walked down the street to meet?”

“A few. But not your wife. Not yet. I saw her. She is quite pretty, but you know that. She seems painfully shy. Hardly a match for you, but then again she seems perfect. You’re so … forward. At any rate, I thought it would be the nice thing to do.”

“Thank you for that, Betty. You are very nice, I’m sure.” Mulroney squints for the ulterior. Betty B feels the jaundiced eye.

“I was going to knock on the door and, I don’t know, borrow a cup of sugar or a hand hoe or something … I didn’t mean to interfere, meaning that I wouldn’t want to change our special friendship. I mean, you know, what happened between you and me. I did enjoy that, and I hope we can do it again. Sometime. Maybe. Soon.”

Mulroney does not go blindly where few men dare to go, nor does he fear risk, rather he goes boldly, after applying his gift of calculation. He weighs and measures then trusts his instincts to speak with reason—and forges ahead. This aging but game woman’s revelation is blurred, nonspecific, and troublesome. A man who thought himself done with practical need might well be in for a life of resignation—a life reduced to base fulfillment and/or consequence. That could be the case here, but what can a man do? Allison is charming and lovable, which was never in question, and the world is intriguing, with its demands and options where least expected. But the current path is off course. “And so?”

“So I knocked on the door and heard voices and laughter. I waited and knocked again. I could tell there was something social going on, and I didn’t want to intrude, but it is afternoon, and I was on a social call, so I stepped around to the side, because that’s where I heard the voices coming from, though it could have been from an open window, I suppose, but you know me; I don’t stand on ceremony, and it wouldn’t have been the first window I stuck my big nose in. People do want to be friendly. That’s my experience. But it wasn’t a window. It was your back deck. This young man with this huge … camera was filming your wife. Naked. Not just naked but … oh, dear. It’s quite none of my business. But she … she was …” At this juncture Betty B can utter no more. Her breath comes short on the horrid truth, and every indication is that morality in the neighborhood may have been breached.

“What? She was boning the camera guy?”

“No. Oh, my, no. Nothing like that.”

“Nothing like that? You said she was naked and worse. What could be worse?”

“She was … posed. Posing.” Mulroney ruminates, sensing the Tweedle brothers, all eyes and ears straining for more.

Why would Allison take up with the camera guy on the back deck? That makes no sense. “When was this?”

“A while ago. Michael. I don’t want you to be hurt. It was simply so … It’s none of my business is what it is.”

“But you made it your business. Don’t get me wrong, but you’re …” Whoa, buddy, thinks a more circumspect Mulroney; do not harm the baby when changing the bathwater. Talk about compartmentalizing; Ms. Highborough Billions Burnham can gulp a gob o’ pecker paste and everything is doilies and lace, but let Allison get naked on her own back deck, and the neighborhood has a disturbing situation. Mulroney needs no reminder that Allison’s ass would make Betty Burnham a good Sunday face, and the photo op potential on some behavior is far worse than on other behavior. “Keep an open mind, Betty. That’s what I do. She gets up to … you know … her own thing. I have to tell you: that lemonade wasn’t instant. It was fresh. I admire that in a woman. And word does get around. Thanks.”

So he mounts again for the brief coast home and more pressing concerns. “Should I come along?” Betty Burnham verily croons to join the prosecution. Popping in on Allison and the camera guy might seem an intrusion elsewhere but seems natural here on the Coast with such a magnificent view of the biggest ocean in the world and luscious events unfolding.

But no. “No, thanks. I’ll see you later,” Mulroney calls back, accelerating with dispatch as a CX-61 can do.

In eighty more yards he turns up the drive to see a black van, side doors open on an array of photographic equipment. Leaning his bicycle against a wall, he removes his cleated shoes for better comfort and stealth. Padding around back, he slows near the end of the hedge and eases in for the close-up—small world; so does the camera guy. The scene blends seamlessly with the scene already simmering in Mulroney’s mind’s eye—hard to imagine, but there it is: spread eagle Mulroney—the Ms, that is. Allison in the buff on a chaise lounge squirms this way and that with no inhibition for the nether regions revealed. “Michael!” she calls as if glad to see him. “Look! I’m a model.”

“I can see that. A naked model. With no discretion.”

“How can you say that? There’s plenty of stuff I wouldn’t do. Scotty wanted me to go hands and knees, you know how they do, with a coy look back over my shoulder. That’s like the guy who offered the little girl a cookie to stand on her head to see her underpants. But I’m really not wearing any. I wouldn’t do that. That ought to make you feel good.”

“It doesn’t. But we can discuss that later. For now, why don’t you put something on?”

“Because. We’re not done. Are we, Scotty?”

“We’re getting close,” Scotty murmurs, clicking away on his camera, tripod mounted, then moving into video mode. “Okay, here’s what I want. If you can arch your back, one knee up, legs slightly open … We’re going for Lana Turner above the waist, maybe Rhonda Fleming below. Get the picture?”

“Like this?” Allison is a quick study. So is Mulroney, who moves gently to the table for a lens cover, which he installs forthwith, pre-empting objection with his own directorial debut.

“Not like that. What I think we’ll go for is Lucille Ball above the waist and Doris Day below. Get it? Get the picture? Look, Scotty. Let’s get something straight here. You’re a young guy. You got your camera. You want to shoot my wife naked. Right? That’s my wife. I’m her husband. She’s naked. You’re taking pictures. You may not realize the risk you run here.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Threat? From me?” Mulroney takes the other lens cap and sails it like a Frisbee, then picks up the tripod and camera and swings it like he once saw Jimi Hendrix swing a guitar, with finality on impact. Sure, it would have been better with some lighter fluid and a Zippo, but as noted, a man must be practical. “Next time I’ll aim for your head. Now. Does that sound like a threat?”

“Michael!” Allison calls, hardly coy, over her shoulder, hands, and knees.

“You’ll hear from my lawyer,” Scotty replies.

“Hell-oh-oh!” calls Judith Elizabeth Cranston Layne mere paces out from rounding the corner, her exuberance overflowing like a riverbank, a muddy one. “Did I tell you, or did I tell you? Is this the most fabulous view of the entire ocean, or what? Oh, wait! Watch this! Oh, hello! It’s only me. Sorry to interrupt—oh, God. Oh, my!”

“Sorry. Please don’t let us interrupt,” says the woman in tow. “I’m Midla. Midla Danyte. I’ve admired your lovely home for the longest time. I’ve driven out of my way for years just to pass by, and every time I wondered who is lucky enough to live here. Every time I knew it would never be me because it would never be up for sale. Because, who could ever live here and even think of moving? Was I ever surprised to see it on the market!”