The Glenvar country club parking lot was packed to the gills. Kyle, obviously a first class gentleman, (and, I might add, looking fine in a charcoal business suit) pulled up under the portico to the entrance and let me out so I wouldn’t have to totter through the parking lot in the high heels that Dicey had supplied me with.
I was very grateful to him for not making me trek for miles because high heels are definitely not part of my normal wardrobe. In fact, this was only the second pair I’d ever worn in my entire life, the first pair being the ones I had to wear when I was a bridesmaid for Charli’s wedding.
Before I waddled across the street to Kyle’s, I spent approximately forty-five minutes stumbling around Charli’s house in the flimsy sandals. The kids thought it was a real hoot to watch Aunt Marty almost break her ankle. At one point, I was ready to give up and put on my trusty Filas. Charli hid them from me, though, so I had to keep wearing the heels. I finally felt confident that I could manage to actually walk in the beastly things, but if anyone even mentioned dancing, well, let’s put it this way, those folks on Dancing With the Stars weren’t going to lose any sleep worrying about me stealing their jobs.
While I was waiting for Kyle to park the car, I planted myself on the green and yellow floral print sofa in the foyer of the old brick mansion that serves as the clubhouse. People streamed past me, mostly women in fancy dresses and men in tuxedos with vaguely familiar faces.
Two women that I’d never seen before said hello to me, asked about my folks, and prattled on and on about how ‘grown up’ I looked. I managed to resist the urge to make a smart alecky remark back. Mom would have been so proud.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Kyle made it back from whatever planet he’d had to park on. He pushed through the door and I have to admit, he looked so attractive that I had to restrain myself to keep from bouncing with joy. Of course, that would have been next to impossible in the torture-devices-masquerading-as-shoes that were strapped to my unhappy feet.
Kyle hoisted me up from the sofa and we tromped off down the hallway toward the ballroom. Kyle suddenly stopped short and I almost tripped, but he managed to keep us both off the floor. “Sorry about that. It was my fault,” he lied. “That man over there, the short guy in the tux, is waving at us. Do you know him?”
I jerked my head in the direction he was pointing. It was Sam English, standing next to Art Danner. Sam waved again and headed toward us, leaving Art all alone and seeming extremely awkward in his gray suit with the too-short sleeves.
I wanted to run and hide from Sam, but seeing as to how I’d left my sneakers at Charli’s house, I was forced to stay rooted. I gripped Kyle’s arm and pretended to be happy to see Sam. It’s not that I disliked him or anything; it’s more that he was just so strange. A fussy little man, he was dark-haired, had a handsome face, and was always extremely well-dressed, but there was this weird vibe that he gave off. He made me feel really uncomfortable.
“Martina, darling! You look simply stunning! Absolutely breathtakingly lovely this evening. That dress is simply to die for. Don’t tell me, it just has to be a Colletta, doesn’t it?” He stood about two inches from my face, gushing over me in that odd accent he used. It isn’t British, Italian, or French, but a sort of conglomeration of all three. In short, it sounded fake. He took my hand and kissed it. Slobbered on it, actually.
I wanted to run into the bathroom to wash my hand, but I managed to get a grip on myself. “Hello, Sam. And thank you. Sam, this is Kyle Zagle. Kyle, Sam English. Sam’s an antique dealer. Kyle is…” I didn’t know what Kyle was.
Kyle grasped Sam’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam. Antiques. How fascinating. Do you have a shop here in Glenvar?”
Sam launched into a description of his business, telling Kyle about his ‘darling’ little shop and inviting him to stop by ‘just anytime’. His shop was way out in the country, basically in the boondocks. It was in an old farm house, and chock full of dusty used furniture and tchotchkes- over-priced junk, if you ask me, - but Charli and Mom adored it.
“Martina, darling, I have the most delightfully wonderful news.” Sam stared googly-eyed straight at my left breast as he talked. I almost lifted his head up to point out my face. One thing for sure, there was no wondering what he and Art Danner had in common. Although Sam seemed much more impressed with my bod than Art had been.
“Just simply marvelous,” he said, his eyes never once straying from my chest. “I picked up a fabulous Stickley chair that your mother would just die for. Tell her she simply must come in and see it tomorrow. I just know she’s going to be absolutely mad for it. Why, there’s Dicetta and Roberto! I simply must run! I must tête-à-tête with Dicetta about the absolutely delicious armoire I snatched up on my last trip to Sotheby’s. Wonderful to meet you, Kyle, simply delightful. Do take care of our lovely Martina, she’s absolutely divine!”
And with that he was gone. I mumbled something about the ladies room to Kyle and teetered off down the hall to sanitize my hand. When I returned, Kyle was talking to Dicey, who looked stunning in a bright red slip dress that barely covered her curves.
“Wow, Dicey, that’s some dress,” I said. “You look, as Sam would say, deliciously divine.”
She and Kyle both laughed, hers a loud cackle, his a happy booming bass.
“Why, thank you, Marty. Not too shabby for an old broad, even if I do say so myself. And, by the way, I return the compliment,” Dicey replied.
“Well, ladies, I hate to interrupt this, especially since I’m with the two most beautiful women in the whole place,” Kyle said, “but we’d better go inside before they start without us.“
We made our way to the ballroom and scouted out our table. It was about halfway back and on the left. Robby and Sam English were already sitting, Sam sipping a white wine, Robby guzzling a Bud. Kyle held my chair out for me and I sat down. There were three empty seats between Sam and me. I wondered who else was at our table, figuring that it was probably going to be friends of Sam’s, maybe Art Danner or Sam’s on-again, off-again, lady friend, Kay Cee. I didn’t ask, though, just in case Sam and Kay Cee were off-again. I knew from past experience that if they were I’d spend the rest of the night listening to all the boring details of their latest fight.
“Well, well, well, ain’t this just a effing cozy little group,” a familiar, (painfully familiar) voice boomed in my ear. Chairs were scraped out and my former boss, Herb, the worst station manager in the history of radio, (of course he kept his job when the station changed hands) plopped down next to Sam, who was across the table from me.
Herb sported one of his trademark western suits, this one in avocado green polyester with a rhinestone design of a guitar on the back of the jacket and rhinestone music notes running up and down the jacket sleeves and pants legs. A string tie with a rhinestone guitar as the slide hung loosely around his neck. His hair was in its usual deluxe comb-over, and he clutched a bottle of Bud in his chubby hand.
He immediately zeroed in on me. “Hey there, Marty, what you been up to? Ain’t found an effing job yet, have you? Hoo doggie, but that there is one sexy dress you’re almost wearin’. You and Miz Dicey trolling tonight or what? Hey, that reminds me, you hear the one about the pimp and the ho?”
His long-suffering wife, Georgina, a sweet-faced, soft-spoken gal, who was actually a hard-nosed business woman, walked up just then and nudged him in the side. “Daddy,” she whispered and shook her head. She was dressed in a gown that matched Herb’s suit, her hair piled ‘high-and-yeller’ and anchored with guitar shaped rhinestone clips.
Herb immediately turned red and shut up. “Yes, Mother,” he said in a wimpy little voice, not his booming, sexy radio voice or his obnoxious, jerk voice. We didn’t hear another word from him until Georgina excused herself ten minutes later to go powder her nose.
Just as she left the table, Herb started trying to tell his joke again, but this time he was interrupted by a shrewish voice that sent shudders down my back.
“You honestly don’t expect me to sit next to her, do you?” Giselle asked. “What’s she doing here anyway?”
I turned and grinned at her. “Hello, Giselle. Would you like a jug of wine? Or perhaps a rack of lamb? I’ve heard they serve great melons here, too.”
“Shut up, Marty!” She stamped her foot, not an easy task considering that her shoes had four-inch stiletto heels. I admit that I felt a twinge of envy that she could manage so well in them. If I’d tried stomping my foot in my two-and-a-half inch heels, I most likely would have flattened my fanny.
Kyle winked at me and said in a low voice. “I don’t know why, but for some reason I get the feeling that the two of you aren’t exactly friends.”
I answered him loud enough so that everyone could hear. No use depriving them of my wit. “Oh no, Giselle and I are bosom buddies. Isn’t that right, Giselle?”
She slammed her purse down on the table. “Will somebody shut her the heck up? Otherwise, I’m going to switch tables. In fact, that’s just what I’m going to do. Who’s coming with me? Robby? Sam? Herb?”
Robby was too busy laughing his head off. For some reason Herb looked over at Kyle and then an odd expression crossed his face. “Nope,” he said. “Georgina wouldn’t like that. She’s wanting to chat up Zagle.”
Sam leered at Giselle’s breasts and licked his lips. Evidently the impending implants weren’t entirely necessary in his eyes. “Why certainly, darling. I’d simply adore the opportunity to join you. Dicetta, Roberto, Martina, Kyle, please excuse me. I hate to go. I was so looking forward to finally hearing all the details about who came up with that simply decadent inspiration to plant pink flamingos all over our neighborhood.”
Sam chuckled when he said that, but his eyes were cold and hard. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, none too gently, before he went off with Giselle. “I’ll bet it was you, wasn’t it, Martina? I’ve always known that you were the clever one in the Sheffield clan.”
I was about to answer him, but the master of ceremonies called for the invocation. Sam and Giselle scurried off toward the back where I noticed Art Danner sitting at a table with Frank Billingham. I vowed to keep far, far away from that particular table and bowed my head. When the non-denominational prayer was over, the salads were served and I spent most of the rest of the meal talking to Kyle.
I found out that he was thirty-two, from Denver, that he worked for a company that had ‘wide-ranging’ interests, and that he ‘wasn’t at liberty at this time’ to say exactly what those interests were and why he was living in Glenvar. I wasn’t born yesterday. Besides, Charli used to work for a fiber optic manufacturing company that made top-secret devices for the intelligence community. I knew code talk for the CIA when I heard it.
A thrill of excitement zipped through me. I’d never gone out with a spy before. At least not that I knew of. While the speaker for the evening was being introduced I drifted off into a fun little James Bond type fantasy with me, of course, being the heroine.
I wondered if the CIA paid well and was thinking about asking Kyle how to apply, but then I remembered that the Bond girls usually end up getting the short end of the deal, so I kept my mouth shut. Besides, I was afraid that if he knew I was on to him, he’d have to kill me since Charli told me the CIA has a rule about that.
Other than being secretive about his work, Kyle was charming, interesting, and we had a lot in common. I wasn’t quite picturing myself with three little Kyle-faced kids, what with him being a spy and all, but there was definitely a spark or two flying between us.
After the speaker finished his boring talk about the latest economic development activities being initiated in the Glenvar Valley, the Master of Ceremonies announced a few awards. No one at our table won anything, not that they seemed to care one way or the other. Once the awards had all been handed out we heard the band, The Parnell Project, (named for their lead singer, Charli’s neighbor, Sue) start playing out on the deck by the pool.
“So, would you like to dance?” Kyle asked.
I was more than a little worried about the shoe situation, but I’ve always been a good sport. Not to mention a glutton for punishment. “Sure, why not,” I said.
We scooted back our chairs and joined the exodus toward the French doors that led out to the pool area. They’d set the band up on a riser overlooking a wooden deck that stood to one side of the pool. The deck ‘dance floor’ was packed.
“Looks like we might be able to squeeze in over there.” I pointed to an empty spot about three inches from one of the band’s gargantuan speakers.
“That’s okay,” Kyle said, “I’d rather talk to you than dance anyway. Let’s sit over by the pool.”
I was so giddy about not having to dance that I could have kissed him. “Great,” I said. Of course, looking like he did, kissing him wouldn’t have been the most painful thing I’d ever done.
He led me through a low gate toward a couple of chairs that were off to themselves.
“Marty Sheffield, stop right this minute.” Giselle came up behind us. Her dress was a skimpy orange halter number that didn’t do a thing in the world for her, color-wise, shape-wise, or in any other way that I could see. “I want to talk to you.”
I stopped and faced her. ““Jugular vein. Jug band. Mother, Jugs, and Speed.”
She turned crimson and gritted her teeth. “That’s not going to work, Marty. Not this time.” She focused in on Kyle. “Would you excuse us, please? I’d like to have a word with Marty in private.”
Kyle arched his brows at me. “Marty?”
“I’ll be okay,” I told him. A firefly flittered in front of me so I caught it, made a wish, and then let it go again. “Be with you in a sec.”
When he was out of earshot Giselle lit into me. “I have had it, HAD it up to here with you, you little slut! Stop going around making boob jokes. I mean it. And another thing, I want you to stop stealing my boyfriends! Do you understand me? I want you to stay far, far away from that man. He’s mine. Mine! I saw him first and I’m not going to let you have him! Not this time, I won’t.”
I was fuming, but managed to keep my voice low. “Gee, Giselle, that’s funny, but, if I’m not mistaken, Kyle likes me better. And what makes me think that, you might ask? Could it be the fact that he asked me to be his date, not you? Why, yes, I do believe that’s it. Now get out of my face, you moron.”
I turned to leave but she grabbed my right wrist. “I don’t care. You are not to see him anymore. Got it? If you do, I’ll see to it that you never work in this town again.”
“Like that really scares me. Geez, Giselle, get over yourself.” I jerked my arm away from her and as I did my shoes betrayed me and I tumbled backwards.
My left heel caught between two of the cobblestones in the walkway and I grabbed at Giselle to keep from toppling over. Startled, she spun around, her feet hit a slick spot and then we were sort of flying through the air and SPLASH, she hit the water. It would have been hilarious except for the fact that I landed on top of her.