CHAPTER TEN

 

Now I can't go anywhere without people approaching me, exclaiming "Do me next!" It's unnerving. I want no part of this…this…Miss Melanie's Finishing School for the Awkward and Clueless or whatever you want to call it. Granted, I might be a little free and easy with my advice, but I don't market myself as a professional…anything. I'm not a fixer, not a beauty consultant, not a shrink. Not a "Henrietta Higgins." (Oh sure, the first time in recent memory the fossils at the Bugle get clever, and I happen to be the target. Thanks a bunch.)

Today it's a relief to be sitting in my usual seat at DBC, drinking my usual triple espresso, with Conn in his usual spot behind the bar, everything perfectly normal, nobody bothering me. Deep Brew C is more crowded lately, but that's also normal with the summer adjustment in population. I'm glad to see the number of customers is up, even though it means I might have to fight harder for my favorite chair, because I've seen Conn with a pile of official-looking documents in front of him more than once since the time I stepped in it asking if he was in financial trouble. It upsets me to see him hunched over the far end of the bar, fingers clenching his short, light brown curls as he studies whatever is on those papers. I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. There's irony for you: I want to help him, and he's the only person who would never ask me.

I stand and stretch, ready to meet some incoming renters to hand over the house keys, when I feel something poke the middle of my back.

"Don't move another inch," a voice growls. "You are so busted."

I freeze for a moment then raise my arms in surrender. Some tourists sitting nearby stare openmouthed, and I wink at them before spinning around and pulling Taylor's finger backward toward her wrist. "Amateur. You think you can take me without a fight?"

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow! Okay, I give up!"

I look over my shoulder and raise one eyebrow at the tourists, who are still frozen in their shocked pose. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. If you know what's good for you."

It looks like they're actually about to scramble when I realize what sort of a display we're putting on. Are we thirty years old or a third that? I start to straighten my clothes, but Taylor derails my attempt to regain my dignity by grabbing me in a headlock. Now all I can see is the floor and her fashionable heels.

"What are you doing here? When did you get in? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" I fire off in the general vicinity of her left boob.

My friend frizzes my hair with a vigorous noogie before releasing me. "Maybe I didn't want to give you any advance warning."

"It can't be because you don't want me to throw you a party. We all know you're an attention whore."

"True. But the whole thing about an intervention is you don't give any advance warning."

I have no idea what she's talking about. "Who needs an intervention?"

Taylor doesn't answer. Instead, she saunters over to the bar and roots around in her enormous purse until she comes up with a newspaper.

"Hot off the presses," she declares, snapping it open and folding the page back. "'Local Socialite Is Your New Best Friend,'" she announces in a loud, clear voice.

"Local socialite is what, now?" The words stick in my suddenly tight throat.

I march over to grab the paper—this week's edition of the Abbott's Bay Bugle—but she takes a step away from me, tosses back her sheet of dark hair, holds the Bugle high, and keeps reading.

"'Melanie Abbott, daughter of real estate mogul and Assemblyman Charles Abbott and employee of Abbott Realty, is on a mission: to improve people's lives, one new best friend at a time.'"

"Me?" There's an article about me in the paper? And…wait. "That's how I'm described?" I squeak. "As my father's daughter?" I know it's not the question I should be asking first, but it comes out anyway. "Which nineteenth-century time traveler wrote this bilge? Who's got the byline? It's Aurelia Hoffstader, isn't it? Isn't it? And why is she writing about me anyway?"

Taylor flicks an eyebrow coyly and continues reading in a sing-song voice reminiscent of a school educational video about the Grand Canyon or puberty, "'And the best part: all you have to do is ask. Drawing on the wisdom accrued in her scant twenty-nine years—'"

"Oh now, that was a dig."

"'—In her scant twenty-nine years,'" Taylor repeats, "'she'll dispense frank advice to improve the lives of others. It's a unique business venture, and it suits Miss Abbott to a T, as her regal bearing and impeccable taste have made her a star in the crown of North Shore society.'"

"Dear God," I groan, rubbing my temples.

"That's a compliment."

My head snaps up at the sound of Conn's voice.

"How long have you been standing there?" The last thing I need is Conn getting in on this. Taylor's bad enough.

He doesn't answer my question. Instead, eyes alight, he peeks over Taylor's shoulder at the article. "And it's a mixed metaphor," he adds.

Taylor doesn't get it. I can tell from her bewildered expression.

"A star is in the firmament; a jewel is in a crown." I don't even know why I bother to explain—maybe to avoid having to think about the implications of whatever else she just read aloud. "'A star in the crown' sounds like the title of a fantasy novel."

"And a crown in the star sounds like some celebrity's dental records."

"Hush, you," I snipe at Conn.

"He's right though—it's high praise," Taylor says.

"Aurelia's always liked me. Which is why I want to know what's up with this hit piece."

"It's not a hit piece. It's…informational. And I, for one, want more information. Let's read on, shall we?"

Before Taylor can continue, Conn picks up the narration. "'"She's helped me so much," says Miss Abbott's first client, Miss Hannah Clement, a summer visitor hailing from Dayton, Ohio. "She's been a true friend and has given me such great advice. I don't know what I'd do without her." According to Miss Clement, the idea for the consulting business came about when she and Miss Abbott determined people would "pay good money" for the practical advice Miss Abbott dispenses every day.'"

"Do not tell me that's not a hit piece."

"Sounds pretty neutral to me. Should I continue?" Conn asks.

"No. Yes. No! Wait. How much more is there?"

Conn takes the paper from Taylor and scans the rest of the article. "Um…blah blah blah 'helpful,' blah blah blah 'genius idea,' blah blah blah 'available for consultations immediately…' You are?"

"Well, if Aurelia says so, it must be true." I slide onto the nearest bar stool and bury my head in my hands. "Oh God, why?"

"Who's this Hannah Clement person?" Taylor asks.

"I told you about her. She's here for the summer." Trust Taylor to forget.

"Why's she so willing to blab about you to Aurelia for the paper? Is she some sort of viper, or is she stupid?"

"She probably thought she was doing Melanie a favor," Conn counters. "She's far from a viper. Or stupid."

Grateful that he's defending Hannah, I give Conn a tight smile. "It's all a big misunderstanding. I'm going to call Aurelia right now and get her to issue a retraction."

"A retraction will run next week," Conn says. "What are you going to do in the meantime?"

I have no idea, to be honest. How in the world did the Bugle staff expand one measly Bite on the Bottom like this? Why did they think it was worth writing an entire article about a "business venture" of mine that doesn't really exist? And why, for the love of William Randolph Hearst's ghost, didn't Aurelia Hoffstader approach me before writing this ridiculous article?

Well. I know why. Because the Bugle staff members wouldn't know real journalism if it met them in a dark alley at midnight and clubbed them with a lead pipe. Aurelia is a retired hairdresser, for God's sake. I shouldn't expect Boston Globe–quality reporting.

Of course, after the Memorial Day debacle, I stopped answering my phone because of all the people trying to contact me for their own personal revamping, so Aurelia may have tried to find me. But I opt for a dollop of righteous indignation instead. It'll help fuel my efforts to get out of this. Not only am I completely uninterested in dispensing advice to strangers, I definitely don't want anyone to think I'm taking money for it. Très gauche, as this alleged "socialite" would say.

Socialite. Humph. If I didn't have to meet some clients, I'd hunt Aurelia down and make her print a new edition of the paper this very minute. Using the old letterpress in the Abbott's Bay Museum if necessary.

I look over at Taylor who's concentrating on applying a fresh coat of lipstick. I'm about to ask her how she thinks I should get this all straightened out when I realize something. "You didn't come here for an intervention."

She smacks her lips together and says distractedly, "Hm?" as she continues to study her reflection in her mirror.

"You didn't come here because of this article. This edition published today. You must have picked it up when you got here."

"So?" With a nonchalant shrug, she makes a business of putting her cosmetics back in her purse.

"So…why are you really here?"

She straightens her tunic tank top, pulling the asymmetrical hem down and plucking at the neckline to get it to fall properly, and says absently, "I've got a business meeting."

"You're working on a deal? Here?" If it has to do with real estate, I'd have heard about it, and I haven't.

"Mm, sort of." Before I can ask for the details, she leans across the bar toward Conn. "So I was thinking, since it's kind of early, what do you say we drive down to Boston for dinner?"

Wait. Taylor…and Conn? What sorcery is this? Conn doesn't even like Taylor. Before I even know what I'm doing, I round the bar and take Conn by his elbow.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Without waiting for an answer, I drag him bodily into the narrow back hallway. I know full well if he didn't want to be dragged, I wouldn't have been able to budge the mountain of a man half an inch, so it's a good sign that he's followed me. It gives me the courage to ask the questions I need to ask.

"So, Conn," I start then hesitate.

"Melanie." He raises one eyebrow at me.

"Going to Boston for dinner with Taylor? Do you think that's wise?"

"No," he snorts, crossing his arms and resting his shoulder against the wall. "I mean, I'm not going to Boston with Taylor."

"But obviously you two have made plans. Going to tell me what this is all about?"

"If I say no, are you going to let it go?"

"Of course not."

"Didn't think so."

I wait. He says nothing, just grins at me. "What?" I demand. I cross my arms as well, realize I'm mirroring him, and hastily uncross them.

"Melanie," he says again, his voice warm and intimate, and that tone does something to my insides. Before I can figure out what exactly is going on in my stomach, he ducks his head toward me and murmurs, "Are you jealous?"

"What?" I exclaim. "Absolutely n—I mean, how could—wha—?"

"It's not so farfetched. I know you and Taylor have always been a closed party of two."

Oh.

Jealous of him infringing on my friendship with Taylor. For a minute there I thought…but no. He's still entirely wrong though, no matter what kind of jealousy he's talking about. I take a deep breath and regroup. "I'm…concerned. That sounded an awful lot like a date."

"And?"

"Yeah well, she's more fond of you than you are of her, okay?"

"Is she, now?"

"So you might want to be, you know, a little careful there…stop looking so smug!"

He turns his grin into a glower, heavy eyebrows dipping so low they obscure his eyes completely. He adds an exaggerated frown. He's probably trying to get me to laugh, but it's not going to work.

"Just tell me you're not listing your house with her because I turned you down."

"Oh, is that what you think?" His expression clears again, and he rolls his eyes. He has no right to be so amused by me at this moment.

"Well, you want to sell your house. Taylor's an agent."

"And you think I'd drag Taylor all the way back from Provincetown to list my house? You know that doesn't even make sense."

"Well what am I supposed to think?"

"Nothing," he says, his voice soothing. "I can promise it's got nothing to do with you. Not everything does, you know."

"That's all I'm going to get out of you, isn't it?"

"Yep."

He turns away, ready to go back out to the main part of the restaurant, but I stop him, this time with a gentle hand on his arm. At first I'm not sure what else I want to say, so when the words, "Conn, is it a date?" come out of my mouth, I cringe. He's going to laugh at me again—I know it—and it's going to be humiliating.

Then he surprises me by smiling—a soft, caring smile. He puts his arm around my waist, pulls me in for a half-hug, and kisses my temple. "I swear," he whispers into my hair, "it's not a date."

I let out a breath, too relieved to really examine why I even care. But Conn isn't finished. He hasn't let me go yet.

"Now…someday soon," he continues in his rumbly, rough voice, "I'm going to ask you why the thought of me going out with Taylor upsets you so much. I'm going to be really interested in your answer."

Yeah, so am I.