A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (17 page)

Piper rolled her eyes. “I understand that.”

“Do you?” Brenna leaned closer. “Really?”

Piper took a breath, preparing herself to recite one of the fundamentals of seduction, as distilled by her panel of bicentury teachers—Sir, the Swan, Ophelia, and Professor Brenna Nielsen. “I really do,” Piper said, smiling. “Once I have Mick’s attention, I can begin to reveal the incredible woman I am inside. But I have to do it slowly and carefully, ever aware that my goal is to heighten anticipation and maintain the mystery.”

“Bravo!” Brenna said, clapping softly. “So do you feel different today?”

A little shiver went through Piper’s body. “I do,” she said. “I feel feminine. I feel sexy.”

Brenna let go with a huge grin, and Piper couldn’t help but notice how proud she seemed. But the grin quickly faded, and her friend appeared as if she were going to cry.

“I’m fine,” Brenna said, raising her hand before Piper could speak. “It’s just—” She shook her head. “Piper, it’s remarkable. This is the first time I’ve ever seen your inner and outer beauty match up.”

Piper reached out for her friend’s hand. “Thank you for helping me with that.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

They stayed quiet for a moment. Brenna looked Piper right in the eye. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Piper jerked her hand away. She bit her bottom lip, trying not to let on how nervous she was about seeing Mick again. Sure, she was thrilled about the possibilities of her new life, but the idea of moving from theory to practice was terrifying.

“No more doubt, Piper,” Brenna said. “Seriously. You are so hot that Mick Malloy is going to feel like he’s been hit by the lust bus.”

She giggled. “Okay.”

“So.” Brenna widened her eyes. “You were about to tell me about tomorrow.”

“Right,” Piper said. “If Mick asks me about the change in my appearance, I’ll answer truthfully but as vaguely as possible. If he asks me to go for lunch or something—”

“
When
he asks you.”

“
When
he asks me to go to lunch or coffee, I’ll politely demur due to work, but suggest that some other time might be better. Though technically not a rejection, the answer establishes the challenge, heightens anticipation, and sends the mystery level into the stratosphere.”

One of Brenna’s pale eyebrows arched over a blue eye.

“What?” Piper asked. “You
know
I take excellent notes.”

Brenna’s eyes had wandered past Piper’s shoulder. “Good, because here comes your pop quiz.”

“Excuse me, miss.” The deep voice came from behind Piper. She spun around in her chair, startled to see a handsome college student holding her purse—
her bag, her bag, dammit.
“This fell off the back of the chair and I … uh, you know … I didn’t want someone to steal it or anything.”

“Oh!” Piper accepted the bag with a smile. “I appreciate that.”

“No problem,” the college kid said. “Hey, um, you know, can I have your number?”

Piper quickly looked to Brenna for help. None was being offered. Her friend simply pasted a pleasant smile on her face, leaned back in the chair, and made a gesture to indicate the ball was in Piper’s court.

So she turned back to the kid. “My number’s thirty,” she said flatly.

He frowned.

“As in, I’m thirty years old.” Piper waited, fully expecting to see the young man scurry back to whence he came.

Instead, the kid’s lips curled up and he let his eyes roam all over her.
“That’s wicked sick hot,”
he said.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Piper huffed. “Let me rephrase this for you, then. The answer is no. I’m not interested. Have a nice day.” She turned back to Brenna and said nothing until she sensed that the young man had begun to slink away.

“So, how’d I do?” she asked, sipping her drink.

Brenna chuckled softly. “There’s certainly nothing wrong with telling a man you’re not interested if it’s a true statement.”

“I’ve seen you do it a few thousand times.”

“Yes, but you might want to work on your finesse.”

“Oh yeah?” Piper folded her hands on the table. “So how would you have handled it?”

Brenna tipped her head thoughtfully. “I suppose I’d have said, ‘Thank you. I’m flattered.’ Then I’d mention that I don’t give out my number as a matter of policy. Then I’d add, ‘Please respect that.’”

Piper sat up a bit, impressed at how easily that rolled off Brenna’s tongue. “Nice.”

“I’m sure you’ll have ample opportunities to practice in the near future.”

Piper shook her head.

“You don’t agree?” Brenna asked.

“No. I mean yes! It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Piper laughed nervously. “I was just thinking how great it would be if I could come up with some magic phrase for my parents; you know, just waltz up to them and say, ‘Mother and Father, please stop trying to control me. I want to live my own life. Please respect that.’”

Brenna laughed. “That sounds about perfect to me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m starting to have second thoughts about letting them see me like this.” Piper gestured to herself. “Maybe I should wait a while longer, ease them into it over time.”

“Sure,” Brenna offered with an enthusiastic nod. “Why not wait another thirty years? That way, you’ll be sixty when you get around to telling your parents to back off, and they’ll be in their nineties, but they’ll be able to handle it, since they’ll still be working full-time and running marathons and shit, right?”

Piper pursed her lips. It was interesting how, as part of the Reinventing Piper Project, Brenna had suddenly decided to say exactly what was on her mind.

“Point taken,” she said. “But I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Of course you’re not.” Brenna patted Piper’s clenched hands. “But really, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Piper pondered that question in great detail during the subway ride back to Cambridge and during the nine-block walk from the Harvard Square T station to her parents’ house on Towbridge Street. By the time Piper stood on the sidewalk in front of her childhood home, she’d come up with her answer.

The worst that could happen was nothing. It was possible that she could show up with her dramatically different hair and clothing and attitude and her parents wouldn’t notice a thing. They might very well launch into the usual topics—whether she was eating properly, their research funding, maybe even her job—and never detect a single change in their daughter.

Piper took a deep breath and eyed the house warily. The three-story 1920s gray clapboard structure had white trim, black shutters, and strong Yankee bones. A squared-off line of boxwoods squatted below the porch railing, the only bit of decoration in sight. There were no geraniums in the flower boxes. No pretty wreath on the door. No welcoming porch rockers with toss pillows.

It hadn’t always been this austere, Piper knew. When Granny Pierpont was still alive, she made sure the house looked cheerful. The window boxes were always overflowing in the summer, and the porch featured wicker furniture with floral cushions.

For a long time now, Piper had wondered how her father had managed to avoid inheriting any of his mother’s blithe cheerfulness. Only recently did she consider that she might have been asking the wrong question. Her father could have started out plenty cheery, but a few decades with Piper’s mother had sucked it right out of him.

“Come in if you’re coming.” Her father poked his head out the front door. “Unless you’re waiting for the weather to change.”

The sharply angled salt-and-pepper pageboy of Piper’s mother popped out from under her father’s arm. She smiled tightly, paused for a moment, and frowned.

“Heavens!” Piper’s mother raised a hand to her mouth as she scanned the sidewalk, almost as if she feared Piper’s appearance would frighten the neighbors. “What have you done to yourself? Is this some kind of joke?” Piper’s mother began to wave frantically for her to get inside.

It was then that Piper looked down at herself, just to refresh her memory about what she’d decided to wear on that Sunday afternoon in June. A simple, knee-length, light gray linen-blend skirt with a side kick pleat. A pale pink, collared, three-quarter-length-sleeve fitted blouse with the top two buttons open. A wide black leather belt. Delicate silver hoops in her ears. Simple black sandals that showed off her pink manicured toes. A pink and silver bracelet. The slouchy gray leather bag with a big silver buckle. Her hair was down. Her makeup was light with a sweep of liquid eyeliner Brenna said would hint at her sensual side.

She’d done everything she was supposed to do. And this was the reaction she got.

It had to be the eyeliner.

“Piper! Don’t just stand there!”

As she raised her gaze to her frowning mother and climbed the porch steps, she took comfort in the fact that at least they’d noticed.

The inquisition began as soon as she’d stepped into the foyer.

“What happened to my sweet and normal Piper?” Her mother fingered the cuff of the new blouse as she pulled her lips tight.

“I decided to change my look.”

“And carry a
purse
? Since when do you carry a purse?” Her father scowled at the statement-making accessory.

“It’s a bag, Father.”

He laughed. “Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “I’ll play along here. Would you mind telling me just
who
you and your
bag
are trying to be these days?”

Piper stopped walking. Her scalp felt hot. Her chest knotted up. “Myself,” she said.

Eventually, her parents allowed her into the dining room, where her mother served the Chase-Pierpont clan’s version of a Sunday dinner. The menu consisted of sautéed ginger cabbage, a mint cucumber salad, and raw tofu. Her mother measured out half-cup portions of each item, and placed them onto plates. Then she announced the nutritional makeup of the feast.

“Only five grams of fat per meal,” she said, spreading her linen napkin across her lap. “Fewer than one hundred and thirty calories, with ten grams of protein. Plus it’s high in fiber, folate, vitamin C, manganese, and calcium.” Her mother smiled broadly. “Bon appétit!”

As she began to pick at the tofu, Piper told herself that if she survived this homecoming, she’d stop by the All Star for a patty melt with Swiss and a side of onion rings and snarf the whole greasy mess while walking home.

The conversation took its usual turn, and soon Piper was hearing about the lab’s latest grant proposal, who among her parents’ friends had died at an early age due to unhealthy practices, and her father’s training regimen for the fall senior-division competitive-crewing season.

“I’m down to eight percent body fat,” he told Piper.

“Wow,” she said.

“My weight this morning was one hundred fifty-four point six and my BMI is hovering right around twenty-one point six, which is well within the bottom ten percent of the population.”

Piper nodded silently, concentrating on chewing her mouthful of gooey sawdust.

Her father cleared his throat. “Your mother tells me you’re back on dairy. I must say, you do look a bit puffy. Did you bring along your food journal?”

Piper glanced up in time to see disdain flash across her father’s face. He quickly covered it with a vacant smile. “Are you? Back on dairy?”

Piper set her fork down. She felt nauseated, though she didn’t know if it was from the anxiety or the cuisine.

“You haven’t asked me about my work,” she said, her voice soft. Underneath the table, out of sight, Piper began violently wringing the cloth napkin in her hands. “But I’ll tell you anyway. My work is going well. I’m getting quite excited about the Ophelia Harrington exhibit, even toying with the idea of focusing almost exclusively on her private life.”

“That’s wonderful,” her mother said. “Have you heard anything about possible job cuts at the museum?”

“Nope.”

“Is your position still at risk?” her father asked, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “And do you really think now is the right time to be ‘toying’ with anything? Shouldn’t you putting your nose to the grindstone and staying out of the spotlight?”

Piper thought her head would explode.
What is wrong with you people? My God! No wonder I’m so repressed!

Her mother pursed her lips. “I just read a report that almost three-quarters of U.S. museums are experiencing moderate to severe budget constraints. I know how you love your job, but perhaps you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Indeed,” her father said, sighing heavily. “Thank goodness you haven’t touched Granny Pierpont’s nest egg.”

“So,” her mother said. “Tell us what this makeover is all about.”

Piper opened her mouth to speak but her father cut her off. “I doubt painting your face will help you keep your position,” he said. “The last thing the trustees want is a streetwalker planning their exhibits.”

Piper’s eyeballs bulged. She bit her tongue. Her hands shook.

“Did Brenna put you up to this?” her mother asked. “She might be able to pull off this kind of borderline-inappropriate look, but it doesn’t suit a girl like you.”

“Actually, I’m a thirty-year-old woman.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly my point, dear. Women in academia don’t get taken seriously if they dress in a provocative manner.”

That was the moment Piper knew with certainty that her parents hadn’t even noticed she’d had a birthday. The two of them were so self-involved, so soulless, that they’d paid no mind to the fact that their only child had just, officially, become middle-aged.

In her lap, Piper twisted the heirloom napkin until she felt the elderly linen tear.

“Listen to your mother,” her father said.

“Hey, I have an idea!” Piper shouted. “How about the two of you listen to me for a change?”

The air began to saw in and out of Piper’s nostrils. It was the only sound in the dining room.

“Listen up, peeps—I just turned thirty, right? I got no card from you. No gift. No nothing. Perhaps it slipped your carbohydrate-starved minds. And the only thing provocative about this outfit is that it reveals the fact that I’m a woman with double-digit-body-fat-covered female parts. You know—hips, thighs, breasts—the whole borderline-inappropriate shebang!”