Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (8 page)

A few steps later I reach 30 Rockefeller Plaza, that iconic piece of American real estate. My spirits lift. Towering above me is the mighty beige stone structure famous long before the sitcom
30 Rock
hit the airwaves. This is the home of NBC. This is where Jimmy Fallon and lots of other stars and newspeople show up to work. Nearly at the top is the Rainbow Room. I hope Trixie, Shanelle, and I can sneak in a cocktail there at some point.

My cell phone rings. I don’t have a fun ring tone like I usually do, just a businesslike buzz. Yet another sign that I’m out of kilter. “Rachel!” I cry. There’s nothing I like better than hearing from my daughter. But that doesn’t stop me from ruining the mood. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“Don’t get on me, Mom. I’ve got study hall from ten to eleven on Fridays. Where are you?”

I barely have the word “center” out of my mouth before Rachel starts pelting me with facts. “Do you know Rockefeller Center is a National Historic Landmark? And it took almost the entire 1930s to construct the original buildings? They’re Art Deco, you know.”

“You’re better than a tour guide.”

“I did some research online. You know you should’ve let me come along.”

This is a typical refrain. “I would love to have you here, Rach, but you can’t ditch school.”

Silence. Then: “So do you remember how I was telling you that I thought Madison would flake out as head of the prom committee? She did. This morning.”

Madison is the most popular girl at Rachel’s high school. She and my daughter have had their share of run-ins. “You’re kidding me! What happened?”

“I think it has to do with J.T.”

“That new boy who transferred in? What does he have to do with it?”

“She likes him. And he thinks everybody who does anything extra for school is an idiot. So she’s off the committee now.”

I haven’t met this J.T., but already I don’t like him. “Well, Madison should think for herself.”

Rachel is silent, which surprises me. Usually she’s ready to rip Madison.

“So are you going to put yourself up to head the committee?” I ask. “I love the ideas you have for prom.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not? Over Christmas it was all you could talk about.”

“That is
so
not true! I’ve never been that into prom.”

“You’re right. That’s not really what I meant to say.” I think fast, suddenly aware that this prom business is the real reason for Rachel’s call. “So are people mad at Madison for quitting the committee?”

“No. I think most people understand.”

I wait for her to say more.

Eventually she obliges. “It is true that pretty much everybody on the committee is kind of annoying.”

“You’re not annoying and you’re on it.”

“I don’t know. Lots of people may think I am. And maybe they’re right.”

This is the first I’ve ever heard Rachel talk this way. Mother and daughter have a few things in common and one of them is confidence. Another is that both of us are joiners. Rachel’s enthusiasm is one of the many things I love about her. “Well,” I say, “I think you’d be great heading the committee. And after all, the only thing standing between the prom and total lameness is you.”

Again she’s silent.

“What do people think of J.T.?” I ask a few seconds later, when what I really want to ask is:
What do
you
think of J.T.?

“He’s pretty hot,” she says instantly.

“Does he play a sport?”

“Basketball.”

So most likely he’s tall. Tall and hot and athletic, and after only a few weeks at the school he’s a mover and a shaker. “At least there’s
one
school activity he doesn’t despise.”

“Sports are different, Mom,” my daughter informs me.

My phone buzzes. “Your father’s calling, Rach,” I tell my daughter.

“Okay, you talk to him. You should totally move to Charlotte now.”

“I am not moving to Charlotte until you go overseas this summer. We’ve already settled this.”

“Talk about
lame
. All right, catch you later,” and Rachel hangs up.

My daughter is of the mind that she should be allowed to live alone for her last semester of high school while I join her father in Charlotte. This is not happening. In fact, on those occasions when Rachel can’t have parental supervision, like this week, she gets
grand
parental supervision. Since my mother is about to land at LaGuardia, Pop is moving into the house until I get home from New York.

“I’m calling to say I can’t talk till later, babe,” Jason tells me. At least he’s calling me
babe
, which is rare these days. Maybe it’s a reaction to my
I love you
text. “I’ve been on the track since six and I don’t know when I’m getting off. It’s crazy.”

“You want to hear crazy? Wait till I tell you what’s going on here,” and I relay the details of Lisette’s untimely demise. As I finish speaking, I realize how close it is to my 11 a.m. appointment. I point myself in the direction of the law firm and try to tamp down my nerves.

“At least it wasn’t murder this time,” Jason says.

I guess I’m silent a beat too long.

“It wasn’t, was it?” Jason says.

“Probably not, but part of me has to wonder.” I say this even though I’d kind of enjoy no sleuthing responsibilities. I don’t want to be a shirker, but it would be nice not to have to track down a homicidal perp
every
month.

“Happy,” Jason says, and even though there’s lots of traffic I catch the warning in his voice. “I do not want to spend the weekend trying to track down some killer who probably doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be.”

“It’s gonna be busy enough with my shoots and your Broadway thing.”

He’s got that right. “Not to mention my mother and Bennie.”

“Man, I forgot about that. But she shouldn’t be a problem. Bennie will be around to entertain her.”

“Except she’s not that into him. So she’ll need entertaining from us, too.”

Jason sighs.

“You put up with a lot of drama,” I tell him. “You know I love you for it.”

“I love you, too, Happy.”

It is on that reassuring note that we end the call. I try to hasten my pace but that’s tricky given how crowded the sidewalks are. At one point there are so many pedestrians that despite my best efforts I’m forced to walk underneath a ladder propped against a building. That doesn’t help my already fraught nerves.

Finally I enter the skyscraper housing Moran, Holt, Chambers, Larsen and Webster. The building is as tall as 30 Rock and kind of gothic, which does not render it inviting. I stride across the forbidding lobby and tell myself I’m a pro at this sort of thing. After all, isn’t this pretty much like a preliminary interview in pageant competition? I’ve done those a million times. They require major homework: developing opinions on the controversial issues of the day and practicing a few get-out-of-trouble-fast one-liners. And it’s high stakes: if you do badly, you lose your chance at the tiara.
And
the judges are trying to trip you up. The lawyers told me today’s meeting is “strictly informational.” Only if Mr. Cantwell’s case goes to trial must they prepare me for so-called “opposing counsel.” So today’s session really shouldn’t be stressful at all.

Except that it is. Partly that’s because I have an inferiority complex when it comes to highly educated people like these lawyers, a side effect of being nearly 35 and still minus a bachelor’s degree. Also, I know what Mr. Cantwell wants me to say versus what Mario wants me to say. Neither of them will be present to hear me, but I’ll be aware of them just the same.

This skyscraper might be gothic in style, but I feel catapulted to a space-age future when I step off the elevator on Floor 58. I conclude instantly that Moran, Holt is not a purveyor of low-cost legal representation. Sleek, minimalist, uber modern: their offices are luxurious in an incredibly spare—and intimidating—way. My heels click across a white marble floor to a shiny black reception desk behind which perches a young Asian woman. She takes note of my identity and appointment time but does not deign to smile upon me.

I settle upon a severely chic silver settee to await my grilling. As I set my cell phone to silent mode, noise and motion across the reception area grab my attention.

I glance up to lock eyes with Mario.

He looks stunned to see me. And sort of stricken, too, I must admit. I’m sure I look stunned, too. Of course, shocked as I am, I do something asinine. I leap to my feet and the handbag that was on my lap—my black leather crossbody—launches into the air, executes an acrobatic spin, and disgorges its contents in all directions.

As Mario nears, surrounded by a trio of slickly dressed, superior-looking individuals who no doubt are lawyers, my handbag plops onto the white marble floor. I’m forced to watch as my favorite lipstick rolls merrily across the pristine surface, closely tracked by my emergency hairspray, which is keeping up a darn good pace even though the can is pretty sticky. My Kindle lands flat but its battered cover pops open to reveal that I’m reading
Fifty Shades of Grey
.

Wouldn’t you know it, half the time I can’t get the darn thing to light up.

Mario and the legal posse halt right in front of me.

I feel my cheeks burn. I could die of mortification. I decide I must rescue the Kindle first. I crouch down to retrieve it at the exact moment Mario does the same. We nearly conk heads. He manages to flip the cover shut faster than I do.

Down on one knee and holding my e-reader, Mario chuckles softly and raises his dark eyes to mine. “Happy, I learn something new about you all the time.”

We gaze into each other’s eyes. So close to him, I smell that cologne of his I find so mesmerizing. Of course, he looks wonderful decked out in the same clothes he wore on
LIVE
. Staring at each other, it’s as if I saw him yesterday, as if no time or distance has come between us. In short, we have another of those moments when I feel like we’re looking into each other’s souls.

I don’t know what the heck to say. “You’re the last person I expected to see here,” I manage weakly.

“Please don’t say anything about me to the lawyers,” he murmurs, and lets the Kindle go.

We both rise to our feet. The stricken expression has returned to Mario’s face and I know why: he’s worried I’ll let slip that he helped build the case against Mr. Cantwell. Of course I wouldn’t blow his cover. But why is he even here?

One of the male lawyers hands me my hairspray, lipstick, and handbag. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I could swear he’s disgusted at handling my sticky spray can. I bet he’d kill for an antiseptic wipe.

As I’m returning everything to my handbag, it hits me. Mr. Cantwell asked Mario to serve as a character witness, just like he asked me. And why wouldn’t he? Who would be better at swaying jurors than the charismatic celebrity Mario Suave, if it comes to that? And as far as our pageant owner knows, Mario is on his side. Think of the questions Mario would raise if he refused to provide a testimonial.

Mario introduces the three lawyers, two men and one woman. Something about their cool, assessing looks tells me they’re not pageant people. Not many of us make it to the Ivy League, I will admit. Under their scrutiny, I feel like a specimen on a tray. I can almost see the wheels of their excellent minds turning.
How would this one come across in court?
I get the idea that after five minutes’ acquaintance, they’ve already concluded I would not do well.

That annoys me. I raise my chin before stepping forward to grasp Mario in a quick hug. “I won’t say a word,” I murmur before I step back.

“I’ll give you a call later,” he says as he takes his leave.

I nod my assent. So much for my primo New Year’s resolution: No More Mario. It flies out the window faster than a canary scared by a cat. I rationalize by deciding that our call will have to do with Mario’s F.B.I. sideline, which must be protected at all costs.

I’m escorted down the same corridor from which Mario emerged to a glass-walled conference room with stunning views of midtown Manhattan.

“Are you enjoying your stay in New York?” the female lawyer asks as an assistant provides a glass of water. All three attorneys seat themselves across from me behind an electronic barricade of laptops and tablets.

“Very much.” I’m about to say more when I realize that my goals for Manhattan sightseeing would sound unbelievably prosaic to this crew. I sip my water instead.

“So you are the Ms. America titleholder,” says the antiseptic-wipe lawyer. “And you will be in that position for how long?”

“My reign lasts until September.” Normally I’m thrilled to describe my “reign,” but as the word leaves my lips this gang can barely restrain themselves from smirking. “I’ll crown my successor at the next Ms. America pageant,” I add. It is not a moment I look forward to, but I keep that to myself.