“Better get rid of that semi, Mr. Malone,” Emzee whispered, dragging her hand over the bulge in my pants. “Though I wouldn’t mind revisiting it later.”
“Or we could just take care of it now…” I grinned suggestively. “We have time.”
“As much as I’d love to have a quickie in the back seat of your car right outside your parents’ house, I’m going to need every spare minute to get ready for this event,” Emzee said.
“Then I’ll take you up on that raincheck when we get home tonight.”
I composed myself as quickly as possible and we headed up the front steps, holding hands as I rang the doorbell. The sound of it echoed from inside the house, and I could hear footsteps rushing down the stairs toward us.
“Here goes nothing,” Emzee said under her breath, seconds before the door opened.
“Ford!” my parents’ housekeeper Vivi exclaimed, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And sweet Mara. Lovely to see you both. Come in, dear hearts. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived. Mara, do you want me to set your dress bag in an upstairs bedroom so you can get ready? Claudia’s changing down the hall to the left, so I’ll just put you in a room to the right.”
“Thank you, that’s perfect,” Emzee said gratefully. “I’ll be up shortly.”
The housekeeper bustled away, and I leaned down to tell Emzee, “Vivi loves you.”
“Vivi loves everybody,” Emzee replied.
“Fair point,” I conceded.
Vivi had always been the brightest, warmest thing in my parents’ mansion. Growing up, the place had felt more like a museum full of rare antiques and expensive furniture and paintings than an actual house for a living, breathing family. Vivi’s peanut butter cookies and kind counsel had made a difference, but even her goodness hadn’t made up for the way my parents had always made me feel like an inconvenience—or a disappointment—to them.
Just then, Emzee’s cell rang. She glanced down at the screen. “Shit. Don’t be bad news.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“The caterer,” she said, picking up. “Hello? …This is she.”
Emzee paced the hall, and from her end of the conversation I gathered that the caterer’s fishmonger had raised the price on salmon but lowered the price of caviar. They were asking if she wanted to tweak the fundraiser’s menu to avoid a several-thousand-dollar upcharge.
“I understand that,” she was saying, visibly losing her cool, “but salmon with orzo is an entrée. Caviar with orzo is not. Do you see the problem?”
“Em—” I said, holding out a hand to take the phone.
Shaking her head, she looked down at her screen and her eyes got wide. “Let me call you right back,” she said, tapping her screen and then holding it to her ear again. “Hello?”
It was the events manager at the Four Seasons. Their sound system was on the fritz and they weren’t sure it would be repaired in time for the fundraiser in a few hours. Were speeches with microphones necessary, or could Emzee get by with offering heartfelt greetings in the venue’s foyer? The hotel was happy to print up any speeches or other informational materials to be set out on the tables, if it would help.
By the time my wife got off her second call from hell, sweat was beading at her temples and I could see her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
“Why don’t you take a break?” I said, my hands on her shoulders. “I’ll call the caterers first and then chew out the manager of the Four Seasons. A non-functional PA system is unacceptable, and if they can’t provide one per your agreement, they’ll have to make some calls and hire outside contractors to come in and set something up. But none of that is your job.”
Nodding, Emzee said, “Maybe not my job, but it is my problem.”
“Not for long. Just give me a few minutes to fix this,” I told her. “I promise I’ll make it better.”
“But—”
“Nope,” I said. “Now get that sexy ass upstairs and into that dress. I’ll be up soon.”
She sighed heavily, handing over her phone. “Thank you.”
After she disappeared upstairs, I called the caterers to argue for a discount on the caviar option and have them swap it out with the scallop appetizer to make the scallops the main entree. This required the order of scallops to triple, but I worked in a discount for that as well.
Claudia was still upstairs, too busy primping (or pouting, more likely) to deal with any of these issues—which frankly should have been her purview, and I didn’t need Emzee to mention it for me to know it. Frankly, it was bad business.
And I didn’t have to think too hard to guess why she had dropped the ball.
