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12
Lucas pulled at his bow tie and refrained from tugging on his cummerbund, bringing back memories of lackluster proms when he had invited someone popular and acceptable, other than the one girl he really wanted to be with.
He was once again in disguise, but this time as part of the waitstaff, serving the who’s who of Boston at the Shepherds’ grotesquely theme-inspired Hollywood home. He finessed his way into the event with the help of Flynn, who was proving to be a wealth of information and resources, and worthy of Tati’s promises to make him her assistant.
Flynn had phoned in a favor to the catering company contracted for that evening’s soirée, asking if they would mind hiring a friend of a friend. A hard worker who was new to the area and in need of a job and happened to have stellar serving skills, having been part of the waitstaff for Michelin restaurants all over the world. Dropping names like Le Bernardin in New York and Le Jules Verne, in Paris.“Mayhap, you have heard of the restaurant which could be found after taking a private elevator to the second floor of the Eiffel Tower?”
Who knew Flynn could be so verbose? And informed, from such an internationally culinary perspective?
And, just like that, Lucas was in like Flynn.
When he had mentioned the complimentary rhyming phrase to his cohort, Flynn almost smiled.
The bad news? Lucas was dressed like the waitstaff in an old-time, black-and-white movie that had been colorized and enhanced. Complete with a short-waisted red jacket, bow tie, and trousers that seemed a couple sizes too small as he had to rearrange himself a time or two.
Once again, he wore a wig, this one blond, as well, but styled with a sweeping side part. He had foregone the gelatinous eye-bags and bulbous nose in Tati’s duffel-of-disguises, banking on the wig and monkey suit adequately camouflaging him.
Flynn sauntered up to him, his eyes darting to and fro, undercover Bond-style, while watching the spectacle of people surrounding them. The guests having complied to Ariana’s invitation requesting “Old Hollywood” attire.
Flynn whispered from the side of his mouth, “This is the fifth party sporting a Hollywood theme that my mother has hosted over the years. Tonight is the first time in this house. The house that used to belong to my father, her ex-husband, and his wife, Birdie. Quite the auspicious evening for a woman born and raised in one of the more remote towns in the Appalachian Mountains.”
The woman flitted around the room as if her peacock-blue dress wasn’t bulging at the seams, her makeup cracking and settling into craggy lines, likely applied with a trowel.
Flynn added surreptitiously, while stroking his chin, “Any minute now, you’ll hear Mother recite a quote from her Hollywood idol, Joan Crawford.”
“She’s a charmer,” Lucas deadpanned, holding a tray of champagne flutes in one hand, his other behind his back, as instructed.
“My mother lives in a fantasy world where she’s the Queen of Hollywood and her son the King.”
“Apologies for my crudeness, but that sounds rather incestuous.”
“I don’t think they’ve consummated their relationship, although I doubt it’s a decision based upon a strong moral compass.”
“Have they always had this…bond?”
“As long as I can remember, Errol has been the apple of my mother’s eye. As I am neither charming nor cunning, I am the apple core of my mother’s eye. Seeds and all.”
“You and Birdie have a lot in common.”
“Yes. She shared with me her own familial woes. I like her. Almost as much as Tati.”
“She used to bully me in elementary school.” Lucas grinned. Flynn turned slightly in his direction. Lucas added, “She used to call me a bastard, cold-cock me, and then steal my lunch.”
“And yet, you seem…smitten?”
“More like drawn to the woman like a moth to a flame, an insect to a Venus fly trap, a boy to a girl he fell in love with when he was in middle school and hopelessly, irrevocably…a little bit smitten.”
Both their heads turned toward a tittering Ariana, surrounded by less than enthralled admirers, as she said, “Why, thank you for the compliment, Judge Merrill. Why, I never go outside unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. I always say, if you want to see the girl next door, go next door.”
“Like clockwork.” Flynn took a drink of what Lucas was sure was sweet tea. The man had good taste, despite questionable A1C markers.
Lucas glanced around the room as his internal Birdie-radar began to rear its virtual antennae, fully aware of her presence and eager to land starved eyes on her.
She practically levitated through the room, her beauty and innate goodness shining through. Lucas noticed the other women talking behind elbow-length gloves, but Birdie paid them no mind.
Ignoring those solely in attendance to gawk, she worked the room with unassuming grace, not because she was forced to, but because it was the way she was built. Rising above adversity and shallow-minded individuals, who wanted nothing more than to bask in her downfall.
The need to control and protect her nearly brought him to his knees.
