For my faithful readers--and any new ones--I appreciate you so much you cannot imagine. Happy holidays and much love.
Ru
Chapter 154: Dinner and a Showdown (2 parts)
Building a relationship takes time, and building trust sometimes takes longer. Clifford took off the headphones, his expression carefully composed. He felt Tricia's nervousness beside him, the coiled tightness in her frame, and did not want to do anything to spook her. He placed the headphones down on the console, stood up and pulled her into his arms.
“That was slamtastically amazing,” he said solemnly, and kissed her.
While Tricia seemed engrossed in the kiss, she was talking as soon as his mouth released hers.
“—think the bass was too strong on the bridge? Or do you think—”
Clifford did the only practical thing, and kissed her again. This seemed to quiet her a little and give him time to comment.
“I think it was creative, and amazing and ought to knock those execs right out of their wingtips,” he insisted.
“I don't think our label execs wear wingtips,” Tricia said wryly. “More like designer jeans and hightops.”
“Then it will knock them out of their hightops.”
Tricia was silent for a moment, but her head tilted ever-so-slightly to the right. “What—no suggestions? No…comments?”
“Nope.” Clifford was almost smug in his lack of response.
“No…observations, even?”
Clifford leaned around and sneaked a peek at Tricia's tidy, jean-clad form in his arms. “Um, yes to observations,” he deadpanned, causing her to laughed and swat him.
“I meant about our music,” she growled.
“Other than to say I am blown away, I have no suggestions about your music, because that's what it is—your music. And you—and the Vittles—and you are creative and talented and…and that's it, that's all.” He smiled and let his hands curl her closer. “When I am listening to your music, I am just a raving fan like all the others.”
“What others?” Tricia muttered, but cheerfully.
“Well…,” Clifford said, his voice playful. “I think the raving hordes will come once you all get started on your tour.”
Tricia smiled, happy to be mollified. “I hope so.”
“I know so. After you open a few shows, they'll be clamoring for you to be the headliners.” That might have been a bit of love-struck whimsy, but it should be forgiven in the name of l'amour.
Tricia snorted. “Us? I don't think we're going to replace the Tropical Penguins any time soon.”
“Plenty of room for all of us,” Clifford said, and it was such a good, such a perfect thing to say, that Clifford found he did not need to talk at all for a while.
“Would you?” Kermit said Thursday morning. “I mean—you don't mind? Because if you and Sara had plans—“
“I already told you Sara dumped me for the evening,” Scooter muttered. “Something about work obligations, blah, blah, blah.” He looked up, all but biting his lip to keep from bursting into laughter, but seeing Kermit doing the same took the cap right off.
They burst out laughing, and laughed until they were done. The women in their lives would have been heartened to know that they at least recognized their control-freak, workaholic tendencies and appreciated how many times they had thrown a whole bucket of monkey wrenches into their girls' social plans.
“Okay,” Kermit said, patting Scooter's arm. “I get it. Sara dumped you for work and you'd rather pal around with me than sit home.”
“I'm actually angling for a little free food and wine as well,” Scooter deadpanned. “And besides, I'm not sure I trust you out alone after what happened at the Oscars.” Scooter tensed, waiting to see what Kermit would say. They had not joked about it—not at all—and this was the first time he'd even mentioned it except for when they were doing damage control. He was not entirely sure Kermit was up to teasing, but to his profound relief, Kermit sighed, then grimaced and let out a slow breath.
“Sure you're up to the challenge? Piggy tells me I need a full-time handler.”
“I thought that's why you married her,” Scooter said, and that made Kermit smile.
“Yeah,” he said, “although this long-distance handling is not quite what I had in mind.”
Scooter had been on stage long enough to know a cue when he heard one. He nailed this one. “Next Wednesday,” he said. “How does next Wednesday sound?”
If possible, Kermit looked even more grateful than he had when Scooter volunteered to go with him to the dreaded Hollywood soiree.
“Really?” Kermit asked. “I mean—you're sure we're okay with the editors and the backers and the--”
“Really and for true,” said Scooter, and beamed. “I, um, had to buy your ticket out of your personal account. I hope that was okay?”
“Of course that's okay. Anything. Scooter, if you booked me on Air Gonzo, I'd still be grateful…well, um, maybe not Air Gonzo….”
“Air Grover?” said Scooter. “Because they had the best rates of--” But at Kermit's alarmed expression, he gave way. “Kidding,” he said. “I'm just yanking your chain.”
“Yeah—you and everybody else,” Kermit grumbled, but Scooter could see his almost palpable joy, tucked away inside this very buttoned-up frog. "I'm going to see Piggy!" his happiness practically shouted from his pores—well, if he'd had pores. “Look, I don't want to mention it until I'm at the airport. It's not like Piggy's going anywhere with that contract of hers sewed up tighter than a drum, and it's not like I need to make reservations.” That thought robbed him of speech for a good 60 seconds, and he stood there and grinned like an idiot at the thought of snuggling under the same sheets as the pig of his dreams.
“Okay, okay,” said Scooter. “So you're going to see Piggy next week. That doesn't mean you get to be useless until then—got it?”
“Got it,” said Kermit. But he was smiling.
“You so silly, Miss Piggy,” said the old woman chidingly. She was moving briskly around the living room, picking up stray bits of clothing, cosmetics, used coffee mugs and shopping receipts. “You too busy to keep up with everything you try do. Mei-Wah right to call me. You need someone look after you.”
Piggy did not even try to argue. “It's true, Mrs. Lee,” she said. “When Moi is home, Kermit takes care of everything, including me.” She watched the woman sweep the coffee table clear of debris, then follow up with a soft, lemon-scented dust cloth. The surface gleamed and Piggy saw her own face reflected back at her.
“He should,” said Mrs. Lee firmly. “He supposed to take care of you.”
Despite the fact that she had been brooding on that very thought lately, Piggy hastened to defend her frog. “But he does!” she protested. “It's just, right now, he's finishing up our last project together and Moi, well, Moi had to come here without him so I could star on Broadway.”
“He make you come without him?” the older Asian woman asked shrewdly. Caught like a deer in the headlights, Piggy could only nod. Mrs. Lee pressed her lips together firmly, her face thoughtful, then she sighed and nodded. “Is okay,” she proclaimed at last. “Talent not for nothing, not for wasting. You supposed to be on stage on Broadway. He do the right thing.”
“He usually does,” Piggy said glumly.
Mrs. Lee stopped fluffing the pillows on the couch and put her little hand on Piggy's elbow. “If he usually do right thing, he good man. Good frog. When he coming?”
“Soon,” Piggy said, but she did not elaborate. She had nothing to elaborate with. Mrs. Lee finished with the couch and moved to the kitchen, straightening a lampshade as she passed.
“Your kitchen need food,” she said, after a look in the fridge. “I go and get you groceries before I go.”
“Oh, no—that's all right,” Piggy said at once, embarrassed by her lack of domesticity. “Someone's—I mean, I'm going out to dinner after the show tonight, so it's okay. I'll pick up some groceries tomorrow.”
“Do that. Tomorrow,” Mrs. Lee said fiercely, and Piggy nodded. “It not good for active girl like you to have no food in house.”
“I promise,” Piggy said meekly.
“Now go take bath and relax. I make everything all nice for you in here, then I hang up all those clothes—”
“Oh, no—please don't do that today,” Piggy said. “Moi knows where everything is, well…sort of, and I will have things much better organized when you come back next week.”
Mrs. Lee looked at her sternly. “I come back Monday and make everything all nice again. If clothes not hung up, I hang them up then.”
Piggy smiled. “Thank vous, Mrs. Lee. It was so nice of Mei-Wah to send you to help me.”
“Mei-Wah good girl.”
At this, Piggy had to grin. Mei-Wah was a grown woman, and Mrs. Lee's age was anyone's guess, but her vigor was impressive for any age.
“Go. Soak in bubbles. I do everything else.” She pointed. Piggy went.
After Piggy had gone, Mrs. Lee did indeed “make everything all nice,” and the little apartment looked wonderful. She also opened the drapes to let a little wan sunlight in the apartment, and stepped back to admire the view. Her vibram-soled shoe landed on something hard and she looked down. It was black, flat—oh! A phone battery. A moment's searching produced the little pink phone, and Mrs. Lee shook her head and sighed. Silly girly pig—how she not miss her phone? Mrs. Lee picked it up, put the battery back in it and slipped it into Piggy's purse on the end of the couch. She went back and straightened the drapes, checked the windowsills for dust and dusted when she found some.
She smiled with satisfaction. Mei-Wah right to call her. She know what to do for this celebrity pig. She wonderful actress, but not much at housekeeping. Mrs. Lee sighed, giving the window a cursory wipe with the dust cloth. Pig need frog to come and see her, she thought, agreeing with what Mei-Wah had said earlier. If she was this helpless without him, he needed to get himself here—and soon.
But until then, she take care of her. She take care of Mei-Wah, she take care of all her clients, but some special. Some need her. This one need her.
Mrs. Lee smiled. She take care of Miss Piggy, look after everything until the frog was here.
“Jo, honey, I think I'm gonna have to get a little shut-eye,” Rowlf said. It wasn't the late shows, but the late dates that were kicking his furry behind.
“Better rest up,” Jo called, not looking up from her phone. Rowlf grinned. Other women would probably be checking their email or their Facebook status—Jo was working on a song. He turned at the door and watched her, listened to her low, growly tenor as she ached out the words. Lord, that gal can sing, Rowlf thought, just before another enormous yawn overtook him. He trotted back to his room, stopped for a minute, then looked out toward the street. He needed to go for a walk, shake the kinks loose. Well, he thought, not all the kinks. While he was pondering, Slinker sidled up to him, flipping his long hair back so he could use both eyes.
“Hey, Slink.”
“Rowlf, dude.” He looked the way Rowlf had been looking. “You thinking of going for a walk? Cause I was, um, thinking of going down to the market on the next block….”
“I was thinking of a walk, then a nap. What d'ya need at the market?”
Slinker squirmed, putting his hands in his pockets. “Um, the, um, place has, uh, hat's on sale.” He pointed at his own wool beanie, which had been new a week ago and now looked rather the worse for wear. “I was gonna pick up a, um, couple of 'em for the road.” He smiled shyly. “Want to come?”
Rowlf shrugged. “A walk sounds good,” he said. “Lead on.”
“Any news on the glacier watch?” Harve asked. He tried to keep his voice light hoping Fleet wasn't going to get mad.
“Nope,” Fleet said shortly, but he sounded distracted more than mad. Harve scampered over and looked over his shoulder at his phone screen.
“Whatcha looking at?”
“It's the, um, reservation list for The Grill.”
“You eatin' out tonight? Cause Gladys was making—“
“I, um, heard some of Missy's friends talking outside the theater today,” he said. “She's going to dinner with that guy from the casino.”
Harve put his hands on his hips. “What guy from the casino?”
“Guy names Strathers—actually, this is Strathers, Jr. His old man and two other gents own the Palace.”
“So how does he rate a date with Missy when you don't?”
Fleet grinned. “It's not a date. It's a…well, it might be a pity date, from what I overheard. Strathers runs the talent for the casino.” Fleet had to remind himself that Harve and Gladys didn't know any of this. They hadn't been there. He hadn't known them then, and…wow…so much had changed since then. In Vegas, there was no one—no one who cared about him. Here, Harve and Gladys had done everything they could to make his life better. He grinned, remembering the last time he'd left to go talk to Piggy. They hadn't been happy about that….
“Fleet, honey—where are you going?” Gladys had asked.
“Into the lion’s den.”
“Hey Buddy, I don’t think that’s a very good—“
“I don’t either,” he'd said shortly. “But I don’t feel brilliant and I do feel desperate, so I’m gonna go with it and see what happens.”
“Have you tried calling her—“
“Hung up on me. Actually, I think she broke the phone I got her. It sounded that way before the line went dead.”
“A note—“
“I managed to get a note inside to her by one of the theater workers who wasn’t adverse to a $50 bill, but the envelope came back out to me as confetti. She’s really properly torqued at me and I don’t think anything short of blood is going to satisfy her.”
“So what are you—“
“I’m going to offer blood,” Scribbler had said, and at Harve’s alarmed expression, he stopped, softening a little, and walked back to put his hand on the rat’s shoulders. “I’m going to go and stand up under whatever abuse she wants to heap on me and then…then maybe if I’m abject enough and grovel the right way she’ll talk to me again.”
“She could really hurt you.”
“Won’t be the first time,” Scribbler had said shortly, but Harve had grabbed his thumb.
“What if that bear comes?”
Scribbler, in the act of putting on his coat, slowed and swallowed. “I’ll…I don’t think it will come to that.” He had tried for a reckless grin that just came off as a grimace. “I’m pretty sure that if someone is going to kill me, she’d rather do it herself.”
“No, I’m serious.” Harve had looked at him, his dark eyes earnest, until Scribbler had to look away.
“I—I’ll be careful. I’ll keep my distance. But I have to try.” He'd spread his hands and shrugged helplessly. “I know it’s not a good plan, but I have to do something.”
“I know you have to, but just tell me why. Why do you have to?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Fleet…she’s not the only pig on the planet.”
To this, Fleet had had a ready answer. “She is for me,” he'd said softly, and was gone.
Remembering their efforts, he was gentle with them this time.
“I'm going to steer clear of the bear, okay? I won't even be at the theater. I'm just going to tail her to the restaurant, sit at the bar, nurse a drink—okay? She has some sicko stalker who's laying in wait for her, and this little twit probably can't even get a word out around her for mooning.” His cheeks flushed a little at that. At least he'd always been articulate around her. “What's going to happen if something happens, see?” He was pleading with them to understand. Finally, Gladys looked at Harve, her little hands knotted in her apron.
“He'll be a good boy, won't you, Fleet—you'll be careful, right?”
Fleet leaned down and kissed her on her bonneted head.
“Yes, Mom—and I'll put gas in the car before I bring it home.”
“You are not funny,” Harve said, hands on hips, foot tapping. “Why can't you find another girl? A girl who will treat you proper?”
“Not going to happen,” said Scribbler, and left them.
Harve stood with his arms crossed, irritation just radiating from his stocky frame. Gladys patted him, wanting to comfort him but not sure how.
“Harve, Sweetie, he's going to do what he has to do,” she said gently. “You know that.”
“I know it but I don't have to like it,” Harve grumbled, worry undercutting his anger. “That pig is going to be the ruination of him.”
Gladys patted him, then put her arms around him and kissed him on the neck. Harve turned and looked at her, his eyes dark with emotion.
“She might be the ruin of him, Sweetie, but he's already been her salvation more than once. How can we take that away from him?”
“We can't,” Harve said, and sighed. “I guess we just have to hope for the best.”
“You cannot wear that,” Rory insisted.
“And why not?” Piggy demanded.
“You know why.”
“Moi knows no such—“
“People will think you're depressed.”
“Or crazy,” offered Darcy flatly.
“You looked like a nun.”
“Not a nun,” said Kristen coolly. “Maybe an accountant.”
“Or a district attorney,” said Trudy.
“From Tennessee.”
“Oooh!” Piggy growled.
“Hey!” interrupted Darcy. “I resemble that remark, thank you very much.”
“Well, she—“ Rory stopped, realized he was pointing, and cast an apologetic glance at Piggy. “Sorry, I mean you, Piggy, cannot go out to dinner in that outfit. Where did you get it, anyway?”
“Yeah,” said Trudy. “I didn't think you owned any frumpy clothes.”
It was the “frumpy” that did it, and everyone shot Trudy admiring glances. Well, almost everyone. Piggy glared at her, then rolled her eyes dramatically and huffed out a sigh.
“Fine, fine,” Piggy snapped. “I'll go change.” She disappeared behind the screen while her audience rustled with relief.
“How about the pink chiffon?” Stacey asked. “It's really sweet.” It was her first venture into the conversation.
“Too poufy,” Piggy said, her voice muffled as the vetoed suit came over her head.
“How about the blue silk with the crystals?”
“Too slinky.”
“The black one?”
“Too formal.”
“What about that red thing….”
“Too low.”
“In the front or in the back?”
“Yes!” Piggy and Rory answered together. Piggy rolled her eyes again and looked at them over the screen. “And the pile over there is all too short or too tight or too—“
“There's nothing wrong with those dresses,” Kristen broke in. “But I understand why you don't want to wear them out with Creepy McCreepshow.”
“He's not that bad,” Piggy mumbled, fooling no one.
“What about the dove-grey thing—the one with the jacket?” Stacey said timidly.
Everyone turned and stared at her.
“It's…it would…do,” Piggy said. She could have met the Royal Couple, and the Pope and Bon Jovi in that dress—all at the same time.
“Problem solved,” said Darcy brightly.
“One problem solved,” Rory muttered. “You know, you don't have to go.”
“But I do,” Piggy said. “Moi told Kermie that I was going to dinner with our friend Mr. Strathers.” Her pout was pronounced, her determination inviolate. There was no point in arguing further, but Rory hadn't given up entirely.
End of Chapter 154: Dinner and a Showdown, Part 1
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