Chapter 156: What the Heart Wants
He answered on the first ring. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself, swamp boy,” she said, and suddenly she was crying, unable to do anything much but sob into the phone.
Kermit was aghast, helpless in the face of her unhappiness. He stopped where he was and dropped into the armchair in their bedroom, the phone clenched so tightly in his little froggy fingers that they turned almost white.
“Piggy, Honey…Sweetheart? Can you…can you tell me what's wrong? Did something happen? Was somebody mean to you?”
“Y-y-yes,” Piggy sobbed, unhelpfully. Kermit realized he was going to need to slow down.
“Okay,” said Kermit. “Okay. Was—was the show okay tonight?”
“Moi was wonderful,” she boo-hooed. “Standing ovation and the crowd went crazy when I came out.”
“Of course they did,” Kermit soothed. “Why wouldn't they? Um, did you have a fuss with Mr. Lowry?” Piggy had said something about Mr. Lowry falling in line after Marty's little power play after the whole Eileen Mansfield debacle—maybe he had resented being shooed back in line and was taking it out on Piggy.
“N-no,” she wailed. “He's been very n-nice to Moi.”
“Okay, okay,” Kermit said. He wished he was there and could put his arms around her, tell her everything was going to be fine. Guiltily, he realized that it was possible that everything was fine—more or less—at least as far as she knew. More than once, when she'd been frustrated to the point of tears about something or other, it had turned out to be nothing much, nothing that hugs and kisses wouldn't cure. “Um, did you—oh! Did you get to go out to dinner with Mr. Strathers?”
Piggy noticed that Kermit didn't call it a “date”. Of course he didn't. Even with one of their friends, Kermit wouldn't use the word “date”, and any time she had inadvertently used it, Kermit had bristled. Piggy adored that look—that Me-Kermit-You-My-Pig look and, remembering it, she began to smile even through her tears.
“Y-yes,” she managed. “We went to The Grill.”
“That's the, um, place you like to go with your friends from work,” Kermit said. He had tried to pay attention, tried to put together a picture of what her life was like up there without him. The fact that he didn't like the fact that she had a life without him made it harder and easier at the same time.
“Yes,” she said. He remembered where she'd told him she was going.
“Well, I guess that was nice,” Kermit said. He was grasping at straws, babbling he was sure, but she had stopped sobbing, at least.
“Dinner was nice,” Piggy said, looking down. If Kermit could have seen her in that moment, eyes averted, shoulders hunched, he would have known—he would have known that something was wrong and demanded she let him help, let him champion her, but the phone connection was just a miracle of technology and science, not a real miracle, and he could not know the dichotomy between her words and her feelings when he was this far away.
“Good.” A hint, Sweetie—give me a hint so I don't bumble around and say the wrong thing.
“Moi was having a nice dinner and….”
She hesitated, and Kermit's heart clenched. What else could go wrong? Hadn't they had their share of public relations disasters this month?
“—and Seymour got a little tipsy and started saying he knew I was upset about the stories in the paper and that I could be honest with him about my feelings.” Kermit could tell from her tone that she was trying to make light of it, but also that she was disappointed.
“Well, Honey, he's probably just going by what he reads,” Kermit said wearily. He tried a smile, mostly to hide his own moroseness. “I guess he wanted you to know he was there for you if you wanted to talk.”
He heard the quick intake of breath, then Piggy's voice, halting and uncertain. “I…I—yes, that must have been it,” she said, and there was something, something in her voice that sounded off or strained, but he didn't know what to make of it. Poor Piggy—he guessed she did want to talk to someone about all the hatefulness, now that Howard and Thoreau had come back to L.A. Kermit smiled a fleeting smile. Howard had dropped by to tell him all about their visit, the clothes, Piggy's acclimation to New York, her reception on Broadway. “You have to get up there,” Howard had gushed. Kermit had snapped at him, then apologized.
“Sorry,” he had said. “Sorry, Howard. I know she's doing fantastic.” Without me.
But Howard had seemed to suddenly hear what he had not actually said.
“Don't fool yourself,” he'd said dryly, and thumped Kermit soundly on the back. “She may be doing splendidly, but she's very frog-sick without you.” As rotten as that had made him feel, it had also made him feel better.
“Thanks, Howard,” he had said, really meaning it, and tried to smile. Remembering that conversation now, with Piggy on the other end of the phone, Kermit tried to infuse his voice with cheeriness.
“Um, I miss you a whole bunch,” he said. Piggy's whole body softened at his tone. From Kermit, this admission was pretty huge, and sounded absolutely sincere.
“Oh, I miss vous too, Mon Capitan,” she cooed, trying not to sound tearful. “When we talked about the show in Vegas, Moi remembered how hard you and Scooter worked to extend our stay. That was so wonderful of you, so wonderful to have that time with….” She trailed off, hoping he could not tell that she was scrubbing furiously at her eyes. Oh! How she missed him!
“Well, I miss you more,” said Kermit determinedly. “I have to go to this stupid party tomorrow night. I'm terrible at those things without you.”
“Vous are not terrible at them,” Piggy said. “You're just miserable at them without Moi.”
Caught off guard, Kermit laughed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I am. But Scooter is going to go along to keep me out of trouble.”
“Just Scooter?” Piggy asked.
Kermit made a grumpy noise and Piggy's heart ached. She loved his grumpy face. She adored kissing his frowning mouth! Piggy thought about the picture, thought about the paper it would appear in, and all the other papers that would pick it up. He would find out whether she told him or not, so—
“When I was having supper with Mr. Strathers….”
“Yes?”
Piggy was silent for a moment, then took the plunge. “Fleet Scribbler showed up.” Later, Piggy would wonder why she said it, would wonder why she said it like that, would wonder why she was so quick to throw Fleet under the bus.
“What?” Kermit exploded. “Scribbler showed up and—are you okay? What did he do? What happened?”
“I—nothing,” Piggy said, aware that she had uncapped the volcano.
“Piggy—what happened?” Kermit said, fear and anger coursing through him. If that miserable little fiend had harmed one perfect hair on her perfect head— If he was the reason Piggy was crying—!
“Nothing happened,” Piggy said, “except he…took my picture.”
“Took your picture?” Kermit said, mostly thinking out loud. Of course he took Piggy's picture—that's what the little scumbag did. “With Mr. Strathers?”
“Um…no. Mr. Strathers had gone by then.”
“What do you mean—had gone by then? Where did he go? Where were you?”
“What do you mean, where was I? Moi was at the restaurant with Mr. Strathers and…and when Fleet showed up he left.”
Fleet? Something about the way she said it made Kermit stop and look at the phone.
“Scribbler showed up and…Strathers just left you there?”
“Moi wasn't—he left and, then Fleet took a picture, and then Kristen and Rory and Darcy came.”
“They came and got you? From the theater?” Piggy had been abandoned at the restaurant? Had Strathers done something to Scribbler that caused him to be hauled off? Kermit was pretty certain that if he'd been there, he'd have done something to Scribbler that would have caused him to be hauled off in handcuffs. If he got his hands on that miserable, that execrable excuse for a writer, he'd—
“They were already there,” Piggy said. She was sorry, now, that she had tried to tell Kermit about it, only she hadn't really tried to tell him about it—she was just lonely and miserable and sad and wanted her frog.
Kermit stared at the phone again. “Piggy, you're not making sense—“ he began.
“Well, who says Moi has to make sense!” Piggy said, beginning to cry again. “Why are you fussing at Moi?”
What? Was he fussing at her? Kermit looked down—at his clenched fists, felt the rigidity of his posture, heard the anger in his voice. He was fussing at her—at least, he was fussing near her, and she was already upset, poor thing, and he was…he was a terrible amphibian, a terrible frog.
“Honey—I'm sorry,” Kermit began gently, but if he had hoped to stem the tide of her tears, this had the opposite effect. Piggy sobbed even louder.
“It's not your fault,” she cried. Only it was—sort of. She wanted him. She wanted him to be here already. She wanted to go home.
“Sweetie—Sweetheart, c’mon, just…just listen a minute, okay. I’m not mad, and I’m not fussing. I’m just…I’m sorry, sorry I can’t be there when you’re unhappy.”
Piggy sniffled, but she was listening. “I’m not really unhappy,” Piggy said, trying to make it true. She wasn’t—she wasn’t unhappy. “I’m just…I miss you and when I was out to dinner tonight with Mr. Strathers it just made me realize how much Moi wanted you here, how much Moi wanted to be where you are.”
Kermit’s throat felt tight, and he had a hard time swallowing. Sometimes, Piggy could say exactly the right thing, exactly the thing that he needed to hear.
“I want to be where you are,” Kermit said softly. “I want to be where you are for the rest of my life. So, um, there,” he said firmly, pleased to have expressed everything just so. He could hear Piggy sniffling, but smiling through her sniffles. “I’m trying really hard to be grown up and responsible about this, but when I think about you, I don’t want to be grown up and responsible.”
“You always want to be grown up and responsible,” Piggy said gently.
“Huh uh,” Kermit said. “You make me want to act crazy, run through a field of flowers, hang from the handlebars, jump off the bridge, act crazy.”
“Don’t jump off a bridge,” Piggy said. “Jump on an airplane.”
He didn’t know how to answer that. “Speaking of crazy…how's Bobo working out? Is he making you feel safe or annoying you?”
“Yes,” Piggy said, evading the question. She wondered if “staying out of trouble” included having your picture taken at close range by Fleet Scribbler—or being pawed by your one-time boss who had probably just been struggling to keep his inner fanboy under wraps. “He seems to be enjoying New York. I understand he's found an apartment with one of the stage hands.”
“Good. Glad you aren't mad at, um, Marty for sending him up there.”
Piggy smiled and put her lips close to the phone. “Moi is not mad at…Marty for sending Bobo up here. I am very touched that you both, um, ahem, that he wanted me to feel safe.”
Despite last night, the thought that she needed a body guard seemed rather melodramatic. She had friends and protectors. She remembered the lecture, the tongue-lashing she'd received from Rory, Darcy's worry, Kristen's cool concern that made it seem not-at-all histrionic to be unnerved by Mr. Strathers's odd behavior. “I promise to wait until vous are up here to get into trouble.”
Kermit laughed and felt a delicious blush sweep over his body. “Good to know.” He started to tell her he was coming next week, but something—worry about something unexpected coming up, fear of disappointing her yet again—made him hold back. He sat down on the couch and leaned back, eyes closed, the phone warm in his hand. “Sweetie….” He did not know what else to say, and Piggy heard the helplessness in his voice and had pity on him and swooped in to reassure him.
“Tell me about the party,” she said, hoping to distract him from what he could not help.
“It’s just a party,” Kermit said, shrugging.
“Who’s coming?” Piggy asked, wanting details, wanting him.
“I told you—Scooter’s coming with me,” Kermit said.
“Not what Moi meant, silly. I meant, who is going to come to the party?”
“Who is…oh. Well, there are some financial folks, of course.”
“Of course,” Piggy murmured.
“A lot of producers, directors.”
Piggy felt an actual physical ache that they would be denied her presence. “Oh, tons of them, I’m sure,” she said faintly.
“And a lot of talent,” Kermit said. He assumed Piggy would know the sorts of people who came to these sorts of things and didn’t elaborate.
“Do you think Scooter can protect you from strange women who hurl themselves into your path?” she teased, but there was a definite possessive edge to her words.
“No strange women,” Kermit said firmly.
“No familiar women,” Piggy returned, and Kermit smiled.
“The only strange woman I’m interested in is you,” Kermit teased, and Piggy gave a snort and shook her head. He heard her curls brush raspy-like against the phone and longed to run his hands through her hair, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers. He was quiet for a moment. “Are you…is everything okay, Piggy? You…I’m worried. If Fleet bothers you again—”
“Moi is fine. Moi is a trooper,” Piggy said with conviction, but Kermit could hear the false cheeriness that infused her words.
“You are a trooper. I, um, love you. And miss you.”
“Miss you, too, Mon Capitan,” Piggy said. “Do you…are you awfully mad that Fleet took a picture of me for the paper?” she asked.
“I’m not awfully mad,” said Kermit. I will punch his lights out if he comes near you again.
“Call me tomorrow and let me know how the party goes.”
“I will.” He held the phone close to his aural organ. “Miss you. Love you.”
“Moi, too.”
“Good night.”
“It is now.”
It’s good I didn’t tell her, Kermit thought firmly as he put the little phone away. No sense getting her hopes up too early. He’d get there as soon as he could.
It’s good I didn’t tell him what really happened. He’s already worried and he would worry about this too. Piggy stared at the little phone for a long while. Come soon, she thought. Come very soon.
Piggy put the phone away, wondering again why she didn't remember having her phone and her keys in her lap while she was sitting at the table tonight. Of course, she had been thinking of leaving—had been wanting to go home and get away. She thought about the keys—she was usually so careful about keys—and she couldn't remember the last time she'd had her keys out. Had she really taken them out of her purse?
Piggy shook herself. Of course she had. What other explanation was there? But she got out of bed to check the deadbolts before crawling back in bed and falling instantly to sleep.
***
“So…how many in the can?” Clifford asked.
But Tricia was not fooled. “Six. You know it’s six in the can—four more to go.”
Clifford smiled. “More than halfway,” he said.
Tricia was looking at him, looking at him and liking everything she saw. Knowing she was walking away from it—and soon—made every little feature dear to her. “I’m…more than halfway ready for a midnight snack,” she said. It was late, later than late, and Mabel had trundled off to bed.
“Food sounds good,” Clifford said, but they made no move to get up. He was looking at her, liking the way her hair fell over one eye sometimes, and he heard strings and trumpets and a deep, thumping bass that seemed to echo in his limbs, in his core. “I’m more than halfway in love with you,” he said, and the words surprised him, but not as much as he thought they would.
“You can be all the way in love with me if you want,” Tricia whispered. “I don’t mind.”
“I’m working on it,” said Clifford. “Trying to make that leap.” He swallowed, looking into her eyes. “First time jitters, you know?”
Tricia leaned up and twisted her fingers in his hair, pulling him down to her. “Leap,” she murmured, her mouth close to his. “I may be little, but I’m tough. I’ll catch you.”
“Catch me, then,” said Clifford, and fell into her arms.
****
“You’ve landed, then,” he said into the phone. Her voice in his ear gave the illusion that she was still close, still near enough to hold.
“I did,” Autumn said. “I miss you already.”
“I decided to miss the rush and got a jump start. I’ve been missing you since you abandoned me at the airport.”
“I did not abandon you at the airport,” Autumn laughed, feigning outrage. “I put you in a taxi and kissed you goodbye.”
“Best $10 I ever put on a taxicab meter,” Ed said dryly, remembering their less-than-hasty goodbye. “But I am home now. Back to my books and models and work and…where did you say you were now?”
“I didn’t,” Autumn murmured. “You know I can’t. It’s….” She looked around her, taking in the view. “It’s warm. And lonely.”
“But not for long, I’m sure. I suppose you’re up to your pretty neck in intrigue?”
“Not quite.”
Ed snorted. “I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time.” He sighed, knowing he needed to hang up but reluctant to cede her attention, her focus. “When do you think you might, um, drop in again?”
“You never can tell.”
Ed groaned. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Does it help that I miss you?”
“No.” But his grumpiness only amused her.
“Well, I do. So there. Be a good fellow and stay safe until I see you again.”
Ed sighed, then smiled. She liked the sound of his smile through the phone. “I will try not to take up skydiving—how’s that?”
“It will do,” Autumn said.
“It will have to. You…Autumn…be careful. Be safe.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said. It was all she could promise, and he took what he could get.
There was just time for a few murmured endearments, then Autumn ended the phone call and put her sunglasses back on. She patted her hair—Ed would hardly have recognized her as a raven-haired beauty—and made a show of putting on her lipstick. In the little compact mirror, she saw a man watching her, pretending to read the newspaper. Although her expression did not change, her lips wanted to curve into a smile.
Good, she thought briskly. Saves me the trouble of tracking him down. She stood up and smoothed down her dress, adjusted her shrug over her shoulders, looking like nothing more than another tourist on a sunny strip, ready for a little beach time. Autumn grabbed her straw tote, her hand slipping into the side pocket and closing on the little weapon tucked under the fold. She didn’t need it—didn’t plan to use it—but it was nice to know it was there all the same. She drifted into the pedestrian traffic, moving down the boardwalk, aware of the man moving stealthily behind her. Finally, she allowed herself a small smile, the smile of a woman on a mission. Wouldn’t he be surprised when he made his move?
***
Keyboards weren’t really his thing, but Jonesy was typing away, putting the story together like a pro. He might be working for a trashy tabloid, but that didn’t mean he wrote garbage. In fact—
“I hope you’re planning on making the deadline,” said a voice near his wing. Jonesy shouted and threw his wings over his head protectively, but there was no accompanying blow, no muscle-numbing grip—this time.
“Oh, jeez-louise,” he panted. “You’re gonna give me…ah…for the love of fish, could you, you know, give a guy some warning?” He tried to make light of it, but there was an edge of panic to his voice that undercut the annoyance and bravado.
“I am giving you warning,” said his boss, and Jonesy flinched.
“I’m almost done,” he said, then swallowed nervously. “I—I just gotta tie up my red string.”
His boss looked at an expensive watch. “Better hurry. You know what happens if you’re late….” Funny, how something said so off-hand could chill you right down to your down.
Jonesy nodded. “Right,” he said, swallowing convulsively. “Right.” He could feel the boss’s eyes fixed on him and began to sweat—figuratively, at least. “Um, have you, uh, heard from Fleet lately?” he asked. “I thought he was gonna have something for us this time, too.”
Fleet had been the boss’s punching boy for a long time, but Fleet wasn’t here. Jonesy hoped he wouldn’t be trying to deflect the boss’s unwanted attention away from him and onto Fleet if the scrappy reporter were actually here, but he couldn’t be sure anymore. Fear does a funny thing to you—it’s easy to get lost and forget yourself.
“Mmm…yes. He does have an article in this time. And a picture.”
“Like the…like the last picture?”
“Oh…no. I think we aren’t going to get another shot like that one. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Sure did sell some papers,” said Jonesy, lulled into a false (and hopeful) sense of security by the smile on his boss’s face.
“It certainly did. Speaking of selling papers…chop, chop, Jonesy. The deadline is looming….”
Jonesy turned back to his typing, feathers flying over the keys, and tried to quell the shivers that were running up his spine. He thought guiltily of Fleet, remembering the way the fellow had held his dignity together despite everything. Not a bad sort, really, and he’d been decent about the desk. Jonesy typed, relieved to see the article coming together nicely. The boss was getting harder and harder to please, and that didn’t bode well for any of them.
***
“Fleet? Honey? Are you asleep?”
Fleet stirred but didn’t waken, and Gladys scampered across the bed with more nimbleness than she would have believed possible a week ago. That doctor had known was he was about, and she didn’t think she’d even be limping come the warm weather. She made it to the head of the bed and looked down at Fleet’s sleeping form, at his features softened in sleep and his wild silver hair all in disarray. He’d kicked the covers off, one bony ankle protruding, and she picked her way delicately down the bed and pulled until one of the top blankets tucked over it.
Fleet had done a good thing, he had, Gladys thought. Despite the fact that the pig he adored was happily married to another, he had come to her rescue without a thought for his own safety. So far, Fleet had stood up to his boss (and thugs), a crazy pignapper and a jealous fanboy, all on account of one glamorous pig who appeared to intend to go on being happily married to her frog. She worried about the heartbreak that had to be result of his infatuation, but she was also proud. When he could have shirked, could have turned away and left her to her fate, he’d stepped to the plate and swung for all he was worth. Gladys wondered if the frog had done the same—would do the same if their positions were reversed.
Well, the frog wasn’t her concern, but Fleet was. He seemed mostly safe and warm and dry and…happy. Yes. Tonight he had been happy, had been at peace, which was not something he had been when he first moved in. Maybe, strange as it seemed, being stuck in Miss Piggy’s orbit was all right with Fleet, was all right for Fleet. Maybe he was born to be her champion, no matter the cost.
Gladys smiled, and went to dust a kiss across his puckered brow. She watched it smooth out in sleep, saw his face relax in slumber.
“Plenty of dragons for another day,” Gladys said, and went to snuggle in with Harve.
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