(My timeline has been a little wonky, but these happen late-afternoon in NY, and mid-afternoon in Las Vegas.)
Chapter 131: The Calm Before
“Awww,” said Tricia, snuggling under Clifford’s arms on the couch and smiling up at him. “Did we hurt your widdle ears?”
Clifford gave her a look and a grunt, and she giggled and bussed him quickly on the lips. At least, she meant to, but Clifford’s arm tightened suddenly and he held her to him long enough to turn the pressure of her lips from a peck into a full-blown kiss.
“That’s okay,” said Clifford, smiling down at her. “You can make it up to my widdle lips!” Tricia grinned, eyes shining, and leaned toward him, but at that moment, Mabel entered the room from the hallway. Blushing, Tricia tried to straighten up, but Clifford did not release her. Mabel only looked at them and sighed.
“Should I go out and come in again?” she asked. “Or are you done?”
“Mom!” said Tricia, mortified, but Clifford just said, “No, ma’am,” and patted the seat beside him invitingly. Mabel set the basket of clean clothes on the coffee table and sat down on Tricia’s other side, then reached over and hugged her daughter fondly.
“Think you can tear yourself away long enough to fold a little laundry?” she asked, and Tricia laughed, kissed her mother and started folding dish towels.
“I can fold the laundry, Mom,” she said, shamefaced. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been sort of useless the past few days.” Clifford reached out and pulled a couple of pillow cases out of the basket, folding them neatly.
“Don’t apologize. You’re not useless,” Mabel interjected. “Just distracted. I just want to get everything done before I leave. I’m working a late shift tonight and another tomorrow morning because I want to be sure to be home in time for the show tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about anything,” Tricia said. “We’ll have the television on and the snacks all made when you get home tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t wait to see your friends at the award show. I saw a commercial for it, but they were in it together. I thought Miss Piggy is in New York—isn’t she? Did Kermit make it up to Broadway to go see her?”
“’Fraid not,” said Mabel. “Those are old clips—from a previous awards show.”
“Was Miss Piggy wearing a gold dress?” Clifford asked. He was folding feminine underwear and socks with no sign of discomposure.
“A kind of bronze slinky sort of thing?"
"Yeah.”
“With black gloves?” Clifford asked.
“Yeah—that’s the one,” Tricia said, trying to remember details. “Maybe a feather in her hair?”
“That was two years ago. They’re just trying to scare up interest with old clips,” Clifford said. “Kermit will be all tuxed out Sunday night, but Miss Piggy’s going to be in her costume from Grease!”
“What—saddle shoes and a poodle skirt?” Tricia said, grinning. It was Clifford’s turn to snort.
“Been that,” he muttered. “Done there. Half our Christmas show was the 50's. I don’t know what she’s gonna be wearing, but you can bet it will be plenty attention-grabbing.”
Mabel snorted. “As if,” she muttered. “I don’t think Miss Piggy would have trouble grabbing attention if she wore a feed sack,” she opined. “I’m sort of glad she’s going to be in New York, or we might have a stampede at the red carpet.”
The clothes were folded and put back in the basket. Mabel reached for it but Clifford stood up and hefted it easily. “Where you want the clean stuff?” he asked.
Mabel smiled, amused my Clifford’s attempts to be domestic. “Towels in the linen closet, dish towels in the kitchen drawer, sundries and undies in the rooms,” she said, and Clifford went on his way.
Once he was out of sight, Tricia looked up at her mother, then cast a quick glance behind her the way Clifford had gone. “You think he’s really okay about the record and the tour?” she asked. “We were sort of working on something there….” Her voice and her expression were wistful.
“He’s happy for you,” Mabel said, touching her daughter’s cheek.
“It’s just…he’s so….” Tricia sighed. “Everything’s happening at once.”
“Trouble comes in threes,” teased Mabel. “But everything doesn’t have to happen all at once.” She stopped, debating the wisdom of saying more. “Some things shouldn’t happen too fast…you know, Sweetie?”
And here, Tricia’s fourteen-year-old self reemerged. “Moth-her!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know, I know. That’s not…we’re not…that’s not what I meant.”
Mabel rolled her eyes as well. “And that’s not what I meant,” she huffed. “What I mean is, this is the chance that doesn’t come along very often. For some people, not at all. Having somebody recognize your art, want to help you share it with the world—that’s huge.”
“It is huge,” Tricia said. “I’m still getting used to the idea myself.”
“Well, be sure and spend some of that time enjoying it, okay Honey? I’m really proud of you girls.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Tricia said. She stood up and enveloped her Mom in a hug. Standing, Mabel barely topped her shoulder.
“Baby, you done good,” Mabel said.
“We’re pretty jazzed about it.” Her voice was muffled against one of Mabel’s soft ears.
“How’d you get so tall, anyway?” Mabel grumbled.
And Tricia just laughed and gave her ample middle a squeeze. “Clean living and rock and roll,” she quipped. They broke apart and Tricia picked up her purse, digging for her keys. “C’mon, Mom,” she said. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Mabel picked up her own purse—less stylish and more substantial—and hauled out her own keys. “Tia said you guys know pretty much what you’re gonna record?”
“We’re gonna run through the lineup tonight.”
“Good for you.” Mabel looked back down the hallway. “Clifford coming with you tonight?” she asked.
Tricia made a face. “I’m giving him the night off tonight. I think he’s had enough of the Vittles for one day.”
Mabel laughed. “Never thought I’d see the day that he’d get tired of a house full of womenfolk!”
“Be careful what you wish for—right?!” Tricia laughed. “Speaking of—what was that you said, about trouble coming in threes? Three what's?”
“Oh, that’s just an old saying,” Mabel said. “Trouble always seems to come in sets of three. It’s just a superstition—something people say. I don’t put any stock in it, but it is funny how often it seems to be right.”
Tricia was silent for a moment, thinking. “Well, if the record deal is one, and the tour is two—does that make Clifford trouble number three?” She grinned at her mother, wondering what she would say.
But the motherly mole just threw her head back and laughed. “He’s trouble all right,” Mabel said, “but maybe not the kind you expect.” She opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. “Have fun, Tricia, honey. I’ll see you when I get home late.”
“Hmmm,” said Autumn, smoothing Ed’s hair back a little on the side. “Not a scruff in sight,” she said approvingly. Ed reached out and put his arm around her waist. He wasn’t sure what she was wearing, but it rustled invitingly when she moved. His hand met silk and the satiny softness of Autumn’s shoulder blade as he drew her close.
“What color are you wearing?” he asked, feeling the delicate lines of her bones beneath his hand.
“Claret,” said Autumn. “I know you don’t drink wine, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I’m wearing it,” she teased.
“Noooo…,” Ed murmured, “But I don’t mind if you’re not wearing—“
Here, Autumn cut off further comment from her beau in the most practical manner possible, which met no complaints. Afterward, she straightened his collar, removed the traces of lipstick she had left and, after much deliberation, decided his bowtie was tied acceptably.
“You’ll do,” said Autumn archly, then took his hand and pulled him toward the door.
“Do what?” Ed quipped, and she shot him a fond look as they made their way toward the elevator.
“Darling, there are bears out of work, and you’re trying to be funny,” she scolded, but he only grinned.
“At least you didn’t say "janitors" out of work,” he murmured.
“No, I did not,” she agreed. “But I was thinking it….”
“Well, I have to go now,” said Chad, rising reluctantly from the divan beside his mother. The demands of costuming meant he had an earlier call than Rory.
Rory snuck a peek at his phone and blanched. “You do have to go,” he said, standing to see his partner off.
“Take good care of Mother,” said Chad, showing no signs of leaving.
“You know I will,” said Rory, subtly trying to herd Chad toward the door. Seeing it, Chad scowled at him, lingering stubbornly.
“And I’ll take a taxi over after and meet you backstage.”
“We’ll be looking for you, dearheart,” said Ms. Mansfield. She proffered her cheek, colluding with Rory in blocking everything but the door. Chad made a face, kissed them both goodbye and finally sailed out the door.
Rory watched him go with fond eyes. When the door was shut behind him, he turned and reached for his almost-mother-in-law’s empty glass.
“More?” he asked, but she shook her head at once.
“No, no—half a glass will do for me,” she said firmly. “I want to be buzzed by your performance tonight.”
Rory grinned. “No pressure—right?” He started for the kitchen and she followed him.
“None at all,” she said. “All you have to do is be brilliant and keep up with the most talented pig on Broadway. I will take coffee if there’s any left.”
“Sure.” Rory started to say, “The "only" pig on Broadway,” but he wasn’t absolutely sure about State Fair. “Thanks,” he said, grimacing comically. He finished up the dishes in the sink with dispatch. They were eating after, but Chad had insisted on putting out a cold spread for his mother before the show. Rory put the dishes in the drainer and talked over his shoulder.
“You know, she’s surprisingly sweet,” he offered, and heard a delicate snort behind him.
“Thousands of tabloid readers are all wrong?” she said, with the perfect air of detached disbelief. “I’m shocked.”
“I know—go figure,” Rory grunted. “I thought she was some diva come to steal the show without carrying her share.” It was his turn to snort. “Boy was I wrong.”
“About the diva part?” said Ms. Mansfield. She leaned in the doorway, an elegant silhouette with short, impossibly chic salt-and-pepper hair.
At this, Rory laughed, then turned around and leaned on the sink. “Oh no,” he said. “She’s a diva all right. Right up there with Mae. But she carries her own weight.” He looked thoughtful, absently rubbing his shoulder. “She…she wasn’t what I expected, you know, from the movies and the tabloids?”
“How so?” She sipped her coffee and listened, her eyes on his face. She was an exceptionally good listener, Rory knew. Occupational hazard, he supposed.
“I thought she’d be one of those people with a stylist and a publicist and an appointment secretary and—“
“—all the usual parasites?” They both laughed.
“Yeah. But she does most of her own makeup, her own hair is covered by the wig. Her agent is tough, but he’s in California and there’s no cadre of bodyguards.” He made a face, rubbing his shoulder again. “I have to admit, I thought her hubby would have surrounded her with handlers.”
“Maybe he likes doing the handling himself?” she returned. They laughed again. “But surely she came with a bodyguard…?”
Rory shook his head, and her eyebrows rose.
“Well, not exactly. But she’s got one now,” he muttered. He hastened to explain.
Rory’s introduction to Bobo that afternoon had been somewhat abrupt. He had gone down to the ladies dressing room before the matinee to see if Piggy had come back yet. He put his hand on the knob, but before he could turn it, Darcy called his name. He looked in the direction of her voice—and found his face mashed firmly against the wooden door, his arms caught in a grip like iron.
“Not so fast, Bucko,” drawled an unfamiliar voice. “Whadya think you’re doing, huh? This here is the ladies dressing room, so what business do you have in here?”
“Ow! Ummph! Get off me,” Rory had gritted, flexing his biceps. They bulged impressively, but uselessly, and Rory felt his eyebrows rise in astonishment even as he struggled. He was not a fighter—though very few people cared to go against his strength—but this…this thug was manhandling him like a pro.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Bobo,” came Darcy’s feminine wail behind them. “That’s just Rory. Shove off, won’t you, and let him come in!”
“Who’s Rory?” asked the voice. “I don’t have any Rory on my list.”
“You do so,” Darcy said, grabbing the clipboard and thwacking Bobo on the shoulder with it. “He’s right here—see?” She grabbed one of his furry ears and pulled his head toward the clipboard in her hand.
“I don’t see any—ow. Ow--hey!”
Rory’s arms were suddenly released and he staggered into the wall sideways, banging his ear. He straightened and turned, ready to punch something, but Darcy got between them.
“Don’t,” Darcy said, to both of them. “Everybody stop. There’s no need to—“
Gently, Bobo scooped her aside and walked up to Rory. Although Rory had his arms raised, ready to fight, the sight of the bear, as big as a, well, a bear, made him back up, dancing on the balls of his feet. The bear advanced and Rory connected with a neat right hook, but the bear shook it off and kept coming. He kept coming until Rory was backed against the wall, and though the young man got off another hard jab to his jaw and a couple of midriff punches, he found himself almost pinned by the bear’s sheer bulk. Again, Darcy inserted herself between them, which was no mean feat. Precisely how she wedged her ample curves between the two testosterone-infused males—with the clipboard in hand—was anybody’s guess, but—once trapped between them—she began to scream bloody murder.
Few things will make a good guy back off like the sound of a woman screaming, and both of them backed away, hands raised to show a lack of aggression. When there were at least four feet of space between them, Darcy stopped screaming. It was a disturbing testament to the mayhem backstage that noone had actually come running to see what was wrong.
“Okay, now,” she said, looking at them warily. Darcy gave Bobo a mean look and whacked him once more with the clipboard, then shoved it under his nose.
“Here’s his name,” she snapped, pointing with a pink-painted nail. “Right here.”
“Well I didn’t see any…oh. Oh. Huh. Right there it is. Rory. Hmm. Didn’t see that before,” he muttered. He looked up and grinned at the young man, extending his big paw. “Hi ya, Rory. I’m Bobo. I just started working security at the theater today. Nice to meet you.”
Rory looked at him, then at Darcy, incredulity making his jaw drop. Darcy saw him about to make a lunge at the bear who had so callously manhandled him, so she turned and threw her arms around Rory’s neck and kissed him. That brought him round, if only out of surprise, and when he was stunned and compliant, Darcy led them through the introductions once again, this time without the fighting. To Rory’s credit, when he cottoned on to Bobo’s real purpose backstage at the theater, the fighting spirit left him and he tried to shake off his bad mood and be amiable. Hadn’t he been saying Piggy needed a bodyguard? He rubbed his ear and grimaced. Leave it to the frog to send a bear, he thought. Eventually, Bobo had ambled along, leaving Darcy to fuss over Rory’s red ear while he knocked on Piggy’s door.
“Sorry about your ear, Sweetie,” Darcy said.
Rory turned and looked at her. “Is that all?” he demanded, but his twinkling eyes belied his harsh voice. “What, do I have a "Kiss Me" sign on my back?”
Darcy giggled. “Sorry! I—sorry, Rory! It was all I could think to do on short notice!” she cried, blushing.
“Remind me not to give you any notice then, Sweets,” said Harrison, who chose that moment to saunter by. Rory wondered where the heck he’d been when the bear had been roughing him up.
Darcy gave him a look. “Remind me to give you a wide berth,” she snapped, but Harrison just laughed.
“I’ll take your berth, Sweetcheeks, and raise you a—“
“Harrison!” Darcy shrieked, then giggled. He grinned back at her, cocky and arrogant and…sort of rumpled and appealing. “Move along,” she said severely, but her eyes were warm.
“As you wish,” Harrison said. He bowed formally from the waist. Before Darcy could say more, he straightened, winked at her, and was gone. Darcy watched him walk away, biting her lip thoughtfully, then swung back to find Rory grinning insufferably.
“What?” she said, blushing. “You have to admit he’s sort of cute when he’s obnoxious,” she said.
“Then you must think he’s cute all the time,” Rory whispered, and Darcy giggled again and put her hand over his mouth.
“Shhhh,” she said, still laughing. “He’ll hear you.”
“And I’m guessing Piggy isn’t back yet, if she can’t hear me,” said Rory, giving up on knocking on the door.
"What? Oh—oh, no, she’s not back yet. She went out to lunch with her friends, that designer fellow and her pig friend.”
“As long as she’s back on time,” Rory had said, looking at his watch. It was time for her to be getting back, but he wasn’t going to worry—yet. From what he’d seen, her friends would have stepped in front of a bullet for her if necessary. Uneasily, Rory pushed that image away. He was letting his imagination run away with him, and he couldn’t afford to. He had two shows to do today—same as everyone else—but he had company coming tonight, just as Piggy did, and he wanted to be on top of his game. He looked at his watch again, a little worried, but determined not to be.
“Piggy’s dependable,” Darcy soothed. She bit her lip again. "Um, I really am sorry about the kiss,” she said, hoping he was not really upset. “Don’t tell Chad, okay? He’s supposed to teach me the Argentine tango and I don’t want him mad at me if he’s going to be dipping me.”
Rory laughed, touching his ear gingerly. “I won’t tell him,” said Rory. “But I can’t promise anything about his dips.” He looked the way Bobo had gone and jerked his chin in that direction. “Maybe not the sharpest shovel in the shed,” Rory said, “but effective. I’ll give him that. And at least Piggy will have someone looking out for her.”
“You mean besides you? And us? And that nice cabbie, Mr. Finkel?” Darcy socked him playfully in the arm. “We got this. Piggy’s going to be fine.”
“I know,” he said, sounding unconvinced.
Darcy put her hand on his arm and gave him a searching look. “You okay? You been sort of funny since Piggy got mugged yesterday.”
Rory shook it off. “I just—everything’s going great with Piggy in the show. I don’t want anything to spoil that. I just worry….” Embarrassed, Rory realized how self-serving that sounded. “That’s not what I meant—“ he began, but Darcy waved away his explanation.
“Don’t sweat it, sugar,” said Darcy, smiling and patting him in a comforting manner. She knew him and knew his motives were good—if not always pure. “Well, Bobo’s here now to look out for Piggy, so you can get your head back in the game before the matinee.”
Rory looked startled. “What do you mean, get my head back in the game?” he asked. “Don’t I—don’t I look like my head’s in the show?” he asked.
Darcy looked uncomfortable. It was the same look she usually got before she blurted out something tactless, and Rory swallowed his dismay and sighed. “What? Was I—was I off or something last night?”
Darcy lying was a lot like Darcy trying not to be tactless, and she squirmed. “You weren’t totally unfortunate,” she said. “Your scenes with Piggy were good—great even, except….” She twisted her fingers, unhappy at being the bearer of bad news, and broke off mid-sentence.
“Except what?” Rory said. Darcy made the mistake of looking at him, at his sincere, open, farmboy-aw-shucks face and his uncertain expression.
“Except your fight scenes needed some teeth last night. You were too, I don’t know, considerate of her during the fight. Before I thought you meant it. Last night, I thought you didn’t.”
Rory sighed. Darcy might be tactless, but she was pretty good at getting to the heart of the issue. “So you’re saying I wasn’t jerky enough when she told me to kiss off?”
Darcy smiled. “Imagine that!” she teased. “Who’d have thought you’d not be a big enough jerk?”
Quickly—so quickly she didn’t see it coming—Rory reached out and grabbed Darcy in a gentle but nevertheless effective headlock and proceeded to give her a noogie while she hollered and questioned his ancestry. He let her go and she stared at him, mouth hanging open in astonishment.
“You are soooo toast!” she muttered.
“There! Jerky enough for you?”
“Oh, you are dead. You are deceased. I swear I will sic the bear on you!” Darcy sputtered, but her green eyes were laughing.
“Don’t distract him,” Rory said somberly. “He has a lot on his plate.”
“Hmm,” Darcy muttered, brushing her hair back into place with her hands.
“I think he might have a little trouble finding the plate,” she muttered. She turned and looked at Rory darkly, but her expression was more playful than mean. “You better be nice to me,” she said archly, “or I’m going to tell Chad about the kiss!”
Rory threw back his head and laughed. “If you do,” he said, “he’ll never teach you the Argentine tango.”
When Rory had related everything (except the part about the kiss) to Ms. Mansfield, she was quiet, thinking about the situation.
“I can’t imagine he didn’t send her up here with someone looking out for her,” she mused, but Rory jumped in, feeling oddly protective of Piggy’s frog who he’d never even met.
“I think he wanted to,” he insisted. “But she can be sort of, um, opinionated about things, and I think she wanted to come in and be one of us, you know? No special treatment.”
“Well, she certainly seems to have won you over, Dear,” she said, and smiled.
“She won Chad over,” Rory said, and grinned. “If she can do that, she can probably charm anyone.”
Chad’s mother laughed a throaty laugh. “I can tell you know your darling girl, but I see I’m not the only one who knows my darling boy.”
“Guilty,” Rory quipped, and smiled. “I’m going to change and shove off myself,” he said. “No need for you to come to early. We’ll do our visiting after.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Ms. Mansfield. “Do what you need to do. I’ll just make a few business calls while I’m waiting.”
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Yes?
Uh, wasn't there anything wrong with what Clifford was doing?
made.