Riverside Drive. Laura Wormer Van

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      Cassy glanced at her watch and then back to Rosanne. Back to the “Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame” bandanna that was slipping down over Rosanne’s eyes. Back to Rosanne’s blue denim shirt, whose shirttail was hanging down to her knees. Back to her jeans, whose hem lay in folds around the top of her Adidases. Back to thin little Rosanne, all five feet of her, standing there, just waiting for Cassy to say it.

      Cassy moved forward toward her. “It’s time for you to change,” she said, smiling.

      Rosanne looked to the ceiling. “Here we go,” she said. “Ya know, Mrs. C,” she continued, as Cassy took her by the elbow and steered her toward the kitchen, “you never said nothin’ about me havin’ to play dress-up.”

      They were in the kitchen now, and Cassy stopped, looking back at Rosanne. She smiled, yanked the bandanna down over Rosanne’s eyes and turned to the bartender. “Have everything you need, Ivor?”

      “Yes, Madame Coch-ah-ren,” he replied, bowing slightly.

      “Good,” she said, pulling Rosanne along through the kitchen to the back hall. Rosanne scooped up her bag from the counter along the way.

      “And I never said I was a caterer,” Rosanne reminded her.

      “Right,” Cassy said.

      “So I don’t know why you get so picky about what I wear—it’s not as if you like any of these guys.”

      They were in the master bedroom now, and Cassy headed toward her closet. “I think you’re going to like it,” she said, opening the doors.

      “Mrs. C,” Rosanne said, throwing her bag on the bed, “ya know, if you’d just tell me, I’d bring one of the ones you already got me.”

      “Well, I was in Macy’s and there it was, just hanging there, calling, ‘Rosanne, Rosanne, I was made for Rosanne.’”

      Rosanne sighed, pulled off her bandanna and shook out her hair. Cassy turned around, holding a pretty blue and black print dress. “Hair,” she said, “good Lord, Rosanne, you have hair.”

      “Come on, Mrs. C,” Rosanne said, turning away.

      Cassy walked over and laid the dress out on the bed. She looked at Rosanne a moment and then smiled, gently. “Tell me the truth—do you really hate doing this?”

      Rosanne shrugged and proceeded to pull some things out of her bag: a slip, some panty hose and a pair of shoes.

      The doorbell rang.

      “Uh-oh,” Cassy said, looking at her watch, “somebody’s here already. No, let Ivor get it, Rosanne. You go ahead and get changed.”

      Rosanne shrugged again and started undoing the buttons of her shirt while Cassy walked back to stand in front of the closet door mirror. She scanned it. A few wisps of blond hair were already falling out of the clip. But her eyes were still blue. Her nose was still perfect. Her mouth still had lipstick. Body was still tall and slim. Bracelets, check. Earrings, check.

      Cassy was still beautiful. Cassy was still forty-one. She would not stand closer to the mirror than she was; she would not care to see the reminders of her age showing around her eyes, mouth and neck.

      “Don’t know how good Mr. Moscow’s gonna be at greetin’ guests,” Rosanne said.

      “Hmmm,” Cassy said, raising her chin slightly, still looking at herself in the mirror.

      “And you don’t want to scare him right off the bat,” Rosanne continued.

      Cassy laughed.

      “They said he was the last bartender they’d send us,” she reminded her.

      “Oh, Lord, that’s right.” Cassy closed the closet door and sailed out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the kitchen to the front hall, where she found Ivor standing in front of the open door. “Who is it, Ivor?” When he gave her a vacant look, she stepped forward to peer around his shoulder. “Oh, Amos. Hi.”

      “Hi,” Amos Franklin said. Both Ivor’s and Cassy’s eyes were fixed on the stuffed head of an unidentifiable animal that was snarling on top of Amos’ head.

      “It’s okay, Ivor,” Cassy said, patting the arm with which Ivor was blocking the door.

      Ivor did not seem convinced.

      “He’s a guest,” Cassy told him. “We’re supposed to let him in.” Ivor’s eyes shifted to her. She nodded, smiling encouragement. He took one more look out the door, frowned, and slipped behind Cassy to return to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” Cassy said, waving Amos in. “I have no idea what I’ve done to earn his protection.”

      “Any man would want to protect you,” Amos whispered.

      Here we go, Cassy thought. Amos was forever whispering little things like that—that is, when his wife wasn’t around. “Nice hat,” she said, snarling fangs sweeping in past her eyes.

      “Michael gave it to me for my birthday,” Amos said. He reached up, groped around, and patted the animal on the nose. “I don’t think it’s real, though.”

      Cassy led Amos into the living room, explaining that Michael was out getting some ice.

      “Good,” Amos said, sitting on the couch and patting the seat next to him, “it will give me a chance to talk to you.”

      Cassy sat down in one of the chairs.

      “You’re beautiful.”

      “What?”

      “You’re beautiful,” Amos repeated.

      “Ivor!” Cassy called out. He was there like a shot. “Ivor,” Cassy directed, “ask Mr. Franklin what he would like to drink.”

      Ivor stared at him.

      “Scotch on the rocks,” Amos said.

      Ivor moved over to Cassy. Bowing, “Madame?”

      “A Perrier with lime, please. Thank you, Ivor.”

      Ivor took one more look at Amos and departed.

      “So, Amos, tell me how you are.”

      Amos was not good. As the head writer for Michael’s newsroom at WWKK, he never made a secret of his keen dislike for Michael Cochran. After a minilecture on the abuse and misuse of Amos Franklin at work, he would invariably end up with a pitch for Cassy to hire him at her station, WST. Cassy’s mind wandered, and as Amos progressed with his story about how “a certain egomaniac who will go unnamed” took credit for a job done by “a certain unsung hero who will go unnamed,” Cassy—not for the first time—thought about Michael’s parties.

      Once a month Cassy’s husband wanted to have a party. Cassy had never, ever wanted any of these parties, but it wasn’t because she was antisocial. It was because Michael had this thing about only inviting people who seemed СКАЧАТЬ