whacked him in the back of his head with her black clutch, smashing the cake on his fork into his nose.
“Serves you right,” Mother said. With that, she sat down again, looking a bit proud of herself. The partygoers froze with their forks in midair, unsure how to react.
Brant took his linen napkin and wiped the cake off the end of his nose. He turned to my mother. “I guess this is the kind of thing I can expect so far from civilization,” he said.
Mother put her hands on her hips. “If you don’t behave, young man, I’ll treat you to a second helping of what you just got.”
While Brant sulked, Mother began to actually enjoy herself. But the climax came when Brant stood up to give a toast, not knowing the “champagne” was actually sparkling apple juice we’d used to be in compliance with the church activity center rules. He said, “Here’s to the worst meal and company I’ve had in eons” and tipped his glass back to inhale its contents.
He spewed the juice as soon as his senses alerted him to the fact he hadn’t actually imbibed. When he grabbed his napkin and tried to wipe down his tux, he streaked it with icing.
Mother absolutely cackled and she stood and patted his arm. “What’s the matter, dearie? Are clean air and clean living a bit much for you?”
Brant took another sip of his juice and smacked his lips as he lifted his glass high. “Here’s to getting out of Dodge,” he said.
Nelson swept in and in classic Groucho told Brant, “Don’t look now, but there’s one too many in this room, and I think it’s you,” as our guests tittered in laughter.
Brant shot back in perfect Groucho, “There’s one thing I always wanted to do before I quit … retire! Good night, everyone.” He sat his unfinished drink on the table, and while the room applauded his celebrity, he made his exit.
Later, when cleanup began, Mother held court in the foyer with a few of the well-wishers who remained while I grabbed a broom. Evie stopped to give my shoulders a squeeze. “When are you going to learn how to rein in that mother of yours?” she teased.
I blew a puff of air that made my bangs dance above my forehead, then with a Groucho flair, I picked up a carrot stick from a nearby tray of unused hors d’oeuvres and wiggled it like a cigar. “I had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”
Evie laughed. “That Brant Richards is a card, isn’t he?” As I nodded, to my delight, Evie reached for her own carrot and said, “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”
Laughing, we realized too late that our little scene had been filmed by Mike, who was also the acting onsite producer. We both glared at him until he shrugged. “Sorry, ladies, just doing my job.”
As soon as Mike turned away, Evie giggled. “Good news, Vonnie. It looks like we won’t be going to New York after all.”
“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” I said. “Million dollars or not.”
Goldie
7
Warming Worry
Since the filming of the show the previous Thursday evening, my job as legal secretary and receptionist for Chris Lowe had been more about answering my own phone calls than his. So far, he’d been kind about it. Including, I might add, that when the whole crazy thing started, I’d brought him a copy of the contract I’d signed with Nelson and he’d graciously gone over every jot and tittle.
“Yep,” he’d said, eyes twinkling behind reading glasses. “You’re locked in like a kid under curfew.”
I’d frowned for effect. “Chris … as long as we’re here in Summit View, there should be no problem, but I don’t know what I’d do about this office if we go to New York and—”
Chris raised his hand to stop me. “Think nothing of it. Jenna is home from college right now. I’m sure she’ll be happy to relieve you for a few days.”
Jenna, Chris’s daughter, taught me everything she knew about this job before leaving for
“Serves you right,” Mother said. With that, she sat down again, looking a bit proud of herself. The partygoers froze with their forks in midair, unsure how to react.
Brant took his linen napkin and wiped the cake off the end of his nose. He turned to my mother. “I guess this is the kind of thing I can expect so far from civilization,” he said.
Mother put her hands on her hips. “If you don’t behave, young man, I’ll treat you to a second helping of what you just got.”
While Brant sulked, Mother began to actually enjoy herself. But the climax came when Brant stood up to give a toast, not knowing the “champagne” was actually sparkling apple juice we’d used to be in compliance with the church activity center rules. He said, “Here’s to the worst meal and company I’ve had in eons” and tipped his glass back to inhale its contents.
He spewed the juice as soon as his senses alerted him to the fact he hadn’t actually imbibed. When he grabbed his napkin and tried to wipe down his tux, he streaked it with icing.
Mother absolutely cackled and she stood and patted his arm. “What’s the matter, dearie? Are clean air and clean living a bit much for you?”
Brant took another sip of his juice and smacked his lips as he lifted his glass high. “Here’s to getting out of Dodge,” he said.
Nelson swept in and in classic Groucho told Brant, “Don’t look now, but there’s one too many in this room, and I think it’s you,” as our guests tittered in laughter.
Brant shot back in perfect Groucho, “There’s one thing I always wanted to do before I quit … retire! Good night, everyone.” He sat his unfinished drink on the table, and while the room applauded his celebrity, he made his exit.
Later, when cleanup began, Mother held court in the foyer with a few of the well-wishers who remained while I grabbed a broom. Evie stopped to give my shoulders a squeeze. “When are you going to learn how to rein in that mother of yours?” she teased.
I blew a puff of air that made my bangs dance above my forehead, then with a Groucho flair, I picked up a carrot stick from a nearby tray of unused hors d’oeuvres and wiggled it like a cigar. “I had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”
Evie laughed. “That Brant Richards is a card, isn’t he?” As I nodded, to my delight, Evie reached for her own carrot and said, “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”
Laughing, we realized too late that our little scene had been filmed by Mike, who was also the acting onsite producer. We both glared at him until he shrugged. “Sorry, ladies, just doing my job.”
As soon as Mike turned away, Evie giggled. “Good news, Vonnie. It looks like we won’t be going to New York after all.”
“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” I said. “Million dollars or not.”
Goldie
7
Warming Worry
Since the filming of the show the previous Thursday evening, my job as legal secretary and receptionist for Chris Lowe had been more about answering my own phone calls than his. So far, he’d been kind about it. Including, I might add, that when the whole crazy thing started, I’d brought him a copy of the contract I’d signed with Nelson and he’d graciously gone over every jot and tittle.
“Yep,” he’d said, eyes twinkling behind reading glasses. “You’re locked in like a kid under curfew.”
I’d frowned for effect. “Chris … as long as we’re here in Summit View, there should be no problem, but I don’t know what I’d do about this office if we go to New York and—”
Chris raised his hand to stop me. “Think nothing of it. Jenna is home from college right now. I’m sure she’ll be happy to relieve you for a few days.”
Jenna, Chris’s daughter, taught me everything she knew about this job before leaving for
Similar Books
