[K][T] and Family Ch. 02

Back at the Residence, I would be touring a group including Unique Bride, Newsweek, People, Martha Stewart Living and Francis Costello again. This was a strictly non-photo tour. They could deal with Justin. The Amish had been warned, so they could look after themselves. I had hoped for a nice quiet wedding.

One nice thing was that Gerald had installed GPS in my Volvo. He was able to tell me that I would not need to go out in the Bugatti, that being the next car available. Instead I could wait on Jason and Christine. It gave me a chance to warn Sean that I might be a few minutes late. I felt like such a spoilsport, since Sean enjoys trying to arrive exactly on time. He makes a little game of it.

However, I did get to see Christine again. She bounced out of the car and ran to me. I was pleased, and relieved, to see her moving well. Siobhan had told me stories of bruising that would take weeks to fade. At least it was not something more serious. I would have a better chance to look later, since Christine would be sleeping here for several days. Exactly where needed to be worked out. I thanked Jason for watching out for Christine and offered him a roof. He said he would consider it.

After that whirlwind, the drive to Saint Micheal's was a balm. I did not have any idea what to expect, since I could still count the times I had been in a church—wedding or funeral every time. Sean had said that Pastor Meyerson (?) would do the ceremony, but he was out of town. Judging from the press interest, I wondered how he would feel about that. Pastor Mueller was not much older than Sean.

Sean and Pastor Mueller met me at the door. Russell had escorted me to the door, but no reporters jumped out of the bushes. Pastor Mueller was trying very hard not to ogle me, which caused me to blush. How annoying. Sean needed to take his arm to get him out of the doorway. Once he was no longer looking at me, Pastor Mueller literally shook his head. I am used to getting interest from men, but this was another level.

From that point, things went smoother. Pastor Mueller tried not to look at me, which meant that his attention was on Sean. For his part, Sean was all business. Indeed, there was probably some financial aspect of this, though I doubted it would be part of our conversation. I was half right. There was a list of fees, but it was very generic. I was pleased to see that money was not the only consideration and I am a good judge of such things.

After the usual pleasantries, and the list of fees, Pastor Mueller pulled out a pamphlet called The Marital Contract. It was a fairly simple explanation of how this church viewed marriage, i.e. an equal partnership. That as politically correct, and Pastor Mueller acknowledged that it was more an ideal than a reality. What he expected was genuine effort from both parties, starting with communication.

For the first time since the front door, Pastor Mueller turned his attention on me. He processed his question a moment, then decided on blunt. "Miss Schwartz, I have known and dealt with Sean since I first came to this congregation. He has a well deserved reputation as someone who can get things done. He also has a reputation of leaving bruised feelings in his wake. Usually it comes from him pushing his ideas through any obstacle, without explaining his thinking." I smiled fondly, which was not the reaction Pastor Mueller expected.

I paused to arrange my thoughts. "We met through my business. I'm a trainer. Practically the first thing he did was turn the session into one for me. I have found that he can be at a loss for words much more often than at a loss for the correct course of action. He may be gruff, but he is loyal almost to a fault. Martha, that's Dr. Martha Douglas the children's therapist, says he is one of the few people that might be able to do me justice, whatever that means. Also, he promised me children." That perked Pastor Mueller's interest. "Not yet. I wish, but we will have to wait for the weekend at least." That comment turned him thoughtful.

Abruptly, Pastor Mueller changed course. "You clearly are not unaware of the simple problems that can crop up. I find it of interest that you mention his loyalty. How did you learn that?" That was a good question. I was beginning to like this minister. Again I paused to organize my thoughts.

"My job deals with photography. Sean had a project that needed my skills, both photographic and communicative. He hired me to do the job. One part of that involved stretching a model well past his perceived limits. It was harsh. Sean practically carried me to my apartment. He once literally gave me the shirt off his back. It was so like him that I did not realize, at the time, that that was what he was doing. Francine pointed it out over coffee a couple days later." Sean interjected, "Francine Martel." Pastor Mueller's eyes widened. Then he laughed.

"Well. I have had many couples in those chairs. Few have worked together as smoothly." Both Sean and I commented together. I said, "Sean has great timing." Sean said, "You have no idea." We both smiled. Pastor Mueller spread his hands in acknowledgment. Sean said, "Let me put it this way. Sheila is the person I chose to open a business with. The business itself followed her plan." From Sean, praise did not come much higher.

The rest of the meeting was details. I promised to join a new convert study, which the senior pastor would be teaching. Sean explained the nature of the wedding stage. I explained that most of the rumors were true. The whole event had turned into a monster. Pastor Mueller congratulated us and escorted us to the door.

Naturally a photographer was waiting outside. I put on my public face and waved.

Sean:

Some days follow scripts. Some do not. This was one of the first. The script was "Pile it On." I had the same thing come at me over and over, with minor variations. For a day that I was not supposed to be in the office, I was in hip deep and sinking.

The media interest in the wedding was fueling the interest in my mystery bride, which was fueling interest in our business relations, and back to the wedding. It was no longer Joe Stringer from West Laughatya. We were getting formal requests from major news organizations and senior reporters in person. Jeff's little bobble on Today had stirred the shark tank. I was glad that Sheila was home sleeping off her ritual, or whatever that was.

Odd as it seemed, I began to look forward to seeing the minister. I had always liked Pastor Norm. I expected that he would like Sheila. That still left a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. So I told Helen to set up a press conference in the executive conference room. That would keep the number small. Everyone else would have to wait off property. That would create some useful confusion.

Maybe it was the ruckus, or maybe I was lucky, but George managed to get us away without an incident. I told him to use some evasive techniques, but not to be obvious. He grunted the way that said, "I know my job, boss." I sat up and hoped for the best.

The interview with Pastor Mueller was exactly what I expected. He and Sheila circled like unfamiliar dogs. Before long they were licking each other's ears. We took care of the formalities, then headed back to the office. I had Russell take Sheila's car home. That let us pose for the photo op when we arrived. As always, Sheila was impeccably turned out, this time in a mid length Donna Reed dress with slippers and her hair in a pony tail.

The press conference was just one piece of virtuoso performance. Each of the reporters had a press release from both Richard's Enterprises and the newly titled Neighborhood Watch real estate group. I wondered whose idea that was. Obviously no one had contacted Sheila.

I said my piece then introduced them to Sheila. Something about her expression made my stomach lurch.

Francine:

The drive back from Philadelphia was tedious. Siobhan had sent a vintage muscle car—a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. I asked the driver if it was the 454 big block. He replied "LS6." O M G This was a seriously rare car. There were less than 20 of the beasts around. Sean must be running out of his usual rides. My face must have shown something.

"Don't even dream about it. Gerald would kill me, then turn me over to Mister Richards. He would chew me up and spit me out. Worse, he would give me to his wife as a toy. Since you and Mrs. Richards are tight, that is not my idea of a fun summer. Get in the back. I have to drive the speed limit, but I don't have to pretend you're my girlfriend. She can sit up front." I was ready to tear him a new orifice, until he winked. Sure enough, Roxanna was looking a bit brighter. I replied, "Fine. But stop at a drive through for a snack. I'm starving."

It was sort of fun, riding in a high school boys dream machine with the windows down. Unfortunately, it was noisy. Big block V-8s rumble, even at highway speeds. I gave up trying to talk and pulled out my PDA. Oddly, the only one online was Christine. She seemed to be plugged into the whole situation. Jo had been right. CC was the perfect spy. I asked her how her bruises were healing. She replied that she would never part with that ass plug. What?

Sheila and Siobhan had left messages. I had expected some press coverage, but the Wall Street Journal—at a wedding. What the fuck? Still, I knew how to deal with the press—or avoid them. I finally asked the drivers name, David, then told him I needed to buy a heap before we got to town. He shook his head and smiled. Damn. I hate being obvious.

We stopped in a little town a ways past Princeton. David took us to a repair shop just off the highway. The rumble of the big V-8 drew a lot of attention, but all the garage did was open the door, then close it behind us. Inside were three grease monkeys and a 1980s Taurus. At least it was clean. David talked to the head mechanic, then handed some keys to Roxanna. I gave him a look, but he shook his head, "I've been warned."

There was more cloak and dagger stuff, but an hour later we were in my old haunts. We went to the 7^th Street Diner, where I ordered my third breakfast and a steak sandwich. Roxie had a shake. As I had planned, a reporter showed up half way through my hash browns. I introduced Roxanna as an aide who was familiar with the workings of Hollywood. It is usually best to lie with facts. We had a nice crowd going before I told them that I had not been to bed, while I nodded to Roxie and mimed driving. Reporters have few scruples, but they all understand needing a shower.

As the crowd moved outside, someone commented on the car. I told them that the Judge got lousy gas mileage. Everyone laughed. If they only knew. The Judge had the torque record, but that Chevelle had the highest HP ever in a stock engine. If I ever went all Leno, I would make Sean an offer. As it was, I would arrive at the wedding of the year in mass produced Ford. What the hell. It was Sheila's gig.

I had a bit of a problem. Roxanna had her whole wardrobe in the car, including a party dress. You cannot live in LA without one, at least not at Roxie's age. I had a dirty change and wanted clean underwear badly. I directed Roxie to my neighborhood, but had her drop me at the Walgreen's. I wrote out the directions and what I wanted from the fourplex. Roxanna could have remembered, but she needed something to show the press. I impatiently killed the time watching people check out.

The Cashier was named Maria. I could not put my finger on it, but she reminded me of CC. Hmmm.

Siobhan:

I was warned that Francine was inbound. David had said she was dragging, but he understated the matter. Francine looked like a struggling law student just before finals. She had a young woman with her, who was almost in as bad shape. I gave them bottled water and took them to a guest room. They had to share a bed, but Francine was out before the door closed. She would be up, looking for food in three hours, so I alerted staff.

It was one of those afternoons. Projects were starting to clash at the edges. There were at least fifteen small bosses—between my kids, Francine's people, Sean's catering people and the brothers Gilbert. I was the final arbiter. I started grading work in hopes of finding a couple of trouble shooters. Since I would be gone on Friday, I had to have a deputy. I had not said anything, but I was beginning to think of Elspeth in that role. On top of everything, we had to get ready for the press tour.

Why did I not stay in New Hampshire?

Chapter 9—Flame meet Foam

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

Dad will never talk about the press conference. No one will talk about it. Mom just smiles. Whatever was said, it was done strictly off the record. As bad as their reputations are, journalists pay attention to that kind of thing. All we know is that everyone came out looking like a cat with canary feathers in its mouth.

Mom and Dad had only known each other a couple of weeks. That had to have raised some eyebrows. Dad says that he only introduced Mom, then let her do the presentation. He always says 'presentation', not speech or talk. There were probably some numbers and graphs and things. Mom can make anything interesting.

Sheila:

I did not know what had happened in the night, but my vigil had born fruit. I simply hoped it was not poisonous. I guessed it was like Sean's "I know what to do, but not how to explain it" moments. Whatever. I had gained a serenity that I had envied in Christine. She has no decisions to make. Mine were already made. I tried not to think about the consequences, because it would scare the spit out of me.

My audience was one woman, four men and Sean, who already knew. I examined the five. Three of the men I might have approached as potential clients. The fourth was Francis Costello from the local paper. The woman was clearly paired with the star of the bunch, Michael Gordon of the Wall Street Journal. I had the hook. I just needed the bait.

"Gentlemen, Miss Smith, I am Sheila Schwartz, soon to be Schwartz-Richards. The reason you are in this room is that Sean and I have had dealings of a business nature, which are of interest to your readers, right? Right?" All the heads nodded. "Bullshit. While I agree that this is reportable news, we would not have a fairly senior Journal columnist here just for the neighborhood project. It's the wedding—and something else.

"Before we get to the official reason for your visit, I am going to go into the "something else" in some detail. There will be images, some of which we will provide as hard copy, with a no reproduction proviso. Some will be eyes only. Does anyone need to bow out under those restrictions?" No one did. They were now on the record as having agreed to some heavy restrictions. "Let me be clear. What I will show and explain is sensitive. It is not, strictly speaking off the record, but it is background material. We are asking for, and expecting, a great deal of discretion."

Good Journalists treat their profession as a calling. There is an honor code. Everyone knows that confidential sources cannot be compelled in court. That understanding was bought by a line of reporters going to jail rather than give up a name. This group, even Francis Costello, was of an honorable bent. The plan was use that fact to hide in plain sight. I had prepared a PowerPoint slide show, which I was about to put up on Sean's 60" screen.

"Some of you will be more familiar with photography than others. I will leave it to you to discuss the picture quality. I worked closely with Justin Immons on a recent catalog. Justin, who is a professional, says that they are excellent. This is Jason Porter." There were gasps. I was showing the digital version of the catalog cover. It was the first time I had seen it that large. I had to admit, the image had real power.

"That image was cropped from this one." I showed them the raw version. You could see much of the studio, such as the whipping horse, the pommel horse and my stretching bar. I would return to the bar shortly. For the moment, my focus was on Mistress Cynthia, who was holding the riding crop at Jason's eye level. "That, for those of you who have never heard the name, is Mistress Cynthia. The wall with the rings is structural, hence thick. On the other side is a portion of the XTreme Fitness weight room. The fact that she and I favor each other has been useful as camouflage.

"This is me." The gasps for the Jason picture paled beside this one. The picture was the same one I had given Sean. "As is this." Close up of my flogger striped ass. "And this." This was of me stretching on the bar, wearing my workout suit. "This is First position. I am to practice it daily."

"You are all intelligent people, so I do not need to draw you a map of my relationship with Mistress Cynthia. There was a financial side to it, which brings us back to the pictures. Neither Mistress Cynthia or I are photographers, but she could afford good automatic equipment. If you went there now, you would find the fixtures, such as the rings on the wall, and probably the camera in its locker.

"Cynthia has a signature—a kiss of hooker red lipstick. Some of her clients like to have photos done, centered with her signature. I do not have permission to show you any of those, but I think you can understand how the red lipstick accents the striping of a flogging. Providing suitable prints, from long shots by automatic cameras, is my job. Justin says I am very good at it.

"More to the point, so does Sean. We had met and dated. I had given him that first picture." I blushed heavily about here. "Sean made a leap of intuition. Using that photo, among others, he was able to persuade Justin to accept me as the project head. I arranged for Mistress Cynthia to shoot Jason and did the final editing, working part time, since I still had my usual obligations to meet.

Everyone thinks that small contribution was the difference between success and failure. In any event, the work has drawn high profile interest. Sean has created a new division to service it." Suddenly, I was out of things to say. As usual, Sean's timing was impeccable.

"I think that calls for a break. Why don't we get something cold to drink, then we will drive over to the neighborhood. You can see the gym—and the rest of the building—as well as get some idea of our projects for the rest of the area. Our group, centered on Sheila owning the building EXtreme Fitness is using, has raised half a million of escrowed funds. On that front, I encourage you to talk to the other members. A list will be provided.

"Now, if you will excuse us for a couple of minutes, Sheila and I have some necking to catch up on."

Chapter 10—Interference Patterns

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

Whatever was said at the Press Conference, it had an immediate effect. There was a very high profile tour of the gym and neighborhood. Is there anything funnier than reporters reporting on other reporters? That was what happened. The gym only took up half the building then, so there was a lot of speculation to the back side. It was a discrete photo studio, run by someone named Cynthia.

Mom claims I am not named after her. If that is the case, why does my birth certificate say Cindy, not Cynthia? God, she's blushing. My mother is gifted at a lot of things, but she is a terrible liar.

Thursday, 2:17 PM ET--broadway.com/divawatch/martel

Rumor has it that Francine Martel has flown to LA. If so, she has returned. She has been spotted, being driven around her hometown by an attractive mid 20s brunette. Miz Martel hosted a bachelorette bash, at her restaurant The Crow's Nest, for Sheila Schwartz. She may be in town for the wedding, which is turning into quite an event.