She kept silent.
“And, the real sweetness of the deal is that you don’t have to introduce me as her father, just as the guy from the teen TV reality show house. She almost won that talent show.”
“If that obnoxious Zoe Chloe Ozone hadn’t distracted everybody with such a ridiculous rap number.”
Rafi smiled. “Come to think of it, Temple’s persona had that Lady Gaga freak thing going before Lady Gaga became a household name. What do you say? I’d find Mariah a really good voice coach, help her make some credible YouTube showcases. Drain off some of that incredible energy that could get her into trouble on her own. And,” he added, “she likes me.”
Molina had seen that, and it worried her. “You won’t expect paternal credit.”
“She’s not ready, you’re not ready. I’m not ready.”
“But … if we keep that from her, she’ll be angry at both of us if it should … when it came out.”
Rafi smiled to himself, as if thinking of something else, before meeting her pointed gaze head-on. “Yes, that takes the burden off you being the only liar in the house.”
Bingo! He was right, dammit. “It was a necessary evasion.”
“It was a Big Lie, Carmen, and I could make a Big Stink about it if I wanted to blow up your credibility with Mariah. But that would hurt her more than we could hurt each other. So. I’m not backing down on the bottom line that she knows me as her father. Someday. And maybe I’ll earn a chance from her you never gave me.”
“Below the belt, Nadir.” Lieutenant Molina was back in there, punching.
“Deserved, Officer Molina.”
Amazing. Rafi had offered her a built-in way of fending off Boyfriend Day and ceding his own high moral ground over her own pretty unforgivable fiction of a dead hero father.
And from the steadfast, noncommittal look he was giving her, he knew it.
“Deal?” he asked, extending a hand.
She met his gesture halfway. “Deal.”
It never made it to a shake. They shared a mutual understanding for the first time in many years. Molina felt a burden liberate her chronically clenched shoulders, not ready to explore yet what had changed, and why they were holding hands.
“Guys!” a voice chided.
Hands dropped; heads turned.
“Hey, it’s awfully quiet in here.” Mariah stood in the hall archway, looking perfect ’tween queen with her new bobbed haircut and the leggings and short skirt, cell phone in her hand, frowning as she looked from one to the other. “Am I going to have to insist on a feet-on-the-floor-at-all-times policy around here?”
Rafi laughed his head off, recognizing that she quoted a parental edict for entertaining boyfriends, which Mariah didn’t have quite yet. She was too busy trying to be a media star.
Mariah eyed them suspiciously.
“What are you doing out here?” Molina asked, more flustered than she ever wanted to be.
“I thought,” Mariah said, tossing her Katie Holmes hair, “it’s what you wanted. I’m supposed to quit ‘hiding in my room.’”
“It’s okay when there are people in the front room trying to hold an adult conversation without having it drowned out by Justin Bieber.”
“Yeah. You’re just sitting here. Don’t think I don’t know that something is going on. Embarrassing, dudes.”
Mariah made a face and vanished back down the hall, her bedroom door shutting with a clap a second later.
Molina blinked at their quick dismissal by the resident media princess. “Daughters and mothers,” she told Rafi. “This is a rough stage. She seems to accept you,” she admitted.
“I accept her.” Rafi smiled. “I’m not under the daily pressure with her you are. Say, that’s nice.”
Molina was confused by his apparent change of subject. “What?”
His forefinger made a circling motion near the protective wing of her hair. “Those thin, big hoop earrings you’re wearing nowadays.”
“I did have pierced ears, if you remember. From babyhood. It was a cultural thing.”
“I remember, and you used to wear tiny turquoise stud earrings, your sole concession to femininity off the job.”
“I … they’d closed down, the piercings, so I thought I’d try again. Not for wearing at work nowadays either, of course. That’s … silly.”
“No, not for at work. But not silly.” His eyes squinted at her for too long to be comfortable. She was seeing the hunky young cop again. “If you do any more Carmen gigs,” he said, “throw out the retro silk flower over your ear and go with high-end shoulder-duster earrings.”
She shot him a glance. If? Why … why?
“They’d uplight those electric eyes.” Her manager speaking again, after all these years.
Carmen didn’t know what to say. Any answer would tick off Molina.
Rafi’s lips made a slight moue. “Mariah sure missed out there when she inherited your dark voice and my dark eyes. On the other hand, we get to see yours.”
Chapter 57
Invitation to a Duel
From an early evening wedding to a worknight. Matt usually came in a half hour early for his Midnight Hour talk show, which ran two hours, thanks to popular demand.
Hosting a live radio talk show five nights a week was a responsibility. He’d been used to relentless timetables when he was a parish priest, so he always allowed for small, unexpected delays. Oooph, those 6 A.M. Masses. Now he was a night owl.
And he’d much rather be at the Circle Ritz having another honeymoon night with Temple. She’d made his mother shine and he wanted to return the favor.
He filled two tall cardboard glasses with chilled Dr Pepper and headed from the station kitchen to the control room, where he lifted them to greet his boss, Letitia.
She was nearing the end of her nightly gig as “Ambrosia,” the black-velvet voice of consolation and Top Fifty songs from recent decades fit to soothe the savage soul.
Ambrosia cooed soft encouragement to her latest caller and started Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” to put that stressed caller to bed.
“Matt,” she mouthed through glass, waving him closer with a flounce of one long, knuckle-brushing orange chiffon sleeve. She dressed like Joan Rivers for the red carpet, if Joan had been black, thirty years younger, and weighed two hundred pounds more.
But hyper and abrasive were the opposite of Ambrosia’s style, on or off mic.
“Toodle your globe-trotting tuckus over here for a hug.”
He set down the soft drinks before obeying. In a moment, he was encompassed by a warm, spice-scented cloud of affection the color of a desert sunset.
Ambrosia had taught him that if you didn’t feel good about yourself, you couldn’t make other people feel good about themselves. Her listeners pictured a seductively sympathetic siren reclining on a chaise longue while extending a languid hand to press a button and surround them with healing song and, well, schmaltz.
Darned if they weren’t right.
“So how was that ‘toddling town’?” she asked about his trip home and indirectly about the job opportunity.
“Interesting,” was all Matt was going to say. Moving to the network and Chicago was history now.
“You’re early.” Ambrosia checked the glitzy Home Shopping Network watch on her wrist. A long lacquered false fingernail colored dead-on orange to match her caftan tapped him on the hand.
“I have a special request tonight,” he said.
“Anything for you … insane, illegal, whatever. Unless it’s fattening.”
“Calorie-free,” he promised. “The one thing you won’t like is I don’t want any questions or second guesses.”
“That’s tough. Second-guessing is my favorite hobby. Okay. You’re the guy on the way up. What is it?”
Commercials were still blaring. He’d developed her instinct for knowing how much time off the air they still had.