After dropping the Walgreen's bag he carried on a nearby table, Bart was already halfway to Sylvie. When he spoke his eyes focused directly on her cleavage. “I don't believe we've met before. I'm Bart Cooper, Molly's ex-husband.” His glance rose and he smiled. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Sylvie purred, instantly assessing the usefulness of an ex-husband to irritate Carey. Perhaps if he became incensed or resentful over a past rival, he might forget his very new sense of familial responsibility long enough to be persuaded to go after Egon. “How nice of you to come to your daughter's birthday. Carey was just telling me how fond he is of her. I'm Sylvie von Mansfeld, Carey's ex-wife. Isn't this cozy-a quartet of exes.”
“I knew you looked familiar,” Bart said, his smile cordial. “May I take this opportunity to tell you how much I've enjoyed your movies?”
“Thank you, making films is such a lark.” Their dialogue could have been from a thirties film where both leads had slick hair and continental charm.
A lark, Carey thought irritably. What the hell role was that line from? Sylvie was a temperamental, sullen, always inadequately prepared “star” who insisted on preferential treatment every step of the way. A lark, indeed. Sylvie was every director's nightmare; she required a dozen takes for every piece of dialogue over two sentences long.
“Your joie de vivre shows on the screen,” Bart complimented, his voice an octave lower for effect.
Along with everything else, Molly thought pettishly. “Bart, if you don't mind,” she said to the man dressed immaculately in white linen like some colonial planter or Colombian drug czar, “I'm sure Carrie's anxious to open your present.”
“I understand, you share fatherhood with Mr. Fersten. How delightful. One can almost envision a movie from the concept.”
“A bedroom farce-French style.” His smile was tight. “I was-I think the line is-the last to know, but hey, I'm a good-natured guy,” he smoothly lied. Sylvie's presence had altered his intention to demand some monetary settlement. Bart Cooper bitterly resented being cuckolded, especially so publically. “When Carrie's birthday rolls around, I'm the first one to remember my special girl.”
With the usual unwrapped present, this one obviously purchased at the Walgreen's down the block, Molly felt sickened by his hypocritical sweetness. Hopefully, it wasn't another Barbie doll like the last three birthday gifts he'd given Carrie, damn his indifference. She considered choking Bart until his fine white teeth turned blue. “Bart-” she reminded him, her voice low with frustration and rage.
“Am I in the way?” Bart asked.
“No,” Sylvie said placidly, clashing with Carey and Molly's sharp, emphatic, “Yes.”
“Actually, we were discussing a private matter, Bart, if you'll excuse us,” Carey said, his voice carefully modulated. Whenever he saw Bart he thought of all the misery he'd caused Molly, and it took great self-control to remain civil. He also thought of Molly living with Bart for seven years, and feelings of jealousy overwhelmed him. “Molly asked you to leave… if you don't mind,” he said, his eyes wintry as he motioned toward Carrie's room.
“In a minute,” Bart replied, and turned back to Sylvie.
“I must insist,” Carey said very quietly, struggling to maintain his composure.
Bart swiveled back slowly and lifted one dark eyebrow. “Insist? Sounds like some chivalrous knight protecting his lady.”
The air was palpable with tension.
“Oh, Carey's chivalrous all right,” Sylvie cheerfully interjected, delighted to fuel the volatile situation. Maybe the woman would toss him out if sufficiently angered. Did she know his reputation for wildness? “Remember the young princess near Munich whose husband appeared unexpectedly at your private picnic? You were particularly chivalrous that time. The husband is very old, you see,” she said, as though everyone was concerned with the details of the scandal, “and the princess likes to ride motorcycles and live dangerously. The summer afternoon temperatures didn't require many clothes, I heard,” she went on, knowing Carey hated an audience for controversy, “and, well… under the circumstances, Carey felt obliged to defend the woman. It was all very romantic. Most men would have cut and run when Ludwig's touring car turned into the clearing. Gossip ran rampant for weeks. Marie told the story best; she's a cousin of mine and so sweet. I always thought Carey showed a remarkable sense of chivalry. Ludwig wanted to beat her.”
Carey stood as if cut from stone, his dark eyes expressionless while Sylvie spoke. “Now if you're through,” he said as she concluded her recital with a smug smile, “should you hear from Egon, tell him to call me.”
“He may not live to call,” she snapped.
“I'm sorry… if you'll excuse me.” And he walked away.
Molly turned to Bart. “If you actually care to see Carrie for her birthday, you know where her room is.” Her hostility was too intense to conceal. She looked very different from the woman in electric blue, her own dress a stark contrast as though the spring blossom pink was visual evidence as well of the enormous disparity in their lives. Suddenly uncomfortable in her own living room, she turned and followed Carey.
She found him in the kitchen sprawled on one of her painted pine chairs and looking grim.
He glanced up when she came in and ran a hand through his already ruffled hair in a slow, weary gesture. Sylvie's lacerating energy had apparently drawn blood. “I'm sorry,” he said, “about the story and my unfortunate past. There's nothing else to say about Sylvie. She's a world-class bitch and that's it.”
“She's pretty nice-looking,” Molly said softly, seating herself opposite him at the kitchen table. And there's a fortune sparkling in her ears, she thought, looking at the kitchen curtains that should have been replaced last year.
“Who the hell cares?” he muttered.
“Bart does,” she replied with a grin. When he heard the mischief in her voice he lifted his head and smiled wanly.
“Then he's welcome to her, with my blessing. What the hell did you ever see in-” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room, “him.” Distaste was prominent in every word. Bart was everything he despised in a man-dressed as though he were ready for a photo shoot, haircut so trim the scissor marks must still be warm on his hair, and with that phony insouciance that always prompted Carey to clench his hands into fists to keep from taking a swing and cracking the slick facade.
“I could ask you the same about Sylvie,” Molly replied, a hint of approbation in her tone, “but the answer's pretty obvious.” She was much more warmly voluptuous in person-as though the two-dimensional screen neutralized her sun-ripened, perfumed volume.
“I was not sober. I had an excuse.”
“Could we drop the subject?” Molly said with a sigh, unwilling to go into a topic they had rehashed on too many occasions. “I think we both agree we made a mistake.”
“Lord, she puts me in a vicious mood,” Carey growled, sliding lower in the chair. “When are they going to leave?”
“Now that, darling, depends on your handling of Sylvie. Normally Bart wouldn't stay more than five minutes with Carrie-if he even remembers why he came here. On the other hand,” she said contemplatively, “with anyone else but the world's sex kitten, I'd say Eldora Whitney and her millions would win out every time. However, Sylvie has her charms. Now that I think about it, you won't get me to bet on Bart leaving, one way or the other.”