He could have gone on in the same vein at painful length, but luckily for his companions, at that moment the front door of the great mansion opened wide. Boone and Betsy Newcomb stepped out on the wide front porch, regarding the clamoring reporters like a pair of overweight asthmatic antelopes tapped to be keynote speakers at a leopard convention.
Boone Newcomb was a simple, sincere soul. He welcomed the media with the air of a man who has been dragged into a situation that scares the scrapple out of him. Nonetheless, he’d been raised with certain ideals, among which was the firm belief that John Wayne was right: a man is obliged to accomplish what a man is required to achieve. Or words to that effect.
He was still greeting the news corps when Marjorie broke a path to him through the mob. Boone smiled. “Why, Miz Marjorie, it’s good to see you again. I’m truly sorry that it’s taken something like this to bring you over for a visit. Betsy and me, we took a real shine to you, and that’s a fact. We meant it when we said you’d be welcome to come by here any time.”
Marjorie’s smile was a brittle grimace. The look of apology in Boone’s eyes was real. This whole ugly business hadn’t been his idea; she’d wager her next sales commission and her realtor’s license on it. “I’m sorry too, Mr. Newcomb,” she said. “I hope that I’ll be able to make up for it once we’ve settled this little… mix-up.”
“ ‘Mix-up’?” Emily June Newcomb stepped out onto the porch from her lurking post behind the great double-wide front doors. “I’d hardly call endangering and belittling our family a ‘mix-up.’ ”
Marjorie had to hand it to the younger woman: Emily knew how to make an entrance. Cameras clicked and whirred; reporters swarmed forward. The undercover crowd-control personnel that Marjorie had so wisely placed among the newshounds subtly stepped in to hold back the tide, but it wasn’t easy. Emily June Newcomb was eye candy of the first order, and she spoke with a ferocious intensity and passion that practically screamed sound bite! Marjorie could almost feel the sudden, almost erotic thrill that coursed through the media mob.
“Well, I suppose we’d best get started,” Boone said. He did not sound happy or eager. Marjorie couldn’t blame him. Chez Newcomb was pure Neo-Greek Revival, a displaced Southern plantation-style abode with a nice patch of pricey landscape surrounding it. Now, thanks to Emily, only a few select reporters were being allowed inside to witness the trial of the Carème 6000, leaving the rest of the pack to trample the costly vegetation outside.
(For the sufficiently well-heeled, ownership of a substantial patch of greenery in the heart of New York City was no longer a pipe dream. The Newcomb place was part of Eminent Domains, an upscale housing development that came into existence when an agenda-toting D.C. somebody did an end-run around the electorate and decreed that unless Central Park became privatized, the terrorists would already have won. It worked like a knee-jerk charm before you could say “bulldozer.”)
Boone conducted his unwished-for guests through the front doors and onward to the kitchen. Marjorie heard the collective gasp of awe from the reporters when they crossed the threshold. Though posh digs were same-old same-old to her, even she still felt a frisson of wonder whenever she encountered a Mequizeen-equipped home. The high-tech cookplace was a monument to sleek, understated opulence, cool practicality, and preprogrammed culinary expertise. The room itself glittered, but looked relatively bare, presenting an array of smooth, shining surfaces. Nonetheless, that smooth shininess reminded the human hindbrain of the surface of a tranquil prehistoric lake. You just knew something was lurking below the surface; something big, with teeth.
“Ready, Mr. Newcomb?” Marjorie asked, taking charge as she stepped up to the control panel. Set into the wall nearest the door, its thin chrome frame embraced a small, flat keypad and a blank display screen.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Wonderful,” she said, not really meaning it. Marjorie hated putting the Newcombs through this media circus, but what choice did she have? It was them or her commission, and besides, their miserable brat had started it! And why? she wondered, not for the first time. For the money? But her parents are rolling in it! What in the world does Emily June Newcomb hope to achieve by putting Mr. Parker’s company and Mequizeen through the negative PR wringer? She was damned if she could figure it out.
You know what? she told herself. The hell with figuring out Miss Emily’s motive. I’ll worry about that after I’ve rescued my livelihood and Joss Parker’s corporate bacon, not before, so let’s get cooking!
Marjorie girded her loins and grinned resolutely into the crosshairs of the cameras. “Hi, everyone!” she chirped. “We’re here today to help our good friends the Newcomb family learn what a wonderful convenience the Carème 6000 by Mequizeen can be once you fully understand it. Mr. Newcomb here is an intelligent man. He’s been alive long enough to know that new and exciting technology always requires a little getting used to, and there’s no shame in that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Newcomb?” Boone only nodded. Marjorie thought it was amazing how the man could stand perfectly still and yet give the impression of squirming like a hooked nightcrawler.
As much as she sympathized, Marjorie had no choice but to proceed. “When I got my first Mequizeen, I just about starved to death before I got up the nerve to touch it.” As if I could ever afford anything this expensive! she thought. “Sometimes new is just another word for scary,” she went on, showering charm alternately over Boone Newcomb and the reporters. “And sometimes you get so scared by something new, you convince yourself it must be dangerous, because if it wasn’t, you’d be kind of silly to be scared of it, right? Well, we at Paradise Purchased Properties care about our clients’ happiness, even long after the papers are signed, and how happy is a family that’s scared of its own kitchen?”
The reporters chuckled. Just like I wanted them to, Marjorie thought. I’m making the Newcombs seem like frightened children. Boone and Betsy both look like they wish they could crawl into the freezer and hide. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt, then she glanced at Emily and the twinge vaporized.
“People, please,” she gently chided the reporters. “How can you make fun of a man whose only desire is the safety of his family?” With impeccable timing and delivery, she distanced herself from the derision she had just incited. The reporters were abashed, Boone and Betsy gazed at her with pathetic gratitude, but Emily looked rightfully suspicious.
Marjorie turned to the business at hand. “So, let’s make our valued Paradise Purchased Properties friends happy by showing them-and you-that the Carème 6000 is nothing an intelligent, forward-thinking family can’t handle. I have personally worked out a demo that will prove it’s a modern marvel of efficiency, safety, and courtesy. Mr. Newcomb, if you would-?” She handed him a small, folded slip of paper.
Boone Newcomb’s apprehension grew perceptibly as he scanned the page. “ ’Scuse me, but what’s all this?”
“The menu,” Marjorie replied suavely. “The Carème 6000’s built-in voice recognition software doesn’t let anyone but its owners give it instructions-another fine safety feature from the folks at Mequizeen, and one which we at Paradise Purchased Properties really appreciate.” Her expression did nothing to hint at the masterful way she was turning a news story into a free commercial for both companies. Mr. Parker would be pleased. “Just go through that list and ask it to cook up every item while our friends from the media witness how well and how safely your food is prepared. We’ll start small-a simple amuse bouche of Irish salmon tuilles with accents of asiago cheese and white truffle oil-then work our way through a series of ceviche presentations, a trio of tapenades, some basic meeze, ortolans, potages à la saison, a crown roast of New Zealand lamb, a classic Peking duck, filet de boeuf á l’absinthe, venison on a bed of lilac blossoms, trout á la mode de Gertrude Stein, and finally a complete Kyoto-style kaiseki ryori experience. Then for dessert, we-”