Lessons Learned

forget the plans she’d made and had been working toward for ten years. It was best to remember that Carlo was a ride on a carousel, and that the music only played so long.
    She took a deep breath and waited for her own advice to sink in. It took longer than it should have. Determined, she smiled and walked to him. “Finished?”
    “Our friend will be home soon, very soon after we are.”
    “Then we’ll wish him bon voyage. We’d better start thinking airport ourselves.”
    With his arm around her shoulders, they walked out. “You’ll give me our Philadelphia schedule on the plane.”
    “You’re going to be a smash,” she told him. “Though you might want to try my brewer’s yeast before it’s done.”
     
    “I can’t believe it.” At eight o’clock, Juliet dropped down into a chair outside customer service. Behind her, the conveyor belt of baggage was stopped. “The luggage went to Atlanta.”
    “Not so hard to believe,” Carlo returned. He’d lost his luggage more times than he cared to remember. He gave his leather case a pat. His spatulas were safe. “So, when do we expect our underwear?”
    “Maybe by ten tomorrow morning.” Disgusted, Juliet looked down at the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn on the flight. She carried her toiletries and a few odds and ends in her shoulder bag, but nothing remotely resembling a business suit. No matter, she decided. She’d be in the background. Then she took a look at Carlo.
    He wore a short-sleeved sweatshirt with the word Sorbonne dashed across it, jeans white at the stress points and a pair of sneakers that weren’t nearly as new as hers. How the hell, she wondered, was he supposed to go on the air at 8:00 A.M. dressed like that?
    “Carlo, we’ve got to get you some clothes.”
    “I have clothes,” he reminded her, “in my bags.”
    “You’re on Hello, Philadelphia in the morning at eight, from there we go directly to breakfast with reporters from the Herald and the Inquirer. At ten, when our bags may or may not be back, you’re on Midmorning Report. After that—”
    “You’ve already given me the schedule, my love. What’s wrong with this?”
    When he gestured toward what he wore, Juliet stood up. “Don’t be cute, Carlo. We’re heading for the closest department store.”
    “Department store?” Carlo allowed himself to be pulled outside. “Franconi doesn’t wear department store.”
    “This time you do. No time to be choosey. What’s in Philadelphia?” she muttered as she hailed a cab. “Wannamaker’s.” Holding the door open for him, she checked her watch. “We might just make it.”
    They arrived a half hour before closing. Though he grumbled, Carlo let her drag him through the old, respected Philadelphia institution. Knowing time was against them, Juliet pushed through a rack of slacks. “What size?”
    “Thirty-one, thirty-three,” he told her with his brow lifted. “Do I choose my own clothes?”
    “Try this.” Juliet held out a pair of dun-colored pleated slacks.
    “I prefer the buff,” he began.
    “This is better for the camera. Now shirts.” Leaving him holding the hanger, she pounced on the next rack. “Size?”
    “What do I know from American sizes?” he grumbled.
    “This should be right.” She chose an elegant shade of salmon in a thin silk that Carlo was forced to admit he’d have looked twice at himself. “Go put these on while I look at the jackets.”
    “It’s like shopping with your mother,” he said under his breath as he headed for the dressing rooms.
    She found a belt, thin and supple with a fancy little buckle she knew he wouldn’t object to. After rejecting a half dozen jackets she came across one in linen with a casual, unstructured fit in a shade between cream and brown.
    When Carlo stepped out, she thrust them at him, then stood back to take in the entire view. “It’s good,” she decided as he shrugged the jacket on. “Yes, it’s really good. The color of the shirt keeps the rest from being drab and the jacket keeps it just casual enough without being careless.”
    “The day Franconi wears clothes off the rack—”
    “Only Franconi could wear clothes off the rack and make them look custom-tailored.”
    He stopped, meeting the laughter in her eyes. “You flatter me.”
    “Whatever it takes.” Turning him around, she gave him a quick push toward the dressing room. “Strip it off, Franconi. I’ll get you some shorts.”
    The look he sent her was cool, with very little