Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

right?”
    “No, actually. That’s the other one.”
    “We’ve seen you, though,” said Russell Rand. “I remember your face.”
    “Which one are you?” asked Chloe.
    “ Mary Ann in the Morning. ”
    “Of course. How stupid.”
    “You’ve got a partner,” said the designer, nodding. “Ross something.”
    Mary Ann wished he would just drop it. “That’s People Are Talking. ”
    “Right, right. Your partner’s name is…?”
    “I work alone.”
    “Sure. Of course.” He nodded authoritatively, as if he’d known that all along.
    “I remember the show, though,” said Chloe. “It was Cheryl Thingy…you know, Lana Turner’s daughter.”
    “Cheryl Crane,” said Mary Ann.
    “Was that you?”
    “That was me.” It wasn’t, it was People Are Talking, but why not spare everybody the embarrassment? “How long are you here for?” she asked, turning to the designer.
    “Just a day or so, I’m afraid. We’re doing an AIDS benefit in L.A.”
    “It’s sort of spur-of-the-moment,” said Chloe, “but Elizabeth asked us.”
    Elizabeth. Just plain Elizabeth. As if Chloe and Mary Ann both knew the woman much too well to bother with her last name. Mary Ann felt worldly beyond belief. “She’s doing great work,” she said.
    “She’s the best,” said Russell Rand.
    “I don’t suppose,” said Mary Ann carefully, “you’re doing any press while you’re here.”
    “Not really.” Chloe looked sweetly apologetic.
    “Well, I certainly understand.”
    “I’m sure you do,” said Russell knowingly.
    “If you wanna get away…I mean, just for some quiet time…we have a place at The Summit, and I cook a mean rack of lamb.”
    “Isn’t that nice?” said Chloe. “I’m afraid we haven’t got a single free moment.”
    “Well, I understand, of course.” She felt herself blushing hideously. Why had she even tried? They could have gone on talking about Elizabeth. All that was left for her now was a graceful retreat.
    “Next time, for sure,” said Chloe, “when our schedule’s less hectic.”
    “Great,” said Mary Ann.
    “It was lovely meeting you,” said Russell.
    “Same here,” said Mary Ann, backing away into the pressing throng.

    As she had feared, Prue cornered her before she could make it out the door.
    “Did you meet them?” asked the hostess, looking preposterous in her “oldest Russell Rand”—a navy wool suit with a huge kelly-green bow across the bosom.
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Aren’t they dear?” bubbled Prue.
    “Very.”
    “And so real.”
    “Mmm.”
    “They met at Betty Ford, you know. She was a counselor or therapist or something, and she just turned his life around. It’s really the most romantic story.”
    Mary Ann edged toward the door before Prue could regurgitate the entire Vanity Fair article. “I’m afraid I’ve gotta dash,” she said. “My little girl’s waiting to be picked up at Presidio Hill.”
    “Well, I’m glad you could make it.”
    “Me too,” said Mary Ann.
    “I didn’t want you to miss out,” said Prue, making damn sure she got credit for the coup.
    On her way out the door, Mary Ann caught a final glimpse of the famous couple as they exchanged another look of excruciating intimacy. Their love was like an aura that surrounded them, protecting them from the crush of the crowd. This is possible, they seemed to be telling her. You can have what we have if you refuse to settle for less.
    She knew in that instant what she would have to do.

A Picnic
    A T NOON THE NEXT DAY BRIAN AND THACK TOOK A bag lunch to the top of Strawberry Hill, the island in the middle of Stow Lake. (Typically, a hassle with the nursery suppliers in Half Moon Bay had caused Michael to drop out at the last minute.) As Brian looked out over the dusty greenery of the park, Thack ripped open the Velcro closure of his wallet and produced a joint.
    “Hey,” said Brian. “My man.”
    Huddling under his Levi’s jacket against the wind, Thack lit the joint, took a drag, and handed it over.
    “Boy,” said Brian. “It’s been a while.”
    “Has it?”
    “Yeah. Mary Ann doesn’t do this anymore.”
    Thack shrugged. “Why should that stop you?”
    “Well, it gets in the furniture, she says. People can smell it.”
    Thack nodded dourly, his wheat-straw hair whipping in the wind, his gaze fixed on a distant flotilla of pedal boats as they rounded the bend into view.
    Brian knew what Thack was thinking. “She’s got a point,” he added, trying to explain himself.