Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

I was not accusing her of blatant infidelity, mind you, and I had no desire to make a moral judgment. Not me, who believes "connubial bliss" is an oxymoron. But her conduct was a puzzle. I concluded she had a motive I could not ken.

The second question was where in the world was I going to take Madam X to lunch. You must understand that Connie Garcia, partly due to her position as social secretary to Lady Horowitz, maintains a network of spies, snitches, close friends, and catty enemies who like nothing better than to relate the behavior of Archy McNally, particularly when I am observed in activities sure to ignite Connie's Latin temper. If I was seen lunching with the nubile Ms. Johnson, it would undoubtedly be reported to the lady with whom I was intimate, and I didn't wish to imagine what her reaction would be. Incendiary, I was certain, and possibly damaging to the McNally corpus.

But all my uncertainties and hesitancies vanished when I rang the bell of the Johnsons' condo and the door was opened by Theo. A vision! Physical beauty, the eggheads tell us, is ephemeral, of no lasting value, and we must admire only the inner virtues. I much prefer a swan-like neck.

She was wearing a slip dress of tangerine silk. With her apricot-tanned shoulders and peachy complexion she was a veritable fruit salad of delight. Once again her beauty had the effect of answering all my questions and banishing all my doubts. Suspect this woman of chicanery? Nonsense! Might as well accuse the Venus de Milo of being a pickpocket.

"Archy!" she said, clasping my hand. "You look smashing. What is that crest on your jacket?"

"The Pelican Club. A private dining and drinking establishment."

"Wonderful. Are we going there for lunch?"

"No, no," I said hastily. "It's a comfortable spot, but regretfully the cuisine is something less than haute. We'll find a place with a more enticing menu. But first let me show you the McNally home."

What a pleasure it was to have that paragon seated alongside me in the Miata as we zipped over to Ocean Boulevard and gazed on the glimmering sea.

Theo was wide-eyed as she glimpsed the mansions fronting the Atlantic. "The money!" she said.

"Playpen of the idle rich," I admitted blithely. "But not all of us. The McNallys, for instance. We work, we're hardly multis, and our spread is relatively modest. My father had the great good sense to buy years and years ago before real estate prices rocketed into the wild blue yonder."

I parked on the graveled turnaround at our three-car garage and led my guest on a stroll through our smallish estate.

"We employ a live-in couple who have their own apartment over the garage," I said. "The greenhouse is my mother's domain. No pool, you'll notice. What's the point with the ocean a short trot away? The doghouse belonged to Max, our golden retriever, but he's gone to the great kennel in the sky. Let's see if mother is at work."

We found her in the potting shed. She stripped off a rubber glove to shake hands with our visitor.

"How nice to meet you, Miss Johnson," she said brightly. "I've already met your father at our garden club. What a charming man he is."

"Thank you, Mrs. McNally. Your home is lovely."

"But you haven't seen the inside yet," I protested. "It's nothing but bare walls and a few hammocks."

"Don't believe a word he says," mum advised.

"I don't," Theo said with more conviction than I liked.

"Archy, will you and Miss Johnson be staying for lunch?"

"Not today, darling," I told her. "We want to see some of the local scenery."

"Well, do come back," she urged Theo. "Perhaps you and your father might visit some evening."

"I'd love that, Mrs. McNally. Thank you so much."

We walked toward the house. "She's beautiful," Theo said. "And so-so motherly."

"Isn't she," I agreed. "I just adore sitting on her lap."

"You're a nut," she said, laughing.

"And now for the fifty-cent tour," I said. "Let's make it fast because the pangs of hunger are beginning to gnaw."

I showed her everything: kitchen, father's study, living and dining rooms, second-floor sitting room, master and guest bedrooms, and my own little suite on the third floor. All the furnishings were of good quality but obviously mellowed. The interior looked as if everything had been inherited, which was exactly the ambience my father had striven to create when he moved up from Miami.

"It's all so handsome," Theo said, suitably impressed. "So solid and warm and comfy."

I didn't tell her the truth, that everything in the place had been purchased in the past thirty years from decorators, galleries, and antique shops. Our home was a stage set. But it was convincing.

We reboarded the Miata, and I had what I fancied was a minor stroke of genius.

"You know," I said thoughtfully, "there are many fine restaurants in Palm Beach, but it's such a scrumptious day, why don't we take a drive down to Boca Raton along A1A. I know a marvelous place in Boca where we can lunch alfresco."

"Sounds divine," Theo said.

So having reduced the possibility of being spotted by one of Connie Garcia's spies to an absolute minimum, I turned southward. We followed the corniche, and my companion never stopped exclaiming at the glory of the vistas and the wealth displayed by the private mansions and luxury condominiums along the way.

I drove directly to Mizner Park, my favorite mini-mall in South Florida. There we entrusted the Miata to a valet and secured an umbrella table at the Bistro L'Europe. Outdoor dining at Mizner is a charming way to enjoy anything from a boutique pizza to a five-course banquet. But, of course, the main attraction is people-watching.

I cannot recall the exact details of our lunch. I have a vague recollection of sharing an enormous Caesar salad with Theo after we had demolished a duck terrine. I do remember very well that everything I consumed was ambrosial. That may have been due to the full bottle of Beaujolais we finished, but I prefer to believe my pleasure was heightened by being in the company of such a ravishing dining partner.

"Archy," she said, nibbling on a garlic crouton, "why have you never married?"

I had an oft-repeated response to that. "I am very prone to allergies," I told her. "Research has shown that more than half of all divorces are caused by one spouse becoming allergic to the other. I just can't take the chance."

That sinfully entrancing dimple appeared and she shook her head hopelessly. "You're a devil," she said.

"That wounds," I said. "All I wish to be is your guardian angel. Where are you from, Theo?"

"Michigan," she said promptly. "Isn't everyone?"

"During the tourist season one might think so. I understand Michiganders refer to Florida as the Lower Peninsula. Tell me, if a man is a Michigander, is a woman a Michigoose?"

She ignored that antiquated wheeze-and rightly so. "Where are you from?" she asked.

"Right here. One of the few residents actually born in Florida."

"You don't sound like a native Floridian."

"I went to prep school up north and then later to Yale."

I told her the story of why I was booted out of Yale Law and she was mightily amused. "You are a devil," she said, "and I really shouldn't be associating with you."

"Perhaps you shouldn't," I said boldly. "I understand you're soon to be affianced."

She lifted her chin and looked at me coolly. "Maybe," she said, "and maybe not. I haven't yet decided. Do you know Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth?"

"Yes."

"And his mother?"

"I am acquainted with the lady."

"Then surely you know why I am postponing a decision."

I said nothing.

"Meanwhile," she went on, "I am living the way I want to live. I'm an independent cuss. Does my behavior shock you?"