Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Holidays

"You know, if anyone sane ever eavesdropped on any of our conversations, we'd all be locked up," Maggie said, then they all turned as the door opened and Sterling clomped his way into the living room.

"Hello, all," he said, brushing snow from his pom-pom. He was snow from head to foot, actually, a living snowman, his clothing crusted with the stuff. His nose and cheeks were a cherry red, his grin one of pure delight. "We had a snowball battle. I won."

"You don't look like the winner, Sterling, sweetheart," Maggie said, guiding him back to the small rug in front of the door, when he made a move toward one of the couches, Wellington weaving between her legs so he could sniff at some of the frozen snow that had already hit the floor.

"Oh, but I am. Whoever gets hit the most with snowballs is the winner," Sterling informed them, then frowned slightly. "I would have thought it would be the other way around, but the boys said they were certain of the rules."

Maggie laughed, and gave Sterling a smacking kiss on his ice-cold cheek. "I love you, Sterling."

"Thank you, Maggie," he returned solemnly. "The boys were happy, so that's all right, isn't it? Sometimes we can choose to pretend not to know what we know, if it does no harm and serves to make someone else happy, and all of that."

Sweet, dear Sterling and his often startling insights on life. Once again, Maggie thought about her father. He was happy, or at least she supposed so. So should she pretend not to know what she knew, what her mother had told her? Was life ever that uncomplicated, that easy? No, not with her mother around, goosing her every chance she got, ordering her to talk some sense into her wandering father's head. Why me? Why is it always me?

"Maggie?"

"Hmm?" she asked, blinking at Alex.

"Will Wendell be stopping by any time soon, or should I call him?"

"Steve? About what?" Her mind was fully occupied with her own personal pity party, and she'd lost the trail of the conversation.

"About your friend Francis Oakes? You are interested, aren't you?"

"I couldn't really say he was my friend because I barely remember him, and I'm not going to lose any sleep over his death, no. He committed suicide. It's sad, but that's all it is. But okay. Yeah, sure, if you and Bernie want to play detective, go ahead, you can ask Steve. Why ask me? I'm not in charge of him, you know. Why would you think I'm in charge of him? I'm not in charge of anybody. And I am, too, sensitive!"

"Jet lag," Bernie said around the tissue she held to her nose as Maggie ran out of the room. "Oh, damn, there goes my phone again ..."

"How kind of you to meet with me on such short notice, Wendell," Saint Just said as he slipped into the opposite side of the booth at an establishment known for its greasy food and its disinterested clientele. Saint Just had ordered a cup of coffee on his way back to the booth, and managed to hide his distaste when he saw the half-eaten hamburger on the lieutenant's plate. "Crass of me to point it out, left –tenant, I know, but there's a small dribble of mustard on your chin."

"Oops, sorry," Steve said, grabbing a fistful of thin paper napkins from a chrome-sided container and rubbing at his mouth. "You want one? Best hamburgers on the island, no question."

Saint Just adjusted the long, thin knitted scarf at his neck, all the extra protection from the weather he'd needed other than his navy cashmere sports jacket. He'd walked to the restaurant, occasionally swinging his gold-topped ebony sword stick, happy to enjoy the sunny, blustery day if not the sadly abused gray slush on the sidewalks. "Yes, I'm convinced you're correct. And how wonderfully convenient that we're so close to Lenox Hospital. I've often wondered. Can you actually feel your arteries clogging, left –tenant?"

Steve grinned around another bite of hamburger. "Maggie says you're always watching that health channel, whatever it is. You know, Alex, one hamburger isn't going to kill you."

"Ah, true, and I have reason not to worry about my own health, as I swear, I don't believe I've aged a day since I arrived here," Saint Just said, enjoying his private joke. "But still so much better to employ my George Foreman grill, you know. A truly mind-boggling invention. America is crammed rather full with amazing inventions, you know. I'm fond of my computer, of course, and my plasma television machine but, by and large, I'd have to say I am most fond of my George Foreman grill. I've penned a letter to Mr. Foreman, as a matter of fact, apprising him of my admiration, as I am a firm believer that excellence should be rewarded."

"You are so freaking weird," Steve said, popping the last huge bite of hamburger into his mouth. "How's Maggie? You guys sure had a crazy time of it in jolly old England from what I've heard."

"We're seldom bored, Maggie and I," Saint Just agreed, smiling up at the waitress who carefully placed his coffee cup on the tabletop, then asked if there was anything else she could get him. Like her phone number.

"You're too kind, dear lady," Saint Just told her, and she walked away, backfield in motion, to yell to another customer to keep his freaking pants on, she'd been serving the gentleman.

"I've always wondered. How do you do that?" Steve asked, leaning his elbows on the table, the left one squarely into a blob of ketchup. "I mean, seriously, Alex. Women fall all over you everywhere you go. Except Maggie, of course. I mean, being your distant cousin and all." He narrowed his eyelids. "Exactly how distant is that, again?"

"So distant the connection is very nearly nonexistent," Saint Just said, pulling three napkins from the dispenser and holding them out to Steve. "You've had a slight accident with your sleeve."

Steve lifted his elbow and took a look. "Oh, would you look at that. This is my best shirt, and I have a—yeah, thanks, Alex."

Saint Just took a sip of his coffee and then carefully replaced the cup in the saucer. Steve had a rather crude earthenware mug of coffee in front of him, but the waitress had discovered a cup and saucer somewhere for Saint Just. He must remember to be more than his usual generous self when leaving the dear woman a gratuity for her services. One never knew when one would have occasion to revisit such a place as this.

"You were about to say something, Steve? An admission you would rather keep to yourself? But, please, allow me to hazard a guess. You have what you Americans call a date? Why, you do, don't you? You cad."

"No! I'm not—that is, it's not exactly a—ah, hell. How do you do that?"

"I'm merely observant," Saint Just told him. "Your hair is combed, which is a departure. It's seven o'clock in the evening and you're still wearing your tie—I would suggest you remove it, but, then, I've never been partial to claret and yellow stripes. You look freshly shaved and I can smell your cologne. You applied mustard and ketchup with your usual gusto, but refrained from adding a slice of raw onion. And, of course, the dead giveaway, as I believe you'd term it—you blushed quite thoroughly when you realized you were about to say something you'd rather I, of all people, did not know."

He did not add the damning information that Socks had already given the game away, because there was no need for such unnecessary honesty. He would much prefer Wendell be awed by his impressive powers of observation.

"No, I don't want you to know. Because you're Maggie's cousin," Steve said, pushing his fingers through his shaggy sandy hair. "And a royal pain in my ass. Yeah. I have a date. But you can't tell Maggie."

"Believe me, my friend, as I say in all honesty, nothing could be further from my mind. But you will tell her, won't you?"