Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Holidays

"But not fur," Saint Just said, pulling on his gloves. "I'll see to it. Bernice? Have you heard anything else about the sad demise of that Oakes fellow?"

"Me? No, nothing. What did you learn? Is there a story there, one I can put out as I reissue his books?"

"I'm afraid I really know very little," Saint Just told her. "Although I have been giving the matter considerable thought. He committed suicide, surely, or else we would have read more about the death in the newspapers, correct? But what prompted the man to take his own life? It's an intriguing question, don't you think?"

"No, not really, at least not enough to warrant reissuing his books. I'm sorry for him, but he's dead. Maybe he just found out he had some terrible disease. Maybe he was being evicted. Maybe he got a depressing fan letter," she said, shrugging. "Hell, who am I kidding? The man hadn't written a word in years, and what he did write was a long time ago. Who'd be sending him fan mail, good or bad?"

"Okay, I'm ready."

Saint Just had been about to ask Bernice a question concerning fan letters, but it went completely out of his head when he turned to see Maggie reenter the living room.

"My, aren't we ... original," he drawled as Maggie stomped her feet into a pair of high brown leather boots.

And the boots were fine. So were the dark brown slacks she'd tucked inside those boots.

It was from there on up that things became a tad ... dicey.

"What?" Maggie said, spreading her arms as wide as the several layers of clothing she wore would allow. "It's a sweatshirt."

"It's several sweatshirts," Bernie corrected, circling her friend. "Which one has the hoodie? I can't tell. But you might want to reconsider wearing the white one on top. You look like a Michelin tire commercial."

"It's the biggest sweatshirt I have, so it has to go on top," Maggie argued, struggling to pull up the hood of one of the other sweatshirts—the red one. "We're not going to a fashion show."

"And aren't we fortunate for that small mercy," Saint Just said, thinking Maggie looked fairly adorable. Round, but adorable.

Maggie finally looked at him. "Oh, great. Mr. GQ. How does it always end up this way? You looking so put together, me looking so .. . so—"

"Thrown together?" Saint Just suggested. "Ah, well, there's always a consolation, isn't there? It will be decidedly difficult to lose you in the crowd."

Maggie's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'll find the damn lint brush," she said, stomping back the way she'd come.

"How'd you do that?" Bernice asked curiously. "I would have ragged at her and she still would have gone out like that. You say two words, and she goes off to change."

"It's all in knowing which few words to say, Bernice. Maggie and I ... we understand each other. Even when we wish we didn't."

"We could have walked," Maggie said as she stepped into the warm, plush confines of Bernice's limousine, one of the few possessions of her ex-husband she'd refused to part with, even before she'd discovered that dead husbands often resulted in hefty inheritances. "It's mostly short blocks."

"Except for the long ones," Bernie pointed out, folding her sable tightly around here. "Besides, I'm not exactly dressed for walking."

"You mean your heels."

"No, I mean the sable. You own a coat like this one, Maggie, and there are responsibilities that come along with it. One of them is this limousine. Alex, are you comfortable?"

"Extremely, my dear, thank you," Alex said, completely in his element as the black Mercedes sliced through the theater traffic and beyond.

"Sure," Maggie groused, slipping down onto her spine and plopping her booted feet on the facing seat, directly between Alex and Sterling. "He was born for this, weren't you just, Alex?"

"You know, Maggie, anyone would think this small sojourn wasn't your idea," he said, smiling at her through the dark interior.

"Bite me," she said, but quietly, because what had once been an insult now seemed to be more of an invitation he was willing to accept. "Look at that, we're here already. And no hot dogs, in case nobody's noticed. I'm starving."

"Would you relax? There's bound to be something to eat," Bernie said as the limousine slid to a halt in the middle of traffic. "Come on, kiddies, pile out before that nice policeman over there decides to give us a ticket. I'm pretty sure I've already hit my quota for the month."

"We're barely into December, Bernie," Maggie said, following her out, and pretending not to notice Alex's hand graze her backside, the louse. "And since when is there a monthly quota?"

"I have no idea. But it got you moving, didn't it? Now, where to first?"

Maggie looked around at the sea of people and the many green and white-striped tents and, damn, the ice rink. "I forgot about the ice rink," she said, sure Alex would have hated it—those rented skates, like rented bowling shoes. They'd be an insult to his sensibilities.

The thing was, she had her own skates, and was probably just as queasy about wearing rentals.

"Oh, look at them," Sterling said, standing beside her, his expression rapt as he watched the skaters glide by. "It's like being on my scooter—without the scooter. I should dearly love to try that, Maggie. I think I should be quite good at it."

"Then we'll purchase skates tomorrow, Sterling," Alex assured him as Maggie spied a hot dog cart and took off without waiting for anyone else, sure that Alex, at least, would follow. She'd give him the slip sooner or later, but for now, the aroma of hot dogs seemed more important.

"This reminds me very much of Green Park in the winter," Alex said as they strolled the area after consuming their dinner, Bernie trailing behind, still trying to wipe a blob of mustard from her sable. "I hope it's ruined," a red-nosed man shivering in a thin jacket told her when he saw her, upon which Bernie, without missing a beat, suggested the man perform a feat not especially easy for anyone who was not double-jointed.

"I love New York," Maggie said with a grin, waiting for Bernie to catch up. "Everyone's so friendly."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bernie said, tucking a wad of used paper napkins into her pocket. "Are we done having fun yet, or do we have to do something else before I can call José and have him drive us somewhere warm? Not that I can have a hot buttered rum, can I? I love hot buttered rum. Mostly the rum. Hey, Maggie, did I tell you about this idea I've had? A drinking book."

Maggie smiled in sympathy for her recently dried-out friend. "Who would read a book about drinking, Bernie?" she asked as they entered the first tent after Alex, who was already inspecting a shelf filled with handblown glass.

"I don't know. I would. The history, the lore, all that good stuff—you know, a highly illustrated coffee-table book. Or, in this case, a bar book. I've been rounding up quotes that could be scattered through the book. Observations on drinking, you know? Let me run one by you, from Jackie Gleason. Remember him? Anyway, he said, 'Drink removes warts and pimples. Not from me. But from those I look at.' Isn't that fabulous—and so true."

"I don't know. It's also sort of insulting. Do I have warts and pimples now?"

"Not until tonight, no. Here, I'll give you another one. 'The trouble with the world is that it's always one drink behind.' That was Humphrey Bogart."

"Yes, I thought I recognized the imitation. I think I'd rather buy the furniture line someone's pushing in his name. What else have you got?"

Bernie picked up a handblown decanter, and then put it down again. "No use for that, unless I fill it with pretty Kool-Aid. Okay, Bette Midler. 'I try not to drink too much because when I'm drunk, I bite.' "