A couple of the performers sat in front of the Hollywood lights on their makeup counters, gossiping.
“Ladies, we need the room.”
One of them, done up gorgeous like Gaga, pulled Breen into an embrace. “There, baby girl! It’s all going to be all right. You trust Jimmy now. No man’s worth your tears.”
Another kiss on the cheek, and with Sally moving into “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves,” Marco sat Breen down.
“What happened, honey? Tell me everything.”
“I—my father—”
Marco gripped her hand tighter. “He got in touch?”
“No, no, but he—Marco, he’s been sending money since I was ten. He started an account, an investment account with Allied, and he’s wired money every month. She didn’t tell me. She never told me, kept it locked in a drawer. And all this time . . .”
She looked down at her hands. “I forgot my wine.”
“I’ll go get it.”
“Wait. It’s . . . Marco, I have as of today, because there were dividends and—I have to learn about all of this. But as of today, I have three million, eight hundred and seventy-eight thousand, five hundred and ninety-six dollars and thirty-five cents.”
He goggled at her. “Did you have a dream or something? Baby, you know sometimes you have those dreams.”
“No. I’ve just come from a meeting with my broker. I have almost four million dollars, Marco.”
“You sit right here—don’t move. I’m going to get the wine. I’m going to get the bottle.”
She sat, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Really pale, she realized, eyes tired. She’d pulled out her hair tie, and the work she’d done that morning blowing it smooth was wrecked. And the brown rinse she used once a week to calm down the red—too much attention, too distracting—had faded to mouse.
Didn’t matter, she thought. Just didn’t matter. As soon as she unloaded herself on Marco, she’d go home, lie down. Grading papers had to wait until her head cleared. Since she intended to drink at least two glasses of wine before she walked home, it wouldn’t be cleared tonight.
He came back with the bottle, two glasses, poured each before he sat.
“I think let’s backtrack a little. How did you find out?”
“It’s the strangest thing, Marco.”
And she told him everything.
“I gotta go back here a minute,” Marco said. “You went to this guy’s, this broker guy’s office, by yourself? That was brave, Breen.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was so mad.”
“Who tells you you need to get mad more?”
A smile flitted. “You do.”
“Like I’m saying now you need to stay mad when you talk to your mom.”
“Oh God.” She dropped her head into her hands—really wanted to drop it between her knees.
“Don’t you go jellyfish now.”
He glanced back as Sally, in full Cher, glided into the room. Salvador Travino put one hand on the hip of his knockoff Bob Mackie sequined gown, flipped back the waist-length fall of wig.
“They’re backed up at the bar, Marco. What the fuck?”
“Sorry, Sally. Breen—”
Sally shot up a finger, heavily lashed eyes narrowing on Breen’s face. “Are you sick, my darling girl?”
“No, no. I’m so sorry. I just . . .”
“You look sick.” He cupped Breen’s chin in his hand. “Pale as a genuine virgin on her wedding night. Is it that asshole, Grant?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Good, ’cause he’s not worth it. When did you eat last?”
“I . . .” She couldn’t quite remember.
“Just what I thought. Marco, you take our girl home, and get her some food. You got any red meat?”
“Um, probably not.”
Sally shook his head, executed a perfect Cher-style hair flip-back. Then gave a come-ahead with one hand. “Give me your phone. I can’t keep one in this outfit.”
Taking Marco’s phone, he tapped in a number, tapped his glittery gold stiletto. “Beau, you handsome bastard, it’s Sally. I’m better than I look and I look fabulous. I need you to put a couple of your cheese-steak specials together for me, for pickup. Yeah, the works, my man. Put it on my tab. Marco’s coming by for them. I’ll see you soon, and give that pretty wife and gorgeous baby of yours kisses for me. And here’s one for you.”
He made a long smacking sound, then handed the phone to Marco.
“You go by Philly Pride, get those cheesesteaks. Then, Breen, you get out of those clothes and into some pj’s. You should listen to Sally and toss those clothes right out the window for somebody with no fashion sense to pick up.”
“I can’t leave you in the lurch on a Friday night,” Marco began, and got the withering eye.
“You don’t think I can handle the stick? Boy, I’ve been handling sticks—of all natures—since before you were out of diapers. And looking as good as I do, I expect to rake in some fine tips. Take that girl home.”
“Thank you, Sally.” Rising, Breen went in for a hug, just laid her head on Sally’s shoulder. The man had been more of a mother to her than her own for the last decade.
“We’ll talk soon. And you call me if you need me. Not before ten in the morning unless it’s an emergency. I need my beauty sleep.”
“No, you don’t. You’re the most beautiful person I know.”
“Go on. Take off. I’ve got a club to run.”
They went out the back. Marco’s arm automatically went around Breen’s waist. Her head automatically tipped toward his shoulder.
“I’m so tired all at once, Marco. I don’t know if I can eat.”
“You’ll eat, or I’ll tell Sally. Then I’m going to tuck you into bed.”
He walked her along the brick-paved streets under the rainbow streetlights.
The clubs, the restaurants, the cafés were all hopping, as they should be on a pretty Friday night in May.
“I just remembered I left the watering can on the floor of my mother’s office. It’s probably going to leave a ring.”
“Aw.”
“They’re beautiful floors, Marco. None of this is their fault.”
“They’re your mother’s problem, and there wouldn’t be a ring on them if she hadn’t hidden all this from you for, Jesus, sixteen years. So you stop, right now, or you’ll piss me off. Tell me what you’re going to do next.”
“Pay off the student loans. Mr. Ellsworth said he was going to talk to someone—I can’t remember, it’s all so much—about that. And how I could probably get them down a little with a full payoff, if that’s what I wanted to do. And I do. I want them off my head.”
“Okay, I get that. But two other things. How you’re going to talk to your mom and—maybe most important of all—what you’re going to do for fun.”
“I can’t think about the fun.”
“Fine. I will.”
He swung into Philly Pride and the scent of grilled onions. She decided not to think at all while he picked up the food—and flirted harmlessly with Trace, the counter guy.