It was a short ride, and we were approaching the museum within minutes. I reached into my clutch bag and pulled out a mint, offering Mark one, and popping another into my mouth. After all, there was nothing more embarrassing than getting caught with bad breath. Remember that I said that, by the way.
“So, still up for the limo sex?” Mark joked.
I laughed in surprise, and accidentally sucked the mint into my throat, getting it lodged there. I started choking and making a gurgling sound, and Louis, who was also trained in CPR, immediately crossed three lanes of traffic, and illegally parked on a median in the middle of the Ben Franklin Parkway.
Mark was already attempting to apply the Heimlich maneuver, but Louis was having none of it. It was his job to save the senator’s daughter from the killer Altoid, and no one would stop him. He dove out of the driver’s seat, flew around to the back, and hauled me out of the car. Then he proceeded to stand behind me and squeeze my ribs so hard, that my feet left the ground.
Mark was out of the car in an instant. Unfortunately, the instant, in question, was the one where the mint became dislodged and flew out of my mouth, hitting him square in the eye like a torpedo. He cried out in pain and covered his face, staggering forward. Have I mentioned we were in the middle of the Ben Franklin Parkway? Horns blasted, and Louis, who was also trained to take a bullet if necessary, threw himself into traffic, grabbed Mark and tossed him onto the median, covering him with his own body.
All of this happened within seconds, but luckily, we were close enough to the museum that the waiting photographers, who had zoom lenses, were able to capture all of it for posterity. And the tabloids. And my brother.
Mark and I were in great shape considering that I had nearly choked, and probably had a few cracked ribs, and he had been thrown to the pavement and blinded in one eye. In an effort to reclaim some semblance of dignity, we got back into the car, and Louis proceeded to drive us to the museum as if nothing had happened. I was going to have to speak to my father about giving Louis a raise.
We arrived at the museum and entered the line of cars. A few minutes later, Mark was helping me out and we were being escorted off to an area where journalists and photographers were waiting.
“Ms. Pierce, are you injured?… Ms. Pierce, what was going on out there?… Ms. Pierce, is your driver a member of the Secret Service?…” And then…
“Who is this handsome man escorting you, Beth?” That one stopped me in my tracks. I turned and saw a female reporter, with a spray tan in a shade of Oompa Loompa orange, and hair the color of a brass doorknob, giving Mark a flirtatious look. Fucking tabloid journalist.
“This is Mark Patterson, a friend and colleague,” I muttered and smiled weakly.
“So Mark, are you and Beth an item?” asked the guy standing next to the Oompa. He had black hair, slicked down with more oil than in Venezuela, and he was wearing more bling than in the Tower of London. He also had a camera and a smarmy smile. Fucking paparazzo.
“Like she said, we’re friends and colleagues. I couldn’t let such a lovely lady attend a party alone. Nobody would pay attention to the celebrities,” Mark said suavely and the journalists all gave appreciative chuckles.
Wow. This man had just been wounded by a missile, plucked from traffic and crushed beneath a six foot five inch, two hundred and eighty pound chauffer. He had abrasions on his palms and his eye was starting to swell. Yet there he was, cracking jokes, grace under pressure. Fucking amazing.
We joined the reception, and as soon as we were inside, a passing waiter offered us champagne flutes. If ever there was a moment for alcohol this was it. I looked around and took everything in. There were actors dressed like old movie stars, mingling with the crowd. I saw Clark Gable and Marilyn Monroe right away. And there was Joan Crawford. Sorry, Bruce.
A steady stream of people approached us, making their circuit around the room. We spent time talking to representatives of non-profit organizations, local business owners and even a federal judge. I watched Mark charm them all like nothing had happened. He told them about our work and the cases we had won and I could hear how passionately he believed in what he did.
Just when everything was going really well, I saw a familiar face approaching and I sighed to myself. It was Caitlin Reynolds. We had grown up together. I didn’t have anything against Caitlin, but I didn’t have much in common with her either, at least not on a personal level. It wasn’t that she was a bad person. She was just very self-centered in a child-like way. And although she was the granddaughter of a very famous painter, she didn’t seem to have much appreciation for art. That really got to me.
I sensed Mark tense up beside me. Uh oh. I could guess why. He was a player, and Caitlin was a party girl. Great. I could just imagine how they might “know” each other. Here came the awkward.
“Beth, I’m glad you’re here,” Caitlin said when she reached us. “I wanted to talk to you.” She glanced up at Mark, and got a puzzled look on her face for a moment. “Hey, I know you.” Then recognition seemed to dawn. “Oh wait! We hooked up once! Mike, right?” she asked as if she were discussing having gone to college together, rather than having had sex with him. I felt like kicking her in the shins.
“Mark,” he answered coolly.
“Oh right,” Caitlin said with a faraway look. “Thanksgiving weekend. That was the night that Lydia Stuart unfriended me on Facebook. Mike here provided some good distraction.” She snort laughed like she was remembering something funny. Good times. Forget kicking her in the shins. I wanted to beat her senseless. Okay, more senseless than she already was. Fucking oblivious.
Mark looked like he couldn’t decide whether he felt more mortified or apoplectic. He subtly slid is arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him. I can’t say that I minded, but it was a useless gesture. It wouldn’t have occurred to Caitlin that I might have minded her reminiscing about having carnal knowledge of my date. At least the warmth of his body, pressed against my side, was providing me with some good distraction though.
Just then, another familiar person approached. I recognized Paul Gerard, a handsome and sophisticated man in his fifties, who was the scion of a wealthy old Philadelphia family, an art collector, and very active philanthropist. I was happy to see him, but then, at that point, I would have been happy to see an IRS auditor.
“Beth, how nice to see you,” he said with a warm smile, leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. “And Caitlin is here too,” he added, and that pretty much said it all.