So Pretty It Hurts

“No, it’s north of the city someplace. We can hike if we want or just sit by the fire and drink hot toddies. There’ll even be a masseuse on hand.”

“Wow, that sounds so much better than treating all my boots with water repellent,” I said. “But if this guy is after you, why would he want me tagging along?”

“He’s invited a whole group of people—you know, a house party. It’ll actually be less awkward for me if you come. Besides,” she added, grinning, “we can take your Jeep.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Please say yes.”

“God, I’d love to,” I said. I meant it. It did sound fun. But as I smiled back at Jessie, I could sense the bite being taken out of my nose. I’d had the chance to possibly see Beau Saturday night and had chosen not to, partly to prove that I didn’t have to just sit around waiting—and that I could have mysterious plans of my own.

I worked late that night, mostly chasing down quotes for two different items I was working on. Buzz is packed each week with stories on the hapless love lives, fashion faux pas, and generally futile weight battles of the stars, but when these same stars get into any kind of legal trouble, we cover that too, and that’s where I come in. I report on any crimes they commit or are involved in on the East Coast, and I also consult on coverage we do in L.A. Many of the reporters on staff could certainly do as good a job, but I was hired because the editor in chief at the time believed having an experienced crime writer bylining those pieces would add cachet. I wasn’t sure what good it had done in that department, but my new boss, Nash Nolan, seemed happy enough.

I finally headed home just after eight, shivering most of the way. It had been unseasonably warm the last two weeks of November, but winter had finally reared its head, and temperatures had plunged to the thirties.

My apartment—a nifty one-bedroom with a terrace on Ninth and Broadway that I’d kept after my divorce— was toasty warm at least, and after stripping off my work clothes, I made a gooey cheese omelet and began to pack for the weekend. The phrase “weekend house party” conjured up an image of people in tweeds and plaids, but based on the fact that Scott was in the music business, I decided I’d better opt for tarty over tartan. I’m five-six, fairly slender, and attractive in a kind of sporty way, so tarty is a stretch for me, but I like to give it my best shot when the moment calls for it.

The phone rang just as I was tossing the last stuff into my overnight bag. It was Beau, calling from Sedona.

“Good to hear your voice,” he said.

“Ditto,” I said. Bailey, keep it light and breezy, I told myself. “How’s the weather? It’s suddenly freezing here.”

“It’s been nice during the days—mostly in the seventies—but it gets pretty cool after dark.”

“Any UFO sightings?” I asked, referencing the fact that over the years, more than a few people had claimed to see alien spaceships buzzing around the heavens above Sedona.

He laughed. “Not so far. But every time I look up at night, I half expect to see flashing lights.”

Why are you out under a night sky anyway? I wondered, staring out at the skyline of Greenwich Village. Light, Bailey, I told myself. Keep it light.

“I guess I should be on the lookout if you start creating any weird sculptures when you get back,” I told him.

“Speaking of that, did you get my text? I’m not positive yet, but I’m pretty sure I can hop on a flight early Saturday.”

“Uh, I was actually just going to text you back,” I said. “Don’t rush back just on my account. I’m going away this weekend.”

There was a pause, not interminable but long enough for me to know I’d caught him off guard.

“Where you headed?”

“Jessie asked me to tag along to some house party she was invited to—upstate. This guy who apparently has the hots for her owns a place up there. He told her she could invite a friend if she wanted, and she knew I was just hanging out this weekend. Plus it will be less awkward for her.”

I was sooo over explaining myself. I could have retiled my bathroom in less time.

“So what’s a house party anyway? I thought that’s what real estate agents gave to court prospective buyers.”

“Um, I think that’s an open house,” I said. “I guess this guy is just having a bunch of friends up—for hiking, that sort of thing.”

Again there was a pause, this one longer.

“You still there?” I asked. What did you think, Bailey, I asked myself, that he’d been abducted by invaders from the planet Abdar?

“Yup.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No. But I just can’t help wondering if your weekend excursion is some kind of payback for my being away.”

“Payback? That sounds pretty extreme.”

“That would be my thought, too.”

“Then what would possibly motivate me to do that?”

“You were ticked about my going to Arizona.”

“I wasn’t ticked about your going,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice calm. “I was just surprised because it seemed to come out of nowhere. And honestly, there’s no payback. This just seemed really fun.”

Liar, I thought.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, if you get back early enough, maybe we can get together Sunday night.”

We muttered good-byes and hung up. I ignored the twinge of regret I was feeling over going away. It was clear that something needed to be addressed between Beau and me, but I didn’t want to deal with it at the moment.

Jessie and I had vowed to leave the city before six the next night, but in the end it was closer to seven.

“So is this some big country estate we’re headed to?” I asked after we’d finally made it through the frustrating snarl of Friday-night traffic just north of Manhattan.

“I’m not sure what the house is like, but it’s gotta be pretty big—he told me we’d each have our own room.”

“That’s probably so he can sneak into yours at night.”

“I really don’t know what he’s got in mind,” Jessie said pensively. “We had this flirty lunch and then he asked me to dinner. But there were six other people out with us that night. I really hope he’s interested—because I dig him—but a little part of me is worried that he asked me to come with a friend because he needed eye candy for other guests.”

“Jeez, it’s starting to sound like the Playboy mansion.”

“No, Scott just likes having these old-fashioned kind of house parties.”

“Who else is supposed to be there?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe this. He told me late today that the main guest is Devon Barr.”

“Devon Barr, the model?”

“Yup.”

Devon Barr had been one of the most successful American models of the past two decades, and though at thirty-four or so, her career was starting to cool a little, she still was the face of several major fashion and cosmetic companies. Part of her mystique was due, some people said, to the fact that she never gave interviews.

“Wow, that should be interesting,” I said. “Though the conversation may leave something to be desired. She looks like she has the IQ of a Louboutin shoe.”

“I know, but she apparently has a killer voice and writes her own songs. Scott is producing her first album.”