Lucy looked up from her cookies. ``Mummy, what's a Penthouse girl?''
``A woman who lives in an apartment, darling.'' While her daughter frowned, Libby said to me, ``That gold digger finally hit her jackpot, huh?''
``I guess her Web site isn't as lucrative as she hoped.''
``Taking requests from perverts on a live camera?'' Libby SLAY BELLES 5 cried. ``How can that not make scads of money? She'll per- form anything with that hilarious fluorescent dildo she's got for sale.''
``Mummy, what's--''
``An extinct bird, sweetheart. Would you like some hot chocolate? With marshmallows?''
While Lucy scrambled off to order a diversionary drink, I sat back in my chair to better gauge the seriousness of my sister's pre-Christmas hysteria. Although the wills of her late husbands left Libby financially capable of rearing her children, she didn't have enough extra cash for a Christ- mas blowout. And the flash in her eye looked more manic than simple holiday high spirits. I wondered what crisis might be brewing.
But I said, ``You seem to have a thorough knowledge of Cindie Rae's Web site, Libby.''
``I feel it's important to keep my computer skills up-to- date. Haven't you peeked? Honestly, Nora, she's utterly icky. No romance, no mystery. It's just plumbing, and not very nice plumbing at that. What would Alan's parents say if they were still alive?''
``Maybe they'd say it's about time Alan did something with his life besides go to matinees.''
Libby sat up straighter, aquiver with indignation. ``You mean a job? Why should a man with his resources have to work for a living?''
``Because sloth is a deadly sin that kills the soul?''
``Oh, you're just sorry that we lost our own fortune, aren't you?'' She patted my hand. ``It's natural to grieve. Admit it, Nora, you thoroughly enjoyed the life of leisure before Mama and Daddy left. The hardest work you ever did was decorating charity balls.''
Ever since our parents absconded from Philadelphia to sail off for South America with our trust funds tucked in their matching Louis Vuitton luggage, my sisters and I had struggled to make ends meet. I'd found employment as the lowly assistant to a newspaper society columnist, while our younger sister, Emma, tried to make a career out of train- ing show jumpers for the Grand Prix circuit. Libby, how- ever, had bounced from one scam to another in the pursuit of a line of work that could simultaneously support five kids and unleash her spiritual and sensual potential. Most 6 Nancy Martin of the time, I just hoped she wasn't going to get herself arrested by the vice squad.
With a smile, I said, ``A job isn't the worst thing that's happened to me.''
``Well, Alan should be allowed to enjoy his money and leisure time while he's got them. You should have moved in on him, Nora. If you keep seeing the Mafia prince, you'll end up like Bitty Markham--languishing at home with no sex life while your man sits in jail.''
``Libby, Michael is not involved in his father's business.''
``That's what they want you to think, isn't it? Nora,'' she said with a perfectly straight face, ``it's possible for a vulnerable woman to be blinded by great sex. Personally, I've always been able to prioritize even in the arms of an excitingly primitive lover, but you're venturing into a new phase of your life that could be very--''
Lucy saved me from the same lecture that had been driv- ing me crazy for months. She returned to the table with her lower lip pouting. ``They aren't making any more hot chocolate, Mummy. They say the store closes in ten minutes.''
My sister reacted as if she'd been jabbed with a cattle prod. ``Oh, heavens, and I haven't found anything to wear to this weekend's reawakening!'' She jumped to her feet and grabbed Lucy's velvet coat. ``I've got to find the plus- size department immediately. Why do these stores always hide the large sizes? Do they think size sixteen is contagious?''
While Libby gathered up her shopping bags, I helped Lucy fasten the toggles on her coat. `` 'Bye, Luce. Thanks for coming with me.''
`` 'Bye, Aunt Nora!'' She gave me a sprinkle-encrusted kiss. ``You're coming to my school play, right? On Friday. I play the Third Pickpocket.''
``Typecasting,'' said Libby. ``I'm in charge of the PTA refreshment table. We're doing Christmas cookies and raf- fling off a day-spa treatment with the delicious new man at Jason's.''
``I'll be there,'' I promised.
Holding hands, Libby and Lucy set off through the crowd like mother and daughter killer whales cleaving the rough waters of the North Atlantic. SLAY BELLES 7
``Who the heck is Jason?'' I asked their departing figures. ``And what on earth is a reawakening?''
I pulled myself together with the firm admonishment that I didn't want to know.
Putting my loopy sister out of my mind for the time being, I gathered up my handbag and stepped around San- ta's workshop--still teeming with the last few howling chil- dren and camcorder-carrying parents of the night. The frazzled elves hurried their final customers out, and I was willing to bet that Santa would sell his soul for a boiler- maker. Only the animated reindeer looked tireless as they blinked and nodded in their white plastic wonderland.
With Bing Crosby's croon fading behind me, I headed on my way, passing first into Haymaker's luxury bedding department. Immediately, a display bed blocked my path, and I slowed my pace to admire it. Heaped with red satin cushions, the sensuously plush mattress was covered with a polar bear faux fur and draped with a gauzy white curtain-- a perfect spot for Mrs. Claus to await Santa's return from his rounds.
But standing beside the bed was no long-neglected wife hoping to make a little Christmas merriment with
