Holiday Grind

metal fire door, waiting for us to catch up.

“Here we go,” she finally said, pushing through to a long, carpeted hallway. “Back here we have our dressing rooms and offices.” She pointed to a line of mostly closed doors along the hallway. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll see if—”

Right beside me, a door with a silver star on it suddenly jerked open and Phyllis Chatsworth charged out.

“Watch out,” she said, nearly knocking me over.

“Oh, Mrs. Chatsworth!” Heidi exclaimed. “I’d like you to meet two dear friends of Mr. Dewberry’s. This is Ms. Dubois and—”

Ignoring us completely, Phyllis Chatsworth addressed Heidi. “Did Simon get my e-mail about the bottled water?”

Heidi’s head bobbed. “I’m sure he did, Mrs. Chatsworth. I printed it out as a reminder and put it on his desk myself.”

“Well, there isn’t any water in my dressing room! The refrigerator’s empty, Heidi. Empty! And it’s been that way since before the taping started.”

“I’ll find out what happened—”

“I love the way you make sure my husband’s snacks are delivered like clockwork, but I have to wait for a few lousy bottles of water.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Chatsworth, I want to make you happy—”

“Then you tell Simon to straighten it out. Now. And while you’re at it, tell maintenance the overhead light in my bathroom has died. I don’t care if one of these guild bums has to work overtime for once. I want the light fixed today!”

Before the statuesque assistant could play doormat again, her “understanding, compassionate, and insightful” therapist boss slammed the door in our faces.

Sixteen

Madame and I squirmed during Phyllis Chatsworth’s cranky fit, but the nasty tone of the confrontation didn’t appear to dampen Heidi Gilcrest’s enthusiasm one iota.

“You can see how busy things get around here!” she chirped, lifting the receiver on a wall phone. “Let me buzz Simon, then we’ll continue our tour.”

A moment later another door with a star on it opened.

“What’s Phyl griping about now?” the male half of the Chatsworth duo garbled around a mouth stuffed with food. Then he noticed us and froze.

I have to admit, Dr. Chaz was even more striking up close. Still armed with easy charm and a ready smile, he also possessed a kind of natural elegance that even a pair of snack-stuffed chipmunk cheeks failed to diminish.

Stuck on the phone, Heidi mimed an apology to the doctor for not introducing us. Finding the situation amusing, Dr. Chaz crunched and crunched and finally swallowed his potato chips.

“Sorry about the food,” he said with a sheepish laugh. “I’m always ravenous after a taping. It’s the intensity of the show, I guess. Would you like one?”

Dr. Chaz offered the bag to Madame first.

“No thank you, Doctor. I prefer pommes frites!”

The doctor chuckled warmly at that. After I also declined the snack, he tossed the half-empty bag back into his dressing room and wiped his hands with a handkerchief, winking at us to dispel any awkwardness.

Madame introduced herself, then me, adding, “I enjoyed your show today, Doctor. I’m not able to watch every day, you understand, but I did especially like your episode on men who remarry but still love their first wives,” she said, shooting me a meaningful glance.

Oh, brother.

“That was one of our most popular episodes,” Dr. Chaz replied. “Especially among first wives!”

Madame laughed. I didn’t. (Matt’s wedding was supposed to put an end to that particular argument. From the look on Madame’s face, however, I could see old habits were going to die hard.)

Then Dr. Chaz fixed his eyes on me. “Did you enjoy today’s taping, Miss Cosi?”

“It was, uh, memorable,” I said diplomatically.

He gestured to Heidi, still on the phone, clearly having an intense argument. “It seems you lost your tour guide.”

“She’s got an issue with Simon,” I explained.

“Simon’s a good guy; he’s just busy and can’t do everything for everyone every day,” Dr. Chaz said, rather loudly—loud enough, no doubt, for his wife to hear behind her own star-marked door. Then he changed his tone to a much warmer one. “Is there something I can show you?”

Madame glanced at me. “Well—”

“Actually,” I said, taking the cue. “I’ve come backstage to meet your executive producer, James Young. He and I are... neighbors, as it turns out. Though we’ve never actually met, I’ve, uh, seen him around.”

Dr. Chaz studied me for a rather long moment and then raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for James, he isn’t married.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You are interested in James, aren’t you? I mean, that’s why you asked, right?”

“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Phew! I’m glad about that.” He laughed. “Can’t have a ‘relationship specialist’ getting something like that wrong, can we? And I do like a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.” He winked again. “We’re doing an episode on that next month—maybe you’d like to be a guest?”

“Uh—I don’t think—”

“I’ll be sure to mention it to James.” Then he took my arm and gallantly wrapped it around his. “Let me introduce you two right now. Will you join us, Ms. Dubois?”

“Oh, no,” Madame replied. “I’ll give those two their privacy. I’m content to wait here with young Heidi.”

Dr. Chaz led me down the hall to a faux-mahogany door, on which he knocked once, then walked in. We caught James Young in the middle of removing his tailored sports jacket.

“Someone I’d like you to meet, James,” Dr. Chaz announced. “It seems you and the lovely Ms. Cosi here are neighbors. She’s an acquaintance of Mr. Dewberry, as well.”

“Mr. Dewberry. I see,” James Young said with an understanding nod and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”

“Call me Clare.”

Dr. Chaz glanced at his watch. “Got to run. Squash at the club. Good luck, Ms. Cosi.” Yet another wink.

Then the door closed, and I glanced around Young’s office. The room was spacious—but it felt small and cramped. The clutter was the reason. Digital recordings, scripts, and mounds of paper packed the room. I wondered how the man navigated through it all.

“Won’t you sit down, Clare.”

He offered me a chair, then sat down behind his desk and coolly steepled his long fingers. “So how long have you lived in the West Village?”

“A few years now—but I’m a returning resident. I managed the Village Blend coffeehouse, on Hudson Street, right out of college. Then I went to New Jersey to raise my daughter. Now I’m back in the city again.”

He brightened at the mention of the Blend. “I know the place. A number of friends in the neighborhood are hooked on your lattes. I’m into tea myself—white tea lately—so I don’t frequent your establishment. Nothing personal.”

“No worries,” I said, realizing this guy’s Rolex wasn’t the only indication he had plenty of disposable income. White tea was among the rarest and most expensive varieties on the planet.