``Alan?''
Alan Rutledge lingered at the marble mezzanine railing in exactly the same spot his father had stood at closing time every evening, and his grandfather, too. The diminutive owner of Haymaker's smiled down upon his domain like a kid who couldn't tear himself away from the final innings of a baseball game. He obviously didn't see hundreds of crabby customers slapping down their credit cards one more time before rushing off into the night. A much more serene fantasy transfixed him.
I almost hated to disturb his pleasure, but I touched his arm and tried again. ``Alan?''
He shook himself as if from a trance and turned to me with a sweet-natured smile. The corona of his strawberry- blond hair glowed like a halo behind his receding hairline and caused his round ears to stand out from the sides of his head exactly like a teddy bear's.
``Nora Blackbird!'' he said. ``How nice to see you.''
I bent down so he could give me a kiss on the cheek and 8 Nancy Martin noticed that Alan did indeed smell divine. I wondered if he hadn't been spritzed as he wandered through the men's cologne department. He often ambled daydreamily around Haymaker's as if lost in a paradise. Vigilant store employ- ees sometimes managed to spiff him up as he floated by. Tonight he wore a perfectly tailored suit that screamed Bri- oni and disguised his rotund shape. Handsome Italian shoes must have been slipped on his feet by an alert clerk when he wasn't looking.
``Happy holidays, Alan.''
``Don't you look fetching.'' He held my hand and gave me an appreciative once-over. ``The working life must agree with you.''
``Why, thank you, Alan. I understand congratulations are in order? I hear you're getting married.''
For a man of thirty-odd years, he could still blush like a teenager. ``Yes, I am. Have you met Cindie Rae? She's a lovely girl.''
``She's beautiful.'' Floundering for something genteel to say about a woman who had exposed every portion of her body--and a few portions of its interior, also--to anyone willing to plunk down a few dollars to buy a magazine or sign on to her Web site, I said ineptly, ``I hope you'll be very happy together.''
``We're very well suited,'' Alan said. ``She's so full of energy.''
Well, energy was one euphemism, I supposed. I noticed he carried his own coat as well as a voluptuous fur over his arm. ``Are you on your way out this evening?''
``Yes, Cindie Rae and I are going to the theater tonight.''
I checked my watch. ``Oh, dear, you've missed the curtain!''
The news didn't spoil his amiable mood. ``I suppose we have.'' He gave a little shrug. ``We'll catch the second act.''
``How disappointing!''
``Not really.'' With a shy smile, he admitted, ``We saw the show last night, and the night before, too.''
``My goodness. Cindie Rae must share your enthusiasm for theater.''
``Well, I hope she'll learn to enjoy it as much as I do.'' Alan's face glowed with a rhapsodic bliss. ``There's nothing like a great play. I'm lucky she puts up with my obsession.'' SLAY BELLES 9
A more cynical man might think his future wife ``put up with him'' because he was worth millions and had access to the world's most luxurious goods at wholesale prices.
� But Alan seemed flattered to have a fiancee who made him miss the overture.
He focused on me again. ``Are you doing some Christmas shopping tonight, Nora?''
``I'm going to a party shortly, but first I must pick up a package for a friend. From Popo Prentiss.''
Alan's sweet smile faltered only for an instant. ``Popo never stops working, does she?''
``She must be a great asset to the store.''
``Oh, yes.''
With a nearly invisible frown, Alan considered his pre- mier personal shopper--the sales associate who pampered high-end customers into spending astronomical amounts of money in Haymaker's store. Everyone from blue-blooded heiresses and the trophy wives of the nouveau riche, to time-strapped executives or discerning consumers of high- priced goods--they all used Popo. She dashed around the store to personally select merchandise that best suited her demanding clients. With her innate sense of style and abil- ity to predict trends, Popo helped even the most hopeless cases build fashionable wardrobes and enviable lifestyles. Many former fashion failures could attribute their best dressed status to Popo's skill and energy.
Alan gave a quick head shake to resummon his good cheer. ``Popo is remarkable. I hope we never lose her.''
I said, ``I'm sure Popo stops working when the store closes, so I'd better dash. Enjoy your show, Alan.''
``It'll be wonderful,'' he assured me, brightening again at the prospect of his evening entertainment.
I couldn't stop myself from giving Alan a farewell kiss on the cheek, and he went down the escalator, smiling with anticipation.
Although a grown man had a right to marry anyone he chose, I couldn't imagine shy, low-profile, and culturally sophisticated Alan Rutledge mixed up with a woman of Cindie Rae Smith's very public persona. Her exploits had been splashed all over the local newspapers and magazines to the extent that any living adult would have to be a her- mit to not know who she was. Her Internet Web site had 10 Nancy Martin triggered an uproar that still--six months after its opening day--raged around the city.
Alan hardly seemed the type to have a liaison with such an astonishingly different person.
But lately people had begun saying the same about me.
Mulling over the oddities of human attraction, I threaded my way through the luxury bedding department. I got half- way into Gucci goods before I managed to bump into Popo Prentiss herself.
``Hey!'' She stiff-armed me out of her personal space. ``Watch where you're-- Oh, it's you.''
As tiny and snappish as a terrier with a toothache, Popo glared at me. With one arm raised, she carried several dresses on hangers--enough
