“I think so.”
“I’ve already had my share of applause, I guess.” She moved toward the window and looked out for a moment. Then she turned back toward him. “By the way, did you notice how huge my boobs are?”
Myron said, “Um,” and decided to say no more.
“Come to think of it, I wonder whether you should contact La-La-Latte for a new photo shoot.”
“Strategically angled shots?”
“Exactly. Might be a great new campaign in these puppies.” She cupped them in case Myron wasn’t sure what puppies she was referencing. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Myron said, “that you’re stalling.”
Her eyes were wet now. “I’m so damned happy.”
“Yeah, well, I can see where that would be a problem.”
She smiled at that. “I put the demons to rest. I’ve even reconciled with my mother. Lex and I couldn’t be more ready to have the baby. I want those demons to stay away.”
Myron sat up. “You’re not using again?”
“God, no. Not that kind of demon. Lex and I are done with that.”
Lex Ryder, Suzze’s husband, was one half of the legendary band/ duo known as HorsePower—the much lesser half, to be frank, to the supernaturally charismatic front man, Gabriel Wire. Lex was a fine if troubled musician, but he would always be John Oates to Gabriel’s Daryl Hall, Andrew Ridgeley to Gabriel’s George Michael, the rest of the Pussycat Dolls next to Nicole Scherz-i-something.
“What kind of demons then?”
Suzze reached into her purse. She plucked out something that from across the desk looked as though it might be a photograph. She stared at it for a moment and then passed it to Myron. He took a quick glance and again tried to wait her out.
Finally, just to say something, he went with the obvious: “This is your baby’s sonogram.”
“Yep. Twenty-eight weeks old.”
More silence. Again Myron broke it. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”
“Nothing. He’s perfect.”
“He?”
Suzze T smiled now. “Going to have my own little man.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah. Oh, one of the reasons I’m here: Lex and I have been talking about it. We both want you to be the godfather.”
“Me?”
“Yep.”
Myron said nothing.
“Well?”
Now it was Myron who had wet eyes. “I’d be honored.”
“Are you crying?”
Myron said nothing.
“You’re such a girl,” she said.
“What’s wrong, Suzze?”
“Maybe nothing.” Then: “I think someone is out to destroy me.”
Myron kept his eyes on the sonogram. “How?”
And then she showed him. She showed him two words that would echo dully in his heart for a very long time.
3
An hour later, Windsor Horne Lockwood III—known to those who fear him (and that was pretty much everyone) as Win—swaggered into Myron’s office. Win had a great swagger, like he should be wearing a black top hat and tails and twirling a walking stick. Instead he sported a pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer tie, a blue blazer with some kind of crest on it, and khakis with a crease sharp enough to draw blood. He had loafers, no socks, and basically looked as though he’d just gone yachting on the SS Old Money.
“Suzze T just stopped by,” Myron said.
Win nodded, jaw jutted. “I saw her on the way out.”
“Did she look upset?”
“Didn’t notice,” Win said, taking a seat. Then: “Her breasts were engorged.”
Win.
“She has a problem,” Myron said.
Win leaned back, crossed his legs with his customary coiled ease. “Explain.”
Myron spun his computer monitor so Win could see. An hour ago, Suzze T had done something similar. He thought about those two small words. Harmless enough on their own, but life is about context. And in this context, those two words chilled the room.
Win squinted at the screen and reached into his inside breast pocket. He plucked out a pair of reading glasses. He’d gotten them about a month ago, and though Myron would have said it was impossible, they made Win look even more haughty and stuck-up. They also depressed the hell out of him. Win and he weren’t old—not by a long shot—but to use Win’s golf analogy when he had first unveiled the glasses: “We are officially on the back nine of life.”
“Is this a Facebook page?” Win asked.
“Yes. Suzze said she uses it to promote her tennis academy.”
Win leaned a little closer. “Is that her sonogram?”
“Yes.”
“And how does a sonogram promote her tennis academy?”
“That’s what I asked. She said you need the personal touch. People don’t just want to read self-promotion.”
Win frowned. “So she posts a sonogram of a fetus?” He glanced up. “Does that make sense to you?”
In truth, it did not. And once again—with Win wearing reading glasses and the two of them whining about the new world of social networks—Myron felt old.
“Check out the picture comments,” Myron said.
Win gave him the flat eyes. “People comment on a sonogram?”
“Just read them.”
Win did. Myron waited. He had pretty much memorized the page. There were, he knew, twenty-six comments in all, mostly various good wishes. Suzze’s mother, the aging poster child for Evil Stage (Tennis) Mom, for example, had written: “I’m going to be a grandma, everyone! Yay!” Someone named Amy said, “Aww cute!!!” A jocular “Takes after his old man! ;)” came from a session drummer who used to work with HorsePower. A guy named Kelvin wrote, “Congrats!!” Tami asked, “When’s the baby due, sweetie?”
Win stopped three from the bottom. “Funny guy.”
“Which one?”
“Some turdlike humanoid named Erik typed”—Win cleared his throat, leaned closer to the screen—“ ‘Your baby looks like a sea horse!’ ” and then Erik the Riot put the letters “LOL.”
“He’s not her problem.”
Win was not placated. “Old Erik still might be worth a visit.”
“Just keep going.”
“Fine.” Win’s facial expressions rarely changed. He had trained himself in both business and combat to show nothing. But a few seconds later, Myron saw something darken in his old friend’s eyes. Win looked up. Myron nodded. Because now Myron knew that Win had found the two words.