and secret liaisons that had transpired in this building. Okay, I’m a romance writer.
“Jack Salerno, you smooth-talking hustler! How the hell you doing?” one silver-haired man shouted, embracing my husband in a huge hug. Turning to me, he added, “The last time I saw this man, I was working in Chicago. Next thing I know, I’m transferred to a two-bit station in Arkansas, and loving it.”
“He’s a smooth talker, all right,” I said. “I’m his wife, Ruby.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ruby.” Silver Hair looked from me to Jack suspiciously. “Wait! Jack and Ruby? Jack and Ruby. Jack Ruby!”
I nodded. “Easy to remember, right? And we didn’t even plan it that way.”
Jack flashed me one of those grins that still melted my heart. “It seemed like a bad omen, but I married her anyway.”
Silver Hair insisted on buying Jack a drink, not getting that the booze was free tonight. I guess you don’t get a lot of freebies at his station in Arkansas. “I’ll meet you at the bar,” Jack told Silver Hair as we finally moved up in the coat-check line. The temperature had dipped into the twenties the night before and though everyone was complaining of cold it was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Jack helped me slide off my coat, then yanked his hand away. “Ew. What’s that?”
Red goop on his fingertips.
“Something on my sleeve?” I checked the cuff of my new black dress, a waistless chiffon shift with rhinestones around the collar, simple yet elegant. At least, it would be elegant if it weren’t for the SpaghettiOs on the sleeve. From Scout’s last request as I left her with the sitter. “Dammit.”
Jack swiped napkins from a passing waiter and handed me a few. “What do you want to drink?” he asked, wiping his fingers.
“Whiskey sour,” I said as I backed toward the restrooms.
I spent a good twenty minutes in the ladies’ room, scrubbing away at the orangey-red dots on my sleeve as the old commercial jingle “Uh-oh! SpaghettiOs!” chorused through my mind. Jack and I had taught the old ditty to the girls when they were toddlers, and we’d loved the way they’d popped up like little jack-in-the-boxes when they cried: “Uh-oh!”
Cute, sweet, sentimental…But the memory paled in comparison to the party going on outside in the ballroom, and I felt frantic to get back out there and replace a SpaghettiOs revery with hot hors d’oeuvres from wandering servers and the mellifluous croon of Harry Connick Jr. doing Christmas carols. “Out, damned spot!” I cursed as someone came out of the stall.
“Hi.” The petite blonde, perfect from head to toe in a red suit trimmed with gold, spared me a friendly but demure smile. “You’re Jack Salerno’s wife, right?”
“Ruby. And you must be from the Dallas office.”
“Desiree Rose.” She chose the sink at the far end of the counter to wash her hands. “Did you spill something?”
“Sort of.” I didn’t want to share my mess.
A lemon-haired confection, Desiree certainly wouldn’t understand the need to make SpaghettiOs on the fly while giving instructions to the sitter and grabbing clean Wonder Pets pj’s from the dryer. Desiree struck me as one of those women who actually tried those beauty tips listed in magazines. Her nails matched her lipstick, which matched her fire-engine red suit. Her hair shone with gold-on-gold highlights, and her shoes—open-toed sandals—were dry and without a scuff from the streets of New York.
Desiree dropped the linen towel in a bin and turned to me awkwardly. “When you finish with that, come on out and visit at our table. Your husband’s a hoot. We just love him down in Dallas, and I’m sure the rest of the folks from headquarters are dying to meet you, the woman behind the man.”
That was me, the woman behind the hoot. “Gee, thanks,” I said, wadding up the linen towel I’d used to lighten the orange stain. Although I usually avoided networking on my husband’s behalf, I felt curious about the Dallas people, the names Jack had mentioned. I’d drafted a mental image of Elsa and Hank, CJ and Tiger and Desiree. Wouldn’t it be fun to hang with them awhile, gather my own info and maybe insinuate myself with the group, all to Jack’s surprise and horror?
“You ’bout done there?” Desiree asked me.
I smoothed out my sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “I’ve done enough damage here. Take me to your people,” I said with an exotic accent.
Desiree gestured toward the door and led the way back into the ballroom like a real estate agent showing off a property. Granted, I envied her neatly sprayed, symmetrical hairstyle, the slightly feathered up-turned curls at her shoulders, but something about her walk was a bit stiff and formal. As in, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear a round of applause for Ms. Texas!” Inside the dining room Desiree sideswiped Judith Rothstein, the office manager of the station here in New York. Desiree excused herself. Judith seemed to hiss back.
Judith softened when she noticed me. “Ruby, bubbelah, how are you? The children?”
“All fine, Judith.” I reached out and squeezed her bony hands. “You look fabulous, but I can’t talk now. I’m on a mission.” I nodded toward Desiree. “Meeting the Dallas in-laws.”
“And why would you want to do that?” she asked bluntly. To her credit, Judith shunned all other branch offices of Corstar equally. A staunch Brooklynite, she knew no other city could measure up to New York, and thus the affiliates in other cities did not interest her in the least.
I shot a look at Desiree, who was beginning to disappear in the sea of people. “Let’s talk later. I’ll find you,” I promised Judith.
The delay gave Desiree a minute to pounce on the table and warn the other people from headquarters that I would be joining them. By the time I squeezed behind two balding reps from other affiliates arguing market shares, all heads from Dallas were turned up toward me, eyes glazed, polite smiles in place. Elsa Wallace, a plus-sized gal apparently with stock in Revlon, dove into her role as office manager and introduced her crew. Besides Desiree there was CJ Williams, an African American woman with a bombshell shape and a handshake so strong I’d choose her first for my softball team.
The new head of sales, Terry Anne Muldavia, rose-dark and sleek, her long mane of shiny black hair cascading down her back as she sized me up with her dark, exotic eyes. She extended a hand, her talons the color of an eggplant. “Where’s Jack?” she asked, as if I couldn’t gain entry without him.
“He’s shmoozing around here somewhere,” I answered, wondering if that perfect tan on her legs was natural or sprayed on. Safe to say, Tiger and I weren’t going to be sharing lattes anytime soon.
“So nice to meet you.” Elsa placed her pudgy hand in mine. “It’s Lucy, isn’t it?”
“Ruby,” I said. “An easy way to remember is Jack Ruby. Get it? Jack and Ruby?”
“Of course.” Elsa withdrew her hand as Desiree let out a gasp.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Desiree asked.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Sort of black humor, I guess. I mean, it’s a bizarre coincidence, don’t you think? Not creepy enough to keep us from getting married.”
Desiree shook her head in disapproval. “I’ll have you know, that incident has marred our city’s history. Half the tourists who visit Dallas take the Grassy Knoll tour. It’s a tragedy I’d like to forget.”
“Oh, get a life,” Tiger snarled. “Were you even born when it happened? No. So back off.” She sat down at the table and tore into a dinner roll, clearly giving up on the rest of us.
“Ruby?” Hank tried to change the subject. He was not the rangy cowboy I expected but a short, boyish chap with a pencil-thin moustache that made him look like a junior-high student impersonating a grown-up. “Ruby, I’ve got a question