Man In A Million

“I thought it was probably as important to her as the money.”

Prue grinned. “Even more so at the moment. I’m a dress designer on the side, and she’s going to model for me at a library benefit. I made her promise to cut way back on chocolate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought she looked pretty great.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” She offered her hand again. “I have to tell you I’m now officially on Addy’s side. Nice to meet you, Randy Sanford.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied. Though the experience was a little like being mowed down by a runaway train.

He waved her off as she drove away, then went to his car, smiling at the thought that Paris O’Hara had been flustered.

By him.

CHAPTER THREE

“THE MIRANDA POOLE AGENCY.” A slightly bored voice with a pseudo British accent answered the telephone. Paris felt her courage wane. Her mother had often talked about her very first agent, and Paris had looked her up on the Internet, somewhat surprised to see that she was still in business. But would her mother’s agent know about Paris’s father?

She might very well know something, Paris answered herself with a fortifying toss of her hair. One of the few bits of information her mother had given her was that they’d been represented by the same agent. That was how they’d met.

Paris assumed a tone of voice a shade deeper and more authoritative than her usual courteous manner. “May I speak to Ms. Poole, please? This is Paris O’Hara calling.”

There was a momentary pause. “Does Miss Poole represent you?”

“No, but she represented my mother some time ago.”

That was almost a non sequitur, but not quite. The voice didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

“Who was your mother?”

“Camille Malone.”

“Hold on a moment,” she advised.

A cheerful New York voice came on the line almost immediately. “Miranda Poole,” she said. “Camille, is that you?”

“No,” Paris replied, sitting up straight at the kitchen table to sustain her woman-in-charge attitude. It was threatening to bail on her. “This is Camille’s daughter, Paris. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“About Camille?”

“About…another actor you represented at the same time. Jeffrey St. John.”

“Ah, yes,” Miranda replied. “He and Camille were in the chorus of Damn Yankees together as I recall.”

“That’s him.” Paris’s heart thudded against her ribs. Now came the tricky part. She had to make her willing to share information without revealing that he’d gotten her mother pregnant, something her mother claimed no one had known. If she could at least confirm where he’d come from, she’d have somewhere to start in an effort to find out what kind of man he’d been. “I understand he was from Florida.”

“That’s right,” Miranda replied. “Still is, last I heard. Got one of those photo cards from him at Christmas. He and his sons have formed a band and they’re working clubs from Daytona to Miami Beach.”

Still is. The words rang over and over in Paris’s ears. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

“Paris?” Miranda asked.

“He’s…” Paris had to clear her throat and try again. “He’s alive?”

“Of course he’s alive. You kids, honestly. A person turns sixty and you think the warranty automatically runs out. I’m eighty-three and still placing the best talent in New York.” Paris heard the sound of paper being shuffled on the other end of the line. “I don’t seem to have kept his number,” Miranda said, “but he shouldn’t be hard to find if he’s working clubs. Performers like privacy off duty, but they can’t make themselves too hard to find or they won’t get work. I think it was a Fort Lauderdale address.”

Paris was still speechless.

“How is your mother?” Miranda asked. “She was such a game girl. Once played a pickle in one of the first commercials for Burger Bungalow. A lot of actors won’t take those roles, but your mother paid her rent with whatever came her way. Not too many actors like that today.”

“She’s fine,” Paris replied, finally regaining a fraction of her composure. “She’s in Africa on a fashion shoot right now.”

“She was a beautiful girl. I suppose she’s matured into a handsome matron.”

“She has,” Paris confirmed, then thanked Miranda for her cooperation. She hung up the phone, thinking that it was a good thing her mother had experience playing a pickle, because she was going to find herself in one the moment Paris got a hold of her.

Paris paced the living room with its unobstructed view of the lake, but failed to notice the setting sun, the ducks sheltering in the reeds, the lone sailboat dawdling across the middle of the lake, its running lights streaking a pattern across the water as it moved. She usually took such pleasure in the beautiful, quiet moments when she was alone in the house without her charming but chattering mother and sister.

Tonight, all she could think about was that her mother had lied to her. Twice! First, she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Jasper O’Hara was not her biological father, then, when confronted with Paris’s evidence to that effect, she’d lied again, and told her her father was dead.

To think Paris had waited a year, trying to respect her mother’s sensitive feelings on the subject. Only the need to pull her life together after a year of floundering had made her desperate for more information.

She couldn’t believe it. What had motivated her mother to do such a thing? It wasn’t as though Jeffrey St. John had been some demented villain. Certainly, the plain-spoken Miranda Poole would have said something about that.

Paris guessed that her mother decided life would be simpler without an ex-lover’s involvement in it, so she’d lied.

Then she paced a little more and realized that probably wasn’t true. While her mother often had the quality of a diva about her, she wasn’t prone to selfish decisions.

Camille Malone O’Hara had been a beauty queen, then a model, then an actress, and a beautiful face and body were still very much a priority with her. She ate only healthy foods, worked out every day at the gym and chose her wardrobe with skill and care. And she was always after Paris and Prue to do the same.

Prue had a natural inclination to fall into step, but for Paris, all her mother’s encouragement had done was remind her that she took after her father and would never be gorgeous.

So, her mother could be…superficial. But, usually, when it came to her daughters, she did everything in her power to be supportive.

Still—she’d lied twice, so maybe in regard to this particular issue, her maternal instincts could not be relied upon.

Angry and exasperated after hours of thinking about her situation and her mother, Paris tried to call her. She stopped first to try to figure out what time it was in Morocco. Five hours ahead of Boston. She glanced at her watch. It was 11:00 p.m. It would be 4:00 a.m. She didn’t care and called anyway.

She sympathized for just a moment with the sleepy sound of the voice that answered the phone. Camille, she was told, had taken off with a photographer and two other models. They would be back in several days. Until then, there was no way to reach them.

“You’re telling me,” she asked, “that in an age of cell phones, e-mail, faxes and global positioning, they’re out of touch?”

The foggy voice sighed. “Is it an emergency?”

Yes, it’s an emergency! she wanted to shout. Who the hell am I? I need to know. But she understood that while it was important to her, it didn’t warrant sending out a search party or otherwise alarming everyone on the shoot.

“No,” she replied finally. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Shall I have her call you when she comes in?”