But Paris kept that to herself. Prue’s ignition switch was always hot where her soon-to-be ex-husband was concerned.
“Well, the best revenge is living well, they say.” She reached across the table to pat Prue’s hand. “And you’re about to become a brilliant designer.” She gave her sister a small grin. “And if I’m going to have to eat these ginger things until the fashion show, you’d better move up the date.”
“SAINTS AND SINNERS!” A smooth voice answered the phone just after nine the following morning. Paris had stared at the phone for a full hour before mustering the courage to dial. She’d told Prue she’d make her call at 8:00 a.m.
At eight-fifteen, Prue had anxiously checked with her. “What did he say?”
“I haven’t called yet,” Paris had admitted.
“I’m sorry. I’m not rushing you.”
“It’s all right. I’m calling now.”
Prue checked again at eight-thirty.
“I still haven’t done it. But I’m going to. Now.”
“You’re sure you want to know?”
“I’m sure.”
The voice was younger than Jeffrey St. John would be, Paris felt sure. She tried to sound like a prospective client.
“I’d like to speak to Jeffrey St. John, please,” she said.
“This is Jeffrey St. John,” the voice replied. “Did you want to make a booking?”
“Jeffrey St. John,” she asked carefully, “who was in the chorus of Damn Yankees?”
The voice laughed. “That was my father. But I’m in charge of our scheduling.”
“I need to speak with him please,” she said pleasantly, but as though she would brook no argument.
He hesitated an instant. “Well…he’s on the golf course. But I can page him and have him call you.”
“That would be nice, thank you,” she said, and passed on the pertinent information. Then she paced and trembled for ten minutes while waiting for the return call.
Jeffrey St. John Sr.’s voice was a little gravelly and reminded her of Tony Bennett. She imagined him in her mind’s eye when she introduced herself. “I’m Paris O’Hara,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. “I’m Camille Malone’s daughter.”
“Camille Malone…” St. John repeated, as though having to think about it. Paris was immediately alarmed. Would a man have to think twice about the name of a woman he’d impregnated? Of course, her mother had said she hadn’t told anyone. It had never occurred to her that she might not have told him.
“You were in the chorus of Damn Yankees together,” Paris reminded him. “Miranda Poole represented both of you.”
“I remember her,” he said finally. “She was small and blond with a voice like Ethel Merman’s! How is she?”
“Oh, fine,” Paris replied, whipping up her courage. “She’s modeling in Morocco at the moment and I’m…I’m sort of…on a search for my father.”
“Ah,” he said, as though he understood and was waiting for more.
She wanted him to volunteer it without her having to ask. But that didn’t seem to be happening.
“Are you…?” she began, and stopped short when she heard his intake of breath.
“Now, wait a minute,” he said, his voice a gasp. “You aren’t thinking that’s me?”
“I was, yes,” she admitted. Then she asked candidly, “Are you?”
“No!” he insisted, his voice rising a decibel. Then he lowered it and repeated, “No. Your mother and I were friends, we hung out together in a group and enjoyed each other’s company, but we were never intimate. I was married.”
“Mr. St. John, I don’t want anything from you,” she said, certain he had to be lying to protect his family. “And I promise I won’t tell a soul. Your family doesn’t have to know. It’s just that I need to know. Please. Tell me the truth.”
“Miss O’Hara.” A strain of sympathy mingled with the denial in his voice. “I’m telling you the truth. I understand your need to find your father, but…I promise you it isn’t me. Wouldn’t you do a better job of this if you asked Camille? What made you believe it’s me?”
She didn’t want to tell him that her mother had given her his name. It seemed like a betrayal, though this apparent third lie was seriously battering Paris’s loyalty.
“I’ve been doing some investigating on my own while my mother’s out of the country,” she replied. “I…may have taken a wrong turn.”
“What’s your birthdate?” he asked.
“March 20,” she answered, “1977.”
“Okay, so…” He was apparently calculating. “I did HMS Pinafore in London from April through November 1976. Miranda Poole can verify that. I wasn’t even around. If memory serves, your mother was playing Martha Jefferson in 1776 on Broadway.”
If that was all true, it was convincing proof of her misdirected data.
“You are mistaken,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. Your mother was a wonderful friend and had I met her when I was still single…” His voice trailed off, silenced by the possibilities. Then he went on. “Dora is the mother of my sons. I wouldn’t have done that to her, rest her soul.”
Paris heaved an accepting sigh. “All right. I’m so sorry I bothered you.” She talked over him as he apologized again. “No, no, it’s not your fault. I just got my clues a little twisted.”
“You should ask your mother.”
He was absolutely right. “I should. Thank you for calling me back. Good luck with your career and your family.”
“Good luck to you, young lady. And…if you can’t find him, I wouldn’t mind standing in for him if you need your car tinkered with, rude clerks leaned on or sage romantic advice.”
She had to smile at that. And feel a little regret that he wasn’t her father.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I’ll remember that.”
Paris hung up the phone and called Miranda immediately. She was clearly mystified by Paris’s questions, but looked through her files and corroborated everything Jeffrey St. John had told Paris.
She felt as though she was going to explode. She reached for a cup of coffee, then changed her mind. She was so enervated, coffee would only make matters worse. And she couldn’t reach for wine because she had to relieve Prue.
Chocolate! she thought. That contained caffeine, too, but it was charged also with serotonin, a mood booster. And her frame of mind was now somewhere below sea level. As she dialed Prue, she praised the scientists who’d made that discovery. Slender hips for Prue’s fashion show would have to take a back seat—no pun intended—to her sanity.
“What do you mean, it’s not him?” Prue asked as they stood in the driveway, the driver’s side door of the cab open, the motor idling.
“I mean Mom lied to me again,” Paris said calmly, doing her best to prevent her anger and disappointment from boiling over. “I mean Jeffrey St. John is not my father.”
Prue studied her worriedly. “Maybe he lied, Paris. Certainly someone presented with that question and unprepared for—”
“He