“Have you found that ‘perfect’ gift for Otto yet?” I asked.
“What do you buy a man who collects medieval illuminated manuscripts?” she asked with a wave of her beringed hand. “But I thought about it long and hard, and finally settled on a fraud.”
“Excuse me?”
“I acquired an image of the Madonna and Child that appears to come out of a medieval manuscript, but it’s really a forgery perpetrated by the Spanish Forger, a legendary counterfeiter who created hundreds of medieval fakes in nineteenth-century France.” Madame smiled, her gentle laugh lines impishly crinkling around her brilliant blue eyes. “Otto will absolutely adore it, I’m sure. A real conversation piece among his colleagues.”
“It’s certainly unique,” I replied.
“So when is Joy scheduled to arrive?”
I’d dreaded this moment. I hadn’t yet broken the bad news to either Madame or Matt.
“I’m sorry. I need to tell you. Joy phoned me earlier this morning. She’s not coming home after all,” I said. “She couldn’t get the time off.”
Instead of registering disappointment, Madame nodded with a knowing smile. “That’s why I made sure her plane tickets were open-ended.”
Now I nodded knowingly. “You assumed she’d get stuck working.”
“Working?” Madame shook her head. “Joy’s not working, Clare. It’s a boy. She’s suddenly madly in love and can’t bear to be apart from him.”
“She told you that?”
“No! I just know my grandchild. I’m quite sure you’ll discover that she’s fallen for some adorable, flirtatious, irresistibly cocky French cook in her brigade. I can only hope the feeling is mutual, for her heart’s sake... What’s wrong?”
“I just... never considered that.”
“She’s left the nest, dear. She wants her own life.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you fret now. It was hard for me when Matteo did the same, went off to Europe for an entire summer, but then he came back with you, didn’t he?”
That was the abbreviated version of a much longer summer-of-love story that ended with me pregnant. Without that sweet bambina bun in my oven, however, I doubted very much the freewheeling, extreme-sports-loving, twenty-two-year-old Matteo Allegro would have taken me home to Mama.
My frown deepened. The momentary glimpse down memory lane left me anxious—now I couldn’t stop wondering whether Joy had been listening during our talks about birth control.
Madame squeezed my hand. “Just remember this, Clare. When Joy gets married and has a child of her own, she’ll need you more than ever.”
An usher interrupted us. He was moving through the audience, handing out a brochure about the show. As Madame leafed through it, I scanned the studio for any man who resembled that ID badge photo of James Young.
“Today we’re going to see a very special seasonal episode about holiday stress,” Madame informed me, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Timely,” I said.
“It also says here that Dr. Chaz is a trained psychologist born and raised in Southern California. His wife, Phyllis, is a marriage therapist originally from the Twin Cities. They met during college, and The Chatsworth Way began as a local program in Minneapolis. The nationally syndicated version of the show is devoted entirely to the subject of mending splitting marriages and healing damaged relationships.”
“Hmmm...” I glanced at the eager congregation around us. “That might explain why four fifths of this audience is female.”
“Last year The Chatsworth Way went into syndication, and it is now the fourth most popular daytime show behind Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Rachael Ray.” Madame arched a silver eyebrow. “And apparently this James Young you’re looking for is the show’s executive producer.”
Before I could express surprise, a spotlight appeared in the center of the main stage. The beam illuminated a man and woman perched side by side on tall stools. Both were surrounded by a bevy of assistants, several cameras, and a pair of teleprompters. I didn’t recognize the renowned man-and-wife counselors until excited chatter, then a smattering of applause, broke out around me.
“I love you, Dr. Chaz!” a lone woman’s voice cried out from the middle of the studio audience.
“I love you, too!” he replied.
Laughter—mostly female—followed.
While a technician slipped a tiny microphone under his tie, Dr. Chaz continued grinning and returning waves from various women. Tall and fit, he exuded an easy, boyish charm. Adding an air of sagelike distinction to his appearance, the handsome face was crowned with thick waves of prematurely white hair.
In contrast, Therapist Phyllis was a short, slender brunette with a cropped, no-nonsense ’do. Unlike her effusive husband, she completely ignored the audience during the last-minute stage prep. Oblivious to the female adoration her husband was garnering, she remained deep in conversation with a leanly built man visible only in silhouette.
Finally, from a glassed-in control booth, the director ordered the stage cleared. That shadowy figure Phyllis Chatsworth had been speaking with gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. Then the man stepped into the glare of the spotlight.
It was James Young, looking very much like his ID photograph.
A minute later, the show’s upbeat theme song began to play. The digital prompters ordered APPLAUSE! and the audience complied.
Then came the announcer’s voice: “Husband-and-wife relationship therapists for two decades, Dr. Chaz Chatsworth and Therapist Phyllis will guide you through the pitfalls and pleasures of love, romance, and marriage. And now, the most understanding, compassionate, and insightful couple on television...”
The spotlight reappeared in time to catch the couple casually smooching. Then Dr. Chaz and Phyllis pretended to look guilty at being caught in a kiss. They clasped their hands above their heads, jumped off their stools, and faced the audience.
“Bills! Gift lists! Company parties! Prickly family members! Pricklier in-laws! Are you feeling the pressure to create the ‘perfect’ Christmas, Chanukah, or Kwanzaa?” Dr. Chaz asked.
Phyllis stepped forward. “If all this holiday tension is ruining your marriage or romantic relationship, stick around. Today we’ll deal with holiday stress, and ask the question, can love survive it?”
“Our ‘Chatsworth Survival Guide’ may just keep this holiday season from ending in divorce,” Dr. Chaz added, “or worse...”
“Worse?” I muttered. “What’s worse? Homicide?”
Madame chuckled. “It’s The Chatsworth Way, dear, not Nancy Grace.”
The monitor blinked: APPLAUSE!
Almost immediately, the show segued into its slick B-roll, showing couples arguing at holiday parties or on shopping trips. Quoting a list of statistics, Dr. Chaz and Phyllis discussed the dangers of high “perfect holiday” expectations versus disillusioning realities. They cited the troubles that come from reuniting dysfunctional families or attempting to work out fair visitation in divorced ones. They spoke about dealing with disapproving in-laws and demanding grandparents, while keeping your sex life from slipping into a coma. By the time the opening segment ended, the audience could come to only one conclusion—
The holidays are hazardous to your mental health!
“Time for a break,” Dr. Chaz finally said. “When we come back, we’re going to meet two couples. One husband and wife who learned how to cope with the season’s stress—”
“And another couple that didn’t,” Phyllis said, exaggerating a frown.
Then the pair turned their backs on the audience, lovingly clasped hands, and strolled back to their seats while the stage faded to black. After the cameras cut away, the stage crew appeared to carry in stools for the day’s guests.