WC Fic: The Manhattan Story, Part 1/3
Title: The Manhattan Story, Part 1/3
Author: rabidchild
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble. Pairings: Peter/Neal and Peter/Sara, with some Hughes/June and Elizabeth/Jones around the edges.
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Movie AU/fusion, romantic comedy
Word Count: ~22,000
Beta: miri_thompson
Artist: kanarek13
Summary: The White Collar/Philadelphia Story fusion nobody wanted. Peter Burke is the scion of American “royalty,” about to marry Hollywood starlet Sara Ellis. Unfortunately, his ex Neal has brought a pair of tabloid journalists, Elizabeth Mitchell and Clinton Jones, along to the wedding to do an inside story. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?
Kanarek13’s art
A/N: So I have this bad habit of merging the White Collar world with those of my favorite movies (See: stories inspired by Topper, Sliding Doors, and The Princess Bride). I suppose this one was inevitable, as it’s my favorite screwball comedy.
Almost none of the action takes place in Manhattan, but “The Scarsdale Story” just didn’t sound as catchy. Since the movie took place on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia, I figure I can play fast and loose with geography too…
With all due respect to the original play by the late Phillip Barry…
This is a fairy tale.
----
Cast of Characters
(I’m including their ages, as I’ve changed them from what they are on the show)
Peter Burke, 34: Former FBI agent, currently running for a Senatorial seat in New York
Neal Caffrey, 32: Wealthy playboy, accomplished artist, and Peter’s ex
Elizabeth Mitchell, 30: Out of work playwright, currently slumming as a tabloid reporter
Clinton Jones, 31: Talented artist, currently slumming as a freelance paparazzo
June Ellington-Burke, 53: Peter’s stepmother, the woman who raised him
Diana Burke, 15: June’s and Reese's daughter, Peter’s half sister
Sara Ellis, 25: Latest Hollywood It Girl and Peter’s fiancée
Reese Hughes Burke, 57: Peter’s father
Uncle Mozzie, age unknown: Longtime friend of June’s
Vincent Adler, 50: Multinational publishing magnate and all-around sleaze
xXxXxXxXx
Elizabeth Mitchell stood with her hip cocked in the elevator, arms folded across her chest and watching the numbers head north toward twenty-one. Around her, young women wishing to have themselves taken seriously as professionals teetered atop $1,000 pairs of Blahniks and Louboutins, their five-inch heels making them tower over El’s petite, five-foot, two-inch frame. She glanced up at one such specimen, a leggy blonde in some over-constructed dress that looked like it cost as much as El’s rent.
“How’s the air up there?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How do you walk in those things?” El asked, truly curious, pointing her chin at the pretty if impractical pair of patent leather peep toe pumps the younger woman wore.
“Oh, I barely notice,” she replied breezily as the elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor and she hobbled out and on to her business; El didn’t know whether it was the shoes or the girl’s pencil skirt, but she looked like a stiff wind would have blown her over.
Less than a minute later, she was striding through the double glass doors of Adler Publishing’s top publication, Them Weekly, the soles of her star-spangled Chuck Taylor All-Stars making squeaking noises on the highly polished granite floors. Pausing by the front desk, she waited for the receptionist to notice her, but then a familiar voice called to her from the raised deck of offices at the back of the space.
“Elizabeth, you’re late,” called Vincent Adler, arms crossed in front of him as he attempted to look sternly at her. Despite owning a publishing empire that listed literally hundreds of titles, he still acted as editor-in-chief and publisher of this, the company’s flagship publication, and the one that made him famous.
“Weren’t we meeting at 2:30?” she called back innocently, making her way across the “bullpen” of staff writers’ desks to the stairs.
“It’s 3:05,” he pointed out, an amused smile nevertheless playing across his lips.
“Right on time, then.” She cocked her head and smiled, because that’s what he expected her to do. He was a smarmy misogynist who was rumored to have his fingers in more pies than Martha Stewart ever baked, but he liked her for some reason, and she’d done a lot worse in her life than flirt with a man to keep a job. She preceded him into his office, where another man already sat at the small, round meeting table, leaning his chair back against the wall.
“Elizabeth,” he greeted pleasantly, righting his chair and standing.
“Jonesy,” she replied, hiding a smile as he stumbled slightly when the chair hit him in the back of the knees. “You look good. Eye all healed?”
Jones was a talented artist and photographer who suffered much for his art - which, like print journalism, seemed lately to be in its death throes any way you sliced it. He had recently been reduced to hiding in dark corners of the city trying to catch the latest tabloid darlings screwing in the bushes or snorting coke up their plastic noses in order to make his ends meet long enough to make rent.
His hand went up to his face, then he pulled it away, self-conscious. “Almost good as new.”
El made a clucking sound of commiseration. “Poor baby - who knew Betty White had it in her?”
“She’s got a mean right hook, let me tell you,” he said wryly as Adler closed his office door behind him.
“You two are going to love this new assignment. Full access, and I mean full. It’s a tabloid editor’s wet dream, and we got it!” Vincent was talking excitedly, as if they’d all been in the middle of a conversation.
“Language!” Jones admonished, eyeing Elizabeth.
She scowled at him. “Ain’t you fucking adorable,” she said with a frown, then added, “Where are we going for this major exclusive? Up Miley Cyrus’s ass for her first ever colonic?”
“Your assignment will be Them Weekly’s most sensational achievement!” Vincent enthused, ignoring her. “Peter Burke!”
“Peter Burke?” Elizabeth asked, perplexed.
Adler stared at her, open-mouthed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him? Scion of the Burke dynasty? Rejected his family’s plans for him after business school to become an FBI agent? Had a torrid affair with that artist, what’s his name?”
Still Elizabeth’s mind was a blank.
“He’s marrying Sara Ellis this weekend?!?”
“Ooohhh, that girl from that one movie with that guy?” El might have heard something. “So?”
Adler shook his head, but still managed to maintain some of his excitement. “’Inside the Wedding of the Century,’ exclusively on the pages of Them Weekly!” he said, and El was only slightly appalled to see him employ jazz hands.
“Or what the kitchen maid saw through the keyhole,” she replied archly, “it’s almost quaint - what is this, 1940? How the hell are we going to get inside? Even the guests don’t know where the wedding will be.”
“Ah ha, so you do know who I’m talking about?”
She scowled at him.
“All has been arranged,” Adler said, all cagey again.
“I am not dressing as a cater waiter again,” Jones warned, and El had to nod her agreement, pointing at him with a thumb, the “me neither” fully implied.
“You won’t have to,” Vincent said, moving over to the doorway that led to the conference room adjacent to his office. When he opened it, El glanced through to spot a handsome young man sprawled in one of the comfy leather chairs like he owned the place. Taking his cue, he walked through into Adler’s office, all practiced ease and blue-eyed confidence. He looked like a bona fide Disney prince, and was just the type that would’ve had her dropping her panties within an hour, once upon a time; these days, she required dinner first.
“Who are you?” she asked, her tone a lot more confrontational than she wanted it to be.
“A friend of the Burke family,” Adler began, “He’s been working in our L.A. field office, and I believe he can help us.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a friend of Peter’s older step brother Ford, who unfortunately won’t be coming this weekend. He’ll introduce you as another old friend.”
“Good ol’ Ford, huh?” El asked, her suspicions mounting. “Tell me, does Burke even know this guy?”
“You might say Peter and I are old friends,” Blue-Eyes replied, and El couldn’t be 100% positive, but his teeth may have sparkled.
“You might also say you’re Neal Caffrey, and you were Peter Burke’s lover for five years,” Jones pointed out.
“Yes, you might.”
“Rumor was you even got married up in Vermont.”
Caffrey’s smile faded.
“What was it Perez Hilton called you two? Neater?” Jones continued, rising and leaning toward Caffrey with faked amity. “And I remember your break-up spectacularly well. You and he were vacationing in the Hamptons on a little racing yacht - the ‘Taurus’ wasn’t it?”
Elizabeth saw the muscles in Caffrey’s jaw bunching as he ground his molars - Jones had hit very close to the mark. “However did you know?” he asked Jones blandly.
“I was the one photographer whose camera you didn’t smash,” Jones said snappishly. “You were terribly nice about it though - just threw it into the harbor.”
“One of those, huh?” El said ruefully, clucking sympathetically for Jones’s poor camera.
“That’s right,” Caffrey said. “Silly me thinking our lives were our own business.”
“He did reimburse me for the camera, though,” Jones pointed out. “Though not the five grand the photo I had of Burke socking you on the jaw would’ve netted me.”
“I’ll write you a check,” Caffrey said without sincerity.
“Always the gentleman,” El observed, and Caffrey shrugged, the tension she’d seen across his shoulders suddenly easing as he plastered on a nearly-convincing smile again.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” he replied. El raised an eyebrow.
“Now then, what are the plans, Neal?” Adler interrupted. “The wedding’s Saturday, today’s Thursday. They should spend tomorrow night at the Burke’s place out in Scarsdale, yes?”
“Now wait just a minute, wait just a minute!” Elizabeth protested, addressing Adler. “There's something not right here. Why would he do this anyway…” Sudden realization dawned, and she turned on Caffrey, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, oh, I get it, now. You want to get even with your ex.”
“That’s my business if I do. I’ll have a car come round here and pick you both up at eleven tomorrow.” He looked Elizabeth up and down. “Oh, and… wear something appropriate, would you?” With that, he breezed out of Adler’ office, leaving Elizabeth spluttering in his wake.
“Well, whattaya… I mean… Who does he…” She was, for once, seriously at a loss for words.
“Here,” Jones said, elbowing her in the side and holding out a handkerchief. “There’s a little spit in your eye - and it’s showing.”
“Peter? Peter!” The cultured tones of June Ellington Burke floated out of the drawing room and onto the terrace, where Peter had thought he’d successfully escaped to be able to make a call to his campaign manager.
He flinched, but would never let his emotions enter his voice. “Yes, Mother?” He did love her, after all.
“Oh, there you are, darling, whatever are you doing all the way out here?”
Peter looked at the distance from the house to his seat on the patio - all of twelve feet - and sighed inwardly. “Phone reception’s better out here,” he lied.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Uh-huh. And I suppose it’s got nothing to do with the seating charts we were supposed to be working on?”
“Can’t you finish it?” he asked, aware he was whining. “All this wedding stuff’s driving me bonkers. Why isn’t Sara doing this?”
“Sara’s en route from L.A. and won’t be here until dinner time, you are supposed to know that. I promised her we’d do these last few things, now come on, don’t make me disappointed - you’re a Burke.”
“Did that ever mean anything?” Peter scowled; the Burke family was an important business and political dynasty, with Wall Street tycoons, Congressmen, and even a Supreme Court Justice among them.
“Don’t be childish.”
“Yeah, don’t be childish.”
Peter and June turned to see sixteen-year old Diana wander onto the patio, her nose in a thin book. She slouched over to the table where Peter was sitting, the heels of her sneakers dragging as she moved, eyes barely registering where she was going. She walked towards a chair until it scraped against her bare shins, then turned and fell gracefully into it, not losing her place in her reading at all.
“What’s that, sis?” Peter said, snatching the publication from her hands.
“Hey, give that back!” she protested, reaching for it.
“‘An Undulatory Theory of the Mechanics of Atoms and Molecules’,” Peter read. “Aren’t most girls your age reading Twilight or something?”
“Only the boring ones,” she said, snatching the book back.
“Don’t slouch, dear,” June said to her youngest.
Diana scowled, but straightened her posture.
“Some more gifts have arrived, madam,” Pederson their elderly butler said, bearing an armful of boxes.
“Set them down anywhere, Pederson.”
“Very good, madam. And that gift over there?” He gestured with his hand at a flatbed truck just beyond the garden’s edge that held a large, ornate marble fountain, complete with half a dozen cherubs, nymphs and satyrs all over it in various stages of undress.
“Somebody call the Vatican, I think one of their statues went missing,” Diana laughed.
“What the fuuu…dge is that?” Peter colored at his near-lapse in using curse words in front of his mother.
“Good Lord, it’s ghastly. Who’s it from, Pederson?” The man silently handed her a card. “Friends of your father,” she reported.
“Oh, which one? The inside trader or the Ponzi schemer?” Peter and his father had been estranged for months now, and had long been at odds even before that. Their latest disagreement stemmed from Reese’s dealings with some unsavory characters, including that muckraker, Vincent Adler; Peter no longer even remembered why they’d argued, but he had uninvited his father from the wedding.
“Oh, Peter, really. Do be polite.”
“Well, Mother, it’s not like I can turn it off, can I? I am an FBI agent.”
“Former FBI agent,” Diana corrected.
He sighed and closed his eyes. “Former FBI agent. And if Dad keeps associating with these men, it will come to no good. In this day and age, you’re only as good as your reputation, and one - just one scandal, and it’s connected to you every time someone Googles your name. I’m so lucky Sara has managed to keep herself above that sort of thing.”
“It can’t hurt your election chances, either,” June pointed out.
“No, it can’t. She’s really terrific, isn’t she?” Peter couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. His fiancée Sara Ellis was talented, beautiful, and in synch with Peter in all things, from religion to politics to social issues. He couldn’t think of a better mate.
“She certainly is,” June agreed enthusiastically.
“I liked you with Neal better,” Diana said.
Peter scowled. “Then why don’t you marry him?”
“I’d rather marry Sara,” Diana quipped.
“That makes two of us.”
“Why are you always so mean about Neal? What’d he ever do?”
“Never you mind, Diana,” June interrupted, “it was between them, and none of our affair.”
“You two could still have an affair,” Diana suggested hopefully.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Peter said, standing over his little sister. “Just mind someone doesn’t shove a gag in yours.”
“That’s enough, you two. Diana, isn’t it time for your piano lesson?” June said.
“Ach, can’t we cancel that for just one week?” the teen protested.
The sound of someone whistling “Come On, Get Happy” floated to them on the summer breeze, causing Diana to cock her head to the side. “I know that whistle. Neal! Neal!” Diana got up and scampered happily over to the man in question as he wandered around the hedge beside the garden and threw her arms around his neck.
“Diana, my love, you are a sight for these sore eyes!”
Diana wormed her way under his arm and marched with him the rest of the way back to the patio, where he greeted June fondly with kisses on both her cheeks. “You’re as radiantly beautiful as ever,” he purred as she blushed like a girl.
“Caffrey, what the hell are you doing here?” Peter could barely control his anger at seeing his ex here and now, of all times, for a reunion.
“I heard you were throwing a wedding - don’t I come to all of your weddings?”
“Don’t you ruin all of my weddings?” Peter said from between gritted teeth.
“I will say getting married suits you - you’ve never looked better, babe.”
“Tell me, Neal - how was Ford when you saw him in L.A.?” June interrupted, always one for keeping the peace. June’s son by her first husband, Byron, was always a source of concern.
“Yes, how is my big brother?” Peter asked. “Finally drink himself through the new liver?”
“Now, that’s unkind, even for you,” June scolded and Peter’s face turned bright red as he murmured an apology.
Neal breezed over the nasty remark as he removed the straw fedora he wore and gestured with it expansively. “He sends his love. He’s heartbroken, of course, not to be able to come. I thought I’d offer my services as best man as he was unavailable.”
“Thank you, but I prefer a best man I can trust.”
“Still and all, I’m sure you’ll like the friends Ford sent in his place.”
“Friends? That Ford sent?” June asked, confused.
“Yes. A Miss Mitchell and a Mr. Jones. I’ve left them in the south parlor. You should tell them what rooms they’re staying in, June.”
“Rooms? They’re supposed to be staying this weekend?”
“Well, yes - it was Ford’s idea. They’ve been so helpful to him in his recovery that when they said they were coming down here for the weekend, he said he’d make all the arrangements. Has he not called?”
“You really used to be a lot better at conning people,” Peter spat.
“The fabled ‘gut’ in action?” Neal asked, a glint in his blue eyes.
“It’s never steered me wrong before. Hey, wait a minute, didn’t I hear you were hooked up with some tabloid out there in L.A.?”
“Entertainment journalism,” Neal corrected him.
“That’s right - the cleverly titled Them Weekly, yes? I don’t suppose these ‘friends’ of Ford’s work for the same rag, do they?”
“There’s that gut again. Darling, it really is getting a bit poochy.” Neal rubbed his own, flat abdomen and Peter’s face darkened.
“You know, I thought you were pretty low after what you did last time, but this, Neal, is beyond the pale even for you. Bringing paparazzi to my wedding!”
Maddeningly, Neal just kept smiling, and damn him for looking even better now than the day Peter banished him from his life - he thought forever.
“Peter, you’re slipping,” he said, his voice a throaty purr. “There was a time when that stern face of yours used to really get me shaking in my fine Italian leather shoes.”
Peter took a step forward, angry. “I used to think you had retained a shred of decency, even after what you did, but I see now I was wrong.”
“Oh, Peter, darling, please,” June began, putting a hand on his arm.
“Mother, not yet!” Diana said, face avid. “Maybe he’s gonna sock him again!”
“Diana - piano!” June scolded, and bundled the teen into the house.
When they’d gone, Peter rounded on his ex, wanting nothing more than to make Diana’s wish come true and punch Neal in his smirking face. He settled for clenching his fists. “Neal, I won’t stand for this. I want those people out of here and you with them!”
“Certainly, Your Honor. But first, could I interest you in some small blackmail?” Neal reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“What’s that?” Peter asked suspiciously.
“An expose, complete with photographic evidence, of your father’s past… indiscretions.”
Peter snatched the papers from Neal and scanned them, saying, “Give me a break, Neal, he would never cheat on June -“ His voice trailed off as he read the pages. “They can’t publish this - it’s all lies. It’s slanderous!”
“Libelous, technically, and yes, they can, because it appears to be true.”
Peter looked at Neal, and saw the truth in his eyes, and not a little regret that he had to be the one bringing this to Peter’s attention. “He really embezzled from the fund?” According to the story, Peter’s father, Reese Hughes Burke, highly-respected Wall Street tycoon, had embezzled from the high-yield mutual fund he’d made his bones on back in the 1990’s.
“The last recession hit a lot of people hard, Peter. He’s since paid it all back with interest.”
“But he still stole over $50 million, Neal. What am I supposed to do with this information?”
“More to the point, what’s Vincent Adler going to do with this information?”
Peter could feel the blood drain from his face. “The family will be ruined. My mother - this’ll kill her, Neal.”
“Don’t worry, it’s stopped for now, if you’ll just allow Miss Mitchell and Mr. Jones to turn in a story on your wedding for Them Weekly. And by story, I mean story”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Inside the Wedding of the Century of the Week,” Neal continued. “How many beads are on the bride’s designer dress, who’s fucking who, and what did Jay-Z and Beyoncé wear?”
“Now I am gonna be sick. Sara’ll never allow it.”
“She’ll do anything you ask, and you know it. You’re Peter Burke, Honorable Man TM. You wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if one bit you on the ass.”
Peter glared at him, but headed for the house, realizing he had no choice but to go along and make nice with the members of the fourth estate taking up space in his living room.
As he moved through the conservatory within, Diana stopped her piano practice and spun around. “No blood?” she said with exaggerated disappointment.
“Diana!” June admonished from her place at the table, fussing with a flower arrangement. “Peter, what are you going to do about the two reporters in the South parlor?” she asked nonchalantly.
Peter groaned inwardly - nothing got past his mother. “I’m going to lay down and take it,” he muttered.
“Really, darling? Well, then, I’ll alert the kitchen we’ll be five for luncheon.”
“Six,” Neal piped up, dropping his woven fedora onto the table.
“How nice,” June beamed at him. “Six for luncheon.”
Peter loitered near the doorway, glaring at his ex giving the puppy eyes to his mother when a pair of brown eyes appeared in his line of sight.
“Reporters? I can’t believe you caved,” Diana said.
“There are things you’ve no idea about, sis,” Peter said ruefully.
“You can give me ideas, you know,” she groused. “Everyone just treats me like a kid.”
Peter looked down at her kindly. She was so beautiful and, despite her snark and pretense at being a worldly person, so damn innocent. If the story about their father came out, it would hurt her beyond measure - beyond healing, Peter thought. Better she should stay as ignorant as possible for as long as possible.
But it didn’t mean she couldn’t be put to good use in this situation, and that they couldn’t both have some fun at their unwanted guests’ expense. Peter had an idea.
“Hey, Di, what do you say we give these reporters a taste of what they really came here for?”
“Oh, Peter, darling!” June admonished, overhearing. “Do behave yourself - why can’t we just be ourselves!”
Peter raised his eyebrows, all innocence. “That’s what I’m saying we do - we give them exactly what they expect to see and nothing less!” He winked down at Diana.
“Oh boy, this is going to be fun!” she enthused and ran off with Peter, he whispering plans into her ear.
xXxXxXxXx
CLICKJones idly took pictures of the “South Parlor,” the well-appointed room - one of seemingly thousands in this ridiculously over-the-top place - that he and Elizabeth had been shown to by a butler upon their arrival.
“What are you doing that for?” she asked him testily.
He gave her a measuring look before answering, “Atmosphere. Want to set the stage for your story. There’s no telling what you’ll need - unless you’ve already made up your mind?”
El rolled her eyes. “I have an angle, but I’m not so sure Adler’ll go for ‘the Bolsheviks had it right.’ What’s that room? I forgot my compass,” she said, wandering - no, teetering was the better word, given the ridiculously high heels and narrow pencil skirt she’d donned in order to “wear something appropriate” to come here - over to a door at the far end of the room.
“It’s the South by South-Southwest parlor by living room,” Jones snarked, taking a photo of the view out of the window he stood in front of. “All this stuff - wouldn’t you know you have to be as rich as god to live in a dump like this?”
“I wouldn’t live here if they paid me,” El said derisively
“Don’t worry, they won’t.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and opened the door, whistling low when she did. Beyond the door was a long room - it could only be classified as a gallery - in which a number of paintings and sculptures were displayed. She wandered in, and her mouth dropped open as she took in the Hockneys - two of them - the Basquiat and the Frank Stella, a portrait of a beautiful African American woman by Warhol and, “Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” she breathed; at the far end of the room, set off with all the appropriate lighting, was an honest to god Van Gogh.
El approached it as she would have approached a wild animal. Or an angel. She got up close to it, close enough to see fucking bristles embedded in the paint. She swallowed, imagined she could smell the linseed oil. Mesmerized, she raised a hand, forgetting herself. She was about to touch it before the clearing of a throat brought her to her senses.
Startled, she stood up straighter. Cheeks burning, she saw the same butler who’d shown her and Clint into the other room standing there, a bland expression on his face.
“Nice painting,” she said lamely.
He just stood there, so motionless he himself might have been one of the objets she’d just passed.
“Is it real?”
He blinked at her.
“Suppose it must be, huh?”
Blink
“So. I should just…” she gestured with a thumb over her shoulder, then backed out of the room slowly.
----
“So what’s this Caffrey guy’s deal anyway?” El was sitting sprawled out on the couch - or was it technically a chaise longue? - in the South parlor. All this waiting around was making her testy. She pulled her iPhone out of her purse.
“Neal George Caffrey,” Jones intoned, flipping through the photos he’d taken so far on the viewfinder of his digital camera.
“What the hell kind of a name is that anyway? Could it be more white bread?”
“Because Elizabeth Mitchell isn’t the whitest girl in the room.”
“I’ll have you know I’m half Irish.”
“Black Irish, huh? And what’s the other half?”
“English.”
“You’re a regular mutt.”
El made a face and hit Wikipedia. “Neal George Caffrey. He’s one of the Newport Caffreys, dahling - whatever the hell that means. Up and coming artist and sculptor. Who makes a living as an artist these days?”
Jones gave her a look. “Not many.”
“I’m sorry, Clint. You were totally the best sculptor at that last gallery opening. I would have made a bid, honest.”
“I appreciate it,” he muttered, and went back to perusing the photos.
El felt bad - Clint really was a talented sculptor, specializing in trash art. The piece in question had been composed entirely out of plastic coffee cup covers and was a scathing indictment of modern corporations’ assimilation and co-opting of popular culture to further their brands, but hell if El had the money or the space in her tiny flat to accommodate it.
She picked up her phone again. “Says here ol’ Nealio is also a philanthropist - how does one get to be that at 30, anyways? And shit - check this out, here’s something from one of the gossip rags - it’s rumored he was arrested as a teenager running a three card Monty scam outside his prep school on the Upper West Side. I’m sure Daddy wasn’t too happy with that.”
She kept reading. “Oh,” she said as she went. “Looks like Daddy wasn’t really in the picture much - left the mom when the kid was like four. Then the mom was in and out of rehab. He was really raised by an aunt named Ellen Parker.”
“I guess even the rich have their problems.”
“As the poet said, ‘mo’ money, mo’ problems.’”
Any further research was hampered by the appearance of the man himself. “Is everybody comfortable?” he asked, apropos of nothing.
“Snug as bugs in rugs,” Jones said, slouching down more in the plush chair he occupied.
El got up and walked - hobbled, God were the balls of her feet on fire - over to him. “Caffrey, you’re sure the family’s going to be OK with two strangers in their midst? Adler won’t be happy if we can’t get this story in on time, and I’ve got two mouths to feed, you know.” She didn’t mention that one of those mouths was her dog Satchmo’s.
“No worries, it’s in the bag,” he said, moving smoothly over to a bar at the side of the room. He poured out a glass of lemonade for himself but offered neither of them anything. “Any friend of Ford’s and et cetera. June will love you, don’t worry.”
“It’s not the mother I’m worried about,” El said. “What about the fiancée? What’s her deal?”
“You’ll have to ask her publicist.”
“How’d they meet?”
“Heaven brought them together, I imagine,” Neal said, with just a hint of bitterness.
He was jealous, of that Elizabeth was certain; she filed that information away for later. “And what about Reese Hughes Burke - the father.” She went back to her iPhone. “Says here he founded the Burke Equity Fund back in the day - that’s where he made his name. And his own personal fortune. Man like that’s not without a few skeletons. Here’s a link to American Banker’s Who’s Who in American Finance - oh, but it’s for paid subscribers only.” She lowered her phone. “Don’t suppose there’s a library in this burg where I could look it up?” she raised an eyebrow at Caffrey. “And I don’t suppose you’d know where it was?”
“I suppose I do - my great-grandfather built it,” he said blandly and took a sip of his lemonade.
Elizabeth didn’t react, and went back to studying her phone. “And what about the groom - Peter John Burke. All I know is he’s running for the seat vacated recently by Senator Pratt.” She scrolled around on the phone. “Poll numbers look good - suppose that law and order stance he’s got must go a long way with the voters - former FBI agent and all. Wonder why he left the Bureau?”
“Are we done here?” Caffrey interrupted, putting his glass down and leaving abruptly.
“Well that’s not much to go on,” Jones says. “I guess you can fill in the blanks later.”
“How about I fill them in right now? Attended all the best Schools - Canterbury, Princeton undergrad, Harvard post-grad. Got the best grades of course - Daddy wouldn’t have stood for anything else. Was on his way to becoming a real Master of the Universe. God, I hate him already.”
El shuddered - already she’d worked herself into a tizzy, which she’d need to survive this weekend, she thought. Her own background was almost boringly normal, but it stuck in her craw that there were still people out there like the Burkes - moneyed and privileged and famous for nothing whatsoever but being famous.
“Peter John Burke - would I trade everything I have to have his life?” Clinton said, getting her attention. He was sitting forward in his chair. “You bet your very sweet ass I would.”
“You aren’t serious? I thought you had more integrity than that.”
“Integrity, schmintegrity, Elizabeth - I’ll take not waking up in a cold sweat because I don’t have enough money to make rent and feed myself over the moral high ground any day of the week.”
El opened her mouth to reply when another person entered the room.
“Hee-eey,” a teenaged girl cooed as she sauntered into the room. She was about El’s height, with coffee-colored skin and large, expressive eyes - simply beautiful, and destined to become more so as she got older. “I’m Diana Burke. You must be Ford’s friends.”
She made a beeline for Clinton, who sat straight up in his chair. She was wearing a tank top cut so low it would give Miley Cyrus pause and short shorts; El noticed with annoyance the girl was able to walk around on her own high heels without the need for a cane or hanging onto nearby furniture. Diana sat on the arm of the chair Clinton was sitting in and leaned into him.
“He-hello,” he said after clearing his throat several times first. El noticed his eyes snap up as soon as he caught himself glancing at the girl’s cleavage.
“How is my big brother?”
“F-fine.”
She leaned farther forward, until her breasts were brushing Clint’s shoulder. “So glad to hear it.”
“Meep.”
“Okay,” El announced, kicking off her shoes and getting to her feet; she walked over to nip this thing in the bud. “You’re Peter’s sister, right?” she asked, moving to Clint’s side to distract the girl. “Are you finding all of this wedding stuff to be exciting?”
Diana straightened up on the chair arm but didn’t stand. Her face fell into a fetching pout. “It’s OK, I guess. At least I get to wear a Stella McCartney to the party.”
“There you go,” El said unenthusiastically.
“Plus, #Petra is trending on Twitter! My friends are gonna be so jealous when I show up in Teen People!” She pulled out her cell phone and began to type enthusiastically into it. “Oh, poo!” she said after several seconds. She looked up, suddenly forlorn, large eyes even larger.
“What, uh, what happened?” Clint asked, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor.
“Kylie Jenner’s got 23 more Twitter followers than me!”
“Oh no. How tragic,” El said, wondering why she should care.
”Yes, mother, I’ll remember to tell Pederson to bring the Bentley around. Which one did you want, the roadster or the Continental? Or the Continental convertible?”
They all turned their heads as the voice sounded from somewhere just outside the door through which Diana had arrived. A moment later, Peter Burke appeared.
Elizabeth had to admit that the tall drink of water that strode in was very easy on the eyes - tall, with long legs and broad shoulders, he carried himself with confidence and not a little grace. He was tanned, with short-cropped brown hair and an open, friendly face with twinkling, brown eyes that shone with intelligence. He was dressed to play polo: snug-fitting white pants, knee-high black boots, and a tight, maroon shirt that stretched enticingly across his well-defined pectorals. Elizabeth had to stop herself from staring, open-mouthed.
“Oh Di, there you are. Mother was looking for you. You’ve got an appointment with your stylist or something.” He paused to inspect his fingernails.
“Mon dieu!” the teen exclaimed, and jumped to her feet. “I forgot! If I don’t get there now, they’ll give away the Monique Lhullier!” She dashed from the room, shouting for her mother.
“Well, hello,” Peter said. He slapped the riding crop he held against the top of a boot and turned to greet El and Clint, who stood. “You must be Ford’s friends. I’m Peter Burke, though I suppose you must know that already. Any friends of my brother’s and et cetera. So nice to have you for the weekend.”
“We’re happy to be here,” El lied.
“Too bad Ford couldn’t be here - it would have been nice to have one of the men in this family stand up with me.”
“Where’s your father?” El asked.
“Good old Dad,” he replied breezily, and smiled. “I hope you’ll consider coming to the wedding too? Sara - my girl - she’d love to have you.”
“That was more or less the idea.”
“Everything’s kind of a mess, of course, but my mother’s on top of it. Women are so good at party planning! Oh, is that a camera?” He reached for Clint’s camera, which he still held in his hand.
Clint was loath to part with it - El knew it’d set him back a pretty penny. “I--I take pictures with it,” he stammered.
“Well I hope you'll take loads. We hired Annie Leibovitz to do the wedding portraits, of course, but no media on the day itself. Miss Bennett, can you imagine anyone sinking so low as to work for a tabloid?”
“I imagine I can’t,” she said, cheeks coloring.
“Oh, but you’re some sort of a writer, aren't you, Miss Bennett? Fashion, is it? Or blogging? I love a good blog. Is it one of those ones with lots of cats?”
“I am a playwright,” El replied through clenched teeth.
“Really? Aren’t you a clever girl. Have any been produced?”
“You could say so.” El’s play, “Us. Talking.” had won the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for best play six years before; her follow up had stalled in pre-production and then a bad case of writer’s block had kept her from producing anything of value since. She took the job with Adler to make a few bucks as a freelancer. “One of them has.”
“Only one? Doesn’t sound like much for a girl your age. I don't mean to criticize. You've probably got other interests outside your work. Like those cat blogs!”
El felt her hands curl into fists; she calmed when she felt Clint’s steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, that’s it - you two are together, aren’t you? I should have assumed. You look so well-matched.”
Clint stammered wordlessly and withdrew his hand as Burke turned and addressed him for the remainder of the conversation. “I think you’ve got your hands full with that one,” he said to Clint conspiratorially. “But I have always thought it was a good idea to allow your woman to have outside interests, don’t you? I insist my future wife keep her career for at least a little while - it’ll make her so happy.”
“Outside interests? Outside of what?” Clint asked, giving Elizabeth the side-eye.
“Why, outside of me,” Peter said with a laugh and crossed to pour himself a glass of lemonade. “But that will have to change when she has our children, of course. Then she’ll have to put all her focus on that. Priorities and whatnot.” He turned, fingering the lip of his glass. “And you, Mr. Jones, what is it that you do?”
“I - I’m an artist by trade.”
“How thrilling. I’m a big fan of art - especially Thomas Kinkade. Do you know his work?”
“I can’t say that I -“
“Oh, it’s just loaded with symbolism,” Burke enthused and Elizabeth suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Is your work? Loaded with symbolism?”
“I think it’s rather a bit too subtle for some audiences,” Elizabeth commented.
“Oh?”
“Clint’s work is meant to make people uncomfortable in their complacency and privilege.”
Burke frowned. “It’s supposed to make you think?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what’s keeping my mother,” he said, and left the room.
Elizabeth watched him go, looked at Clint, then back at the door through which Burke had disappeared. “What just happened? Just who’s doing the interviewing here?”
“You don’t suppose he caught on, do you?” Clint asked.
“No, he was born that way - entitled and clueless.”
“Can we leave now?”
“Don’t tempt me. But if we don’t, we’ll never work in this town again - Adler’ll see to that.”
“Oh my, you must be Ford’s friends. I’m Mrs. Burke.”
Elizabeth turned to see an absolutely stunning and elegant woman enter the room - she could see where young Diana got her looks. She peered at Elizabeth appraisingly.
“You’re very pretty,” she said rather plainly.
“Uh, thank you?”
“I suppose that should not be a surprise - Ford collects attractive people.” She turned her head as Peter re-entered the room. “Isn't she pretty, Peter?”
“If you like that,” Peter shrugged, not looking at Elizabeth.
“Will you have lunch with us on the patio?” Mrs. Burke asked, and moved away, not waiting for their answer. She held a bejeweled hand out for Clint to take in the crook of his arm. “How nice to have us all together this weekend - we’re all so busy lately, it feels like holidays are the only time we can properly see each other. “
Elizabeth struggled to shove her feet back into her shoes and catch up to them. She was at a perfect angle to see Diana sidle in from somewhere to their left and pinch Clint on the ass before taking his other arm. He yelped and stumbled.
“This is my daughter Diana,” Mrs. Burke said breezily.
“We’ve met,” Clint said, obviously squirming, but they’d arrived at the table set for lunch before Elizabeth had a chance to rescue him.
“How wonderful we can all be so chummy already,” June was saying. “I expect my husband at any moment, and then you’ll have met the entire family.”
El raised an eyebrow - she had read rumors of estrangement within the family during her impromptu research a few minutes earlier, and now couldn’t wait to see how it would play out.
“Hello, hello!” came a musical voice from somewhere behind them and Elizabeth turned to see who it was. A stunning redhead glided across the patio, tall and slender and graceful, and El felt suddenly short and dumpy by comparison. She straightened up her back to her full five feet, two inches plus shoes.
“Darling! You’re early!” Burke said, and at least he seemed sincerely glad to see his fiancée. He greeted the redhead with open arms and a kiss. The young woman actually kicked her leg out behind her, making El want to puke right then and there, only she’d skipped breakfast that morning in order to pack for the weekend and had an empty stomach.
“This is my fiancée, Sara Ellis,” Burke said by way of introduction. “Binky, these are friends of Ford’s - Miss Mitchell and Mr. Jones.”
Binky? What the fu - “Please call me Elizabeth.”
Sara’s hand in El’s was perhaps a bit bony, but it was warm and soft, as was her smile. “I’m glad to know you,” she said.
“She’s a writer,” Peter supplied.
“I’m afraid so,” El said self-depracatingly.
“Oh, don’t apologize,” Sara replied. “I have a great respect for the written word. I wouldn’t have my job if it weren’t for writers.”
“My, what a surprise, look at all the people,” someone said, and El turned around again, reflecting that this was getting to be more and more like a French farce by the minute. The man who’d entered was short and bald, with thick, dark glasses on his face. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down shirt open at the neck, khakis and espadrilles, and held a straw fedora in his hands.
“DAD!” Peter said, perhaps a bit too loudly as he went over to address the man, who flinched visibly at his approach.
“How great to see you, Dad - what a surprise!” Diana said, running to kiss her father on the cheek; the man looked a bit shocked at all the attention, but he hugged the girl back fondly. Elizabeth didn’t think he looked much like a Master of the Universe, nor like the man who’d fathered those particular children, but she allowed it Diana’s mother was very attractive - there was no accounting for taste.
“Hello. My. Wife,” Burke père said, sidling over to June, who eyed his attire disdainfully, but nevertheless smiled at him when he kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” June said as the butler squeezed two more place settings onto the table.
“What’s he doing here?” the elder Burke exclaimed, and Elizabeth as well as half the party now assembled whirled around to spot Caffrey leaning nonchalantly against a potted tree.
“How now,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. Elizabeth thought this couldn’t get much better, and wished she’d thought to bring a tape recorder.
Caffrey strode forward, a hand outstretched to the bride. “I believe best wishes are in order,” he said. Sara gave him her hand and as he bent over it, he said, “You look a little pale, my dear. I thought all brides were meant to be blushing? Don’t worry about it, I know exactly how you feel. Run, don’t walk.”
An exaggerated shutter-click sounded beside her and Elizabeth glanced over to see Clint had taken a picture of the hand kiss. Noticing, Caffrey smiled dazzlingly at the camera.
Peter was at her side in the span of a breath, a hand in the middle of her back. “Running. You’d know a lot about that,” he practically growled at Caffrey.
“I only know what you taught me, and you were only too eager to chase me away,” he replied as Peter advanced on him like he’d like to hit him.
“Come now, darlings, don’t fight - we have guests,” Mrs. Burke said with a light laugh. “They grew up together, you know,” she said to Clint and El, “oh, how they’d bicker and row.”
“How nice,” Elizabeth responded, eyes not leaving the two men.
“But you seemed to like a little trouble every now and then, Peter - at least when we first started,” Caffrey continued, then addressed Sara. “He needs trouble every now and then, Sara, and lots of it.”
“He won’t be getting it from me,” she said, looking up at Peter adoringly.
“That’s too bad. Sometimes I think you should have stuck with me longer, Peter - gotten what you needed.”
“I thought it was for life, but the nice judge gave me a full pardon,” Peter replied.
Caffrey’s smile got wider, like a shark’s. “You would know all about judging.”
Peter returned the smile, and honestly, El thought they’d either throw down right then or else start screwing like rabbits, the tension was so thick. The click of Clint’s camera beside her was enough to break it.
“Oh look, lunch is served,” Mrs. Burke said, and swept them all to the table in her wake.
“Oh, hello,” Mr. Burke said to Elizabeth as he took the seat next to hers. “You’re one of the bridesmaids?”
“No, I’m not.“
“So you don’t know her? The bride?”
“We’ve only just met today.”
“Good, then you won’t mind it if I gossip. She can be a bit of a stick in the mud.”
“You don’t say?” El said, smelling a story there. She eyed the happy couple, who were conferring on something at the opposite end of the table.
“Plus she refuses to help me expose the fact that Hollywood is run by an international cabal of Illuminati, who are intent on subliminal mind control experiments through YouTube videos.”
“Um, really?”
He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, “Do you really think baby monkeys ride on pigs of their own volition?”
“I suppose… not?”
“Exactly,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. El thought he was a little bizarre to be a Wall Street icon, but she supposed it took all kinds.
“Dad,” Peter interrupted. “Please don’t bore the guests with your wacked-out theories!”
“They are not ‘wacked-out,’ Suit, and you’ll do well to heed my warnings before mixing yourself up with the very establishment that’s been perpetrating the entire thing!”
“Who - me?” Sara said, when he gestured at her.
“I haven’t worked for the Bureau in two years, you can stop calling me Suit,” Peter said.
“You’re running for Senate - that’s even suitier.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Don’t distract me with facts. I clearly failed to bring you up properly.”
“Darling,” Mrs. Burke said, leaning over and taking her husband’s hand in hers lovingly, “your jokes are flying right over the heads of our guests.” If El wasn’t mistaken, June was also digging the heel of her shoe into the tender flesh of the man’s ankle under the table. “Please play nice.”
“Yes, June,” he said, chastised.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as Diana got up and ran into the house; she soon returned to the doorway and gestured for her mother, who joined her inside. A moment later, Peter stood, looking pale and a little angry.
“Uncle Mozzie!” he said rather too loudly to a tall, older gentleman who stood in the doorway now, Diana and June both behind him, looking apprehensive. “What a surprise, I’d have thought you’d be at home preparing for the party tonight!”
Peter excused himself and went into the house, sweeping the older man, June, and Diana with him. The door shut with a slam, leaving the rest of the guests staring after them all in a bit of shock.
“Hasn’t this been fun?” Caffrey said with an almost vicious glint in his eye. He grabbed a bottle of wine that the butler had just brought in an ice bucket and thumbed the cork out of it with a loud POP. “Who’s for some champagne?”
xXxXxXxXx
“Peter, what were you thinking calling your Uncle Mozzie ‘Dad’?” June said to her stepson.
“You were the one who wanted to present this image of the perfect family!”
“But not with your Uncle Mozzie - honestly! I love him, and he’s my oldest friend, but there’s no way I’d have married him!”
“Well, it would have worked if he hadn’t shown up.” He turned to his father, who was having a happy reunion with Diana in the corner of the room. “I thought I asked you not to come.”
Reese Hughes Burke raised a dignified eyebrow and approached his son. “And I thought this was still my house, and you all still my family. I missed your first wedding, Peter, I’m not about to miss this one.” He held out a hand to June, who came to his side and took it, kissing the back of it fondly.
“Mother?” Peter said, throwing a betrayed look at June.
“He deserves to be here, Peter, no matter what your issues may be.”
“You can just forgive him, then? After all he’s done? The - the women?” Rumors of his father’s cheating had run rampant for years, though Peter had no proof of it.
“What he has done has been to keep a roof over our heads and make us all very comfortable, Peter,” June said very sharply.
“But June, he’s betrayed you, and -“
“And that’s between us, my boy.”
“I don’t get you sometimes,” Peter said, stung by her taking his father’s side - she always had and it was clear she always would. If only she knew how much of it was based on lies and deceit, he wondered how she’d feel then. But no, he would not be the one to bring that up, not here, not to her. She was the woman who’d raised him, and he would never hurt her.
“I think I’m a pretty open book, Peter,” she said sadly, but he was already gone.
Part 2
Author: rabidchild
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble. Pairings: Peter/Neal and Peter/Sara, with some Hughes/June and Elizabeth/Jones around the edges.
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Movie AU/fusion, romantic comedy
Word Count: ~22,000
Beta: miri_thompson
Artist: kanarek13
Summary: The White Collar/Philadelphia Story fusion nobody wanted. Peter Burke is the scion of American “royalty,” about to marry Hollywood starlet Sara Ellis. Unfortunately, his ex Neal has brought a pair of tabloid journalists, Elizabeth Mitchell and Clinton Jones, along to the wedding to do an inside story. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?
Kanarek13’s art
A/N: So I have this bad habit of merging the White Collar world with those of my favorite movies (See: stories inspired by Topper, Sliding Doors, and The Princess Bride). I suppose this one was inevitable, as it’s my favorite screwball comedy.
Almost none of the action takes place in Manhattan, but “The Scarsdale Story” just didn’t sound as catchy. Since the movie took place on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia, I figure I can play fast and loose with geography too…
With all due respect to the original play by the late Phillip Barry…
This is a fairy tale.
----
Cast of Characters
(I’m including their ages, as I’ve changed them from what they are on the show)
Peter Burke, 34: Former FBI agent, currently running for a Senatorial seat in New York
Neal Caffrey, 32: Wealthy playboy, accomplished artist, and Peter’s ex
Elizabeth Mitchell, 30: Out of work playwright, currently slumming as a tabloid reporter
Clinton Jones, 31: Talented artist, currently slumming as a freelance paparazzo
June Ellington-Burke, 53: Peter’s stepmother, the woman who raised him
Diana Burke, 15: June’s and Reese's daughter, Peter’s half sister
Sara Ellis, 25: Latest Hollywood It Girl and Peter’s fiancée
Reese Hughes Burke, 57: Peter’s father
Uncle Mozzie, age unknown: Longtime friend of June’s
Vincent Adler, 50: Multinational publishing magnate and all-around sleaze
xXxXxXxXx
Elizabeth Mitchell stood with her hip cocked in the elevator, arms folded across her chest and watching the numbers head north toward twenty-one. Around her, young women wishing to have themselves taken seriously as professionals teetered atop $1,000 pairs of Blahniks and Louboutins, their five-inch heels making them tower over El’s petite, five-foot, two-inch frame. She glanced up at one such specimen, a leggy blonde in some over-constructed dress that looked like it cost as much as El’s rent.
“How’s the air up there?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How do you walk in those things?” El asked, truly curious, pointing her chin at the pretty if impractical pair of patent leather peep toe pumps the younger woman wore.
“Oh, I barely notice,” she replied breezily as the elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor and she hobbled out and on to her business; El didn’t know whether it was the shoes or the girl’s pencil skirt, but she looked like a stiff wind would have blown her over.
Less than a minute later, she was striding through the double glass doors of Adler Publishing’s top publication, Them Weekly, the soles of her star-spangled Chuck Taylor All-Stars making squeaking noises on the highly polished granite floors. Pausing by the front desk, she waited for the receptionist to notice her, but then a familiar voice called to her from the raised deck of offices at the back of the space.
“Elizabeth, you’re late,” called Vincent Adler, arms crossed in front of him as he attempted to look sternly at her. Despite owning a publishing empire that listed literally hundreds of titles, he still acted as editor-in-chief and publisher of this, the company’s flagship publication, and the one that made him famous.
“Weren’t we meeting at 2:30?” she called back innocently, making her way across the “bullpen” of staff writers’ desks to the stairs.
“It’s 3:05,” he pointed out, an amused smile nevertheless playing across his lips.
“Right on time, then.” She cocked her head and smiled, because that’s what he expected her to do. He was a smarmy misogynist who was rumored to have his fingers in more pies than Martha Stewart ever baked, but he liked her for some reason, and she’d done a lot worse in her life than flirt with a man to keep a job. She preceded him into his office, where another man already sat at the small, round meeting table, leaning his chair back against the wall.
“Elizabeth,” he greeted pleasantly, righting his chair and standing.
“Jonesy,” she replied, hiding a smile as he stumbled slightly when the chair hit him in the back of the knees. “You look good. Eye all healed?”
Jones was a talented artist and photographer who suffered much for his art - which, like print journalism, seemed lately to be in its death throes any way you sliced it. He had recently been reduced to hiding in dark corners of the city trying to catch the latest tabloid darlings screwing in the bushes or snorting coke up their plastic noses in order to make his ends meet long enough to make rent.
His hand went up to his face, then he pulled it away, self-conscious. “Almost good as new.”
El made a clucking sound of commiseration. “Poor baby - who knew Betty White had it in her?”
“She’s got a mean right hook, let me tell you,” he said wryly as Adler closed his office door behind him.
“You two are going to love this new assignment. Full access, and I mean full. It’s a tabloid editor’s wet dream, and we got it!” Vincent was talking excitedly, as if they’d all been in the middle of a conversation.
“Language!” Jones admonished, eyeing Elizabeth.
She scowled at him. “Ain’t you fucking adorable,” she said with a frown, then added, “Where are we going for this major exclusive? Up Miley Cyrus’s ass for her first ever colonic?”
“Your assignment will be Them Weekly’s most sensational achievement!” Vincent enthused, ignoring her. “Peter Burke!”
“Peter Burke?” Elizabeth asked, perplexed.
Adler stared at her, open-mouthed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him? Scion of the Burke dynasty? Rejected his family’s plans for him after business school to become an FBI agent? Had a torrid affair with that artist, what’s his name?”
Still Elizabeth’s mind was a blank.
“He’s marrying Sara Ellis this weekend?!?”
“Ooohhh, that girl from that one movie with that guy?” El might have heard something. “So?”
Adler shook his head, but still managed to maintain some of his excitement. “’Inside the Wedding of the Century,’ exclusively on the pages of Them Weekly!” he said, and El was only slightly appalled to see him employ jazz hands.
“Or what the kitchen maid saw through the keyhole,” she replied archly, “it’s almost quaint - what is this, 1940? How the hell are we going to get inside? Even the guests don’t know where the wedding will be.”
“Ah ha, so you do know who I’m talking about?”
She scowled at him.
“All has been arranged,” Adler said, all cagey again.
“I am not dressing as a cater waiter again,” Jones warned, and El had to nod her agreement, pointing at him with a thumb, the “me neither” fully implied.
“You won’t have to,” Vincent said, moving over to the doorway that led to the conference room adjacent to his office. When he opened it, El glanced through to spot a handsome young man sprawled in one of the comfy leather chairs like he owned the place. Taking his cue, he walked through into Adler’s office, all practiced ease and blue-eyed confidence. He looked like a bona fide Disney prince, and was just the type that would’ve had her dropping her panties within an hour, once upon a time; these days, she required dinner first.
“Who are you?” she asked, her tone a lot more confrontational than she wanted it to be.
“A friend of the Burke family,” Adler began, “He’s been working in our L.A. field office, and I believe he can help us.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a friend of Peter’s older step brother Ford, who unfortunately won’t be coming this weekend. He’ll introduce you as another old friend.”
“Good ol’ Ford, huh?” El asked, her suspicions mounting. “Tell me, does Burke even know this guy?”
“You might say Peter and I are old friends,” Blue-Eyes replied, and El couldn’t be 100% positive, but his teeth may have sparkled.
“You might also say you’re Neal Caffrey, and you were Peter Burke’s lover for five years,” Jones pointed out.
“Yes, you might.”
“Rumor was you even got married up in Vermont.”
Caffrey’s smile faded.
“What was it Perez Hilton called you two? Neater?” Jones continued, rising and leaning toward Caffrey with faked amity. “And I remember your break-up spectacularly well. You and he were vacationing in the Hamptons on a little racing yacht - the ‘Taurus’ wasn’t it?”
Elizabeth saw the muscles in Caffrey’s jaw bunching as he ground his molars - Jones had hit very close to the mark. “However did you know?” he asked Jones blandly.
“I was the one photographer whose camera you didn’t smash,” Jones said snappishly. “You were terribly nice about it though - just threw it into the harbor.”
“One of those, huh?” El said ruefully, clucking sympathetically for Jones’s poor camera.
“That’s right,” Caffrey said. “Silly me thinking our lives were our own business.”
“He did reimburse me for the camera, though,” Jones pointed out. “Though not the five grand the photo I had of Burke socking you on the jaw would’ve netted me.”
“I’ll write you a check,” Caffrey said without sincerity.
“Always the gentleman,” El observed, and Caffrey shrugged, the tension she’d seen across his shoulders suddenly easing as he plastered on a nearly-convincing smile again.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” he replied. El raised an eyebrow.
“Now then, what are the plans, Neal?” Adler interrupted. “The wedding’s Saturday, today’s Thursday. They should spend tomorrow night at the Burke’s place out in Scarsdale, yes?”
“Now wait just a minute, wait just a minute!” Elizabeth protested, addressing Adler. “There's something not right here. Why would he do this anyway…” Sudden realization dawned, and she turned on Caffrey, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, oh, I get it, now. You want to get even with your ex.”
“That’s my business if I do. I’ll have a car come round here and pick you both up at eleven tomorrow.” He looked Elizabeth up and down. “Oh, and… wear something appropriate, would you?” With that, he breezed out of Adler’ office, leaving Elizabeth spluttering in his wake.
“Well, whattaya… I mean… Who does he…” She was, for once, seriously at a loss for words.
“Here,” Jones said, elbowing her in the side and holding out a handkerchief. “There’s a little spit in your eye - and it’s showing.”
“Peter? Peter!” The cultured tones of June Ellington Burke floated out of the drawing room and onto the terrace, where Peter had thought he’d successfully escaped to be able to make a call to his campaign manager.
He flinched, but would never let his emotions enter his voice. “Yes, Mother?” He did love her, after all.
“Oh, there you are, darling, whatever are you doing all the way out here?”
Peter looked at the distance from the house to his seat on the patio - all of twelve feet - and sighed inwardly. “Phone reception’s better out here,” he lied.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Uh-huh. And I suppose it’s got nothing to do with the seating charts we were supposed to be working on?”
“Can’t you finish it?” he asked, aware he was whining. “All this wedding stuff’s driving me bonkers. Why isn’t Sara doing this?”
“Sara’s en route from L.A. and won’t be here until dinner time, you are supposed to know that. I promised her we’d do these last few things, now come on, don’t make me disappointed - you’re a Burke.”
“Did that ever mean anything?” Peter scowled; the Burke family was an important business and political dynasty, with Wall Street tycoons, Congressmen, and even a Supreme Court Justice among them.
“Don’t be childish.”
“Yeah, don’t be childish.”
Peter and June turned to see sixteen-year old Diana wander onto the patio, her nose in a thin book. She slouched over to the table where Peter was sitting, the heels of her sneakers dragging as she moved, eyes barely registering where she was going. She walked towards a chair until it scraped against her bare shins, then turned and fell gracefully into it, not losing her place in her reading at all.
“What’s that, sis?” Peter said, snatching the publication from her hands.
“Hey, give that back!” she protested, reaching for it.
“‘An Undulatory Theory of the Mechanics of Atoms and Molecules’,” Peter read. “Aren’t most girls your age reading Twilight or something?”
“Only the boring ones,” she said, snatching the book back.
“Don’t slouch, dear,” June said to her youngest.
Diana scowled, but straightened her posture.
“Some more gifts have arrived, madam,” Pederson their elderly butler said, bearing an armful of boxes.
“Set them down anywhere, Pederson.”
“Very good, madam. And that gift over there?” He gestured with his hand at a flatbed truck just beyond the garden’s edge that held a large, ornate marble fountain, complete with half a dozen cherubs, nymphs and satyrs all over it in various stages of undress.
“Somebody call the Vatican, I think one of their statues went missing,” Diana laughed.
“What the fuuu…dge is that?” Peter colored at his near-lapse in using curse words in front of his mother.
“Good Lord, it’s ghastly. Who’s it from, Pederson?” The man silently handed her a card. “Friends of your father,” she reported.
“Oh, which one? The inside trader or the Ponzi schemer?” Peter and his father had been estranged for months now, and had long been at odds even before that. Their latest disagreement stemmed from Reese’s dealings with some unsavory characters, including that muckraker, Vincent Adler; Peter no longer even remembered why they’d argued, but he had uninvited his father from the wedding.
“Oh, Peter, really. Do be polite.”
“Well, Mother, it’s not like I can turn it off, can I? I am an FBI agent.”
“Former FBI agent,” Diana corrected.
He sighed and closed his eyes. “Former FBI agent. And if Dad keeps associating with these men, it will come to no good. In this day and age, you’re only as good as your reputation, and one - just one scandal, and it’s connected to you every time someone Googles your name. I’m so lucky Sara has managed to keep herself above that sort of thing.”
“It can’t hurt your election chances, either,” June pointed out.
“No, it can’t. She’s really terrific, isn’t she?” Peter couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. His fiancée Sara Ellis was talented, beautiful, and in synch with Peter in all things, from religion to politics to social issues. He couldn’t think of a better mate.
“She certainly is,” June agreed enthusiastically.
“I liked you with Neal better,” Diana said.
Peter scowled. “Then why don’t you marry him?”
“I’d rather marry Sara,” Diana quipped.
“That makes two of us.”
“Why are you always so mean about Neal? What’d he ever do?”
“Never you mind, Diana,” June interrupted, “it was between them, and none of our affair.”
“You two could still have an affair,” Diana suggested hopefully.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Peter said, standing over his little sister. “Just mind someone doesn’t shove a gag in yours.”
“That’s enough, you two. Diana, isn’t it time for your piano lesson?” June said.
“Ach, can’t we cancel that for just one week?” the teen protested.
The sound of someone whistling “Come On, Get Happy” floated to them on the summer breeze, causing Diana to cock her head to the side. “I know that whistle. Neal! Neal!” Diana got up and scampered happily over to the man in question as he wandered around the hedge beside the garden and threw her arms around his neck.
“Diana, my love, you are a sight for these sore eyes!”
Diana wormed her way under his arm and marched with him the rest of the way back to the patio, where he greeted June fondly with kisses on both her cheeks. “You’re as radiantly beautiful as ever,” he purred as she blushed like a girl.
“Caffrey, what the hell are you doing here?” Peter could barely control his anger at seeing his ex here and now, of all times, for a reunion.
“I heard you were throwing a wedding - don’t I come to all of your weddings?”
“Don’t you ruin all of my weddings?” Peter said from between gritted teeth.
“I will say getting married suits you - you’ve never looked better, babe.”
“Tell me, Neal - how was Ford when you saw him in L.A.?” June interrupted, always one for keeping the peace. June’s son by her first husband, Byron, was always a source of concern.
“Yes, how is my big brother?” Peter asked. “Finally drink himself through the new liver?”
“Now, that’s unkind, even for you,” June scolded and Peter’s face turned bright red as he murmured an apology.
Neal breezed over the nasty remark as he removed the straw fedora he wore and gestured with it expansively. “He sends his love. He’s heartbroken, of course, not to be able to come. I thought I’d offer my services as best man as he was unavailable.”
“Thank you, but I prefer a best man I can trust.”
“Still and all, I’m sure you’ll like the friends Ford sent in his place.”
“Friends? That Ford sent?” June asked, confused.
“Yes. A Miss Mitchell and a Mr. Jones. I’ve left them in the south parlor. You should tell them what rooms they’re staying in, June.”
“Rooms? They’re supposed to be staying this weekend?”
“Well, yes - it was Ford’s idea. They’ve been so helpful to him in his recovery that when they said they were coming down here for the weekend, he said he’d make all the arrangements. Has he not called?”
“You really used to be a lot better at conning people,” Peter spat.
“The fabled ‘gut’ in action?” Neal asked, a glint in his blue eyes.
“It’s never steered me wrong before. Hey, wait a minute, didn’t I hear you were hooked up with some tabloid out there in L.A.?”
“Entertainment journalism,” Neal corrected him.
“That’s right - the cleverly titled Them Weekly, yes? I don’t suppose these ‘friends’ of Ford’s work for the same rag, do they?”
“There’s that gut again. Darling, it really is getting a bit poochy.” Neal rubbed his own, flat abdomen and Peter’s face darkened.
“You know, I thought you were pretty low after what you did last time, but this, Neal, is beyond the pale even for you. Bringing paparazzi to my wedding!”
Maddeningly, Neal just kept smiling, and damn him for looking even better now than the day Peter banished him from his life - he thought forever.
“Peter, you’re slipping,” he said, his voice a throaty purr. “There was a time when that stern face of yours used to really get me shaking in my fine Italian leather shoes.”
Peter took a step forward, angry. “I used to think you had retained a shred of decency, even after what you did, but I see now I was wrong.”
“Oh, Peter, darling, please,” June began, putting a hand on his arm.
“Mother, not yet!” Diana said, face avid. “Maybe he’s gonna sock him again!”
“Diana - piano!” June scolded, and bundled the teen into the house.
When they’d gone, Peter rounded on his ex, wanting nothing more than to make Diana’s wish come true and punch Neal in his smirking face. He settled for clenching his fists. “Neal, I won’t stand for this. I want those people out of here and you with them!”
“Certainly, Your Honor. But first, could I interest you in some small blackmail?” Neal reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“What’s that?” Peter asked suspiciously.
“An expose, complete with photographic evidence, of your father’s past… indiscretions.”
Peter snatched the papers from Neal and scanned them, saying, “Give me a break, Neal, he would never cheat on June -“ His voice trailed off as he read the pages. “They can’t publish this - it’s all lies. It’s slanderous!”
“Libelous, technically, and yes, they can, because it appears to be true.”
Peter looked at Neal, and saw the truth in his eyes, and not a little regret that he had to be the one bringing this to Peter’s attention. “He really embezzled from the fund?” According to the story, Peter’s father, Reese Hughes Burke, highly-respected Wall Street tycoon, had embezzled from the high-yield mutual fund he’d made his bones on back in the 1990’s.
“The last recession hit a lot of people hard, Peter. He’s since paid it all back with interest.”
“But he still stole over $50 million, Neal. What am I supposed to do with this information?”
“More to the point, what’s Vincent Adler going to do with this information?”
Peter could feel the blood drain from his face. “The family will be ruined. My mother - this’ll kill her, Neal.”
“Don’t worry, it’s stopped for now, if you’ll just allow Miss Mitchell and Mr. Jones to turn in a story on your wedding for Them Weekly. And by story, I mean story”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Inside the Wedding of the Century of the Week,” Neal continued. “How many beads are on the bride’s designer dress, who’s fucking who, and what did Jay-Z and Beyoncé wear?”
“Now I am gonna be sick. Sara’ll never allow it.”
“She’ll do anything you ask, and you know it. You’re Peter Burke, Honorable Man TM. You wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if one bit you on the ass.”
Peter glared at him, but headed for the house, realizing he had no choice but to go along and make nice with the members of the fourth estate taking up space in his living room.
As he moved through the conservatory within, Diana stopped her piano practice and spun around. “No blood?” she said with exaggerated disappointment.
“Diana!” June admonished from her place at the table, fussing with a flower arrangement. “Peter, what are you going to do about the two reporters in the South parlor?” she asked nonchalantly.
Peter groaned inwardly - nothing got past his mother. “I’m going to lay down and take it,” he muttered.
“Really, darling? Well, then, I’ll alert the kitchen we’ll be five for luncheon.”
“Six,” Neal piped up, dropping his woven fedora onto the table.
“How nice,” June beamed at him. “Six for luncheon.”
Peter loitered near the doorway, glaring at his ex giving the puppy eyes to his mother when a pair of brown eyes appeared in his line of sight.
“Reporters? I can’t believe you caved,” Diana said.
“There are things you’ve no idea about, sis,” Peter said ruefully.
“You can give me ideas, you know,” she groused. “Everyone just treats me like a kid.”
Peter looked down at her kindly. She was so beautiful and, despite her snark and pretense at being a worldly person, so damn innocent. If the story about their father came out, it would hurt her beyond measure - beyond healing, Peter thought. Better she should stay as ignorant as possible for as long as possible.
But it didn’t mean she couldn’t be put to good use in this situation, and that they couldn’t both have some fun at their unwanted guests’ expense. Peter had an idea.
“Hey, Di, what do you say we give these reporters a taste of what they really came here for?”
“Oh, Peter, darling!” June admonished, overhearing. “Do behave yourself - why can’t we just be ourselves!”
Peter raised his eyebrows, all innocence. “That’s what I’m saying we do - we give them exactly what they expect to see and nothing less!” He winked down at Diana.
“Oh boy, this is going to be fun!” she enthused and ran off with Peter, he whispering plans into her ear.
xXxXxXxXx
CLICKJones idly took pictures of the “South Parlor,” the well-appointed room - one of seemingly thousands in this ridiculously over-the-top place - that he and Elizabeth had been shown to by a butler upon their arrival.
“What are you doing that for?” she asked him testily.
He gave her a measuring look before answering, “Atmosphere. Want to set the stage for your story. There’s no telling what you’ll need - unless you’ve already made up your mind?”
El rolled her eyes. “I have an angle, but I’m not so sure Adler’ll go for ‘the Bolsheviks had it right.’ What’s that room? I forgot my compass,” she said, wandering - no, teetering was the better word, given the ridiculously high heels and narrow pencil skirt she’d donned in order to “wear something appropriate” to come here - over to a door at the far end of the room.
“It’s the South by South-Southwest parlor by living room,” Jones snarked, taking a photo of the view out of the window he stood in front of. “All this stuff - wouldn’t you know you have to be as rich as god to live in a dump like this?”
“I wouldn’t live here if they paid me,” El said derisively
“Don’t worry, they won’t.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and opened the door, whistling low when she did. Beyond the door was a long room - it could only be classified as a gallery - in which a number of paintings and sculptures were displayed. She wandered in, and her mouth dropped open as she took in the Hockneys - two of them - the Basquiat and the Frank Stella, a portrait of a beautiful African American woman by Warhol and, “Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” she breathed; at the far end of the room, set off with all the appropriate lighting, was an honest to god Van Gogh.
El approached it as she would have approached a wild animal. Or an angel. She got up close to it, close enough to see fucking bristles embedded in the paint. She swallowed, imagined she could smell the linseed oil. Mesmerized, she raised a hand, forgetting herself. She was about to touch it before the clearing of a throat brought her to her senses.
Startled, she stood up straighter. Cheeks burning, she saw the same butler who’d shown her and Clint into the other room standing there, a bland expression on his face.
“Nice painting,” she said lamely.
He just stood there, so motionless he himself might have been one of the objets she’d just passed.
“Is it real?”
He blinked at her.
“Suppose it must be, huh?”
Blink
“So. I should just…” she gestured with a thumb over her shoulder, then backed out of the room slowly.
----
“So what’s this Caffrey guy’s deal anyway?” El was sitting sprawled out on the couch - or was it technically a chaise longue? - in the South parlor. All this waiting around was making her testy. She pulled her iPhone out of her purse.
“Neal George Caffrey,” Jones intoned, flipping through the photos he’d taken so far on the viewfinder of his digital camera.
“What the hell kind of a name is that anyway? Could it be more white bread?”
“Because Elizabeth Mitchell isn’t the whitest girl in the room.”
“I’ll have you know I’m half Irish.”
“Black Irish, huh? And what’s the other half?”
“English.”
“You’re a regular mutt.”
El made a face and hit Wikipedia. “Neal George Caffrey. He’s one of the Newport Caffreys, dahling - whatever the hell that means. Up and coming artist and sculptor. Who makes a living as an artist these days?”
Jones gave her a look. “Not many.”
“I’m sorry, Clint. You were totally the best sculptor at that last gallery opening. I would have made a bid, honest.”
“I appreciate it,” he muttered, and went back to perusing the photos.
El felt bad - Clint really was a talented sculptor, specializing in trash art. The piece in question had been composed entirely out of plastic coffee cup covers and was a scathing indictment of modern corporations’ assimilation and co-opting of popular culture to further their brands, but hell if El had the money or the space in her tiny flat to accommodate it.
She picked up her phone again. “Says here ol’ Nealio is also a philanthropist - how does one get to be that at 30, anyways? And shit - check this out, here’s something from one of the gossip rags - it’s rumored he was arrested as a teenager running a three card Monty scam outside his prep school on the Upper West Side. I’m sure Daddy wasn’t too happy with that.”
She kept reading. “Oh,” she said as she went. “Looks like Daddy wasn’t really in the picture much - left the mom when the kid was like four. Then the mom was in and out of rehab. He was really raised by an aunt named Ellen Parker.”
“I guess even the rich have their problems.”
“As the poet said, ‘mo’ money, mo’ problems.’”
Any further research was hampered by the appearance of the man himself. “Is everybody comfortable?” he asked, apropos of nothing.
“Snug as bugs in rugs,” Jones said, slouching down more in the plush chair he occupied.
El got up and walked - hobbled, God were the balls of her feet on fire - over to him. “Caffrey, you’re sure the family’s going to be OK with two strangers in their midst? Adler won’t be happy if we can’t get this story in on time, and I’ve got two mouths to feed, you know.” She didn’t mention that one of those mouths was her dog Satchmo’s.
“No worries, it’s in the bag,” he said, moving smoothly over to a bar at the side of the room. He poured out a glass of lemonade for himself but offered neither of them anything. “Any friend of Ford’s and et cetera. June will love you, don’t worry.”
“It’s not the mother I’m worried about,” El said. “What about the fiancée? What’s her deal?”
“You’ll have to ask her publicist.”
“How’d they meet?”
“Heaven brought them together, I imagine,” Neal said, with just a hint of bitterness.
He was jealous, of that Elizabeth was certain; she filed that information away for later. “And what about Reese Hughes Burke - the father.” She went back to her iPhone. “Says here he founded the Burke Equity Fund back in the day - that’s where he made his name. And his own personal fortune. Man like that’s not without a few skeletons. Here’s a link to American Banker’s Who’s Who in American Finance - oh, but it’s for paid subscribers only.” She lowered her phone. “Don’t suppose there’s a library in this burg where I could look it up?” she raised an eyebrow at Caffrey. “And I don’t suppose you’d know where it was?”
“I suppose I do - my great-grandfather built it,” he said blandly and took a sip of his lemonade.
Elizabeth didn’t react, and went back to studying her phone. “And what about the groom - Peter John Burke. All I know is he’s running for the seat vacated recently by Senator Pratt.” She scrolled around on the phone. “Poll numbers look good - suppose that law and order stance he’s got must go a long way with the voters - former FBI agent and all. Wonder why he left the Bureau?”
“Are we done here?” Caffrey interrupted, putting his glass down and leaving abruptly.
“Well that’s not much to go on,” Jones says. “I guess you can fill in the blanks later.”
“How about I fill them in right now? Attended all the best Schools - Canterbury, Princeton undergrad, Harvard post-grad. Got the best grades of course - Daddy wouldn’t have stood for anything else. Was on his way to becoming a real Master of the Universe. God, I hate him already.”
El shuddered - already she’d worked herself into a tizzy, which she’d need to survive this weekend, she thought. Her own background was almost boringly normal, but it stuck in her craw that there were still people out there like the Burkes - moneyed and privileged and famous for nothing whatsoever but being famous.
“Peter John Burke - would I trade everything I have to have his life?” Clinton said, getting her attention. He was sitting forward in his chair. “You bet your very sweet ass I would.”
“You aren’t serious? I thought you had more integrity than that.”
“Integrity, schmintegrity, Elizabeth - I’ll take not waking up in a cold sweat because I don’t have enough money to make rent and feed myself over the moral high ground any day of the week.”
El opened her mouth to reply when another person entered the room.
“Hee-eey,” a teenaged girl cooed as she sauntered into the room. She was about El’s height, with coffee-colored skin and large, expressive eyes - simply beautiful, and destined to become more so as she got older. “I’m Diana Burke. You must be Ford’s friends.”
She made a beeline for Clinton, who sat straight up in his chair. She was wearing a tank top cut so low it would give Miley Cyrus pause and short shorts; El noticed with annoyance the girl was able to walk around on her own high heels without the need for a cane or hanging onto nearby furniture. Diana sat on the arm of the chair Clinton was sitting in and leaned into him.
“He-hello,” he said after clearing his throat several times first. El noticed his eyes snap up as soon as he caught himself glancing at the girl’s cleavage.
“How is my big brother?”
“F-fine.”
She leaned farther forward, until her breasts were brushing Clint’s shoulder. “So glad to hear it.”
“Meep.”
“Okay,” El announced, kicking off her shoes and getting to her feet; she walked over to nip this thing in the bud. “You’re Peter’s sister, right?” she asked, moving to Clint’s side to distract the girl. “Are you finding all of this wedding stuff to be exciting?”
Diana straightened up on the chair arm but didn’t stand. Her face fell into a fetching pout. “It’s OK, I guess. At least I get to wear a Stella McCartney to the party.”
“There you go,” El said unenthusiastically.
“Plus, #Petra is trending on Twitter! My friends are gonna be so jealous when I show up in Teen People!” She pulled out her cell phone and began to type enthusiastically into it. “Oh, poo!” she said after several seconds. She looked up, suddenly forlorn, large eyes even larger.
“What, uh, what happened?” Clint asked, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor.
“Kylie Jenner’s got 23 more Twitter followers than me!”
“Oh no. How tragic,” El said, wondering why she should care.
”Yes, mother, I’ll remember to tell Pederson to bring the Bentley around. Which one did you want, the roadster or the Continental? Or the Continental convertible?”
They all turned their heads as the voice sounded from somewhere just outside the door through which Diana had arrived. A moment later, Peter Burke appeared.
Elizabeth had to admit that the tall drink of water that strode in was very easy on the eyes - tall, with long legs and broad shoulders, he carried himself with confidence and not a little grace. He was tanned, with short-cropped brown hair and an open, friendly face with twinkling, brown eyes that shone with intelligence. He was dressed to play polo: snug-fitting white pants, knee-high black boots, and a tight, maroon shirt that stretched enticingly across his well-defined pectorals. Elizabeth had to stop herself from staring, open-mouthed.
“Oh Di, there you are. Mother was looking for you. You’ve got an appointment with your stylist or something.” He paused to inspect his fingernails.
“Mon dieu!” the teen exclaimed, and jumped to her feet. “I forgot! If I don’t get there now, they’ll give away the Monique Lhullier!” She dashed from the room, shouting for her mother.
“Well, hello,” Peter said. He slapped the riding crop he held against the top of a boot and turned to greet El and Clint, who stood. “You must be Ford’s friends. I’m Peter Burke, though I suppose you must know that already. Any friends of my brother’s and et cetera. So nice to have you for the weekend.”
“We’re happy to be here,” El lied.
“Too bad Ford couldn’t be here - it would have been nice to have one of the men in this family stand up with me.”
“Where’s your father?” El asked.
“Good old Dad,” he replied breezily, and smiled. “I hope you’ll consider coming to the wedding too? Sara - my girl - she’d love to have you.”
“That was more or less the idea.”
“Everything’s kind of a mess, of course, but my mother’s on top of it. Women are so good at party planning! Oh, is that a camera?” He reached for Clint’s camera, which he still held in his hand.
Clint was loath to part with it - El knew it’d set him back a pretty penny. “I--I take pictures with it,” he stammered.
“Well I hope you'll take loads. We hired Annie Leibovitz to do the wedding portraits, of course, but no media on the day itself. Miss Bennett, can you imagine anyone sinking so low as to work for a tabloid?”
“I imagine I can’t,” she said, cheeks coloring.
“Oh, but you’re some sort of a writer, aren't you, Miss Bennett? Fashion, is it? Or blogging? I love a good blog. Is it one of those ones with lots of cats?”
“I am a playwright,” El replied through clenched teeth.
“Really? Aren’t you a clever girl. Have any been produced?”
“You could say so.” El’s play, “Us. Talking.” had won the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for best play six years before; her follow up had stalled in pre-production and then a bad case of writer’s block had kept her from producing anything of value since. She took the job with Adler to make a few bucks as a freelancer. “One of them has.”
“Only one? Doesn’t sound like much for a girl your age. I don't mean to criticize. You've probably got other interests outside your work. Like those cat blogs!”
El felt her hands curl into fists; she calmed when she felt Clint’s steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, that’s it - you two are together, aren’t you? I should have assumed. You look so well-matched.”
Clint stammered wordlessly and withdrew his hand as Burke turned and addressed him for the remainder of the conversation. “I think you’ve got your hands full with that one,” he said to Clint conspiratorially. “But I have always thought it was a good idea to allow your woman to have outside interests, don’t you? I insist my future wife keep her career for at least a little while - it’ll make her so happy.”
“Outside interests? Outside of what?” Clint asked, giving Elizabeth the side-eye.
“Why, outside of me,” Peter said with a laugh and crossed to pour himself a glass of lemonade. “But that will have to change when she has our children, of course. Then she’ll have to put all her focus on that. Priorities and whatnot.” He turned, fingering the lip of his glass. “And you, Mr. Jones, what is it that you do?”
“I - I’m an artist by trade.”
“How thrilling. I’m a big fan of art - especially Thomas Kinkade. Do you know his work?”
“I can’t say that I -“
“Oh, it’s just loaded with symbolism,” Burke enthused and Elizabeth suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Is your work? Loaded with symbolism?”
“I think it’s rather a bit too subtle for some audiences,” Elizabeth commented.
“Oh?”
“Clint’s work is meant to make people uncomfortable in their complacency and privilege.”
Burke frowned. “It’s supposed to make you think?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what’s keeping my mother,” he said, and left the room.
Elizabeth watched him go, looked at Clint, then back at the door through which Burke had disappeared. “What just happened? Just who’s doing the interviewing here?”
“You don’t suppose he caught on, do you?” Clint asked.
“No, he was born that way - entitled and clueless.”
“Can we leave now?”
“Don’t tempt me. But if we don’t, we’ll never work in this town again - Adler’ll see to that.”
“Oh my, you must be Ford’s friends. I’m Mrs. Burke.”
Elizabeth turned to see an absolutely stunning and elegant woman enter the room - she could see where young Diana got her looks. She peered at Elizabeth appraisingly.
“You’re very pretty,” she said rather plainly.
“Uh, thank you?”
“I suppose that should not be a surprise - Ford collects attractive people.” She turned her head as Peter re-entered the room. “Isn't she pretty, Peter?”
“If you like that,” Peter shrugged, not looking at Elizabeth.
“Will you have lunch with us on the patio?” Mrs. Burke asked, and moved away, not waiting for their answer. She held a bejeweled hand out for Clint to take in the crook of his arm. “How nice to have us all together this weekend - we’re all so busy lately, it feels like holidays are the only time we can properly see each other. “
Elizabeth struggled to shove her feet back into her shoes and catch up to them. She was at a perfect angle to see Diana sidle in from somewhere to their left and pinch Clint on the ass before taking his other arm. He yelped and stumbled.
“This is my daughter Diana,” Mrs. Burke said breezily.
“We’ve met,” Clint said, obviously squirming, but they’d arrived at the table set for lunch before Elizabeth had a chance to rescue him.
“How wonderful we can all be so chummy already,” June was saying. “I expect my husband at any moment, and then you’ll have met the entire family.”
El raised an eyebrow - she had read rumors of estrangement within the family during her impromptu research a few minutes earlier, and now couldn’t wait to see how it would play out.
“Hello, hello!” came a musical voice from somewhere behind them and Elizabeth turned to see who it was. A stunning redhead glided across the patio, tall and slender and graceful, and El felt suddenly short and dumpy by comparison. She straightened up her back to her full five feet, two inches plus shoes.
“Darling! You’re early!” Burke said, and at least he seemed sincerely glad to see his fiancée. He greeted the redhead with open arms and a kiss. The young woman actually kicked her leg out behind her, making El want to puke right then and there, only she’d skipped breakfast that morning in order to pack for the weekend and had an empty stomach.
“This is my fiancée, Sara Ellis,” Burke said by way of introduction. “Binky, these are friends of Ford’s - Miss Mitchell and Mr. Jones.”
Binky? What the fu - “Please call me Elizabeth.”
Sara’s hand in El’s was perhaps a bit bony, but it was warm and soft, as was her smile. “I’m glad to know you,” she said.
“She’s a writer,” Peter supplied.
“I’m afraid so,” El said self-depracatingly.
“Oh, don’t apologize,” Sara replied. “I have a great respect for the written word. I wouldn’t have my job if it weren’t for writers.”
“My, what a surprise, look at all the people,” someone said, and El turned around again, reflecting that this was getting to be more and more like a French farce by the minute. The man who’d entered was short and bald, with thick, dark glasses on his face. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down shirt open at the neck, khakis and espadrilles, and held a straw fedora in his hands.
“DAD!” Peter said, perhaps a bit too loudly as he went over to address the man, who flinched visibly at his approach.
“How great to see you, Dad - what a surprise!” Diana said, running to kiss her father on the cheek; the man looked a bit shocked at all the attention, but he hugged the girl back fondly. Elizabeth didn’t think he looked much like a Master of the Universe, nor like the man who’d fathered those particular children, but she allowed it Diana’s mother was very attractive - there was no accounting for taste.
“Hello. My. Wife,” Burke père said, sidling over to June, who eyed his attire disdainfully, but nevertheless smiled at him when he kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” June said as the butler squeezed two more place settings onto the table.
“What’s he doing here?” the elder Burke exclaimed, and Elizabeth as well as half the party now assembled whirled around to spot Caffrey leaning nonchalantly against a potted tree.
“How now,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. Elizabeth thought this couldn’t get much better, and wished she’d thought to bring a tape recorder.
Caffrey strode forward, a hand outstretched to the bride. “I believe best wishes are in order,” he said. Sara gave him her hand and as he bent over it, he said, “You look a little pale, my dear. I thought all brides were meant to be blushing? Don’t worry about it, I know exactly how you feel. Run, don’t walk.”
An exaggerated shutter-click sounded beside her and Elizabeth glanced over to see Clint had taken a picture of the hand kiss. Noticing, Caffrey smiled dazzlingly at the camera.
Peter was at her side in the span of a breath, a hand in the middle of her back. “Running. You’d know a lot about that,” he practically growled at Caffrey.
“I only know what you taught me, and you were only too eager to chase me away,” he replied as Peter advanced on him like he’d like to hit him.
“Come now, darlings, don’t fight - we have guests,” Mrs. Burke said with a light laugh. “They grew up together, you know,” she said to Clint and El, “oh, how they’d bicker and row.”
“How nice,” Elizabeth responded, eyes not leaving the two men.
“But you seemed to like a little trouble every now and then, Peter - at least when we first started,” Caffrey continued, then addressed Sara. “He needs trouble every now and then, Sara, and lots of it.”
“He won’t be getting it from me,” she said, looking up at Peter adoringly.
“That’s too bad. Sometimes I think you should have stuck with me longer, Peter - gotten what you needed.”
“I thought it was for life, but the nice judge gave me a full pardon,” Peter replied.
Caffrey’s smile got wider, like a shark’s. “You would know all about judging.”
Peter returned the smile, and honestly, El thought they’d either throw down right then or else start screwing like rabbits, the tension was so thick. The click of Clint’s camera beside her was enough to break it.
“Oh look, lunch is served,” Mrs. Burke said, and swept them all to the table in her wake.
“Oh, hello,” Mr. Burke said to Elizabeth as he took the seat next to hers. “You’re one of the bridesmaids?”
“No, I’m not.“
“So you don’t know her? The bride?”
“We’ve only just met today.”
“Good, then you won’t mind it if I gossip. She can be a bit of a stick in the mud.”
“You don’t say?” El said, smelling a story there. She eyed the happy couple, who were conferring on something at the opposite end of the table.
“Plus she refuses to help me expose the fact that Hollywood is run by an international cabal of Illuminati, who are intent on subliminal mind control experiments through YouTube videos.”
“Um, really?”
He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, “Do you really think baby monkeys ride on pigs of their own volition?”
“I suppose… not?”
“Exactly,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. El thought he was a little bizarre to be a Wall Street icon, but she supposed it took all kinds.
“Dad,” Peter interrupted. “Please don’t bore the guests with your wacked-out theories!”
“They are not ‘wacked-out,’ Suit, and you’ll do well to heed my warnings before mixing yourself up with the very establishment that’s been perpetrating the entire thing!”
“Who - me?” Sara said, when he gestured at her.
“I haven’t worked for the Bureau in two years, you can stop calling me Suit,” Peter said.
“You’re running for Senate - that’s even suitier.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Don’t distract me with facts. I clearly failed to bring you up properly.”
“Darling,” Mrs. Burke said, leaning over and taking her husband’s hand in hers lovingly, “your jokes are flying right over the heads of our guests.” If El wasn’t mistaken, June was also digging the heel of her shoe into the tender flesh of the man’s ankle under the table. “Please play nice.”
“Yes, June,” he said, chastised.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as Diana got up and ran into the house; she soon returned to the doorway and gestured for her mother, who joined her inside. A moment later, Peter stood, looking pale and a little angry.
“Uncle Mozzie!” he said rather too loudly to a tall, older gentleman who stood in the doorway now, Diana and June both behind him, looking apprehensive. “What a surprise, I’d have thought you’d be at home preparing for the party tonight!”
Peter excused himself and went into the house, sweeping the older man, June, and Diana with him. The door shut with a slam, leaving the rest of the guests staring after them all in a bit of shock.
“Hasn’t this been fun?” Caffrey said with an almost vicious glint in his eye. He grabbed a bottle of wine that the butler had just brought in an ice bucket and thumbed the cork out of it with a loud POP. “Who’s for some champagne?”
xXxXxXxXx
“Peter, what were you thinking calling your Uncle Mozzie ‘Dad’?” June said to her stepson.
“You were the one who wanted to present this image of the perfect family!”
“But not with your Uncle Mozzie - honestly! I love him, and he’s my oldest friend, but there’s no way I’d have married him!”
“Well, it would have worked if he hadn’t shown up.” He turned to his father, who was having a happy reunion with Diana in the corner of the room. “I thought I asked you not to come.”
Reese Hughes Burke raised a dignified eyebrow and approached his son. “And I thought this was still my house, and you all still my family. I missed your first wedding, Peter, I’m not about to miss this one.” He held out a hand to June, who came to his side and took it, kissing the back of it fondly.
“Mother?” Peter said, throwing a betrayed look at June.
“He deserves to be here, Peter, no matter what your issues may be.”
“You can just forgive him, then? After all he’s done? The - the women?” Rumors of his father’s cheating had run rampant for years, though Peter had no proof of it.
“What he has done has been to keep a roof over our heads and make us all very comfortable, Peter,” June said very sharply.
“But June, he’s betrayed you, and -“
“And that’s between us, my boy.”
“I don’t get you sometimes,” Peter said, stung by her taking his father’s side - she always had and it was clear she always would. If only she knew how much of it was based on lies and deceit, he wondered how she’d feel then. But no, he would not be the one to bring that up, not here, not to her. She was the woman who’d raised him, and he would never hurt her.
“I think I’m a pretty open book, Peter,” she said sadly, but he was already gone.
Part 2