accusing glare at Becca. “We’ll take care of that dry cleaning bill for you.”
“No, no,” Celeste insisted. “It was my own clumsiness.”
Becca stared at the register, the dazed expression back on her face. “Look,” she demanded in a breathless voice, unaware of her boss’s displeasure as he swept up around her. “There he is.”
Jackie twisted around toward the cashier. “Holy shit.”
“You can say that again.” Becca sighed.
“Don’t encourage her.” Celeste plucked shreds of wet napkin off her pants, refusing to look.
Becca swayed as though she might actually faint. “He won the NASCAR championship last year. I love him. I love to watch him race.”
Celeste threw a glance at the man opening his wallet. Straight dark hair hung over the collar of his light blue shirt. Wide, solid shoulders. Tall. Much taller than she’d imagined.
Jackie let out a low whistle. “He can fire up my pistons anytime.”
“Oh, please.” Celeste rolled her eyes.
“What? He can’t hear me. Anyway, he’s used to it. He’s world famous.”
“He’s a race car driver. I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about.”
“Look at him.” Becca insisted. “That’s what the fuss is about.”
She’d only draw attention by not looking at him. Celeste’s heart thumped as she regarded his profile. The square cut of his jaw, the errant strands of black hair that fell just above the slash of an eyebrow. It was precisely the angle the camera caught when he sat in his car before a race with his eyes closed. Praying, the media claimed.
She’d seen that face many times during a surreptitious check of the sports section. When she pretended to study the Wimbledon results or see how a friend had fared in a polo match.
“Yes, he’s attractive,” Celeste said, recapturing her normal cool tone. “In a grease monkey sort of way.” Lord, she sounded exactly like Jackie’s imitation of her mother.
“Hey, NASCAR is the fastest growing sport in America,” Jackie said.
“So is bullfighting in Spain.”
Jackie crossed her arms, finally giving up her inspection of Beau Lansing. “You’re right, Emily Post. It’s uncivilized. It’s down and dirty. It’s rednecks and good ol’ boys.”
The words burned her heart as much as the coffee had her leg.
Celeste studied the stain on her pants to avoid having to look at him. “Well, you have to admit that watching souped-up hot rods drive around in circles isn’t exactly a compelling sport.”
Jackie poured cream into the coffee that Becca had finally calmed down enough to serve. “Actually, I’ve watched a few races. We had a client who wanted to be a sponsor last year. It’s fun, and those sponsors pay megamillions for the privilege of seeing their logos splashed on those souped-up hot rods. The sport has some impressive demographics for advertisers.” She sent a glance at the counter. “And some impressive drivers.”
Becca flipped open her order pad, but her attention stayed riveted across the room. “He was so sweet to me. You’d never know he was so famous.”
Celeste checked her bracelet watch and calculated how long it would take to get to the Guggenheim. “I have an appointment, so I’ll just have the coffee, Becca.”
An ear-to-ear grin spread across Becca’s face, and Celeste followed the woman’s delighted gaze across the restaurant, where Beau Lansing was chatting with the cashier. As if on cue, he turned to Becca and winked, then added a nonchalant salute good-bye.
The poor woman grabbed the Formica table for life support and let out a moan that fell dead center between agony and ecstasy.
“My husband’s gonna flip,” Becca said breathlessly. “Even though he thinks the crash that killed Gus Bonnet was all Beau’s fault. I don’t care. I just love to look at him.”
Celeste watched the waitress walk away, waiting for her own pulse to slow down. “Good Lord. She’s got to be closing in on fifty and she’s acting like a groupie at a rock concert.”
Jackie leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s go meet him, Celeste.”
The mug wobbled in her grip. “You’re on your own. I have to go.”
“Why on earth do you have to be at the museum on a Saturday? Come on. Don’t you want to just talk to him?”
It was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. “Not one bit. I am needed at the museum.”
“You’re a volunteer, for cryin’ out loud,” Jackie shot back. “You should demand better hours.”
Celeste shrugged and set a five-dollar bill on the table. “Some major art collector scheduled a private tour of the Sugimoto exhibit.”
“And all the other Junior Leaguers are in the Hamptons?”