(10)

Promptly at three o'clock. on Sunday afternoon, the buzzer at the front door sounded through the apartment. Laura's head snapped up from the magazine she wasn't really reading; she threw the door a tense glance and then looked for Remington, who had just come out of the kitchen. He crossed the room to meet her, holding out his hand. "Terms of Endearment,"he said as she put hers into it. "Shirley MacLaine, Debra Winger, Jeff Daniels, 1983. A mother and daughter with a seemingly adversarial relationship on the surface grow closer when the daughter marries."

"Wait a minute. Don't they make up because the daughter gets cancer?"

"A minor plot point."

"And doesn't the daughter's husband cheat on her?"

"A red herring, highly forgettable."

"Face it, as an analogy to our current situation, it's not very helpful, is it, Mr. Steele?"

"Merely attempting to inject a note of optimism, Laura." He flung open the door to reveal her family, minus the Piper children, in the hallway outside. "Ah, Abigail! Frances, Donald! Come in!"

With one of his expansive gestures, he shepherded them into the living room, where a flurry of hugs and kisses ensued. But his warmth, infectious as it was, couldn't dispel the frost from Abigail Holt's greeting for her younger daughter. "Laura." And she offered her cheek to be kissed.

"Hello, Mother." Laura's voice was meek as she obeyed the implicit command and submitted to Abigail's peck in her turn. "Did you have a good trip?"

"What a question, dear. You know how much I hate flying. Remington," she acknowledged her new son-in-law and repeated the entire kissing ceremony with him. When it was over, she crossed her arms and gazed at them both, shaking her head. "I'm still not sure what to make of it all. It seems awfully sudden to me. You never gave me the slightest hint that you were even seeing each other!"

"Mother, we've been over this already," protested Laura, but the gusto with which she usually argued was missing.

"Remember, I explained to you on the phone, how close they've been?" Frances added. Evidently she had decided for the time being that she was on Laura's side. "How I noticed it way back when they helped us with that horrible business with Howie two years ago?"

"Oh, I know, I know, you don't have to repeat all that again." Abigail sighed. She said to Laura, "I decided on the plane that I'd just have to reconcile myself. I suppose the fact that you're married at all should be a relief. Remington," she went on, "I don't mind telling you that Laura's given me more than her share of anxiety over the years. No one steady in her life. No sign that she would ever be ready to settle down. Insisting on putting her career first. And this so-called profession – detective work - "

"Mother!" Frances whispered, with a significant sideways nod at Remington. Dread over what was coming next had rendered Laura speechless; Donald looked on with the amiable, if slightly baffled, patience that was his usual expression when dealing with the Holt women en masse.

Abigail was unperturbed. "Of course, I realize that you're a detective, too, but it's different for a man, stakeouts and so forth, and guns, and dealing with dreadful people like that Mr. Gutman. I had nightmares for months after meeting him! But it's no place for a girl, especially one brought up the way Laura was. Thanks goodness you married her and can take her away from all of that."

An involuntary glance showed Remington that Laura gone scarlet with mortification. A frown so fleeting that no one else noticed it drew his brows together. In the past he would have pounced with glee on her mother's words and twitted Laura about them for at least a week. Now they stung him into defending her. "I'm afraid you're somehow laboring under a mistaken impression, Abigail," he said. He spoke with his usual courtesy, but there was steel beneath it. "I've no more idea of taking Laura away from detective work than she has of giving it up. On the contrary, our marriage is the final cementing of a partnership that's equal in every way, professionally as well as personally. Laura's very much the woman behind the man. In fact, I can say truthfully that without her, there wouldn't be a Remington Steele. So there's no question of her leaving the agency – unless, of course, she chooses to."

The rest of the family was staring at him, openmouthed in astonishment. There wasn't a time in recent memory when they'd seen Abigail squashed so effectively. Abigail herself blinked, put out of her stride. "Well," she said, "I'm sure Laura's very good at she does. It's how I brought her up. And I certainly didn't mean to imply that she's anything less than an asset to you -"

"Naturally you didn't," he agreed. "And I assure you, she does her early training proud. Like mother, like daughter, eh?" And he turned the full wattage of his smile upon her.

It seemed to Laura the right moment to interject herself. "Why don't we sit down? Mother?"

"And I'll get us all something to drink," added Remington.

But she motioned him to wait. "Maybe we should tell Mother your news first."

From the seat she had taken beside Laura on the sofa, Abigail looked from one to the other with the suspicion of a born pessimist. "What news?"

Remington settled on the sofa arm nearest his wife; she touched Abigail's hand, preparing her for the blow. "You remember Daniel Chalmers, Mother."

"Remember him! We're vacationing at his villa in Menton in July."

At this, Frances' and Donald's heads swiveled towards her mother, their expressions appropriate for two people who had just had a bombshell dropped on them. "Who's Daniel Chalmers?" demanded Frances.

No one answered. The Steeles had exchanged a stunned glance and then turned their focus back to Abigail. "You were planning to meet Daniel in Nice?" asked Laura.

"Menton. He sold his villa in Nice two years ago."

Laura's eyebrows shot up. "How would you know that?

"We've been spending every July together since he invited me that first time in '83." There was a pause while Abigail regarded them with unruffled complacency. "Don't look so shocked, Laura. You're the one who's always telling me how different things are these days between men and women."

Frances repeated, "Who's Daniel Chalmers?"

They still paid no attention. "It's not that, Mother. It's just – it's such a surprise. I had no idea that you and Daniel had gotten so - " Laura faltered, a blush suffusing her face again as what she was saying began to sink in, " – close."

"The shoe does pinch a little when it's on the other foot, doesn't it, dear?" Abigail said sweetly.

There was no answer for that, so Laura held her tongue. How could she tell her mother that she was less concerned with the fact that Daniel and Abigail had been sleeping together, than about how much he might have unwittingly divulged to her over the years? That the bigger worry was whether he had ever let slip something about his true activities or his con man career? Or, still worse, about his son's shady past, or how he had become the man known as Remington Steele?

By now, Frances was fed up with being excluded from the conversation. "For the last time, someone please tell me: who is Daniel Chalmers?"

"A friend of Remington's. He introduced us the last time I visited Laura."

"Actually, Abigail, to be honest, Daniel wasn't my friend," Remington said. "At least, that wasn't all he was. He was my father."

Abigail's gasp was audible in the sudden silence. Laura reached up and twined her fingers with his.

"I don't understand," Abigail said at length. "You're Daniel's son? He never mentioned a word about it." Her gazed turned almost accusatory. "And I'm sure you never have, Laura."

"It's a long story." Unsure if she should go on, Laura glanced again at her husband.

His squeezed her hand. "It's all right," he said softly. Addressing Abigail, he continued, "My parents separated when I was very young, and my mother died not long after, so I never knew my father, you see. Since I was all but grown when we finally reunited, Daniel thought it best to conceal our relationship. It was when he knew he was dying that he told me – the very day he died, as a matter of fact. He died May seventeenth."

"And asked us to remember him to you, and to tell you how much he would've liked to see you one more time," added Laura, recalling Daniel's words from the tape.

"Oh." The news had taken the wind out of Abigail's sails; for the first time since she had walked in the front door, she not only softened, but was plainly at a loss for words. "Oh, my goodness."

Nobody spoke for a moment or two.

"Gosh, Remington, I'm sorry for your grief," said Donald.

"Me, too," said Frances. Her dark eyes were swimming with easy tears. "How awful for you! And so close to your wedding, too!"

"Thank you," said Remington.

Abigail asked almost timidly, "Do you know how he - ?"

"A heart attack," Laura replied. "He was sick for a long time, but never told anyone. It was very quick. Remington was with him at the end."

"That's good. That's something," Donald said, and Frances nodded in vigorous assent.

Abigail turned to her new son-in-law. "Remington, I'm so sorry. Daniel was a lovely man. Always a gentleman, and such a good companion! You must miss him terribly. I know I will. But I hope it'll help a little, to know we're here for you – your new family." There was a quiet hum of agreement from the Pipers.

"Thank you," he said again. Laura knew from the tone of his voice that, emotionally speaking, he'd had just about all he could take. Sure enough, he withdrew his hand from hers and rose, the genial host once again. "How about those drinks? Abigail? Can I get you something?"

"Mother, why don't we tell Laura about the wedding plans?" suggested Frances, reaching for the large tote bag she had brought with her.

Those words were apparently the motivation Donald needed to climb to his feet. "Need a hand, Remington?" And the two men disappeared into the kitchen.

It didn't take long before Laura began to wish she could join them.

For her mother and sister had been planning with a vengeance. Not even a week had passed, and they already had the whole event mapped out. The biggest banquet room at the country club was booked for November; the guest list, even lacking the people she and Remington might want to invite, topped three hundred; the candlelight ceremony would include a crucifer leading the procession, bouquets of stephanotis and ruby phalaenopsis orchids, and Laura walking up the aisle to Charpentier's Introduction to the Te Deum in D because Abigail considered the Pachebel Canon overdone. A few times Laura tried to raise an objection, only to be overruled two to one, Frances having abdicated her temporary residence in Laura's camp to side with their mother. It was like falling down the rabbit hole to find herself back in childhood, where they were in perpetual solidarity against her. In their capable hands, piece by inexorable piece, the elements of the wedding of her nightmares were falling into place.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

In the meantime, after delivering beverages all around, Remington and Donald had retreated unnoticed to the farthest corner of the dining room. At one point, the chorus of feminine voices rose to an especially high pitch with Frances and Abigail talking at the same time. Remington poked his head out for a closer look but quickly drew it back. "Are they always like this when they're together?" he asked Donald.

"Between you and me? This isn't so bad. You should hear it when it's just Frannie and her mother." Donald offered him a sheepish grin. "I usually hide out in the den or basement until she goes home," he confessed.

"Hm," Remington replied. From their hidden vantage point he continued to observe the women. Since the Pipers' arrival from Connecticut, he'd had several opportunities to see the Holt sisters interact, and found it both amusing and instructive. Frances was the emotional one, quick to fly off the handle, as prodigal in her laugher as she was in her tears. By contrast, Laura was restrained, the very essence of rational self-control. The more excited her sister got, the more detached she became. She usually wore the air of an observer, cool and superior, while Frances emoted all over the place.

But that wasn't the way she was acting right now. Remington frowned as he puzzled it out. Their mother's presence had altered the dynamic. Laura was more hesitant when she spoke, bordering on apologetic, glancing frequently at Abigail for validation which she seldom received. When one of the others shot her down, she didn't attempt to argue or defend herself. As a matter of fact, she swallowed their guff with an eagerness to placate that he'd never glimpsed in her before. Astonishment transfixed him. He couldn't believe it was her. His Laura! Who had once attempted to stand in the path of a charging 250-pound human rhinoceros named Vince Pappas, with nothing more than a table lamp as a weapon! Who only a few months ago had single-handedly cold-cocked Dangerous Darryl, the Velvet Vandal, a heavy-weight wrestling champion! Who once upon a time had confronted an armed grifter named Pete Gillespie alone in an empty warehouse, without waiting to call him, Remington, for back-up! His Laura: intimidated!

A new dispute had arisen in the living room. "Oh, Laura, stop being so difficult, and take a look." Abigail was exasperated. "See how adorable the elbow sleeves are? Especially with the little bows to set off the gathers? And they match this bow here, under the neck ruffle."

"And with your darling little figure, the bustle would be perfect on you," added Frances. "Though your train wouldn't be nearly as long as this."

"But I'm not sure it's right for me. I mean, Princess Diana's a lot taller than I am. And wasn't she nineteen or something when she got married? I'm wondering about a sheath, maybe sleeveless, a short skirt and a little jacket. Mother? Don't you think that would suit me a lot better?" Laura's voice had taken on a pleading note that he had never heard there before.

And Remington decided that he'd had enough.

He got to his feet. "Ladies." The torrent of words went on, Abigail scolding, France coaxing, Laura, flustered, stammering a reply to one of them.

"Ladies!" No response.

He drew in his lower lip and put two fingers in his mouth. The piercing whistle with which he had hailed cabbies all over the globe sounded in the room.

Silence. Three pairs of startled brown eyes swung his way. Donald, who had followed him as far as the dining room arch, was watching with awe.

"That's better," Remington said.

He planted himself opposite them and surveyed them, arms akimbo. "Abigail. Frances. While I appreciate more than I can say your generous efforts on Laura's and my behalf, gifting us with this wedding - "

"It's only what any mother would do," put in Abigail, with the air of one who believed that it was, in reality, above and beyond the call of duty.

" – I have to ask myself, and you: is it really worth it?"

The Holt women exchanged questioning glances.

"I mean, really." Remington began to pace before them. "You've been at it, what? Twenty minutes? And already you're full bore in the middle of a disagreement. And the wedding is to be – when?"

"November," Laura replied

"Can you imagine going on for months like this? Frances?"

"Well…no, I guess not," his sister-in-law conceded.

"Abigail? Can you?"

His mother-in-law was a harder nut to crack; she tried to stare him down for a moment or two before she gave in. "I suppose we can't," she said reluctantly. A hint of indignation crept into her expression. "But what else are we going to do? You can't mean that you've eloped, and that's it!" All at once her face crumpled. "Do I have to miss my little one's wedding entirely?"

"Oh, Mother!" Laura slipped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. "Of course not!" The look in her eyes implored Remington, think of something!

And in a flash of inspiration, he knew what he could do to make up to his wife for the awful, embarrassing farce that had been their first wedding.

He strode purposefully to the phone. Every eye was fixed on him as he picked up the handset and dialed.

"Mildred?" he said into the receiver. "Steele here. How long would it take to put together a simple, no-fuss, yet elegant, wedding and reception for Mrs. Steele and myself?"

TO BE CONTINUED