They had the house to themselves.
Henry had gone with Danny, Erin and the kids down to the beach house for the week, while Jamie and Eddie were off to a getaway of their own to Rockaway for the weekend, leaving Briar Rose and Frank on their own for the first time in ages.
Rose was startled at how empty the house felt, even with George and the cats still underfoot. She'd gotten used to texts and quick calls from most of the family during the day, and there always seemed to be someone parked in the living room—usually Henry- but at the moment she and Frank were the only two peas in a very large pod at this point. Ever the pragmatist, she'd arranged for the drapes to be dry-cleaned and talked to the gardening service about cutting back the pyracantha bushes in the downtime. Mundane little chores that needed doing and were getting done.
She and Frank were winding down this year, both of them making it a point to begin that transition into retirement, which meant a lot of boring meetings with financial advisors and Human Resource specialists. Langone especially was trying to hang onto her, but Briar Rose knew she wasn't up to long surgeries anymore. Her hands were fine, but standing for four or five hours was becoming difficult, and ever since her injury, her shoulder would occasionally seize up, making coordination difficult.
Frank too, was finding it harder to maintain his daily routine, admitting that his twelve-hour days were downshifting to ten hours at most. "Slowing a little, at least physically," he groused. "But the truth is, knees aren't thrilled with hours on cement, and stairs are becoming a pain."
Given how much walking he did in a day, Briar Rose wasn't surprised. Given how much he'd done through his career it was miraculous he wasn't using a cane or knee braces at this point. Still, even hearing him admit his own weaknesses had her feeling both protective and tender. It took a lot for Frank to confess his own problems so the fact that he'd taken her into his confidence was sweet.
Fortunately, the rest of him was doing well, and that helped to counter her worries. Reagan men seemed to be long-lived when it came to their general health. Briar Rose joked that Henry would outlive them all, and at the moment it seemed entirely possible.
Here and now, though, Briar Rose was thinking that it was a shame not to use the time they had with the empty house for something . . . fun.
With that in mind, she searched through her half of the master bedroom closet, digging far back through the hangers until she found what she was looking for. Briar Rose pulled out the French Maid costume and checked the time on her phone, pleased to see she had a few hours to set things up.
It was tricky to get the selfie she wanted: something showcasing her full cleavage and black velvet choker without showing her face. The lighting helped, and when she finally managed the perfect picture, highlighting the rounded curves of her chest in the costume, with just a hint of duster in the shot.
She sent it to Frank before she could talk herself out of it.
Briar Rose giggled to herself and moved to the standing mirror, taking another shot, this one of her legs in the black lace stockings.
She didn't send it though, choosing to hold onto the picture.
The trickiest one was of her ass; she managed to angle herself so that her mostly bare bottom peeking out of the skirt was visible in the standing mirror as she leaned around it.
She held onto this one as well, plotting to drop one every hour. For a moment Briar Rose worried that it might get him into trouble but given that he wasn't going to be passing his phone to anyone, she relaxed, and thought about what else needed to be set up before he got home.
Frank took a breath, trying to settle his expression into something theoretically neutral, but he never liked talking to the manager of 55 Central Park West. She was a feisty crone by the name of Ethel Henkel, and Frank knew that she was not only one of the most well-connected hoteliers in New York City, but also had the annoying habit of dropping in and demanding his attention without making any sort of appointment. As a gentleman, Frank tolerated it, but it did throw his schedule off whenever Mrs. Henkel came barreling in every few months to gripe at him.
Today it was about parking meters, apparently.
"Ya street-level uniformed minions are money-grabbing zealots, and ya meters are too damned fast!" Ethel bellowed at him. She was going deaf and too vain for hearing aids, so her side of the conversation was always loud.
"Mrs. Henkel, there are no parking spaces along Central Park West," Frank pointed out patiently. "Haven't been for decades."
"I'm not tawlking about the 55," she bellowed at him. "I'm tawlking over on 57th. Those new booth whatchamacallits. Don't even take real damned money either!"
"Not my jurisdiction, Ma'am," Frank tried to point out politely. "You want the mayor and the DOT."
"They're not the ones gonna do anything about them!" she shot back. She sat back and went to fish something out of her purse.
At that moment, Frank's phone buzzed, and he checked it, hoping it was something urgent that he could use to get out of this meeting.
Rose's cleavage popped up, perky and luscious.
He fumbled with the phone, catching it before it dropped. Mrs. Henkel stared over at him and Frank cleared his throat as he quickly slammed it face DOWN on the desk.
"Sorry," he murmured, feeling a flush across his face. "You . . . were saying?"
Mrs. Henkel shot him a suspicious look before waving a piece of paper. "Reagan, four hours cawst me nearly fifty bucks! Fifty! That's outrageous! Fer that kinda money I could get a dozen bagels AND lox! Delivered!"
Frank tried to follow her words, but the better part of his thoughts was now caught up in a flare of lust that had nothing to do with food or delicatessens. No, the afterimage of his wife's décolletage was now seared into his mind, igniting all sorts of responses that were highly inappropriate.
"You . . . have your own parking garage under the hotel, Mrs. Henkel. You don't need to be parking on 57th," he tried to point out in a calm voice.
"Those are fah the guests, Reagan! Every spot is money in my pawket and I didn't get to the top of the shitpile by turning away money! Now I'm telling you and your boys that I'm not payin' to park on 57th, and that's that! You just pass the woid along and we'll be fine."
"I'll pass it to the Department of Transportation," he assured her, knowing the call would go the way every call about Ethel Henkel went—nowhere. Somewhere down the line someone from the DOT would talk to the CFO of 55 Central Park West, and the fines would be paid without Mrs. Henkel ever realizing it.
Mrs. Henkel rose, shooting Frank a lofty look. "Fine, fine," she muttered. "Ya know, there was a time when hardworking citizens like me didn't have to go to the top like this. Fifty dollars, Pah!"
She didn't spit on his carpet, but it was a near thing. Frank rose and came around his desk, ushering her out politely.
"I'll make sure the right people get the word," he promised wearily. He closed the door behind her and moved back to the desk, scooping up his phone and checking the photo once again.
Ah, yesssss. Not only did he know that warm balcony well, but Frank also recognized the outfit highlighting it, and gave a little gusty sigh. Memories of a lovely birthday flooded back, and he grinned.
Well. It seemed someone had plans for the evening, and Frank approved.
He was about to reply, when Abby knocked on the door; shoving the phone in his pocket, Frank turned and tried to give her an innocent look.
She flinched and took a step back. "Are you . . . all right, Commissioner?"
"Mrs. Henkel," he murmured, delighted to have a built-in excuse. "How . . . does she keep getting in here?"
Abby looked pained now herself. "Honestly? I think she's got some secret tunnel. Maybe she moves around down there with Vincent and Father or something."
"She's probably Paracelsus' mother," Frank offered. "In the meantime, could you have Albert Cruz over at the DOT give me a call?"
Abby nodded.