She's All That (25 page)

I reach the hotel lobby and walk into the foyer, leaving a little trail of puddles behind me. I'm breathing hard from running and dripping on the travertine floor, but there's someone behind me with a mop. I don't care at the moment what type of mess I make. I'm on a mission.

I reach the granite countertop and put my elbows out to rest on it. The woman behind the counter is pleasant, but she does take a towel to wipe the mess around me. “May I help you, miss?”

“I need my silk back. I told the valet to throw it away, but I actually need that fabric.” I'm holding back tears now, and my voice is trembling slightly. I know the fabric won't bring Marcus back, but I want to do something for Morgan. Anything to make her feel better. I think back to all the times she's been there for me, as recently as picking me up the day I was fired, and I'm tired of always being such a leech in her life, on everyone's life. When, if ever, will being my friend not cost people? When will I earn my keep?

“Let me call the valet for you. Right away.” She turns away and whispers into the phone, probably telling him to rush right down, that there is a complete vagabond-looking, half-crazed guest scaring the other paying customers. The clerk turns back towards me. “Jim will be here shortly. He seems to know just what you mean.”

Stellar.
After waiting mere seconds, the valet appears, his expression squirming. “I threw the fabric away, Miss Jacobs. Like you asked me to.”

“I know. If it's not too much trouble, I need it back.”

He shakes his head. “It's in the dumpster. I didn't think you wanted to see it again. I was only doing what I was told. I should have held onto it, but I didn't want to upset Miss Malliard. She seemed upset when I was by the room.”

He is clearly getting nervous. “Right. No worries. No worries. Maybe I don't need it after all. Thanks for your help.”

But as I exit, I see a woman cleaning out the ashtrays, and I ask her to point me in the right direction of the dumpster. She looks at me oddly, and I repeat it in Spanish. She points behind the drive.

“
Gracias
,” I say. “
Muchas gracias
.”

I run down to the dumpsters. There are three of them, and they all smell ripe.
Ugh
. I cover my face.
Where's my Lysol
when I need it most?
I knew I shouldn't have listened to Morgan. I should have followed my excellent olfactory instincts and brought it along! She swore I wouldn't need it here. I pull myself up onto the first gray steel box and look down into the bin. There's absolutely no sign of the suitcase. Or the fabric. I hold my nose and jump onto the next dumpster. Again, no sign of life.

On the third dumpster, my heart starts to pound. The suitcase is not visible. I'm going to have to climb in, and I just try to visualize which one they may have used last. “One. Two. Three!” I shout, before bounding feet-first into the pile of old food and heaven-knows-what else. I gag and plug my nose tightly, fighting the rising nausea. It takes me a while to get my bearings, as the smell just makes me dizzy with disgust. Once I find my footing, I start the search, stopping every so often to allow a wave of queasiness to pass.

Climbing through the muck, keeping nostrils pressed firmly shut, I can't believe the suitcase wouldn't be more obvious. I pick up old rolls and torn towels, but the worst of it is the dead fruit and the rank champagne from all those spa lunches. It just smells like something flies live for, but luckily the rain has scared them away. It's just me climbing through the bin.
Ugh, and maybe a few hidden rats!
The soggy garbage envelops my jeans as I sink in a little further, and I feel the smell start to seep through to my skin.
Please God, please let it
be here.

At that very moment, I spy a corner of the fabric. I reach for it and pull, hard. Up comes the entire afternoon's garbage, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because the fabric is here! I can wash it. I can make pillows. I can do anything I can to earn money to get Morgan's investment back to her. I've got to do something.

I pull, and I yank until I have the fabrics—all three of them—in my grasp. I'm so giddy with excitement, I barely notice the smell now or the fact that my Nana's Samsonite that saw me through college is long gone. I toss out the fabrics and climb to the top of the dumpster. When I get to the top, I see there are golfers returning from the links. But it's too late; they've seen me. I cringe and start to lower myself back down, but I hear my name.

“Lilly!” I hear again.

I jump onto the ground next to the fabric and try to hold my head high.
Who on earth would know me here?

My face goes white, as I see Stuart Surrey and his “former” girlfriend, Caitlyn Kapsan, both in full golf attire, staring at me as though…well, as though I've just emerged from the hotel dumpster covered in yesterday's fruit plate.

“Stuart,” I say while dusting myself off.
Heavens, there's a
banana peel stuck to my knee.
I scrape it off and toss it back into the bin. “What are you two doing out in the rain?”
Don't you
melt in water, Caitlyn?

“We got caught on the fifteenth hole when this surprise shower came,” Caitlyn says. “Men, they'll golf through anything. I had to convince Stuart that we could finish tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, are you all right?” Stuart asks, scrutinizing my appearance.

“I'm fine.” I look at the fabric at my feet. “It's a long story.”

“Quite right.” Stuart gazes at me. I'm sure he's thinking,
I
have a date with this woman? What was I thinking to lower myself
to this human trash?
Actually, I think I can safely assume the date is canceled by the repulsion I see now in his eyes. “Caitlyn, shall we?” Stuart puts his hand on her back and they sashay away from me, under the umbrella he holds over them. Stuart takes one look back and shakes his head.

I want to believe it's an accident that he's here. Yes, it's a hotel her father owns, but I'm certain they have different rooms. Right? I want to believe he finds it somewhat charming that he just discovered me in a dumpster, but something tells me
that
is the stuff of fairy tales.

Time stopped when I met him. At church! What's he doing at a hotel? With a woman he told me he was “taking a break from”? All these questions circulate in my mind, when the valet comes running toward me. “I would have had it retrieved, miss.”

It appears that my stint in the dumpster has not gone unnoticed. Morgan will never be allowed back here with me.
Why didn't we just drive to Spa Del Mar?
No, I have to pick the moment when everyone decides to congregate at the trash bins.

I look absently toward the distance. “Don't worry about it, Jim. But if you could have the material dry-cleaned by tomorrow,” I say, handing him the mass of filthy fabric, “I would most appreciate it.”

He takes the soiled material and starts to jog up the path.
I have the worst luck known to man. Correction: I have the worst
luck when it comes to men.
There is no way I'm going to make it as a fashion designer. Designers are elegant, upstanding citizens who people want to emulate. I am a dumpster diver with bad hair and an inability to keep a date.

part II: wavy:

chapter 22

J
ust when you think it couldn't get any worse…my hair has started to curl! Maybe it's just the rain, but I'm back in our cabin now looking in the mirror and I see it, the first signs of a curl sprouting from my part. I knew I didn't sit under the solution long enough. I tried to tell my hairdresser, but she swore no one's hair could fight the technology of modern science. Ha! She'd never met my hair. I'll bet you my hair has the half-life of industrial plastic! Biotech could sell my DNA with the tagline:
Cannot be damaged by weather,
hormones, or even battery acid!
I'm every bald man's dream.

“What are you doing?” Poppy comes up behind me. “Oh, Lilly, what's that smell?” she asks as she gets closer.

“My hair's curling. Already! What a waste of money. I could barely make last month's rent to pay for this.”

“It's not curling,” she says matter-of-factly as she steps back. “I think you just have—” she pauses for minute,“—food in it?”

“Where's Morgan?” I ask, avoiding her questioning glance.

“She went for your papaya facial. We didn't know where you went.” Poppy shrugs. “Besides, she needs the break. I think she's cried every last tear. Her father should be shot for putting her in this situation. I think we would have liked Marcus, Lilly. It's so sad. Morgan says there won't be a funeral service. He didn't want one, and besides Morgan's father—Jewelry Jerk—you and I are the only ones who knew there was a wedding planned.”

“Poppy?” I say, shocked to hear from her gentle mouth the insult to Morgan's father. But we've all thought it. He never did one thing for Morgan that didn't take himself into account first.

“I'm serious.” Poppy swings her skirt around in anger. “Marcus should have left him to rot in that Russian prison. And what's he ever done for Morgan but
use
her?”

Poppy is like the rest of us when one of her own has been hurt. She's all about peace and harmony until someone messes with someone she loves. Then her claws come out; and Lord have mercy upon the person who riles her out of her dove-like pacifism.

“He's been the only parent she's had. That's what he's done,” I answer in his defense, even if I don't necessarily feel it. “He's treated her like a princess and never allowed another woman to come between them. San Francisco's Jeweler has his bright spots, and one of them is that he knows Morgan's the very best part of him.”

“You're right. But let me bask in the thought of hurting him for a moment. I've spent all afternoon listening to his daughter cry on my shoulder, you know? Speaking of which, where have you been?” Poppy walks closer to me.

“I needed to do something.”

Poppy clutches her nose. “Oh, Lilly, where
have
you been? And where is your Lysol when you need it?”

“Do me a favor.” I turn around and face her, wishing Morgan the realist was here instead of Zen-mind-in-the-movement Poppy.

Poppy lifts an eyebrow. “It doesn't involve getting closer to you, does it?”

“Call the front desk for me, and ask for Caitlyn Kapsan's room.”

“Caitlyn? That girl in the white suit at Morgan's church?”

“She's here at her daddy's hotel.” I turn away from her prying eyes. “With Stuart, I think.”

“I told you he had bad energy. I'm not calling. Save yourself some trouble and dump him before you date him, okay?” Poppy plops in a chair and crosses her toned arms. “Isn't it bad enough we have Morgan in utter turmoil this weekend? Do you think we want to pick you up off the floor too? He's a dirtbag, Lilly. I'll give you good-looking with a sexy accent, but a dirtbag, nonetheless. Have you ever heard Morgan say as many not-nice things about a guy?”

I whirl around. “Just call. I'd do it for you. I just want to know if they're together. I want to put this to bed, pardon the pun, forever.”

Poppy stands up. With a hand on her hip, she acts remarkably like Nana. “What do I say when she answers?”

“Wrong number,” I say. “Just like we did in college.”

“Should I ask if her refrigerator is running while I'm at it?”

“Caller ID makes those days a distant memory,” I say wistfully. “Ah, the good ol' days. Poor kids today.” I can see Poppy's resolve weakening. “Please, Poppy. Do this for me. If you're right, you're right. Wouldn't that make you feel good?”

Poppy sits down on the bed, and I watch with relief as she punches zero. “Caitlyn Kapsan's room, please.” Then she covers the receiver. “They're ringing through.” Poppy starts to hum. “Oh hi, yes, Caitlyn?”

What's she doing?

“This is Dr. Poppy Clayton. I met you at church in the city. With my friend, Lilly. Right, Morgan's friends.”

Stop. Stop her now.
I run to the phone, but she eludes me with an old wrestling move.

“Yes,” Poppy continues. “We're here at the hotel with Morgan.” She giggles falsely. “I know. Incredible, isn't it? We girls thought you might like to have dinner with us. Lilly mentioned that she saw you here on the grounds…I know …sure.” Poppy covers the receiver again. “She's checking with Stuart.”

I am going to hurt Poppy.
But inside, my heart breaks just a bit, because Stuart
is
in Caitlyn's room and what Morgan said about him is, in all probability, true. My stomach hurts.
I do
have terrible taste in men.
How does one ever trust her instincts when she obviously has such faulty ones? Except when it comes to detecting foul odors. Why can't I sniff out bad men? Dash them with a good dose of Bad-Boy Lysol? Even if I could, how do I erase the fact that he makes me feel like a princess?

“That will be wonderful. We'll see you at eight o'clock then. I'll call and let them know we'll be together. Fabulous, see you then.” Poppy clicks the phone down.

“What are you doing?”

“Listen, if Stuart's thinking he can have his cake and eat it too, I'm about to show him that you are not a dessert pastry. You are the main entrée, a serious contender for his heart. And if he's intent on following this through, he's going to treat you with dignity. Or answer to me in the process.”

I definitely feel sick. And it's more than just dumpster du jour.

Morgan walks in, her face clean and scrubbed red. “Hi, girls!” she says lightly.

“Hi, Morgan,” Poppy says guiltily, sliding the phone into its cradle. “How was your facial? Are you feeling better?”