Swag Bags and Swindlers (6 page)

C
HAPTER
8

T
y had a large corporation to run on two continents, thousands of employees, millions of dollars at stake, and four generations of ancestors breathing down his neck. He was busy, super busy. He made no secret that his commitment to Holt's Department Stores came first.

So as I pulled away from the Starbucks with my frosty cup of I-desperately-need-the-boost mocha Frappuccino in hand and activated my Bluetooth, it didn't occur to me that Ty would answer my call. Before the second ring finished, he picked up.

“Haley?”

I nearly ran up on the curb.

His voice sent a shiver through me, reminding me of all the times he'd whispered my name in our most private moments, when he'd called to me because he wanted to share something he thought interesting, when he'd laughed at an outlandish thing I'd done.

And when he'd said good-bye to me that last time when we'd broken up.

We'd seen each other twice since that day. Once was when we'd run into each other on the street.

Let's just say I hadn't handled it well.

The second time was at a wedding we'd both ended up attending—long story.

From the voices I heard in the background on Ty's end of the call I knew he was in his office in downtown L.A. with subordinates crowded around his desk, or he was in a meeting. I'd heard that racket often when we were dating and I'd tried to talk to him about something.

Surprisingly, a few seconds after Ty answered my call the chatter ceased abruptly and I heard a door close.

“Haley . . . I'm . . . I'm glad you called. Really glad,” he said. “How . . . how are you?”

“I'm—”

I didn't know how to answer. I'd had a tough time immediately after things ended between us, stuck in breakup zombie land for a long time. But now I was better. I was good. Great, really.

Or so I'd thought until I heard Ty's voice.

I swung into a parking lot and pulled crossways across four spaces.

“I'm good,” I forced myself to say, but really my heart was racing and my palms were sweating, and I didn't know how I felt at the moment.

A long silence stretched between us. I couldn't seem to think of anything to say, and neither could he.

I guess I should have planned this call better.

Maybe I should have planned a lot of things better.

“So, uh, what's up?” Ty finally asked.

Time was precious to Ty. He always had a tight schedule and he hated being late for anything. I couldn't bear the thought that he'd tell me he had to go.

“I heard about the thing with Kelvin Davis,” I said.

Ty didn't respond. In my head I pictured him frowning slightly and mentally calculating where this conversation might go. Ty was always several steps ahead of everything and everybody.

“I know you're a person of interest in the murder investigation,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

“Yes. Of course. I'm fine,” he said.

I picked up a note of concern in his voice, which made my heart beat faster for a different reason.

“Everything is all right?” I asked. “No problems?”

“None,” he said.

I wasn't sure I believed him. But I didn't know if he was trying to protect me from something, or if he simply thought this was none of my business.

“Great,” I said. “So, well, I guess that's it then.”

“Haley?”

“Yes?”

He didn't say anything, and I couldn't seem to put together a coherent sentence. Apparently, he couldn't either.

Another few seconds passed, and it hit me that this conversation had become totally awkward and uncomfortable. Plus, I didn't want to be left hanging on the line when Ty announced—as he'd done a zillion times when we were dating—that he had to go and attend to something more important than me.

“Look, I've got to run,” I said.

“Oh. Okay,” Ty said. “Well, uh, thanks for calling.”

“Bye.”

I ended the call and fell back against the seat, exhausted.

 

After I left L.A. Affairs for the day—I'd hardly gotten anything accomplished, thanks to my conversation with Ty—I drove to my parents' house in La Cañada Flintridge, an upscale area in the foothills that overlooked the Los Angeles Basin.

Visiting Mom in person was sometimes quicker than having a telephone conversation with her. At her house, she'd often get distracted by her own reflection in a mirror—she was, after all, a former beauty queen—and I could slip away unnoticed.

I exited the 210 freeway, wound my way through the streets, and pulled into the circular driveway outside my folks' home. The house—actually, it was a small mansion—had been left to my mom along with a trust fund, by her grandmother. No one in the family knew—or was willing to say—just how all of that came about.

Not that Mom cared, of course. She'd taken what she considered her rightful place among the wealthy of Los Angeles, a place she truly belonged. She'd dragged my dad along with her, as well as me and my two siblings.

My older brother flew F-16s for the US Air Force, and my younger sister attended college and did some modeling. Dad was an aerospace engineer. The only loose cannon in our family was, of course, Mom.

I parked my car, and by the time I reached the front door, it opened. Juanita, Mom's housekeeper for as long as I could remember, smiled as I walked inside. For me, Juanita had always been a soft spot to land during my childhood when Mom was—well, when Mom was being Mom.

“She's in her study,” Juanita said.

I headed through the house to the room Mom had deemed her study, where the only thing she actually studied were the issues of
Elle, Vogue, Harper's Bazaar
, and
Cosmo
she received each month. No way would Mom allow a new fashion trend to slip past her unnoticed.

Now that I was here, I was concerned about why Mom had been repeatedly trying to reach me. Past experience told me, however, that it was something that would benefit her, not me.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, as I stepped into her study.

She was seated on a chaise, flipping through a magazine, dressed in a Zac Posen sheath and Louboutin stilettos. Her dark hair was perfectly coiffed. Her nails and makeup were flawless.

Just your average housewife wiling away a quiet evening at home.

“There you are,” she declared, and rose from the chaise. “I've been trying to reach you. I've had the most brilliant idea.”

I was afraid of that.

Mom often had brilliant ideas. She'd started—and abandoned—numerous businesses and hobbies over the years, most with disastrous results.

“I've been dying to tell you,” she said.

I braced myself.

Mom drew herself up into her pageant stance—chin up, shoulders back—and announced, “I'm going to get a job.”

Oh my God, where had she come up with that idea? No way had she thought it up on her own. Had she read an article in
Elle,
maybe?

“I read an article in
Vogue,
” Mom said.

Close enough.

“It's time,” Mom told me. “Time for me to step up and help the world.”

Mom hadn't worked for the entire time I was growing up—I'm not sure she'd ever held a job.

“I'm not clear on how you finding a job is going to help the world,” I said.

It was the nicest thing I could think of.

“I'm going to focus on my career now,” Mom said. “I want to work for a truly worthwhile cause at a foundation or a large charitable organization. Possibly adopting pets. Saving the planet, perhaps. Maybe feeding hungry children in—Africa, Syria? Where are children starving?”

“Everywhere, Mom.”

“Well, then that just proves that I must find a position quickly,” she told me. “I need your help.”

Oh, crap.

“I want you to write my résumé for me,” Mom said.

How was I going to write a résumé for someone who hadn't actually worked anywhere?

“You found that fabulous job working for that big company downtown,” Mom pointed out.

I'd never gotten around to telling Mom I'd left that job a while ago because the company had gone out of business and that I was working someplace new.

This was definitely not the time to mention it.

“I know you'll do a fabulous job on a résumé for me,” Mom said, “and I'll secure a position where I can make a real difference in the world.”

As far as I knew, Mom's greatest accomplishments were walking comfortably in five-inch heels and readily recognizing the subtle difference between the shades of ecru and eggshell.

Not even David Copperfield could make a résumé appear that would get her a job. Still, I couldn't fight her on it.

“Sure, Mom, I'll get started on it,” I told her.

“Call me if you have any questions,” she said.

I saw no point in asking my how-the-heck-did-I-get-involved-in-this question, so I left.

 

“Aren't you supposed to be helping with the new employee orientation?” Sandy asked.

I'd successfully blocked out my new assignment—though my visit with my mom earlier this evening was still rattling around in my head—but it all came crashing back thanks to that gentle reminder from Sandy, one of my Holt's BFFs. We were in the housewares department packing throw pillows and small rugs into boxes and loading them onto U-boat carts.

Sandy was a little younger than me, with hair that varied in color depending on her mood. Today it was red.

Sandy didn't seem to have a plan for the rest of her life—or the immediate future—beyond working for Holt's and continuing to date her tattoo artist boyfriend, who treated her awful and who I often wished would be abducted by aliens.

“Jeanette asked me to help out with the orientation,” I said. “Is that tonight?”

I paused, a brown-print throw pillow in each hand, wondering if I'd overlooked the announcement in the breakroom beside the time clock.

That happened a lot.

“Am I supposed to be doing the orientation now?” I asked.

“No,” Sandy said, rolling up a rug. “I was just wondering if you'd met Lani, the girl who does them.”

I vaguely remembered Jeanette saying someone by that name was the person I'd be working with.

“She's, you know, kind of weird,” Sandy said.

“Who's weird?” Bella asked, as she walked over from the bath department across the aisle.

“Lani. The orientation girl,” Sandy said.

Bella shuddered. “That's one weird chick, all right.”

“What's wrong with her?” I asked.

“She's quiet, kind of keeps to herself,” Sandy said.

“Yeah, weird,” Bella said. “Why are you packing all this stuff up?”

“A new line of merchandise is going in,” Sandy explained.

“You want to hear some crap?” Bella asked.

I always wanted to hear some crap.

“I had a date with a new guy last night,” Bella said. “He fell asleep on my sofa watching television.”

“Oh my God,” Sandy said. “What did you do?”

“Went through his wallet,” she said.

“So, did he have much money?” Sandy asked.

“He was loaded,” Bella said.

“What does he do?” Sandy asked.

“I don't know. He can be a drug dealer for all I care. I'm dating him again,” Bella said.

We've all got our priorities.

“Maybe you two will get married,” Sandy said. “Hey, Haley, that reminds me. Have you picked out your wedding colors yet?”

I cringed. “I'm not getting married.”

“But you caught the bouquet,” she said.

We'd been at a wedding not long ago and I'd caught the bouquet. Sandy kept insisting a marriage proposal was in my future.

I guess the toughest part of that whole ordeal was that Ty had showed up at the wedding. We'd acknowledged each other with a glance and a nod, which was totally awkward, but we hadn't spoken.

Thank goodness he hadn't brought a date.

“What about you?” Bella asked Sandy, and I was grateful she'd run interference on my behalf. “What happened with that guy you met on vacay?”

“Sebastian?” Sandy sighed and her expression took on a dreamy air. “He's really cute.”

“Damn right,” Bella agreed.

“But I already have a boyfriend,” Sandy said, looking a little sad.

“You should dump that loser,” I told her, for at least the zillionth time.

“Or date both of them,” Bella suggested.

“That wouldn't be right,” Sandy insisted.

“When did you become Saint Sandy?” Bella asked.

“My boyfriend is an artist,” she said.

“He does tattoos,” I pointed out.

“It's art, Haley,” she said. “And I wouldn't think of disturbing his bliss by causing a problem in our relationship. He says I'm his muse.”

Bella shook her head. “I'm out of here.”

She went back across the aisle to the bath department. Sandy and I managed to stretch out loading the merchandise until closing time so we wouldn't have to wait on actual customers. I got my handbag—a Dooney & Bourke barrel that always lifted my spirits—from my locker in the breakroom and was headed for the front doors when I spotted Jeanette at the customer service booth.

I knew she was counting on me to help out with the new-employee orientation and carry a full work schedule when swarms of crazed shoppers descended during the upcoming holiday shopping rush. But I wouldn't be here. As quick as Priscilla at L.A. Affairs got the words “full-time-permanent-employee” out of her mouth, I was going to quit Holt's