The Trouble With Paradise (2 page)

Okay, it hadn’t been her alarm. It’d been her hair straightener. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do, and that did not include going to work with frizzy hair, thank you very much.

Into the store, past the food court . . .

Faster, faster, or it wouldn’t matter how good a hair day she was now having. She burst into the employee-only area, her huge, carry-everything-but-the-kitchen-sink purse banging at her side.

No Mr. Stryowski in sight.

A miracle in its own right, because nothing got past him. Last week he’d heard Kenny sneaking in late all the way from Garden Supplies.

Kenny was now on the early shift, for the rest of his life.

Dorie hated the early shift. She did not do early. But like Kenny, she was paying dues for her sins. Her apparently ongoing sins. Still running, she passed Sally. The Snack Shop clerk was pouring herself a coffee. They waved and grinned at each other, Sally’s sympathetic as she made room for Dorie to get by.

“Great hair today,” Sally called out.

The qualifier “today” did not escape Dorie, but truth was truth. She had a lot of bad hair days. “Thanks!”

“Why are you late? Hot date last night?”

“I wish.” Nope, that phenomenon hadn’t occurred in . . . yikes. She couldn’t even remember. Statistically speaking, these years were supposed to be the sexual highlight of her life. So where were the highlights already?

She was a single woman in her twenties, with average looks—at least on the days when her hair straightener functioned—and some average smarts. So it bore thinking about—why couldn’t she get a man-made orgasm?

Unfortunately, she had the answer to that. Whenever she got naked with a man, she tended to dwell, and when she dwelled, any self-esteem flew out the window.

Along with her hopes for that orgasm.

Panting for breath now, her tiered crinkle skirt flying around her legs, her darling new sandals already killing her feet—not a good sign with eight hours minimum in front of her—she fumbled for her time card and—

“You’re
late
!”

At Mr. Stryowski’s bark, Dorie squeaked like the timid little mouse she tended to be in the face of authority and whipped around. He was wearing his default expression—a scowl.

Be cool,
she ordered herself, and gave him her best
Who, me?
smile.
Late? Are you sure?

He was skinny, tall, and with his hook of a nose, could have passed for a medieval warlock, except for the bad rug hanging off his forehead. He’d gotten a new toupee last month, and frankly, he hadn’t spent enough. The thing kept slipping in his eyes, making him crankier than usual. “What do you think this place is, Target?” he groused. “You owe me five minutes of your lunch time.”

Dorie glanced at Sally, who rolled her eyes. Neither of them had taken a lunch break all week because he was shorthanded, especially in Dorie’s particular area of expertise—the Junior Fashion area. He was too cheap to hire anyone else, but since Dorie needed her paycheck, she bit her tongue. “No problem.”

Mr. Stryowski narrowed his beady eyes on her while she did her best not to squeak again. Damn, she needed to grow a pair of balls. She’d been meaning to . . .

“You had a phone call. Even though I’ve told you—no personal calls while you’re on the clock.”

She wanted to remind him she wasn’t yet on the clock, but talking directly to him was like feeding a polar bear—bad for her health.

Even more interesting was the fact that someone called her here at work, and not on her cell. No one did that. At least no one she knew . . .

“Here.” He shoved a pink message note into her hands.

Huh.
She’d never won anything in her life. Well, except for that one time in high school, when the captain of the football team, Damian Randal, had won a fish at the carnival. She, Queen of Dorkdom, had been standing in line behind him, trying not to trip over her own tongue, when he’d turned and thrust his winnings into her hand. She’d reacted predictably, becoming socially challenged as always when in the presence of a cute guy. “I’ll love the fish forever,” she’d gushed, giving him her heart with every breath she took.

He’d laughed and muttered “Whatever” before walking away.

She’d woken up the next morning to Goldie floating upside down and very dead in her bowl. Dorie had been devastated, and when her mother had discovered her grandma’s crystal bowl being used for Goldie’s home, also grounded.

“Call him back on your own time,” Mr. Stryowski said, jerking her back to the present, snatching Sally’s coffee right out of her hands. “Needs sugar,” he snarled after a sip.

Sally tightened her lips, and looked to be plotting his death while she shoved a sugar packet at him and poured herself another cup.

“Is it just me?” Dorie asked when he’d left. “Or does that man get sweeter every day?”

“Forget him. Call this Peter guy and see what you won.”

It didn’t surprise Dorie that Sally had read the message. There were no secrets here at Gossip Central. So she pulled out her cell phone while Sally brought her a coffee, complete with two sugar packets and a dollop of hot chocolate powder—the poor girl’s mocha latte. Her fellow employees might be a nosy bunch, but they were also incredibly sweet.

Dorie sipped her drink, then punched in the phone number. “It’s ringing.”

“Ask him if he’s single,” Sally whispered, cheek to cheek with her, straining to hear. “And don’t forget cute. You need to know because he could be some kind of desk geek with a paunch. You’re too young for a paunch.”

Dorie waved her hand to shush her so she could hear. “It went to voice mail.”

“Don’t leave your cell number. He could be a mass murderer.”

“You watch too much
Law & Order
.” At the beep, Dorie left her number. Two seconds later, her cell phone vibrated. With a leap of excitement, she glanced at the ID, but her euphoria quickly drained. “My mother.”

“Oy,” Sally said, speaking volumes in that one word. She patted Dorie’s shoulder and went off to the food aisles to shelve the new stock.

Each vibration of the cell phone seemed more and more agitated, until with a sigh, Dorie flipped it open. “Hi, Mom.”

“
Finally.
Where have you been?”

“Vacation in the Bahamas with a cute cabana boy.”

Her mother gasped.

“Kidding. I’m kidding.” She was a bad daughter. For three days her mother had been leaving messages that all started with “call your mother” and ended with “before she dies lonely, of old age because you haven’t given her grand-children to love,” and Dorie hadn’t yet called. The reasons were complicated, and mostly had to do with the fact that if Dorie was the Queen of Dorkdom, her mother was the Goddess of Guilt. “I
need
a vacation in the Bahamas with a cute cabana boy,” she said, and sat at the rickety employee table, pulling an empty pad of paper to doodle on out of her ever present purse. Doodling always helped. Not as much as, say, chocolate, but a close second.

“So take a vacation,” her mother said. “Phyllis is going to Hawaii.”

Dorie’s left eye began to twitch. Her sister had married a rich plastic surgeon. Going to Hawaii was a bimonthly event for her.

But for Dorie, Hawaii wasn’t on the To Do List. As an overly educated Shop-Mart clerk (damn it, yes, everyone
had
been right, her degree in design was worthless without the means to actually front her own clothing line), her vacation options consisted of walking as far as her own legs would take her, or hanging out on her fire escape. Maybe if she dipped into her savings account—

Nope.
No can do, not since she’d emptied it out the last time something came up. Which had been a Nordstrom’s sale. Remembering, she began to sketch the skirt she’d bought there. The one she’d wanted to improve on.

But she could sketch all she wanted; the facts didn’t change. She had no job prospects in the fashion industry because the economy was down, and no designers were hiring interns whose resume read:
Shop-Mart sales clerk.

She’d like to know how the hell she was supposed to get reasonable experience when no one would hire her, but hey, she’d also like to know how to have a good hair day without two hours of prep time.

“You could tag along with your sister, Phyllis,” her mother suggested. “Phyllis would pay for your flight if you watched the kids for her and Donald.”

Yes, but she’d discovered she had a severe allergy to wild, sticky, loud, uncontrollable children.

“Or you could catch your own rich doctor,” her mother suggested. “And then quit your job for something better.”

Well, gee, she hadn’t thought of that. “Doctors aren’t really my thing.”

Her mother sighed heavily. “What is your thing?”

Sweet,
she wrote on the pad. She was looking for sweet. And kind. And loyal. If he happened to be cute, too, then so much the better. But not a distant, egotistical, workaholic doctor . . .

“There’s a block mixer on Friday night at the clubhouse,” her mom said. “All the single, professional men will be there. You’ll come, and pick one of them.”

Her mother lived in a senior neighborhood in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. The mixers there did indeed include single, professional men. All retired, all wannabe golf pros, and all hair and teeth challenged. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m busy.”

“Do you know what your problem is?”

No, but she had a feeling she was about to hear it. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we do this later? We’ll sit around and pop some popcorn and list all my faults, promise. But for now I’ve really got to get to work before my boss blows a gasket.”

“You’re scared of commitment.”

Actually, she was scared of dancing with old guys with wandering hands. She was not scared of commitment.

The truth was she was scared she’d never get a
chance
to make a commitment, not with her social handicap.

“And don’t take this wrong, honey, because I have only your best interests at heart, but you’re too picky.”

Dorie rubbed her left eye, which was now twitching freely. “Mom, I’ve really got to—”

“Don’t hang up—”

“Love you.” With a wince for the lecture that she knew would be headed her way the next time they spoke, Dorie shut her phone, which immediately vibrated again.

The excitement came back in a flash, and her heart leapt into her throat, which was silly because what could she have possibly won? “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

“Dorie Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Peter Wells, and I’m pleased to tell you that you’ve won a fabulous prize.”

“Really?”

“Brace yourself now, because you’re about to scream for joy.”

Uh, doubtful.
She wasn’t much of a screamer. Sally said it was because Dorie didn’t let go enough, but she thought it was mostly because she hadn’t had sex in two years and she couldn’t remember much about the screaming factor.

Sally believed that not having sex was bad for the skin and bad for the body, and that certain parts of said body could actually shrivel up and fall off from neglect.

Dorie didn’t want to lose any parts, that was certain, but the guys weren’t exactly beating down her door.

Still, she couldn’t help but yearn for the occasional scream of joy—or otherwise.

“Dorie Anderson?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Prepare yourself. This isn’t just any contest win, this is a special, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

He was clearly reading from something, and Dorie waited eagerly for him to get to the point. Maybe she’d won a new coffeemaker. Or a blender . . .

“You’ve just won a weeklong, all expenses paid trip on a sailing yacht, amongst the small, intimate, beautiful islands of—”

“Ohmigod. The Bahamas?”

“Fiji.”

Definitely more than a toaster. This couldn’t really be happening. Could it? “You mean the South Pacific Fiji?”

“Is there another?”

“Just clarifying.”

“Yes, the South Pacific. You and a handful of others will be spending most of your time on a luxurious sailing yacht, complete with a captain, chef, and crew hand, and in return all you need to do is attend a seminar on the joys of resort sailboat ownership—”

Ah, there it was. The scam. How disappointing. “Look, thank you, but if you have a toaster or a coffeemaker—”

“You don’t want to go to Fiji?”

“I don’t want to buy anything, not today.”

“No purchase required, Dorie Anderson.”

Okay, his use of her full name was beginning to creep her out.

“You filled out a form at Roger’s Gym last week, correct?”

She had. Her sister had bought Dorie a membership for her birthday. She’d taken a yoga class where everyone but herself could balance on one leg with their other wrapped around their neck like a pretzel.