6 1/2 Body Parts

by Stephanie Bond

  “I won’t say anything to my father,” she added, disappointed it apparently needed to be said.

  He turned to look at her and the expression in his eyes told her something was indeed troubling him. Just when she thought he was going to say something, the moment passed. He glanced away and his mouth tightened. “Everything’s fine. Call me if you need a ride to the office this evening.”

  “Okay.” Casting about for another topic of conversation, she picked up the photo album in her lap. “I don’t even remember this party,” she ventured.

  Peter glanced at the photos. “No surprise. You killed a lot of brain cells back then.”

  So Wesley was right about her being a party animal in college… was he also right about other things?

  She flipped through the photos slowly, scrutinizing herself, and the body language of people around her. Peter wasn’t standing close to her in any of the pictures, nor was he looking at her, even when everyone else was. Curious.

  “Peter, do you like me?”

  The car lurched as he stabbed the brake. He jerked his head toward her. “What?”

  “Do you like me… this way?”

  He looked confused. “What way?”

  “The way I am.”

  He blanched, then tried to laugh as he looked back to the traffic. “What’s with you today?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Of course I like you this way. It’s the way you are.”

  “And how are we, Peter?”

  His laugh was a few seconds too late and a little too loud as he turned into the upscale shopping center where Neiman’s was located. “What kind of question is that? This ring business is messing with your head.”

  She schooled her face. “What ring business?”

  “Don’t be coy. I know you’ve been upset about us not wearing our rings.”

  Her mind pinged frantically. What rings?

  He pulled up in front of the Neiman Marcus entrance, put the car into park, then leaned over to open the glove compartment. “I was going to surprise you later. I picked them up early.” He removed two Cartier ring boxes. He opened the first one to reveal two thick gold bands.

  Her heart jumped in her chest. “Wedding rings?” she squeaked.

  “Newly buffed and cleaned,” he said. He removed the smaller band and slipped it onto her ring finger, then removed the larger one and put it on his own long finger. “There,” he said. “Back where they belong.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile, reeling over the implication of the unaccustomed weight on her finger.

  “And,” he said, opening the second box, “happy anniversary.”

  She stared at the familiar diamond cluster ring—it was the original Cartier solitaire ring, sporting the addition of a diamond on either side… just as he’d done in the other place.

  “I thought it was time to upgrade your engagement ring,” he said.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, still trying to get used to the idea that she and Peter were married. Did it count if she couldn’t remember it?

  “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

  With a shaking hand, she pushed the ring onto her finger, snug against her wedding band. The three large stones shimmered back at her. “It’s… ” Terrifying. “Perfect.” She smiled, realizing for whatever time she was here, she had to fit into this life. “Thank you, Peter.”

  He seemed to relax—had the awkwardness she’d felt between them simply been his nervous anticipation of unveiling the surprise? He was so thoughtful. She leaned forward to kiss him, and he seemed so startled, she wondered how long it had been since they’d kissed like this? She put her hand around the nape of his neck and slanted her mouth over his, wanting to prove to herself she’d made good choices in this version of her life, that she loved this man.

  When she lifted her head, desire flashed in his blue eyes. “Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

  She laughed, squashing a guilty pang, then gestured toward the store entrance. “I guess I’d better get to work.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Work—right… good one. Although I’d probably be money ahead if you actually had a Neiman’s employee discount.”

  She balked and started to ask why she was there when her phone beeped. On the screen was an appointment reminder “meet T @ NM to discuss police benefit.”

  Okay… but who was T?

  “There’s Tracey now,” Peter said with a nod, answering her unspoken question.

  Carlotta looked up to see her nemesis, Tracey Tully Lowenstein, walking toward her, waving like mad. The reigning mean queen of their private school and later, the country club, had made Carlotta’s life a living hell after her parents had absconded, taking the family’s social status with them. The blonde bitch and her cronies loved to come in to Neiman Marcus and have Carlotta wait on them.

  “Oh, shit,” she muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

  Her mind spun. “I… forgot my purse.”

  He smiled. “I know—at home. I thought you might need it.” He reached into the cubbyhole behind her seat and pulled out a Bottega Veneta pink leather hobo bag.

  Carlotta pursed her mouth. At least she had good taste in handbags in this world. “Thank you,” she said, longing for a few moments of privacy to go through its contents to perhaps find out more about her life. Instead she slipped the phone and photo album inside and tried to gather her wits.

  “See you later?” Peter asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Definitely,” Carlotta said, then gave him another kiss before hopping out of the car. She waved as he pulled away, straining against the weight of his rings on her hand.

  “Carlotta! Hell-lo-oo!”

  Carlotta swallowed and steeled herself to face her “friend” Tracey, reminding herself this was her life.

  Chapter 6

  “Hi, Tracey,” Carlotta said, manufacturing a smile for the woman who had made her life miserable for more than a decade. Her marriage to a successful doctor had further fueled her sense of entitlement.

  Tracey leaned forward to deliver air kisses to both cheeks, then stood back and surveyed Carlotta’s outfit. “You look great, as always, but a little casual for a presentation, don’t you think?”

  Presentation? Carlotta’s pulse blipped. “I had car trouble this morning after yoga class… I was planning to buy something here to improvise.”

  “Of course,” Tracey said with a wave, then she squinted. “Your hair looks longer… did you get extensions?”

  “No.”

  “Liar, but they look good. And whatever makeup you’re using is nice—you look tanned and natural.”

  “Er, thanks.”

  “Oh, my God!” She snatched up Carlotta’s left hand. “When did you get the giant diamond upgrade?”

  Carlotta’s cheeks warmed. “Peter gave it to me just before he dropped me off.”

  Tracey pursed her mouth. “Sounds like a guilt gift to me—maybe your suspicions were correct.”

  “About?”

  “About the fact that Peter is involved with something—or someone—he shouldn’t be.”

  The pronouncement sent her stomach plummeting—what was going on in her marriage?

  Tracey gave her a sympathetic look, then glanced at her watch. “We can talk about it later. We only have thirty minutes before the meeting, so let’s get you dressed.”

  Carlotta followed Tracey to the entrance, wondering what she was walking into. “Um, in your opinion, what do we need to accomplish at this meeting?”

  “You said yourself the other day—if we walk away with the decision made as to which model of bulletproof vest we’re going to order for the APD, that will be a huge accomplishment.

  It�
��s taken us weeks to get to this point.”

  Carlotta hoped she wasn’t expected to go into the meeting with some type of prior knowledge. Her main experience with the APD was pleading Wesley’s case and generally staying out of Jack Terry’s way. She realized with a start in this life, Randolph wasn’t a fugitive and Wesley hadn’t been arrested for computer hacking, so she wouldn’t have crossed paths with Jack.

  A fact that bothered her more than it should since the absence of Jack in her life meant she and her family were leading a normal, law-abiding existence.

  Which was good… right?

  She and Tracey rode upstairs to the Misses designer section, which looked very much like it had on her last day of work. She had a specific jacket in mind, if this Neiman’s had it in stock.

  “Oh, look, there’s Patricia Alexander,” Tracey said, her voice gleeful—and mean. “Talk about someone who peaked in high school.”

  Carlotta looked up to see the tall blonde she worked with. They’d gotten off on shaky footing because Patricia’s family moved in the same social circle as Tracey’s, and Patricia had made sly remarks regarding Randolph’s scandal. But over time Carlotta had begun to suspect Patricia’s job at Neiman’s wasn’t simply to fight boredom as she’d first professed, and that she lashed out because her own family had fallen on rough financial times. Over time the women had reached a tolerant alliance… Carlotta had even come to realize the younger woman looked up to her.

  “Be nice,” Carlotta admonished. “She’s just trying to make a living.”

  Tracey arched an eyebrow. “Well, look at you being all charitable.”

  Carlotta didn’t respond, and felt a stab of remorse at the expression on Patricia’s face when she saw them coming—part fear, part resignation.

  “Hello, ladies,” she said, as if arming herself. “May I help you find something?”

  “Hi, Patricia,” Carlotta said, giving the woman a smile. “I’m in a pinch and need to dress up my outfit. I saw a St. John jacket earlier—it’s turquoise and has a ruffled front. Do you still have it?”

  “Yes,” Patricia said warily. “If you’d like to try it on, I’ll bring it to the dressing room.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” She moved toward the dressing room with Tracey on her heels. “Remind me, where is this meeting?”

  “Upstairs, in the conference room.”

  “Right. And how is Neiman’s involved?”

  “Duh… they’re kicking in matching funds. And they secured samples from the manufacturers of the bulletproof vests.” She angled her head. “Are you okay to attend this meeting? You’re acting strange.”

  “I’m just feeling a little off-kilter today.”

  “Car trouble will do that to you. Maybe now you’ll get rid of that Hello Kitty convertible.”

  “Maybe.”

  In the lobby of the dressing room, Carlotta studied her reflection in a three-way mirror—long dark hair, deep brown eyes, gapped front teeth. She apparently still looked enough like herself to pass as herself, which was comforting—even with Peter’s money at her disposal, she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to tweak her face or her body. Yet it was becoming more clear that the woman staring back at her, whose life had apparently bumped along as planned, was not entirely happy.

  “Here we are,” Patricia said cheerfully, laden with merchandise. She hung two of the requested turquoise jackets on a rack outside a dressing room which she unlocked with a fluid motion. “I brought different sizes of the jacket, plus some belts and shoes for you to try, if you like.”

  Good girl, Carlotta thought. Way to upsell. “Thank you.” She looked over the items and checked the price tags, sobering when she remembered she wouldn’t be getting her employee discount. Then just as quickly, she realized she probably had a deck of credit cards in her wallet. She felt a rush of power and freedom she hadn’t experienced her entire adult life… people who said money couldn’t buy happiness had never worried about how to pay the utilities.

  Or make their little brother’s bail.

  Or buy off his loan sharks.

  She pulled on one of the jackets, gratified at the slide of the sumptuous fabric that draped and flattered. A wide silver-tone link belt added polish to her long shirt, and Fendi black and cognac high-heeled leather sandals replaced the flip-flops.

  “I’ll take these,” she said to Patricia, who looked relieved and supplied scissors to remove price tags.

  Carlotta withdrew a Chanel wallet from the purse Peter had given her. As expected, she had to sort through several specialty credit cards before she found her Neiman’s plastic. But it was jarring to see the name Carlotta Ashford printed on each of them. Her chest twinged for the loss of Carlotta Wren.

  “Not bad,” Tracey said, nodding at the outfit. Then she pursed her mouth. “You got a brush in your purse?”

  Carlotta leaned closer to the mirror, conceding she looked a little wallowed from her “trip.” Inside the purse, she found, among other things, an iPad—she was a chic geek?—plus a hairbrush and a tube of lipstick. She made quick repairs, wondering how long she’d be able to masquerade as herself.

  When she signed the sales receipt, she gave Patricia a warm smile and thanked her for the bag in which the woman had placed the cheap flip flops.

  Patricia blinked in surprise, but returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “Chop, chop,” Tracey cut in, tugging Carlotta toward the escalator.

  “How many people are supposed to be at this meeting?” she asked, climbing aboard.

  “It depends on how many Neiman’s people will be there—this is the general manager’s pet project.”

  “It’s worthwhile,” she murmured, wondering if Lindy Russell was the GM here. A pang barbed through her when she thought about Michael Lane, her former coworker and friend, who’d gone off the deep end and had been institutionalized. But in this world was he still in the shoe department, breaking sales records? She was afraid to seek him out, to ask too many questions, still unsure of the “rules” of her wish fulfillment.

  Tracey led the way through the administrative offices of the store—Carlotta had been in the GM’s office a lot lately for various reprimands and other one-way discussions.

  “And someone from the APD is supposed to be here,” Tracey added as they approached the boardroom.

  Carlotta’s pulse shot up. “Really?”

  “Supposed to be—no one would even return my call. You’d think with us arranging this benefit, the police people would be a tad more cooperative.”

  “I’m sure the police people have more pressing issues.”

  Tracey sniffed, then opened the door.

  The first person Carlotta saw when she walked into the room was Jack Terry, standing apart from everyone else, holding up a wall. He wore slacks and a sport coat over a dress shirt and signature bad tie. From the expression on his face, either he didn’t want to be there, or something sharp had found its way into his shoe… or both.

  “Hello,” she said. Her heart stampeded her lungs.

  He gave her a brazen scan, then suspicion colored his golden eyes. “Have we met before?”

  A shiver traveled over her shoulders. “I don’t think so. I’m Carlotta Wren.”

  Tracey bumped her, then gave her wedding ring a pointed look.

  “Er, Ashford,” she amended.

  “Detective Jack Terry,” he ground out. “Why are you here?”

  Carlotta’s tongue stalled in her mouth.

  Her friend gave her a strange look, then jumped in with a practiced introduction. “I’m Tracey Tully Lowenstein. Carlotta and I are members of Deer Ferry Country Club. We’re organizing the charity event to pay for the bulletproof vests.”

  Carlotta noticed Jack’s jaw harden at the mention of the word “charity.”


  “It’s our privilege to support the APD,” she rushed to add. “We know the city budget doesn’t cover all the equipment the department needs to do their jobs.”

  He grunted, then glanced at his watch, already bored.

  Carlotta glanced over the handful of other people attending, recognizing her general manager Lindy Russell and a couple of directors. Lindy spoke to her as if they’d met before, but without the authority of being her superior at the store. Carlotta tingled with awareness to be speaking to people with whom she was so familiar, but who knew nothing of her except that she was a country-club-do-gooder.

  In the corner of the room sat three large boxes which, from the markings, contained the models of vests under consideration.

  “Why don’t we get started,” Lindy suggested, gesturing toward the chairs around the table.

  Carlotta found herself seated opposite Jack, who seemed to be studying her again. She tried not to squirm, but it was bizarre to think about how much she and Jack had been through in the other world, yet here, he didn’t even know her.

  Tracey bumped her. Carlotta turned her head to see it wasn’t just Jack who was looking at her—everyone in the room stared at her with an expectant air. Alarm shot through her when she realized Lindy had turned the floor over to her.

  “I…” Her throat convulsed. “I… confess I’m not prepared to speak on the fly—”

  “Which is why,” Tracey cut in, “she brought notes.”

  Carlotta was utterly lost.

  “On your iPad,” Tracey muttered as she pulled out her own slick device.

  “Oh… right,” Carlotta said, remembering the gadget in her purse. “If you’ll just give me a moment…” She removed the case from her bag, completely at a loss as to how to turn it on.

  But Tracey must have picked up on her hesitancy. “I’ll find our notes,” she offered.

  Carlotta gratefully handed over the device. To fill the awkward void, Carlotta manufactured a smile and said, “In the meantime, perhaps Detective Terry could tell us what the department is looking for in a bulletproof vest?”

  Jack cocked an eyebrow, then spread his hands. “Uh… something that stops bullets?”