Hostile Makeover

by Wendy Wax

  “Sure.” Nina looked at Shelley expectantly.

  “So . . . tell me about Tad. Are you going to take him to the firm dinner?”

  “Tad and I are history,” Nina said. “I mean, what kind of name is Tad anyway?”

  “You dumped him because of his name?” Shelley snorted. “And you call me picky?”

  “But he is his name. The guy is a skydiving instructor. He goes up in the air and jumps down. Repeatedly. What if he lands a tad too hard? Or opens his chute a tad too late?

  “I’m ready for a nice solid man who goes to work every day and comes home for dinner. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not,” Nina continued, “but we’re not as young as we used to be.”

  “Thank you so much for that.”

  “Seriously, Shel. Aren’t you getting tired of dating? I’m thirty-two and I started dating when I was fifteen. That’s seventeen years. I’ve had enough.”

  Shelley studied her oldest friend. “But you’re so good at it. Nina Olson giving up dating? Why, it would be like Betty Crocker giving up baking. Or Madonna writing children’s books.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I’m ready to settle down, Shelley. And I want a nice, solid, dependable guy to do it with. I’ve had exciting; exciting’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I want somebody like your dad . . .” She looked up out of blue eyes that were not joking one little bit. “And they say Jewish men make the best husbands. You can tell by the way they treat their mothers.”

  “Jewish men are good to their mothers because they know they’ll be guilted to death if they’re not. Believe me, you don’t want to go there.”

  “But I do. And I’ve drawn up a list of goals and objectives along with a cursory plan of attack.” Her friend pulled a sheet of computer paper out of her purse and pushed it toward Shelley. The list was organized and to the point, just like Nina. It read: 1) Place personal ad in Jewish Singles Magazine and on Web sites. 2) Ask Shelley for referrals. 3) Accept any and all blind dates with appropriate men. 4) Go to bookstore and study Jewish section. 5) Talk to rabbi?

  “Finding a Jewish husband is now my number-one priority,” Nina concluded. “The only thing I’m not sure about is whether I need to convert or not.”

  Shelley arrived at her parents’ filled with resolve. If her father seemed up to it, she planned to broach her role at the agency one last time. If she had to, she’d pitch him like she would a new account.

  That resolve weakened at the sight of Ross Morgan’s shiny black Porsche parked at the top of the driveway.

  Slamming her own car door, she gave the Boxster a wide berth and tromped up the drive to the front steps. His presence and his car, which was far too flashy for such an intentionally unflashy guy, irritated her. She immediately faulted Morgan for bothering her father with business when he was barely out of the hospital, until she remembered she’d been about to do the same.

  “Hello?”

  There was no response as she let herself into the house, so she followed the sound of male voices back to her parents’ bedroom. Her father was propped up in bed with an array of pill bottles and a stack of reading material beside him. Ross leaned against the side of an armoire, his arms folded casually across his chest. They both fell silent when she entered the room.

  “Hey, Dad.” Shelley went to the bed and leaned over to give her father a smooch on the cheek. “You’re not looking too bad for someone who almost bought the farm.”

  But he didn’t look all that great, either. He’d dropped weight he couldn’t afford to lose and his eyes, which had new lines etched around them, were tired. This was not the man who jumped up every morning eager to see what the day would bring.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” He squeezed her hand, but without the usual heartiness. “We were just talking about you.”

  Ross Morgan nodded politely. He was always polite, which, given how big an obstacle he was, only served to irritate her.

  “Ross tells me things are moving along well with the Easy To Be Me people,” her father said. “They’re going to shoot the TV spot and cast the radio commercials later this week.”

  Shelley sank down in the club chair opposite the bed. Just what she wanted to hear about—the success of an account she was no longer working on.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Did you get Mike Moorehouse?” She referred to the commercial director she’d recommended for the shoot.

  “Yes.” Morgan’s voice was pleasant, even-toned. “And I think we’re going to go with Kylie West for spokesperson. They really liked her demo.”

  “Great.”

  Shelley and Ross considered each other. His blond hair looked recently cut and his face freshly shaven. He was dressed in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a pair of dress pants. His shirt was the same bright blue as his eyes, and his forearms were lightly muscled and covered with a dusting of blond hair.

  Great. Ross Morgan was preventing her from stating her case to her father, and she was noticing the hair on his forearms. No wonder she wasn’t getting ahead.

  “Can I get you anything, Daddy?”

  “No, honey. Your mother just ran out to the grocery store. She should be back any minute.”

  “OK.” She looked pointedly at Ross Morgan, more than ready for him to go so that she could speak to her father alone. When he didn’t budge, she motioned with her head toward the door.

  “So, I guess I’ll be going,” he said.

  “No.” Her father stopped him. “I think we’d better talk about this now.” A look passed between the two men that made Shelley distinctly uncomfortable. Her father cleared his throat, then looked her straight in the eye. “Ross and I have been talking about the agency and his role in it,” he said.

  Shelley straightened in the chair and had a brief wild rush of hope that Ross Morgan and his lovely forearms were moving on to greener pastures.

  “My heart attack forced me to face the fact that my time might be limited.”

  “But the doctor said you’re not going anywhere as long as you take care of yourself.” Shelley definitely didn’t want to hear everyone’s worst fears put into words.

  “Yes,” her father said, “and that’s what I plan to do.”

  Shelley opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

  “I’m going to retire.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going to take it easy, play golf, learn to basket-weave or some such thing. Take your mother back to Europe.”

  Like that would be less stressful.

  “But you’ll be bored. You’ll go crazy.” You’ll be with Mom all the time. “You two will drive each other mad within a month.”

  “It’s done, Shelley.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going to hand over the agency to Ross. He’ll put a certain amount of cash up front, and pay me out over time, but he’ll take charge immediately.”

  She swallowed around the horrible lump in her throat and blinked back tears, determined not to sound too pathetic. “But what about me?”

  Ross’s gaze was on her now, and she had a terrible feeling there was pity in it. How dare he come in here and steal her family’s business away and then pretend he felt bad about it?

  She came slowly to her feet. “I wanted to talk to you about taking a larger role. I’m ready, Dad, really I am. I can help relieve your burden. Your heart attack got through to me, too. I know I’ve messed up before, but I’m ready now.”

  “I appreciate that, sweetheart.” Her father pulled himself up straighter against the pillows and smiled, completely oblivious to how cleanly he was cutting her heart out. “And that’s the great thing about this. You can have as big a role as you can handle. Ross has agreed that as long as he runs the business you’ll have your job. And we’ve worked out cost-of-living increases, medical benefits, and so on. It’ll all be in writing.” He smiled full-out, clearly proud of all he’d negotiated on her behalf. “So you’re set, sweetheart. And
if you show Ross what I know you’re capable of, you’ll be a very important part of his team.”

  His team, his agency. Shelley’s chest ached and tears blurred her vision. No matter what she said, her father would always see her as a little girl to be taken care of. And how could she blame him when she’d never given him reason to see her any other way?

  She wanted to throw herself on the floor and kick and scream out her hurt and frustration. Or better yet, beat her fists against Ross Morgan’s broad chest. But she would not upset her father with some silly temper tantrum or give Ross Morgan the satisfaction of seeing how badly she hurt.

  Her mother’s voice wafted down the hall from the kitchen, growing louder as she neared the master bedroom. Entering, she rushed to the bed and began to cluck over her husband, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents charging through the room.

  “I hope you’re not wearing yourself out talking business, Harvey. You know what Dr. Shapiro told you.”

  She turned to Shelley and Ross. “I’ve got a big bowl of chicken soup for the patient and cold cuts for anyone who wants to stay for lunch.” She cocked her head, clearly happy to have people to fuss over and orchestrate. “How many places shall I set?”

  Shelley didn’t wait to see whether Ross Morgan was staying. All she wanted was to get out of this house before she broke down into tears or said something that would hurt or upset her father. “I, uh, have an appointment I have to get to.” She stepped forward and pecked her mother on the cheek, then leaned over the bed to do the same to her father. “I have to be going. You have a big rest this afternoon, Daddy. I’ll check in later to see how you’re doing.”

  And before anyone could stop her, not that anyone seemed inclined to, Shelley was out of the room, out of the house, and on her way to her condo, where she burst into tears as soon as the door closed safely behind her.

  chapter 6

  Shelley spent the next three days in her pajamas, wallowing. It wasn’t a conscious decision. She just couldn’t seem to make herself get out of bed. Or answer her phone. Or go to her job. Or keep her appointments. Voice mails poured in from her colorist, her manicurist, her electrolysist, her masseuse, and her personal trainer. Her misery was affecting profits at salons all over Buckhead.

  In the kitchen the dishes were piled in the sink and the remnants of all the food she’d eaten lay wherever she’d consumed it. The empty quart of Cherry Garcia with the spoon sticking out of it stared her down every time she walked past the coffee table, but she couldn’t summon the energy to remove it. The one time she answered the phone without checking her caller ID her mother caught her. Possibly sensing Shelley’s vulnerability, she charged right through the pleasantries and then zeroed in for the kill.

  “Shelley?”

  “Mmm-hmm?” Lazily, Shelley examined her fingernails and was surprised to note that her polish was chipped and one of her acrylic tips had disappeared.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You don’t sound all right.”

  Normally Shelley would have argued or changed the subject, but her mind was moving much too slowly to successfully feint and parry with her mother.

  “I’m fine,” she managed. Then she yawned.

  “If I’m keeping you awake, I’d better get right to the point.”

  It was a sign of how tired she was that this seemed like a good idea. Plopping onto the living room sofa, she put her bare feet up on the cocktail table and edged the empty ice cream carton aside with her toes, which she now realized were also unusually . . . ragged. When had the hair on her legs reached the Brillo stage?

  “I had a call from Thelma Horowitz.”

  Shelley’s antennae must have been as numb as the rest of her, because they failed to spring up and warn her of the danger ahead.

  “Her son just moved back to Atlanta and he needs a date for . . .”

  Shelley knew there was something she should be saying or doing now, but she couldn’t seem to remember what it was.

  “. . . a client dinner.” Her mother paused for the briefest of moments as if waiting for objections to brush aside, but Shelley couldn’t seem to come up with any.

  “So I told her of course you’d be glad to go. And I gave her your phone number to give to him.”

  Shelley closed her eyes and lowered her head to her knees. She knew something bad had just happened but she couldn’t summon the energy to protest.

  “OK. So . . . that’s all I wanted to say.”

  There was a stunned silence as they both recognized that Miriam had accomplished in thirty seconds what normally took a good week of nagging. Then her mother hung up before Shelley could “come to.”

  Shelley laid down the phone and went back to bed.

  She was still sleeping that afternoon when someone started banging on her front door. Groaning, Shelley pulled a pillow over her head and burrowed deeper under the covers, but the pounding didn’t stop.

  Finally, she shrugged into a robe and shuffled to the front door. It was two P.M.

  “You look like shit,” Nina said as she swept into the foyer. “And so does your place.”

  “Do you ever not say exactly what you think?” Shelley asked.

  “To you? No. Now tell me what’s going on. I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”

  So Shelley told her. In detail.

  “And you didn’t explain how important this was to you?”

  “Well, I tried, but—”

  “Or how completely ready you are to buckle down and prove yourself?”

  “Well, I tried, but—”

  “You are ready to buckle down and prove yourself.”

  Shelley nodded, still numb. “But it’s too late. He’s already given the business to Morgan. And I’m an addendum to their contract!”

  Talking about things was supposed to make you feel better, but that was definitely not the case. Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. Again.

  Nina picked up the empty carton of ice cream, holding it at arm’s length. “Go get dressed.” She sniffed in Shelley’s general direction. “After you shower, we’re going to Nordstrom’s designer shoe sale; it just started this morning.”

  Shelley waited for her usual thrill at the sound of “shoe” and “sale” in such close proximity, but she didn’t feel so much as a quiver of excitement.

  Nina must have read the panic in her eyes, because she came over, took Shelley by the arm, and led her toward the master bedroom closet. “Don’t worry, Shel. I know you, girl. When you get your first sight of those Weitzmans at thirty percent off, you’re going to snap right out of this. I guarantee it.”

  Nina pulled a pair of black capris and a crop top off of their hangers and pushed them into Shelley’s arms. “In fact, if you can make it through that sale without experiencing a complete recovery, the first pair’s on me.”

  Twenty minutes later they were inside Nordstrom’s and approaching the shoe department. Shelley’s first whiff of leather was promising and so was her first sight of the racks of markdowns, but her sense of relief was fleeting.

  “Blahnik . . . Spade . . . Choo.” Nina repeated the designer names like a mantra while waving the gorgeous spring concoctions under Shelley’s nose.

  “It’s not working!” Shelley tried to keep the desperation out of her voice, but she was completely surrounded by the best shoes in the universe and she didn’t have the slightest urge to whip out her charge card.

  “Don’t give up. Here—” Nina ran to the next department and returned with a Furla handbag designed in the same bright pink and lime green as the sandals she’d just dangled in front of Shelley. “Look at this!”

  Shelley tried to summon the appropriate level of enthusiasm, but it was no use.

  “You’ve got to work with me here, Shel.” Nina dashed to the accessory counter and brought back a chunky necklace and earrings that complemented the shoes and bag perfectly. “What about these? Come on, admit it.” She held them up over the bag.
“They’re perfect.”

  Nina was right, but for some reason Shelley just couldn’t get excited about owning them. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just not in the mood.”

  Nina gasped. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Her friend studied the Nordstrom sales floor. “What about a spring makeover? The Trish McEvoy counter is right over there. Or we could go upstairs for a bite and then come back down to finish shopping. You are not leaving this store without a purchase; we have reputations to uphold.”

  Shelley eyed her oldest friend, the one who’d preferred making mud pies until she’d been enticed into her first Little Miss Scarlett Boutique. If she didn’t buy something they’d be here all night. “OK.” She forced a cheerful tone. “I’ll take the shoes and the bag. And that pair of Ferragamos. But I think I’ll hold off on the jewelry.”

  Nina’s eyebrow went up.

  “Fine, I’ll take the jewelry, too.”

  “That’s my girl.” Nina walked with Shelley to the register. “And you know what else? I think you should check your messages. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was one from Ross Morgan begging you to come back to work. Why, you’re an important part of Schwartz and Associates. In fact, you’re the main Schwartz now.”

  Shelley felt a mild glimmer of interest. Despite her initial misgivings, the shopping and Nina’s company had cheered her up a little. If she kept hiding in her condo eating ice cream, she’d be too big to squeeze out the front door. She needed to go in and set things straight, but a little discreet begging from Ross Morgan would allow her to go back to work with her head up. After all, she had to do something every day.

  Handing her purchases to the salesclerk, Shelley located her cell phone.

  There were messages from her mother and, unfortunately, a painfully shy Tommy Horowitz, but the message she’d been hoping for proved to be . . . not exactly what she’d been hoping for.

  “I understood you taking off while your father was in the hospital,” Ross Morgan’s voice boomed. “But where are you now? Shopping? Accessorizing?”