His brow furrows. “I think it was Myrtle, or something equally horrible. She was considered to be quite a beauty and had many suitors, but never married. I’m Walter Hill, by the way.” He offers his gloved hand to me, and Operation Bag New Clients is off and running.
Forty-five minutes later, I’ve canvassed most of the ballroom and passed out business cards to eight bigwigs from the worlds of retail, technology, finance, construction, and food. I return to the table where Josh and the McAllisters are indulging in a decadent dessert called “Waldorf Pudding,” which was served on the Titanic (not exactly a ringing endorsement, in my opinion), just in time to hear J.B. Stanfield’s speech about the glorious history of the Stanfield Hotel.
I’m surprised to learn that the grand, old establishment survived a fire on its upper floors back in the ‘40s; was featured in two different Academy Award-winning films; and hosted twelve presidents, numerous Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winners, and even a gangster or two (Mario “Knuckles” Nizzoli was arrested while eating some veal parm in the hotel restaurant.) Up on the dais with Mr. Stanfield while he delivers this interesting and informative speech are his sister, Penelope, brother-in-law, Teddy, and two nephews who look to be in their late teens. They seem like a nice, close-knit family as lots of smiles and hugs are exchanged while they’re on stage together. Mr. Stanfield thanks everyone for coming to the celebration, encourages us to enjoy the food and cocktails, and not to be shy about hitting the dance floor.
The band starts playing again, prompting Monica to open a bottle of whine. “Ohmigod, I am so bored. I am literally dying of boredom. How long have we been at this stupid party? Seems like forever. I swear, I’m fossilizing just sitting here. I can’t take it anymore! Can I leave, Daddy? Pleeeeaaaase.”
Wow, she knows the word “fossilizing” and she used it in the proper context. Maybe she took a geology or paleontology course in school and actually retained something she was taught. Doubtful. My bet is she saw Jurassic Park recently.
McAllister pats her on the hand. “We’ve only been here an hour, pumpkin.”
I snort laugh, then pretend I’m choking on my cocktail to cover it up. “Sorry,” I murmur when everyone at the table looks askance at me. “Drink went down the wrong way.” Pumpkins are orange and so is Monica’s skin – come on, that’s funny!
“I wanna leave!” says the gourd.
“Well, you can’t,” Mrs. McAllister snaps. Apparently, she doesn’t have as much patience with her daughter’s bratty behavior as her spouse does. “We all came in one car, so you can’t go until the rest of us are ready, and your father would offend his client if he left early.”
“This is so unfair!” Monica protests. “I hate this party! The music’s undanceable, the food is gross . . .,” she pushes away her plate of barely touched pudding, with an expression of disgust, “. . . this dress is super tight and uncomfortable, and I don’t know anybody here. I can’t think of anything lamer than this. I’d rather listen to Daddy talk about fair value measurements, or watch a movie with subtitles, or floss my teeth–”
The list of tedious things Monica thinks are more fun than being at this gala goes on, and on, and on. I’m about to offer her cab fare just so she’ll shut her trap, but I don’t get a chance because our host suddenly appears at our table.
“Good evening,” Mr. Stanfield greets us. “I just wanted to stop by and thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate this milestone with us.” He shakes my boss’s hand and claps Josh on the back. “Ladies . . .,” he makes eye contact with each of us, “. . . you illuminate the ballroom with your incandescent beauty.”
“You’re too kind, J.B.” Mrs. McAllister beams, her good humor restored by his flowery tribute.
He gives her a courtly bow before directing his attention to me. “Sloane, how’d you like to take a spin around the dance floor?” He holds out his gloved hand for me.
I know diddlysquat about the foxtrot, or whatever it is all the twirling couples on the parquet are currently doing, but making a fool of myself out there seems preferable to spending any more time with Monica and her misery. “I’d be honored.” I place my hand in his and let him assist me to my feet.
“Fair warning,” I tell Mr. Stanfield as we walk toward the dance floor. “I’ve never done any type of ballroom dancing, no classes as a kid, no cotillion.”
“No worries. The waltz is easy enough.” He leads me to an empty spot on the floor. “Put your left hand on my shoulder,” he instructs, placing his arm underneath mine, with his palm pressed lightly to my shoulder blade, then he takes my right hand and lifts it in the air. “Elbow bent at a right angle.”
I do as he says, but it all seems very awkward.
“Now, we both know how good you are with numbers, so counting beats of music and coordinating your steps to them should come naturally. Just follow me – right foot back first, then left foot side, right foot close. One – two – three, one – two – three . . . very good! Don’t look at your feet, or you’ll trip yourself up,” he cautions.
It takes me a few seconds to find my rhythm, but before I know it, I’m effortlessly gliding around the ballroom. “I’m actually waltzing!” I exclaim, with surprise. What’s more I’m enjoying it. Sweeping across the floor, moving in time to the music. The structure and simplicity of this dance really suit me.
“I never doubted you,” Mr. Stanfield says, smiling. “In fact, I’m convinced that there’s nothing you can’t do once you put your mind to it. I’ve been watching you work this party tonight, making connections with people who might benefit your career. It’s all been very impressive.”
“I like to make the most of opportunities when they’re presented to me. I’m glad you can appreciate that.”
“I always appreciate people who are enterprising, probably because they remind me of myself.” He winks one of his sparkly blue eyes at me, and I chuckle.
“I’m flattered by the comparison and I’m grateful to have been invited to such an exclusive event. Thank you for that.”
“My pleasure. I hope that you’ve been able to mix some pleasure in with all the business this evening.”
“This waltz has definitely been a highlight,” I say, with complete sincerity, even though my arms are aching from being hoisted in such an unnatural position. I might have to drop by my chiropractor’s office tomorrow (good thing he’s open on Saturdays). “And being transported back in time a hundred years has certainly been a unique experience. Kudos to whoever’s responsible for capturing the ambiance of a bygone era here tonight. They’ve done a wonderful job with the décor, music, and refreshments.”
“All credit goes to my sister, Penny. She’s the party planner in our family, and the creative one. I just write checks.”
“That sibling dynamic sounds familiar. My sister is also very right-brained. She made this gown for me.”
“Well, now I’m impressed by her! She’s clearly very talented. Is she in fashion?”
“No, sewing and clothes are just a hobby of Willa’s, something she has a flair for. She makes her living working with animals.” That’s not a lie; it’s just a little whitewashing of the truth to protect my credibility. No one as smart, powerful, and accomplished as J.B. Stanfield would ever take me seriously if he knew what my twin’s wacky profession was.
I should probably change the subject before he asks anymore about Willa.
“You seem to have a good relationship with your nephews. How old are they?”
“They’re wonderful boys.” He smiles fondly. “My wife and I were never blessed with children, so I embraced my role as uncle. Hunter’s eighteen and incredibly bright; he’s off to Yale in the fall, where he’ll be studying computer science. Tyler’s sixteen and he’s more interested in skateboarding than schoolwork right now, but he’s great at designing and building things. So, I’ve been encouraging him to think about being an architect.”
I see the ulterior motive in that suggestion. “Ah, very smart. If Tyler gets a d
egree in architecture, you can have him design Stanfield hotels one day.”
“I’m hoping that both of my nephews can apply their talents to working at SHG. They are the future of our family’s company. You could be a part of that future, too, if you reconsider my job offer.”
“Tempting, but . . .” I still feel like Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister is the place I belong.
Mr. Stanfield nods with understanding. “Ready for the big finish?”
Uh oh. Waltzes don’t end with a dip, do they? Because I don’t see that going well at all. I’ll probably rip the lace on my dress exposing my lingerie to the world, or my glasses will fly off my face, or I’ll get a wicked case of vertigo and have to stagger off the dance floor like I’ve had one too many Clover Leafs.
Mr. Stanfield chortles. “Don’t look so panicked. I’m just going to turn you. All you have to do is go under my arm. Remember to rotate to the beat of the music. One – two – three, one – two – three. Here we go. Drop your left arm, then lift your right up in the air, and pass under my arm.”
I do this once, very badly, taking too many steps and losing the beat of the music, but Mr. Stanfield keeps spinning me around until I finally get it right. I’m glad when the song ends shortly after that, because I’m feeling breathless and a little dizzy.
“Guess I’m all set next time I get invited to a wedding,” I joke as we leave the dance floor. “Thank you for being such a patient teacher, Mr. Stanfield.”
“You’re an excellent student, and a lovely partner.” He squeezes my hand, then lets it go. “And you must start calling me ‘J.B.’ All the execs at SHG do, and I haven’t given up hope that you’ll join their ranks one day.”
I chuckle, admiring his persistence. “You can keep right on asking me, J.B. You never know when I might change my mind. Meanwhile, it’s a very nice ego boost.”
We go our separate ways, and I return to the table where I left the McAllisters and Josh, but find it empty. I glance around the ballroom, trying to ascertain where everyone’s disappeared to, and see Josh chatting up a couple of youngish-looking men over by the bar, so I head in that direction.
“Sloane, meet Dan Peterson and Jason Willet,” Josh introduces me to his new friends. “They work in the Corporate Marketing department at SHG. Dan’s a Stanford grad, just like us. Class of 2007.”
“Great.” If Josh is reliving his glory days as Stanford quarterback again, I’m out. I’ve already got too much valuable brain space being filled up with useless details about his team’s best trick plays and the bad ref call that cost him a Rose Bowl victory. “Where are the McAllisters?” I ask, willing to subject myself to more of Monica’s petulance if that’s what it takes to avoid the football talk.
“They left. Monica wasn’t feeling well. She thought she might have gotten food poisoning from some sushi she had for lunch.”
“Wasn’t that convenient?” That girl continues to demonstrate her stupidity. If you’re going to fake an illness, go with something that can’t be disproved, like a migraine. If you say you have salmonella but there’s no barfing, fever, or diarrhea to support your claim, you’re outted as a big, fat liar. I’m just going to assume that the McAllisters saw right through their daughter’s story and only played along with it so that they had an excuse to remove her Dorito-colored butt from the premises. “So, I guess we lost the town car.”
“Yeah, I told McAllister I’d see you home safely. We can grab a cab and charge it to ATM when we’re ready to go.”
For me, that time is now since I’ve already accomplished everything I wanted to at this shindig, and I’m not really interested in making small talk with guys like Dan and Jason. Unfortunately, Josh is not of the same mind as he’s turned away from me and is now nattering on about how he’s sure starting quarterback Kevin Hogan will lead Stanford to the top spot in the Pac-12 next season as long as the team’s new tight ends . . . snooooooooze, I’m falling asleep, standing up.
With a smile, I extricate myself from the sports-gabbers. As I’m walking away, I pull my cell phone out of my purse and quickly type a text.
“Why don’t we move this party to your place?”
Josh may love his football, but sex rates even higher on his favorite things list. So, I’m not at all surprised when I get an almost instantaneous response.
“Been wondering what you’re wearing underneath that dress all night – garter belt?”
“Better.”
“What’s better than garter belt?”
“Thigh-highs, easier to remove.”
“An excellent point.”
“This gown does have a lot of buttons. Will need help undoing them all.”
“Fast Fingers Finley is the man for the job.”
I smirk. I’d forgotten about Josh’s nickname on the gridiron.
“Let’s see if you live up to that name, Fast Fingers. Meet you out front in five.”
“Make it two.”
Men are so easy.
Chapter 21
(Willa)
I finally received the call from Brody I’d been hoping for ever since we had our lunch date. How long did I have to wait for this potentially life-changing call, you ask? Well, according to the Playful Puppies wall calendar I have tacked up in my kitchen, it was ten days, a week-and-a-half, one-third of a whole dang month! Perhaps that’s not a lot of time in the grand scheme of things, but for me it seemed like an eternity.
I know I told Sloane that I could be patient and hang in there until Brody figured things out and I really thought I could, but this has not been easy. Technically, we did talk during those ten days, if you can call the brief, somewhat stilted, conversation that occurred when I dropped by Lovey’s garden last week “talk”ing. However that exchange could be classified, it left me feeling sad and discouraged. Chatting with Sloane about the situation did make me realize I need to temper my expectations in regards to Brody, which is what I’ve been trying to do. Still, my heart almost leapt out of my chest when my phone rang yesterday and I saw his name pop up on the display screen. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm myself before I could answer the phone, and even then my voice sounded unnaturally high and squeaky, like I’d been sucking on helium.
I’d love to report that Brody called to say he missed me, or wondered what I’d been up to. Shoot, I would have been thrilled if he just wanted to ask my opinion on the best flea treatment for Roxie (Skin So Soft from Avon, works like a charm and isn’t toxic like drugs can be.), but no, he wasn’t interested in discussing anything personal. The purpose of his call was to inform me, in a very business-like way, that he would be wrapping up his work in the garden on Tuesday and he needed to give me some instructions on maintaining the roses. SIGH
I suppose I could have told him to e-mail me the info, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to see him and I really wanted to. So, here I am, with Cicero, steeling myself for what will probably be another disappointing encounter with the man I was hoping would be Mr. Right.
“Hi,” I greet him with as much perkiness as I can muster when entering the back yard.
“Hey.” Brody looks up from his work, smiling.
I’m taken aback by the smile. What does it mean? Is he glad to see me, or is he just relieved to be done with this job so that he never has to lay eyes on me again?
I’m not the only one with questions. Cicero’s head is swimming with them. Why isn’t Brody petting him? Isn’t he going to offer him a cookie? Aren’t they friends anymore? Where’s Roxie? I suppose I can get an answer to that last one for him.
“Where’s Roxie?” I glance around the yard to see if she’s found some secluded spot to take a nap in.
“Left her at the groomer’s this morning. She needed her hair cut shorter for the summer.”
“That’s a shame. Sorry, Cicero, looks like you’re on your own today.” I unhook the little guy from his leash, pull a mini tennis ball out of my purse, and chuck it across the lawn. He scampers after it eagerly, not sure if he’s going to
return the toy or hide it in some secret place.
“No hat today?” Brody comments on my bare head.
“No, that’s just for gardening, and I didn’t think I’d be doing any of that today.”
“Gotcha.” Turning his attention back to the ground, Brody packs down some shredded wood surrounding the rose bushes, then stands and rubs his gloved hands together to remove the garden schmutz. “All done with the mulch,” he announces.
“Great,” I try to sound enthusiastic, even though I have no idea what the point of mulch is.
“This cedar mulch is the best. It’ll suppress weeds and help the soil retain its moisture. Smells good, too.” He peels off his gloves and tosses them on top of some tools on the ground.
I nod to show my support of mulch, but don’t have anything else to add to the subject, so I wait, hoping Brody will move on to a more scintillating topic. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. He just shoves his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants and rocks back on his heels, not speaking. The silence stretches between us, becoming increasingly awkward with each passing second.
Ugh. I hate this! Brody and I have never been at a loss for words with each other before. So, why does everything have to be so strained and weird now?
“You wanted to give me some instructions?” I prompt, in a desperate attempt to keep the conversation ball rolling.
“Right. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
No, you silly man, I’m here because I like you and I want you to reciprocate those feelings. I thought you did, but now I’m starting to wonder if that was all in my head. Maybe I over-romanticized the time we spent here in the garden, the walks with the dogs, the lunch at your house. Maybe I really am a glutton for punishment when it comes to men, always wanting the ones who are emotionally unavailable, totally wrong for me, or just not interested.
Twin Piques Page 21
