See those gray eyes once more. Run his hands through her flyaway hair. Maybe catch her smile.
He wanted to make sure that he hadn't dreamed up such perfection. But at the moment, he had no idea how to go about that.
"So...I wrote her a note and haven't heard a thing, Breva. Now what?"
"It's only been a few days."
"Two. It's been two days. I need to move on to the next step."
"Give Jovial Janitors a call," Breva suggested.
"I did that. Actually, I've tried calling them three times. No one ever answers the damn phone. I finally left a message last night."
"Well, maybe no one wants to talk to you."
No, he didn't think that was it. At least, he hoped not. He wasn't ready to accept the possibility that Brooke might not want anything further to do with him.
Not when he couldn't stop thinking about her. Glancing at Breva, he wheedled again. "Come on. Give me some other ideas. What can I do?"
"I'm not really sure what to tell you, M.C."
"Oh, I bet you've been through something like this before. Or one of your kids has."
Breva folded her arms across her chest. "My kids didn't tell me as much as you might think."
"Please?" Morgan stuck out his bottom lip for good measure. Anything to stir up her maternal instincts.
She pursed her mouth. "All right. What do you have to go on? A note?"
"A note, a phone number that no one will answer and Brooke's buddy Tomasina. And a pair of shoes. And I'm not camping out at Jovial Janitors."
Breva smiled briefly, then stopped all semblance of work and stared at him. "Hold on. A pair of her shoes?"
Morgan shrugged. "She left them under the table."
"Boy, this is a new low for you, Morgan. Running off barefoot girls during Christmas balls. In the winter, no less."
"Are you going to help me or not?"
"Hand me the shoes. Maybe there's a clue on them somewhere."
Morgan doubted that, but he decided it couldn't hurt to let Breva see them. After retrieving the sandals from his file cabinet, he passed them over.
She grasped them and sighed with approval. "Now aren't these pretty!"
Morgan smiled at the way Breva was holding the sandals. What was it with women and shoes? It was as if they had some special connection. "They are kind of nice," he said. "They're gold."
"No, I mean these are no discount-rack shoes - these are designer sandals. You can only find these in exclusive boutiques and high-end stores," she clarified, tipping them one way and then the other. "Ooh, look at the rhinestone buckle."
"It's, uh, shiny."
Breva's blue eyes sparkled as she corrected him. "It's gorgeous." She flipped the shoes over and examined the soles. "They've barely been worn. I bet she bought them just for the party."
"Okay. That's helpful."
Breva rolled her eyes. "What am I going to do with you? You need to think like a detective, Morgan. When did you ask Brooke to the party?"
"Two Thursdays ago."
"And when did she wear the shoes?"
"That Saturday."
Breva snapped two fingers. "All you need to do is find out where Brooke would've bought her expensive shoes that Friday or Saturday. Piece of cake."
"No, it's not! There are probably a thousand shoe stores in Cincinnati."
"Not expensive shoe stores. Not stores that sell shoes like these. That will narrow things down."
"I don't know. Seems like a long shot to me. What do you think? Are they a popular style? Would you wear these shoes?"
Breva looked at him as if he was crazy. "Of course I'd wear them. Any woman would want to! Here, let me have one to try on."
Within seconds, Breva had shaken off her clog and was sliding her foot into the strappy sandal. But she quickly gave up and groaned.
"What's wrong? Did you break it?"
"No, I didn't break it. It's too small. This shoe was made for a tiny foot. What size is it, anyway?"
Morgan flipped over the sandal he was holding and found the size engraved on the bottom of the heel. "Size 5N."
"Five narrow! This girl has the tiniest feet I've ever heard of." Breva placed her foot firmly in her suede clog and handed the gold sandal back to him. "Well, now you won't have any problems."
"What are you talking about?"
"There can't be too many upscale shoe stores that sold a spiked gold sandal in size five narrow two Fridays ago."
Call him stupid, but he still didn't get it. "And I should care about this...why?"
"Because now you can go investigate, find out where Brooke bought the shoes. You can try and get some more information about her from the store." Breva sounded beyond excited.
He scratched his head. "I guess your idea has merit. I mean, that Tomasina girl wouldn't give me the time of day and no one will answer the Jovial Janitor phones."
His assistant patted him on the back. "It's a great idea. You're the one who likes puzzles - think of this as a missing piece."
She was right; he did like challenges. And he was sick of just sitting around and doing nothing. Even if he never actually got any information, at least he'd know he tried.
"All right," Morgan finally said. "I'm going to go out into the world and find the person who sold Brooke these shoes."
Breva raised her fist in the air. "Hurrah!"
He couldn't help grinning.
"So, you have a plan?" Breva asked him.
"I have a plan."
"Good." With a determined expression, she thrust a pile of shower caps into his arms. "Now help me finish these gift baskets."
*****
Chapter Nineteen
Morgan only had one thing to say to Breva when he saw her next: Bad idea.
Trying to find the store where Brooke had bought her shoes was easier said than done. So far, out of the eleven shops he'd visited, four carried the shoes Brooke had worn. And at those four stores, no one was saying much. In fact, the salespeople looked at him as if he was crazy, asking them if they remembered who'd bought a pair of gold sandals in their store two weeks ago.
Of course, they all could have been lying.
Morgan sensed there was a whole confidentiality-clause thing going on with salespeople that he'd never been aware of. Retailers kept a closer guard on their clients' purchases than he would've ever imagined. One lady had actually gasped at the idea of divulging the names and whereabouts of her shoppers. He doubted that pharmacists were as vigilant about their prescriptions.
Three hours and two malls later, he decided to stop in at one last store, only two blocks from his office building. After that, he was quitting for the day. He'd given up most of his Saturday for this little investigation. He'd felt like a bag lady carrying the shoes around in a sack, daring people to ask why he didn't just put them away and forget about them-and he had nothing to show for his efforts except a pair of sore... uh... feet.
The last store, WJB Shoes, his last shot.
Peering through the window, he decided it looked exclusive and upscale. The storefront display depicted a mountain snow scene with shoes engaged in different winter activities. In spite of himself, Morgan was impressed. The window was eye-catching and humorous at the same time. Maybe it was an omen that the manager would be more forthcoming than his counterparts. And maybe, even if they didn't carry the shoes there, they'd know who would.
A discreet bell sounded as Morgan stepped across the threshold. Instantly, he became aware of the boutique's sedate atmosphere. He clutched his plastic bag a little tighter.
"Yes?" a rather elderly, butlerlike man inquired over a pair of half-moon glasses.
"Hi there."
"May I help you? New shoes, perhaps?"
Morgan glanced down at his feet. His shoes did look kind of scuffed and worn. He turned back to the gentleman. "Have anything in a size eleven, uh, Warren?" he asked, eyeing the man's discreet name badge.
"I do. Please sit down."
Morgan sat. It
felt nice to finally relax in a shoe store, instead of stalking the help for information. He pulled off his wing tips and waited for Warren to return.
"Here we are, sir."
Warren opened the shoe box and presented Morgan with a brand-new pair of shoes, that while similar to the ones he'd been wearing, were, in fact, far more supple. Morgan was impressed. And after he tried one on, he knew for a fact that Warren was a genius. The shoe fit perfectly. It felt so good, he slipped the other one on, too.
It was time to get down to business, though. "I have a question for you, if you don't mind."
Warren took a seat. "Yes, sir?"
Feeling silly, but still determined, Morgan opened the bag and pulled out one of Brooke's gold sandals. "Does this look familiar to you?"
Warren glanced at the shoe, then at his feet. "Any particular reason why you enjoy carrying about gold sandals?"
Morgan scowled. "They're not mine. They were my date's."
Warren's gaze shifted from the shoes to Morgan with a new interest. "I see. Was there a problem with them?"
"No. Well, at least I don't think so. So, you do carry these shoes?"
Warren graced him with the slightest of nods. "We do."
Yes! Partial success!
"Any chance you could help me out? The gal that wore these didn't give me her phone number. I'm desperate to talk to her."
"Did you try the phone book?"
"She's not listed. I can't get any answer at her office, either. And...I can't get her out of my mind."
Warren crossed his knees and clasped hands on top of them. "And how did you come into ownership of the shoes, if I may ask?"
Morgan tried to ignore his sarcastic tone, as well as the uneasy feeling that had come over him. It was the same feeling when he'd been caught smoking in the boys' restroom in tenth grade. "My date...she left without them."
"Ah," Warren said.
Yep, there was that same exact sinking feeling he'd had in high school. He'd been busted and now Warren was going to make him squirm.
Desperation kicked in. "Look, it wasn't like that, so get any thoughts like that out of your head. It was a great date. Well, almost great," he amended. "She left the party early. We had a miscommunication. Now I'm trying to do the right thing by giving her back the shoes." And because he had nothing else to lose, he added, "And apologizing. I want to see her again."
Warren glanced at the gold sandal once more. "So you want to return the shoes...and maybe something more?"
"Maybe." Morgan wished he was a little closer to his father. Typically, a dad would be a far better person to talk to about relationships than Warren. "Did you sell these shoes?" he asked. "It would've been two weeks ago last Friday."
Warren took the sandal from his hand, inspected it closely, his eyes widening when he saw the size. "I did."
Relief coursed through Morgan. "Excellent. Do you think you have her address or phone number on file? That maybe you could pass either of those on to me?"
"I'm sorry, sir. It's not my policy to give the phone numbers or addresses of our clients out to people off the street," Warren said tersely.
"I'm not off the street - I'm the product purchasing manager for Royal Hotels."
Warren didn't look impressed. "And that means what, exactly?"
"I'm trying to make you see that I'm an upstanding guy who just needs a little help," Morgan said, and let out a sigh of frustration. "This girl, this woman...her name is Brooke. Does she come in often? Does she shop here a lot?"
Warren's eyebrows arched. "Does Brooke come here often? You obviously don't know her if you need to ask."
"We didn't talk about shoe-shopping habits when we were together," Morgan stated tersely.
"Perhaps if you did, you wouldn't be here," Warren replied in as succinct a fashion.
This wasn't working. Crossing a leg, Morgan tilted his head back and strove for patience. "Listen, I know if you were me, you would've handled things differently, but I need help, now. What do you think I should do?"
Warren rubbed at an invisible spot on his lapel. "It would all depend, sir, on why I wanted to see Brooke again."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, if I was only wanting to return her shoes, I'd realize my efforts were futile, and I'd give the shoes to someone who'd appreciate them. But -" Warren sent him a pointed look"- if there were other, more personal reasons why I wanted to see her again, I would ask someone else to give her a message."
"I've done that already," Morgan muttered.
"Have you?" Warren asked. "Because I happen to know that the woman we're speaking of has an open invitation to tea, right here in this shop. Perhaps I'd ask the manager, nicely, to relay a message...if it was the lady who mattered to me and not the shoes."
Morgan studied the older man. He sat so straight it was as though an invisible board was attached to his back. His expression was the epitome of good breeding, calm and interested. There was only one thing for Morgan to say.
What was in his heart.
He might not understand exactly what he was feeling, but Morgan knew without a doubt that it was more than misplaced guilt over a pair of shoes and a check that needed to be given.
He wanted to see Brooke again. He wanted to get to know her, take her out. She appealed to him and made him feel good.
He didn't think it mattered if she was the janitor or the CEO's daughter, but he wanted to find out...for both their sakes. It wasn't about pride or shoes or money owed anymore. It was about Brooke.
Finally, he spoke. "Warren, next time Brooke comes in for tea, would you please give her a message?"
Amusement and a tinge of compassion lit Warren's face. "I would."
"Would you please tell Brooke that I've been looking for her? That I've tried to call her, too? That I've missed her, and that I'd love to see her soon? That if she feels the same way, maybe she could give you her phone number so I could call her?"
Warren stood up, gave him a note card and a fancy fountain pen. "You better tell her all of that yourself. Write it down. If she comes in, I'll see she receives it."
Morgan did just that, thinking to himself that it had been decades since he'd written so many notes to be passed on.
Brooke, I now know more about shoes than I ever thought possible. I have the Jovial Janitor number memorized. I practically ran over a lady yesterday because I thought she was you.
Give a guy a break, would you? Leave Warren your phone number...or call me. 555-1224.
I just want to see you again.
Morgan
"If you see her, and you give her this note, would you give me a call?" he asked.
Warren took the card and nodded. "I will. Would you like me to hold on to the shoes, and pass them to her, as well?" he asked, stretching out a hand.
Perversely, Morgan clutched the bag. "No. I'll just wait to give them to her myself." He'd had them this long; he was going to part with them for one person only.
"Now, as for your shoes, would you like to purchase them?"
Morgan's gaze dropped to his feet. The new shoes were so comfortable, he'd forgotten he had them on. "I would," he said. "But first I need to take them off. I'm going to get a Christmas tree, and there's no way I want to ruin them already."
"Excellent idea. It would be a shame to damage such fine Italian leather."
Fine Italian leather? "Warren, how much are those shoes, by the way?"
"Three hundred and twenty, sir."
Morgan leaned back in his chair as if he'd been pushed. Three hundred and twenty dollars? No wonder Brooke had wanted those shoes back.
If Warren noticed Morgan's slump, he didn't show it. "Cash or charge, sir?"
Morgan swallowed hard. "Charge," he mumbled. He only hoped Christmas trees were less expensive.
*****
Chapter Twenty
Brooke Anne's mind raced with unfinished lists, but for once she didn't feel stressed. These lists had to do with fun things - Christmas presents, trees,
icicle lights.
Not work. Not money troubles.
Tonight she was ready to become completely immersed in the Christmas season. She needed to get a tree and decorate her little apartment for the holiday. Maybe pick up some eggnog, too.
She realized that some people might think it frivolous that she was buying a Christmas tree, an ornament she'd been admiring, and new lights when she didn't have a lot of cash. But for her, having a merrily decorated home was as important to her well-being as eating a good breakfast - if doughnuts and coffee could be considered good.
So, armed with her wallet and in an exceptionally cheerful mood, Brooke Anne drove her Jovial Janitor van to the tree lot.
It was on an empty corner next to a convenience store and filled to the brim with trees. Each one had a six-inch cardboard price tag that fluttered in the light breeze. The unmistakable scent of fresh pine and the fainter smell of damp earth permeated the lot. A banner proclaiming Ed's Fresh Trees from Our Grand State, Ohio was tacked to the side of a small wooden building, about a third of the size of a mobile home. Twinkling lights and Christmas music completed the festive atmosphere.
Singing along with "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," Brooke Anne weaved her way through the miniforest, eyeing each tree critically and feeling exhilarated that she was finally doing something for herself. There were some people, she knew, who had a certain fondness for misshapen trees - the ones Charlie Brown would have loved. Not her.
She'd had too many beautiful trees during her childhood in Nebraska to settle for anything less. She wanted the fullest, most perfect one she could afford. Nothing but the best for her. The only thing stopping her was going to be a hefty price tag. Of which there were many.
"Ed," she said to the owner. "These prices are something else."
The man grinned broadly. "Yes, ma'am. Good crop this year. These trees come all the way from northern Ohio. The prices reflect that."
Ed sounded as if he came from the farm, too. Since they were right there in southern Ohio, she wasn't too impressed by the trees' origins. Or the exorbitant prices. "How's a girl supposed to get a nice tree when you're charging an arm and a leg?"
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