A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

Ruthie peeks in her multicolored head. “I have no idea why she’s so upset.” She walks to my side. “One minute we were talking, and the next she went to freaky town.”

  “She hasn’t spent much time with her big sister lately and is feeling a little down.” Dad rubs Marisol’s head as she glares at me and Ruthie like a pit bull about to strike. “Come on, let’s go find Christina and raid the fridge for some ice cream.”

  “Okay,” she sniffs.

  My dad’s hand curls around her small one, and I feel something grip in me as well. Right in the heart region. God, am I ever going to get over this jealousy? It’s not just that I’m envious—I’m hurt. Why can’t he treat me with half as much care as he shows Marisol?

  The two slide out of the room, and I blink as Marisol sticks out her tongue just before she disappears.

  Ruthie clenches her fists. “That little—”

  I hold out my arm and block her charge. “Sit down. It’s not worth it.” I pick up my dad’s discarded cell phone and quickly copy down the last number. I might need to call his contact at this Brazilian reality show and ask a few questions. For journalistic purposes, of course.

  “Do you know what that little rat said to me in the kitchen?”

  Ruthie asks.

  “She liked your hair?”

  “It is looking good today, isn’t it?” Ruthie gives it a pat. “No, that little skunk told me that if I didn’t give her twenty bucks, she was going to tell your dad that I kicked her in the shins.”

  “She didn’t mention any violence to Dad, so how’d you show her who was boss?”

  “I might’ve accidentally let her see my slingshot.” Ruthie shrugs casually. “Sometimes it just slips out of my pocket, you know?”

  Later that afternoon I stand in the dressing room of Enrique’s House of Design.

  “You are lucky I let you back in my shop. You realize that, don’t you?” Enrique flips his scarf over his shoulder and grabs his latte from a burger-deprived assistant. “I rescheduled the First Lady just to fit you and your”—Enrique sneers—“stepdaughter in.”

  Ruthie sits on the edge of her chair. “The first lady? Like Madonna—the first lady of pop? Or Paris Hilton, the first lady of spray tan? Or maybe Dolly Parton, the first lady of cleavage?”

  “Silence!” Enrique shoves the latte away and rubs his temples. “Your talking is upsetting the creative vibes in this studio. I meant the President’s wife.”

  “Somebody is snippy,” Ruthie whispers toward me, loud enough for all to hear. “Do you think I should offer him some of my Midol?”

  “I’ll just try on that dress now!” I step in front of the designer with my most angelic smile. “Can’t wait to see it . . . again.”

  “You scoffed at its beauty last time.”

  “I was young and foolish then.”

  He nods once. “Very well.” He claps his hands, and the skinny assistant reappears. “Get me the Christina De Luna bridesmaid dress.”

  Ten minutes later I’m sneezing my head off and trying to secure the feather boa straps. “Achoo!”

  “Come out so Enrique can fit it,” Christina calls.

  I waddle out in the tight confection. It’s literally a pink trash bag with feathers hot-glued everywhere.

  “Oh!” My future stepmother gasps when I step outside the dressing room. “It’s heaven, Enrique. I just lose my mind every time I see it.”

  Ruthie tilts her head to one side, then the other. “I can see why.”

  “Spin for Enrique,” the man says. You have to wonder about people who refer to themselves in third person.

  I turn in a half circle, and he grabs the extra material at my waist. “Ow!” I frown at the pins in his fingers. “You stuck me.”

  “Fashion is pain, darling.”

  I send a pleading look to Christina, but her eyes go wide in warning.

  By the time Enrique finishes, the dress is too tight, I can’t move, and I look like a reject from a cross-dresser’s garage sale. “It’s very tight. Having trouble breathing.”

  “You are a little blue,” Ruthie says. “But it’s a nice color for you.

  Complements your plumage.”

  “It’s perfect as it is.” Enrique spins on his heel and faces Christina.

  “You like?”

  She clasps her hands over her heart. “It’s a dream. And yes, it’s just the right fit.”

  “Yeah, if your goal is to suffocate me.” Which I don’t doubt. “But if you expect me to walk in this, it needs to be let out some.” Plus, I like my wedding cake. Gotta have room in the dress for that.

  “If Enrique says it’s fine, then it is.” Christina laughs and tosses her black hair. “We would be foolish to argue with a genius, right?”

  He chuckles as well, a high-pitched sound that would make a chicken give up her feathers.

  “Achoo!” Ruthie’s sneeze echoes off the walls. “Ah-ah-ah-choo!”

  “It’s her allergies,” Christina says, helping Ruthie to her feet.

  “Nothing more.”

  “No.” My friend points to my dress. “Actually, I think it’s that frock of a—”

  “We’ll just step outside.” Christina pushes Ruthie toward the door. “We’ll be down at the corner drugstore getting her some decongestant.”

  “Achoo!”

  The designer’s eyes narrow as they exit.

  “I’ll change now.” I shuffle back to the dressing room, my feet moving inches at a time.

  “Do not disturb my pins.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  It takes me fifteen minutes to get the tube of fluff off my body. And I only stick myself six times—if you just count the ones that drew blood.

  I sigh with appreciation as I slip into my Rock & Republic jeans and T-shirt. “Here you go.” I pass the dress off to the assistant, who takes it with a look of fear. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure it’s dead.”

  Enrique meets me at the entrance. “Tell Christina the dress will be ready next Wednesday.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I will need to know who will be picking this one up. Her or her sister.” He clucks his tongue. “When the flower girl’s dress was picked up, there was a small security issue. I don’t hand my art over to just anyone. How was I to know that woman was family?”

  “What do you mean her sister? Marisol is only eight.”

  He fingers the ends of his scarf. “No. Last week I met the other one.”

  My brain shudders as if ice water just fell over my head. “What do you mean the other one?”

  “The tall blonde.” Enrique covers his mouth to whisper. “Though it’s so obvious she’s as real a blonde as Beyoncé. I don’t know why she’s not in the wedding, but I don’t ask. I tell myself, Enrique, you must not butt into your client’s business. Did I butt into Brad and Angelina’s? No. I am a professional. But sometimes I do have a little talk with Katie Holmes. Not that she listens.”

  “Oh. Uh-huh. The blonde sister.” Thinking . . . thinking . . . “I, um, come to Manhattan so infrequently I don’t get to see her and Christina much. Plus, I like to devote most of my time to Marisol.”

  Dear God, please wait ’til later to strike me down for lying. “You know, maybe you can help me. I was going to get Christina and her sisters a little wedding present to celebrate the fun day.” I rest my hand on his arm like we’re old friends. “I bought the most divine jewelry boxes from Tiffany’s and want to have them engraved. Do you know how you spell her sister’s name?”

  “The little one?”

  “No. The other one.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs off my hand. “I was not born to spell. I was born to design. I suppose it is like the car.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Enrique stares at me as if I have cotton candy for brains. “A Mercedes. I would imagine it’s spelled the same.”

  “Mercedes?” That’s her sister’s name? “Of course. How silly of me.” I push open the door and gaze toward the s
treet. “Thank you, Enrique. I have truly been enlightened today.”

  And now to find out who this Mercedes is.

  And arrange a family reunion.

  chapter twenty-eight

  You invited who over for dinner?”

  “I’ve said it twice already, Bella. Mr. and Mrs. Penbrook and their son, Hunter, are coming over for dinner.” Dad unknots his tie and leaves it dangling around his neck. “We’ve had this Friday night event planned for some time. I couldn’t get out of it just because my daughter once dated their son. Jeff and I are still really good friends.”

  “Great. Just great.” I stomp out of the living room and up to my bedroom. I need to find something to wear. What kind of outfit is appropriate for facing your ex after he cheated on you, then duped you on national television? “Hey, Ruthie, do you mind if I accessorize with your brass knuckles tonight?”

  I flop next to her on the bed where she watches Wheel of Fortune. “That Vanna has such a cake job.” She turns up the volume as a contestant buys a vowel. “That’s what I want to be when I grow up. Well, either that or a brain surgeon.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to Dad about Christina. She walked in from work just as I was about to broach the subject.”

  “Bummer. Have you tried texting him?”

  I think about this. “You want me to text my father that his fiancée is a lying schemer conducting shady dealings?”

  Ruthie rolls her eyes. “Get with the times.”

  An hour later my old flame, Hunter Penbrook, asks me to pass the peas. I pick up the bowl, only briefly imagining dumping them over his head.

  His smile is devilishly cute. “If you drop those in my lap, I will be forced to cause a scene.” His hand brushes mine as he takes the bowl, and I realize I don’t feel a thing. Nary a flutter nor a tingle.

  Why is it when Luke touches me, I instantly quiver like Jell-O?

  Ruthie holds the dinner crowd’s attention with her reenactment of her unicycle routine using salad tongs, the pepper grinder, and two stuffed mushrooms. My dad and Hunter’s parents stare in amazement, while Christina studies her nails and Marisol stabs holes in her baked potato.

  I take this opportunity to speak to Hunter. “You haven’t called in a while. Are you still keeping tabs on that hotel room?”

  “As much as I can. I told you I would let you know if I had anything to report.”

  “I like updates, Hunter. Updates.”

  “I do not miss your nagging.”

  I smile into my napkin and wipe my mouth. “I know. I’m too much girl for you. It’s no wonder we didn’t work.”

  “I’ve put in a lot of stalking time for you, so I wouldn’t push it.”

  We share a laugh, and I realize once again, I have forgiven him.

  When Jesus said to forgive people to infinity, I assumed my ex-boyfriend was the exception. But it’s kind of freeing not to be mad or holding a grudge. Besides, I need his cheating eyes on door number 857.

  “You’re a wily guy. Can’t you draw her out of her room?” In a tiny whisper I fill him in on the new Christina development.

  “Mercedes?” He chews this over. “I need a last name to get you any information.”

  “Christina’s is De Luna. Try that.”

  “The woman is a hermit. If she leaves at all, it’s while I’m at school.”

  I slice into my steak. “Maybe you could set up a hidden camera.”

  “And maybe I could go to jail.”

  “You’d do that for me?” I set down my utensils. “I’m touched.”

  “Bella, just give it up.”

  “How can I?”

  “The wedding is June fifteenth. I think your best bet is to simply talk to your dad.”

  I nearly choke on my bite. “That’s funny, I thought you had met the guy.” I point toward the end of the table. “Dark-haired fellow. Works 24-7 and forgets I’m alive. He’s the chap sitting across from your father.”

  Hunter glances that way just as the two men share a laugh. “It’s good to see my dad happy. I haven’t seen that in a long time.”

  “I’m sorry.” I watch Mr. Penbrook high-five my dad as they share a joke. “I know he hasn’t ever recovered from the accountant fiasco.” My dad and Mr. Penbrook had the same bogus financial guru. Dad has slowly bounced back, since he lost cash and not his practice. But Hunter’s father wasn’t so lucky. He wasn’t in the business of nose jobs and inflatable boobs, and ended up losing almost everything.

  “It’s okay. Things are turning around. He and my mom actually went on a date together last weekend. For a while I didn’t think they were going to make it.”

  I know how that feels. “I’ll bet you being out of the house and spying on that hotel room gives your parents even more alone time.”

  Hunter laughs. “You’re about as smooth as a rattlesnake. But I’ll get back to my Peeping Tom duties this week.”

  “Not just anyone would stalk a lady for me, Hunter.” I pat his arm. “And I appreciate it. You’re a good guy.”

  His eyes grow serious. “Really?”

  “Yeah. And to thank you, I’m going to set you up with this girl I know named Ashley Timmons . . .”

  On Saturday, Ruthie and I wake up late to find muffins on the kitchen counter with a note from Dad. The house is empty.

  I pour myself a glass of juice. “Dad had to go in to work for a bit, and Christina took Marisol to dance lessons.”

  “That kid neeths politeness wessons,” Ruthie says around a full mouth of muffin. “She has no mannerth.”

  Says the girl who just spit out two blueberries. “I think we should get ready and pay my dad a visit. We have business to do.”

  “Whoa.” Ruthie swallows her giant bite. “I don’t have any business with a plastic surgeon. I don’t want anything plucked, sucked, or tucked.”

  “We’re just going to talk. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him last night about that designer saying Christina had a sister.”

  “Maybe her sister’s a member of a terrorist network, and Christina’s only trying to protect your family. Or maybe her sister is a communist, and she and Christina have a plan for world domination . . . one plastic surgeon at a time.”

  I roll my eyes and take another swig of juice. “And this is why I’m the crime solver and you’re the sidekick.”

  After a twenty-minute taxi ride, Ruthie and I climb out of the cab and take the elevator to my dad’s clinic.

  Walking into the lobby, I greet the twin receptionists. “Hi, Kim.

  Hi, Leslie.” I have never been able to tell them apart, but Dad swears he can. He also swears they speak English, but I think their sole qualification is hotness.

  “You go see your dad?” one asks.

  The other shakes her bleach blonde head. “He very busy.

  Important client.”

  I smile at the two standing in front of a water fountain backdrop.

  “Good thing I’m his daughter and he always has time for me.” I grab

  Ruthie by the hand and lead her down the hall. “Walk quickly. Dad said they both have their black belts, so I don’t want to push my luck.”

  Ruthie snorts. “Like I’m afraid of a black belt. Dude, I got street cred.”

  “Yeah, Main Street in Truman. I’m sure they’re shaking in their push-up bras.”

  I zip us around a corner and power walk down the next hall. At the last door on the right, I rap my hand in a hearty knock. “It’s me, Dad.”

  “Bella?” I hear him inside, getting up from his desk. The door opens a crack. “This better be an emergency. I’m with a client.”

  “Oh, it’s a crisis all right.”

  His frown is not encouraging. “Like the crisis last year when you needed me to choose which shoes I thought looked the best with your skirt?”

  “You should be glad I value your opinion.” I try to peek in to see if his client is famous, but he stands in my way.

  “Go to the nearest waiting room and hang out there.
I’ll get you when I’m through with my patient.”

  “Is it anyone I know?” I whisper.

  He leans close. “Yes.”

  “Gonna tell me who it is?”

  “Not on your life.” Dad smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “But she was nominated for an Oscar last year.”

  Half an hour later Ruthie and I are back in his office, the surgery-requiring actress long gone. Dad is really crafty at protecting his clients’ identity. I can’t say it’s a quality I respect about him.

  “So tell me what brought you all the way to my office.” Dad sits behind his desk and steeples his fingers. “I know it has to be something important or you’d be shopping right now.”

  “A girl can only shop so much,” Ruthie says, eyeing the objects on his desk.

  “Yes, I know.” Dad grins at my friend. “And my daughter can shop so much, I sometimes think I need a second job.”

  Ruthie lifts a big rubber squishy ball. “What do you call this? A weight?”

  I share a smile with my dad. “I call it a D cup.”

  “Ew.” Ruthie drops it back to its resting place.

  “State your business, Bella. I don’t like to work late on Saturdays.”

  Oh, how to proceed? How do you tell your dad that his future wife is up to something? That you don’t think he truly knows the real Christina? “Um . . . well . . . I have been having some weird moments with Christina the last few times I’ve been here.”

  Dad’s leather chair squeaks as he lounges back. “Honey, you know she’s been stressed with the wedding plans, her job, not to mention retooling my career with this TV show. The Brazil deal is a risk, and we’re both staying pretty keyed up.”

  “A few weeks ago we were trying on dresses. And she told me she was going to call some clients and sent me to get a coffee. I came back early and saw her not on the phone. But talking to . . . some woman.”

  Dad’s face is as bland as oatmeal. “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “They were arguing. The woman had obviously come to meet her and talk. And Christina kept telling her that she wouldn’t back out, that she would go through with their plan. Dad, I know it sounds crazy, but I just have this feeling.”

  “You’re a teenager. It’s called hormones.”