She's All That

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I can’t think of a thing to say. I just stand here staring at her. Awestruck. I reach for the door, exit, and slam it behind me. I stomp up the stairs to Nate’s loft, ready to strangle him the moment I get my hands on him. I pound on the door.

  Nate opens the door. “Kim told you.”

  “How could you? If you want to be someone’s knight in shining armor—” I stop short of what I want to say. Why couldn’t you be mine?

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m happy to have her company. She’s happy for the safety factor, not to mention the security factor. We said we wanted to get her help, right? I think I can do that for her, and she’ll have a job with you, right?”

  I get a whiff of Charley’s ears. “Nate, can’t you do something about that? Do you think I want Kim working with my material when she smells like your sewer-rotten dog?”

  The dog whines, and Nate grabs his ears. “Do you mind, Miss PETA? This isn’t about you, Lilly. It’s about Kim and me.”

  “No, it’s not about Kim at all. It’s about you, Nate Goddard.”

  “If this is about us…”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. This has nothing to do with that. This has to do with Kim. Less than a week ago, she ran off with my money and a guy she met in a bar. She needs help, Nate, not another shack-up partner.”

  “I’m not a pastor. Kim and me, we have an understanding when we’re lonely.”

  His words hit me like a sledgehammer. I never thought they would be more than roommates until he said that. The week’s load comes tumbling down on me in full force, and I sway, bracing myself against the door. I haven’t got a friend on earth. That’s what it feels like, and I know what I have to do. I have to try to get some sleep, then get back to the spa. Morgan and Poppy are like Jesus in that they’ll never forsake me. At least not for $20,000 or a flatscreen television.

  chapter 26

  I never got back to the spa yesterday. I spent the day whimpering and sewing, trying to keep my tears from staining the fabrics. I slept long and hard after that. I needed time to digest the news. I knew nothing would come of Nate and me. I knew what my Bible had to say about such a relationship, but I never thought it would end here. I never thought I’d be tied to him financially. And I never thought I’d have to watch my former roommate and now employee have some kind of relationship with him that kicks me in the gut every time I witness it.

  Sunday morning shines brightly, and I have a long prayer time, since I am forgoing church to return to my Spa Girls. I apologize for ever allowing my feelings to get the best of me. I knew better. It’s all I can think, and I imagine God gets tired of hearing my mantra before my quiet time is over. I rush to pack a new bag for the spa when the phone rings. I pause, thinking it could be my mother and I might have to cancel my day’s plans, but I pick up anyway. “Lilly Jacobs Design.”

  “Lilly, it’s Sara Lang.”

  I’ll never learn.

  “Sara.” My boss. Maneater. Daughter’s boyfriend stealer and all-around negative energy impulse. “I was going to call you about all you asked me to do for the new business. I’ve done a business plan, and I just can’t work the Vogue contest into my schedule.” I’m doing my best Erica Kane impression. (Who says soap operas aren’t good education?) “I need to get a collection built as soon as possible, and I just thought that was a more efficient use of my time than the contest.”

  “Lilly, I don’t have time for this.”

  Welcome to the club. The Vogue contest is a risk, and time I just don’t have.

  Thoughts of my Nana’s investment in my education come rushing to the forefront. There are some deals that just cost too much. “I’m completely overwhelmed, Sara,” I say, my chin tilted up in the air for added confidence. “You should really just have your accountant hold your funding.” Nate did one thing for me. His projections and estimates of what I have to sell were brilliant, making my creations a matter of simple math. Sure, I could have done it had I sat down and not panicked, but I was so not in that place.

  “Quit your crazy talk. It’s Fashion Week coming up,” Sara says, clearly not hearing anything I’m saying.

  “I know. I have the gown I promised you, Sara. I’m just saying I don’t need your capital.” And that would mean I don’t have to take your garbage.

  “I’m not calling about the gown. The gown was doing you a favor. Now I’m asking for one of my own.”

  Sara Lang asking me for a favor? Is the earth’s crust feeling chilly to you? I have to admit, I have the distinct notion to let her beg a little. Is that so bad?

  “Lilly, did you hear me?” she says impatiently.

  “I heard you, Sara,” I say, with a hint of a smile. Let me revel in this, Lord.

  “Well, I expect an answer when I speak to you.”

  That’s it! “Sara, I don’t work for you. I have my own employees. I have business equipment. I have capital.” I start to hang up the phone when her tone changes.

  “Wait, Lilly! Look, I’m just a bit stressed, and I need some assistance with the Fashion Week show. I know I fired you, but I was also willing to lend you the money for your business, right?”

  At what cost? “Right,” I agree reluctantly.

  “Look, the jeans we designed are a bust. You were right. Women’s Wear Daily is skewering me, and if I show only those jeans next week at the fashion show, I’m done for. I’ll be the laughingstock of society. I only have two gowns in the whole show.” She takes in a sharp breath. “I’m begging you, Lilly. I know you’ve been working, and I need gowns. And a finale that will drop them to the floor. Please. I’ll do anything. Your name can be on everything. Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang. And that capital funding? Consider it your bonus, your commission. Not a loan. I’ve got people working here around the clock, but it’s not going to be enough. I need you.”

  Now, I’m not inclined to do Sara any favors. Heaven knows I put up with her insults and attacks on a daily basis for three years. I’ve sat in the front row of fashion shows where she let models go out dressed only in a skirt and boots for attention, and I’ve endured the ridicule of her clients in the Union Square store. It’s not that I haven’t truly tasted humiliation with this woman. But at the same time, this feels so good. She’s my ticket out of this dump, and I am smart enough to know it. Getting a spot in Fashion Week any other way would be impossible for a nobody like me.

  “How many gowns do you need? I’ll do what I have to.”

  She lets out an audible sigh. She has to be desperate, because normally you never see any reaction from her. “I need at least six, preferably with a show-stopper at the end.” She’s all business, now that I’m agreeable. Her confidence wavers suddenly. “Can you do it? They don’t have to be perfectly stitched. You can take care of that if they sell.”

  I look in the closet and count four dresses made by the little fashion elves—Kim and Sara Lang Couture’s disgruntled employees. “I can do it. What do you think about the showstopper being a wedding gown?”

  “I’m not known for my wedding gowns, Lilly.”

  “Or your jeans,” I counter.

  “Fine,” she says sharply. “Make me a wedding gown. Perhaps that will help us with the next generation—they don’t support the arts as heartily as their parents.”

  “I need size eight models. Except for the finale. I’ll take care of the bride.”

  “No, no. I’m not trusting just anyone to my show-stopper.”

  As if Morgan Malliard is just anyone. “It will stop the show. Trust me.”

  I think about Morgan and her lithe figure, the stir we’ll cause about her possible wedding due to the gown, and who the groom could be. Most importantly, Morgan will get to wear her fabric (okay, and probably some of San Francisco Jeweler’s finest ice; but that will only highlight the gown), and she will glow. She’ll get to walk down the “aisle” knowing she would have gone through with a wedding to help her father and a Russian she barely knew.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I rei
terate.

  “It’s not easy for me to trust you,” Sara reminds me.

  It wouldn’t be easy for her to trust Mister Rogers, but that’s her problem, isn’t it?

  “But you can trust me, Sara.” I hang up the phone, anxious to get started.

  “You’re talking to Sara?” Kim comes in and slams the door behind her.

  “Exactly when is having my own place going to come to fruition? Because I’m assuming that means that someone else doesn’t just walk in the door.”

  Kim laughs. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

  “How’s life upstairs? With a view?”

  “It will be fine. We’re getting used to each other. You know, men don’t actually clean their showers.” She makes a face.

  “Neither do you.”

  “Yeah, but you did. That’s my point. I think he expects me to do it.”

  “For free rent with a view of the San Francisco Bay? You’re lucky if that’s all he expects you to do.” I say it jokingly, but my heart aches. Nate can be very charming. And it’s not like Kim completely values herself at this point in her life. I look at her questioningly, wondering about all the unspoken conversations that went on around me.

  “Yes, Mom.” Kim rolls her eyes.

  “Sara just called. I guess you heard.” I change the subject.

  “You didn’t tell her I was here, did you?” Kim panics.

  “You weren’t here.”

  “I mean that you know where I am.”

  “Sara needs six dresses from us, plus I’m going to make Morgan’s gown for the finale for fashion week. She’s allowing me to use my name: Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang!”

  “She must really be desperate.”

  “She is. So can you and the elves make at least two more gowns? While I work on the wedding gown?”

  “Has Morgan agreed to this?”

  What kind of question is that? She’s my best friend—like she has options here. Besides, she’s heard me whine for the last three years. Morgan will do it just to shut me up! “Will you make the two dresses, Kim?”

  “With the designs left?”

  “Yes, only nix the sash on the yellow one. I’ve been look ing at it again, and I think it’s too much.” Wait, Kim doesn’t know red from yellow. “It’s the one with the covered buttons down the back.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m off to the spa. I need to convince Morgan about the fashion show.”

  “How are you getting there?”

  “Right. First I need to convince Nate to lend me his car.” I slam the door on my “office/loft” and run upstairs to Nate’s apartment. I can smell the dog from the hallway. I try to wipe all traces of distaste off my face, wishing I’d brought some Lysol, just for the hallway. But he’d know, and I’m not exactly on his favorite list at the moment.

  He swings open the door. “Let me guess. PETA wants me to pose naked in their next calendar.”

  “I’m sorry, all right? I’m worried about Kim, and that’s fair. It’s not like you’re a beacon of morality to me at the moment.”

  “I kissed you, Lilly. I didn’t take you to bed and not call the next morning, all right? And I put together a stealth business plan for you, in fact. Isn’t that enough of a penance?”

  “Fair enough. If I can borrow your car.”

  “When will you bring it back?”

  “Tonight. I’m just going to Napa. I’ll be back before you wake up. Weren’t you up all night with China?” I ask, hopefully.

  “No, actually, I never slept better in my life.”

  “Please, Nate.”

  He pulls his keys off a hook. Yes! “No later than seven.”

  “I’ll be back, I promise.”

  “And fill it up!” he shouts after me, as I’m running down the stairs.

  I love driving in San Francisco. Some people get nervous at the constant tension, the weaving in and out of traffic, the honking, but I live for the adrenaline. You will never be “let in” in San Francisco. The point becomes to “get over at any cost.” And with my mood this morning, I’m more than willing to play chicken with a few cabs and BMWs. Bring it on! I’m on a mission!

  In odd contrast to my driving mood, I listen to praise music and Third Day and let it blare, thumping my palms on the steering wheel while lane-changing to the beat. Before long, I’m nearing the Bay Bridge, heading for the pristine Napa Valley and my friends. I can’t wait to tell them about the fashion show. I can’t wait to pitch my idea to Morgan. I’ve never bothered her before to wear anything because I didn’t want to be anything like her dad. But today, with this fashion show, I believe she has the distinct opportunity to be her own woman. To separate from the man, if not from all that glitters.

  It’s at this small moment in time that I hear the enormous squeal and a crunch, while my neck snaps backward, then forward. Even after the car is stopped, it seems I continue to hear the noise from the impact and feel the car moving without my help, jamming into a place as I try to brake and steer to no avail. The scraping, whining squeal and my first glimpse in the rearview mirror at the metal that has made contact with Nate’s Saab. It’s some American make, from another era when big cars ruled the landscape. We’re near the Fourth Street exit of 101, the last exit before the Bay Bridge, and traffic is honking, with a few shouts of “Get off the road!” among other expletives.

  I know I’m not hurt. Not physically, anyway. But when I see the size of this great American gunboat, I know Nate’s car cannot be in good shape. I step out of the car, since traffic has slowed to a crawl, and meet the face of the man who hit me.

  He stares at me, then takes off running.

  This is not good.

  So here I am, stranded on Highway 101, with Nate’s car scraped and leaking yellow fluid. I endure the wrath of Sunday morning traffic. (Apparently no one is on their way to church, judging by the language.)

  After what seems like an eternity, a CHP comes up beside me, turning his flashing lights on and taking up yet another lane which is oh, so very popular with the lanes trying to get to the bridge.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, though I hear my voice shaking. I’m not as fine as I would be if I was still on my way to the beautifully serene wine country, that’s for certain.

  “License and registration.” He holds his palm out.

  “That’s it? That’s all the sympathy I get? This idiot hit me, and ran off, and I’m stuck out here all by myself.”

  “License and registration, miss.” Behind him, I see the huge tow truck that’s come to clear both cars away.

  “This isn’t my car!”

  “Ma’am, you’ll have your opportunity to give your side of the story, but I need to see your paperwork. We’ve got to get this cleaned up. It’s Sunday morning!” he says, his voice rising, and I feel completely guilty. I’m hearing my Nana shout that if I’d been in church where I belonged, none of this would have happened.

  I rifle through my new Marc Jacobs handbag and pull out my driver’s license. Getting the registration, I just cringe. Nate is going to kill me! The only thing he loves more than this classic Saab is Charley. And now, both of them are leaking.

  chapter 27

  After giving my statement on what CHP kindly deemed “the accident,” the officer gives me a ride to the cable car, and I grab a ride down to Fisherman’s Wharf, then walk to the Marina. I find it funny that it’s called a hit-and-run, because at the moment, while I definitely got hit, the places I can run seem pretty limited. I have to call Nate, there’s no getting around that, but I’m not exactly wanting to see him face-to-face yet. I dial his cell, and he’s not answering. For this, I’m grateful. I call Morgan and Poppy, but they must be enjoying an elegant Sunday brunch because they don’t answer either. This leaves Nana’s place as the only refuge I can think of, even if I do have to face her worried frown.

  I reach the top of her hill, and my legs are shot from walking—even the slight hills in
the Marina. Clearly, sitting at the computer and the sewing machine has done nothing for my physical prowess. But if I had to take an anatomy test right now, I’d be set, because I can feel every muscle in my body. So much so, I remember their names. And I thought I’d never use that information. I owe my anatomy teacher an apology.

  I knock on Nana’s door. Nothing. What is with my Nana? Where does she go? Church should be over by now. Why can’t I have her life?

  I hear a car pull up behind me and whirl around to see Max getting out of a Mercedes convertible, a fake blonde behind the wheel. Well, the woman is real, just the blonde part is fake.

  “Thanks again, Jenna!” He waves at her, and she peers over her sunglasses to check out whether or not I’m any competition. Apparently, I’m not. She speeds off. “Lilly, what are you doing here?”

  “My Nana lives here.” I don’t know if it’s fatigue, the fear of telling Nate, or feeling so utterly alone, but I have to fight back tears when I look at Max.

  “Her church was putting on a family potluck today. I don’t think she’ll be back for hours.”

  I sigh, and slide against the door until I reach the ground. “I’ll wait.” I put my palm over my eye, as it’s throbbing.

  “Come upstairs. I’ll make you something to eat. Are you all right?”

  “My head hurts.”

  Max bends over at the waist and gently lifts my bangs off my forehead. “You have a red mark here.” He brushes his thumb over my eyebrow.

  “Ouch!” I yelp as he touches it.

  “Come on up. We’ll put some ice on it. What have you been up to this weekend? Did you get caught in a mosh pit again?”

  “I got in a little car accident when I was driving to Napa.”

  “You don’t have a car.”

  “Exactly. Aren’t you glad I didn’t take yours? Because now, Nate doesn’t have a car either. At least not one in working condition.”

  Max reaches down, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and pulls me up. He follows me up the stairs, and we reach his landing. I just look into his dark espresso eyes, and I forget all about my head. It’s the only excuse I have for what comes out next. “Are you busy this Saturday?”