Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  Really not a good sign.

  Bella appeared next to me looking grim and said, “Now what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  But I was sure we’d find out sooner rather than later—and it definitely would not be good for us employees.

  * * *

  When my shift ended at Holt’s, I headed out the 210 to my parents’ house to give my mom the bracelet I’d bought for her. I hadn’t heard from Juanita or anyone in the family with reports that Mom was still upset over the Miss California Cupid gossip that was making the pageant rounds, so I figured I could be in and out quick—always the best way to visit my mom.

  Besides, my big date with Liam was tonight and I had a ton of things to do. Marcie was joining me for a mani and pedi. Even though we’d discussed the outfit I’d selected, my accessories, and how I’d do my hair and makeup, we would, of course, have to cover everything again—which was half the fun of going on a big date.

  We were both still speculating on what the evening really meant. Liam hadn’t told me where we were going, only that I should wear something dressy, which I interpreted as expensive and romantic. Was I right? Did he want a spectacular setting to discuss our relationship, or to break some big news to me? Or had he simply found a fabulous place to dine that he wanted to share with me?

  I was feeling pretty darn good about life as I exited the freeway, wound through the hills, and parked in the circular drive outside my folks’ home. Juanita met me at the door, looking somewhat grim.

  “Your mother, she’s in that room again,” she told me.

  I waved away her comment. No way was I getting mired down in any sort of situation. I had too much to do.

  I headed through the house, fishing the gift-wrapped bracelet from my tote—a terrific Prada—planning a quick drop-off and an even quicker escape. After all, I had a mani and pedi appointment. Mom, of all people, would understand.

  The lights were dim when I walked into the media room. The television wasn’t on. No music played.

  Mom sat on the sofa wearing a—oh my God, she had on her bathrobe.

  Now, granted, it was a La Perla silk robe that my dad had purchased for her last Christmas to the tune of five hundred bucks from Neiman Marcus, but if my mom was still in her bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon, something was definitely wrong.

  “Mom?” I walked closer.

  A few seconds passed before she looked at me.

  “Oh, hi, sweetie.” She managed a small smile. “You look so nice today.”

  I had on my Holt’s-wear, jeans and a crappy sweater. And Mom thought I looked nice?

  “Did you hit your head, Mom?”

  Her gaze drifted away and finally returned to me.

  “You know, Haley, I was always so disappointed in you,” she said.

  I just looked at her.

  “You remember how you never liked dancing or singing or modeling?” she asked.

  Like I could ever forget those nightmares she’d put me through?

  “All those lessons I took you to when you were little,” Mom said. “I tried so hard to find something you were good at.”

  Jeez, how many more hurtful things could she hurl at me?

  Mom shook her head. “I was so hoping you and I could connect, that we could share a love for those things. I wanted us to be close.”

  Okay, this was totally weird.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head, Mom?” I asked.

  “I wanted us to do mother-daughter things.”

  “Shortness of breath, maybe?”

  “I wanted us to share a special bond,” she said.

  “Weakness on one side?”

  “But we didn’t,” she said. “Still, you turned out so wonderful.”

  Mom grew quiet and gazed across the room. A few minutes passed before it finally sunk in that, after her initial comment, she’d said a really nice thing about me.

  “I brought you something,” I said, and held out the gift.

  She looked up at me, then at the gift. “Oh my goodness, what a delightful surprise.”

  Mom patted the sofa and I sat down beside her. She took her time opening the package, then lifted out the bracelet.

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful.”

  She burst into tears.

  Oh my God, what was going on? I went into semi-panic mode. Something was majorly wrong with Mom—she was crying while she had on silk.

  “Things don’t always turn out how we think they will,” she sobbed. “Or the way we want them to.”

  I rifled through my tote, found a travel pack of tissues, and stuffed all of them into her hand. She drew in a ragged breath and choked back her tears.

  I had no idea what was going on but thought this was a great time to move the conversation in a different direction.

  “You must be excited about your European vacation,” I said, and forced a big see-now-we’re-happy smile.

  “I’ve rethought the vacation,” Mom said, and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve decided we should move.”

  “Oh, well, okay,” I said. “You know, I’ve always imagined you living in Bel Air, or Beverly Hills. Hancock Park, maybe.”

  “I’m thinking of Montana.”

  “Montana?” I’m sure I said that kind of loud.

  Mom nodded. “Or Sri Lanka, maybe.”

  Sri Lanka? I wasn’t even sure Mom could find Sri Lanka on a map. Why the heck would she want to live there?

  Obviously, something else was going on with her, something that had nothing to do with a European vacation, moving out of state or leaving the country, or my dislike for singing, dancing, and modeling lessons as a child—which meant, thank goodness, none of this was my fault.

  “Okay, Mom, you have to tell me what’s really going on,” I said.

  She pressed the wad of tissues to her lips and turned away. I thought I was going to have to pry it out of her, somehow, but then I realized she was looking at the Back to the Future movie poster again.

  Was that the problem? Did she want to go back in time?

  We all did, at some point. Who didn’t wish they could change something in their past? Maybe not stay so long at a bar and drink too much wine, then wake up the next morning in a strange bed, unable to remember maybe having hot, sweaty, jungle—

  Oh my God, I was thinking about Jack.

  Mom sniffed, bringing me back to the moment.

  Was she missing her pageant days? The competition? The camaraderie backstage with other contestants when she was young, when she had no husband or children, no responsibilities?

  Then it hit me.

  “This is about that Miss California Cupid pageant, isn’t it?” I said.

  My question seemed to galvanize her. She gave her nose on final swipe and sat up straighter.

  “Of course not,” she insisted.

  No way did I believe her.

  I always tried to be Switzerland where Mom was concerned and not get involved or take sides, but I couldn’t remain neutral on this one. She had totally flipped out and had gotten worse every time I saw her. Something had to be done.

  I couldn’t imagine my aerospace engineer dad digging up pageant dirt, or my student/model sister knowing where to begin to look. My brother, even if he weren’t in the Middle East, would be useless.

  That meant it was all me.

  I was going to find out just what the heck had gone on at that beauty pageant, and put an end to the gossip.

  CHAPTER 15

  Liam had selected a place on Melrose Avenue, a well-established restaurant for L.A.’s well-heeled. The atmosphere was subdued, quiet conversations broken only by the clink of heavy silver flatware, crystal, and bone china. Dark wood and snowy white linens were set aglow by candlelight.

  The chef’s menu with a wine pairing ran about three hundred bucks a person. I was totally up for the fabulous meal—my idea of cooking was making a sandwich and toasting the bread.

  Liam looked especial
ly handsome tonight in a navy-blue Canali suit that perfectly complemented my black-sleeveless-plunging-short dress. Only the Mystique could have made the look better, but I was really okay with the Kate Spade envelope clutch I’d selected.

  “Let’s have a drink before dinner,” Liam said after the maître d’ assured us our table would be ready shortly.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” I said.

  I slipped down the darkened hallway toward the ladies’ room. Liam had gone all-out for the evening, so no way did I want to sit across the table from him through the entire meal only to later excuse myself to the restroom and realize I’d looked like a complete idiot the whole time with lipstick on my teeth or a tendril of hair sticking straight up.

  Just as I reached the door to the ladies’ room, the men’s room door opened. Jack Bishop walked out.

  We both froze.

  I hadn’t seen him since that night. He hadn’t called, texted, or emailed me. He hadn’t come by my apartment or either of the two places I worked. He’d made no attempt to contact me at all.

  Now we were standing face-to-face. What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to act?

  Jack’s gaze took a long, slow dip from my head to my feet, and up again.

  He was thinking about that night—I knew he was. Why wouldn’t he? Obviously, unlike me, he actually remembered what had happened.

  “No Mystique?” he asked.

  I’d told him about the clutch I wanted? Yeah, okay, that seemed kind of familiar.

  “Nuovo’s shipment was lost,” I said.

  Jack grinned. “It wouldn’t have mattered. You look great tonight.”

  And I hadn’t looked great that night?

  Had I fallen asleep with my mouth gaping open? Had I snorted in my sleep—or worse?

  Jack edged closer. He had on a charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit that looked fantastic on him, and wow, he smelled great. The crazy heat that always rolled off of him seemed hotter tonight.

  “Are you and Marcie out again?” he asked.

  Okay, this was kind of awkward.

  “No . . . no, I’m with. . . .” I glanced back down the hallway and gestured lamely at Liam in the bar.

  When I turned to Jack again, his expression hardened into something between anger and hurt.

  “You’re with Liam Douglas?” he asked.

  I wasn’t surprised Jack recognized Liam. Jack consulted for a number of businesses in Los Angeles, and many of them were law firms.

  “Are you?” Jack asked again, and sounded none too happy.

  I’m a real stickler about being involved with only one guy at a time. This wasn’t a great moment for me.

  “I know how this looks,” I said, “me being out with Liam after what happened the other night.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “After what happened?”

  “You know, between us,” I said.

  Jack just looked at me.

  “At your place,” I said.

  He seemed to lapse into deep thought, glanced away, then looked at me again.

  Oh my God, he was remembering everything we’d done—whatever it was. I wanted him to say something, give me some hint of what had gone on, but he didn’t.

  Crap.

  “I hope you know I’m not like that,” I said. “I had too much wine and, well, things just . . . they got out of control.”

  “You know, I usually get a thank-you,” Jack told me.

  A thank-you? Women usually thanked him after spending the night at his place?

  I knew it. Jack was so hot he didn’t just scream his own name—he probably spelled it out.

  I couldn’t take any more of this conversation.

  “Look,” I said. “The whole evening just got crazy, or something, I guess.”

  Jack frowned. “You don’t remember?”

  How insulting to tell him I didn’t remember—and it didn’t make me look so hot either. So what could I do but lie?

  “Of course, I remember,” I said.

  Jack eased closer, and a grin pulled at his lips. “So you remember us having . . . ?”

  Jeez, why did he put me on the spot like this?

  “Hot, sweaty jungle sex,” I told him.

  A huge, knowing smile bloomed on his face.

  Oh my God, I’d had hot, sweaty jungle sex with Jack and I couldn’t remember it?

  Nooooo . . .

  A hand touched my back and Liam appeared next to me. I was so rattled, I couldn’t say anything—I couldn’t even think.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to do either. Jack and Liam did the whose-is-firmer handshake, and were in the middle of some age-old male posturing when the maître d’ showed up and escorted us to our table.

  The evening had just begun and I was exhausted.

  Fortunately, Liam didn’t ask anything about Jack. Since he was a lawyer, he was a good talker. He always had something to discuss, a witty or clever story to share. Tonight I was having a little trouble staying focused, so I was shaken a bit when, just before dessert was served, Liam reached across the table and took my hand.

  “Would you consider going away with me for the weekend?” he asked.

  We’d been going out for a while now, taking it slow—really slow—so I’d known this situation would eventually present itself. I’d already thought about it. I liked Liam, really liked him, so the idea of going away with him for the weekend didn’t come out of the blue, yet on the heels of that conversation with Jack, it didn’t seem right.

  A night with Jack, then a few days later, the weekend with Liam? I knew it sounded old-fashioned, but I’m not that kind of girl.

  But Jack hadn’t asked me to go away for the weekend. He hadn’t invited me anywhere. I’d apparently had hot, sweaty jungle sex with him, but he hadn’t bothered to call me afterwards.

  “I’d love to go,” I said.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Sandy asked, holding up her cell phone for Bella and me to see.

  We were in the Holt’s breakroom snacking on vending-machine fare, all of us fiddling with our cell phones while we talked. Around us, other employees were microwaving their lunches, shoving in empty calories and sugary drinks, everybody grinding through our morning shift until we could clock out and get on with our actual lives.

  Bella and I studied the selfie Sandy had taken in a dressing room where she’d tried on a pink maxi-dress.

  “Is it big-birthday-dinner worthy?” she asked. “I’m not sure.”

  “That boyfriend of yours is really taking you out?” Bella asked. “For reals? No b.s.? He’s really doing it?”

  “He promised,” Sandy said and smiled her he’s-so-adorable smile. “He can be really sweet like that.”

  Bella and I exchanged a he’d-better-do-this glance.

  “Sometimes he doesn’t always come through,” I pointed out, as gently as I could—well, gently for me.

  “He’s busy,” Sandy said insisted. “His work is important. He’s always in demand.”

  “He does tattoos,” I said.

  “It’s art, Haley,” Sandy said.

  Jeez, how many times had we had this conversation?

  “The dress looks great on you,” I said.

  Sandy took another look at the selfie on her phone and said, “Yeah, I’ll wear it. He’ll like it.”

  “You want me to do your hair for your date?” Bella asked.

  Her geometric-shapes phase continued. Today she’d fashioned her hair atop her head into a giant rectangle that looked a bit like a waffle iron.

  Sandy thought for a few seconds, then said, “I think I’ll wear it down. He likes it when I wear it down.”

  “Do you know where he’s taking you for dinner?” I asked.

  “He won’t tell me,” Sandy said. “He says he wants to surprise me. He sounds very mysterious about it.”

  It sounded to me like he hadn’t made a plan yet, but I let it go and took a quick glance at my cell phone.

  I’d accessed my Visa account
on the GSB&T site and was relieved to see that there were still no unauthorized charges on my card. It had been days since I’d realized it was missing which, hopefully, meant that, despite the careful search I’d already done, it was somewhere in my car or apartment, or something, and not stolen, so I could still find it. I didn’t want the hassle of requesting a replacement since GSB&T processing on everything could be timed with a sundial.

  “You remember that guy I told you about, the one I started dating a couple of weeks ago?” Bella asked.

  Sensing major gossip, I set my phone aside. Sandy did, too.

  “The IT guy at the insurance company?” I asked.

  “How’s it going with him?” Sandy asked.

  “He’s hinting around about having a sleepover at my place,” Bella said. She shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s nice, but he’s not all that great looking. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s your lighting situation?” I asked.

  “Bright.”

  “Is he worth investing in low-wattage bulbs?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ll just break up with him.”

  “You should give him a chance,” Sandy said.

  “I haven’t got time for that kind of b.s.,” Bella grumbled.

  A blinding wall of red, orange, and yellow flashed in the breakroom doorway. Just as I was about to duck and cover, I realized it was Jeanette walking past.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, jumping up from my chair.

  Bella looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t blame her—I was only twenty-two minutes into my fifteen-minute break.

  “Later,” I whispered, and gave her a something’s-going-down eyebrow bob. Bella got it immediately and bobbed back.

  I dumped my trash, pocketed my cell phone, and left the breakroom.

  The door to Jeanette’s office was open so I headed that way. She didn’t usually work on Sunday so I knew something major had to be happening.

  I stopped in the doorway and grabbed the door frame to steady myself. Jeanette stood behind her desk wearing a dress with neon red and orange flames streaking upward on a yellow background. It had a round collar and capped sleeves, and I was pretty sure it was made of velour.