Not For Sale

by Tasha Fawkes

  Nevertheless, I had underestimated the difficulty of dealing with Kristin. I thought I was doing a good job, and I was now familiar with Scott’s mansion, but I swore, I thought I had lost at least five pounds since going to work for the wicked woman. She had me running from one side of the house to the other, indecisive about just about everything; where to have the bridle shower, which rooms to allot for overnight guests who would be coming to Southern California for the wedding. Naturally, most of those were from her side of the family.

  In the short space of a week, or five business days to be exact, Kristin had already fired two wedding planners. It wasn’t just her brittle attitude, either. It was the same thing that tormented me and made my job fifty times more difficult than it needed to be. Kristin Bruno was absolutely, positively, horribly unable to make a decision. Everything required a phone call to mommy or daddy. Or worse, Scott.

  I could tell Scott’s patience was wearing thin. In fact, just yesterday, I had overheard his voice on the phone call with Kristin.

  “Kristin, I don’t have time for this. That’s why I hired you a personal assistant.”

  Kristin glanced at me, and then turned her back as she retorted, thinking, I supposed, that the fact of turning her back would nullify my ability to hear either side of the conversation.

  “She’s just so slow!”

  I had been forced to bite my lip, and quite hard, to prevent my snarky response to that. What I felt like saying was ‘maybe if you could make a decision and stick to it, we’d be a lot further along in this process.’ But I needed the job, and so far, was willing to let Kristin take her jabs. Still, everyone had a breaking point.

  And so, this afternoon, even though I had been guaranteed weekends off, I would be going back to the estate to meet with the third wedding planner this week. I shook my head. “Do you know that the first wedding planner she hired lasted only one day?”

  Mom lifted an eyebrow, glanced at me, but said nothing.

  “And the second one lasted two-and-a-half. Can you believe it?”

  Again, she said nothing, but she didn’t really need to. I was just venting, but I put the brakes on that too when I saw my mom lift her chin and turn coolly away. I knew that expression. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to hear about it, and certainly didn’t want to listen to me complaining about it. So, I let it go.

  Over the next few hours, we focused on selling our pastries. Even though I was going to be paid, and paid well, by Scott for this personal assistant job, I saw no point in putting all of our eggs in one basket. Besides, we were in the habit of coming to the farmers’ market every week, and to stop doing so would disappoint so many of our regular clients. Besides, I needed to keep my contacts with our clients open. One of these days, when I finally had the opportunity to open my own bistro, you never knew. I had been in situations before where the client dropped a name or a connection to someone else who could be influential when it came to launching my own business. No sense in closing doors or burning bridges.

  By noon, the customers had thinned, it was warming up, and Mom and I decided to pack it up. We’d sold most of our stuff, but I still had nearly a dozen of my unique cranberry, orange zest, and cinnamon muffins left in the cabinet. I decided I would wrap them up, put them in a nice little basket, and take them over to Scott’s house. Maybe someone there would enjoy them, even if it was “just” the house staff.

  By mid-afternoon, I arrived at Scott’s mansion. I didn’t see his car in the driveway and felt a surge of disappointment. I continued to take a taxi to the house and back home, the expenses and extra allotment to pay for it over and above what he had proposed for my salary. I appreciated that, as it was certainly better than taking the bus and walking the half-mile from the last bus stop up to the mansion, especially because of the hill. I couldn’t take the car because my mom needed it for work.

  Scott had asked briefly about my transportation situation and then opted for the taxi. I wouldn’t be in Kristin’s employ long enough to rationalize a leased car, not that I would have taken him up on the offer anyway. Kristin was a different story. She barely restrained rolling eyes with a put-upon sigh when I told her I didn’t have my own car the first time she had sent me on an errand.

  She disappeared from the room for several moments and then returned with a set of keys. “Here. These are the keys to the cook’s car. It’s parked in the shade on the side of the house.”

  Before I took the keys, I couldn’t help but ask, “And the cook says it’s all right if I borrow her car?”

  She merely shrugged. I hesitantly took the keys, not feeling comfortable about that at all, but I couldn’t keep calling a taxi to take me everywhere, and it was apparent that Kristin was certainly not going to offer her car. Later, after the first time I borrowed the cook’s car, I approached her and apologized. The slightly overweight middle-aged Hispanic woman merely smiled and shrugged.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It sits most of the day. However, if you could put gas in it once in awhile, I would certainly appreciate that.”

  I nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

  After the second day of working with Kristin, I had been sitting in the dining room, involved in creating an ever-growing list of floral suppliers in the area, again frustrated with Kristin’s inability to decide on one or the other, when Scott appeared.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  I watched as his gaze took in the plethora of papers scattered across the dining room table. I started to organize them, or at least gather them into a single pile, but he told me not to bother.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “At the moment, I’m trying to track down some specific flowers. She wants to see them before she orders them, so that she can make sure they’re exactly what she wants.”

  He merely nodded, not particularly interested. It took everything I had not to ask him what in the world he was thinking, asking a woman like that to marry him. Then again, and for the umpteenth time, I had to remind myself that it was none of my business. Scott was a grown man. He could marry anyone he wanted.

  This afternoon, I was to meet the third wedding planner with Kristin. I had just arrived and sat on the couch with my notepad as Kristin started to go over yet another list—this one on party favors for the bridal shower—when the doorbell rang. She waited for the housekeeper to answer the door and escort a thirty-something-year-old woman into the room. The woman wore a beige pantsuit, red silk blouse with oversized collar, and flats. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail. No makeup, no jewelry.

  Kristin gave her the once over, much like she had me, and then stood and gestured for the woman to sit down on the couch opposite. “Thank you for coming, Miss Fontana,” Kristin began. “I’ve had difficulty finding a wedding planner who could fulfill my needs.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Bruno,” she said.

  She glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “Hi,” I said, rising slightly, leaning over the coffee table to offer my hand. “My name is Megan Bryan. I’m Miss Bruno’s personal assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you, Megan,” she said, then retracted her hand. “Call me Helen.” She turned to Kristin. “I have only an hour, so why don’t we get started?”

  And so began yet another rendering of Kristin’s ideas and some demands in regard to the wedding arrangements. There were a lot of them. I watched Ellen’s expression as Kristin went on and on. She never displayed any emotion, but once in a while, raised an eyebrow. She sat with her hands folded gently in her lap, nodding occasionally.

  “Don’t you need to write any of this down?” Kristin asked, rather irritably. “I rather dislike having to repeat myself.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Miss Bruno,” Ellen replied. “I have an excellent memory, and I’m paying very close attention.”

  Well. It was clear to me at that point that Ellen Fontana had dealt with more than her share of Kristin-type clients. I was sure she dealt with bridezillas al
l the time, and I was anxious to learn from her. And as the two talked, with me occasionally taking a few notes, I studied Kristin. She seemed to be quite the opposite of Scott in so many ways. She sat ramrod straight, always dressed to the nines, her hair, makeup, and nails always perfect.

  Scott, at least a Scott I remembered, was laid-back, not too concerned with what others thought of him. I began to wonder. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt off about this engagement. I just couldn’t imagine Scott asking someone like Kristin to marry him, regardless of how good the sex was. Regardless of how nice she was to look at. Nothing was worth putting up with the hellion like that for the rest of your life.

  During the past week, and on the rare occasion that Scott was around when Kristin wasn’t, he seemed to relax somewhat, ready with a smile, an encouraging word, overall friendly. But the minute Kristin’s voice was heard or she appeared, I noticed the change in his expression. He’d stiffen and the smile disappeared. Once, I happened to catch his eye, and he looked at me for several silent seconds. Almost as if he wanted to tell me something, but then it was gone.

  After the fourth day, I determined that their relationship was none of my business, and the smart thing to do would be to keep my curious nose out of the entire situation. I needed this job, and making this job in any way personal would be a sure-fire way to get me canned.

  Chapter Nine

  Megan

  I stared out the window of the cab as we approached the marina, my eyes widening and gently shaking my head as I took in the class of boats docked there. Within the slips floated a number of different types of boats—from speedboats to massive yachts that looked like miniaturized versions of oceangoing vessels that people took to go whale watching up and down the coast from as far south as Baja up to Alaska. Some of them could probably venture to Hawaii and beyond, perhaps the Fiji Islands or as far as Australia. Why, some of these magnificent boats could probably circumnavigate the globe.

  I shivered. I wasn’t that brave. It had taken enough courage for me to even accept this invitation. I loved the beach. I didn’t necessarily like to swim in it. In fact, I didn’t like boats, that feeling of being surrounded by the deep expanse of ocean, not knowing how deep it was, at the mercy of the waves…

  I dug into my beach bag and pulled out the bottle of Dramamine I had bought earlier, and read the instructions again. Take one thirty minutes to an hour before starting activity. I took one and swallowed it dry, my heart thudding just a little harder the closer we got to the marina. The pill was supposed to last twenty-four hours. I thought about it for a minute and then took another one, just to make sure it worked.

  I couldn’t help but be a bit wary and more than a little confounded by Kristin’s invitation for me to join her and Scott on his yacht on this beautiful, crisp Saturday morning for a day of sailing. She had called me last night—a first—and I had been about to gently and politely inform her that unless it was an emergency, like someone bleeding kind of emergency, that I was not ‘on-call’ 24/7, when she surprised me with the invitation for today.

  Over the past few weeks it had seemed, to me at least, that Kristin barely tolerated my presence. So why invite me to spend the day with her and her fiancé? Not once since I had started working for her had Kristin even broached a conversation that ventured beyond our professional relationship. She didn’t ask me anything personal. She didn’t know if I was single or married, where I lived, or whom I lived with. She didn’t seem to care.

  Maybe she was making an effort to be a little friendlier, but I didn’t really think so. Not Kristin. I wasn’t sure whether to look forward to spending some time with Scott—even if it was in Kristin’s presence—

  or dread it. I would have to be supremely careful not to say anything or do anything that might expose our past relationship with each other.

  When the cab pulled up at the marina, I pulled out a twenty and gave it to the driver, then stepped outside into the warm sunshine, automatically lifting a hand to settle my broad brimmed straw hat on my head to keep it from blowing away.

  I gazed over the expanse of boats bobbing up and down, amazed at the different sizes, shapes, and colors. The slight stench of greenish harbor water, fish, and, oddly enough, hot dogs, wafted into my nostrils. From my other pocket, I pulled a piece of paper which told me which dock and slip I would find Scott’s boat. Kristin told me to meet them here between nine o’clock and half past. It was nine-fifteen. I figured it was safe to split the difference. I determined which way I needed to go and walked about fifty feet down the boardwalk, my tennis shoes padding softly against roughhewn, weathered planks. From the main dock, numerous smaller, floating dock-like boardwalks extended from the marina, each of them harboring a minimum of six boats on each side. Each berth or whatever you called it had a stenciled letter-number combination on the dock in front of it.

  The sound of seagulls screeching overhead fighting for scraps of food, of water lapping gently against fiberglass hulls, the creaking of ropes hitched to iron cleats, and of course, the slight ripples of water meeting the platform foundations, elicited within me a twinge of uncertainty. I shivered, grimacing. I should have declined. Inhaling deeply, I gradually made my way down the floating dock, feeling a bit off-balance, warily eyeing the water as I also looked for the right slip number. Some of the boats were docked nose in, while others had docked themselves motor in.

  When I found the right slip number and then looked up, I frowned. This couldn’t be right. Could it? Oh my God. I saw a multi-deck, canopied job that was at least seventy-five feet long, berthed sideways in a large slip. The fiberglass exterior was painted a brilliant white, its trimmings were highly glossed oak. I was sure I had the wrong boat. Maybe I had misread the slip number—

  “Megan!”

  I glanced up, and there, half hidden under the canopy, waving, stood Scott. My heart skipped a beat and heat flooded my loins. Sounds corny I know, but that’s what happened. He wore a pair of beige khaki shorts, deck shoes, and a sky-blue polo tucked into his shorts. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes, but his smile was unmistakable. And then, as he stepped slightly to the side, I saw another shape, another man. He turned from Scott to face me. I immediately felt uncomfortable. Was he the captain, or had Kristin invited more guests. I felt self-conscious as I glanced down at my simple sundress, bare legs, and sandals. I wore an old bikini underneath, not terribly faded, but not exactly hot off the racks. Target, actually. If I had known there would be others aboard, I would’ve taken more care in my choice of clothing. Then again, who was I trying to impress?

  I pasted a smile on my face and waved.

  “Hold on, Megan, let me help you.”

  I paused on the floating walkway as Scott quickly disappeared into the interior, emerging several moments later near the rear of the boat, which had a swing-around waist-high door that offered easy access to and egress from the boat nearer to water level. A few square porthole-style windows were spaced along the hull of the boat near water level, and then toward the bow, a few more situated higher up. A lounging deck was covered by an overhead fiberglass canopy, providing shade. Toward the bow, a bank of wraparound windows encompassed the front of the boat, another overhang, protecting the helm from weather. Behind the helm, a row of large glass windows, probably the sitting area of the interior, beckoned. Behind the windowed compartment rose yet another short deck, fitted with a wraparound all season bench and glossy wood table for outside dining. On top of that, a sun deck, fitted with benches and yet another wraparound table that much looked like a bar. On the highest level above the helm rose antennae, and what I could only assume was sonar or radar equipment.

  I was stunned, doing my best to keep my expression blank as Scott emerged on the lowest deck, extended a hand toward me, and helped from the short gangplank onto the stern of the boat, near water level. I spied the small set of stairs leading up to the next level.

  “Welcome aboard the Getaway,” he said.

  I enjoye
d the feel of his large, strong hand wrapped around mine. I gazed at his sun-bronzed hand in my smaller, paler one, wishing… he relinquished my hand at the voice emerging from the interior.

  “I’m glad you decided to join us today,” he said, gesturing me inside. Just like I had at his house, I had to struggle to keep my amazement hidden. Like this was nothing new to me. A step-down living area of the yacht looked like a real living room. It was spacious, with a wraparound couch, two reclining leather easy chairs, a coffee table, and a luxurious low pile rug that covered most of the dark mahogany floorboards. Beyond the living space, surrounded by those large windows and two steps up, was the helm. Just behind the helm to the starboard side of the boat rose another short set of stairs to the upper deck. On the opposite, port side of the stairs stood a kitchen or galley, complete with wraparound marble countertops and an island for food preparation. A stovetop was imbedded into the countertop at the far end and below it an oven. At the end of the countertop near the sink, a microwave flush with glossy oak cabinets. It was like an entire home on the waves.

  Two people emerged from that upper deck. First, Kristin, wearing a loose flowing floral skirt and a pale pink linen blouse, not a wrinkle to be seen. As usual, jewelry dangled from her earlobes and her wrists, perfect makeup, hair pulled back into an elegant French braid. Behind her came a man who looked to be about Scott’s age. He wore an easy grin, and to my dismay, eyed me with what I could only gauge as interest.

  “Megan Bryan, I’d like you to meet Craig Bresson,” Scott made the introductions. “We go way back, and have been friends since junior high.”

  I glanced at Scott, and then nodded politely to Craig, extending my hand in greeting. I couldn’t remember if I’d met him before. It was possible, but—I almost asked if Craig had gone to the same private high school as Scott and I had but caught myself just in time. “Nice to meet you, Craig.”

  “Well, don’t you two make a cute couple,” Kristin said. “I figured we could double date.”