“Hey, Julia?” Leslie asked as I locked the building’s front door.
“Yeah?”
“You can’t go out to dinner with us, can you? It’s Wednesday. Don’t you have your weekly dinner at your parents’ house?”
“Shit.” I twisted my wrist to see my watch and cursed again. “Yes. Yes, I do. And I’m going to be late.” I pulled a couple of twenties from my wallet and handed them to Leslie. “Here. Have fun and drink a few margaritas for me, please. I’m going to need them.”
Chapter Two
An hour or so later, I pressed the doorbell outside of my parents’ mausoleum-like home and waited for the maid to let me in. Amanda had opened the door the past four Wednesdays with a smile and a proper greeting. If she lasted two more weeks, she’d beat this year’s record. Four more weeks, and she’d be the three-year champion.
My family’s inability to retain household help wasn’t a secret. Five years ago, my mother’s longtime maid and confidant Eloise retired to Florida. My normally unflappable mother hadn’t handled the exodus well, and since, the Collins household had seen an ever-changing rotation of maids in a seemingly endless quest to fill Eloise’s perfect shoes. Extrawide white oxfords, if I recall correctly.
My mother, Susanna Marie Kaiser-Collins—of the Philadelphia Kaisers, by the way—didn’t or couldn’t comprehend that her failure to find good help had more to do with how much she missed Eloise than it did actual housework and a pleasant demeanor. I’d tried to explain this emotional-connection concept to her about three years ago, but that conversation had gone downhill almost as quickly as Introductions.
These weekly dinners had become sort of a betting match between me and Mom, albeit a silent and secret one. My rules were simple: Each week that passed without my mother firing the maid—or that the maid didn’t quit—I’d tuck away a five-dollar bill toward a special gift for my mother. The week following a firing or quitting, I’d present her with an item purchased with the money I’d saved. Most of these gifts were bought from one of Chicago’s many dollar stores, though I’d picked up a few at thrift stores. Watching my always impeccable and socially adept mother attempt to understand the wide variety of interesting items I gave her was pretty much priceless. Strangely, she’d yet to question me on any of them, and as far as I knew hadn’t connected the dots of what I was doing. Which made the game all that much more fun, because it was probably the only thing I’d ever kept from her. If the impossible ever happened and a maid lasted an entire year, I’d already promised myself that besides coming clean with Mom, I’d triple the pot and give the entire amount to the maid. Even with the present state of my business, I wasn’t all that worried.
I rang the doorbell again, my hopes for Amanda fading fast. I was already considering what quirky item I might buy with the current pool of fifteen dollars when the heavy door swung open. A flustered young woman who appeared to be sweating profusely stared at me with wild eyes—the type you might expect to see on a caged and starving animal repeatedly mocked with the promise of freedom and an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Poor Amanda. I’d truly believed she’d last longer than three weeks.
I smiled at the new maid. “Hello, I’m—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ daughter, yes?” the young woman said in a barely coherent rush. “Please come in.”
“That’s me. I’m Julia. And you’re . . .?”
“Helen. Please come in,” she repeated. “Dinner is almost ready, and Mrs. Collins would like you to join them for a drink before the meal is served.”
I nodded and stepped into the marble foyer. “Are they in the living room or the parlor?” Yes, my parents had a parlor.
“Living room. Please, Ms. Collins, your mother was quite insistent.” Helen darted a nervous look over her shoulder. “Your coat, please. Mrs. Collins would you like you to join them posthaste.”
“She’s always insistent, and posthaste is her favorite word.” I unbuttoned my coat. Helen tugged my right sleeve and then my left until the coat was ripped from my body into her arms.
I wanted to offer Helen some words of encouragement. My mother wasn’t a bad person, and I knew she paid her employees a more-than-competitive wage. But working for her required a strong backbone, thick skin, and a fearless attitude. I’d learned, though, that no matter how good my intentions were, nothing I said made a lick of a difference.
I tried to help in a different way. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Here. Take this in case you need it. I’ve done business with the owner, so if things don’t work out here, give her a call. She’ll help you find a better fit.”
Helen accepted the card and held it up so she could read the writing in the subdued light. “Oh. They won’t see me. I don’t have enough experience.”
“Yes, they will. Susanna Marie Kaiser-Collins hired you, and I’m referring you. Just mention my name.”
“T-Thank you, Ms. Coll—”
“Julia? What is taking you so long? I don’t appreciate dawdling.” My mother’s cultured voice entered the foyer before she did. Helen tucked the card into her apron pocket and backed away. Ack, she wasn’t going to last the night, let alone the week.
“I’m right here, Mother,” I said. “I’ll be right in.”
She flicked her blue-eyed gaze from me to the maid. “Helen. There you are. Please tell the chef to hold dinner for another thirty minutes. Julia is late.”
What she didn’t say but still managed to convey was the word again. As in “Julia is late again.” I never planned on arriving late, but something always seemed to pop up on Wednesdays. Last week, I’d broken the heel on my right shoe and had to run home for replacement shoes. The week before, an impromptu meeting with a potential client delayed me.
“Yes, Mother. I’m running”—I checked my watch—“fifteen minutes behind schedule. I apologize.”
I didn’t bother to point out that fifteen minutes was more than enough time to down a drink—especially in my current mood—or that delaying dinner for another thirty minutes was fifteen more than necessary. Poking the punctuality stick at my mother simply wasn’t done. Not if you wanted to keep all ten of your fingers.
“I cannot comprehend how you are always late. It’s simple mathematics.” Mom pursed her lips. “You know what time you have to be here, you are well aware of the traffic patterns this time of day, so therefore you should be able to deduce the proper time to leave your office. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Every now and then, when I was feeling especially frisky, I’d shoot back a passive-aggressive reply. Not today. “I certainly do agree, Mother. You’re absolutely correct. There is no excuse for my tardiness.”
She raised her plucked-so-thin-it-was-barely-there left eyebrow and tipped her head to the side. My mother is a solid two inches shorter than my height of five foot five, weighs precisely twelve pounds less, and has the fragile and elegant appearance of fine bone china. This was a case of appearances-can-be-deceiving, because when Susanna Collins entered a room, everyone noticed. Hell, the very air rippled with her strength and purpose. Other than our shared hair and eye color, we were about as opposite as two people could be—a fact my mother disparaged at every possible moment, and one that I was forever trying to change.
I clamped my lips shut and waited for her to finish her appraisal, knowing that the harmony for the rest of the evening would likely be decided here. Another thirty seconds passed before she nodded. A ball of stress that had been touring the lower regions of my stomach eased.
“Well, come along. Your father is waiting.” She pivoted sharply on her heel and headed for the living room.
I inhaled a deep, steadying breath, smoothed my skirt with my hands, and followed. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, for a change, the evening’s chitchat wouldn’t be filled with innuendo and barely concealed comments regarding my inadequacies.
Crossing my fingers that hell had indeed frozen over and that pigs were circling the Sears
Tower, I walked quietly into the room and took my place on the antique sofa. My parents were seated across from me in matching Queen Anne chairs.
My father appeared austere and opposing, and very little like the daddy I’d adored as a child. His mostly gray-haired head was bent forward, his despised glasses were on, and he held a book in his hands, which he closed with a snap as I sat down. Removing his glasses, he nodded in my direction by way of greeting.
I nodded back. Without waiting to be asked, I leaned over and grabbed my drink—a brandy Alexander, because we’d moved solidly into fall, and my mother chose her before-dinner drinks based on the season—and took a small sip. Not my favorite, but going without alcoholic fortification in the Collins household was not recommended.
“So . . . ah . . . dinner smells terrific,” I said, as I did every Wednesday. The one saving grace to these weekly dinners was the amazing food my mother’s chef prepared. I’m a foodie, if of the regular variety. I tend to be just as happy wolfing down buffalo wings and French fries as I am dining at one of Chicago’s finest restaurants. I’m an equal fan of Doritos—preferably salsa verde flavored—and foie gras. As long as the food is well prepared, and not lamb or potato soup, I’m not a picky eater. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Roasted lamb shank, buttered baby peas, and herbed rice,” my mother answered. “I do hope you’ve come with an appetite this week, Julia. You barely touched your plate last Wednesday. The chef’s feelings were quite hurt.”
Uh-huh. Sure they were. Rosalie’s feelings didn’t get hurt. She had the required thick skin, strong backbone, and fearless attitude for this place. “Sorry about that. I’d had a late lunch.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Mom circled the rim of her glass with her index finger. “What about today, dear? Did you have a late lunch today?”
“No, Mom, I ate at the proper time.”
“That’s delightful news! Did you hear that, Gregory? Julia came for dinner with an appetite this week. The chef will be so pleased.”
I took the bait even though I knew better. “As a matter of fact, I’m quite hungry. But I don’t think that will affect how much or how little I eat.”
“Oh? Why is that, darling?” God, she was good.
“I’m not a fan of lamb, Mother. Which I know you know, so I have to assume you’re serving lamb because you’ve seen my financial statements from last month.” I gulped my too-sweet drink and waited for Armageddon.
“Why would your little company’s financial statements have anything to do with what we’re having for dinner?” Her smile appeared real, and her eyes held just the right amount of confusion. Like I said, she was good.
“Because you’re obviously unhappy with me, and rather than getting right to it, you’ve decided to make the entire evening awkward enough that I’ll go along with whatever your newest plan is regarding my business. But it won’t work.” Pleased with my bravado thus far, I pushed another inch. “I am not ready to admit defeat.”
My father cleared his throat. “Of course you aren’t. You’re a fighter. But you do realize that lamb is my favorite, don’t you? The menu tonight has nothing to do with your company’s struggles.”
Ha. Not true. Dad liked lamb well enough, but he far preferred an old-fashioned beef roast with all the trimmings.
“If you like, I can have the chef prepare you something else. A grilled cheese sandwich, perhaps?” Mom asked. “Or maybe she could open a can of soup. Or both, if you desire. Your wish is my command.”
Hm. Even for my mother, this was a little over the top. I stole a glance at her and then at my father, trying to read their body language. Neither of them gave anything away, but I’d swear the air chilled several degrees. “Is there something else going on that I’m unaware of?”
My father set his drink down, clasped his hands, and exhaled a disapproving breath. Well, I suppose it could have been a disappointed breath. I tended to mix the two up. My mother seemed to have found a sudden interest in a portrait that had hung in this room since I was a child, but she held herself in that stiff and unrelenting way that told me I’d either crossed a line I shouldn’t have or hadn’t done something that was expected of me.
The waistband of my skirt shrank as I sat there, contemplating the vast number of possibilities regarding their unhappiness. My shoes, which I’d worn comfortably all day, bit painfully into my ankles. Even my bra felt tighter. It was as if every article of clothing I wore had somehow become two sizes too small in the last five minutes and was now out to strangle me.
“We’re concerned about you,” my mother said. “We’re your parents, and we only have your best interests at heart.” Her voice was so calm it scared me.
“I know that, Mom.”
“We—your father and I—believe that you’re spending too much of your time and resources on a business that is primed for failure.”
I started to object but then had second thoughts. Might as well hear her out before making the situation—whatever it was—worse. “Go on.”
“What will you do when you have to close Introductions? Where will all of this time and energy you’re currently expending go to then?”
My mother never, ever, got right to the point. Instead, she’d broach a different topic, usually one about which the other person cared a great deal, and then she’d steer the conversation to whatever mysterious subject she really wanted to discuss. Knowing this about my mother meant that no matter what she’d just said, this had zip to do with Introductions.
Then, all at once, I knew. This—serving lamb for dinner, my father’s disapproving/disappointed breath, my mother’s odd behavior—could only mean one thing. They were on the “Let’s get Julia married” bandwagon again.
My parents didn’t believe in romantic love any more than I did, but they only have one child—me—and they viewed my single-at-thirty-three state as a blemish on their high-society standing. Because the people they socialized with were, by and large, the same people my father did business with, my personal life had become a hot topic in recent years. It was something I mostly managed to avoid.
I let out a sigh. “This is about dating, right?”
“Did I mention dating?” My mother turned to look at my father. “Did I, Gregory?”
“Oh, just get on with it, why don’t you?” My father huffed again, frustrated. He faced me. “We have supported you in your business from day one, even though both of us expressed our doubts concerning its viability. We’ve mentored you and offered you advice whenever you’ve needed it, and we’ve followed through with our agreement with you.”
He was right. Mostly, anyway. Often, their advice wasn’t asked for or required, but they’d invested in my business and had pretty much kept to the hands-off policy I’d insisted on.
“Then why is it that you cannot follow through on your agreements to us?”
My head spun. Was this about Introductions or not? The only agreement I could think of was my promise to go work for Dad if Introductions failed. But as bad as things were, we were not there yet. Were we? My skirt shrank another size.
“I’m at a total loss here. What agreement?”
He did his disapproving/disappointed exhalation again. “My clients are critical to my business, Julia. You run a company, so I assume you understand that keeping your clients happy is essential. Am I mistaken in this assumption?”
My father worked as a headhunter. Most of his business dealt with finding the best of the best for financial institutions, top-tier law firms, tech companies, and the like. He was good at it. He had this uncanny ability of being able to sense a person’s worth within seconds of meeting them, regardless of their schooling, experience, or the amount of their prior paycheck. Due to this, his services were in high demand, and he commanded a hefty commission from both sides of the equation.
“You are not mistaken,” I said. “But what does—?”
“William Parkington and I have done business with each other for a long while. Successful bus
iness, if I do say so myself. We’ve known each other for going on twenty years now, isn’t that right, Susanna?”
“Yes, Gregory, that’s right. His wife Delia and I see each other often, as well.” My mother tilted her chin up just enough so that I could see the glint of battle in her eyes. “We are very fond of the Parkingtons and would hate to upset them in any way.”
Parkington? The confusion cleared. Dear God, I’d managed to enter the fray without even realizing I had. “I didn’t know . . . didn’t realize that you wanted me to—”
“I believe you know William and Delia’s son.” My father leaned forward, his gaze level with mine. “Jameson is a fine young man, full of potential. He’s doing wonderfully in William’s firm. He phoned you this week, didn’t he?”
I gave the innocent routine a try. It rarely worked, but this was not looking so good. “William? Why would William call me? As far as I know, I’m not in need of an attorney. What’s his specialty again?”
“That’s neither here nor there. You know very well we’re talking about Jameson.” My mother stood and walked over to the drink cart. “We spoke with you about this last week. Why would you reject that poor boy’s proposal?”
“He didn’t have a ring,” I quipped in a continued effort to divert their attention. “You cannot expect me to marry a man who doesn’t offer me a ring.” I waved my naked left hand in the air. “Why, that’s downright rude.”
“Stop this nonsense,” my father growled. Wow, he was really bugged by this. “The proposal your mother speaks of is the Parkingtons’ annual preholiday party.” Dad pulled his glasses from his front pocket and slipped them on. “William and I met for lunch a few weeks back and, among other things, discussed you and Jameson.”
By Magic Alone Page 3
