“They do drink at Chinese weddings, right? Your father payed a fortune for an open bar.”
“Yes, Mom, they drink. It doesn’t matter that we have everything they do in China, only that Mei Ling feels like we cared enough about her history at the wedding. It’s hard enough that she won’t have parents there.” I pause. “This is for her and Dave, not us.”
“This wedding is enough work as it is without worrying about the Chinese business, but I suppose you’re right.”
“I got fifty of everything. That should be enough, right?”
“Oh, heavens, yes,” Mom says. “Really only my aunts will be there. They like to gamble and planned a trip to Caesars after the wedding. Your father’s side of the family doesn’t think the marriage will last, so they won’t buy plane fare to Vegas.”
Typical. That’s a nice way of avoiding the subject that Dad’s relatives are total bigots and won’t pay to see Dave get married to a non-Caucasian. Granted, my feelings on Dave being married are cautious at best, but it’s got nothing to do with race. It’s got every-thing to do with Dave being Dave. And even Dave as a Christian is still Dave. A new creature in Christ? Maybe. But there’s always a bit of the old creature left lurking within.
“We’ll have enough of everything then. Listen, Mom, I’m looking at an apartment right now. I’ll call you back later, okay?”
I’m eyeing the landlord with trepidation. There are two types of landlords in Silicon Valley. There’s the wealthy entrepreneur who keeps buying more houses and renting his old ones as he moves up. I like to call them absentee landlords because they’re never around and you never hear from them. Even when your plumbing is backed up.
Then there’s the curmudgeon who rents in bulk. He usually lives in the building and has a bird’s-eye view of everything that goes on in his complex. And it is his complex; you are simply a guest—a temporary guest. That means all parties, visitors, and pets will be the subject of much inspection and subsequent discussion.
As I’m watching Mr. Harvey White approach, his polyester pants from 1957 (still perfectly good to him) landing just about at the chest, I see he is obviously the latter type of landlord. He’s walking around my car, surveying it carefully. I hop out with a friendly smile. I won over Mr. Manger, if not Mrs. Manger. This guy’s got nothing on me.
“Mr. White, I’m Ashley Stockingdale. Such a pleasure to meet you.” I’m candy-apple sweet. I cannot wait to get my hands on these granite countertops he’s just put in! Granted, I won’t ever cook anything on them, but they’ll look divine.
He waves some papers at me. “You filled this out?”
“Yes, I faxed them to you. It looks like you got them okay.”
“Your credit’s bad. No sense showing you the apartment, because I won’t rent to you with bad credit.”
I’m shaking my head. The cedar closet . . . the hardwood floors. Now I’m nervous. “Mr. White, I can assure you my credit is excellent. Did you call my former landlord?”
“She’s the mark against you.” He shuffles through the paper and he’s obviously thoroughly enjoying my humiliation. “It says you took things that didn’t belong to you, like the microwave.”
I’m shaking my head. “No, I didn’t do that. I lived there for three years and never had a late rent payment. Call Mrs. Manger.”
“I did. Mrs. Manger said the refrigerator got stolen as well. Said she woulda never expected it of you.”
And then with spellbinding fear, it comes to me. Seth’s friend, Larry. I never told him I didn’t own the appliances. “There’s a misunderstanding,” I say desperately. “I’ve been in Taiwan, and I had a company move things. Perhaps they moved too much. If you’ll just let me straighten this out—”
“Nothing to straighten out.” He spits into the bushes. “Thieves. Mrs. Manger’s going after you. You’ll pay for that stuff and then some.”
“Please, Mr. White. I can explain everything.”
“A good con usually can.” He points to his temple. “But you have to get up pretty early to fool Harvey White.” He disappears into his apartment, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk. It’s no use panicking. It just means this isn’t the place for me, I tell myself calmly. Successful people do not panic. God’s people do not panic. Fear is not of the Lord, fear is not of the Lord, I chant.
I pace up and down the sidewalk. Even with this gorgeous clean sidewalk within walking distance of downtown Palo Alto, I try to convince myself there’s a better place waiting. I dial up Seth for Larry’s number. Someone is going to pay for this “misunderstanding,” and it’s not going to be me.
Voice mail. ARRRRGH! I pound the numbers to his cell. Voice mail. I need caffeine. A big ol’ triple mocha with a double shot of whipped cream. I start walking downtown to one of the coffee houses. My phone rings within a minute. It’s Seth. I pummel him.
“Seth, your friend stole the fridge and microwave. My credit is in the dumpster, and this landlord thinks I’m a thief. I just got home from Taiwan. I have no place to go and my clothes are I don’t know where. What is going on?”
“Ash, calm down. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Seth, I totally trusted this guy. I know it’s a misunderstanding, but I need my stuff. I need a place to stay.” People are looking at me as I walk down the street screaming into my cell phone. Here I go again. Christian witness? Not so much. Freak psycho homeless person yelling on a street corner? Bingo.
“Can I come pick you up? We need to talk.” Seth sounds like a psychologist. Now I’m frantic.
I swallow hard. “No, you tell me right now.” I stop in my tracks.
“Larry’s out of business.”
My breath rushes from my lungs. From lack of oxygen, I just sit down on the sidewalk. In my brand new outfit from Bebe! It’s clear I’m not thinking straight.
“Ashley?”
“Seth, I have nothing. When will I get my stuff back?”
He pauses for a long time. “Ashley, I feel terrible.”
“Forget all that. I don’t care about any of that. I’m not blaming you, but where’s my stuff ?”
“Larry hired this guy. Apparently, he was removing extra things from apartments. On purpose. Then he was selling it. They caught him selling your appliances in a back alley in San Jose.”
I cradle my head in my hands. I can barely believe this. “So where’s the rest of it?”
“It’s been impounded by the City of San Jose Police Department. They’re cataloging everything and trying to get it back to its rightful owners ASAP, but you have to fill out forms stating everything that’s missing.”
“Seth, this wasn’t a suitcase! It’s my entire apartment. You know how organized I am. How would I know what’s missing?”
“You just have to try and remember. I’ll help you.”
Remember. I have to remember. The only problem is I can’t remember my first name at the moment. I’m looking down at myself trying to figure out just who I am—who I’ve become. I’m dressed well; that’s a positive. I have great Jimmy Choo shoes so I’ve come out of this disaster with my style intact. But I’m sitting in the middle of a city sidewalk crying into a cell phone. Everything I’ve worked for is gone.
More importantly, everything I’ve worked for is useless and temporal. Except maybe these shoes . . .
“I’m going out for a coffee,” I say to Seth. “I really need to think. And pray.”
“Ash—” There’s such pain in his voice and I feel awful for him. I know he would never purposely steer me wrong.
“Seth, I’m not mad. This didn’t happen because of you. It happened because I’m too overwhelmed to think straight. I need some time to sort it all out.”
“Where are you going to be tonight?”
I stand up and brush off my bum. “I don’t know. I’ll be on the cell phone though.”
“Me too. Call me when you’re ready to go to the police station. I don’t want you going to downtown San Jose alone.”
&nbs
p; “Will they let me get anything? My clothes?”
“I’m sure they will. The problem will be finding them. There was a lot of stuff. Larry’s just sick about it all. He’s out on bail.”
“And out of jail, while my stuff languishes in custody.” I pause, remembering Seth didn’t want this to happen. “’Bye, Seth.” I snap up the phone and walk past some of the gorgeous old Victorians and Craftsman-style homes in Professorville—where the Stanford faculty used to live—but now can’t afford to dream about.
My feet stop in front of a traditional bungalow, which is probably worth two million because of where it is. It’s surrounded by a quaint white picket fence and blooming flowers at the end of January. Is this what I want? To park my Audi convertible in front of a million-dollar home that would be $100,000 anywhere else in America? How did I ever come to believe this was success? I feel like that day in the airport when I got caught in a stream of people and never realized I was going in the wrong direction.
Do I want to prove to the world that I am Ashley Stocking-dale, A Success in Silicon Valley—one of the hardest places on earth to make it? Or is there another way to be successful? I look up to the sky, realizing with clarity that I’m empty inside right now. Gazing at the beautiful shell of a house, I think I know why. But my brain’s a little fuzzy from jetlag. Suddenly I’m feeling bottomed- out tired. I’d better sit down before I fall down. Maybe if I just lie down on the sidewalk for just a sec, I’ll catch my breath. I’m just going to close my eyes for a sec. Just for a sec . . .
28
This is Rick Ramirez reporting for Entertainment this Evening. ” Rick tones it down to a golf announcer whisper. “We’re at the home of Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale, bride of the infamous coffee-growing millionaire, John Folger. As we watch Ashley descend the marble circular staircase in her home, we see grace in action. Jen Jenkins reports . . .”
“That’s right Rick, we’re in the home of celebrity couple, John and Ashley Folger. To watch these two cuddle is something out of a fairy tale. It’s clear there’s more here than your standard Hollywood romance.This is a couple in love. A couple who take their many possessions in stride to honor the love they share. Ashley, tell us what it’s like to be married to one of the world’s former hottest bachelors?”
“He’s still a hottie,” Ashley giggles and falls into the crook of John’s neck. “But now I don’t have to share him with the world.”
Jen smiles and crosses her million-dollar legs. “John, they say Ashley’s diamond is one of the rarest in the world. Can you expound on why you purchased such an expensive ring?”
“It’s a canary yellow diamond, ten carats in a flawless radiant cut.When I saw the diamond, I thought of Ashley. She’s sunny, yet rare—so the yellow diamond was all I considered. Flawless—well, that speaks for itself. The radiant cut is a testament to her sparkling personality.” He smiles down at his wife, and they collapse into each other’s arms, giggling.
“Miss, are you all right?”
I look up and see a policeman gazing at me, like I might be on drugs. He’s snapping his fingers in my face, and without thinking, I push his hand away. “Leave me alone.”
“What’s your name?”
I rub my head. What is my name? I feel like I got kicked in the head. I’ve never had such a reaction to jetlag. It’s like I’m hearing him speak, but from far away. “Your name, Ma’am.”
“Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale. Stupidest name you ever heard, huh? I’m named after mealy-mouthed Ashley Wilkes. My mother liked weak men, but I think she’s coming around.” I stand up, a little dazed. I turn around and see the Victorian home while trying to get my bearings. The truth is, I feel a little tipsy. “Isn’t that a beautiful house?”
“Ma’am, I need to see some ID.” He grabs for my Prada bag, which I instinctively pick up and unwittingly whack across his face. My hand flies to my mouth.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“You’re going to need to come with me.”
“No, no, no, Officer. I’m sorry, I just thought . . . My car is a few blocks away. I’m having a very bad day. I’m tired and I just need to go to bed for two days.” I start to explain the airplane and jetlag, but somewhere I lose the words—I’m overwhelmed by his grip on my arm. “No, I’ll show you. My car is right up here.” I’m waving my free hand like a madwoman.
He puts me in the backseat of his car. I’m in the backseat of a police car! “Ma’am, you are in no shape to drive. We’ll get you sobered up at the station.”
“Sober? No, you don’t understand. I’m not drunk! Give me one of those breathalyzer things.” I look at the beautiful house again. “I’m not drunk.” I kick up my heels into his view. “Look, I’ve got Jimmy Choo shoes; I’m not drunk.” I look at my feet and shake my head. “These really are great shoes.”
He drives me by my car and I nearly cry as we pass my baby. No wonder I feel so strongly about my car. My life blows other-wise.
“Officer, look! There’s my car—see how nice? This is a mistake, a travesty of justice. This is the only crime here. My stuff has been stolen in San Jose. Oh wait, that’s two crimes. But they’re not my crimes. I’m innocent. I’m just lacking caffeine; that’s no crime, but it’s giving me a terrible headache.” I rub my head, but I can still see his eyes in the rearview mirror.
He just looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re under arrest for drunk-and-disorderly conduct, loitering, and assaulting a police officer.” He starts to rattle off my Miranda rights.
“I’m a lawyer; I know my rights! You can’t arrest me for drunken behavior without a test.”
“You’ll get your test. At the station.”
I groan. “You’re going to make me pee in a cup, aren’t you?”
But he just keeps counting off my Miranda rights. I have the right to remain silent. I can have a lawyer, blah blah blah. I lay down on the backseat of the car and take a little nap.
When I wake up, I’m sitting in a jail cell. A jail cell! There’s no one else in the cell with me, but it’s danker than the Taiwanese jet. And the smell! Well, I won’t even go there. There’s a little toilet in the middle of the room. Now I ask you, who would use a toilet with a guard behind a desk nearby? Is there a beast on earth who couldn’t hold it for an eternity rather than demean themselves on a public—and I do mean public—toilet? It leaves me longing for my rat-infested apartment. I have to get out of here.
There’s a female officer behind a long, torturous-looking counter. “This is all a mistake. I need to get to work.”
She looks up at me, rolls her eyes, and goes back to stamping whatever important piece of filing she’s working on.
“No, really. I want out of here.”
She walks around the counter. She’s big and scary and looks down at me like I’m a crumb on her table. “You get a phone call. You ready to make it?”
“I’ve got my cell phone—” but I look around and I don’t have a cell phone. “Where’s my Prada bag?”
“It’s in the designer section with your gourmet meal. Do you want a phone call or not?”
“Yes!” I shout. I scratch my head trying to figure out who to call. “If they’re not home do I get to call someone else?”
“Yes,” she says.
I can’t call my mother. Dave would never let me live it down. The family must never know of this day. I can’t call Purvi; I’m supposed to be at work. Brea, I can call Brea. Since the hulk won’t give me my Prada or PDA, I’m doubly glad I know Brea’s numbers by heart. Dialing her cellular, just in case, I’m mortified when voice mail comes on. I hang up immediately. I don’t want it to count as my call! “Can I use a phone book?”
I page through it, thinking of one friend and then the other. I refuse to call Kay Harding, who would never let the clipboard loose long enough to get arrested, and Seth would only think I’d gone off the deep end and blame himself for losing my stuff and pushing me over the edge. Kevin . . . do I dare?
I look up the numb
er for Lucille Salter Children’s Hospital and dial. When they answer, I ask for Dr. Kevin Novak and guiltily explain it’s an emergency. They page him and within three minutes or better, he’s on the phone.
“Dr. Novak.”
“Kevin, it’s Ashley. I need your help. I’m in jail and I need bail posted.” This is the most humiliating moment of my life. Kevin’s view of me is now the desperado who kissed him passionately in the dark San Francisco parking garage and a convict in jail. At least his parents won’t try harvesting my eggs at this point.
Kevin is laughing. “Come on, Ashley, what’s the emergency?”
“I’m not kidding. I’m in the Palo Alto Police Department in a holding cell. I need to be bailed out.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re really not joking?”
“I wish I was.”
“I’ll be right there.” He hangs up the phone, and I’m escorted back to my cell.
There’s another woman here now. She’s tall and lanky and she too is wearing great shoes. They look like Cole Haan’s.
“Hi,” I mumble.
“Hey.” She nods. “Shoplifting?”
I’m mortified. “No.” But then my pride quickly diminishes. “Assaulting an officer and loitering.”
“Krista Harchek.” She holds out her hand.
“Ashley Stockingdale.”
“You got a bail bondsman? I know a great one.”
“My friend’s coming,” I explain.
“It’s good to have friends.”
Subconsciously I start singing the song about what a friend we have in Jesus, and Krista points at me. “I know that song. Heard it at rehab once.”
“We sing it at church. It just came to my head.”
“Yeah? What church do you go to?”
“The one that meets at Paly,” I say, referring to the high school. She curses. “I know the place.”
I swallow hard. “You should join us when you get out. Those are great shoes by the way.”
She nods. “Cole Haan’s. Picked ’em up at Bloomingdale’s.”
What a Girl Wants Page 22
