It feels like traffic’s running at half speed, but we get back to our building way too soon. I don’t know what’s worse: braving Brand or Kathi.
Okay, she isn’t that bad. Once we’re parked at our building, I leave Brand behind with the briefest possible wave.
And Kathi’s waiting in the lobby, like we agreed. Could’ve been worse. How many people need to chat up Linda? Kathi’s not supposed to know I work for the CIA either. Now I have to keep my guard up. Brand’s just primed the pump.
I grit my teeth for an embrace from Kathi that’s overcompensating for not liking me by trying to squeeze the living daylights out of me. Like we didn’t spend the last two evenings together, planning out today’s excursion in excruciating detail.
We barely get past our hellos before another voice breaks in. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Talia?”
My stomach clenches, and it’s not Kathi’s arm-vise that’s got me. That’s Brand, smarmy as ever. I jam my brain’s gears to ultra-secret mode. “This is my mother-in-law-to-be, Kathi.”
“No. No way. This has to be the maid of honor. Maybe your sister?”
We both have dark hair, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Kathi, tall, tanned and normally together, blushes. “Flattery will get you nowhere — though you can certainly try.”
That was my strategy for the evening, but now it seems to be taken. Maybe my usual backup will work: average, plain, disappearing into the shadows.
Seems to be working already. Brand offers a hand. As soon as Kathi shakes it, he lifts her knuckles to his lips. “I’m Talia’s boss. Vince Tate.”
Is it me, or is even his cover name obnoxious?
“So, you’re a partner in the firm,” Kathi practically purrs.
No. No. We’re not delving into our covers or getting friendly (or mentioning Danny’s name!). At. All. I break up the lovefest. “Well, we have an appointment.”
Have I mentioned Kathi is still happily married to Danny’s dad? Yeah, let’s not mess that up. They’re kind of my only hope for my own marriage staying together.
That’s really sad.
I usher Kathi out of the building and to my car. She ogles Brand until he’s out of sight behind us. “Your boss is quite the charmer.”
He knows that all too well. I steer the conversation from “Vince” to my other favorite topic lately: wedding dresses. Kathi hides a secret in her eyes instead of giving actual answers.
My hopes sink like a star-crossed Soviet submarine. Joy.
As bad as parking can be downtown, the real reason I snag a spot a couple blocks from the dress shop is to give me the chance to check for teal Nissans. “You know,” Kathi says on the walk, “you’re shaped so differently from Kendra that I’m not sure where to begin.”
How about we begin with the fact that Danny hasn’t seen or spoken to Kendra in nearly two years? Or that the last time they did speak, she was throwing plates and punches?
Not to mention the fact that Kathi’s obviously insulting me. Stupid, well-endowed Kendra. Like I need any more insecurities.
“She had the perfect gown.” Kathi sighs.
Yeah, I want to sigh already too. I knew Kendra had colors picked out, but a dress, too? “I didn’t realize she’d had a gown.”
“Well, of course she did. She wanted to marry Danny, after all.”
Uh . . . yeah. No comment.
We reach the store and Abby waiting on the sidewalk. She shoots me an unspoken question and I wave her off, applying what’s fast becoming my I-have-to-remember-I-love-Danny-so-I-don’t-kill-you smile for Kathi. “I can say one thing for her: she’s got great taste in men.”
“Yes, she does,” comes a voice from behind us. A voice I’m not expecting. A voice that trails ice down my spine.
How did I miss that teal Nissan? I wheel around slowly. “Checking up on us, Vince?”
“Just happened to be going to dinner downtown.” He leers at Abby.
“This is my friend Abby. My boss.” Not clenching my teeth through their introduction takes serious effort. “Well, don’t want to be late.”
“Nice running into you.” Brand beams at Kathi, who bats her eyelashes at him.
Suddenly dress shopping is looking a whole lot better.
“Enjoy your dinner,” I call, then drag Kathi into the dress shop. Abby follows us, and I remember to introduce Kathi and Abby. Despite what I told her about Kathi, Abby’s really nice.
I’ve never made friends with those way-too-nice-and-sweet-to-be-real girls before. Maybe I’ve been missing out. (I could at least use the good influence, right?)
Abby asks about my day. I tell her what I can between checking the windows for Brand. Kathi takes advantage of the split-second distraction to swoop in on the sales clerk. By the time I get back to her, Kathi has shoved a three-inch thick scrapbook in the clerk’s face. “Obviously everything will be different on her.”
Ouch.
“But I think some of these ideas are still salvageable.”
I don’t like how that sounds. Abby squeezes my arm. Forgive me if I’m not reassured. I round Kathi to see the scrapbook, and sure enough, my worst fears are confirmed. I’ve only seen a couple snapshots of her, but enough to confirm that every picture is Kendra in a wedding dress.
Kendra is as blond and beautiful as any catalog model. And how much do you want to bet Kathi’s forcing this scrapbook on Danny whenever I’m not around?
I’m really not this insecure. I know Danny loves me. And he’d rather lop off his own limb than ever talk to Kendra. But whoa. Not okay, Kathi. Not. Okay.
Kathi points at one dress: broad collar, tiny waist, full skirt. “I’m thinking we might be able to make vintage Dior work. You know, late ’40s, New Look?”
“I’m right here,” I mutter.
Michelle, the clerk, flashes a sympathetic smile. “It’d be great on you. Very flattering.”
I frown. My resolve threatens to roll out the door. But that’s where Brand was.
Submitting to Kathi’s hostile takeover won’t kill me. Famous last words. Within minutes, I’m squeezing into gowns made for women without ribs, internal organs, or self-respect.
All right, maybe that’s a little melodramatic, though the top of the dress needs major reconstruction to wear in an LDS temple. Or in public.
The stiff neckline is something out of a Disney movie — Sleeping Beauty, I think: off-the-shoulder and too low for me. This is all to humor Kathi, who knows exactly what I can and can’t wear, so I march out for the requisite twirling and ooh-ing and ahh-ing. Which usually ends up more as oh-ing and uhh-ing.
I step onto the pedestal before I bother checking the mirrors — and I stop. This actually does look pretty. Still way more froofy than anything I’ve ever worn in my life, even undercover. The only thing wrong in the mirror is my stunned expression.
“That’s gorgeous,” Kathi comments, again like I’m not there. “Almost an Audrey Hepburn effect.”
Yeah, except for the person in the dress. I can pull off a clandestine meeting with a high value target. I can pull off a sensitive break-in-and-bug, “black bag” op with minimal support. I can pull off being a concert pianist, a ballroom dancer, or even a bus driver.
Even I can’t pull off this dress.
“It is pretty, but I don’t think it’s really your style, Talia.” Abby’s tone smoothes over any objections. Kathi orders another vintage special, a tumble of Audrey Hepburn/Sabrina/Givenchy/detachable train/without embroidery escaping her mouth so fast I can’t catch up. Better to face her than Brand, so I stop worrying about catching up and just play dress up for her.
Michelle suits me up in a dress that’s sleek, strapless, and still poofy before she turns me loose. I barely consult the mirrors because, yep, still can’t do froof.
“This train’s detachable?” Kathi asks.
Michelle unhooks the extra poof of fabric running around the back from hip to hip, leaving me in the straight, sleek version of the skirt swooping gen
tly to the floor.
“Oh.” Abby can’t hold in her reaction. But that isn’t disappointment. That’s surprise, and it’s all over my face in the mirror, too.
I wasn’t doing this for my sake. This was for Kathi and Brand, but here I am, staring at my reflection. And liking it: I actually look like me. As a bride.
Even Kathi doesn’t object. In fact, I think she’s almost happy.
Michelle sees her opening and begins talking price, discounts, and financing, while Abby tries to move to alterations, fitting, and rush orders. Once Abby gets through, Michelle stops short. “You’re talking about a total bodice reconstruction. How fast of a rush?”
“I’m getting married in three weeks,” I say.
Michelle’s eyes practically fall out of her head. “That kind of work would take three months! Why didn’t you come in then?”
“I wasn’t engaged then.” Or planning on ever getting married.
She stands there, stunned for a minute, and it hits me how much I was starting to like this dress in the 2.47 seconds I’ve spent in it. Or maybe it’s less the dress itself and more that for 2.47 seconds, I could actually imagine this whole wedding thing working out.
“What about if we didn’t use the train at all?” Kathi asks. If she’s on board with this, I know it’s the best option, and maybe my last chance. “Could we get the dress faster without it?”
“No, I don’t think that will help. I think it’s quite lovely the way it is —”
“No.” Kathi, Abby and I cut her off in unison. Our reasons tumble over one another: “I need sleeves.”/“The back is too low.”/“The bodice is too big.” (Guess which is Kathi’s?)
“What about a jacket?” Michelle offers. “We should be able to find something —”
“The neckline needs to be two inches higher, at least.” Kathi scoffs. “What’s she supposed to do, wear a T-shirt over it?”
Much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. A jacket won’t cut it. The defeat I’ve been waiting for rolls in.
Kathi leans over Michelle, using her height to its full, intimidating advantage. “Is there absolutely any way you could have the dress ready in time? No matter what the cost?”
“I’m sorry,” Michelle murmurs, falling back a step. “I don’t think there is.”
“Is there a manager we could talk to?”
Michelle hurries away to fetch that manager. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Kathi snorts. “A total bodice reconstruction doesn’t take three straight months of work. You can always pay to get to the front of the line.”
“Maybe you can,” I mutter.
“If money’s an issue, Terry and I would be happy to help.” Without waiting for my response, Kathi bustles off to hunt down a manager herself.
Their “help” always comes complete with coordinating strings. Like how Danny’s belated “graduation gift” had to be used on a house that met their expectations.
Money is a great manipulator. It’s manipulating Brand, isn’t it?
Can I be bought so easily? I glance back at the mirror, at the dress that even money can’t buy. “Do you think she’ll be able to convince them?” I murmur to Abby.
“No idea.”
Man. I want this to be over. “Come help me get out of this thing.”
Abby helps with my buttons, but there’s something odd about her silence. She leaves so I can change back into my sweater and slacks. Before I exit the dressing room, I check my phone. A text from Danny: Everything going okay?
Sort of. I catch one last glimpse of the dress before I shut the door. I flop into one of the armchairs by Abby. “So close,” I murmur.
She studies her crossed knees. “Pretty disappointing.”
That’s an understatement.
“Is that the only thing bugging you?” she asks. “You seem . . . stressed.”
“I’m always stressed.” That’s true, but before I change the subject, I catch myself checking the windows again — watching, waiting, worrying over Brand.
I’m driving myself nuts. I have to talk to somebody. Michelle, the manager and, most of all, Kathi are nowhere in sight. Safe enough. “A situation at work,” I admit. “Extra stressful.”
“Anything to do with your boss?”
I flinch and turn on her. How —? Then the rest of the pieces fit into place: the boss I introduced her to thirty minutes ago (none too happily, either). Way to give yourself away, Talia.
But is it the end of the world if I tell one person, vent to one friend, pretend to be normal for five seconds? “Actually, it is him. We dated a long time ago. It was bad.”
The whole relationship replays in a mental flash. The accidental kiss in his office that started everything. Innuendo that I pretended to ignore. The final, disastrous date that, until this year, was the closest I’ve ever come to real trouble.
The aftermath was the worst. “After we broke up, he made it . . . impossible to work with him. Made my friends hate me because I’d ‘led him on.’” There’s more — so much more — and I don’t realize I’m telling her until I hear my voice. “Like, in a meeting, he’d make sure to stand by me, no matter how hard I tried to stay away. The second people were distracted, he’d do something like slap my butt, and I couldn’t react without getting a bunch of attention. I’d have to explain, and he’d deny it, and —” The words have tumbled out and I only stop to breathe. I’ve never told this to anyone but Danny. I finish for Abby, “I was . . . trapped.”
He lived up to his stupid nickname: he branded me, and if I’m honest, it still burns.
Abby casts me a concerned frown. “Is he doing that again? Harassing you?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “Hasn’t touched me at all.” And yet I still feel worthless. Used. Filthy.
“And now you have to work with him.”
“Yeah, and it’s like . . .” I slow to a stop when the weight of what I’m about to say hits me. “It’s like I’m back in those days, a new hire who still has to prove herself. Because I’m nothing but a plaything to him. In his Great Game.”
I was, and I am. I’m falling right back into those same patterns, those same behaviors, like three years in the field have proven nothing. Brand walks into our office, and I’m back in trainee mode.
Abby throws an arm around my shoulders. “I think somebody needs dinner, and then Timmy’s? Rideau Centre?”
“Sounds great, except the part where we get donuts second.”
Abby laughs, and I can’t help but join in. Our laughter quickly fades when Kathi and the manager appear, wending their way through the racks of bridesmaid dresses. The set to Kathi’s jaw says enough, even without the manager’s half-bowed apologetic posture.
“Oh, man,” Abby nearly shouts. “I’m so hungry. I haven’t had a bite since lunch. Should we go down to the mall?”
I manage not to quirk an eyebrow at her antics. “Sure. Ready, Kathi?”
Kathi nods, though her frown doesn’t soften the whole way to the Rideau Centre. (It’s only a block, but still.) Once we’re seated with our souvlaki and gyros pitas, I text Danny to join us. Abby strikes up a conversation mostly with herself about her day, and the insanity of the local Fabricland. (Fabricland!) (Sorry, that’s how the classic commercial goes.)
“You work at a fabric store?” Kathi asks. “Do you sew?”
Oh good, I can show off how gloriously undomestic I am. I try to follow the conversation for what feels like forever, long after I’ve finished dinner, until finally that trademark dark red box drops on the table in front of me. Brand wouldn’t know to go to Timmy’s, right? I look up, dread and hope battling in my chest.
Hope wins out: Danny’s standing there, wearing my favorite smile—and he brought donuts! “I’ve been looking all over for you guys.”
I tap the Tim Hortons box. “Your first guess?”
“Figured I shouldn’t let all that time standing in front of them go to waste.” He drags the extra chair around to sit next to me instead of across from
me. Out of habit, I cross one ankle over his. Also out of habit, he takes out a maple pecan Danish and gives it to me. “Didn’t you get my texts?” he asks.
While Danny catches up with Abby and his mom, I furrow my brow and grab my phone. Three texts from Danny, asking where we are, and what donuts I want, like he needs to ask. I take another bite of my sweet maple goodness. What else have I missed? I check my email and take a quick glance at the headlines in my news app. I’m not stupid enough to have alerts on my phone for headlines related to my cases, and I make sure to check out two stories that have nothing to do with work to fill my browser history.
But when I see “Wasti Calls for Jihad in the US” in my news app, my Danish isn’t so appetizing. Even the sinking feeling in my stomach can’t keep me from clicking through.
Though the article doesn’t have many details, all this is news to me. What did Samir tell Brand? A big attack?
The article info is coming out of DC, and they’ve traced the latest video to that area. All. Out. War. From inside the US.
Either Samir isn’t as close to his cousin as he let on, or Samir lied to us. I know where I’m putting my money. I like the guy, but something’s been off about him lately.
The only question is whether Brand knows the intel he’s passing on is bad.
Is that even a question? He’s funneling bad intel up the pipeline and pocketing the funds. Twice now I’ve found out about Wasti’s next move way later than I should’ve. Brand doesn’t trust me with the stuff he should.
And I can’t trust Brand. I have to do something. Now.
“Talia?” Kathi’s voice and my name snap me back to the present. Danny, Kathi and Abby are waiting for me to answer. Kathi’s face is don’t-you-think-so? insistent, while Abby’s chewing her lower lip.
I’ve got to get out of here without making waves. “Sorry, problem at work. What did you say?”
“Abby here is an excellent seamstress.”
I have to wonder how Kathi can vouch for the sewing skills of a woman she just met.
“And I was saying the only way to get your gown done in time now is to buy a sample off the rack that a hundred other girls have tried on, or to have someone sew one for you. And that might be easier, since your tastes are so plain.”
Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 40
