Beauty Bites

by Mary Hughes

  “You mean Harry?”

  A little gasp. “Nobody’s supposed to know that.”

  “I guessed.” Why let her know it was painfully obvious? And why let her know I heard every cell in her body screaming against going behind Little’s back as he’d gone behind Ric’s, even for a good cause? “That’s awfully nice of you. But unless I win this on my own, Little will continue to think he can screw with me.” Not a very solid reason, but I needed to reassure her fast.

  “Well…if you need me to I will.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Whatever happens, know I’m rooting for you.”

  “Thanks, Rosie. That means a lot.”

  I’d managed to lock away the panic for Rosie’s sake, but as soon as I hung up it surged back, worse than ever.

  I’d counted on Ric’s being there, not only to nudge me from any black pits of infinite mistake, but for simple moral support. Now it would be just me and Camille and the numbers.

  And Chicken Little, who hated me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I dug in my purse for Ric’s business card, the one with his cell phone number. Not to ask him to come rescue me, but for some long-distance moral support. Or maybe last rites.

  I released a pent-up breath when I found the card, and thumbed the number into my phone.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Sunshine.” His voice was warm. “I was thinking about you.”

  “And I was dreaming about you.” Until Rosie splashed me with cold water. I gave him a quick sketch of what had happened.

  “Damn. This is Aiden’s bad feeling.”

  No, it isn’t, I heard from the phone.

  “Shut up,” Ric said. “Not you, Synnove. Just an attack of the interfering stupids here. Don’t go, please? Stay safe at your cousin’s cabin for me.”

  “Ric, I can’t not go. Little’s your legitimate rep. I don’t think I’ll be in danger. I had a talk with the gang here last night. They think Nosy sent that wave of goons because you said no to Camille at the party.”

  “Nosy?”

  “That’s what my cousin calls Nosferatu. Dunno why. Camille phoned Nosy after you said no—she told us that the next morning, remember? He probably sent the goons before he got word that she has another chance. Now that she does, Nosy will hold off. Ric, you don’t want an escalation. Let me handle it.”

  He made a frustrated noise. “I don’t have a lot of choice, with the sun up and me stuck in Ma…stuck here. But I should be there, with you.”

  More vampires secrets. But the yearning in his voice spoke directly to my heart. “I understand. Your nature means you’ll be unavailable at times.”

  “My sunshine.” A pause. Even in the silence, Ric was so very present. “Some day I’ll tell you everything. But one hurdle at a time.”

  “I’ll hold you to that ‘some day’.” I shivered, realizing I’d just made a date with Ric Holiday. “I have to go now, to prepare. I’ve got a proposal to win.”

  “Wait! Please don’t go. I don’t care if it escalates. I can deal with anything, as long as you’re safe.”

  “You can, but what about your employees? Your condo group? This meeting is bogus, but if we back out now, Camille will say you bargained in bad faith and Nosy starts a war.”

  He chuffed a laugh. “When did you get so business savvy?”

  “It’s not business, it’s the nature of bullies. I have to play their game while they hold the cards.”

  He made an angry sound. “It started out as my game but they’ve changed the rules.” A snap of fingers. “I’ll simply reverse any bad decisions when I get back.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “Same problem with backing out.”

  He blew a sharp, disgruntled breath. “They won’t play fair.”

  “I know. But I have to do this, Ric. Trust me to do it.”

  “I trust you. I don’t agree…but I do trust you. Don’t underestimate Charles.”

  “I’m not worried. He’s not the sharpest scalpel on the tray.”

  “No. But he’s willing to fight dirty. Both he and Camille are.” Silence, but Ric hadn’t hung up. “Synnove…I’m in Madison. Near Cave of the Mounds.”

  My secretive vampire had shared something of himself. I was deeply touched. “Thanks. And thanks for what training you were able to give me. I won’t let you down.”

  “You could never let me down, Sunshine.”

  I smiled as I ended the call.

  All right then. Time to not let Ric down. Time to fight. Cue the warrior music.

  Camille and Little are willing to fight dirty. When sparring an opponent who has the upper hand, Mr. Miyagi taught us that the trick is to overwhelm them from the start. So knock ‘em dead with my infallible arguments and reasoning.

  But it wouldn’t hurt to add a bit of sizzle in the form of starching the hell out of my white cotton blouse. Good thing I’d packed for an extended soul-searching.

  Twyla pleaded with me the whole time I ironed. “You’re not wearing that, are you? Don’t you want to dazzle them?”

  “With my wit, not my clothes. This gives my arguments the right backdrop.”

  “That gray thing? They’ll yawn to death. At least take one of my bras. I know thirty-two D is too small—”

  “Thirty-six, Twyla.” I sprayed more starch and finished up the collar. “You haven’t been a thirty-two since freshman year in high school.”

  “Whatever. Just try my Stealth Top.” She held up a skimpy knit. A line of tiny snaps marched down the front. “It starts off at Nun and unsnaps to Wink, Gasp, Slaver and Kill Me Now.”

  I clicked off the iron. “Even at Wink, I’d look like an inflatable rubber raft with more cleavage than a plumber’s trousers.”

  “But if Little is going to fight dirty—”

  “I’m not stooping to his level. I’m going to win this battle on my own merits.” Rosie’s reluctance had rung a chord in me.

  Twyla muttered something about leaving the gun holstered to shoot it. “Fine. I’ll put it in your dresser, in case you change your mind.”

  Ten-twenty sharp I waited for the elevator in the Holiday Buzz main lobby, armored in the starched blouse, stiff tailored suit—and Twyla’s best ivory underwear set. She’d forced it on me at the last second, maybe hoping my blouse would get torn again. The lacy bikini thong with the tiny red bow fit but the bra’s band was two inches less than I was used to, and I couldn’t take a full breath.

  So I was shifting foot to foot, nervous and uncomfortable too. This was it. The confrontation between me and Camille. Crisis Time. I reached for my emotional “off” switch—

  My cell phone rang. I pulled it out and saw Hospital. “Byornsson.”

  “Dr. Synnove?” Teddy’s thin voice greeted me. “He’s doing it again. Dr. Bearsylls is threatening you.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Bearsylls doesn’t mean it.” I kept my own voice level. Teddy had had a very difficult surgery and didn’t need to be upset on top of everything. I mentally burned Bearsylls for scaring the boy.

  “But he’s so angry. He’s saying it’s your fault that I can’t walk.”

  Yes. The final piece of The Incident that I hadn’t told Ric. Teddy was the patient. That botched surgery had happened to a child.

  Routine surgery to correct the leftover effects of a clubfoot had turned nightmare; Teddy could no longer use that foot and might never walk or run again. I couldn’t make up for the damage, but I did everything I could to balance it, visiting him daily and reading him stories to keep his spirits up.

  And what about the surgeon, the one who actually did the damage? Was he in the least remorseful? Well, he was behind on his malpractice insurance premiums and his two sets of alimony. He simply took out more advertising to offset the “incorrect impressions”.

  So no. No remorse at all.

  This was the full horror of The Incident. A maimed child—and the guy who’d maimed him dismissed it as a cost of doing business.

  “Why is he saying that, Dr. Synnove? W
hy is he so mean?”

  My fingers tightened on the phone. Poor Teddy sounded really afraid. I was scared too, but Teddy needed to be reassured. I put aside my own feelings. “It’s an adult thing, sweetie. Some people deal with their anger and fear by taking it out on others. It’s not very constructive, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I know he’s wrong. You’ve been nice to me. I know you couldn’t have done anything bad.”

  “Thanks, Teddy. That means a lot to me.” Unfortunately it wouldn’t mean anything to a judge, if it came to that. The boy had been under anesthetic at the time. And as far as support from the rest of the surgical team…well, not only Teddy was afraid of Dr. Bearsylls.

  There was a short silence. Then he said timidly, “He talked my mom into it.”

  I chilled.

  “She says we can’t afford my treatment unless we sue somebody. Dr. Bearsylls said that Dr. Bearsylls Cares and everybody knows it. That she’d never win against him. He said she should sue the hospital instead. And you.”

  That was a blow. But unfortunately, the way of the litigious world. “Your mom is doing what’s best for you, Teddy. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But Dr. Synnove—”

  “You concentrate on getting well. And the minute I get back into town I’ll visit, okay?” When he didn’t answer I prompted again. “Okay?”

  “Well…will you show me that neat card game again? Sheep guts?”

  I laughed in spite of everything. “Sheepshead.” The card game learned by all good little Meiers Corners kindern while they were still in diapers. “You bet. But you’ll have to promise to practice for me in the meantime.”

  “I’ll get right on it!” The sound of ruffling cards underscored the last words.

  I hung up, glad to hear life come back to Teddy’s voice, glad I’d distracted him from worrying. Talking him down had worked, at least for now. Next time, who knew? I’d try my best.

  The fact that I was scared too? Wasn’t Teddy’s problem, nor even his mother’s, who worked two jobs just to pay the insurance deductibles for the surgeries. She needed money to help her boy. It wasn’t her fault a malpractice suit was the only way to get it. Unfortunately, that meant she’d sue everybody from the hospital to the PG4s, that is, me.

  One person was at fault, but we’d all pay.

  And unless I got into the right mindset to take on Camille and Chicken Little, a whole city would pay another price.

  The elevator had come and gone while I’d been on the phone. It was now ten thirty and my meeting was about to begin without me.

  I tried to flip my Crisis Time switch but I was either too distracted or needed the smell of disinfectant as a cue—nothing happened.

  Damn. I pushed the elevator button, chafing. I heard a distant ringing—the elevator was on hold. Being late wouldn’t strengthen my position. If they listened at all. No, I was a doctor by training. They’d respect that. And maybe they’d understand if I explained I was late because I took Teddy’s phone call.

  Unless they didn’t wait for me. Unless they decided that, because I wasn’t there at 10:30 sharp, Camille won by default. I pushed the button and held it. An extended ring told me it was still stuck. I waited. Pushed again. The shrill ring had a faintly mocking tone to it. Whoever was holding it wasn’t letting go.

  My nerves, already frayed, pushed me away from the elevator to run up the stairs.

  I promptly got new respect for Rapunzel’s prince, clambering up a towerful of hair. Even a workout with Mr. Miyagi’s head teacher Thorvald, a grueling mix of running, agonizingly slow kicks and mountain climbers, culminating in a duck walk around a city block—affectionately known as “Thor’s Hammering”—didn’t prepare me for running up the side of a football field-size mountain. I was gasping for breath, rumpled and sweaty by the time I made it to thirty-two.

  Rosie, at the front desk, leaped up the moment she saw me come through the agency door. “They’ve already started.” She grabbed my hand and led me toward the offices. “They’re in the big conference room. Do you want coffee?”

  “Water,” I croaked.

  “It’s on the table.” She studied me, biting her lower lip. “Good luck, Dr. Byornsson.”

  From that look, I’d probably need it. I nodded my thanks, and stumbled in.

  The big conference room next to Ric’s corner office ran half the building’s length. It was dominated by a long hardwood table circled by twelve black captain’s chairs. Four chairs were occupied, by Camille, two women, and a man; Little was standing. The man must be Mr. Riley from Finance. I guessed the neat Asian woman with the short glossy black bob was Ms. Park, which left the painfully thin brunette as Ms. Dullea, the media buyer.

  Charles Little strutted at the head of the table, arms behind his back. He was obviously trying to give the impression of a captain pacing his ship’s deck but to me that strut said rooster. When he saw me he stopped. “Miz Byornsson. Finally deciding to grace us with your presence, I see. Sit. There.”

  I’m not naive. I try to play fair, but I’m perfectly aware of how the game goes. That introduction was one of the most damaging blows Little could have dealt me. I lost points for being late. I’d been stripped of my title’s respect, and asking for it now would make me look petty. Explaining why I was late would look like I was currying pity points.

  Without a word, I sat. My lips were as tight as rubber bands and my nerves were singing like horror movie violins.

  Charles began strutting again, his wattle jiggling importantly. “I am often called on in Mr. Holiday’s absence to step in and keep Holiday Buzz running smoothly. Such is the case with this Meiers Corners competitive presentation. For both our efficiency and the client’s best results, it is imperative to move on this in a timely fashion. Thus, I’ve decided to hold the meeting today. In deciding which client to take on, my sole objective is to be fair.” He smiled sappily at Camille.

  Well, that answered who he was rooting for, as if I hadn’t known. I hoped the entire vote wasn’t stacked against me.

  I checked out the room. Tailored suits, crisp shirts and power ties. It didn’t mean their minds were made up but I certainly had an uphill battle. Even my professional togs were a point against me, as rumpled as they now were.

  Chicken Little turned from Camille to me and his simper clicked off like a light. “Ms. Byornsson, if you’re ready…?” He sounded like he doubted it.

  “Of course.” As I got up I kept in mind that I was pitching to people like me—realists. Interested in results, not feel-good empty talk. Like a doctor who, after surgery, requires not flatulence but results… Okay, bottom line, Meiers Corners’s folksy message might connect better to the creatives, but these were my equals.

  “Meiers Corners is positioned for enormous tourist growth. Let me tell you why.” I’d carried in a manila folder and now I opened it on the table so everyone could see it. “We’ve already taken steps to make the city more attractive to tourists.” I tapped the graph on the top sheet. “Here’s tourist volume before and during the run of Oz, Wonderful Oz—which is now on Broadway, a great selling point, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  From their stony faces, they didn’t. I swallowed my disappointment—a mistake because I hadn’t had time to pour myself water, my throat was extremely dry, and the swallow took half my tongue with it. “Uth ook aa…” Damn it. I bit the inside of my cheek, which relieved some of the dryness, and tried again. “Just look at the numbers.”

  The facts were solid. I pointed to the first bar, then the second, which was five times taller. We’d already quintupled our tourism, proving our work ethic. Surely that was impressive.

  Little smiled like a razorblade. “So you went from one tourist to five?”

  Dullea tittered.

  “No, it’s five times as many—”

  “Oh! From two to ten?”

  Riley snorted.

  I clenched my eyes briefly. “The point is, we attracted hundreds of tourists to our city. New
tourists.”

  “You’ve forgotten something.” Camille smiled slyly. “Many of those tourists actually came because of my club.”

  “Is that true, Ms. Byornsson?” Little’s shocked expression was way overdone. I wanted to smack him. Come on. Even image should have an element of taste.

  But because of who I am, I had to admit the truth. “It is my understanding that some of them came because of your club, but—”

  “You do know you’re making Ms. Lebeau’s case for her?”

  The whole room laughed at that.

  “But they stayed because of the musical—”

  “I promise I didn’t pay her.” Camille’s eyeteeth got pointy as she went for the kill. “Synnove is giving me an honest, truthful evaluation.”

  The words hit like hammers between my shoulder blades. How could honest and truthful be so awful?

  “I think that’s enough from Ms. Byornsson. Let’s hear from Ms. Lebeau.”

  My mouth worked but no more words came out. A slow, awful cold invaded my body, taking the strength from my legs.

  I sat down. I’d lost, and more than the pitch.

  Camille rose, her lush form poured into a red bandage minidress, and swayed around the room on platform spikes. “Let me stress how much money my casinos will make.”

  The room was so quiet you could hear my ego drop. Ding.

  As she went over her cash figures, heads nodded. She passed out slick packets of glossy pie charts, stepped back and let them absorb the numbers, her lips curled in a small, smug smile.

  That smile cankered. I found my voice for one last try. “What about the Holiday Buzz mission? Where’s the favorable impact on humanity? My plan—”

  “History-book charm? Please. Hoary and irrelevant.” Camille braced her hands on the table and leaned forward until her cleavage popped, completely reclaiming their attention, even the women. “My plan brings Meiers Corners into the twenty-first century. Your plan? As helpful in this economy as a liberal arts degree or educational television. Mine is a high tech degree; a blockbuster movie. My plan generates the kind of jobs that’ll last through whatever turns our modern age hands out. Real jobs for real people.”