by Lisa Plumley
“Really?” Kayla’s eyes lit up. She grinned hugely.
Uh-oh. When had six become the new sixteen? “I think we’re going to try another store. Zip in there and get changed.”
Kayla slumped in her favorite drama queen pose. “But I loooove this outfit! It’s so pink and sparkly and cute. Those girls at school would die if I showed up looking like this.”
Those girls at school. Those little hellions, she meant. They were the cause of Kayla’s meltdown over the weekend, and the cause of Angela’s phone call to him, too. Why couldn’t he have gone down to Kismet Elementary and given those mean little girls a few choice words about hurting people’s feelings? That would have worked. It would have been direct and effective.
But no. Angela had insisted that parents—not to mention doting uncles—should not get involved. Except in a purely bolstering capacity of course. Which was how Reno had found himself swearing to Kayla that they could go shopping together, just like she wanted, “all day Sunday.”
“Well, that might be true.” Reno studied the outfit—a pink miniskirt and sequined midriff-tied top—again. “But involuntary clothes-o-cide would be wrong. Very wrong. And if I buy that stuff for you, your mother will kill me.”
“Nuh-uh. Mom lets me wear this stuff all the time.”
“Oh yeah?” Reno arched his brow.
“Sure.” Kayla gulped, fingering the fitting room curtain as she dreamed up a few details. “She lets me eat Ding Dongs, too. Packs and packs of Ding Dongs. With Diet Coke and Starbucks.”
Reno grinned. “Your mom won’t even let me have Ding Dongs, Diet Coke, and Starbucks at your house.”
“Mmmm. You have to be special like me, I guess.”
“I guess.” With a waggle of his fingers, Reno shooed his niece toward the fitting room again. Kayla was a die-hard charmer, but he knew better than to take the bait. “Hurry up. We can hit one more store before lunch.”
“And then can we go look at the puppies at the pet store?”
“Yes, we can go look at the puppies.” Reno needed to find out which kind she liked most anyway. Angela had clued him in that “a cute puppy” was tops on Kayla’s Christmas wish list this year. “But you can’t take one home today.”
“That’s okay. I can wait for Santa to bring me one.”
With evident confidence in Santa’s puppy-finding abilities, Kayla disappeared. The fitting room curtain fluttered as she changed clothes, jabbering loudly (to be heard above the store’s Christmas music) about Polly Pocket dolls and their accessories. For a girl who wanted to look like a four-foot burlesque dancer, Kayla had very girlish interests. Thank God.
She stuck out her head from behind the curtain. “What if we can’t find anything at another store? At school tomorrow—”
“I promise we’ll find something good.”
“But Madison and Olivia said—”
“Forget what Madison and Olivia said. They’re just mean girls with nothing better to do than pick on people.”
“No, they’re not! They’re my friends!”
Looking at his niece’s outraged expression and wobbly chin, Reno remembered that Kayla was almost as loyal as he was. Of course she didn’t want him badmouthing Madison and Olivia. Which was probably why he felt, all of a sudden, as if he were the one who’d broken poor Kayla’s heart at school Friday, not her lame-ass clique of backstabbing first-grade prima donnas.
They voted me off our lunch table, Kayla had sobbed to him on Saturday when he’d arrived at Angela’s house. I had to eat all alone. They said the tribe had spoken!
Damn reality TV. It was showing people new ways to be buttheads to each other. Even when those people were only six.
Kayla seemed to believe that if she looked different, those same snotty little girls would magically want to be her friends again. Reno had his doubts. He couldn’t help voicing them.
“Real friends make you feel happy to be around them.”
Emerging from the fitting room, his niece jutted her chin as she pulled on her parka and mittens. “I’ll feel ecstatic if I get these new clothes.”
“Nice vocabulary.” No doubt he had his brainiac sister—a teacher, like Nate—to thank for that. Reno handed over Kayla’s scarf and hat. “And what you’ll feel is cold. It’s twenty-two degrees outside. Way too cold for miniskirts and skimpy tops.”
Kayla rolled her eyes. “Fashion has no temperature.”
Oh man. He was never going to survive her teen years. “Come on. We’re going down the street to the sweatshirts-and-baggy-jeans-for-little-girls store.” He held out his gloved hand.
Kayla took it, making his heart melt a little. He just couldn’t help it. Despite his tough talk, Reno was a pushover when it came to his niece. There were no two ways about it.
“There’s no store like that!” Laughing, she smacked him. “But I think you might need to go to the girlfriend store…”
Stretching her suggestion into six or seven extra syllables, Kayla waggled her eyebrows—an elaborate (and obvious signal) that she was done waiting for the new aunt she wanted.
“All I want for Christmas is a new girlfriend, huh?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Kayla nodded. “But she’s got to be a good one.”
“Of course.” Leading his niece by the hand, Reno headed through the holiday-bedecked store outside to the street. The municipal system for broadcasting Christmas carols hadn’t been turned on yet, but it was only a matter of days now. “I’ll be sure to put perfect girlfriend on my wish list for Santa.”
He laughed as they turned the corner. If only it were that easy. Even if the jolly big man were real, when fulfilling an outrageous wish like that—perfect girlfriend—there would definitely be a catch.
Okay. This was ridiculous.
After umpteen attempts to reach Alayna, Rachel still couldn’t get through. Fisting her phone, she fought traffic to Malibu, feeling with every mile as though she were inching farther away from her dream life, rather than toward it.
She still couldn’t believe Alayna had reacted this way.
Weren’t all of her songs about woman power? About seizing the moment and making yourself heard (albeit with a good booty shake)? Her biggest hit from last year had been entitled, “You’ll Be Sorry (Boy),” a blistering tirade against an imaginary cheating boyfriend. This was pretty hypocritical.
At first, Rachel hadn’t even wanted to call Alayna back. Or to return any of the other client messages on her voice mail. Frankly, she’d wanted to bask in her betrayed-girl’s triumph for a while. But then reality had snapped her back into play.
Of course she had to make amends with Alayna, Rachel had realized. Her whole livelihood depended on it.
Too bad she couldn’t reach her now.
Impatiently, Rachel punched her speed dial again.
Suddenly cell phone numero uno went dark. So did her other ringing phone. Puzzled, she braked for a logjam and tried again.
Nada. She couldn’t get a signal. Couldn’t fire up a response from her BlackBerry either. That was weird.
Well, she was getting pretty close to Malibu anyway. In a few minutes, she’d be at Alayna’s door. She could work her client-saving mojo in person as well as she could on the phone. Probably better. Heck, Rachel Porter was a legend in L.A. Hadn’t they practically said as much on TV today?
Concentrating on traffic, Rachel felt both overheated and impossibly stuck. Roughly, she dragged off the lightweight scarf she’d put on, then grabbed the sunscreen she kept in her Tesla’s console. She rubbed the lotion on her arms, squinting left toward the December sun sparkling off the Pacific.
A car slowed beside her, “Jingle Bells” blasting from its stereo. Perking up her ears, Rachel turned in her roadster’s seat, suddenly alert to the holiday sights and sounds all around her. Another nearby driver enjoyed “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Two cars ahead, someone had decorated their SUV with a gigantic red bow, a naughty-or-nice bumper sticker, and a Santa antenna topper. It was tacky, but u
ndeniably cute.
She sighed, then resolutely faced frontward again.
Clearly, the stress was getting to her. Because going all mushy over a stupid holiday wouldn’t help her now—but arriving at Alayna’s might. Determinedly, Rachel zoomed a few miles farther, then veered up to the gate. Ordinarily, it swung open immediately. But today nothing happened.
She leaned out to hit the buzzer.
Nada. She pressed it again. Again again again.
“Go away, Rachel.” Tyson’s beleaguered voice came over the intercom. “Alayna doesn’t want to talk to you. You’re through.”
Incensed, Rachel leaned on the horn.
“Real mature, Rach.” Tyson sighed. “Quit stalking us.”
Incredulous, Rachel swiveled her gaze directly at the security camera affixed near the gate. “Stalking you? I’d have to care about you to stalk you!” From nowhere, a sob bubbled up. Staunchly, she tamped it down. “This is business. I have to—”
“Not anymore it’s not.” A buzzer sounded. “Security.”
From nowhere, three guards emerged. They surrounded her car, wearing scary dark sunglasses and forbidding expressions.
She’d seen these guys in action against particularly aggressive paparazzi. She didn’t want to be on their bad side.
“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Rachel tried to appear as normal as she could while privately freaking out. This was much worse than Alayna’s usual moodiness. “This is all just a misunderstanding.”
“Please step out of the car, ma’am.”
“‘Ma’am?’ Reggie, it’s me. Rachel Porter.” With a forced chuckle, she took off her sunglasses. “See? Alayna and I are—”
“Just get out of the car, ma’am.”
Okay. Fine. Shaking with a combination of disbelief, anger, and carbohydrate overload (she really shouldn’t have indulged in so much celebratory popcorn at Mimi’s), Rachel opened the door.
The moment she stepped onto the pavement, two of the security guards descended on her roadster. They opened both doors and searched the vehicle. The third guard—the one who reeked of authority and belligerence—kept watch on her.
Well, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered hostility. Obviously, Mr. Grim Face had never witnessed Rachel during a dress fitting for a client whose “miracle diet” had backfired. These three were seriously underestimating her.
“Listen, Biggie,” she said (because that was actually his name), “if you’ll just tell me what you’re looking for—”
A series of clothing items—things she’d pulled for her clients—hit the pavement. Next came Rachel’s sunscreen, her empty Peppermint Mocha Ice Blended cup (okay, so she wasn’t actually foolproof on the idiotic forced Christmas boycott), and her iPod, all dumped on the driveway in a crazy pileup. Then…
“Nooo! Not my Hermès!”
Ignobly, her favorite bag thudded to the ground. At the same time, Reggie pocketed both her cell phones. The other guard confiscated her BlackBerry. Then Reggie tossed her Tesla’s keys to Biggie. He caught them…then frisked her.
Rachel was still sputtering when he released her.
“You’re free to go, ma’am.” He nodded to the street.
“Without my car? Reggie! This is ridiculous.”
“We’re under orders to impound Ms. Panagakos’s car.”
Oh. Great. “I know Alayna paid for it, but it was a gift. We bought matching cars together! I—” Rachel sighed, staring from one impassive face to another. She stalked to her Hermès, then lovingly picked it up. “You people are animals.”
Biggie crossed his arms. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Yeah? That’s nice. I’d like to do mine, too.” Rachel nodded at her cell phones. “So could I have my phones back, please?”
“Sorry. We have orders to keep those, too, ma’am.”
“What? That’s outrageous!” Without those cell phones, she literally could not work. Everything in her life was in those cell phones—all her business contacts, all her sources….
Utterly panicked now, Rachel put her hands on her hips. This time, Alayna was going too far.
“You cannot keep those phones. They’re mine. I—” I paid for them, she was about to say, when she realized the truth. She hadn’t paid for them—at least not for the latest must-have upgrade. Alayna had. Just like Alayna had paid for her car. Her currently repossessed car. “I’ve got to have them!”
Something tiny and red blinked in her peripheral vision. The security camera. Alayna and Tyson were probably watching every minute of this! Ashamed and furious, Rachel retrieved her iPod and the designer clothing from the driveway. Then she slung her bag over her shoulder with as much gravitas as possible.
“When Alayna comes to her senses, tell her I’ll be at home, waiting for her apology.” Rachel held out her hand. “You can keep the car”—for now, she added under her breath, still unable to believe the depths of Alayna’s childish temper tantrum—“but I’ll need my house keys. They’re on that ring.”
For an instant, Reggie looked troubled. “No, you won’t.”
“What do you mean? I’ve got to go home. I have other clients to call, things to do. I’m an important person.”
The security guards exchanged pained looks.
“I have to get inside my house,” Rachel insisted.
She waited. The ocean roared in the distance. Traffic continued to whiz by on the PCH, just as though this were an ordinary Sunday afternoon. The security guards frowned.
“Do yourself a favor,” Biggie said. “Just leave.”
Rachel gawked at them. They stared back, stone-faced.
“Fine.” She could hire a locksmith. She could walk home and crawl through a window. Whatever. She didn’t go to the gym five times a week for nothing. “You’ll be sorry for this.”
To her left, the intercom crackled.
“That’s what you told us!” Alayna said.
“And look who’s sorry now!” Tyson added.
Peals of laughter came over the staticky line.
Unbelievable. They were just…so…mean.
Fighting back tears, Rachel shouldered her bag. She stomped down the driveway with her sandals clacking.
It was going to be okay, she reminded herself. She could handle this. After a day or two, things would blow over. It was impossible that life as she knew it was over, just like that.
She sucked in a huge, quavering gulp of air, then hobbled along the gravel beside the highway. All she had to do was get home. Regroup. Maybe cry a little in private.
A few unsteady and windblown minutes later, the roof of her beach house came into view, partially obscured by Alayna’s ostentatious landscaping, but promising a haven all the same.
Rachel nearly bawled with relief.
Her eyes burned and her feet hurt, but Alayna and Tyson hadn’t broken her. Everything she loved was still here, just a few steps away. Her amazing clothes—gifts from designers who’d hoped she’d use their garments for her clients. Her jewelry and handbags and shoes. Her CDs and photos and artwork.
She’d worked hard to accumulate all those things. Whenever Rachel wondered if all the effort, all the hassle, all the on-call hours were worth it, they were there to remind her it was.
Only now, she saw as she powered up the walk, every last item she loved was piled in boxes on the front walkway.
Stunned, she stared. Then she raced to the door.
The knob refused to turn. Irrationally, she pounded on the door. Stubbornly, she twisted the knob again, but it was no use.
Alayna and Tyson really had beaten her, it turned out.
And from where Rachel sat as she sank beside her boxes of carelessly packed belongings, it looked as if life as she knew it—life as she loved it and needed it—really was over with, too.
What on earth was she supposed to do now?
Chapter Seven
Wielding a pair of high-powered binoculars, Reno squinted across the snowy street through the window of
his spare-bedroom-turned-workout-room. He spotted his neighbor and frowned. “That bastard is hiring a professional Christmas decorating service.”
From the weight bench, his dad offered a careless grunt.
“He’s hiring a decorating service, and he’s trying to hide it!” Reno nudged aside a curtain that had partly obscured his view. He examined the scene more closely. “The side of the van says RIGHTY TIDY CARPET CLEANING, but I’m not falling for it.”
Another grunt from the weight bench.
“I should have known. Hal does something like this every year.” Reno shook his head. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let him win the Bronze Extension Cord by cheating.”
Another grunt, then a snort of disbelief. “The Bronze Extension Cord?” his dad asked in a breathless voice.
“It’s the prize for the neighborhood holiday lights contest. It’s new this year, to amp up the competition. You’ll be seeing it firsthand as soon as I win it.”
“Humph. We’ll see. You always were a little overconfident.”
Sure. And that “overconfidence” had sent him straight to the NFL. Tightening his mouth, Reno scanned the redbrick colonial across the street again. He was a man who knew how to get things done. But he couldn’t stand shortcuts. Or cheating.
Behind him, Tom Wright clanked a couple of weight plates together. “Hey, I’m all done with crunches. Come spot me.”
“Just a sec. The ‘carpet cleaners’ are going in the back of the van. I think they’re about to pull something out—oh shit.”
Hastily, Reno jerked backward. He yanked the curtain in place over the window. When he turned, his dad was poised on his new weight bench, giving him a puzzled look.
“It’s Mrs. Kowalczyk.” Reno frowned. “Again.”
“So?”
“So I’m late shoveling everyone’s driveways this year. It was one thing when I was thirteen and that was my part-time job. But now I’m thirty-two. It gets harder every year to keep up.”
A shrug. “Can’t blame ’em for trying to keep a good thing going. You and your assistants kept this block looking good.” As a kid, Reno had enlisted several pint-size employees for his fledgling lawn maintenance and snow-shoveling businesses. “Sometimes I wish our condo maintenance was that effective.”
