A Girl's Best Friend

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I walk over to him, and when I think of what he did to Lilly, I want to punch him in his clean-cut face.

  “Why do you and Kim do this?” I ask.

  “Do what?” Nate asks with a breathy laugh.

  “Emotionally zap those around you like a faulty lamp.”

  “I beg your pardon? If we’re discussing relationship issues, I don’t exactly think—”

  “No, you don’t exactly think, Nate.” I push at his chest, and he wobbles back slightly. “You two think all this drama makes you both so desirable, but you look pathetic to the outside world. You do realize that? When you kissed Lilly and came to her rescue with computers and sewing machines, you got to play the big hero, didn’t you? But look at you.”

  “Where were you, Morgan, when Lilly needed you?” His words hit like a fist. “At the Black & White Ball? Or wait, was her crisis during the start of the opera season?” He puts a finger at his chin. “I can’t remember, but I know one thing. My loft was always open to Lilly. I made a mistake when I kissed her. I told her that, but unlike you, Lilly has a forgiving soul.”

  Looking at Nate, I’m so very grateful Lilly is married and free from his many “rescues,” which only looked heroic when Lilly was drowning. I hope she sees now that he was only an anchor, pulling her down into his world—a world that appears bright and gleaming like his fancy espresso machine but is really just a façade. That’s our precious Nate, saving the world one espresso at a time.

  As I sit here judging him, though, my resolve weakens slightly and I don’t want to answer his return volley.

  “I was there for her when I knew she was in trouble.” I grab the keys again and open Lilly’s door. “But anyone can study my flaws; the newspaper makes it easy.”

  Nate gives a disgusted huff. “If Kim stops by, tell her to come over. We need to work this out.”

  “Right, because a woman who has just had her entire life thrown onto the front steps really should come back for more.” I roll my eyes, thankful my conversation with Nate is over and that I have nothing more to work out with him.

  Perhaps I haven’t been the friend of the century to Lilly, but I’ll tell you one thing, I won’t make that mistake again with my Spa Girls. In my new reality, men are going to take a backseat to those who love me. Including my own father, who loves me in the best way he knows how. Why do I say this? Because when I look at Nate and Kim, I’m embarrassed to say my life isn’t all that different from theirs. And yet I’ve been a Christian for years. Granted, I may not have slept around like Kim, but I squandered my emotions just as cheaply.

  Inside Lilly’s loft, I pick up the scraps of fabric she’s left all over the floor and I set her desk to rights. I even find a hammer and hang a picture she’s had sitting on the floor since I remember her moving in here. When I run out of “honey-do” items, I plop on the futon and waste time flipping channels, bouncing between Oprah and the cooking channel. I don’t know why I find it so fascinating to watch people cook—I’m not actually sure how to work our stove at the penthouse—but it’s one of those mundane pleasures that makes you feel so homey.

  After a few hours of useless, mind-numbing television, I gather my sweater, climb into the cowboy boots Lilly bought me, and walk the short path to Lilly’s church. I have no idea what my plan is, or why I expect anyone to be there at five p.m. on a Wednesday, but somehow my feet just keep stepping in front of each other. Perhaps it’s the cowboy boots, and like a horse near the barn, I’m finding my way to the one world I know doesn’t care who I am or what I’ve done this week.

  When I get to the warehouse building, the door is propped open with an old music stand. I hear the faint music of a guitar, but when I wander in, the music stops suddenly. Kyle Keller, the man who seems to look right through me, is now looking directly at me.

  “Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying it.”

  He doesn’t start again, just taps at the guitar and keeps his gaze on me.

  “Am I annoying you?” I ask.

  “I’m practicing,” he claims. Though it sounds eerily quiet. All right then, practice, little buddy.

  “What are you practicing for?” I ask, hopeful there’s some raucous, raging Christian party tonight to take my mind off the lawsuit and my lawyer’s abs.

  “Mid-week Bible study tonight. Do you want to join us?”

  I shrug. “Oh I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I did a formal study.” I was really hoping for more of a potluck of sorts. I rub my belly, wondering if I too will start to be as thin as Lilly living with her.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t let up on the study, you might have known your country singing star couldn’t actually play the guitar.”

  “You know who I am.”

  “I’m not oblivious to the world. Plus, I take offense to people who claim to be musicians, like your former boyfriend. Real musicians work hard at the craft.”

  “You were oblivious to me the last time I came in.”

  “Lilly made us promise we would be. She called ahead on her cell phone and made us agree. A six-foot blonde who looks like you walks into a singles group and no one pays attention? Yeah, that could happen.” He starts to laugh and begins to pluck a few chords on his guitar.

  “Lilly.” I shake my head, not feeling nearly as guilty that I didn’t go with her to Max’s house. “She told me it was my clothes.”

  “I’m glad she did it. Everyone deserves the right to be unnoticed—to fly under the radar, as it were, once in a while. I imagine it’s not easy for you.”

  “I’m only five foot eleven. Not six foot.”

  He laughs again. “Yeah, that makes a difference. So, you coming to Bible study tonight?”

  “That depends. Has everyone been warned to ignore me tonight?”

  “Hmm. Not yet. Do you want them to be warned?”

  I think about this for a while. I mean, what girl doesn’t want to be noticed? But instantly, I remember all the things I am currently known for. “Yes, I do think I’d like to be ignored again. Can you work your magic?”

  “You know, I hate to break it to you, but no one here really knows who you are. It’s the fact that you’re a six foot—excuse me, a five foot eleven—blonde and single that actually grabs our attention.”

  “You knew who I was.”

  “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

  I look at him intensely. He does look vaguely familiar, and I probably should know him, but I have no idea who he is. He’s got a subtle look to him, not someone you’d necessarily notice in a room, but most pleasant. “Should I?”

  “What kind of music pastor would I be if I told you not to stay at Bible study?”

  “Oh, you’re a pastor?”

  That didn’t come out right.

  “Don’t believe what you hear. We don’t bite. Besides, I’m a lay pastor. I work during the day as a. . . .” He pauses and sits back in his chair. “You don’t remember who I am?”

  “Should I?” I ask again.

  “I worked for your father many years back. I collected rents for him while I went to college.”

  “Oh!” I point at him, “Now I recognize you. Wait . . . don’t tell me. Kyle.”

  He smiles, “You do remember.”

  Kyle is about ten years older than me, and truthfully, I remember him from my youthful fancy. He was the one with the money. At the time, I didn’t know the checks he brought were my father’s—I just thought he was rich as Solomon, and his appearance meant more inventory for the store. But I remember him coming in each week and my father mercilessly counting the checks in front of him, eyeing him as though he’d stolen one.

  “So what do you do for a living now?” I ask, curious to know what one graduates to after working for my father and garnering his wrath when the checks weren’t exactly right.

  “I’m a CFO for a small start-up. Your father taught me to be careful to ensure you always get what’s coming to you. I suppose I learned it well from him. I’m a glorified accountant, but
I do all right. My wife says—”

  “Oh, you’re married. Not that it matters or anything; I was just surprised.”

  “Yes, I’m married with two little girls.”

  Knowing he’s married brings me some comfort, and I find a folding chair in front of him and sit down. I wonder what Kyle thinks of my situation right now, having once known my father as the untouchable boss counting checks. I wonder if he thinks it’s poetic justice for our sorry lot.

  “I’m in the news again, you know. Being sued for fraud and tax evasion.”

  “Hmm,” he nods. But he says nothing. I imagine anyone who actually worked for my father and paid attention wondered what he did with his countless funds.

  “It doesn’t surprise you.”

  “There was a time, Morgan, as a young man when I thought your father might be like Ebenezer Scrooge and see the error in his ways, pass out geese to the poor. But, you know, I ceased praying for him a lot of years ago. When you were back in the newspaper, I remembered. He’s part of the reason I became a pastor. I give out financial advice, and I’m reminded every day that money does not buy happiness.” He strums on the guitar. “Your father was never happy. Once in a while he might have been less than annoyed, but he was never happy.”

  I think about my steam shower with a small window overlooking the Bay, my lovely shoe collection, and my brand-new Beamer, and then it’s quickly overshadowed by thoughts of the lawsuits, my future stepmother, and a father in the hospital. “No, you’re right. It can sure fool you for a long while, though.”

  “Are you still looking for work?”

  “I am. How did you know?” (The shoe interview disappeared when I didn’t show up. Some people are so picky. I had a good reason!)

  “Lilly put it on our prayer list.”

  I nod. “She’s a good friend.”

  “My wife is looking for some help with the girls. It’s just part time, and I know it’s not exactly your expertise, but just to hold you over until you find something better, it might work out.”

  I swallow hard. “I don’t know anything about kids, Kyle. I don’t even remember being one myself.”

  He shrugs, “Like I said, it was just a thought.” He stands up and puts the guitar in the corner. “My wife will be there. Jenna just needs a hand.”

  “I’ll do it,” I hear myself say. Now, I have never even changed a diaper or helped a child with her homework. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I can’t explain it. I just feel the need to say yes. I knew I shouldn’t have watched those nanny reality shows. What business did I have judging anyone’s parenting skills?

  Oh, I know this is going to come back to bite me. I just know it.

  chapter 27

  I stayed for Bible study. What did I have to lose? It’s not like I had anywhere to be, and I imagine God thought I could use some fulfillment. We were in Hebrews, and I think God picked out the verse for me especially: “Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil” (5:13–14 NIV).

  Yeah, it’s that whole distinguishing thing that gets me into trouble. I’ve called Lilly and Poppy and they’re coming to get me at the church, and we’re heading to Max’s house to meet his mother. I’ve met his mother before, and she’s an interesting lady. The epitome of elegance, yet she speaks whatever is on her mind. When she lived here in San Francisco, she was voted one of the ten best-dressed women in the Nob Hill Gazette, and the one to most likely tell you the truth. I have to laugh, because she pulls it off with such flair and style, one almost looks forward to her callous speeches. Of course, one was never directed at me before. Or my best friend.

  As I’m waiting outside the church, my cell phone rings, and I have to say I’d almost forgotten I’d carried one. I seem to be on the Most Likely to Not Call list.

  “Morgan Malliard,” I say very professionally. See, I am so ready for the job market.

  “It’s George.” From the sound of his voice, I wasted my greeting. His call might be good news if he weren’t my lawyer and I wasn’t most likely sending his future children to college with my case.

  “Hi, George. Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t left the office. Listen, I have a proposition for you.”

  Okay, I’m embarrassed at how completely good that sounds to me right now. Was I not just in Bible study? Lord, the flesh is weak.

  “I’m not that kind of girl,” I say in my best coquettish voice.

  “What?” George asks, clearly confused.

  If by all accounts my mother was gifted in the realm of flirting, it’s definitely not a gift she passed on genetically. I’m shot down like a duck over a hunter-infested bog.

  “Just a little joke.”

  “Right. Listen, can we meet? There’s a lot we need to discuss, and this is going to be hard to understand.”

  Okay, not appreciating the “You’re stupid” implication. “I’m quite bright, George. Went to Stanford. I think I can handle it.”

  “No, actually, I don’t think you can, because it’s a complicated case, Morgan. The U.S. marshals don’t come after just anyone. There has to be proof and a victim. They claim both.”

  “Who is the victim?” I ask, knowing full well my father’s schemes may be elaborate, but he would never harm someone.

  “Your dad sold some property on Union Square and held the mortgage. That’s where the wire fraud comes in. The mortgage owners are the victims.”

  “Are they complaining?”

  “No, actually, they’re getting a better rate than the U.S. banks would give them, but that’s hardly relevant to mortgages being held offshore. It’s still illegal what he’s doing—and you’re doing.”

  My head is swimming. Normally, this is the point where I’d run to Bloomingdale’s and buy myself something really fabulous, but of course, my credit cards will be denied like a homely girl at the Viper Room.

  “I might have found a job,” I inject. “I have an interview tomorrow morning.”

  “Morgan, that’s fabulous. Do the people realize that you’ll be at the government’s beck and call for a while?”

  “No, but the job is part time. I imagine I’ll be able to do it and work around the trial. It’s just helping an overwhelmed mother out for a few hours a day if she likes me.”

  I wait for awhile and he says nothing. “No comment about me being a nanny?”

  “So tomorrow after your interview, can you meet?”

  “I can. Say lunchtime?” Okay, I know this is pathetic, but I am starving for some stimulating conversation and a fabulous restaurant ambience. A girl like me just can’t be expected to give up everything cold turkey. I mean, the credit cards were bad enough, but I cannot be expected to live on Ramen noodles forever. I figure George has access to my money and he’s like calling in overdraft protection.

  “We have a lot to discuss. How about if I bring something to the penthouse?” George asks.

  My excitement withers. “Can’t we even meet at the club? The health club?”

  “Morgan, I know this is hard on you, but we really can’t. Everyone will recognize you, and this is really private business. Any word that gets out, and it could be worse on you and your father.”

  “What could possibly be worse, George? I don’t have any part of my life any longer.”

  “Jail could be worse, Morgan. You’ll have your meals regularly then and they won’t be the fine dining you’re craving.”

  “Point taken.” I look down at the cowboy boots, and I have to say, I’ve gotten used to these shoes. Sure, I look like Daisy Duke or Ellie May come to San Francisco, but I’m comfortable. Precisely because for the first time in my life, no one really cares. No photographers are stalking me, as they clearly have yet to figure out where I’m staying, and I’m not attending any fabulous dinner parties to be seen. So for now, the boots work.
r />   “So I’ll see you tomorrow at noon. Your father’s place,” George says curtly.

  “George, when are my credit cards going to work again?”

  “I’m working on it, Morgan. I told you to take some cash. It may be a while before we can access any of those accounts.”

  “No, I don’t need cash. I can do this a little longer,” I say, more for myself than George. “Can you do me a simple favor, though?”

  He sighs. Clearly, his clients are usually far more savvy than me and probably less high maintenance. “What is it, Morgan?”

  “Can you get me a Starbucks card? I think I could deal with a lot if I had caffeine in my system. Lilly has this weird neighbor with an espresso machine, but that isn’t going well. I sort of gave him a piece of my mind today, and I think he’s not apt to share anymore. But if I had espresso, then I wouldn’t remember that I don’t have Bloomingdale’s or fine restaurants or even my hair highlights.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  Well, since he’s asking. “Maybe some Godiva chocolate?”

  “Would you like a butler to deliver it?”

  Now that’s not nice.”You asked if there was anything else.”

  “I’m your lawyer, Morgan, not your personal shopper. Need is generally not associated with chocolate.”

  Spoken like a true male. “I should think for what you’re charging me an hour, you’d be whatever I want you to be.” Oooh, I sound like Potipher’s wife here. I start to apologize before realizing I am spending a small fortune on defending something I didn’t even do. Technically speaking, anyway. “Besides, don’t you have a secretary or something?”

  “What, are you living in 1950? I can’t ask my secretary to go shopping for coffee and chocolate. It sounds like I’m having an affair.”

  “Then I’ll ask her. What’s her number?”

  “Fine. Those two things, but any other luxuries, including hair products, are your own responsibility.”