by Josie Brown
She nodded and dialed Barry’s number.
He picked up on the third ring. “Talk fast. I’m on my way into the office.”
Ally groaned. “But—you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon.”
“I might as well go in. It sure beats hanging around here listening to my beloved moan over the fact that he won’t be getting a Caribbean sunburn because every airport is snowed in between Denver and Charlotte.”
Brady grabbed the phone and yelled, “I warned you to choose Cancun.”
Ally pulled the phone away from him.
“Tell him he doesn’t need to rub it in,” Barry muttered.
“Instead of going into the office, why don’t you cover Zoe and Oliver for me so that I can meet my father?”
“For real?” For once, the tease went out of Barry’s voice.
“Yeah, for real.” Ally sighed. “I know you aren’t even supposed to be here. But since you are—”
“Baby, you know I’d do it, but I can’t today. Somehow Jillian’s ex-mother-in-law from hell got the court date for little Scotty’s hearing moved up to today.”
“You’re kidding!” Ally exclaimed. “I guess it’s a good thing, then, that your flight was canceled.” Jillian Frederick, who was Ally’s business partner in their retail bakery shop, Life of Pie, was fighting her deceased ex-husband’s mother for the right to raise his infant son along with their twin toddler daughters, Addison and Amelia.
“Hey, Christian isn’t going into the salon today. Maybe he can watch Zoe.” Barry must have muffled the phone with his hand. Two minutes later, he was back on the line: “Christian said he’d love to look after our little princess.”
Ally winced. “Jade and Reggie are off skiing. That being said, Prince Oliver is also part of the deal.”
Again, the hand went over the phone, but not for long. When Barry came back on the line, he was laughing. “Sure, Christian says bring them both over.”
“Yes! Thank you—I mean, him!” she exclaimed. “Hey, what were you laughing about?”
“Christian bought a couple of princess gowns for Zoe. If Oliver wants to wear one, he was wondering if Brady would mind. The kid’s hair is long enough that he could certainly pass for a little girl—”
“I think we all know the answer to that,” she hissed. “Don’t even go there. Tell Christian that if they’re playing dress-up, a towel held up by a safety pin makes a wonderful Prince Charming cape.”
Barry chuckled. “Duly noted.”
“I’ll drop them off in an hour.” She blew a kiss into the phone before hanging up.
A part of her wished Christian had said no. She had no excuse to back out now.
She wondered, What do you wear when you’re seeing your father for the first time in thirty years?
Her father used to call her his “little princess.”
She had no desire to dress up. In fact, she knew she’d wear black.
“What do you think? Should I wear this?” Jillian Frederick stood before her fiancé, Caleb Martin, arms open to display a white blouse with a long pussy bow, worn under a dark gray suit.
Caleb looked up from the hand he was wiping—Amelia’s, as it were, who had decided that making a mud pie with her oatmeal was much more fun that shoveling it into her mouth with her spoon.
Tilting his head to one side, he frowned. “Isn’t it a bit…oh, I don’t know, business-womanish?”
“Really? Is that what you think?” Jillian threw up her arms in despair. “Then, what should I wear?”
“Watch the girls for a moment.” He kissed Amelia’s hand before trekking upstairs.
Jillian could hear him rummaging around in her closet.
Finally, he reappeared with a dress in hand. “How about this one?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. I mean, it’s white, and it’s not appropriate for daytime. It’s a cocktail dress.”
“White is virginal,” Caleb countered. “Like a Madonna.”
Jillian frowned. “If we’re trying for a subliminal biblical reference, wouldn’t it be better if I wore something that wasn’t so low cut?”’
“Trust me, if the judge is male, you’ll remind him of his mother.”
“As long as I don’t remind him of his favorite cocktail waitress, I guess it will be okay.” Just in time, she jerked the dress away from Amelia’s oatmeal-coated fingers. Seeing it as a game, Addison squealed with delight. Taking a handful of oatmeal she tossed it in her mother’s direction—
Barely missing the dress too.
“Scotty and I better get out of here before a food fight breaks out,” she declared. “Now, remember, have the girls at the Moscone Community Center for the meet-up no later than ten o’clock.”
Caleb winced. “Are you sure I won’t be chased away with fire and pitchforks when I show up?”
“I’ll text Lorna and tell her to throw herself in front of any angry mobs that want to chase you down,” Jillian promised. “She’s preggers with twins. They’ll show mercy.”
“For her, not for me,” Caleb grumbled. “I hear Scotty stirring. You dress the girls and I’ll get him ready for his court appearance.”
“No stripes,” Jillian warned him. “One attempt at subliminal suggestion is enough.”
“Duly noted,” he promised.
He took the stairs two at a time and reached the fussy infant’s room in no time.
In the meantime, Jillian released her toddler daughters from their high chairs. She let them chase her into their shared bedroom, but she didn’t let them catch her because she knew the dress in her hand would cost a fortune to dry clean.
Chapter Five
The same day
10:08 a.m.
“Brady, so wonderful to see you again.” The woman—make that girl, since she had to be at least six years younger than Bettina—greeted Brady with a kiss on the cheek.
Brady chuckled. “Olivia Morris, you look as ravishing as ever.”
Ravishing? Why, with that face and bone structure, she should be walking some fashion runway, Bettina thought jealously. Is that Oscar de la Renta she’s wearing?
But of course it was. The tomato red sleeveless tweed sheath fit her like a glove.
Bettina glanced down at her own frock and frowned:
Whereas I look like a blimp in a tent.
Brady motioned to his tech team—two man-boys so unassuming that Bettina had already forgotten their names. Not a problem, since she’d already dubbed them Frick and Frack—both of whom fell over each other in their attempt to shake Olivia’s hand. Then Brady nudged Bettina forward. “I’d like you to meet my business partner, Bettina Connaught Cross. She came up with this interesting concept that has your partners, Abe McWhorter and Zeb Lerner, so interested.”
“Connaught…Cross?” The woman turned her gaze on Bettina. “That name sounds so familiar. Maybe our paths crossed at Stanford?”
“No, sorry, I’m a Wellesley girl,” Bettina demurred. Oh, hell! Don’t tell me Art burned her too! I swear, he’s my own personal Beelzebub…
Olivia shrugged. “I’m sure the connection will come to me.” She pointed in the direction of a long wide hallway. “Shall we? Abe and Zeb are waiting in my office.”
To Bettina’s mind, Olivia was quicker than any woman had a right to be while strapped into thirteen-hundred dollar four-inch Roger Vivier pearl-fringed sling-back sandals. Even in flats, Bettina’s girth had her breathing too heavy to do anything but bring up the rear.
Realizing this, Brady slowed down enough to stay at her side.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she muttered.
“Sure you can. You’ve always scared the shit out of me. Just be yourself.”
He grinned.
She stuck out her tongue.
Game on.
Zeb Lerner tapped thoughtfully on the rough-hewn Sequoia stump that served as AOZ Venture Capital’s humongous conference room table. “Let me get this straight: you think that people are so worried about having a little i
nteraction with San Francisco’s homeless population that they’d want an app to warn them when one is nearby?”
Brady tented his fingers thoughtfully in front of him. “Our guess is yes.” Leaning back in his ergonomically orgasmic conference chair, he added, “I presume you think so too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this meeting.”
Frick and Frack nodded slightly as they scribbled on the pads in front of them, but kept their mouths shut.
Zen. Be perfectly zen, Bettina warned herself. Brady’s got this.
Olivia’s laugh was as delicate as a wind chime. “Well, now that we’ve established that the homeless creep us out, sell us on your app.”
“The stats speak for themselves,” Brady assured her. “How many homeless would you guess are here in San Francisco?”
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know. Two or three thousand?”
“Around seven thousand,” Brady exclaimed.
Olivia frowned. “That’s a big number. How will we be able to identify them all?”
“Not to worry, Olivia. At present, we’re not looking to track specific homeless individuals. With approximately seven thousand, that would quickly become overwhelming,” Brady assured her. “Instead, the app will steer subscribers away from areas where those less fortunate might congregate: say, soup kitchens, missions, and SRO hotels or thrift shops that work with churches and city social services. Additionally, subscribers will be encouraged to use the app’s real-time source sharing. For example—”
Brady nodded at Frack, who tapped at his iPad. A second later, a map of the city appeared on the monitor on the far side of the conference table.
Brady used a laser pointer to highlight some of the streets around the city’s recognized center: Union Square. “Concurrently, the goal is to allow subscribers to map the best way to arrive from point A to point B, with as little contact with the homeless as possible. You’ll note that every block has been given a letter rating. Those listed as “F’s” indicate ones to steer clear of, since odds are you’ll encounter homeless who panhandle. You’ll find fewer encounters on blocks marked D or C—perhaps more sleepers than screamers—but you’ll still have some contact. And, of course, the most ideal blocks are indicated by the letter A. And just like the traffic app, Waze, our subscribers will share tips on the best routes by pinning a block—heck, even a specific doorway—with an accoster,” Brady continued.
“We’ll also allow comments and suggest a shorthand,” Bettina chimed in enthusiastically. “In fact, one of our developers has already come up with certain terms. For example, PH for panhandler. NJ for nut job—”
Brady kicked her under the table.
She winced, but didn’t scream out.
Abe chuckled. “I like it! With this app, the whole world is our oyster!”
Bettina dimpled up. “What you mean to say is that with this app, the world is our bum-free zone—if we know which path to take.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Is that what you envision calling it, ‘Bum Free Zone’?”
“It’s…a working title,” Brady assured her.
Olivia’s eyes shifted to him. “Thank goodness, because that term might be a hard-sell! It’s socially uncomfortable, to say the least.”
Bettina raised a brow. “To whom? Bleeding hearts who are still using their iPhone 4’s because they’re afraid that tossing it means more toxic tech devices in our landfills? Certainly not the product’s core target market—which, I assume, includes you and me: women who love this city, live in the city, and bemoan the fact that with each passing week it becomes less of a walkable city. We want to be able to stroll safely to the city’s wonderful restaurants, shops, museums, and theaters, the ballet, and symphony.” She smiled wickedly. “Better than a stun gun, the BFZ is the best safety app a woman can have! In fact, we’ve considered bundling it with a stun gun app—”
Brady kicked her again.
In return, she dug her heel into his ankle.
He bit his lip to keep from groaning.
“I’m sure the same could be said about any walkable metropolis: Manhattan, Chicago, London, Paris, or Rome,” Bettina added.
Olivia shrugged. “We’ll still have to work hard to head off any backlash from those who see the homeless as part of the city’s social fabric.”
Bettina rolled her eyes.
Abe winked at her.
At least he doesn’t have a stick up his ass like that Olivia person, she thought.
Brady snapped his fingers suddenly, as if a thought just occurred to him. “I just thought of a secondary market application. Simply by adding Facial Recognition software, the BFZ becomes a wonderful tool for any city’s social services department to locate its clients—ostensibly, for their own safety.”
Brady nodded again to Frack, who clicked a few more buttons.
Three glowing dots—two blue ones and one pink one—appeared on the monitor, alternatively flashing names and the photos Bettina had taken. A blue one entitled “Sneaky Pete” was making its way down Geary Street toward Glide Memorial Church. The pink dot, which flashed the name Ugly Betty, sat still on the lawn in front of San Francisco City Hall. The other blue dot, named Dirty Hairy, was across the street inside the San Francisco Library.
“Currently, we’re tracking three subjects—two men and a woman—who have chosen street life as their prerogative. Over the past four days, these subjects have been rated by the number of times they’ve panhandled, or otherwise accosted the general public. The higher the rating, the more contact.” Contritely, Brady added, “I would imagine that the city would appreciate a way to identify those who may not already be receiving social services, but are so desperate for help that they are forced to beg for it.”
Bettina rolled her eyes skyward.
“Certainly, San Francisco is a perfect test case for its municipal application. In fact, we have ties to the mayor,” Zeb piped up. “We can position it to him and his people before the launch so that they’ll get behind it too.”
Abe stood up. “Who else are you talking to?”
Brady smiled. “We’re meeting with Beidecker at two today.”
Zeb, Olivia, and Abe exchanged frowns.
Olivia turned to Brady. “We’ll call you by one. Maybe save you a trip out to Marin.”
He shrugged. “As long as it isn’t rush hour, the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t a hassle. And, let’s face it, who here wouldn’t mind running our business from a waterfront Belvedere mansion with a straight-on city view?” Brady shook Olivia’s hand.
Olivia then turned to Bettina. She gave her a hug instead.
Taken off-guard, Bettina hugged her back.
As Olivia pulled back, a funny look crossed her face. “Ah! Now I know where I’ve seen you: I applied for admission to the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club with my daughter, Jezebel.” She frowned. “We were rejected. I’d heard the club didn’t take working mothers, but I didn’t believe it was possible, what with all the discrimination laws on the books. Not to mention that sort of thinking is so outdated! My husband wanted to sue, but I talked him out of it.”
“We have working mothers in the club,” Bettina assured her coolly. “How old is your child?”
“She’ll be three next month.”
“In fact, earlier this year we expanded enrollment. By all means, you should reapply.”
Olivia smiled. “I think I will. If other mothers are as creative as you, it may be a wonderful incubator for other ventures.”
Brady laughed. “I’ll say it is! This is my fourth deal with a club member.”
Hearing that, Bettina frowned.
Still, she waited until they were safely outside AOZ’s building before punching Brady’s arm. “Oh, yeah? What other moms are you representing for deals?”
Brady shook his head. “Bettina, you know I don’t kiss and tell.”
Noting her scowl, he added, “If it’s any consolation, you’re a natural at this sort of pitch. Maybe you were meant to lord over someone other than
just mommies and toddlers.”
She shrugged. Maybe he was right.
Certainly, she could get used to this sort of life.
* * *
Also 10:08 a.m.
“I thought you looked familiar,” Caleb shouted at the only other man in the Moscone Community Center tot lot: Christian, who was making sure that Zoe and Oliver played nicely on one of the toddler see-saws—which meant making sure Oliver didn’t attempt a kamikaze dive while Zoe was hanging in mid-air.
Christian narrowed his eyes at the stranger with the two little girls. Finally, he opened his eyes wide in recognition. “You’re Jillian’s fiancé, right?” He took Caleb’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Thanks for that very thoughtful wedding gift. We can always use a gift card to Octavia.”
Caleb chuckled. “Yeah, well, Jillian said you’re a great cook, but we figured you would appreciate a night out.” As Christian swung Zoe off the seesaw, Caleb pointed toward the community center. “Aren’t you going to the PHM&T meet-up?”
Christian frowned. “Who…me? I know Ally mentioned something about having to miss it this morning, but I thought those gatherings were just for moms.”
Caleb shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t think Lorna would mind if we crashed it. In fact, Jillian texted her with a heads-up that I’d be there.”
Christian grabbed Oliver’s hand before he had a chance to throw sand in Zoe’s eyes. “Sure, okay. And I’m sure the kids would prefer it. I guess there’s safety in numbers.”
“My thought exactly,” Caleb murmured. He whistled for the girls. “This way, ladies! It’s not a party until we get there.”
The girls ran almost as fast as Oliver, but not quite.
Cupcakes. And Nespresso. Lorna came prepared to win everyone over.
She made sure she was the first one through the door, and greeted everyone by asking if her new year had started out wonderfully.
The mothers clustered by their children’s age groups, dropping their children on the long colorful mats in order to grab a cup of coffee and the bite-sized sweets for both themselves and their children. Then the mothers each took one of the chairs lined up in concentric half-moons around the table holding the refreshments. Lorna had wheeled a white board behind the table. She had just asked Sally Dunder to call the roll when Mallory growled, “What are those men doing here?”
