If the Shoe Fits

by E. J. Noyes

  After another quick mental trawl, I decided my only option was to snap the heel from the second shoe and hope for the best. A choked, sighing grunt escaped my mouth. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”

  The woman took her time looking me up and down. “What size are you? Shoes,” she amended quickly.

  “Eight.”

  She exhaled. “Great, me too.” The woman slipped out of her two-inch black satin heels and pushed them closer with stocking-clad toes. “Here.”

  “I can’t wear your shoes, ” I spluttered. Wearing a stranger’s shoes was way too weird and more than a little gross. Still looking down, I noticed her toenails were a delicate shade of pink to match her fingernails. The color was quite pretty and at another time I might have commented on how nice it was.

  The woman bent daintily at the knees and scooped up my heels, hooking her fingers in the backs to let them hang. The broken heel dangled mockingly. “Sure you can, unless you want to appear in court barefoot or hobbling. No athlete’s foot, I swear. I’ve got flats under my desk, so it’s all good.” She was already walking away, backward again. Obviously she wasn’t the type to learn from experience. “Just return those when you’re done…Cinderella.”

  I glanced down at the shoes she’d discarded by my feet, then back to her. No choice really. “Where do you work?”

  “Third floor. Office directly in front of the elevator. Ask for Brooke.” With that she slipped into the elevator, waving at me with my own shoes.

  I stared at her until the elevator doors closed, then snapped into action, slipped into the borrowed heels and rushed out of the building. I’d never been late to court, and I wasn’t about to sully my record because of a ditzy latte-lover who couldn’t watch where she was going.

  * * *

  Midafternoon, after finishing with court and holding a post-appearance victory meeting with my client, Elise No-Longer-Using-Her-Now-Ex-Husband’s-Surname-of-Harris, I made my way to the third floor to return the admittedly very comfortable borrowed shoes. The office directly in front of the elevators appeared to be a property development firm by the name of Donnelly & Donnelly. The receptionist looked up expectantly at me when I stopped in front of the chest-high counter, resting my hands lightly on the surface.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Brooke.”

  “Of course, and who may I say is asking for her?”

  Shit, she didn’t even know my name. I flashed a sheepish grin. “Cinderella.”

  To her credit, the receptionist gave no indication that she was bothered by my cryptic response. She rose from behind the desk, professional smile fixed in place. “Of course, one moment please, and I’ll see where she is.”

  I glanced around while she wandered off to find the rightful owner of my current footwear. Behind the reception area, the office was a modernly appointed open plan with offices or conference rooms around the outside. I quickly counted nine doors, three of them open to give me a view of the occupants all working hard, or pretending to.

  After thirty seconds the receptionist returned, gesturing that I should follow her. Walking across the plush carpet I had a strange and irrational thought that the employees were all staring at me, like strangers weren’t a common occurrence here. As I stepped into the large corner office, Brooke rose from behind a glass and steel desk that sat at a right angle to a white drafting table and came around to meet me. The door closed behind me with a soft click.

  In my annoyance this morning, I hadn’t noticed much aside from her painted toenails, but now she stood before me I took a moment to study her. She wore a dark gray pencil skirt showing off the kind of legs that suggested she was a runner. A long-sleeved pale green blouse complemented her coloring, which was lighter in hair and eyes than me, and whereas I was olive-skinned thanks to Mom’s genes, Brooke was darkly tanned. Apparently she spent time in the sun—the faint highlights in her slightly wavy, shoulder-length cinnamon-brown hair certainly seemed natural. That or she had a very skilled stylist.

  Her ears stuck out ever so slightly, but it suited her, and for a moment I was reminded of an actress, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on which one. The pretty face with well-balanced features became even prettier when she smiled at me. It was an attractive smile, warm and genuine and any residual annoyance I’d had about the circumstances of our meeting melted away. She offered her hand. “I suppose I should introduce myself properly instead of with a tackle. I’m Brooke Donnelly.”

  I took the outstretched hand, smiling at her joke. “Jana Fleischer.”

  Brooke held my hand for a fraction longer than necessary, but instead of feeling like a power play, it felt a little like reluctance to let go. “It’s a pleasure to meet you for real.”

  “Likewise.” I gestured to the sign on the wall above the receptionist’s desk, visible through the glass that made up two of the four walls of Brooke’s office. How on earth did she stand working in a fishbowl like this? “So, which Donnelly are you?”

  “The second one. Number one Donnelly is my father.” Her eyebrows knitted together for a moment before her face took on an altogether neutral expression.

  “Ah, so you’re in the family business.”

  “Something like that,” she said airily before she made a quick subject change. “How did your case go this morning?”

  “It went very well,” I said and glanced down at my feet. “I think your comfortable shoes really helped.” Very well was an understatement. Financially, the other party had come to the table and I’d secured a custody arrangement that worked in my client’s, and her children’s, best interests. Tonight would definitely be a Jana Celebrates night.

  She laughed softly. “I’m pleased to hear it. Feel free to borrow them any time.”

  “I might take you up on that whenever I’m not sure if the judgment is going to go my way and I need a little boost.”

  Brooke stepped back until she was leaning against her desk, hands curled casually over the edge. Her gaze was measured, almost shrewd. “I get the feeling you don’t have many days of uncertainty, Jana.”

  “What gives you that impression?”

  “Just a hunch,” she said, smiling secretively.

  Suddenly embarrassed, I brushed my palm over the back of my neck. “It’s just the image you know, ball-busting divorce attorney and all that.”

  “Ah, well from the brief glimpse I had this morning, the image works.” The edge of her mouth quirked again.

  Unsure as to how to answer in a way that wasn’t too personal or egotistical for a woman I’d just met, I chose to say nothing and acknowledged her with a tilt of my head. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments and as I looked at her, I remembered my reason for being there and bent down to remove her shoes. When I started to slip out of the heels, Brooke held out a hand to stop me. “Keep them and bring them back tomorrow. You’ve got nothing to wear home.”

  God I was single-minded sometimes. I nodded, conceding far more easily than I had earlier when she told me to wear her shoes. “All right, thank you. I swear, I’m not usually this scatterbrained.”

  Brooke’s smile grew warm, her eyes creased at the edges. “It’s fine. I’d imagine losing your shoes threw you off balance for the whole day.” She pushed off her desk and stepped closer.

  I laughed. “Literally and figuratively.”

  We’d begun to move toward the door of her office, a natural sort of progression as the conversation wound down. I took some time to study the various degrees and awards lined up on her walls, along with a few paintings, one of which made me pause. A small shack nestled among sand dunes with a dark stormy sky swirling around it, whipping up waves. Here and there, shafts of light broke through to illuminate the house. The vibe of the painting was dark and foreboding but the shack felt like a warm, safe place. I glanced back at her. “This is fabulous. Who’s the artist?”

  “I am.” Brooke seemed shy about the admission. “I don’t just draw real buildings.”

  “Wow. You have some se
rious talent.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly. As soon as she’d said it, that discomfort seemed to come over her again and her expression changed to intense but not obnoxious scrutiny of me. “You work up on the fifth floor, right?”

  I faltered before answering, “Yes, how’d you know?”

  Brooke tapped her temple with a forefinger. “I have excellent powers of deduction.”

  “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

  She raised her thumb. “This morning you said you were due in court, so I’d already figured you for an attorney, but you confirmed it for me.” A forefinger joined the thumb. “There’s only two law firms in this building.” Finally, a third finger extended. “The Kendrick, Weston and Fleischer I’ve seen next to the number five in the lobby since I started here eight years ago gives you away.”

  I raised both hands in surrender. “You got me. Sure you’re not a detective?”

  She laughed again, this time low and with a touch of glee. “Unfortunately not. I only ask because I sent your heel to be repaired. I’m sorry but the only place I could find that had a good reputation for taking care of Ferragamos won’t have it done until early next week. I’ll bring it up to you when it’s repaired.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you. You didn’t need to do that.” I’d planned on either throwing them in the back of the closet until I could find the motivation to look for a repair place. Or failing that, I’d just buy a new pair.

  “Sure I did. As you so clearly told me, I broke it, remember?” There was a teasing sparkle in her brown eyes.

  I couldn’t help grimacing. “I’m so sorry, I’m kind of a monster before court appearances. Excitement and nerves and laser-sharp focus and all that. I didn’t mean to be a bitch about it.”

  Brooke shrugged. “Sure you did but it’s fine, really. I totally get it.”

  Great, now she thought I was a bitch. For some reason I couldn’t figure out, I didn’t want her to think that of me. “How about I buy you a coffee one morning to make up for the bitchiness? Regular nonfat latte with an extra shot, right?”

  Brooke paused, her mouth slightly open before she said, “Well that’s a little creepy.”

  I felt the tips of my ears grow warm, and hastened to explain, “I saw your cup as I was flailing. And besides, I’ll still need to return your shoes.”

  “And I yours, so we’re even on that front. But I never turn down coffee, so I accept.”

  After a quick mental trawl through my schedule, I suggested, “I have an early meeting tomorrow, could we do Thursday?”

  “Sure. What time suits you?”

  “How’s eight a.m. downstairs?”

  “Sounds great.” She reached around me to open her office door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Jana. I have a team meeting starting soon and I need to get a few things organized.” Brooke stepped aside and held out her arm as though she was going to escort me through to the elevators.

  “Of course. I can see myself out. I’ll see you Thursday morning.”

  This smile was warm and genuine. “I look forward to it.”

  A Jana Celebrates night really wasn’t as exciting as it sounded. I made sure to leave the office at a reasonable hour and without any work in my briefcase, then opened a nice bottle the moment I’d shed my coat and laptop, and left my shoes, or rather her shoes, by the door instead of in the closet. Twenty minutes into my bubble bath with a glass of red for company, I called for dinner and after another fifteen minutes reluctantly dragged myself from the bath to put on some clothes, lest I give the delivery driver an extra tip that was not monetary.

  While I ate pizza, I checked my two online dating profiles. Exciting, right? There were a few nudges, a couple of unimaginative probing messages, and one message that was both articulate and charming. Dare I hope? I checked the guy’s page. Six-foot-one, African American, an interesting and chiseled face. Shirtless pics—oh my. Yes. Scrolling down I checked interests. Similar to mine. That’s a yes. Corporate accountant. Yes. Kids, none. Pets, two cats and a tank full of goldfish. Cute. Non-smoker and social drinker. My fingers almost cramped with the speed of my response to his private message.

  I’d finished half the pizza, left the rest in the fridge to eat cold tomorrow, and cut myself off after three glasses of red when my laptop sounded an email alert. Message from KittyLover78. Okay, so he was hot as hell, loved animals, had a good job and ticked a lot of other boxes but his username left a lot to be desired. Either he really loved his cats, or he really loved…women. Either way, what did I have to lose? Accept instant messaging request?

  Yes.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday morning I drove into the underground parking garage just before quarter to eight. As usual, the prick with the racing green Porsche 911 sporting the tag R1CH1E had parked just over the line of my allocated space. Every single goddamned day. I backed in slightly crooked, hoping that one day he’d scrape his hundred-thousand-dollar vanity wagon on my not-even-a-year-old Mercedes. Giving him a lesson in parking etiquette would be worth the annoyance of having to take my car to the body shop. This was my latest tactic. Ranging from passive-aggressive to scathing, I’d left multiple notes on his windshield about his parking ability, all to no avail. Next step—tire slashing.

  After a quick stop in my office to dump laptop, briefcase, and coat, I took the elevator down to the lobby to meet Brooke for our coffee date. No, God no it was not a date. Where the hell did that come from? Meeting. No, not a meeting, too formal and she wasn’t a client. Meet up? Yes, that fit.

  The moment I exited the elevator I spotted Brooke reading a newspaper by one of the coffee shop’s glass walls. An honest-to-goodness newspaper. Who did that nowadays, with tablets and phones available to give twenty-four-seven news? I stopped beside her elbow. “You look like a spy, hiding behind that paper and secretly watching all the comings and goings.” Suddenly it hit me. A spy, of course! Brooke was a dead ringer for the actress Jennifer Garner.

  Brooke lowered the paper. “Well clearly I’m not a very good one because I didn’t see or hear you coming.” She folded the newspaper carefully and tucked it under her arm.

  I tilted my head to see what she was reading. The Washington Post’s Express. “I can be very quiet and sneaky. When I want to be, which isn’t often,” I clarified.

  Brooke grinned. “I’m sure you can.” She tipped her head toward the door on her right. “Ready for coffee?”

  “Always.” As we made our way through the open glass doors, I realized an easiness had settled over me the moment I’d walked up to her, almost like we were already friends. I’d always considered myself a good judge of character, and Brooke had made me feel comfortable almost from the get-go—if you excluded our introduction—so I decided to roll with my gut feeling.

  As usual, the coffee shop taking up an entire front quarter of the lobby bustled with patrons seated at tables with their morning caffeine fix, making calls and reading from tablets or books. Brooke and I lined up, standing silently but with no awkwardness. When we reached the front of the line I gestured that she should order, so I could finish deciding. Sabine called me a coffee disloyalist, because unlike most people who rarely changed their order, my coffee preference changed frequently and sometimes I didn’t even know what I wanted and made other people choose for me. After quick internal musing, I decided it was a day for a nonfat caramel latte.

  The cashier smiled widely at me, and even wider at Brooke. “Take a seat, ladies and we’ll bring those over.”

  Brooke set her paper on the edge of the table so that the Weekend Pass section, detailing the shows and concerts and exhibits on for the coming weekend, was visible. I indicated the folded paper. “You looking for something to do this weekend?”

  “Oh, no…not really. Just trying to appear like I’m into the arts scene.” The smirk made it clear she was kidding.

  “Ha! I saw that artwork on your office wall, I think you can safely say you’re into the scene. What other sorts of things are you into
aside from painting?”

  “Team sports, being outside, disliking my job, other forms of creating art.”

  The disliking her job quip made me smile, until I recalled her general discomfort and adeptness at redirecting when I’d asked her about work. So I chose to steer clear. “Other forms of art like what?”

  “Mostly I do small sculptures in metal, uh…knickknacks someone once called them. Also scrap material sculpture when I’m inspired and have time to go to the junkyards to ferret out bigger pieces. And if I’m in the mood I work with clay or paint.”

  “Wow. That’s a really wide range. Not that I know much about art,” I hastened to clarify. Then I pointed out the obvious, because that’s what I did. “You don’t really seem the type to be doing, uh…dirty kind of art things like that. You’re too elegant,” I added. “If you’ll excuse my bluntness.”

  “Your bluntness is excused.” Brooke smiled again as she gestured to her outfit—black, loose-leg pants paired with a pale-blue long balloon-sleeve blouse. “This is just my disguise. The moment I go home it’s usually straight into coveralls and welding masks, or old clay-and-paint-spattered clothing. Making art is just a secret hobby, really.” Her voice lowered, became almost sensual. “I do it for relaxation, pleasure, a sense of accomplishment. All those good things.”

  I swallowed, aware of the slow turn of my stomach, an unconscious and unwilling response to her tone. My question came out a little hoarsely. “So you have a studio, or something?”

  “Mhmm, I have a room in the house I use as a studio when I’m painting, plus a workshop shed in my backyard that’s big enough to hold all my equipment and whatever I’m working on that’s loud and messy.” She leaned in. “The neighbors only complain every few weeks but I keep them sweet by baking cookies and mowing their lawns.”

  “A backyard? As in you live in a house?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Yes? Is that weird?”