Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  She wolfed down another handful of fries. “You don’t understand. Andrew and I hardly speak anymore. I’m disappointed in him, he’s disappointed in me. Both of us are just so frustrated.”

  “But you can work it out,” I urged. “They say the first year of marriage is the hardest.”

  “Who says that? People who get divorced?”

  “Look. You love him, right?”

  “Regrettably, yes.” She glared out the plate glass window at the litter-strewn parking lot.

  “And he loves you, too,” I said firmly.

  “Gee, all our problems are magically solved! Woo-hoo! It’s a miracle!” She rolled her eyes. “Will you come with me to meet this attorney or not?”

  Rather than answer this question, I chose to employ the Socratic method. Of avoidance. “Have you told Andrew about all this?”

  “Of course not.” She crammed the rest of her burger into her mouth.

  “’Cause I don’t think he’s going to go for it.”

  “No kidding.”

  “And doesn’t he have some legal rights to his own children?”

  “Don’t worry about his rights. We’re just going to get some information about mine. Are you with me or not?”

  20

  Connor called on Monday evening, just as I was preparing to call him so that I could: a., determine if he and I were still dating and/or sleeping together and/or ever speaking to each other again; and b., beg him to rehire me at Rhapsody.

  I’d faxed over some new sketches to Fiona that afternoon and, judging by her response, I might have been a wee bit hasty in quitting the hostessing gig.

  “Yawn,” she’d said, flipping through the pages.

  I’d tried not to panic. “Did you see the denim skirt with the Swarovski crystals on the back pocket?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “Tepid, at best.”

  “Well, what about the halter top with the keyhole neckline?

  She sniffed. “Blah.”

  I tried to view this as constructive criticism. “Well, what about the miniskirt with the kitschy fifties poodle motif? You have to admit, that’s pretty—”

  “Insipid? Yes, it is.”

  “You didn’t like any of them?”

  “Do I sound happy to you? Honestly, Becca, I’m disappointed. I really don’t feel you’re giving us your best.”

  So much for constructive criticism.

  “Hello?” she snapped. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here. I’m just—”

  “Suck it up, darling. If you’re going to survive in this business, you’re going to have to learn to deal with negative feedback. Now. Are these the only sketches I’m going to get from you this week?”

  What would Betsey Johnson do in this situation? Would she cry and whine and crawl into bed with a carton of Ben & Jerry’s? No. She’d get right back in the game—that’s why she was the queen of clamdiggers. “Give me a few days to come up with something else.”

  She clicked her tongue. “I’ve got to tell you, we’re not having these problems with any of our other designers.”

  I hung my head. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry’s not going to help me, now is it?” Her impatience was palpable. “Go ahead and make up the patterns for these pieces this week—”

  “The tepid, blah, and insipid pieces?”

  “I have to show the rest of Team Rachelle something, don’t I?”

  “But—”

  “And I don’t have time to constantly be covering for your mistakes. If this truly is your best work, then maybe you should think about bowing out. Before we have to, you know…”

  I knew. I also knew that I’d had given her every piece I had that could be easily standardized for mass production. Plus the couture corset.

  No doubt about it, I was doomed. And the worst part was, I had only my own hubris to blame.

  So by the time Connor called, I was in full panic mode.

  “How are you doing?” he asked when I answered the phone.

  “Hanging onto the edge of sanity with one raggedy fingernail. Listen, about the skydiving thing…”

  He started to laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t jump out of planes, okay? Never have, never will.”

  “And I’m fine with that.”

  His easy acceptance took me off guard. “Oh. Well, all right then.”

  “As long as you’re fine with the fact that I do jump out of planes.”

  I took a moment to relive the paralyzing terror I’d felt while watching him hurl himself into the void.

  “Becca?”

  “I…am…fine with that,” I said slowly.

  “Very convincing.”

  “No, I mean it. You do your thing and I’ll do mine and we’ll just be happy as two clams in saltwater.”

  My fear and frustration must have come through because he asked, “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Sort of.” I closed my eyes. “Fiona called about the latest designs I gave her and let’s just say I hope that other hostess hasn’t come back from London yet.”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It’s worse.”

  I heard glass breaking in the background and he swore under his breath.

  “Crisis at the restaurant?”

  “Kind of. Listen, let’s have dinner tomorrow and we’ll figure everything out. Skydiving, Fiona, peace in the Middle East…”

  “Sounds like more of a business dinner than a date,” I teased.

  “Yeah, but with a lot of sexual harassment.”

  I finally cracked a smile. “I look forward to it.”

  Claire started to sweat visibly before we even got through the front door of the law office.

  “Okay.” She straightened her white blouse with shaking hands and wiped at the fine sheen of moisture glistening on her forehead. “I’m ready.”

  I stopped in the middle of the courtyard, impeding the progress of attorneys and investment analysts scurrying from one sleek skyscraper to another. “You sure? Because you don’t look ready. You look like you just got caught robbing a bank.”

  “It’s hot out here, that’s all.” She continued to dab at her brow with both sleeves.

  “It’s seventy-five degrees and breezy.” I gazed up at the cerulean blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.

  “Listen, when you’re three months pregnant with twins, drowning in hormones and slogging an extra twenty pounds around, then you can tell me how and when to perspire. Until then, shut it.”

  “Spare me. You haven’t gained anywhere near twenty pounds.” Though it certainly hadn’t been for lack of trying. After years of fasting like a Tibetan monk, the nutritional floodgates had been flung wide open. The McDonald’s fries were a mere warm-up. She had developed an obsession with Cookie Crisp cereal and Pringles that bordered on the pathological. “You’re just…retaining a little water, that’s all.”

  “I’m ready. Right now.” She squared her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  The waiting area of Cole, Goodman, Pierpont & McKeever was a study in chrome and sleek black leather. The receptionist looked like a secretarial pool’s version of Uma Thurman—a blond chignon, razor sharp cheekbones, and black-rimmed spectacles.

  “May I help you?” she purred.

  I nudged Claire, who let out a barely audible squeak. I waited another long moment, then took the lead. “This is Claire King. She has an appointment with Howard Mercer.” I turned to my sister to make sure I had the correct name. “Right?”

  She nodded, still mute.

  Uma scanned her day planner, then glanced back at my sister, who was rapidly dissolving into a reservoir of sweat. “Can I get you anything, Ms. King? A glass of water perhaps?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Are you okay?” I demanded as Uma disappeared down the hall. “I don’t want to be alarmist, but if we wrung you out, we could solve the L.A. water crisis single-handedly.”

/>   “I’m just a little nervous, okay? I’m allowed to be nervous.”

  “Do you want to leave? We can turn around right now and leave, no harm, no foul.”

  She took a deep breath. “No. We came all the way out here, let’s hear what this guy has to say.”

  “Okay, but I’m not doing any of the talking in there. And I don’t want my name dragged into this when Andrew finds out and turns into something straight out of The Shining. You got that?”

  But before she could reply, Uma swept back into the reception area and handed Claire a tall glass of ice water.

  “Okay.” My sister chugged the whole glass in about twenty seconds. “Let’s do this.”

  Uma escorted us to a corner office where we were formally introduced to Howard Mercer, a.k.a. the Man with a Giant Sucking Sound Where His Soul Should Be.

  You know how on crime dramas and nightly news interviews, neighbors and coworkers of serial killers always say, “Something about him was always just a little…off. I don’t know how to explain it, but the first time we met, my skin crawled”? Well, that was Howard Mercer, Esquire. He rose up from behind a mahogany desk, an Armani-suited monolith with graying black hair and intense blue eyes, and extended his hand. “Ms. King. It’s a pleasure.”

  “It’s…I…hi.” Claire eased her hand into his, her expression that of someone waiting for the cyanide pill to take effect. I couldn’t help but stare at her belly to check for signs that the twins were rioting within.

  He turned his steely gaze on me. “And you must be…?”

  Involuntarily, I took a step back. “Becca Davis. I’m her sister.”

  “Have a seat, ladies.” He nodded at two black leather armchairs facing his desk and made a big show of helping Claire get settled.

  “Ms. King. I understand you’re interested in finding an adoptive family through one of our agencies.”

  My sister was once again reduced to wordless nodding.

  “And…” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward with the rapacious hunger of a panther. “You said on the phone you’re having twins?”

  She quit nodding and drew both knees up against her chest, an impressive feat for a woman who claimed her legs were so swollen she could barely put socks on.

  “Well, I assure you, you’ve come to the right place.” He all but licked his chops. “We can find a perfect home for your babies. You name it, we can get it for them: Ivy League-educated father, stay-at-home mother, big family reunions, world travel, private schooling, hefty trust funds. The best of everything.”

  “So she’s allowed to screen potential adoptive parents?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. And all expenses will be taken care of. Physician, hospital stay, and of course, a very, very generous allotment for, heh heh, ‘personal expenses.’ ” He started to turn back to Claire, but I wasn’t finished.

  “But isn’t that kind of shady? I mean, I’m not a lawyer by any means, but I Googled ‘adoption law in California’ last night, and it said that a lot of super-selective, big-payout adoption isn’t totally on the up-and-up. Isn’t there a specific limit to how much expense money she can get?”

  He didn’t bat an eye. “I think you must have us confused with one of the cut-rate legal firms that has to advertise on late-night cable. Would we be able to charge six hundred dollars an hour and maintain an office environment like this if we were breaking the law?”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  His smile vanished. “The legal channels are complex, shall we say, but don’t worry your pretty little head about all the technicalities. That’s my job. Once we get permission from the biological father and the documents are drawn up, I think you’ll agree the children will be much better off. Think of the children, Ms. Davis…”

  “I am, finally. And I can’t do this.” My sister braced her hands on her chair’s armrest, hoisted herself to her feet, then raced out of the room as fast as her water-retaining feet could carry her.

  “I can’t do it,” Claire sobbed when I caught up with her in the courtyard. “I just can’t. Did you see his eyes? How can I trust him with my precious little babies?”

  “I wouldn’t trust him with my e-mail address, never mind my offspring.” I dug through my purse until I found the travel pack of Kleenex I always carried with me, a habit my mother instilled in all three of us from the time we started school. You never know when you’re going to spill, slip, or sniffle, so it’s best to be prepared. That was our family. So practical. So full of foresight.

  Not.

  “And did you hear what he said about ‘personal expenses’?” She snatched five tissues at once and blotted the mascara dripping down her cheeks. “He just threw in that bullshit about stay-at-home moms and Harvard educations to make me feel better about selling my kids to the highest bidder.”

  I led her over to a shaded wrought-iron bench and sat her down. “Okay, sit down. Deep breaths.”

  “And you agree with him, don’t you?” she gasped. “You think I just wanted to find out how much money I could get?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  But she had worked herself into a red-faced frenzy. “You really, truly, in your heart of hearts, believe I am the kind of person who would rather have a big fat check than her own children?”

  “Claire. Simmer down. I do not think—”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know ‘adoption’ was this guy’s code for ‘selling infants into yuppie slavery’?”

  “You couldn’t know, okay? Nobody’s arguing with you. But…”

  “But what?” She seethed at me with puffy, mascara-smeared eyes.

  “I don’t know, maybe you could’ve thought this through a little better. I mean, how do you think your Brentwood gym buddy managed to get her hands on a newborn with no waiting lists or red tape?”

  “Well…” Her rage lapsed into bewilderment. “I just thought, you know, rich people would be considered better candidates. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because in the immortal words of Madonna, ‘I’ve made up my mind, I’m gonna keep my babies.’ ” She pointed both index fingers at me. “And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Andrew, they’ll never find your body. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not kidding, Becca. There’s a lot of uninhabited desert between here and Palm Springs. Think about it.”

  “Believe me, I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good.” She wadded the tissues into a tight little ball. “You know what all this means, of course.”

  “You’re going to have to have two more sets of twins and put together a musical act, à la the Von Trapps?”

  “Andrew and I are going to have to move back to Phoenix.”

  21

  I hear Claire’s hellbent on moving back to Arizona,” Connor remarked from across the candle-lit, linen-draped table at One Pico, a posh beachside restaurant in Santa Monica.

  “Yep.” I paused for a bite of penne. “She’ll do anything to escape Van Nuys, and you know how we Davis girls get once we set our mind to something.”

  “Boy, do I. I told Andrew he should start forwarding his mail right now. Probably just as well. He hates the PA job.”

  “They’re going out there this weekend to scout out job opportunities. And somehow my mom guilted me into coming along. So I won’t be available for any more Evel Knievel exploits until next weekend.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled up. “I take it skydiving is out?”

  “Correct. But now that you bring it up…about the skydiving?”

  He looked wary. “Do we really have to talk about this again?”

  “Yes.” I sat up a little straighter. “I’ve learned my lesson about bottling up tensions and avoiding conflict when it comes to dating.”

  “You have?”

  I nodded and pointed to my conspicuously naked left ring finger. “There’s no point in pretending a problem doesn’t exist. Trust me; my sister’s a therapis
t.”

  “If you insist. What about the skydiving?”

  “To be honest, this is about more than just skydiving. It’s about the cliff diving, the bungee jumping, the high-altitude slacklining, the base jumping—I still don’t know what that even is, by the way…”

  “You forgot street lugeing,” he added.

  “Ah, yes. The street lugeing. I mean, do you see any kind of pattern in all those activities?”

  “They’re all fun?”

  “Not quite the word I would use.”

  He rubbed his chin. “They’re all exhilarating?”

  “How about, they’re all dangerous?”

  He appeared shocked by this assessment. “They are not.”

  “They are so.”

  “No. I would agree that they’re mentally challenging and physically demanding, but that’s not the same as dangerous.”

  I leveled my gaze. “Connor. Remember that story you told Snake about breaking your collarbone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And remember that story you told me about cracking your vertebrae?”

  He shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

  “How many other broken bone stories do you have?”

  He sidestepped this question by saying, “Maybe I used to get a little crazy sometimes, but I’ve matured.”

  “I see. When did you break your collarbone?”

  “Last year. But! That was a one-in-a-million piece of bad luck.”

  I folded my hands on the table. “And so is parachute failure when you’re skydiving.”

  “What are you getting at here?”

  “I know you aren’t afraid to take risks. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

  “And you’re open to new things,” he returned. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”

  “Thank you. But sometimes, you gotta know when to scale back. You don’t have to take constant risks in every single arena of life.”

  “Yes, I do.” He furrowed his brow. “There’s no growth or opportunity without risk.”

  “Okay, but just because you take risks in business doesn’t mean you have to go out in the woods and cheat death every weekend.”

  “So you want me to treat life like a risk cafeteria? Pick and choose when to take chances?”