by M. L. Ray
Taking up a forkful of dessert, Jeff sent a questioning look down the length of the damask covered table. “You sound distracted, AJ.” And he sounded petulant, which was not his intention.
“Distracted? Not at all.” Foregoing one of their cook’s specialties for the benefit of her figure, she sipped at a glass of ice water instead. “Well, maybe just a trifle. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Ah. You must mean the Renaissance Silent Auction.”
And, as quickly and as easily as that, the conversation veered from what had been happening during his day, to hers. As it often did. Idly, Jeff wondered if it were true of every financially lopsided marriage, that the bulk of the attention would be lopsided, as well. Probably. He’d begun to grow used to it, but not accepting. Not yet. A tiny spindling of resentment had taken root, deep inside, still curled up like the leaf of a fern, awaiting developments.
The next day’s mood, and all-around character, proved to be vastly better, beginning with sunshine rather than the rain, as forecast. After a restless night, Jeff had greeted this June morning’s showy blue sky with a lighter heart and lifted spirits. Let the battles begin!
He had cleared away some of yesterday’s detritus from his desk by the time the call came in, mid-morning. Files set up and put away, clients called and reassured, seminar dates scheduled into the common calendar. He was entertaining the notion of lunch at some upscale restaurant, to celebrate a lift in spirits, when Patty buzzed him on the intercom.
“Call for you,” she cheerily announced. “Possible new client. Of all people, it’s Just Livvie.”
Livvie. Livvie. That sounded familiar, for some reason; a name that stuck in the back of his mind from somewhere…
“Just Livvie?”
“Oh, you know, Jeff. The Hat Lady.”
“Hat Lady?” He was still drawing a blank.
“Uh-huh. Haven’t you seen any of the ads in—well, no, you probably wouldn’t be reading any of the womens’ fashion magazines, would you?” Her warm chuckle came over the line. “Anyway, she got started with a line of hats—to die for, I might say. Enough to have hats make a comeback. And now, lately, she’s started branching out into handbags and shoes. Plans to eventually design her own clothing line, from what I’ve seen.”
“Just Livvie, huh? Okay, put her through.”
“Coming your way.”
“Hello, uh—Miss—uh—Livvie? This is Jefferson Quinley. How may I help you?”
The response was, amazingly, what sounded almost like a giggle. “My. So formal.”
Jeff pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked down at the mouthpiece, as if that might satisfy his curiosity. “I beg your pardon?”
Definitely a giggle, low-pitched and husky enough to raise the hairs on Jeff’s arm. “You truly don’t recognize me? I’m disappointed, Jeff. I’m deeply disappointed.”
His eyes widened on a flash of recognition. “Olivia? Olivia Bower?”
“One and the same. How are you, Jeff?”
“Well, I’ll be—I’m pretty much blown out of the water right now, I have to admit. Imagine you calling me—what, eight, nine years since—”
“Ten and a half,” she cut in smoothly. “But who’s counting? How have you been?”
“I’ve been fine, thanks. And yourself?”
For a few minutes, they exchanged the usual pleasantries of two people whose paths have crossed again unexpectedly, after some time apart, catching up on a purely perfunctory level. Finally, as the conversation slowed, Jeff asked about the reason for her call.
“As you may or may not know, Jeff, I have achieved some small fame in the fashion world.”
“I hadn’t,” he frankly admitted, “until my secretary enlightened me.”
“Yes. Well. Over the years I’ve managed to put together a respectable portfolio, managed by someone I thought was—well, whom I trusted. But with the current state of affairs, I’m beginning to question his judgment.”
Exactly what he’d been hearing for months from some of his own clients. He sighed. “Let me guess. He advised you to hold fast and do nothing for the moment.”
“No. Actually, he thinks I should sell everything I have, right now, and invest in something else.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. A rather—um—novel approach.”
“My thought, as well. So I’m looking for a second opinion.”
“A second opinion, huh? Well, I can certainly give you that. You know where my office is? Good, then let’s set up an appointment and we—tomorrow? Sure, I have an opening at—oh, you’re free at 11:00? Uh—sure, that works for me.”
After he’d ended their talk and hung up the phone, Jeff swiveled his chair around to gaze out the great scenic window, leaned back, and laced both hands together behind his head.
Well, well, well, imagine that. Little Olivia Bower, after all these years. To tell the truth, he barely remembered her. Other than his unflattering mental picture of a less-than-lovely female who had, for some reason, attracted his attention during one brief interlude in his college career. He wondered if she was still overweight, if her hair was still messy, and if her dark-rimmed glasses still tended to slip down her nose.
Thank You
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing to read my books out of the thousands that merit reading. I recognize that reading takes time and quietness, so I am grateful that you have designed your lives to allow for this enriching endeavor, whatever the book's title and subject.
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With profound gratitude, and with hope for your continued reading pleasure,
M. L. Ray
Author & Publisher