Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  “A subpoena?” I mouth the words to Josh. That’s the only thing I can think of that would need to be delivered into the hands of the person it was addressed to.

  Josh shrugs. “Let’s find out.”

  The only person sitting in the waiting area is a tall, dapper-looking gent who’s decked out in full butler gear, with tailcoat and white gloves. When he sees us, he immediately rises to his feet, clasps his hands behind his back, and bows. This is very surreal. I feel like I’ve wandered on to the set of Downton Abbey, a show I am not a fan of by the way. Willa forced me to sit through a couple episodes of the first season with her, but I got so mad over the whole entailment storyline that I had to stop watching. Eldest daughter Lady Mary couldn’t inherit the family home because she had the misfortune to be born a girl, so it had to go to some distant male cousin (who didn’t even care about the property!) instead? What kind of bogus, misogynistic b.s. is that?

  “I’m Josh Finley, and this is my associate, Sloane Tobin. We were told you had something for us.”

  “Indeed. I bring you greetings from Mr. J.B. Stanfield.” And the butler has a British accent. That must be a requirement of the position. A butler with a southern drawl or the nasally voice of a New Yorker wouldn’t sound half as posh.

  “You are both cordially invited to attend the centennial celebration of the opening of the first Stanfield Hotel. The gala will be held in the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, starting at 7:00 P.M., on the 20th of June.” He hands us beautiful ecru-colored envelopes. Ms. Sloane Marie Tobin is handwritten in script on the outside of mine.

  I open the envelope and slide out the invitation, a fancy number with a gold foil deckled edge. I only read so far as “J.B. Stanfield & Family request the pleasure of your company at–” when I hear Josh R.S.V.P.ing for both of us.

  “Ms. Tobin and I would be delighted to attend. Please tell Mr. Stanfield how much we appreciate the invite.”

  Okay, so I guess he’s made an executive decision about us going. Would have been nice if he consulted me first. It’s not like my every waking moment for the next few weeks isn’t already filled with work on the Summers and Bainbridge cases. How am I supposed to kick up my heels at some gala when I have all of that hanging over my head? Of course, there will probably be a lot of movers and shakers at this event, all of the powerful men and women who run big companies in the Bay Area like J.B. Stanfield does, so it will be an excellent networking opportunity for a highly motivated, goal-oriented person such as myself. Who knows how many future ATM clients I might connect with there?

  “Yes, we’re really looking forward to it. Thanks so much for bringing these by.” I hold the invitation up.

  “An honor, madam, sir.” The butler bestows another courtly bow upon us and takes his leave.

  “Something like that doesn’t happen every day,” Josh says.

  “Hmmm?” I’m reading the rest of the invitation and not really paying attention to him.

  “Us getting asked to a swanky party thrown by one of our clients – that’s a big deal, Sloane.”

  “I guess . . . Oh, shit! Did you see that this is a theme party?” I shove the expensive linen paper in his face. “We have to come dressed in evening clothes from the time period when the hotel opened. I have no clue what women were wearing in 1914.”

  “Uh, those big hoop skirts?”

  I shake my head. “You’re fifty years early. I need to call my sister. She’ll know.” Taking off at a brisk clip, I head for the conference room where I left my cell phone and meeting notes. Although Willa’s retro wardrobe is inspired by the ‘50s and ‘60s, I’m sure she’s learned something about early twentieth century fashion, hairstyles, etcetera from watching all those period dramas on PBS. Hopefully, she knows of a shop in town that carries vintage costumes. If not, she can probably make me something since she’s pretty talented with a sewing machine, but will she have time? The party’s just a little over a week away. Thanks for the short notice, Mr. Stanfield!

  * * *

  I’m still fretting about the Stanfield Hotel gala when I pull up to my house just as the sun is sinking in the sky. Unlike me, Willa’s very gung ho about Project Turn Sloane Into Great-Great-Great Grandma Alice. She said she would research everything, make me a historically accurate gown, and even do my hair, but that doesn’t mean I can relax. I have to keep an eye on my sister or there’s no telling what kind of frou-frou dress I might end up with. She already struck terror in my heart by mentioning lace overlays and silk flowers, both of which I immediately vetoed, along with the use of any shade of pink (her favorite color – gag!).

  “Uh oh, Code Red. Someone’s about to have a stress implosion.” I run into Gav at the curb where he’s just dragged my garbage for pick-up tomorrow. This is a chivalrous tradition for the men in the Shaw family. Gav’s father took care of this unpleasant chore for my mom every Tuesday and Thursday throughout my childhood, and he continued to do the same for me once I became the lady of the house. It was actually here by my trash can, back on a crisp December morning, when I passed Henry on the way to my car and noticed there was something wrong with him. The left side of his face was drooping, and he slurred my name when he said it. I immediately called 911 and got him to sit down on the sidewalk where I held his hand and tried to say calming things until the ambulance arrived four minutes and thirty-two seconds later. (Yes, I timed it!) On the trip to the hospital, I railed against God (praying’s never been my style), telling him that he might have deprived me of a father, but I would be damned if I let him do the same thing to Gav. Fortunately, God cut us all a break that day. Henry’s still with us and now Gav schleps my trash out to the street twice a week, because he says he owes me for saving his father’s life. I don’t know if that’s true, but I won’t disabuse him of the notion as long as it’s getting me free labor.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him.

  “Really?” He squints at me. “Because I’ve never seen the eye twitch, scowl, and pulsating forehead vein all in play at once. It’s like the tension trifecta.”

  I hadn’t realized the muscle under my right eye was spasming. Lovely. That only happens when I’m really sleep-deprived or under a crazy amount of pressure. Shoving my glasses up on my head, I press my fingers to the area under my eye socket. “I’ve got a lot going on at work right now.” Major understatement – how things play out with the Summers and Bainbridge cases could make or break my career.

  Gav frowns. “I hope you didn’t let Thea get to you this morning. The two of you always did know how to push each other’s buttons.”

  Dammit. I told Willa not to mention me seeing Thea to Gav. What is wrong with her?

  “I can handle Thea,” I say, with a snort of disdain.

  He eyes me skeptically. “So, you both played . . . nicely today?”

  “Well, I did . . .,” I slide my glasses back down on my nose, “. . . but she was being her usual bitchy, condescending self. ‘Sloane, you look confused. Is it because you don’t know how to do your job? I’ll just pretend like your hot supervisor is my go-to person here at ATM and make some feeble attempts to flirt with him in front of you.’”

  “Good thing you didn’t let her get under your skin.” Gav smirks.

  “It’s not funny!” I chastise him. “You know that fake-nosed she-devil is the bane of my existence. I thought I’d never have to see her again after the two of you broke up, but now she’s insinuated herself into my workplace during a crucial time when I’m trying to impress the clients, as well as the higher-ups at my firm. I swear, if she screws this up for me–”

  “She won’t.” Gav starts rubbing my shoulder, which is bunched up somewhere by my ear. “Do you want me to talk to her? Tell her to take it easy–”

  “Absolutely not! Don’t even think about calling her, Gav. No texts, singing telegrams, or carrier pigeons with notes either. I mean it. This is my problem, not yours. I don’t want you getting drawn back into her sticky web of oppression. Promise me.” The thought of him bein
g in touch with Thea again makes me queasy. I do not want to be responsible for Gavea (Thevin?), Part 2: Return of the Horror.

  “Okay, okay. It was just an idea. You know I only want to help, right?”

  He’s still massaging my stiff shoulder and it feels really good, like all the stress and strain that’s knotting up my body, is being absorbed by his strong fingers. Gav can be so sweet sometimes, which makes me feel a little guilty about forgetting that his birthday is a week from Friday, the same day as the Stanfield Hotel gala. It was Willa who reminded me when we spoke earlier. She and I are supposed to be taking the birthday boy out for a celebratory dinner on the 20th. Willa already made reservations at Gav’s fave Italian restaurant, Perbacco’s, because he has dreams about the gnocchi there. The three of us always spend our birthdays together, going all the way back to the epic, circus-themed bash Gav’s parents threw for his ninth. I sprained my wrist that day because the birthday boy dared me to go on the trapeze. As I had no control of my long limbs back then, I grabbed the fly bar wrong and fell. (Thank heaven for safety nets!) Blaming himself for my pain and suffering, Gav insisted on becoming my right hand, literally, for the next few weeks, writing out my homework assignments and doing all my chores. Like I said, sweet.

  “I know. Thanks.” I squeeze his forearm gratefully. “Ummmm . . .” I stare into his goldish-brown eyes, trying to think of a good way to break the news about the change in his birthday plans, when it occurs to me that I might not have to because my loose-lipped sister probably saved me the trouble. “When you and Willa were having your little gossip sesh earlier, did she happen to mention this business thing I have next Friday?”

  “You have a conflict with my birthday?” Gav drops his hand, looking like I kicked his puppy.

  Okay, so she didn’t tell him. Crap. The one time in my life Willa’s penchant for blabbing might have helped me, she keeps her mouth shut.

  “Yeah, one of my clients, in fact my biggest client, invited me to attend his hotel’s anniversary celebration. It’s not just any old anniversary either; it’s the Stanfield’s hundredth, so they’re making a huge deal out of the event. I have to wear a period costume and I’ll probably be forced to dance the Turkey Trot and drink Gin Fizzes all night. Trust me, I’d rather be sinking my teeth into some truffle crusted short rib, along with you and Willa, but–”

  “It’s business. I get it.” He gives me a half-hearted smile and a shrug to let me know there are no hard feelings. “You can make it up to me by having someone film you doing that Turkey Trot, though.” He proceeds to do a little jig around me, flapping his arms like wings while making gobbling noises.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “That is soooo not happening.”

  Gav stops his silly dance. “Come on, I’m sure you can get your lovah, Josh, to do it. He’ll be your date to this shindig, right?”

  “No! I mean, he’ll be there, of course, but so will other people from our office, including one of the ATM partners. So, it’ll be all-business for Josh and me; we’ll be representing the firm, keeping a valued client happy, and hopefully, making some good connections that will put more money in the ATM coffers. Thank you for understanding how important this is. It stinks I have to cancel on you, but I’ll treat you to dinner another night. We can go wherever you want, just the two of us.”

  “Just the two of us? No Willa to chaperone?” He gasps and places his hand over his mouth, pretending to be shocked.

  “Your virtue, or what little is left of it, will be safe with me,” I assure him.

  “I make no such promises.” Gav reaches out a hand and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, looking so serious that I wonder for a second if he’s just issued a statement of intent. Before I have time to contemplate the possibility, he cracks a playful smile, letting me know that he’s just teasing. How could I have thought otherwise? My mind must be playing tricks on me because of the fatigue, which reminds me – I need to get started on all the work I brought home or I’ll be up half the night again.

  Smiling back at him, I say, “As much as I’d love to stand out here by this funky-smelling garbage and chat with you all evening, this work . . .,” I lift my laptop case, “. . . isn’t going to do itself. I should get going.”

  “Sure. Just one more thing.” Gav runs the hand that was just touching my face through his tousled hair. I notice there are some splatters of black ink on his fingers. He must have left his drafting table in the middle of his own work to came over and haul my trash out. Once again, sweet. “I’m a little concerned about Willa spending all this time with Brody . . .”

  My brow knits with confusion. “Brody? Who’s Brody? Do you mean the flower guy? If she’s been spending time with him, it’s only because I told her she had to oversee the work on Lovey’s rose bushes.”

  “Yeah, but she’s been over here almost every day this past week, and she and Brody have been going to the park to walk their dogs together a lot.”

  “He has a dog?!” Now I’m on high alert. The quickest way to Willa’s heart has always been through an animal.

  “Yeah, a golden retriever. Brody seems like a nice enough guy, but he’s going through a divorce–”

  “Great. So, she’s setting herself up to be his post-split rebound girl.” I sigh with exasperation. Willa really is the worst when it comes to picking guys. They’re invariably users (see that French jackass she married) or emotionally unavailable (selfish, secretive, unreliable, commitment phobic – you name the relationship red flag; she’s dated it).

  “Well, I hope not, but you know how she is – so kindhearted and quick to get attached. I just don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “Me neither.” Plus, I don’t have time to nurse Willa through another broken heart. It takes her weeks, sometimes months, to get over these losers, and she wants me to hold her hand through the whole process, which always involves copious amounts of tears, a torturous rehashing of every moment of the defunct relationship, and watching hours of Too Cute reruns on Animal Planet. My focus really needs to be on my work right now, not my sister and her romantic blunders. I would be doing us both a service if I just nipped this thing with Brody in the bud (insert groan for bad flower pun).

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call her as soon as I get inside. I’m sure I can work one of my sisterly warnings into the conversation.” I didn’t need sleep tonight anyway, right?

  Chapter 16

  (Willa)

  I’ve got three different bolts of fabric spread out on one of the cutting tables in Britex, a fabulous four-story establishment in Union Square that houses the city’s most extensive array of textiles. Charmeuse, chiffon, crepe, brocade, linen – you name the fabric, it’s here, in a variety of vivid colors and prints that are a veritable feast for the eyes. This store is nirvana for those of us who love to sew, and I have happily spent many hours in this place, strolling up and down the aisles, reverently touching the fabrics, imagining what I might be able to transform them into. But I’ve got a specific mission today. I need to find the right textiles for the period dress I’m going to make for Sloane. I already did my research into the fashion of the era and printed up some pictures of evening gowns circa 1914 that I thought my sister would like. (Pinterest was very helpful in this regard. Love that site!)

  After careful consideration of Britex’s stock, I’ve narrowed my options for the gown’s skirt down to this trio of gorgeous textiles – a salmon-colored silk, a cobalt blue satin, and a voided velvet in amethyst. I think Sloane would look stunning in any of these; it’s just a matter of deciding which will have the most impact. If I was going to be the one wearing this frock, I’d choose the salmon silk without hesitation, because it’s very feminine and elegant and it would contrast nicely with my dark hair. But Sloane and I very rarely agree on matters of fashion and I just don’t know–

  “I’m feeling sarongs this summer.”

  I turn toward my roomie’s voice and see him standing at the top of the table with
his arms full of fabric bolts. Most of them look to be cotton, which means he dragged them from the second floor down here to the first.

  “Sarongs?” All Tommy knows about sewing is what he’s seen on Project Runway, so I guess I’ll be making these for him.

  “What better way to draw attention to my amazing abs at all the pool parties I’ll be getting invited to, right?”

  “I’m sure you’d look great in a sarong.”

  “Well, of course, I would,” he says, with a wink. “The question is: Which of these fabrics would make the most to-die-for sarong?” He plops all of his textiles down on top of mine. “I’m digging this abstract design with the browns, blacks, and creams, because it looks like an animal print, but is it too boring? You know how I feel about neutrals . . . major snooze. Maybe I should go with something brighter, like this double diamond print in all these different shades of blue.”

  “This purple swirl is fun, too,” I comment, pulling some fabric off the bolt so that I can get a better look at the pattern. “It’s kind of hypnotizing if you stare at it for a while.”

  Inclining his shorn head so that his face is hovering just a few inches above the fabric, Tommy gazes at its circular design without blinking for a good thirty seconds. “Ohmigod, you’re right! It totally does! Maybe I can put the whammy on all the oiled-up, swim brief-wearing hotties if I strut around in this.” Picking up the fabric, he unfurls a couple of yards from the bolt, then wraps the cotton around his waist. “Whaddya think? Is it me?” he wonders.

  “I like it–”

  “But you can’t really tell if the color works with my skin. I should take off my shirt so you can get the full, by-the-pool effect with my naked bod up against the fabric.” He grabs the hem of his tight v-neck tee and is about to pull it up when . . .

  “Whoa!” I place my hand on his. “You can’t do a strip show here in the middle of Britex. You’ll get us thrown out.” We’re already getting the side eye from a pair of gray-haired ladies who are passing by with shopping baskets filled to the brim with an assortment of sewing accessories. “That ribbon with the daisies is darling! Great choice!” I say perkily, giving them the thumbs up. They ignore me and scurry away, probably because they’re afraid my roommate might try to remove another item of clothing.