The only fly in the ointment this morning was Mr. Bainbridge, who crashed our meeting of the math-loving minds demanding to know if I’d tracked down his mother’s ring yet. I explained that nothing had turned up in my review of his soon-to-be ex-wife’s expenses for the past year, no payments for storage units or safe deposit boxes. I even investigated the possibility of her having an account of that type under her maiden name, or her daughter’s name, or her sister’s name (the one who’s still speaking to her, not her fake-boobed niece’s mother) – all to no avail. There’s really not much more I can do short of strip searching the woman or tossing the high-rise apartment she’s currently residing in. Of course, I didn’t say this to Bainbridge, because I didn’t want to give him any ideas. He was not happy, even after I attempted to placate him by saying that I would check every NorCal branch of every bank Mrs. B has ever done business with. Why not, right? He’ll be billed for every minute I spend on this futile ring hunt.
My cell phone rings as I’m leaving the underground parking lot and trying to merge into midday traffic on California Street. Keeping my eyes on the road so that I don’t veer over into the cable car tracks, I pull my phone from the side pocket of my purse and hold it in front of me. The display screen reads “Willa.” Might as well talk to her for a few minutes while I’m making my way back to the office.
I hit the speakerphone button and drop the phone in my lap. “Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“The Tobin Twin Effect strikes again!” Willa has this crazy theory that we’re leading parallel lives because of our DNA. So, if something good happens to one of us (professionally, romantically, financially, etcetera), then something similarly wonderful will happen to the other, and the same holds true for bad fortune. I call it “coincidence.” She thinks it’s some cosmic twin connection.
“How so?”
“You just went to a fancy party after getting an unexpected invite. Now, I’ll be doing the same.”
“Did Tommy score a pair of tickets to the Slacker Soirée?” I snark.
“That’s not nice. Tommy isn’t a slacker. At least he isn’t anymore. His line of accessories made from recycled products is doing really well. He’s getting new orders for Green Gear every day!”
I hang a right on to Front Street. “Yeah, Tommy’s new business ventures always go well at first, then he loses interest, or Mercury goes into retrograde, or he gets distracted by a new boyfriend.”
“That might have been true in the past, but Tommy’s changed! He’s hot and heavy with this underwear model named Manuel right now, and–”
“FYI, I’m pulling into the parking structure on Mission, which means your window of opportunity to tell me about your fancy party is closing quickly.” That’s as good an excuse as any to cut the conversation about Tommy’s love life short.
“Right, sorry. Okay, CliffsNotes version of what happened. Brody’s done with Lovey’s roses, which look so much better. He gave me this amazing, thoughtful, adorable, polka-dotted present. We almost kissed. We talked about why he took a step back after our lunch. He showed me this pros and cons list he made that strongly favored him giving us a shot. It was so sweet, Sloane! He said I was charming and funny and had legs like Gisele Bündchen. Actually, he thinks my legs are better than Gisele’s! Can you believe that? And he asked me to attend a charity event at the Berkeley Rose Garden with him tonight. This will be our first official date, although technically it’s our second. I’m elated, ecstatic, on cloud nine, can’t stop smiling, have been dancing around the apartment for the last half-hour; Cicero thinks I’ve lost it.” Willa finally stops to take a breath.
“You had a busy morning,” I succinctly sum up her babbling narrative as I exit my car and lock all the doors with my electronic key. Normally, I park closer to work, but I’m starving (not surprising since I skipped breakfast and haven’t had lunch yet) and I’ve got a hankering for a spicy pork taco with kimchi, which I know I can get from one of the food trucks parked in the alleyway a block up.
“Brody is such a great guy. I think this could work, Sloane. I really do.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it will.” I’m barely paying attention to what Willa’s saying because I just checked my watch and realized I only have ten minutes until all the food trucks call it a day and drive off. Dammit, why do they consider lunch over at two o’clock? Some of us have busy schedules that force us to eat late! I pick up the pace, my heels drumming a frenetic tune on the sidewalk.
“You’re happy for me, right? I know you had your concerns about Brody still being hung up on his ex-wife, but he assured me that he isn’t, and I believe him.” Willa also believes that wishes you make on stars come true, mermaids exist (She swears she saw two of them frolicking in the bay when we were on a boat going to Alcatraz for a field trip in the fourth grade.), and reincarnation is a real thing because she recalled being an opera singer in a previous life while under hypnosis (funny that she’s tone deaf in her current incarnation).
“If you’re happy, I’m happy.” What else can I say at this point? Willa’s clearly gone on this guy, so any more words of warning from me will just fall on deaf ears. I’ve done what a good sister should, and she’ll have to sink or swim in the choppy waters of love on her own now. Who knows? Maybe Brody will turn out to be worthy of her. At least he’s well-educated, has a job, and is capable of making a long-term commitment to a woman. That’s more than I can say for . . . I quickly crunch the numbers in my head . . . ninety-three percent of Willa’s previous boyfriends.
“Thank you! I can’t wait for tonight! It’s going to be so much fun. Are you ready for this? The theme of the gala is A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Do you have to dress up like a fairy?” That was Willa’s go-to costume three Halloweens running when we were kids. She loved wearing those damn wings and sprinkling pretend fairy dust on people.
“I wish! I still haven’t decided what to wear tonight. I’ve got my–”
“Hold on. I’ve got to do some maneuvering.” I’m in the alleyway now, and my senses are being assaulted with a cacophony of smells and sounds. The most predominant of the former is the strong, spicy aroma of curry, which is what the food truck in the first spot specializes in. Hugging the wall, I work my way around the crowd of people waiting to order the Indian food. My foot lands in something squishy in front of the next truck, where fifty different varieties of cupcakes are being served, and I look down to see pink frosting oozing out from beneath the toe of my black ankle strap pump. YUCK I try to scrape it off on the concrete, but that just gets the gooey stuff inside my shoe. Man, this spicy pork and kimchi better be worth it! I get in line at the taco truck, switch off the speaker on my iPhone, and bring the device up to my ear.
“I’m back . . . with a frosting-covered foot.”
“Food Truck Alley?”
“Yep.”
“Frosting’s better than vomit, right?”
I smirk. “You really can find the positive in any situation, can’t you?”
“I try. How about my strapless dress with the floral watercolor print for tonight?”
“A floral print at a party in a rose garden? Too on the nose. What else have you got?”
“The sleeveless violet dress, with the floral lace overlay and the ribbon tie around the waist.”
“Much better. More sophisticated, and you’re still doing the flower thing, but in a subtler way.” Moving forward to the window of the food truck, I hold up two fingers and call out, “Pork tacos, with extra kimchi.” I feel like living on the gastronomical edge today and I’ve got some Tums in my desk drawer if I need them.
“That’s probably not even real pork,” I hear Willa mutter.
“Don’t start.” I hand the aproned man in the window a five-dollar bill and accept the white to-go bag that’s already got a grease stain seeping through it – yum! Readjusting the strap of my laptop case so that it’s in a more comfortable position on my shoulder, I head back out to Mission Street.
“What do you think about butterflies?” my sister asks.
“I wouldn’t eat them,” I say, believing the topic is still food.
“I should hope not! Ewwwww. I meant to wear in my hair at the party. A few months ago, I saw these beautiful hair clips with silk butterflies on them at a street fair. They’re made by this local woman named Maureen who claimed the butterfly as her spirit animal after going through a painful divorce. The butterfly symbolizes personal transformation and profound evolution of the soul.”
“If this Maureen has to sell trinkets on the street in order to make ends meet, she must have gotten screwed in her divorce. She should forget the spirit animal and get herself another lawyer, or maybe a voodoo doll that looks like her ex. Jabbing some pins into its crotch every day would probably give her more satisfaction than communing with insects.”
“Spoken like a wolverine.”
“A what now?” My stomach rumbles, reminding me that it’s empty. Thanks, stomach, I know. You’re hungry and you’re getting impatient. Just a few more blocks, then you’ll be the recipient of all the meaty, garlicky goodness in this bag.
“A wolverine. That’s your spirit animal, because they’re tough, and fearless, and they never give up or let anyone mess with them.”
“That sounds like an accurate representation of my character, not that I put any stock in this silly spirit animal thing.” Wow, the aroma wafting up from this to-go bag is so amazing; it’s making me salivate. I want to open up the bag, shove my face inside, and devour these tacos like I’m a pig at a trough. Only one more block to go . . .
“Of course not,” Willa humors my skepticism. “So, butterfly clips in my hair – yay or nay? I think they’ll complement the violet dress since they’re purple and blue.”
“Yay, just don’t overdo it. You don’t want to look like you’re being swarmed by the things.”
“Good advice. So, I’ll use six clips, instead of ten. Brody’s going to love this! He’s a big fan of butterflies. He even planted special flowers in his garden to attract them. Oh! I just had a great idea!”
“You’re going to get a butterfly tattoo?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say, but what a fantastic idea! Temporary tattoos! I could do a few glittery stars, or what about a Tinker Bell tatt? That would be fun!”
“Tinker Bell tatts are only appropriate if you’re five and attending a Disney-themed birthday party. No!”
“All right,” she concedes, “but you’re not talking me out of using some shimmery body powder. It’ll make me look magical in the moonlight.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say as I pull open one of the big glass doors that allow access to my office building.
“Okay, I’m going to make a checklist for tonight: violet dress; butterfly hair clips – I think I’ve decided to wear my hair in some kind of messy updo; shimmery body powder – the silver, not the gold . . . Oh, I forgot to tell you what my great, not-tattoo idea was–”
Having reached the midway point in the atrium, it occurs to me that I might be leaving a trail of pink frosting behind, so I stop and look over my shoulder. Fortunately, there’s no frosting in my wake, probably because it’s all on the inside of my shoe, gooshing around under the sole of my foot. I’ll have to take a trip to the ladies’ room to remedy that when I get upstairs. I smile at Leon as I pass by the security desk on my way to the elevators. He points to my bag, and I mouth the word, “Tacos,” which earns me a thumbs up from the big guy, who shares my love of street food. I consider offering him one of my spicy pork tacos, but decide I’m too damn hungry to share.
“ . . . I think Brody would enjoy the whole experience, and it’ll be a great opportunity for him to spend some quality time with both you and Gav. I really want the two of you to get to know him better.”
I have no clue what Willa’s nattering on about. Does she want the four of us to go out to dinner together or something? I punch the button with the UP arrow at the elevator bank.
“Sorry, I missed the first part of that. What experience are you talking about?”
“PhenomeCon! I want to invite Brody to go with us. We can all sit in the front row for Gav’s panel and help out with his signing afterwards. It’ll be so much fun!”
Crap, I forgot that PhenomeCon was coming up. Gav makes an appearance there every summer and there’s usually a big turnout for his events because the New Frisco series is so popular. Willa always shows up to support Gav, but I usually find an excuse not to go, or I cut out early, because I find the experience to be torturous. The crowds full of people dressed up as slutty aliens or Doctor Who, a character who apparently has the worst taste in accessories ever (striped scarves, fezzes, and bow ties – really?), sleep-inducing panels that address topics such as Kirk & Spock – Just Friends or Something More?, and overpriced food that tastes like the cardboard it’s served in.
“What’s the date for Gav’s panel again?” Why isn’t there an elevator here already? Come on! I think my stomach is going to start eating itself in a minute and I need to get back to my desk. Impatiently, I stab the UP button a few more times.
“Two weeks from Saturday, on the twelfth, and don’t even think about telling me you’re too busy with work and can’t go.”
“I wasn’t,” I assert, which is a lie because I totally was. The elevator finally arrives, so I step in and hit the 9 button on the panel. “But now that you mention it, Blythe Summers’ trial will be starting a few days beforehand and I’m sure I’ll have--”
“Nope, nuh-uh, forget about it. There are no excuses that will get you out of this.”
“What if I’m abducted by little green men?” I query jokingly. “Or contract typhoid fever?”
“Considering the questionable food you ingest, typhoid fever isn’t outside the realm of possibility. Should that happen, I will still expect you to bring your sweaty, rash-covered self to the Moscone Center on the twelfth.”
I’m always amused when Willa remembers she’s the older sister (by six minutes) and tries to get bossy with me. It’s cute, like a little girl playing mommy and telling her dolls what to do. Okay, I can’t stand it anymore. The smell of these tacos is driving me to distraction and making my stomach growl again. I’ve got to take one teensy bite to tide me over until I get to the office. Pulling a pork and veggie-filled tortilla out of the bag, I sink my teeth into its soft flour shell. The flavors that engulf my taste buds are so amazing I almost groan with pleasure. I don’t care what Willa says; street tacos are the food of the gods.
“Typhoid fever can be contagious,” I mumble, my mouth now stuffed with a second, even larger bite. “Would you really want to run the risk of me infecting thousands of innocent nerds?”
“Since this illness is entirely fictional, I think they’ll be fine. Now what about me inviting Brody to PhenomeCon? Are you okay with that?”
Reaching my stop on the ninth floor, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. I walk out into the reception area and am shocked to find it packed with pretty much everyone who works in my department. I see the backs of several heads I recognize, higher-ups like Nina Lewis, as well as underlings like Parker (YIKES I never noticed how badly his hair is thinning on the crown. He’s going to be in the market for a toupée by the time he’s thirty.) What’s even weirder than all these folks being gathered in one place in the middle of the day is that they’re all holding flutes filled with champagne. Something big must be going on. Oh, man, I wonder if all the rumors about a merger with the Sedgwick Group that were floating around a few months ago were true.
“Gotta go,” I whisper covertly into my cell phone, then hang up on Willa.
Chapter 23
(Sloane)
Everyone’s facing forward, toward the reception desk, but there are too many heads blocking my view, so I can’t figure out what they’re all so focused on. Hoping to attain a better vantage point, I do the sideways shuffle, trying to move around the edge of the crowd. Unfortunately, I don’t make it more than a
couple of feet before getting blocked by two broad-shouldered execs from another floor. I smile up at one of them and he readjusts the angle of his body so that there’s enough space between him and his colleague for me to have a partially unobstructed view of the reception desk, where I can see our boss, Mr. McAllister, standing, with champagne glass in hand. His other arm is draped over the shoulders of that insufferable fruit of his loins, Monica. Is it my imagination, or is she even more orange than the last time I saw her? She must be doubling up on her spray tan sessions to get ready for her “vacay” to Ibiza. I bet if someone turned off the lights, she’d glow in the dark. What is she doing here anyway? Is it Bring Your Vapid Offspring to Work Day?
Oh, God, terrible thought – what if McAllister is announcing that Princess Ombre is going to be working here at ATM? Not that she’s qualified to hold any kind of a real position at a top-tier accounting firm, but “Daddy” might have offered her an internship while she’s going to grad school. UGH If I have to deal with that insipid girl on a daily basis . . .
“Since we’re a family here at Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister, I wanted to share some exciting news with you,” my boss projects his voice across the reception area. “This remarkable young lady, who I’m proud to call ‘my daughter,’ graduated from SFSU with a degree in business administration earlier this month.”
There’s a light smattering of applause for this not-very-impressive accomplishment, which I don’t contribute to because I’m busy taking a surreptitious bite of the taco that I never put back in the bag. YUM! It even tastes good when it’s not warm.
“But that’s not the only big thing to happen in Monica’s life recently. She also got engaged!” With a self-satisfied smile, the bride-to-be flashes the rock on her left hand, which elicits a few appreciative gasps from the women in the group.
Twin Piques Page 23