“There was this thing . . . in Canada . . .” Nikki stumbled around, looking for words to describe the fiasco that had been her most recent trip to Canada. “It was kind of a mess,” she finished lamely. “It’s where I met Mrs. Merrivel.”
“Ah,” Mr. Merrivel said, as if she really had explained everything. “Well, as long as it worked out all right in the end.”
“It did!” affirmed Nikki. She ran over the events in her mind; it had worked out . . . mostly. “I’m here, anyway,” she said with a shrug. “It was nice of Mrs. Merrivel to send you to pick me up.” A change of topic was probably for the best; he was the boss’s husband after all.
“To tell the truth,” he said, easing the car out of the airport parking garage, “I wasn’t supposed to pick you up today, but there seems to have been a bit of a dustup at the ranch over your arrival, so Mrs. M sent me to bring you round to our house while she gets it all straightened out.”
“I’m staying with you?” Nikki asked, nervous at the prospect of being Mrs. Merrivel’s houseguest. “I thought I was going to some sort of training center.”
“Well, you will eventually, I expect.” Nikki looked doubtful. “It’ll probably only be a night or two,” said Mr. Merrivel cheerfully. “And we’re perfectly good hosts, I assure you. None of our guests have died since that time in ’92.” He waggled his eyebrows comically, and Nikki couldn’t help but laugh.
“Wait,” Nikki said, catching up to the rest of Mr. Merrivel’s comment. “Dustup? Over me?” Nikki was worried that her potential job was in peril.
“Not to worry,” said Mr. Merrivel. “Just that Connie’s got a bee in her bonnet about you starting late.”
“Late? How late am I?” Nikki was confused. Mrs. Merrivel hadn’t said anything about starting late.
“A couple of weeks, I think. Not really my department, you understand. More the wife’s thingie. Connie doesn’t like to bend the rules so much, but I expect Mrs. M will get her way. She usually does, my little Miranda.”
“That was my impression of her,” agreed Nikki, trying to keep her tone diplomatic.
“She’s a bit of a bulldog,” Mr. Merrivel said, smiling fondly. Nikki thought Mrs. Merrivel was probably more of a Rottweiler in poodle’s clothing, but didn’t mention it.
They passed through smoggy Burbank, and Nikki noticed with a comforting feeling of familiarity that they were on I-5 going north. If they stayed on this little ribbon of concrete, in another seventeen hours she would be standing on her mother’s doorstep. Nikki laughed at herself a little; it was ridiculous to feel comforted by an interstate. Especially since she didn’t want to go home at all. At least, most of her didn’t. There was a little voice in the back of her head that was insisting that this entire escapade was doomed to failure. The voice sounded suspiciously like her mother’s.
Mr. M turned on the radio. He flipped channels for a while before settling on an oldies station. They caught the last half of “Last Train to Clarksville” before it ended and the DJ began to talk. After a moment of chatter, the DJ stated that they were listening to K-Earth 101 and this was the Mamas and the Papas with “California Dreamin’.”
“And the skyyy is grayyyy,” harmonized Nikki, unintentionally singing out loud. She stopped moments later, blushing, but Mr. M picked up the next line as if singing with strangers were perfectly natural.
“Say,” he said as the song ended, “we sound pretty good.”
The DJ began to talk again, and Mr. M snorted with irritation.
“Let’s see what we’ve got in the old CD player. Maybe we can find something else to sing to.” He flipped through several CDs, listening to the beginning of each before punching up the next one.
“Mr. M?” Nikki said, distractedly feeling through her own thoughts. His finger was still hovering over the Fast Forward button.
“Did you just call me Mr. M?” Mr. Merrivel asked. Nikki paused guiltily, and hesitantly she nodded. “Ha. I like it! I always call Miranda Mrs. M, but she just thinks I’m strange. What’s up?”
She smiled, relieved that her habit of shortening names hadn’t offended him.
“Well, frankly, I’m a little nervous.”
“About the job?” he asked, nodding sympathetically.
“Well, I’m not really sure what I’m expected to do. And I didn’t realize I’d be behind in the training. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to catch up, because I don’t really know what kind of training it is. And I really want this job. Well, a job anyway. And . . . I’m just nervous.” Nikki stopped herself before she devolved into a blubbering fountain of uncertainty. She hadn’t meant to spill that much; she’d meant to ask for a few useful hints about the new job, not reveal her quaking Jell-O center. Mr. M’s cheerful face wore an expression of seriousness for a moment.
“They didn’t tell you what you’d be doing?”
“Mrs. M just said she’d tell me all about it when I got here,” Nikki said.
“Hmm.” He scratched his forehead. “Well, I’m sure it will be fine.”
“What will be fine?” asked Nikki, wondering if one more time she’d gotten herself in over her head.
Mr. M shook his head as if to dismiss her question and his thoughts at the same time. “Not my place. But trust me, everything will be fine. If you want this job, it’s yours. And since you seem to be a very bright, in-shape person, I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to excel.”
His calm statement of confidence in her abilities momentarily relaxed Nikki. And then she began to worry about being “in shape.” What had he meant by that? What kind of charity foundation required people to be in shape? Her ribbon of thoughts was snipped short by the musical jangling of Mr. M’s cell phone.
“Sounds like the wife,” said Mr. M, reaching for the phone. “Hello, sweet pea!” he proclaimed. “Yes, mission complete, got her right here!” He was silent for a moment, listening.
“Hmm,” he said. “Well, yes, but I’m not sure . . .” He trailed off, listening to Mrs. M. “Nope, it’s not a problem.” He glanced at Nikki. “Yup, love you, too. Bye.”
“Everything OK?” Nikki asked.
“Just fine, but Connie’s being a stick-in-the-mud, so until Mrs. M can get all your paperwork signed off at headquarters you’ll have to stay with us.”
“How long will that take?” asked Nikki, worry lines furrowing into her forehead.
“A couple of days. A week at most. Not to worry. We’ll think of something to do. I don’t suppose you play golf?” Nikki shook her head, still worried. “Want to learn?” he asked with a cheerful grin.
CALIFORNIA II
Permanent Record
“Well, it’s very clear that a bunch of women live here,” Nikki said.
“Yes,” Connie agreed. “And in line with our company philosophy.”
The week with the Merrivels had flown by, but eventually Mrs. Merrivel announced that Nikki would be meeting Connie for a tour of the facilities on the following day at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Mr. M had gotten up early to drive her over the winding Santa Clarita roads and up to a wide plantation-style property that encompassed several acres and was surrounded by a rock wall and arching iron gates.
“The company philosophy?” Nikki was trying to ignore the alarm buzzing in her brain.
“Making the lives of women everywhere a little better!” Connie looked at Nikki as if she’d asked what color the sky was. Connie Hinton was tall and broad-shouldered with a wide, flat bottom. She reminded Nikki of a basketball player she had known in college.
“I haven’t been with the company very long,” Nikki said, by way of explanation. Connie sniffed with disapproval.
The alarm was flashing purple now. The tour really hadn’t gone as she had expected. First there had been the nondisclosure form with the clause on death and dismemberment, and then there had been the guns. Nikki was pretty sure that most charity foundations didn’t have their own gun range. Not to mention an obstacle course and scenario training ground. The compu
ter lab and the dorms had seemed reasonable. Connie had been very keen on the dorms: they all had en suite bathrooms. And now they were standing in one of the bathrooms and admiring the multiple outlets, dual sinks, marble tile, and built-in gun safe. It was a very pretty gun safe—Carrie Mae purple.
“Um,” said Nikki, sensing that she had better ask something before her brain melted. “So this, er, training center”—she wasn’t sure what else to call the place—“how does it fit in with that philosophy?”
“Ah,” said Connie, smiling as though Nikki had finally done something worthwhile. “We here at the Carrie Mae West Coast Training Facility train operatives to carry out the Carrie Mae philosophy in many ways. Whether it’s navigating the international red tape to allow women to work with Carrie Mae or through the use of more clandestine methods to ensure that they have the opportunity to live peaceful lives.”
Nikki wondered if there was a brochure somewhere that Connie had memorized, and if so, why hadn’t Nikki seen it? Mrs. Merrivel hadn’t said anything about things like this, had she? She remembered Mrs. M using the word clandestine, but at the time she had thought it meant things like bribing border guards. Now she was beginning to think it involved things that needed a gun safe.
“So the Carrie Mae charity foundation is actually some sort of SWAT team for women?” Nikki asked slowly.
“No,” Connie said icily. “We are not about police action.”
“Oh,” Nikki said, laughing with embarrassment and relief. “I thought . . . my mistake. It just sounded like you were some sort of international espionage organization. Really, I must have misunderstood. So silly of me.” She knew she was babbling.
“The Carrie Mae Foundation is also an international espionage organization,” Connie interrupted. “Our public face remains very committed to bringing help to women worldwide in the form of medicine, education, and financial assistance.”
“But your not-public face . . .” Nikki noticed that the vocabulary portion of her brain had developed an unsettling disconnect with her speech center; she had no words to wrap around her thoughts.
“The confidential side of the foundation works toward the same goals, improving the lives of women, but we use slightly different methods—different parts of the same machine. Let’s go back up to the house; Mrs. Merrivel will be waiting.”
Connie walked past Nikki, giving her no time to ask further questions. Nikki couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. She rode back to the main house with her face frozen into a polite half-smile of disbelief.
Mrs. Merrivel was waiting for them in an office with a long oval table ringed with chairs. A thick manila folder sat neatly at one end. But it was Mrs. Merrivel who commanded Nikki’s attention: she was petite, over sixty, and scary. From the moment Nikki had laid eyes on her at the Carrie Mae recruiting meeting she had found the older woman’s energy, efficiency, and perfect appearance intimidating. And a week spent living in her house had not done much to diminish that impression.
“Nikki!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrivel, coming forward to give a hug. Her beautifully tinted brown hair brushed against Nikki’s nose, and Nikki returned the gesture gingerly. She wasn’t practiced in the art of the hug as greeting. “How was your tour? I hope you found the facilities to your liking.”
“Well, yes, but . . .” said Nikki.
“But what?” Mrs. Merrivel asked, taking her seat at the head of the table.
“You’re running a spy farm in the middle of California!” Nikki exclaimed, unable to hold it in any longer.
“I know,” Mrs. Merrivel said cheerfully. “It’s great, isn’t it? So convenient to be able to do our training inside the States.”
“But . . .” said Nikki again.
“But what?” repeated Mrs. Merrivel, a single wrinkle forming between her brows.
“You’re makeup ladies! Carrie Mae sells makeup. Ding dong, I’m with Carrie Mae. Try my blusher. You’re just makeup ladies. I mean . . .” Nikki became aware of an overwhelming silence filling up the room as she spoke. Mrs. Merrivel had pursed her lips as if she smelled something distasteful. Nikki knew she should shut up, but couldn’t.
“I was at the recruiting meeting in Canada. You said the Carrie Mae Foundation helped with education and medical needs in the third world. You didn’t say anything about guns and . . .” Nikki waved her hands, trying capture in gesture what she couldn’t in words. “You didn’t say anything about spies. I think I would have remembered.”
“Well, we can’t, of course,” said Mrs. Merrivel, smiling sweetly again. “But I had hoped that by now you would have gathered that Carrie Mae is not just about makeup. And, by the way, I resent our other team members being described as ‘just makeup ladies.’ Our sales consultants provide needed income for their families and affordable, quality cosmetics for women everywhere. Our sales consultants are the backbone of Carrie Mae and the heart of America. Please do not take them for granted or belittle their status simply because they have chosen not to pursue corporate jobs.” Mrs. Merrivel’s rebuke was delivered in a quiet tone of gentle disappointment.
Nikki hung her head. “Sorry, Mrs. Merrivel,” she said meekly.
“That’s quite all right. Did you enjoy the tour of the ranch?”
“Yes, it was very nice,” said Nikki dutifully.
“I’m glad you thought so. Now what do you think about joining us?”
Nikki stared. Of all the unbelievable parts about this place this was the one that required the largest suspension of disbelief. There was no way that they could want her.
“Why me?” she asked at last, unable to think of anything better.
“Why wouldn’t we want you, Nikki?” asked Mrs. Merrivel, looking shocked.
“Well, Connie told me about the other girls, and they’re all, you know, super soldiers or whatever. I don’t think I’m . . . I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.” In response, Mrs. Merrivel flipped open the folder in front of her.
“Nikki,” she said, leafing through the pages, “I have been over your entire record. You got your bachelor’s degree in linguistics, with minors in classical literature—where you learned Italian and Latin—and physical education.”
“I took a lot of aerobics classes,” mumbled Nikki.
“And a lot of judo and martial arts classes,” Mrs. Merrivel added, flipping a few more pages. “By high school you had acquired full command of French and Spanish.”
“My father is Quebecois,” Nikki said. “We always spoke French at home.”
“Yes, I notice here in your grade-school record that you attended Catholic school in Quebec through third grade. Then you moved to Washington after your parents divorced. So you hold dual citizenship with Canada, is that correct?”
“What do you mean ‘in my grade-school record’?” asked Nikki, ignoring Mrs. M’s question. “Where did you get all that information?”
“I looked up your permanent record,” Mrs. Merrivel said, flipping a page.
“That’s a myth,” Nikki said in disbelief. “There’s no such thing as a ‘permanent record.’ That’s just something adults make up to scare kids, like the bogeyman.”
“My point is, Nikki,” Mrs. Merrivel said, ignoring Nikki’s interjection, “you hold dual citizenship, speak five languages, have a firm grounding in martial arts and a sharp mind. You’re exactly what Carrie Mae is looking for. So, what do you think?”
“I think I’m seriously reconsidering my position on the bogeyman,” Nikki said, focusing on details because she couldn’t take in the big picture. They weren’t seriously measuring her for a pair of James Bond pumps, were they? She knew very well that James Bond did not wear pumps. Spies were boys, or really hot chicks who had a more active sex life than she did.
“What do you think about working at Carrie Mae?” Mrs. Merrivel asked, ignoring Nikki’s comment.
Nikki chewed her lip. She had said she would do anything for a job, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. But her mother would have
a field day if she returned home still trailing the stench of unemployment. Or worse yet, what if she tried it and they found out Mrs. Merrivel was wrong? What if she couldn’t do the job?
“What if I fail?” she asked, blushing as she unintentionally spoke out loud.
“Give us your best, and we won’t let you,” said Mrs. Merrivel.
It was a big decision. Not safe. The road less traveled. Different. Her mother wouldn’t approve.
“Yes,” Nikki said. “I’ll do it. Where do I sign?”
CALIFORNIA III
Tactics
“That was terrible! Your strategy was stupid, your formations sloppy! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a Howitzer if you were standing next to it. And you!” Mrs. Boyer, the physical training instructor, pointed an accusing finger at Dina, two spots down from Nikki. “You are wearing blue eyeliner!”
Nikki smothered a laugh, but not before her shoulders gave a revealing twitch. With two quick strides, Mrs. Boyer was bellowing in Nikki’s ear.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that your socks don’t match, Miss Lanier!”
“There was a mix-up in the laundry!” protested Nikki weakly.
Mrs. Boyer threw her hands up in disgust and turned back to the rest of the squad. “We are Carrie Mae, ladies! We do not have mix-ups in the laundry! We are always impeccably dressed, and we always achieve our objective. If I tell you to take that hill, then I expect you to take that hill, and I expect you to take it in style. I do not want excuses. I want success!”
Mrs. Boyer’s vicious glance raked the line of assembled women, but little by little, Nikki watched her reel her anger back in.
“Give me three laps of the compound before you turn in,” Mrs. Boyer said with a dismissive sniff. Dejectedly, the squad began their jog with leaden feet.
“I hate this!” Ellen gasped as they rounded the corner. Ellen’s comfortable figure, short gray hair, and pleasant round face gave the impression that she ought to have been hovering over her grandchildren, not playing war games in the high deserts of California.
Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel Page 2