This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Catharine Elizabeth Manset Morreale
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503901896
ISBN-10: 1503901890
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
To Phil, Jessica, and Ali:
my lifelong partners in crime
CONTENTS
PART ONE
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
PART TWO
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
PART THREE
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Kathi
Crystal
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
Crystal
March 2, 2015
I’ve targeted the sperm donor. I blame him for the fat. Not the six-hundred-pound kind that shows up on TV. Or the curvy kind that’s trending in magazines. I’m talking about the basic kind that makes me invisible. Just fat enough that girls don’t hang with me and boys won’t take a second look. Just fat enough to get the glare when I climb onto an airplane or a crowded bus.
I try to avoid mirrors, but they’ve seated me in an office with a mirror directly behind the desk. It has a weird curve to it, warped on the sides and in the middle. It makes me look fatter than I am. I mean, why is the office designed this way? Do they want their clients to feel insecure? Will it make them deposit more money? Help them to choose a bigger loan? I paste on a smile. That usually lifts my fat pads so my cheekbones show through. But smiling in this mirror only makes me look crazy. The door squeals open, and I stand.
“Ms. Love?”
“Yes?”
“I’m George Taylor. The bank’s chief lending officer.”
I hold out my hand to an aging hipster dressed in a tight black suit and pink satin tie. Dirty-blond hair, nicely textured. Blow-dryer and curling iron at work. That and a little gel. Stinky gel, the kind that wrinkles my nose. Should I tell him about the bit of salad stuck between his teeth?
“Please take a seat.” He picks up my résumé and gets right to business. “You’ve had five years’ experience as a loan analyst?”
“Six if you count a year of training.” He’s disappointed, I know. I have the qualifications but not the look.
“Why move to Santa Barbara?”
“I’m tired of the Bakersfield heat.”
“You have family here?”
“A few friends.”
He glances at my belly with a question in his eyes. I know what he’s thinking. I carry a lot of weight in my gut. But he’s taken his HR classes. He knows the rules. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. I do my best to sound earnest.
“I’m one of those rare people who grew up wanting to be a banker. I love working with numbers. They mean everything to me.”
“So you’ve taken accounting?”
“I was an accounting major at Bakersfield College. Got my AA degree six years ago and went right to work at the local bank. I’ve never looked back.”
He nods, staring hard at my résumé. Time to nudge him in the right direction.
“I’m not looking for a job. I’m looking for a career. I’m a hard worker. I’m focused. I’m single. No children. I’m the most efficient person I know. I believe Pacific Ocean Bank is the right fit for me. Only five branches and ten years in business, but you’re the top-performing bank in the region. Impressive.”
He forces a smile. “Our president’s an industrious man.”
“So I’ve heard.”
George taps his pencil on the table. “We prefer four-year degrees.”
“My accounting major and years of experience should more than make up for that.”
“And we have a strict dress code . . .”
“Which I will follow.”
“No casual Fridays.”
“I’ve never been a fan.”
“The other analysts are men. Any problem with that?”
“None at all.” Fish on the hook. Now reel him in slow.
“Do you work well in high-pressure situations?”
“I prefer them.”
“Weekends?”
“No problem.”
“Team player?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about references?” He points to my résumé. “May we contact your most recent supervisor?”
“I wish.” I make a sad face. “My ex-boss passed away a few months ago from a horrific accident. A terrible situation. He was a mentor to me. The head of Human Resources said to call her with any questions. She understands my need to move on.”
He scribbles something before looking up. “When can you start?”
“Next week.” There’s something wrong with his left eye. I’m guessing it’s made of glass. I bet it’s a flaw that bugs him. I file away the thought.
I’m flipping through a file, trying to tune out the banter between the boys. I call them boys even though the obnoxious two are older than me. Eric and Tyler. Frick and Frack. Aryan twins. They seemed surprised when George introduced me this morning, and I caught some eye rolling and a laugh behind my back. The third analyst is small and quiet. He’s from India or someplace like that. I don’t recall his name.
The loan analysts’ office is tucked away in the belly of the bank, a basement without windows or doors. No cubicles separate our desks; there’s no privacy at all. Stark walls, clutter-free desks, no personal photos, screen savers locked on the bank’s logo. Even the coffee cups match—all white, no inscriptions. Not a Starbucks disposable in sight. The boys call our office “the Stable.” I’m not sure where that name came from.
George has given me a pile of loan files to review. It’s no secret the last analyst was a slob. I would have fired him too. I work through papers stacked every which way to bring order to the files. Financial statements belong on the left. Tax returns on the right. Credit reports get filed in the back, smoothed with the press of my hand. I imagine sex to be like this, satisfying and complete.
&nbs
p; “How about Katie?” Tyler asks his buddy. Their desks sit back-to-back. He’s the blonder of the two boys. Ruddy skin, thinning hair, and a little puffy at the edges.
“She’s a prude. Don’t waste your time.” Eric rubs the bristles shadowing his chin. He’s either a lazy grub or a fan of the morning-after look.
“Then who should I take?”
“Try Lolo. She always puts out.”
“Bingo.” The boys share a gulping laugh.
They spend the rest of the morning planning their trip to Vegas, texting friends, and booking hotels. When they finally leave for lunch, the quiet analyst turns to me. I’ve studied the bank website by now. Dipak Patel, junior analyst. UCLA graduate, class of 2014. Eric and Tyler are UCSB frat boys turned senior analysts in less than five years. And then there’s me. A reject with a community college degree. The pecking order is clear.
“How’s it going?” Dipak asks.
“Fine,” I reply, snapping shut a file. “Thank you for asking.”
“Don’t mind those guys. They’re rude to everyone.”
“I don’t mind them.” But I do.
“Let me know if you have any questions. Always happy to help.”
By the end of the week, Dipak and I have bonded over our love for numbers and loathing for the boys. We look peculiar together. I’m as big as a truck, and he could pass for Santa’s elf. And his social cues are off. He dresses sloppy, he cracks his knuckles, and he eats stinky food at his desk. But that mile-wide chip on his shoulder? I can make use of that.
I take a chance and invite him to Ted’s for a drink, and his smile nearly splits his face. The first beer gets him talking about family, the second about the social scene. By the third he’s moved on to bank management. I try to stall him there.
“Is the bank president a genius like they say?” I ask, nursing my beer. Ted’s is exploding with the Friday-night crowd. I have to lean close to hear his answer.
“All bullshit,” Dipak replies with a slur to his words. We’re seated at a corner booth that faces the bar. His chin barely tops the table.
“But to found a bank? That takes some kind of brains.”
He makes a face. “He looks nice in a suit—that’s all. And he’s willing to do whatever they want. He’s nothing but a puppet.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“The developers who control the bank’s board. You’ll get to know them soon enough. Part of our high-value clientele.”
I want to ask him more, but we catch sight of Eric and Tyler surrounded by a gaggle of girls.
“They’re idiots,” Dipak says, envy steeling his eyes.
“How do they keep their jobs?”
“They’re part of the Great White Hopes.”
“The what?”
“The white guys they groom for senior management. Half-baked skills at twice the pay. It’s sickening. It pisses me off.”
“So why’d they hire you?”
He takes a slug of beer. “I’m the bank’s nod to diversity.”
“And me?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, they hire women every now and then. But usually they’re hot, no offense.”
“None taken.” His insult settles in with the rest.
“I mean, George hires outside the box on occasion. He’ll pick smart people even if they don’t fit the mold. He’ll get fired for that one day.”
“So you like him?”
“Yeah. I like him. He’s a good guy. One of the very few.”
“What’s the story on his eye?”
Dipak sets down his mug and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “I heard he got beat up in college. A fight outside a gay bar or something like that.” He slides off the bench. “Those beers are running right through me. I’ll be back in a sec.” He stumbles off, and I lean back and take in the scene. A girl dances past me in a tiny black dress that barely covers her crotch. She bumps against Tyler and laughs. Then she bumps against him again. She’s pretty but slutty in a way I don’t like. I pick up my beer and finish it off and begin a round of my favorite game. What’s the worst thing that could happen to that girl? What would destroy her life?
Kathi
May 2, 2016
I’m waiting on the back terrace for the gardeners to arrive. They’ve gotten sloppy these past few weeks. Weeds grow between the bricks. Leaves float in the pond. The fire pit overflows with ashes. And now they’re late. It’s all too much.
I wander to the far side of the lawn to take in the morning view. A silvery sheen hangs over the tree-studded estates of Montecito. The ocean sparkles blue; the islands stand clear—just a hint of fog to blur the air. I try to ignore the eight o’clock train paralleling the coast. Its ghostly horn always grated on Rich’s nerves, but I used to like the sound. Made me dream of traveling to distant lands. Paris. London. Rome. Rich had promised we’d visit those places one day. Now we never will.
I sip from my mug of freshly brewed coffee. It tastes like nothing, of course. My therapist says there’s an upside to every misfortune. You just have to look. So the upside to losing my sense of smell to last year’s virus? I’ve lost my taste buds too. Food tastes like sawdust and drinks like something worse. If only I’d come across that secret before. All those years spent counting calories. Popping pills. Measuring steps. Now I’ve lost twenty pounds, and I’m on the road to lose ten more.
I love the way my clothes drape across my skin. No pinching. No squeezing. I feel lighter than air. Rich would be proud. He never liked the extra weight, always poking at my stomach or giving me his death stare whenever I ordered pasta or dessert.
The upside to living alone? That one’s harder to nail down. I can have two glasses of wine now. Sometimes even three. And I don’t have to wait until six o’clock. Of course, wine tastes like tap water, but I’ve learned I’m not in it for the taste. All those years traipsing through Napa, attending tastings in Santa Ynez. Arguing over Pinots. Snubbing the white zins. And the money we spent stocking our wine cellar? I buy boxed wine these days. Not in Montecito, of course. I would die if my friends ever caught me. I drive to the far side of Santa Barbara and buy gallon-sized boxes of chardonnay—usually three or four at a time.
I plan to head to my wine store later today after my appointment at the bank. I’m not in the mood to speak with George, but there’s some problem with our accounts. As if I would have any answers. Rich and I had one of those old-fashioned marriages you don’t hear about anymore. He was the one who brought home the bacon, and I took care of our house. So why question me about our finances? I can’t pull answers out of a hat. It’s all too much. I feel like crawling back to bed. Instead I use a trick my therapist taught me and give my wrist a little pinch. I’m thin, damn it. Model thin. And what could be better than that?
It was a dark and stormy night. The night was dark and stormy. It was night, and it was stormy. It was a stormy, dark night. The storm moved in at dark. Stormy, it was dark. It was stormy, and then it grew dark. Before it was dark, it was stormy. Stormy. Dark.
My hand cramps, so I set down my pen. I’ve been waiting at the bank for a good half hour. Seen a dozen customers come and go. This never would’ve happened under Rich’s watch. He was meticulous in his attention to detail. Never a second late. Less than two months gone, and the bank is imploding. I’ll bet Rich is turning in his grave.
I pinch my wrist.
Another upside to living alone? I finally have time to write. I bought a pretty leather notebook that I store inside my purse. I used to love to read and write. Kept journals recording my every thought. It drove Rich a little crazy. He was so passionate back then. Wanted to know everything I was thinking and didn’t want to share me with a book. I kept journaling for a while after we married. And then one day I stopped.
I no longer want to write the great American novel. I’m much too old for that. I’d settle for a sweet romance series, something bound in pinks and greens. The hero would be dark and handsome, his lover small and perky. No real sex, jus
t lots of passionate kisses. And no tongue. I’m not a fan of that. The novel would end with the hero carrying his bride into the bedroom. Just the thought makes me shiver. I bet there’s a market for that. Not everyone wants graphic sex. But first I have to come up with the perfect pen name.
Skylar Savage. Sunny Skies. Bunny White.
“Mrs. Wright?”
I snap shut my notebook, my cheeks growing warm. A hefty young woman stands over me with her hand outstretched. She has pretty blue eyes but an unfortunate figure—an apple shape, just like Rich’s sister. I haven’t heard from Ann since the funeral, but she and Rich were never close. He liked to tease her about her weight, and she wasn’t fond of that. I wonder if she’d mind if I shared my secret for success.
“I’m Crystal,” the woman says. “Crystal Love. We’ve met before.”
“We have?” Crystal Love. I picture her name atop my pink-and-green novels. It’s perfect. Just perfect. Now if I can only nail the first line.
“At the Dignatarios party at the zoo last summer? I was one of the bank volunteers?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry . . .” I don’t remember the woman, which is strange. She’s so very big; you’d think I would.
“That’s okay. I attended the funeral, but it was crowded, so I didn’t get a chance to offer my condolences. I want you to know I admired your husband.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet. What do you do here at the bank?”
“I’m a loan analyst.”
“Loan analyst? Really? I thought all of the analysts were men.”
A smile tweaks her face. She has nice white teeth. “A few of us girls do understand numbers.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
“No worries.” Crystal takes the seat beside me. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but if I can be of help, please call.” She hands me her business card. “Your husband was a great man. A mentor to me. I’d do anything to return the favor.”
“Thank you.” My eyes grow misty from her kindness. “I appreciate your offer, but I think I’m doing fine.”
Crystal pats my knee and stands. “Good to hear. But the offer’s on the table if you need it. Now, who are you meeting with?”
“George Taylor. He’s late.”
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 1