For Money or Love

by Heather Blackmore

  TJ stood. “What’s my deadline?”

  Jess sat back and smiled. Setting expectations for deliverables was one of the most important tasks of any client-service business, and she was pleased TJ understood. “End of day Friday. But if you have questions along the way, stop by anytime.”

  *

  Jess dialed Renee, her personal shopper, and inquired whether she was available to meet at the local thrift store. Renee would be able to see her there in thirty minutes. Jess didn’t like the thrift shop because the inventory tended to be too tightly pressed together, but it was in her affluent neighborhood and she knew a number of its volunteers.

  After Jess gave Renee her best guess of TJ’s measurements, she and Renee spent nearly ninety minutes working their way through the lightly used clothing until they’d found a good number of items likely to suit TJ. She instructed the store’s volunteer to have the chosen clothes couriered to TJ’s address and to include an invoice for twenty percent of the total price, half payable in thirty days, the other half in sixty days. The firm paid the difference and TJ would be none the wiser. In the unlikely event TJ ever entered the shop and wondered about the absurdly low prices she’d managed to get, Jess had the volunteer write on the invoice, “Thanks for being a part of our successful blowout sale! No refunds or exchanges.”

  Although Jess didn’t own a single piece of clothing previously owned by someone else, she appreciated that, like her, so many of her neighbors recognized when they’d outgrown or tired of items in their wardrobes and that others less fortunate could benefit from their downsized closets. In some cases, Jess wondered whether the pieces had ever been worn.

  Renee did a fantastic job, as always. The suits were easy to break into separates, the blouses current, and the shoes timeless. Jess was impressed at how quickly Renee was able to cull together different outfits from a random collection to which she’d had no previous exposure. Hopefully TJ wouldn’t be so offended by the package that she’d refuse delivery. There was one way to find out.

  *

  TJ finally wrestled the box into her apartment. It had taken some persuading to get the gang to allow the courier to carry the large box to her floor. At times she appreciated their protectiveness. At other times she felt as stifled by it as the heat in the stairwell.

  As she lifted each carefully folded item from its thin paper wrapping, she found herself conflicted. Her instinct was to wield a black Sharpie and write “Return to Sender” on all sides of the container. But the clothes were all her size, meticulously cared for, and, as much as she hated to admit, stylish.

  The brands were some she’d actually heard of. TJ couldn’t understand how the clothes had arrived in such fine condition at what must be a fraction of their original cost. Kara, not one for fashion sense beyond skinny jeans and sweaters, pestered TJ to try on all the outfits. She was dismayed by Kara’s approval of all the combinations she tested.

  Swallowing her pride wasn’t one of TJ’s most reliable attributes. She’d had adequate time to reflect upon her clothing conversation with Jess and wasn’t pleased with her response. The firm, whether she liked it or not, could dictate its employees’ attire—not the brands per se, but an expectation that each employee look their Sunday best. Admittedly, she wasn’t happy with the choices in her closet, so while she hadn’t appreciated how the message was delivered, she couldn’t fault the firm’s owners for taking issue with her dress. Clothes shopping had long ago failed to interest her as she always had far more pressing ways to spend money.

  When she did purchase clothing, her first priority was price. The suits she wore to the office were those she’d purchased for her parents’ respective funerals. Fashion hadn’t been at the top of her mind at either time, not that it ever was. Aside from making sure there was enough room at the shoulders not to pull, she hadn’t thought much about sleeve length. One pair of her dress pants was definitely too wide; she had lost weight since her father’s death. And she’d moved toward more, not less, comfort over the years in her footwear. Hours of waitressing made it imperative. The shorter heels she’d adopted caused the hem to drag onto instead of graze the floor.

  Jess had been tactful enough to take TJ into her office to discuss the clothing situation instead of mentioning it in front of other staffers. She also hadn’t assumed TJ would shoulder the expense herself. TJ couldn’t blame Jess for offering to help. It wasn’t Jess’s fault that she came from money and wouldn’t know how sensitive TJ was to getting costly things for free.

  Initially, part of TJ’s vexation had been the lack of any substantive work to do. But Jess was now demonstrating a willingness to hold up her end of the bargain. That meant TJ would have to meet her partway. She could think of worse things than having luxuriously soft material lightly touch her skin.

  Chapter Seven

  Had this been last week, TJ’s irritation with Jess’s antics would have been chart-topping. Who actually practiced putting in their office? But there Jess stood, on her roll-out putting green, hair in a twisted updo, wearing golf shoes with her skirt, taking shot after shot toward the two holes at the far end of the green.

  TJ knocked on Jess’s door frame. She was wearing a Hugo Boss navy suit with a light-blue point-collar blouse. Although the Jimmy Choo pumps added polish to the outfit, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was playing dress-up. She hoped she at least appeared assured on the outside.

  Jess glanced up and smiled. “Are you still talking to me then?”

  “You’re my boss. Do I have a choice?” TJ smiled to soften her words.

  “Colleague. But we can email or instant-message if you’d prefer.”

  “You don’t want to have to look at me?” TJ gestured to her attire, keeping her tone light.

  Jess pretended to block her eyes with her elbow. “Yes. You’re hurting my eyes. I might survive one, two in-person meetings, tops. After that, it’s IM or email only.”

  “Then I better make the most of this one. May I come in?”

  “Please. How’s Kara?”

  “Still in pain, but improving. Her bruises are nearly as colorful as the under-the-breath cussing she thinks I can’t hear.”

  Jess returned to putting. “Glad she’s doing better. What’s up?”

  “I’m spinning my wheels a bit and was hoping for some pointers. Is this a good time?”

  “Yep. Shoot.” Her next putt circled the cup before rolling off the green. “Dang it.”

  Not the most open invitation, but TJ needed help. “You’ve already identified some of these folks as city treasurers. For them, I’m supposed to identify potential next steps to landing their business, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Within budget.”

  “Yep.”

  “On my own. Unless I want outside help.”

  “Could you roll that over here?”

  TJ nudged the golf ball with her shoe and sent it back. “I’m not a marketer.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not sure where to start,” TJ said.

  “Start with what you know.”

  “Not much.”

  “Not true. How do they get their jobs?”

  “I suppose most are elected.”

  “And how many of them—dang it,” Jess said as she missed another shot. “How many of them are experienced in money management?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “It’s in the information I gave you.”

  “You told me only to look at the lists.”

  Jess finally raised her head. “So I did.” Jess leaned her putter against her desk and sat at her conference table, indicating that TJ follow suit. “Okay. Here’s the thing. These people aren’t experts. They may or may not have a finance background. What they have in common is they can’t take gifts, they have a boring job, they want to get reelected, and they want to travel on the city’s dime. Get paid for a day off from the usual. How do you reach them?”

  “Invite them to some sort of educational seminar, subsid
ize their travel costs so they can stay somewhere decent yet justifiable from a budget standpoint, and have someone interesting as a speaker?”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “I have a pretty big budget.”

  “This is only one target segment. You also have HNWs and other money managers. Plus, one celebrity speaker could wipe it out.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” TJ said, frustrated by her lack of knowledge.

  “Hey.” Jess touched TJ’s forearm and waited until TJ met her eyes. “Don’t get down. Don’t focus on what you don’t know. Focus on reaching these people. Your idea’s a good one. So how do you get a speaker you can afford?”

  “Find someone who isn’t too high on the food chain but wants to be or used to be.”

  “That works. So what’s your next step?”

  “Check out recent headlines for someone who’s been in the news for any kind of financial reform or related commentary?”

  “Go on.”

  “A politician or an ex-CEO, maybe. Someone who’ll still be relevant by the time of the seminar.”

  “What else?”

  “We can offer a workshop on fixed-income securities and bond markets—things that sound safe and risk-free.”

  “I like it. There’s an association of public treasurers we may be able to work with too. What’s the end goal?”

  “New clients. We’ll have a captive audience. After the speaker, we can offer up our investment advisors to meet with them individually to go through their concerns and issues. In the literature we provide, add credibility by listing municipalities that are already clients.”

  “Leave-behinds. Yes.” Jess stood and pretended she was wiping her hands clean. “My work here is done.” She snatched her putter and set three golf balls at the edge of the green. The first shot sank cleanly. “Was there something else?”

  TJ stared. Jess had succinctly addressed her questions and given her ideas to work with. “You made that so easy.”

  “I didn’t do anything. You came up with the ideas.” She sank another putt.

  Why did she insist on taking no credit? Why was she engaging in this display of idleness?

  “I’ve got a one o’clock tee time. Call my cell if you need anything,” Jess said. Her final ball missed the cup and veered into TJ’s foot.

  TJ covered the ball with her toe and watched as Jess changed shoes, grabbed her purse, and glanced around her office as if ensuring she wouldn’t forget anything. She flipped off the light and held the door. TJ didn’t realize Jess was waiting for her to depart. Jess stood beside her and smiled.

  Not just smiled. Dazzled.

  It was as if TJ saw her for the first time. Everything in TJ’s peripheral vision seemed to fade until all she saw was Jess’s face opening to her as if a tulip to the sun. Although Jess’s office was dark, there was enough light from the main room to illuminate her face. Assorted shades of blue sparkled in her eyes. Jess was no longer simply a pretty face. She was a compassionate woman with a keen mind. Her responses to TJ’s questions were like flint on steel, sparking within TJ a sharp interest she barely recognized from years of dormancy.

  Jess’s smile dimmed. “Are you okay?”

  TJ wanted to scream, “No!” Questions popped through her head in rapid fire. Why do you feign ignorance? Why act obtuse? Who put you up to this or, rather, tore you down to this? Can’t you see how incredible you are? May I kiss you? The last question gave her pause.

  TJ didn’t think her eyes gave away much, but she didn’t want to give Jess any reason to feel uncomfortable around her. Having her eyes virtually peel Jess’s blouse from her shoulders would not be appropriate in any work setting. She shifted her focus to Jess’s mouth. It was a mistake.

  When Jess gulped, TJ raised her gaze from Jess’s lips and realized she should speak. “I’d wish you luck, but I’ve a feeling you’re very good at the game.”

  Jess pulled the door closed behind them, confusion evident in her eyes. “Far be it for me to disavow you of that notion. You should see me play.”

  “I have.” To keep open the possibility they were talking about golf instead of Jess’s veneer, TJ pointed through Jess’s glass office walls to her putting green.

  Jess laughed unsteadily. “That’s right. You have. Okay then. See you tomorrow.”

  Before Jess took five steps, TJ called out, “Wait.”

  Jess turned and steepled her brows.

  “I believe I’m still waiting for my welcome lunch. Al’s Sandwich Shop tomorrow?” TJ asked.

  Jess smiled. “That’d be perfect.”

  *

  The two of them entered Al’s, and Jess studied the large menus on display above the staffers behind the counter. TJ didn’t look because she knew what she wanted.

  “What are we having?” Jess asked.

  “Do you eat meat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chicken pesto panini on ciabatta bread?”

  “Perfect.”

  TJ placed their order. Jess removed a wallet from her handbag and, before extracting any bills, eyed TJ. TJ held out a five. Jess smiled, and they each handed five dollars to the cashier. They deposited their change in the tip jar.

  “You just tipped something like forty percent,” Jess said. “Doesn’t that go against your miserly ways?”

  “Servers work hard and they’re always on their feet. They rely on tips.”

  TJ capped their water cups while Jess gathered the napkins and utensils for the coleslaw. When their lunch was ready, Jess tossed the items into the bag and followed TJ to the park.

  The day was glorious. They walked under a tent of cypress trees that allowed only shafts of sunlight to touch ground. As they headed toward the benches at the coastline, TJ enjoyed the shift in the wind that kept away the diesel fumes of the highway behind them. The air now smelled of salt water and seaweed, and it was easy to forget the madness of the city. Seagulls floated aloft in the ocean breeze.

  TJ spied an empty bench and inspected it for bird droppings. It was blessedly clean. She sat at one end and set their cups down. Jess sat and removed the outer paper from the sandwich before handing a wrapped half to TJ. TJ crossed her legs and took a small bite as she scanned her surroundings. Behind them on the other side of the highway sprawled multi-million-dollar homes.

  “What do you see?” TJ asked.

  Jess finished chewing and drank some water before responding. “Is that a trick question?”

  “No. Look around and tell me what you see.”

  Jess turned her head slowly. She glanced back at the houses. Raising her chin to them, she said, “Prospects.” Pointing to the harbor, she waited until TJ followed her line of sight to a sleek black-and-white yacht returning from its voyage. “Prospect.” She nodded toward the beach. A barefoot man with rolled-up pant legs, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and large earphones passed his metal detector over the sand as if he were a priest absolving sinners beneath him. “Not a prospect.”

  TJ had difficulty understanding what she’d just heard. They were overlooking the majestic Pacific Ocean on a calm, cloudless day. The sun was bright but brought welcome warmth instead of overbearing heat. Few people were about due to the weekday, but those here were enjoying themselves. Two dog owners played fetch with their four-legged companions. One used a ball launcher to throw to her black Labrador, while the other took turns tossing a Frisbee to his border collie and a tennis ball to his Jack Russell.

  Seabirds ran into the departing waves, fed, and retreated again once another wave ran aground. A group of brown pelicans bobbed a couple of hundred yards from shore as if on siesta. The contrails of a passing jet created cloud formations like ski tracks in blue snow. Indentations in the sand made by the occasional passing shoreline runner were slowly swallowed under the constant pummeling of the waves. A young girl squatted near the water, using a plastic shovel to sculpt a clump of damp sand into something that vaguely resembled a coffee can, which to her mind probably rivaled the tallest spire of Sleep
ing Beauty Castle. Interesting, magnificent things surrounded them.

  Jessica Spaulding was in one of the most beautiful settings in the country, yet the only thing she could see within it was work.

  Moreover, that prospects were her highest priority in life was completely at odds with everything TJ knew of her. How did this fact reconcile with the woman who came in late, left early, and embraced the role of coddled diva?

  “You must really love your job to sit here in all this glory and think only of people you have to court. You’re lucky to feel so connected to it.” However, even as she said it, TJ didn’t think Jess was lucky. There was something profoundly sad about someone who couldn’t see the exquisiteness before them.

  Jess took another bite of her sandwich and seemed to consider this remark as she chewed. “I wouldn’t know how to disconnect from it. I’m a Spaulding.”

  “Like I said, you’re lucky. Most people would take this opportunity to not think about work. They want to get away.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want to get away. But getting away means different things to different people. Lots of people see this and feel they’re away, which means they’re appreciating something out of their ordinary. But if this,” she extended her hand in an arc as if presenting the beach, “is your ordinary, what’s your escape? Where do you get away?”

  She has a point, TJ thought, and some part of her felt a small tug, a pinprick of desire to toss a lifeline to this woman. As if she were adrift, which made no sense. Jessica Spaulding had more resources available to help her through any possible issues that might arise in her life than TJ would ever have. Still, Jess’s melancholic tone caused TJ to respond to the rhetorical question.

  “Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe you have to find ways to look at the same things in new ways.”