Beth Margolis was talking about transferring some Disney stock for the college fund. “What’s the likelihood that I’m going to live another twenty years anyway?” she said, and I was pretty sure I didn’t imagine the sadness in her voice. Goody’s question about feeling tingly when I thought of Brenda came to mind and I knew, without being told, that Beth Margolis would understand exactly what he meant.
“The account you shared with Tony requires both your signatures,”
I said gently. “We would need to switch you to a new single account before we can make any changes.”
The Þ rst time I had been forced to speak with a client about making the necessary changes after his wife’s death, he had dissolved into tears and hung up on me. His wife had passed away three years before.
“Oh, I see.” Beth Margolis sounded shocked at Þ rst, but then resigned.
As I explained how it would work, and which forms she would need to Þ ll out, I let my eyes wander to the construction worker again.
She was carefully running something along the sign that she had just
• 40 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
placed on the door, and this time I got a clear view of her cheek. The scar went from her ear to within a half inch of the corner of her mouth. On a less remarkable face, the scar might have been, well, less remarkable.
But on hers it seemed cruel, as if it had been done with the speciÞ c intention of marring her beauty.
As I stared, Goody walked in carrying my lunch bag. I smiled a thank-you and my stomach squirmed as I realized that even if I put the phone on mute long enough to steal a bite, there was no way I was going to scarf down my lunch with the construction worker standing only a few feet away. Goody said something to her on his way back out and they both looked at me. Instead of smiling back or, God forbid, giving the woman a ß irtatious little wink, I shyly lowered my eyes.
“I know Tony kept some old stock certiÞ cates in his desk too. But there’s so much in there. I hate going through his things.”
The tears in her voice caused me to straighten. I had been so busy watching the show, I had missed how upset Beth Margolis was becoming. She and her husband had been married for Þ fty-two years.
Of course she felt bad going through his things. And I had just calmly requested a death certiÞ cate. The requirement was intended to prevent a client’s removing access to shared accounts by lying about their spouse’s death. I still hated asking for it.
“Beth, please don’t cry. I understand completely. If you want, we can do this some other time. Or…would you feel better if I came by?
The phone is so impersonal. We could take care of the new account documentation.”
Her voice changed perceptibly at my suggestion. “I’d like that, but I don’t want you to make the trip for nothing. What if we can’t Þ nd the stocks?”
“I know what they look like, so maybe I could help you, if you don’t mind a stranger going through Tony’s things?”
“You’re not a stranger. What time do you get off work? I can have coffee ready.”
I was going to tell her that I had taken the MAX train in, but her voice had lightened twofold and I tried to remember the few things I knew about Mrs. Margolis. Her closest relative was a daughter living in California. Her other daughter, who was the youngest, lived in Chicago.
I doubted she got to see either them or her grandchildren often.
Even though I had never met the woman, her loneliness reached through the phone and pulled at my heart. I cared about the fact that
• 41 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
she would be able to live out her life in relative comfort. I minimized my accounts page and pulled up my schedule. “I don’t meet with any clients tonight, so how about I plan to leave here no later than Þ ve thirty. Does that work for you?”
“Yes, that would be Þ ne. Mia, thank you for everything.” Once again I could hear the tears in her voice and I wondered, do you ever stop missing someone who has shared your life for Þ fty-two years? It had been four for Brenda and me. Shouldn’t I be missing her more?
Shouldn’t I be worried about the fact that she might call me tonight while I was at Mrs. Margolis’s? Shouldn’t I feel something more than irritation that I would have to rush home to Brenda’s little snaggletoothed dog because I hadn’t left him extra food?
Beth Margolis sounded a lot happier when she hung up the phone, and I spent a few minutes eating my lunch and going through her investments. Henry had done a phenomenal job. When the whole world was going nuts on tech stock he had placed Tony and Beth Margolis in them, but he had also been smart enough to get them out right before things got bad.
I stood up in order to knock the melancholy from my system. At some point, I had forgotten the construction worker was working on my new door and I murmured, “Excuse me,” as I approached. Instead of moving out of the way she stepped closer to the door. She was smiling.
At least I think she was. It wasn’t so much that her lips turned up, but her eyes lingered on mine as I passed and they looked warmer than they had before. More friendly.
A giggle threatened from the back of my throat and I cut it off right before it could come out and make me feel like a giant fool. Oh boy, what the hell was that?
“Do you need something?” Goody asked, and his emphasis on the word “need” made me want to reach out and pop him one.
Thankfully, he would no longer be sitting right outside of my ofÞ ce once construction was done. He saw entirely too much.
“Yeah, I need a ride to Mrs. Margolis’s. I took MAX in.”
Goody bit his bottom lip and riß ed several sheets of paper. “Ah, sorry, chica, I rode in with Robin today. You want me to call her and ask—”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll take the bus.” Robin was Brad Jackson’s admin assistant. She was nice enough, but I could never get over feeling that she disliked me because Henry and I had not considered her for the
• 42 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
job when Henry’s assistant retired. “Besides, if you and Robin start talking about how great Jackson’s ass is again, I might go nuts on both of you and I’d end up on the bus anyway.”
“You need a ride somewhere? I can take you.” I didn’t turn around and I suspected that my eyes might be as big as Goody’s looked. He inclined his head as if to say “answer her, damn it,” and I turned around too quickly. She was still standing in the entryway of my ofÞ ce, but the words Mia Sanchez Investment Group were now on my door in neat white lettering.
“Oh no, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind taking you, if you don’t mind riding with a stranger.”
“Well, what’s your name?” Goody asked from behind me and I whipped around to glare at him before I realized that he was probably being smart by asking her name.
“Ryan Benson.”
“Where do you live?” Goody asked as if checking off questions in his head.
“I live right off Hawthorne. The building has all my information on Þ le.”
She looked like she was trying to Þ gure out if she should be offended or not when Goody sniffed and said, “Since you’re cute, I guess it’s okay. Murderers and rapists have those prominent foreheads, you know. I saw it on Discovery.” He looked at me and said in all seriousness, “You’ll be just Þ ne with her.”
He stood up with his sheaf of papers. I could see that the top one at least was a blank wire transaction form. “I need to run these down to the cage before close of market.” He walked off, leaving me and the construction worker alone. I knew, without looking, that it was barely noon, a full hour before close of market. Thanks a lot, Goody.
“Sorry about the third degree. He really doesn’t mean any harm.”
“He’s just looking out for you. I get off at Þ ve. Do you want me to wait for you somewhere?”
“No. I mean, I can leave any time I want.”
“Then how ’bout I meet you in the lobby a little after Þ ve?” she asked.
I agreed and watched as she bent to pick up some minuscule thing from the ß oor in my ofÞ ce and walked toward me. I know for a fact that my eyes got wide when she leaned really close to me. I breathed in
• 43 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
deeply and wondered how she could smell so good after spending half the day working, like soap and plastic.
“No problem. Thanks for the tissue, earlier,” she said.
I felt odd and off kilter as I watched her walk away. It didn’t surprise me that I might be attracted to her; she was gorgeous. But not my type. The women that usually caught my eye were always dark and typically curvy, like Brenda. This woman was tall, obviously in great shape, and blond. Even if she was a lesbian, she wouldn’t be the least bit interested in me.
I stared at the glass door with my name on it in perfect white letters and thought about the way Goody had outed me earlier. Had the construction worker—she said her name was Ryan—picked up on that?
Maybe she was warming toward me because she Þ gured that I might be a lesbian, which would imply that she was a lesbian. The idea made my heart beat double time for exactly ten seconds before I made myself stop. Even if she was a lesbian, and even if she was, for some odd reason, interested, I wasn’t available to explore whatever it was that zipped between us whenever our eyes met.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to.
• 44 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
CHAPTER FOUR
I was waiting for Ryan in the lobby at Þ ve. My grandfather liked to say that people who were consistently late for events were either attention seekers or had no respect for other people’s time.
I couldn’t remember when I had ever left work this early, and I was amazed at the number of people from Goldsmith who came laughing out of the elevator as I stood there, waiting for my ride. The minute they saw me they stopped, guilt on their faces. It annoyed the shit out of me and I couldn’t quite Þ gure out why.
The moment she appeared, carrying a worn leather jacket and a brown paper bag, I knew I had made a mistake. See, here’s the thing: Goody was right. Brenda had never made me feel tingly just by thinking about her. We’d met at a fund-raiser. I thought she was charming and yes, beautiful. But this woman—Ryan—well, she made me think about sex. Call me crazy or even mentally challenged, but I have never ever looked at a woman and thought, Good Lord, I must do a face plant into that one. But at that moment, as she walked toward me, her hair pulled back, her white T-shirt tucked into those wonderful jeans, that’s exactly what crossed my mind.
“Hi, am I late?” Her voice surprised me again. She looked like she would have a deep voice, not shy and sweet.
“No, I think I’m a little early.” My eyes focused on the bag in her hand and I wondered if she hadn’t Þ nished her lunch. The idea was foreign to me. I always ate everything I was served, even when I was the one preparing it. It seemed rude, somehow, not to.
“I rode the bus in too. Steve is letting me borrow the work truck for the night.” She held up a set of keys.
• 45 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
“Oh no, you didn’t need to do that. I could have taken the bus.”
Ryan smiled, and this time her smile appeared to come easy. “I wanted to take you. Truck’s parked downstairs.”
I followed her to the bank of elevators that went to the underground garage. I could see our reß ections in the shiny faux gold doors. Like Mutt and Jeff, I thought.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I said as the door slid open and she gestured for me to step on.
“You’re welcome. Where are we headed?”
“Sellwood. The house is right across the street from Sellwood Park, actually.”
“No problem, I know where that is.”
“Hold the elevator.” The voice was annoyed, familiar, and made the hairs lie down that had been at attention since I had seen Ryan.
Before I could stop her, Ryan reached out and pushed the Open button.
Jackson stepped heavily onto the elevator. As the doors shut behind him, he glanced at me and turned around so that he was standing next to Ryan and I was standing like an outsider, behind them both.
“Thank you,” he said pleasantly to her.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m curious, do you do work outside the building? I have a few projects in my home that I keep putting off because I’m so busy here.”
I rolled my eyes at his back.
I hated that I could not see Ryan’s expression or somehow signal her not to trust Jackson. But who was I to give advice? For all I knew, he could be on the up-and-up. But something about him had always caused me to keep my distance. His blatant jealousy was one thing, but I sensed an element of dishonesty that I could never see past.
“I do take on some outside work. But I couldn’t do that with you since we met here in the building. My company has a strict no-moonlighting clause.” Ryan’s voice was smooth, unemotional. I could have hugged her. I leaned back against the elevator rail wishing I could get a better look at her. She stared straight ahead even though Jackson was looking at the side of her face. The line of the scar seemed a lot more evident, as if his gaze had made it angry. The elevator door slid open and emitted a soft ding.
“I believe this is your ß oor,” I said.
Jackson started and stepped off the elevator. “If you should change your mind.”
• 46 •
SUCH A PRETTY FACE
The doors slid shut and Ryan said, “He gives me the creeps.”
For some reason the comment caught me off guard. Ryan had never really said anything to me that wasn’t to the point. Her reaction to Jackson was so unexpected that I answered her without censoring myself. “He thinks he’s God’s gift, so there’s something wrong with any woman that isn’t interested in him sexually.”
Her eyebrows shot up and I felt the prickling at my armpits that usually signaled I had just put my foot in my mouth about something.
“He’s deÞ nitely barking up the wrong tree with me.”
Okay, what does that mean? Is she or isn’t she? We reached our ß oor, and Ryan stepped to the side as the door opened. “After you.”
I felt awkward being let off the elevator Þ rst. For one thing, I didn’t know where the hell I was going; for another, I didn’t want her seeing my ass jiggling when I walked.
“Truck’s over here.” She walked up to a white Ford pickup with the words B and R Contractors, Inc. written on the side.
“I’m surprised your boss let you take the work truck.”
Ryan unlocked the passenger door and held it open while I got in. She was in the seat with her seat belt in hand when she Þ nally answered, “He Þ gures he owes me for helping him move into his new place.”
She started the engine and I realized that I didn’t know this person and I had nothing to say to her. My heart beat a staccato on my eardrums and I took a deep breath in order to calm myself. “So, it looks like the ofÞ ce is coming along nicely. I can’t believe you can do all that work so fast.”
“Yeah, we’re right on schedule. Should be Þ nished in no time.”
The silence grew and would have become awkward if I hadn’t forced myself to break it. “So, how long have you been in Portland?”
Ryan turned toward me and I caught the scent of spearmint gum and a perfume that I had never smelled before. “All my life.”
I can only imagine how I must have looked with my mouth hanging open, but I couldn’t help it. Her “my” came out like “mah,” and it made me think of Gone with the Wind, and how I had wanted Scarlett to be my best friend and come over to sleep in my room when I was just six years old.
“Nu-uh?” was the only thing I could articulate. Don’t get me wrong; I love Portland, but Ryan’s accent was like warm peaches with a hint of cinnamon. It had the sl
ightest hint of huskiness, a warning that
• 47 •
GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
things weren’t always going to be pretty, or soft, or even nice. There was no way Portland spawned that accent.
Ryan was looking away while she made a left turn, so it took me a minute to realize that she was smiling. But boy, was she—and not that tentative I’m not sure if I like you smile, either. This was a full-on, toothy white thing that made me catch my breath. Good Lord, the woman had a beautiful mouth, a beautiful smile, and if her hair wasn’t pulled back in a rubber band, I’m sure that would be beautiful too.
What the hell was I doing sitting next to her in a pickup truck thinking about doing the pajama-party hump with Scarlett from Gone with the Wind?
“I’ve been here about fourteen months,” she admitted.
“Whew, you had me going there. Let me guess, a lot of people ask you that, huh?”
“Pretty much everyone I talk to. I’m from Texas.”
“Texas is a long ways from Portland. What made you move here?”
The warmth inside the truck dropped a few degrees. I could tell that I had stepped into off-limitsville, but I didn’t understand why.
“My little brother Brady got a baseball scholarship to Portland State,” she replied. “I moved down here to keep an eye on him. How
’bout you?”
“Born and raised.”
“Really?”
“Why so surprised?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met many people who were born and raised here. Mostly Californians.”
Such a Pretty Face Page 5