by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
She stopped painting her full lips bloody-murder red long enough to retort, “That’s where you’re wrong.”
• • •
As gorgeous and well tended as Margene’s garden was, I’d been concerned about holding the Derby hat show there. April weather was notoriously fickle in Kentucky. It was either sunny and hot or cloudy and cold. When I suggested a rain plan, Margene looked at me as if I were slightly daft. The clouds wouldn’t dare gather over a Margene McBride event, she said. And she was right. The sun shone from a perfect robin’s-egg-blue sky, casting perfect golden light over the well-dressed crowd as they milled around the velvety green lawn.
I was starting to suspect Margene McBride had some sort of supervillain weather machine.
Like many indecently rich people in Louisville, Margene’s husband was a horse enthusiast. The courtyard directly off the back of their showplace was a perfect replica of the gardens below Churchill Downs’ twin spires, down to the purple phlox flower beds centered around a copy of the bronze statue of Aristedes, the very first winner of the Kentucky Derby. Our plan was to let the debs/models strut down the stone walkway around the statue and then take a turn in front of the assembled lawn chairs, then go back to the house to change. There were open bars flanking the garden, which should get the ladies who lunch in a bidding mood.
Well, that, and the fact that Kelsey was going to be wandering around the crowd pretending to be a guest and starting bidding wars over certain “must be sold or will be burned” specimens. And while there were several of those—a pink silk monstrosity involving cabbage roses and magenta ruching, for example—most of them were going to sell like hotcakes. The students had certainly gone all out this year. I wasn’t allowed to bid, but given the opportunity, I couldn’t decide whether I would throw in for the lemon-yellow confection with the wide white brim and the white-and-yellow-checked ribbon or the slanting sapphire Gainsborough with the birdcage veil.
I stood at the small portable bar, waiting for the black-tied bartender to fill my order and discreetly going over my notecards.
“I’m sorry, but what the heck is that?” a voice sounded to my left. I turned to find one of the best-looking men I have ever seen in this or any lifetime. Blue-on-blue eyes, cut-glass cheekbones, and a beestung, brooding mouth rarely seen this side of telenovelas. His sandy hair was artfully styled in that intentionally careless way that required more product than I used in my own. His suit was slate blue and tailored, hugging a tall, muscled frame.
My face dropped out of its practiced gracious smile and I made an incredibly undignified squeak. The beautiful man flashed a million-watt grin and if I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were trained directly on my drink, a strange, sickly yellow soda mixture garnished with a lime slice.
That was disappointing.
“G-ginger ale and Sprite with lime,” I stammered. “Old family remedy.”
“Nervous, huh?” He clucked his tongue sympathetically. When I started to halfheartedly object, he added, “Shaky hands, slightly pale under your makeup. You have a very interesting tell, by the way. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and sort of worry it back and forth.”
I frowned up at him. “How closely have you been watching me?”
“Pretty closely,” he said, giving me that lopsided, boyish grin. It was almost enough to put me off filing the necessary restraining-order paperwork. “So, are you with the Ladies Auxiliary?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Josh Vaughn.” He stretched his hand toward mine and it seemed like he was going to honest-to-God lean over it and kiss my knuckles. I was caught between ingrained female instincts to flutter over such a gesture and the urge to yank my hand out of range. This seemed awfully intimate, pressing your mouth against someone’s fingers when you didn’t know them or their hand-washing routine very well. I resolved my confusion by bobbing my hand up and down in a shaking movement, making it a moving target.
“Sadie Hutchins,” I said politely, withdrawing my hand.
There was a flash of recognition in his eyes and the corners of his mouth sagged. “Sadie Hutchins? You’re Sadie Hutchins?”
I tilted my head, scanning his face again to jog my memory. The brim of my hat nearly caught his chin, but he didn’t even flinch. There was no way we knew each other. Surely I would have remembered someone who looked like him. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
Just then, Ray appeared at my elbow, eyeing Josh Vaughn with something close to panic. “Sadie, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Ray.” Josh smiled warmly and extended his hand for a shake. “Good to see you again.”
Mr. Perfect Pants knew my boss? How did Mr. Perfect Pants know my boss? What was going on here? I could tell that there was something wrong. Ray was using his big, fake, “I am trying to prevent a scene” smile. The last time I’d seen that smile, we’d had to fish a comptroller’s wife out of a duck pond.
Ray gave our new “friend” a curt nod and looped his arm through mine, leading me toward the patchwork of rosebushes. Rail thin from frequent marathons and sporting a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, Ray was more than just a boss; he was a father figure, a friend. I was sorry to see him retire. But I was really looking forward to getting his office. I liked my cozy, feminine office with its refurbished walnut desk, biscuit-colored walls, and cardinal-themed knickknacks, a salute to my beloved alma mater, the University of Louisville. But Ray’s office had a window. I had been working in artificial lighting for far too long.
“Is everything okay, Ray?” I murmured, careful to keep a pleasant, easy expression on my face. You never knew who was watching you at this sort of gathering. The last thing I wanted was for some helpful random acquaintance of Commissioner Bidwell’s to mention that they saw me pitching a hissy fit in Margene McBride’s garden.
Ray cleared his throat. He was trying too hard to appear calm and it was making his big brown puppy-dog eyes look slightly crossed. “Well, there’s just a little problem with your campaign.”
“What, like a printing error?” I said, looking over Ray’s shoulder to see that Mr. Perfect Pants was watching the two of us. I frowned at him, stepping behind Ray so he couldn’t see me. Well, he could see the outlying areas of hat, but not my actual face. What was this guy’s deal? Was he some sort of headwear fetishist with a penchant for green? “Is it anything that can’t be fixed before we do the mailing?”
“No,” Ray said, pinching his thin lips together. “It’s more of a conceptual issue.”
My smile faltered. “There’s a problem with the concept of my campaign and you chose to tell me three minutes before I announce it?”
“Well, that’s the thing. You’re not going to be announcing it today, hon.”
“Okay, Ray, stop stalling and tell me what’s really going on,” I said, as a crowd of women passed us, inspecting Margene’s collection of heirloom tea roses.
“We’re not going to use your campaign, Sadie,” Ray said quietly.
“What?!” I cried shrilly, startling several nearby ladies into bobbling their punch cups. I scrambled for an explanation for such an outburst, following with, “—a lovely hat.” I nodded toward Deanna Stanhope’s teal fascinator, decorated with a turquoise bow the size of a Buick. “What an absolutely lovely hat. Where on earth did you find it?”
Mrs. Stanhope, whose husband ran the most profitable personal injury practice in town, preened a bit and gave me some long, circuitous story about a personal milliner in New York. But I didn’t hear or care. Over Ray’s shoulder I spotted the hale, husky figure of Tourism Commissioner Ted Bidwell and his fembot assassin of an assistant, Gina, speaking to Mr. Perfect Pants. I wasn’t sure which was more confusing—the presence of the department head or the quick clench of gut-level jealousy when I saw willowy, blond Gina throwing her head back in a tinkling laugh at something Mr. Perfect Pants said.
Why on earth would Commissioner Bidwell be talking to this bizarre, attractive stranger? And how could I get him to leav
e and take his flirty assistant with him? We rarely saw our mighty overlord out of the office, as he spent most of his off time working his family farm just a few miles outside of Frankfort. He didn’t understand much about marketing, but he knew that in order to get butts in seats you had to make sure people knew that the seats were available in the first place. He reminded me a little bit of P. T. Barnum, always looking for the next big draw. We got along just fine because he didn’t mind my quirky ideas, as long as they worked.
“What is he doing here?” I whispered to Ray, smiling sweetly and waving at my boss’s boss. Commissioner Bidwell gave me a diffident nod and returned to his conversation with Mr. Vaughn.
“The commissioner dropped by this morning to let me know he wants us to use a new campaign by some marketing whiz out of Atlanta,” Ray said, which sounded odd coming through his tightly clamped teeth. “I’m sorry about the last-minute change, hon. I really pushed to keep your concept, but he was adamant. He wants new blood, new ideas.”
“Since when does a state-run marketing department use an outside marketing consultant?” I asked. Ray squirmed. “Damn it, Ray, just give me the bad news all in one shot instead of dragging this out!”
“He’s not an outside marketing consultant,” Ray said. “He’s the commission’s new marketing director.”
“What?!” I gasped, drawing the attention of several other guests, including Commissioner Bidwell. “—do you think of starting in ten minutes? I think everything is ready to go,” I quickly added.
Commissioner Bidwell barely made eye contact with me during my explosive bout of time management, suddenly and conveniently finding someone across the lawn that he absolutely had to see. My legs felt weak and wobbly as a new foal’s, collapsing underneath me. Ray caught my elbow and kept me from flopping dramatically to the stones like some antebellum diva. Mr. Perfect Pants moved closer, as if he would dive for me in the event of a head-cracking descent. While it was a little endearing, it was more humiliating to have a complete stranger witness this conversation.
“Please stop saying ‘what’ so loudly,” Ray hissed.
I took a deep breath, trying to school my features into something besides my current “I am going to either burst into hideous wracking sobs or take out bystanders with an ice sculpture” expression. I didn’t want to embarrass Ray in front of said bystanders. “I’m sorry, Ray, I know this is really awkward and I’m not responding very well. I know this isn’t your fault. But I’m—I am going to have to leave before I become some sort of garden-party cautionary tale.” I turned on my heel to leave, only to run smack into my blue-eyed stalker.
Oh, come on, now.
Who was this guy and what tragic lab accident had removed his social filters? I was clearly in distress, and he thought now was a good time to try to hit on me? With my boss standing right there? Where was Kelsey? Surely she had nunchuks or something hurt-worthy in that giant shoulder bag of hers. I once saw her threaten to staple an intern’s lips shut for stealing her tape dispenser.
“Ray’s had nothing but great things to say about you,” Mr. Perfect Pants said, though there was an odd twitch to his lip, as if he didn’t quite buy Ray’s praise. “I’m looking forward to working together.”
I stared at him as if he were speaking another language. I looked back to Ray, whose gaze was bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Per—Vaughn, Mr. Vaughn. My sputtering brain finally made the connection between the overeager stranger and the low-down, dirty snake who had swiped my job out from under me.
“The marketing whiz?” I hissed, my voice taking on the thicker, exaggerated Southern accent that bled into my voice when I was upset. I shot a significant look at Ray and felt an icy chill zip through my gut. I straightened my shoulders and let that cold, crackling anger fortify my spine. My voice was steady and so saccharine sweet it made my teeth ache. Of course, the way I was grinding them could have been a contributing factor. “I wish I could say the same thing. I didn’t have any idea you would be here today. Or at all.”
“I’m sure it will take a little time for us to get to know each other,” Ray said, chuckling awkwardly. “Maybe we could all go out for drinks after the auction.”
I had barely gotten through Ray’s little announcement without causing a huge scene. There was no way I would get through drinks with my dignity intact. My ice-maiden impersonation was only going to last a few minutes. I needed to get out of there before the numbness wore off. I needed to go somewhere I could process all of this and breathe and react in a way that didn’t make Ray feel guilty or require the removal of my shoe from any of Josh Vaughn’s soft tissues.
“Oh, I’d love to join you.” Gina appeared behind Vaughn and stroked her long, carefully manicured fingers along Vaughn’s suit sleeve. “I want to help welcome Josh to the family.”
Ray shot her an annoyed look and shook his head. I smiled wanly, as if Vaughn didn’t deserve the effort of actually peeling back my lips, and said, “You know, I’m not feeling very well all of a sudden. I’ll just do the introduction as scheduled and be on my way. We can discuss this on Monday.”
“Actually, Sadie”—Ray’s discomfort was evident—“the commissioner thought this would be a good time to introduce Josh as the new director of marketing. So he’ll be doing the introduction.”
For some reason, experiencing this humiliation while wearing a hat the size of a satellite dish made it so much worse.
Years of work meant nothing, apparently. Extra hours, extra effort, extra miles, none of that mattered. Because Josh Vaughn was going to be the new director of marketing. I was going to be his assistant. I was going to have to work for this smug, arrogant jackass, whose only redeeming quality, so far as I could determine, was that he filled out a suit nicely.
“All right, then,” I ground out. I slapped my notecards into Vaughn’s open palm. “Good luck, Mr. Vaughn. Welcome to the team.”
I maneuvered around them all, chin held as high as I could tilt it without losing my headgear. I could feel the heat gathering behind my eyes, heat that would quickly turn into tears if I didn’t get far away from here as quickly as possible. I’d almost made it to the back door when I heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice from over my shoulder.
“Ms. Hutchins?”
I turned to find Vaughn giving me a long, deliberate once-over from head to toe. He smirked at me, the little dimples in his cheeks winking in a blasphemous mockery of good humor. “Great hat.”
Kiss my secondhand Manolos.
You look like Justin Bieber’s bastard brother.
I hope Gina gives you an incurable rash.
Those are all things I could have said. Instead I chose to give him the Brain-Melting Glare of Doom™ and turned away. I walked through the McBrides’ great room, wondering how I was going to get through the hour-long drive back to Frankfort without screaming myself hoarse.
Damn it. I stopped in my tracks, no small feat wearing high heels on a slick burnt-orange Tuscan tile floor.
Ray had insisted that all of the staff members ride together in a state van so we didn’t occupy precious parking space in Mrs. McBride’s driveway. I was going to have to ride home with my coworkers, knowing that I’d been passed over for the promotion and knowing that they knew.
I felt like throwing up all over again.
In Which I Smile Like a Serial Killer
2
Once again, Kelsey ran to the rescue. While I teetered through the McBrides’ house past the tittering crowd of exotically bonneted debs and tried to determine exactly how long it would take me to walk home in these shoes, Kelsey had already grabbed her enormous bag and secured keys to another vehicle. She was the James Bond of secretaries.
“It’s okay, Sadie,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders when she caught up to me in the circular cobblestone drive. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
We reached a bottle-green Ford Taurus with a strange collection of Picasso-style sketches spray-painted on the body. She reached int
o her magic bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of vodka, a brand so cheap I could practically see the potato peelings floating in it. I gave it a shake, my mouth pressed in a skeptical line.
“Oh, don’t pull the delicate-flower routine on me, woman. I remember the office Christmas party.”
“Touché,” I muttered, cracking the seal and taking a swig while Kelsey wrestled with the driver’s-side lock. “Whose car is this?”
“I went to college with one of the waitresses,” she said, nodding toward the catering van. “Which just goes to prove that you should not major in poetry. But, fortunately for us, she was running late to work today and had to drive.”
“And how exactly did you convince her to give you the keys?”
“You’re now the proud owner of about two cases of self-published volumes of esoteric odes to the left nostril,” Kelsey informed me, cranking the engine. “We just have to return the car to Eunice before Monday.”
“Just the left nostril?”
Kelsey shrugged. I whacked my hat against the frame of the car, ripping my hatpinned hair out by the roots. “Sonofabitch!” I yowled, yanking the offending millinery off entirely and beating it against the dashboard while shouting a string of words so blue even Kelsey blushed. When I emerged from this R-rated fugue, I was holding a crumpled linen hat carcass, and the tiny vodka bottle was empty.
“The hat had it coming. Bad hat,” Kelsey said, nodding as she sped out of the McBrides’ circular drive.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, burying my face in my hands.
“You handled yourself pretty well,” she assured me. “Up until the hatricide.”
“How could Ray do that?” I asked. “How could Ray do this to me in front of all those people? Did he time it so I couldn’t make a scene? Is that the work version of your boyfriend breaking up with you in a crowded restaurant? What the—he told me the promotion was just a matter of signing some papers.”