Carson was now smiling slightly, assessing Dolly from a business perspective and not just as the beautiful spectacle she was.
Stone, on the other hand, continued to scowl. “And how do you expect one drag queen to fill and entire theater? Talented though she may be,” he added, with a nod in Dolly’s direction. She raised one painted eyebrow at him but didn’t respond.
“I don’t expect one talented drag queen to fill an entire theater,” I said, smiling at Dolly. At my nod, she brought her fingers up to her lips and gave a shrill whistle.
“Ladies!” she said, standing again, one hand on her cocked out hip. “Saddle up now, and show these boys what we’re made of.”
Stone and Carson turned to the door of the conference room as a parade of exceptionally beautiful queens entered the room, strutting their gorgeous stuff around the table. There were at least a dozen ladies, some celebrity impersonators, some simply incredible characters, and they were all dressed to the nines.
I crossed my arms as the line of women stood arrayed out behind me. There were women of all shapes and sizes and colors and ethnicities. They wore pants, and dresses, and gowns, and boots and platform shoes. Their hair was sky high and their make up was outrageous.
And I loved everything about them.
Smiling again, I turned back to Stone. His face was blank as he studied the women in front of him. Carson was now grinning broadly.
“Allow me to introduce you to “The Queens of the Alamo,” I said proudly. Reaching into my briefcase, I withdrew some of the promotional materials I had drawn up earlier in the week. The photographer I hired met Dolly and her ladies for some great shots in the desert, and then I did some mock ups and had them printed. I handed the items to Carson and Stone, watching as Carson’s face lit up and Stone’s eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking a dinner theater and variety show. A mix of lip sync, cabaret, burlesque, and stand-up comedy. There would be some audience participation, and even a little slap stick. It turns out that these are some seriously talented ladies.” I gesture to the women behind me, who all preen and pose like a bunch of brightly colored birds.
“Penelope,” Carson exclaimed brightly, getting up and wrapping me in a hug, squeezing me so tightly my ribs ached and my feet left the floor. “This is brilliant!” He let me go just as quickly and turned to Dolly. “I would love to work with you guys, uh, gals on some musical numbers. I have some ideas for original songs you might be interested in.”
“Listen, darlin,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and gazed up - way up - in to the beautiful face of Cher. Her long black hair hung straight on either side of her face, falling almost to her waist. She was wearing purple corduroy bell bottoms and a flowered cropped peasant top. Her huge eyes, painted in shades of bright purple to match her pants, blinked down at us. She must have been close to six and a half feet tall, skinny as a rail, and absolutely gorgeous. Cher bat her eyelashes and dramatically licked her lips. “If anyone here is gonna be talking about original songs, it’s me.” She swept her hair back off her shoulders, doing a perfect impression of Cher’s signature move.
“Oh,” stammered Carson. “Uh, yeah.” He grinned at her, one side of his mouth ticking up. “I’d love to discuss options. Penelope, these fliers are great. I’d like to talk about a schedule and get Geoff in on the menu side. I’m thinking four nights a week and a matinee on Saturdays. Also, I want to-”
“Miss Lund,” Stone’s booming voice broke into the conversation, halting everyone as we swung our heads in his direction. I looked at him, tapping my flier on his knee as he sat, leaned back in the chair, one ankle crossed over his other leg. Standing tall, my lips pursed as I awaited his judgment, I tried to anticipate what he’d hate about my idea. Would it be too cliché? Too over the top? Or perhaps he’d hate it for no other reason than it was my idea. I crossed my arms and regarded him coolly, but I could feel my pulse racing in my throat.
Finally, after staring at me silently for a few long moments, he spoke. “This idea, did you come up with it all on your own?”
I was taken aback. His tone seemed purely professional, with no sign of his typical snideness or mockery. His face held nothing but honest businesslike curiosity.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, Mr. Montgomery. Although, once I started to develop it, Dolly and her crew provided a lot of inspiration.”
“And these numbers,” he said, pulling the sales estimates I drew up out of the package I provided. “You think these are going to be accurate.”
“According to the statistics chart that was provided with The Alamo business dossier I was given, they are, yes.”
I waited again as he assessed the assembled ladies, each one more outrageous than the last. There was Dolly and Cher, but also a Madonna impersonator and some famous TV personalities as well. The program the women had put together with their assembled skill set was quite entertaining. I imagined with some polish and a few tweaks form Carson it would be a knockout production.
At last, Stone stood, gathering the package I have given him back together. “If you can reach numbers anywhere near what you’ve projected,” he said, he face serious but not scowling like I was used to. I didn’t really know what to do with him at that moment. How did I handle him if he wasn’t not spitting out snide remarks with every other breath? “I think you just might have a hit on your hands.” And with that, and a shocking twist of his lips I might even have called a real smile, Stone turned and left the conference room without looking back.
Carson and I stared after him for a beat, before we both look at each other in confusion. Carson spoke first.
“What the hell just happened?”
“I, um, I think Stone Montgomery just complimented me.” I said, still not quite sure if I believed it myself.
“Honey cake,” Dolly chimed in, her sweet voice breaking through my shock. “If that man is half as surly as he looked, you better get yourself to a casino and place a whopper of a bet. Because, considering the smile he sent your way, I think this might just be your lucky day!” she finished, and all the ladies cheered.
The only problem was, I didn’t know if I’d consider what happened lucky at all.
But it was damn confusing.
* * * *
That night, after watching the sun set in another spectacular display of brilliant crimson and gold across the hills of Red Rock Canyon, I sat by the pool, a blanket across my lap as I curled up on one of the lounge chairs and called my mother. We had been communicating mostly via text messages during this first hectic week, and I found I just really needed to hear her voice.
“Hey, there,” she said excitedly. I could hear how tired she was by the way her voice was a bit strained. Part of the reason we hadn’t talked much was that she was working nights lately. It was hard on her physically, but there was a wage premium paid to nurses who took the overnight shifts, and we needed all the help we could get. “How are things out in Sin City?”
“Oh,” I said slowly, not wanting to really burden my mom with my problems. She had enough to worry about. “Things are as good as can be expected.”
“Penelope,” she said sternly. “Tell me everything.”
I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. I told her about losing my luggage, and the coffee incident, and stumbling late into the meeting to find that Stone was my boss. I told her about falling in the pool, and the uncomfortable living situation, and how Stone seemed determined to cut me down at every turn. She made all the right noises of outrage, her mama bear instincts kicking in.
“But something pretty great happened today, Mom.”
“Well, I should hope so,” she stated. “It’s been a heck of a week. I wish you were home, I’d get you some ice cream and put on an episode of The Bachelor.” I chuckled, thinking how right she was; sweet treats and trash TV often solved all our problems. “Tell me about your great thing, honey.”
“Well,” I said, drawing the word out to create suspense. “I wore the shoes!”
> “Yes!” my mother exclaimed. “I knew it. I knew they would help. Tell me, what amazing thing did that fabulous footwear accomplish?”
So, in and excited rush, I shared with her my idea for The Queens of the Alamo. My mother laughed with me as I gushed about all of Dolly’s terms of endearment, and asked for pictures when I told her how spectacular Cher looked in her purple bell bottoms. We laughed at Carson’s reaction, and I told her all about the show I had dreamed up in my head, how I planned to market it, and how successful I wanted it to be.
“These women are just incredible, Mom. They are the most confident people I have ever come across.” I paused, remembering the way the ladies had each strut into the room today, not caring for one moment what anyone else thought of them, the type of clothing they wore, or how they were ‘supposed’ to look. “Watching them, seeing how they command the attention of everyone in the room, it’s inspiring.”
“Confidence is supposed to be inspiring, honey,” my mom said sagely. “That’s what makes someone a good leader. But there is a difference between confident and cocky. No one likes an ass.”
I burst out laughing. My mother rarely swore, and hearing her drop a simple word like that without missing a beat has shocked me something fierce.
It also sent a pang of homesickness through my chest. I clutched at my phone, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. I laid back in the lounge chair, staring up at the sky over the darkened hills, and I thought of home. Of sitting beside mom on the couch, sharing a laugh and a bottle of wine after a long week of work. I thought of walking to the train station in the mornings, waving to the neighbors who had lived near us for as long as I could remember. I thought of the sounds and the smells and the sights of our street in Queens. The kids playing in the school yard on a Saturday afternoon, watching them race their bikes up and down the same roads that I used to ride on when I was their age. I thought of visiting my dad at St. Michael’s, wandering the familiar silent paths through the cemetery and spending my quiet moments with him.
I missed it all. So much it hurt.
But under that hurt was my determination. I was not going to be pushed aside for something I worked so hard for. I was not going to give up the hope that mom and I could finally get out from under our financial burden and maybe, just maybe, get some breathing room.
And I was definitely not going to let a snooty cow like Constance use her name and her husband to take something that neither of them deserved.
My mother sensed my emotional struggle. She sighed into the phone. “Oh, Penelope. I am so proud of you.”
I smiled, my tears coming again, but for an entirely different reason now. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I mean it,” she confirmed. “You have worked so hard, and I am so proud of the things you have accomplished. But, Penelope, I want you to know something; you don’t have to do this for anyone but yourself.”
“Mom, I-”
“No,” she interrupted me. “Please hear me out. I love you. We have always been a team, you and me, and I appreciate everything you do. But, honey, I want you to start taking care of you first. I want you to make choices that make you happy, not the choices you think are going to be best for us, or for our bank accounts. All the money in the world wouldn’t mean anything if you were unhappy while you made it.” She took a deep breath and I held mine, waiting for whatever she would say next. “Just be sure that you are happy, Penelope. That’s all that I want for you out of this life. It’s what your daddy would have wanted, too.”
I smiled sadly, another tear escaping and tracing its way down my cheek. I swiped it away before continuing. “I love you, too, Mom. And I am happy. I promise. Just a little…stressed right now. But, it’ll be okay. All of it. I’ll finish here soon and be back in New York before you know it.”
“Good, honey. That’s really good. Now,” mom says, and I can just picture her squaring her shoulders and dusting her hands in the way she does. “I am on my way to work. I’ll tell the ladies the shoes are doing their job. You keep wearing them. I know you’ll keep doing great things, honey. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Ending the call, I leaned back again, staring up into the clear night sky, looking at the stars as they stretched across the heavens for as far as I can see.
I will get through this. I will complete this launch and create the best damn marketing campaign anyone has ever seen. I will get the VP position and no one, not Toddrick, not Constance, not Stone - not even myself - will stand in my way.
CHAPTER TEN
Stone
The following weeks went by in much the same manner as the first; me, working and stomping around in a shitty mood. Silas, giving me shit for said shitty mood. Daphne, giving me stink eye at every opportunity. And Penelope, avoiding me at all costs.
She had been getting to and from the office on her own. She was gone before I get up in the morning and I would find her at her desk every day, head down, drawing up plans and making phone calls. She was working with the art department back in Manhattan and some of the specs coming across my desk had been fantastic. Her social media teasers were also working wonders. I had to admit, her hashtags had been popular and, according to the report she delivered at our most recent weekly meeting, our Instagram followers were up by several thousand.
By all accounts, she was doing a wonderful job. The fact that she was doing it with cold and focused determination should have made me happy, but in reality, it didn’t. I missed her fire. I missed the snark and sass that she would deliver, even when she was giving me shit. Now she only spoke to me when I asked her a direct question. Even then, it was “yes, Mr. Montgomery” or “no, Mr. Montgomery”. When I saw her at the house, she refused to make eye contact and didn’t even acknowledge my existence. I would hear her having conversations with Daphne or I would see them sitting in the living room, or at the kitchen island, laughing together. While Daphne had gone back to talking to me like her brother, Penelope would make a quick exit from every room I entered.
I couldn’t decide if it hurt or just pissed me off.
A knock at my office door brought me back to the present. I looked up to see Silas standing there, a grin on his face as he takes in my messy desk.
“Whoa.” He sounded astonished, and I didn’t blame him. “What the hell happened in here?” There were reports and media briefings spread all over my desk, as well as several stacks of fabric samples from the decorator and a pile of shipping boxes in the corner, their contents spilling out all over the floor. Silas walked over to the nearest box and opened it. “Horseshoes?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Horseshoes. Real ones. Used and everything.”
He moved to the next box and reached inside. “And this?”
“That,” I replied, gesturing to the coil of rope in his hands. “Is apparently the bull rope used by six-time National Finals Rodeo Bull Riding Champion Sage Kimzey.”
“Where did you get all this stuff?” Silas gestured to the other boxes, each one filled with more and more surprising items.
“Harold,” I said dryly. “Apparently, he has been going around the country for the last year, collecting western memorabilia. He has been sending me things for weeks. Said he wanted to use them to ‘decorate the new hotel’. He’s like a kid on Christmas with this shit.”
I had heard more from Harold in the last month than I had in the entire time I had been employed by Pennington Hotels. He had jumped into this theme with both feet. It actually surprised me, seeing as he spent little to no time in Texas with us. Yet, he was acting like he had been a cowboy all his life. The other day, he called in the middle of the day to ask me which Spaghetti Western film was my favorite. I was totally shocked by the question, but managed to spit out A Fist Full of Dollars, not only because it was the seminal classic of the entire genre, but because it has Clint Eastwood in a poncho, and you just don’t get shit like that anymore. John Wayne movies were great, but there was something about Cl
int Eastwood and that short cigar that just made the whole Spaghetti Western classic.
My father and I talked about it for almost half and hour, and I couldn’t remember a time when we had just…talked. It was strangely comfortable, and as such, made me strangely uncomfortable. I was not used to talking to him like a dad. And as I hung up the phone, feeling a mix of things I wasn’t sure what to do with, I realized that a big part of the reason Harold had never been a dad to me was my own stubborn pride.
“Anyway,” I went on, shaking off the thoughts of my father. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”
“Exactly. Everyone left hours ago. I came to drag you away.” Silas walked over and seated himself in one of the chairs facing my desk, leaning back. Even relaxed as he was, you could see the coiled strength in him. His eyes were alert and constantly moving. He never turned it off. It was what made him such an excellent security chief.
It was also the reason he didn’t sleep at night, but he didn’t know that I knew that.
“I still have a shit-ton of work to do,” I stated, gesturing broadly to the piles of things scattered around my office. The final decisions on things like curtains had to be finished by Monday. We had an interior design department, but I wanted to have Daphne take a look at their final choices. She had been going to school for this stuff and I wanted her opinion. I asked her to come by the office today when her classes finished, but she said she had plans. I was going to bring the samples to the house for her to look over.
“And that shit-ton of work will still be there when you roll up here on Monday,” Silas countered. “Come on, man. You have been busting you ass for the last month. You have spent hardly any time at the house, and that’s not just because you are trying to avoid your hot roommate.” He threw a sly grin my way and I scowled.
The Cowboy and the Bombshell Page 10