Della
Page 3
“I have to think about it, that’s all. I’d gotten used to the idea of finding a new job.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. She was so happy at this moment; she wanted to laugh out loud at the irony of it all. She loved seeing Jack grovel, something he rarely did. “Let me call you Monday afternoon.”
Jack went to the door. “Now or never,” he threatened.
She wanted to ask him who was bluffing now. But the meeting with Wes Gates may just turn out to be a talk. He might have nothing, and Jack could become a stinker again, and she’d be right back where she was twenty minutes ago–out on a limb, scared shitless.
A streak of honesty swept through her. “Jack, I do have an interview on Monday. I’d like to see if it’s interesting. We both need time to cool down. If I do come back, I want it to be right for both of us. No more lies or games.”
The stress on Jack’s face loosened. “You’re right. No more games. I want you back, on your terms.”
“That’s generous, Jack, considering this whole mess. I promise I’ll call you Monday afternoon.”
“Who’s your appointment with?” He twisted his mustache and squinted an eye.
“It’s confidential. There’s no real offer, but I want to explore other avenues. Jack, I just don’t know if the travel business is what I really want. You know I fell into your job, and sort of ran with it. I like working with figures. I have a talent for that. That’s one of the reasons I wanted my own office.”
“You ran with it, all right. I’ll wait for your call.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Then, she did something that surprised her. She walked over, put her arms around him and gave him a big hug. “We did work well together for a long time. Maybe this is the way things are supposed to be. Do you believe in fate?”
He stepped back and shook his head. “We make our own fate.” He left without looking back.
Deep in her heart, she knew she wasn’t going back to Globe Travel. She had a good feeling about Wesley Gates, and the possibility of her getting a bigger piece of the pie was more important than Jack’s offer, even if she had to start all over.
She hoped she was making the right decision. So far, she hadn’t been doing so well in that department.
Waltzing over to the phone, she memorized the number on the card and put it in her cell phone before dialing. She waited, letting it ring five, six, seven times, and all the while she chanted, “new job, new man, ho, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum.” She continued to let it ring, though she had concluded Rick might not be home. It stopped. Following a brief silence, a young woman’s voice chirped, “Hello?”
Her heart plummeted. She hadn’t expected a woman to answer, because Rick had told her he was unattached. She expected to hear his deep, sexy voice. She slammed down the receiver and tried to calm her trembling fingers. Then, she hit redial. What on earth had possessed her? If he was married or had a girlfriend, he never would have given her his number.
This time, he answered.
“Hi, Rick? This is Della Garland. We played golf last Saturday.”
“As if you need an intro. How’s the most beautiful girl in the world? I was afraid you weren’t going to call.”
She quivered at the sound of him. Slow down, girl, came the warning voice in her head. Take it nice and easy. “I’m fine. Would you like to play a round tomorrow?”
“Great. Can we play early?”
“How’s Rancho Park, and breakfast at my place after?” She twisted the phone cord around her finger, smiling coyly to herself, feeling that zest lift her up.
“You must have connections.”
“I do. Is six okay?” Her heart went into overdrive. He was free to play. God, how cool. Her voice was calm, nothing like what she felt inside.
She spent the next eighteen hours mentally preparing herself for a new man in her life. Face it, she had been man-free for two years. “If I keep this up, I might as well hit the convent. Egad!”
After all these days in the doldrums, she was getting better. How long would it take her to learn everything comes out in the wash? Wasn’t that what Lillian used to say? Or was it, out of every bad thing comes something good? Oh, well, Lillian never was a sage.
Della dressed in the sexiest golf sweater and skirt she had in her closet. Dressing for work and dressing for play were two different things, she rationalized. She tucked her loose, wavy auburn hair into a visor to shade her delicate skin from the harsh L.A. sun. She pranced around her apartment, checking herself out in every mirror. What did Jack mean, she had no class? She looked great. Every man she met thought so.
She arrived at the course early to hit a bucket of balls. Her swing felt good today, loose and fluid. Once again, she’d dazzle Rick with her game. He told her she was the finest woman golfer he’d ever had the pleasure of playing with. He wasn’t insecure like her ex. She was making strides in picking a better lover. No loop for her.
She checked her watch, glanced around for Rick. When the starter called her name, the ten minute alert, she plodded to the first tee alone. He was late. God dammit, every golfer knew he must be in place ten minutes before tee-off! Pacing around the tee, watching those ahead of her take their shots, she finally dropped her clubs and ran to the parking lot about fifty feet from the first hole. No Rick. Panicking, she pulled her phone from her skirt pocket and hit speed dial. It rang several times, as it had before; only this time, she was glad. It meant he was on his way. Then her heart plunged when she heard his sleepy voice. Oh, no! He was still in bed. She should have known. Adonis was too good to be true. “Rick, this is Della. I’m on the first tee. Where the hell are you?”
“Christ,” he yelled. “Tee off, I’ll be there before you start the second hole.”
The starter called her name again. She hung up without a good-bye, ran to the first tee, hit the ball, and shanked it. The two guys, strangers scheduled to play with her and Rick, shook their heads, acknowledging they were stuck with a duffer. She didn’t give a damn. She had just been to hell and back in fifteen bloody minutes. On the second hole, she dismissed Rick, stood at the tee and nailed the ball down the middle of the fairway. Both men she was playing with gulped in unison.
On the third hole, she spotted Rick careening up the path in a motorized cart. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, waving wildly at her. As he pulled up next to her, she saw his bloodshot eyes, his hair slicked back, obviously not washed and styled like before. He was still drop-dead gorgeous.
“Sorry, Della.” He had a hang-dog expression. “This is a helluva way to make an impression on you.”
Yeah, I’m impressed, she thought. Just love running all over the golf course like a crazy woman, hunting you down. She drummed up a bright smile. “You’re here, Rick. We’ll have a good time, won’t we?”
The other two players, both older, both overweight, both smiling, came over and shook Rick’s hand, as was customary when someone joined the group. One of them said, “This little lady is a great golfer.”
Rick nodded with a knowing smile, then proceeded to schmooze the two guys until he had them laughing, telling jokes and acting like they were old golf buddies. He even impressed her.
All the way around the course, Rick went into great detail about how he had spent most of the night on the phone and why he’d stood her up. He had been working and had fallen asleep at his desk in his home office. What he was doing on the phone all night left her wondering. But as she always did when it came to a man she liked, she overlooked the details, shrugging and saying to herself, no one’s perfect.
In the cart, approaching the eighteenth hole, curiosity got the best of her. She blocked the sun with her hand and asked in her most casual tone, “So, what do you do that keeps you up all night, working out of your home?”
“I run a small computer software company. I sell to people in other countries. Time difference, you know. Gets a little frantic.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“I like it. Pays the rent.”
They finished their round. “How about that
breakfast? I’m starving.” He loaded her clubs in the trunk of her car, then followed her in his midnight blue Carrera.
She grinned. Nice car. The computer software business must be good. He pulled up behind her, and walked with her up the stairs. Inside, she watched him check out the apartment.
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” It seemed strange, having a man wandering around her apartment, acting like he belonged there. No matter how hard she tried to take life on her own, nothing felt like the feel of a pair of pants hanging around, someone to play with on those lonely days when a girl needed time away from work.
Over toast and eggs, they talked about their work and lives, catching up fast. Rick said, “I think we should celebrate your interview with Gates. If you land that job, you’ll have it made. That ought to tick Jack Davis off. He sounds like a real dick.” He paused, took her hand in his and drew tiny circles around each knuckle. “How about dinner in Paris tonight?”
“Okay. But what shall I wear?” She laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot? I’ve seen that in the movies. Always thought it would be freaky-deeky to just up and split to another country for din-din.”
“I mean it,” he said.
Through a nervous second laugh, she said, “I have nothing to wear.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “How about Acapulco? Dress is casual.”
“Sounds good. I love Mexican food.”
“Good, I’ll call a friend and make reservations. Can you be ready in a couple of hours?”
“Sure,” she kidded along. “What should I take?”
“Anything cool. Gets hot there, night and day.”
“We’re joking, right?”
“Not me. I thought you were spontaneous. Isn’t that why you fried your last job in a New York minute?”
No Mexico with Rick Courtney. That’s exactly what she did with Kent Bradley, and look where it got her. This whole situation was moving too fast for her. She had to put on the brakes. Now!
“Hey, what’s the matter?” He tilted her chin up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have.” She took his hand, led him to the sofa, sat him down and looked him straight in the eye. “Three and a half years ago, a man came into the travel agency where I worked. He ordered two tickets to Vegas, insisted I go along. Like an idiot, I did. We fell in lust, and four months later, we got married.”
“So far, it doesn’t sound so bad.”
“A year after that, I caught him in bed at the Airport Marriot with a stewardess. That was the end of my fairytale romance. Shades of today?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t. We’ve golfed together twice, had hotdogs and beer, had breakfast. We’re getting to know each other quite well. Doesn’t sound like I’m walking in here from out of nowhere with two tickets to Vegas. And I’m certainly not asking you to marry me.”
“‘Fool me once, shame on you , fool me twice, shame on me.’”
“You’ve been badly bruised.” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him. “Believe me, it’s just a bruise. You can’t judge all of us by one man, and you can’t shut down over a bad experience. You’re too young.”
She bit back the tears. This fairytale she couldn’t relive. “I’m sorry, Rick. It’s very romantic, but for lack of a better expression, been there, done that.”
He took her hand, squeezed, and stared down at his lap. “I’m not your ex. If it’ll make you feel any better, I’m a one-woman man.”
“Yeah, one at a time.”
They laughed. He pulled her to him and held her tightly. “Come on, take a chance. Look--” Rick oozed sympathy, “–if you want to wait and do this after we’ve known each other a while, it’s okay with me. We can go out tonight–do dinner, a movie, whatever.”
She glanced down at her feet, then slowly lifted her gaze to his. “Rick, I’m not ready. Let’s take it slow. Real slow. I’ll call you for another round of golf.”
He stood, slapped his thighs. “Guess that means I’m outta here.” He headed for the door.
That old emptiness she hated in the pit of her stomach returned. Her heart sank.
He faced her. “Thanks for the great game and the breakfast. I’ll see you later.”
She closed the door, leaned against it and let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t think so, Ricky, baby.” Right now, she didn’t need anyone in her life, especially someone as beautiful and exciting as Rick. She’d achieve her goal alone. The man comes later. Right now, she was too damned insecure to pick a man who might actually be good for her. Of course, it was in her genes. Whatever! Now she had to make some changes.
If Wes Gates hired her, it meant a fresh start. She had the beginnings of a new wardrobe, thanks to Jack Davis’s harsh assessment of her appearance. From now on, she’d pick a high caliber wardrobe; she might even take that class at Barbizon. Her old clothes were destined for the thrift shop. Let someone else have a crack at `em. Maybe they’d look better in them than she had.
Iris had class. Della fully intended to seek her advice. Come to think of it, she’d never heard Iris use a four-letter word. Maybe some of that style might rub off on her.
As soon as she had enough money, she’d move from the Valley to West Los Angeles, or maybe even a beach town, where many of the young executives lived.
If she wanted to carve out her future, she had to cut away her past. Nobody in their right mind would take a chance on a girl with her history; certainly not a high roller like Gates. Who says leopards can’t change their spots? She started creating a new past, one that spoke of better breeding. She was ashamed of not having a father, and a retired prostitute for a mother who lived on welfare, drank too much, and let men take advantage of her good nature.
Only Jack Davis knew of her roots, but if she snagged the Gates job, Jack would be history, out of her life. None of her friends knew much about her; she made sure of that. Creating a new life would be easy, and she’d feel so much better about herself. She’d have credibility.
She danced around the room, singing, “I’m just a little girl from Little Rock, who’s moving from the wrong side of the tracks.”
With a new look and a decent past, she might just crack that glass ceiling and have it all. Thank goodness she hadn’t broken down and talked about her life with Rick. He was just one less person to worry about. She laughed. At least, she hadn’t given him her phone number.
* * *
Carrie Gates, Wes’s wife, filled her day ordering the staff around with last-minute details for Wes’s seventieth birthday party. They had met and married twenty-six years ago. Whenever either of them hit a five-year-mark, birthdays or anniversaries, they threw a big party. Seventy was a milestone.
Wes was still her lover, and the best damn provider who walked the earth. She reveled in the millions of dollars they had accumulated. Of course, it was he who did the accumulating, and she who did the spending, which didn’t bother Wes one iota. She considered herself the good woman behind the successful man, even though he was filthy rich before she married him.
Mildred Tapp, Carrie’s longtime devoted personal maid, handed over the guest list. “We’re all set,” she said, self-consciously brushing her berry-stained white apron.
Mildred, a small, bone-thin woman in her sixties with frizzy grayish hair, had been in Carrie’s service for the majority of their married life. She insisted on baking Wes’s favorite berry pies for his birthday, as she always did for special events, even though the party was being catered by the Lassen Brothers, the finest catering company in Beverly Hills.
“You’re a mess, Mildred, but I love you for it.” She hugged Mildred and kissed the air next to her cheek. Later, after the party, Carrie and Wes would retreat to the solarium for Mildred’s famous pie, topped with her homemade ice cream.
“I need a little nap before the party,” she said. “Will you be all right to handle everything?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mildred disappeared into the kitchen, where the sme
ll of pies baking nearly put five extra pounds on Carrie’s slender body.
Carrie glanced down at the guest list. Everyone invited had affirmed by RSVP. Of course, no one refused an invitation to a Gates party. The L.A. nouveau rich always lavished Wes with gifts from all over the world, which he didn’t give a damn about. He wasn’t materialistic. That was her bag. Hell, someone had to spend all that money. Wes cared first about his business. That didn’t bother her one little bit; she liked the good life.
She climbed the winding staircase, passed the full-length mirror, stopped and gazed at her elegant reflection. She was still beautiful at forty-nine, a tall bottle-blonde with hazel eyes, and skin as smooth and flawless as exquisitely polished ivory. It hadn’t come cheap. Her personal trainer was also her beauty advisor, who made sure she did everything within her power to stay looking young and feeling vital. When the time came for plastic surgery, she would fix what needed fixing. She’d do whatever it took to stay young and fit.
As a young girl, she struggled to make it as a singer. Her parents disapproved of her career choice. She went from one man to another. She always ended up getting dumped because of her possessiveness and jealousy, traits over which she had no control. She hadn’t always been totally honest with her shrinks. As a child, she had everything a girl could want, even if she had to stamp her foot once in a while to get it.
Her last relationship had taken its toll on her. Then she met Helga, a German beauty she had worked with whose last name escaped her, who told Carrie to play with young men but marry an older man. Preferably, one with money. She said older men put younger women on a pedestal; younger men are on their own pedestal. When Carrie met Wes Gates that lucky night in Chicago at the Gilded Cage, where she sang, she decided he fit her criteria just fine. She immediately went about setting the trap.
After she snagged him, she dallied around in the beginning of their marriage. She missed those young, strong bodies. But motherhood changed her for the better. She actually fell in love with Wes, and wanted to be a proper wife and mother. And Wes adored his son.