by Shawna Seed
D pulled her phone from her purse, but she didn’t seem in a hurry to reply.
“I’m fine,” Genevieve said. “You should totally go.”
“You sure? I won’t go if you’re not OK.”
“I’m fine,” Genevieve said. “I’m just going to have a bath and go to sleep.”
That was all the permission D needed. She took a few minutes to check her hair and fix her makeup, and then she was off for her Pai Gow poker date.
After D left, Genevieve ran a bath in the deep soaking tub and eased into it. Her apartment had only a shower; a bath was a rare luxury.
She tried to relax, but her thoughts kept returning to the scene in the casino. It didn’t feel like any of her panic attacks, she was sure of that.
As the water cooled, she began to realize she’d done nothing to address the source of her panic: unemployment. The confidence she’d gained from strategizing with D began to leak away. Her own consulting business? Who would hire her?
Genevieve got out of the tub and wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s plush robes. After she’d brushed her teeth, she discovered that she’d forgotten pajamas. She didn’t even have a T-shirt that would stand in.
She dithered for a moment, then shrugged off the robe and slipped between the sheets. She knew D probably wouldn’t care when she came in late and crawled into the other bed. That was, if D came back at all.
Bright sunlight pours through the windows. It warms her bare shoulders.
Her head is at an awkward angle; all she can see is the floor with its scuffed, bare planks.
Her hair covers her face, tickling her cheek. She longs to brush it away, but she knows she must hold the pose.
The only noise is the faint scratch of the pencil as he sketches. He doesn’t speak, and she has no desire to force conversation.
They have nothing to say to each other. Not now.
CHAPTER FIVE
Genevieve woke the next morning alone in the vast hotel room.
D’s bed appeared to have been slept in; Genevieve wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign.
She got up and belted the hotel bathrobe around her, then opened the curtains. Another sunny day in Sin City.
D had left a note on the desk:
Guess who’s a whiz at Pai Gow poker! Order breakfast and charge it! Call you later!
Genevieve ordered the cheapest thing from room service, which she still found shockingly expensive.
While she was waiting for it to arrive, Thomas called.
“How’s Vegas?”
“Strange,” Genevieve said. “How’s Mona?”
“Frisky,” he said. “A guy called, said he wanted to talk to you about a job. I wouldn’t give him your number but I said I would pass his along.”
“That was fast,” Genevieve said, her voice rising in excitement. “I can’t believe one of your friends came through already.”
“Oh, I don’t know him. He called out of the blue,” Thomas said. “Don’t know how he found me, even.”
“Who is he?” she asked, her hopes deflating a bit.
“His name is Henry Lazare,” Thomas said. “He didn’t tell me much. You want the number?”
“Lazare like the painter? Hang on, let me get a pen.”
Genevieve flipped over D’s note and took down the number from Thomas.
“Did he say what kind of work? What’s his story?”
“He was kind of curt. Why don’t you Google him? I have to run. Let’s have dinner when you get back.”
Fortunately, D had left her laptop. It was password-protected, but Genevieve got the password right on her second guess – the name of D’s high school boyfriend. She typed Henry Lazare’s name into a search engine.
The first link was for a Beverly Hills law firm, Manning, Chalmers and Lazare. She clicked through a few links and discovered that Henry Lazare specialized in matrimonial law. What did a divorce lawyer want with her?
The second link took her to a Los Angeles Times story about a studio bigwig’s divorce. It mentioned Lazare’s “hardball tactics.”
Next up was a magazine piece about the city’s best divorce lawyers. It called Lazare a “pit bull.” He did not sound like a nice person, but she supposed that was what rich people wanted in a divorce lawyer.
Her cell phone rang, startling her. It was D.
“Where are you?”
“In the room. I needed to get online,” Genevieve said. “I can’t believe you’re using Vince for your password.”
“You’re supposed to pick something easy to remember, right?” D laughed. “And they say you never forget your first. Meet me for lunch at 12:30. I have a surprise!”
Genevieve thought the surprise might be a chance to meet D’s poker pal, but she was wrong. D was alone at a table that looked out on the casino floor, sipping a glass of white wine. She’d ordered one for Genevieve, too.
As soon as Genevieve sat down, D demanded her phone.
“Is yours out of juice?” Genevieve asked as she handed it over.
“No, I want you to see what a genius I am!”
D fiddled with the phone, then handed it back with a triumphant grin.
Genevieve had a new contact: Jay in LA, with a phone number.
“I looked at my recent calls and realized I had his number,” D crowed. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘D, what am I supposed to do with this?’
“So here’s what you’re going to do,” D said, tapping Genevieve’s menu for emphasis. “Back in LA, you’re going to call and say you appreciate him being so nice when you weren’t feeling well la-la-la and can you buy him lunch to thank him!”
She beamed at Genevieve. “Is that genius or what?”
“D, you’re a wonder.”
“I know! So you’re going to follow up, right?”
Genevieve hesitated. “Oh... I don’t know. I mean, won’t he think it’s weird that I have his number?”
“He’s not going to care how you got it,” D said.
“It’s just, I don’t know, lunch? That could be an hour and a half. I could hardly think of anything to say to him last night.”
“Coffee, then,” D said. “That’s more your style anyway. And in your budget!”
“Oh, I have news on that front,” Genevieve said, eager to change the subject. She started to explain about Henry Lazare, but D interrupted three sentences into her story.
“So what did he say when you called him?”
“What did who say?”
“This Lazare guy. You have called him, haven’t you Gen?”
“Not yet. I wanted to research him first,” Genevieve said. “He’s a divorce lawyer, which is strange, don’t you think? What could he want with me?”
The waiter arrived to take their order, but D shooed him away. She placed both hands flat on the table. “Gen, it’s time for a come-to-Jesus meeting.”
Genevieve didn’t look up. In their college days, D had called these “meetings” on a regular basis.
“I’m worried about you,” D said. “I mean, you’ve always been shy, but you used to could cowboy up and do things.”
She paused to take a drink of her wine before continuing. “I think you’re being way too cautious, about dating, work, everything! You haven’t been on a date in two years! Jay is hot, and he likes you! Why not ask him to coffee? Worst case, he says no, or he says yes and it’s boring. You’re looking for work! Why not call this guy about a job? What’s wrong with you?”
Genevieve sat very still, then reached up with her napkin to dash at the tears that had begun to slide down her cheeks.
“Oh, Gen, I’m sorry.” D said, softening her tone. “I know life’s been kicking your ass lately.”
“Mostly my own fault,” Genevieve said.
D waved that comment off. “There’s a difference between normal caution and being afraid to live your life. It seems like you are changing into this mousy person, and that is not the Genevieve I know.”
Genevieve took a deep breath, gathering herself. She pushed away from the table.
D was startled. “Gen? Don’t run off. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help.”
“It’s OK,” Genevieve said. “It’s just that I have a phone call to make about a job.”
“Well, now hang on. I don’t want to miss this!” D hurriedly put some cash on the table, drained her wine and snagged her bag from the back of her chair.
Back in the room, Genevieve dialed the number Thomas had given her and reached Henry Lazare’s assistant.
“And what is this regarding?” she asked.
“I don’t really know,” Genevieve fumbled. “He called me. Well, no, he called my, um, former colleague trying to reach me.” She thought she sounded like an idiot, but D nodded her encouragement. The assistant put the call through.
“Henry Lazare,” a gruff voice answered. “Ms. McKenna? I understand you were just let go by the Hilliard.”
“Yes, well, the grant that funded… Wait, how did you know that?”
“And you were working on provenance research, correct?”
“That was my job description, yes, although...”
D was furiously shaking her head.
“I’m getting bogged down in details,” Genevieve said. “Yes, I specialize in provenance research.”
D gave her a thumbs up.
“I need an art historian for a project, and I think you’re the perfect person. Interested?”
Genevieve felt as though she was being cross-examined on one of those TV courtroom dramas. She decided shorter answers were better, because Henry Lazare wasn’t going to let her finish her sentences anyway.
“What do you have in mind?” she asked.
“The Hilliard has something stolen from my family. I want you to prove it. I’ll put you on a monthly retainer,” he said, naming a figure so far beyond her museum salary that Genevieve thought she’d misheard and asked him to repeat it.
“I’ll also cover your expenses, within reason,” Lazare said. “As a bonus, you get to stick it to the museum. What do you say?”
Genevieve wanted to ask for time to consider the offer, but then she looked at D. “OK,” she said.
“Great. We have a deal,” Lazare said. “I don’t really know jack about art; my cousin’s the one with the details. Julien Brooks. I’ll have him call you. Any questions?”
“No. Wait, yes,” she said. “The piece that you believe is yours, what is it?”
“Study for Tristan and Iseult,” he said. “The artist is a distant relative. Julien will tell you everything.”
Genevieve turned to D after she hung up. “I think Lost Art Investigations just landed its first client.”
D offered her a high five. “I knew it was a good idea! Let’s celebrate!”
CHAPTER SIX
After an entertaining dinner with D and some of her fellow salespeople, Genevieve was back on the road to LA the next morning by 10.
She’d planned to use the time to brainstorm on the Lazare provenance project, but she found herself thinking instead of Jay.
Genevieve had never asked a man out, not even for coffee. Not that she thought there was anything wrong with a woman’s taking the initiative. She’d just never had the nerve to invite rejection.
D, true to form, had been unwilling to let the subject drop. She’d offered to role-play the invitation with Genevieve, and at dinner, she’d surveyed her colleagues on whether a first move by a woman was appealing or a turnoff. Appealing, the assembled men agreed, but Genevieve suspected they were supplying the answer D so clearly wanted.
The last thing D said before Genevieve left was, “Don’t chicken out!”
Genevieve stopped in Barstow for gas and lunch, discovering that everyone on the road between Las Vegas and Los Angeles had the same idea. As she idled in the drive-through line, she toyed with the idea of calling Jay. D had insisted, with her usual conviction, that afternoon was the perfect time to issue a coffee invitation.
“Morning implies you spent all night thinking about it,” D said.
Genevieve ran through the script in her head. “Hi, Jay. This is Genevieve – we met in Las Vegas?”
No, no, no. That part wasn’t a question. She needed to make her intonation lower at the end of that sentence. “Hi, Jay...”
Her phone rang in her hand. She checked the display.
Jay in LA, it read.
Genevieve laughed. D must have called Jay and offered Genevieve’s number, unwilling to run the risk that Genevieve would lose her nerve.
She hit the answer button.
“Well, hi,” she said. “I’m glad you called! I didn’t really get a chance to say thanks for flagging down that water for me.”
“Hello?” There was a long pause at the other end. “I’m trying to reach Genevieve McKenna?”
“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Genevieve said. “I’m in the drive-through line at In-N-Out in Barstow, and I’ve hardly moved in 15 minutes.”
“Excuse me? Is this Genevieve McKenna?” He sounded slightly annoyed, and Genevieve felt foolish for adopting such a casual tone.
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound more serious.
“Oh, good. I was worried for a minute that my cousin had given me a wrong number. Henry Lazare told you to expect my call?”
Startled, Genevieve nearly dropped her phone.
“Oh! I, uh, I thought you were someone else,” Genevieve stammered. “Obviously.” She held the phone away from her face and took a deep breath.
“Sorry for the confusion,” she continued in her most professional voice. “A friend programmed a new contact in my phone, uh, a number of someone we met, and she must have transposed a couple digits. Yes, this is Genevieve McKenna, and yes, your cousin told me to expect your call regarding Study for Tristan and Iseult.”
Silence stretched again on the other end.
“Did you say you were in Barstow?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said. “I’m traveling. I’ll be in LA later this afternoon, and...”
“Are you on your way back from Vegas?”
Genevieve, realizing that a midweek trip to Vegas sounded unprofessional, was instantly wary. “Yes,” she answered, resisting the temptation to explain herself.
“And that’s where you met this person your friend put in your contacts?”
What did that have to do with anything? Genevieve was starting to wish she’d let this call go to voicemail.
“Your cousin Henry said you could fill me in on...” she began, trying to steer the conversation back to business.
“And your friend is from Texas.”
“Wait a minute,” Genevieve said. “Who is this? Are you Julien Brooks?”
“Yes. And I guess we’ve already met, at the coffee shop,” he said. “And then again playing craps. But I thought your name was Jennifer.”
“Wait, what?” Genevieve’s heart began to pound, and not in a good way. “Jay?”
The driver behind her honked. She put her car in gear and moved up 5 feet.
“Right, really only my family calls me Julien,” he said, laughing. “How weird is this? So I guess the deal is Henry hired you? And I’m supposed to fill you in on what we know about the drawing?”
Now completely unnerved, Genevieve tried to think what to say next, how to get control of the situation.
Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to do.
“My phone’s about out of juice and my car charger’s in the trunk,” she said. “I’ll have to call you back later.”
Once she had her food, Genevieve pulled into a shady parking place, turned off the ignition and made another phone call.
“Gen! Did you call him?”
“He called me,” Genevieve told D. “Just now. And something here is totally not right, because it turns out Jay is Julien Brooks.”
“He called you? That’s awesome,” D said. “But how did Jay get your number, and who’s Julien Brooks?”
“He
’s the cousin of Henry Lazare, the guy who just hired me,” Genevieve said. Sometimes she wondered how much D actually listened to her.
“Lazare said his cousin would call me about this supposedly stolen drawing, and now it turns out that the cousin, Julien Brooks, is Jay.”
“So Jay’s real name is Julien? I wonder why he doesn’t use that,” D said. “I like it. Kinda foreign and sexy.”
“Maybe he does go by Julien, but he said Jay because he was hiding who he is,” Genevieve said. “Anyway, that’s not the point!”
“Oh, I get it! Now you don’t have to invent an excuse to meet with him,” D said. “That’s even better!”
“Again, D, not the point,” Genevieve said, beginning to feel exasperated. “This feels really wrong. First this Henry Lazare calls Thomas for my number, and somehow he knows the museum’s fired me. Then his cousin just happens to sit next to me in Vegas and strikes up a conversation?”
“It’s like when Meredith hooks up with that guy,” D said, “and then the next day he turns out to be her boss. And married.”
“That’s a TV show, D! This is real life, and it’s creepy,” Genevieve said. “It’s like they’ve been stalking me or something.”
“Um, Gen? You sound kind of paranoid.”
“You know, that’s what Pete used to say, when I wondered why he had to work late so much,” Genevieve said. “Or that time after I’d been home for Christmas and found that lipstick in our apartment, and he convinced me I bought it and forgot about it because I didn’t like the color, and then he turned it into a fight about how I never returned things that were the wrong color or didn’t fit because I was too embarrassed and I wasted money and...”
“Gen, slow down a minute,” D said. “Take a deep breath.”
Genevieve stopped. She inhaled and exhaled slowly.
“Sorry to trip your trigger,” D said. “You never told me that lipstick story. But forget Pete for now, OK? One thing’s got nothing to do with the other.”