Jane, on the other hand, doesn’t tone down anything. She was fifty yards away in the parking lot, and I could tell it was her. I met Jane at a two-for-one gym promotion. We pretended to be friends to get the better price. The friendship lasted. My membership at the gym did not. Jane exudes sensuality. She can’t help it. She has long, dark hair and a toned body that most women would kill for. Everything up top is cut low, and everything down below is hiked high. And why not? She has a perfect body and somehow manages to show skin without looking cheap. She’s an accountant, though to anyone getting their first glance at her, they’d probably think she was one of the Pussycat Dolls.
Liv was with her, handing something—most likely a generous tip—to the valet attendant. Liv makes the rest of us look like trolls. She’s a very successful event planner. Almost no one hosts a party or a wedding on Palm Beach without hiring Concierge Plus to deal with the details. Liv is an exotic-looking woman. She has eyes that match the ocean, clear turquoise, with midnight black hair like a modern Cleopatra. The biggest perk in knowing her—aside from the fact that she’s a great friend—is she can slip us into a lot of the über-rich parties on the island.
Once the four of us were together, we made a mandatory swing through one of the mall’s two Starbucks. I was so excited about my first date with Tony that I’d had a hard time sleeping. Thank God for caffeine and MSC concealer.
“He just asked you out of the blue?” Liv asked as we waited for our coffees.
“Geez! Why does that seem to surprise all of you?” I asked, minorly irritated.
Jane passed me my skinny vanilla latte. “Men aren’t usually that spontaneous. Think about it, Finley. He e-mailed, asking you to come to his office so he could ask you out? Why not go to your office?”
“Or for that matter,” Becky said, “why run the risk of asking you out at work and leaving a paper trail to do it?”
“The e-mail was harmless, and what risk?” I asked.
Becky rolled her eyes. “We all know there was no risk you’d say no, but Tony didn’t know that. A smart guy—and he is that—would call you after work so there could be no misunderstandings.”
“Like?”
Becky took a long sip of her chai tea. “Like asking while at work could be construed as harassment. You could claim you felt pressured to go out with him because he’s your boss.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Becky’s green eyes bored into me. “You’d better hope Dane and Lieberman don’t hear about this. Especially Ellen. She’ll freak out if she thinks he’s creating a hostile work environment.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a major buzzkill?” I asked.
Becky raised her hands. “Sorry I mentioned it.”
“Okay,” I said, happy to have that bit of unpleasantness quashed. “It’s got to be black. I’m thinking something subtle, but I don’t want to look like a mortician. Shoes and a clutch.”
“Um,” Jane began cautiously, “where does this fit into the budget we did for you?”
“Whatever I get for tonight, I’ll wear to Lisa’s rehearsal dinner. That cuts the cost per wearing in half right there.”
“How many little black dresses do you have in your closet?” Liv challenged.
“Not as many as you and besides, the LBD never goes out of style.”
“And Finley never gets out of debt,” Jane grumbled.
I looped my arm through hers. “Lighten up. I’m splurging this once, then I promise to return to living like mortgaged-to-the-gills Mary. Okay?”
“You’re pulling equity out of your house. You have every right to do that. I’m just telling you, in my capacity as your financial planner, what I think.”
“Fine. Then be my friend, not my financial planner.”
Jane smiled. “Well, in that case, I say we go to Nordy’s and find you the perfect dress.”
“And shoes,” Becky said.
“And a purse, and maybe some new jewelry,” Liv weighed in.
Three hours and four lattes later, I had a stunning BCBG Max Azria, belted, one-shoulder sheath dress. It was fitted jersey and fully lined and, according to the saleswoman, required nothing but a thong.
I’d found the perfect shoes in a matter of minutes. Stuart Weitzman silk-satin platform sling backs with a wrapped heel. The saleswoman raced over and grabbed the matching clutch as I yanked my debit card from my wallet. I found a stunning Judith Jack double-strand pendant necklace and chandelier earrings to go with my new ensemble, finishing it off with three skinny bangles.
As I drove home, I didn’t have buyer’s remorse so much as paid-full-price remorse. If Tony had given me a week’s notice, I could have put something together online, and even with expedited shipping, I wouldn’t have spent nearly two thousand dollars. Then again, it was worth it. If I parceled the cost between the Tony date and the rehearsal dinner, it didn’t seem so bad. If I could think of another occasion to wear it, I could keep dropping the CPW—cost per wearing—down to a more reasonable number.
Who was I kidding? I looked, I liked, I bought.
I stopped on the way home for a polish change and a brow wax. Add another fifty dollars to my ever-growing debt. By two thirty I was on my way over the bridge to Palm Beach. Thanks to selling my soul to the devil—that would be my mother, the only living heart donor—I owned a very modest cottage on the beach. Thanks to my friend Sam, it was a showplace. It was sleek and beachy, comfy and posh all at one time. Handyman Harold still came by almost every day to tighten something or hammer something else, but for all intents and purposes, my home renovations were finished and stunning. And had me several hundred thousand in debt. Oh, Liam helped too, but I wasn’t in the mood to give him credit for anything. Not after he’d kept Patrick’s secret. And was still taunting me about the whole “three wishes” thing. It was silly, really. Liam had come to my rescue and pulled some lame I Dream of Jeannie thing, telling me he was now entitled to three wishes. I figured he’d used up more than three wishes by hiding the fact that my boyfriend was cheating. Well, maybe cheating was an understatement. At any rate, I wasn’t playing.
My mother sold me a shack on primo land. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction when she finally decides to accept my standing invitation to see what I’ve done with the place. She’s currently back in Atlanta helping my sister get ready for her enormous wedding. In two weeks, Lisa will be walking down the aisle to become Mrs. David Huntington-St. John IV. Actually, she’ll be Dr. Mrs. David Huntington-St. John IV. Except that David is a doctor too, so I guess they’ll be Drs. David Hunt—oh, who gives a shit.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my little sister, and I’m happy she found the man of her dreams. But her dreams are amazingly dull. David is nice enough, but he’s a nontalker and a big rich geek. Of course my mother loves him. He’s rich, he’s a doctor, and his family is old money. They are pillars of Buckhead, the tony suburb of Atlanta. Like my sister, Lisa, David is an oncologist. He and Lisa met on one of those Doctors Without Borders things.
I’m all for humanitarianism, but do you have any idea what it’s like to have to compete with a perfect sibling? Lisa went to med school. Managed to finish the first seven years of academic work in three and a half. Lisa made something of her life. My mother considers me a failure. Maybe I am uninspired, but I’m happy in my mediocrity. Lisa never looks happy. Maybe you can’t be a pediatric oncologist and be happy. Who knows?
But that wasn’t the real reason I resented David and found fault whenever I could. If I was being totally honest, I was suffering some sibling envy. It was bad enough to be second on my mother’s list, but once David was part of the family, I’d drop down to a distant third. Hence, I kept trying to find something, anything, wrong with my sister’s fiancé. So far all I’d come up with was slightly large lips. And by slightly I’m talking millimeters. But I’d take what I could get.
I lingered in my spa tub, allowing the warm water to relax me. First dates always make me tense. It’s like opening a
can and not knowing whether there’s a diamond in the bottom or if a dozen springy fake snakes will explode out of the top.
Tony didn’t impress me as the fake-snake kinda guy.
Post soak, I carefully applied my makeup, savoring every second of the anticipation building in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t looking forward to sitting through The Magic Flute, but imagining all the delicious ways the evening could end made the notion more palatable.
I was really pleased when I finished dressing. The only thing that would have made it perfect would be a pink oyster-face Ladies DateJust Rolex. Unfortunately, I didn’t own one. Yet.
I was well on my way, though. Since I couldn’t afford the actual watch, I’d begun collecting parts on eBay. To date, I had several links, the screw-down crown, an authentic box, and a pending bid on the watch face. At my current rate, I should have all the parts for my build-it-from-scratch Rolex by the time I’m thirty-five.
Grabbing a black pashmina from my closet, I took my keys and headed out to my car. It was a beautiful night but there was no way I would sacrifice my perfectly coiffed hair by putting the top down. I punched Tony’s address into the onboard GPS, and after a second a map appeared and a cheerful male voice with a touch of a British accent began giving me instructions.
I exceeded the speed limit on I-95 north since I hadn’t bothered actually to look at Tony’s address; I didn’t realize he lived in Hobe Sound, seventeen miles north. I had eighteen minutes to make the twenty-five-minute trip.
I made it too, hitting the Bridge Road off-ramp with six minutes to spare. Making a left on Federal Highway, I went a few miles, and then followed the signs to the Falls at Lost Lake. I wouldn’t have pictured Tony as a golf-course-community kinda guy, but as I scrolled through the keypad at the gate, I quickly came to “Caprelli” and pressed the button.
“Yes?”
“It’s Finley,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears.
There was a beeping sound, and then the gate swung open like a horizontal mouth of an alligator.
The British voice told me to turn right at the stop sign, and then Tony’s house was the third one down on the left.
I pulled into the driveway and parked next to a vintage red Porsche. I’d never seen it at the office, so I figured it had to be his “fun” car. I couldn’t imagine being so flush with cash that I’d have a car for work and a car for recreation, but I’m sure I could get used to it.
I tucked my keys into my clutch as I walked past the garage and up a pathway to what was easily a five-thousand-square-foot house. Like all the other homes in the community, the stucco was painted a shade of beige—in this case peachy beige—and the trim was fresh and white.
I went up one tiled step, took a deep calming breath, and then stood in front of etched glass doors as I pressed the doorbell. I mentally reminded myself not to look overly excited. Be cool and collected.
I heard a playful chuckle just as the door swung open. I lowered my gaze maybe an inch and found myself looking into a pair of big chocolate brown eyes. The mini-Tony had to be the daughter, Isabella. She wore rolled-just-below-the-knee sweatpants that were turned down at the hips, and double tank tops. Her long dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and when she snarled at me, I saw that she had inherited her father’s right cheek dimple as well. Attitude and a killer dimple—dangerous combination.
“I’m Finley. Your dad is expecting me.”
I heard the giggle again. It wasn’t from the daughter. Maybe she had a friend over.
Isabella rolled her eyes as the sound got closer. I looked past Isabella, expecting to find another child.
Wrong.
Very wrong.
A goddess of a woman dressed in a strapless red Prada gown came around the corner giggling into her champagne flute. Tony was right behind her, looking dapper and handsome in a tux. His eyes met mine. He scanned me up and down as all the humor drained out of his face.
I took in his uncomfortable expression, the woman dangling from his arm, and then replayed the invitation in my head:
“Are you free Saturday night?”
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“E-excuse me?”
“I have tickets to The Magic Flute tomorrow night.”
“Nothing like a Saturday night with Mozart.”
“Is there any chance you’re free tomorrow night. I know it’s short notice, but—”
“Short notice is fine.”
“Great. Can you be at my place at about six?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, Finley. See you tomorrow night.”
Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. He’d never actually asked me out. I wasn’t his date. I was the freaking babysitter.
Laughter fades; humiliation is forever.
two
“Finley, meet Pepper. Pepper, Finley.”
The statuesque woman put down the champagne and dangled an arm in my direction, making it impossible for me not to notice the gazillion-carat tennis bracelet on her wrist. Well, I had one thing on her: at least I didn’t have a name better suited for a parakeet.
“My pleasure,” I lied, shaking her hand. “Excuse my attire, I hurried here from a private cocktail party on the island.” Kinda true, I’d had a glass of wine at my place. And I did live on the island.
The date stealer’s artificially plumped lips lost a little of the curve in her superior smile.
“Have you seen The Magic Flute before?” I asked, fake sincerity dripping off each syllable.
“No.” She tightened her grasp on Tony’s arm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“It helps if you understand some German. The Queen of the Night’s “Der Hölle Rache kocht in Meinem Herzen” is an amazing piece. It requires a range of a high F6—a true rarity on the scientific pitch notation.”
I ignored Isabella’s muffled, slightly choked laugh.
“We’re seeing an English version at the Kravis,” Tony supplied, steering the statue toward the door. “I should be back by midnight. Is that okay?”
I nodded. “I don’t turn into a pumpkin until two a.m.”
“Night, Izzy,” Tony said as he placed a kiss on the top of his smiling daughter’s head. “Behave.”
“Always,” she said, with teenage boredom. As soon as Tony and his arm candy left, Izzy glanced at me and grinned broadly. With one earbud dangling from her purple-encased iPhone, she slowly shook her head. “You like totally slammed her, and she didn’t even know it. I’m going to have to try that on Lindsey Hetzler.”
“I didn’t slam her.” Much. “I was just making polite conversation.”
“Right,” Izzy said, placing one hand on one budding hip.
“Who’s Lindsey?”
“The queen bitch of the eighth grade.”
“Are you supposed to use that kind of language?”
She shrugged. “Only when my dad can’t hear me.”
I tossed my clutch on a chair, noticing the decor for the first time. Midcentury modern. My guess was original Herman Miller. Unlike me, Tony didn’t impress me as a knockoff kinda guy.
“Welcome to the 1950s,” Izzy said on an expelled breath. “I hope you like chrome and molded plastic.”
“Not so much,” I admitted as I tossed my pashmina on my clutch.
“Me either. But my dad had a decorator do this. It’s what happens when you tell some stranger you are all minimalist and junk.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked, spying a fifty-two-inch flat screen in the adjacent family room. Hopefully, my charge was a TV freak and I’d be able to use the computer I saw sitting on a bisymmetric glass-and-walnut table while she vegged out in front of the massive TV.
“He said you liked board games.”
“He?”
“The friend of Dad’s. The hot guy with the black hair and blue eyes. He works with you guys,” she prompted. “Liam.”
“When did you talk to Liam?”
“He set Dad up with that lan
ky chick. He’s the one who suggested my dad get you to babysit. Not that I need a babysitter. My dad still treats me like I’m three instead of thirteen.”
That bastard. “Tonight was orchestrated by Liam?”
Izzy smiled. “You look seriously pissed.”
Pissed didn’t begin to describe the fury boiling in the pit of my stomach.
“You can leave. We can tell my dad something like you had a major family thing or some other excuse.”
“Oh no. We’re going to play board games until we get freaking carpel tunnel syndrome from throwing the dice.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Four hours later Izzy was kicking my butt at Scrabble. Again. The kid was like a thirteen-year-old dictionary. I thought I’d finally gotten the best of her when I’d placed “camphors” on the board. What does she counter with? “Benzoxycamphors,” for a flipping point total of 1,593. Apparently, it’s some sort of chemical, but I had to Google it. I felt totally outclassed. Especially when we moved on to Trivial Pursuit, the Pop Culture Edition. She kicked my butt in that too, so quickly that I tossed in the pie-shaped pieces when she was beating me four to one.
“How are you at eBay?” I asked.
“But eBay isn’t a board game.”
“It’s better than a board game,” I insisted as I swiped the Scrabble tiles into their brown cotton bag and folded the Trivial Pursuit board. “It’s a real competition. No benzoxycamphors bullsh … stuff. I’m a master, and I will dazzle you with the finer aspects of the Web site.”
“I like shopping,” she said, grabbing a cute Coach purse from a bar stool and pulling a matching wristlet from inside. From that, Izzy produced a credit card with her name imprinted on it. Somehow I knew she had a higher credit limit than I did and probably wasn’t even close to maxing it out. Yeah, well, I had PayPal Buyer Credit.
I stood and shook my foot, which had fallen asleep during hours of sitting cross-legged on the floor. Silently, I added that to my list of reasons to find some way to make Liam’s life miserable. No, not miserable. Unbearable. Painful. Excruciating.
4 Slightly Irregular Page 2