“Mom!” Winona’s voice rises again. “I told you we are just dating. I have asked you to stop doing this kind of thing. Please?” She’s smiling through clenched teeth.
Her mother makes a huffing sound. Then she turns her attention back to me. “When is the wedding date, exactly? I assume you’ve set it?”
Winona’s voice rises. “We didn’t.
“They didn’t set a date?” Loretta exclaims dramatically, as scandalized as if Winona and I were doing the dirty right there in front of the stuffed toy display. Anna Lou’s face flushes in embarrassment. The Kut & Kurl ladies all start murmuring amongst themselves.
Winona’s father raises his voice. “I’m sure it’ll be soon.” Then he gives me a stern look. “Son, you and I need to have a talk. No time like the present, is there?”
“Dad!” Winona’s face is the color of ripe, red strawberries. Photographers are snapping pictures of us. Of course.
She spins around so her back is to the photographers and presses up against me, her body rigid with tension. “This was a bad idea,” she hisses at me.
“Inviting us to New York was a bad idea?” Anna Lou’s eyes widen in hurt.
“No!” Winona’s attention snaps back her. “Of course not. I’ve been dying to see you guys. It’s just that today is already so crazy… It would have been better to have you all come a few days from now.”
“Give me just a minute, and then we’ll have that talk,” I say to Winona’s father. I lead Winona aside, stepping behind a counter with her to gain us some space. “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I didn’t mean to stress you out. You’re right, I should have waited to have them come here. I just wanted to show your parents that I am serious about you, and also to stick it to those Kut & Kurl heifers.”
I grin so she’ll see the humor in it. She replies with a pained smile.
We walk back over to her parents. Loretta and her crew watch us avidly, eager for gossip to take back home.
“I’m ready for that talk now,” I say to Mr. Jeffers.
I endure a good five minutes of “What are your intentions?”, along with him explaining that of course he understands that we won’t be able to move to Peach Pit right away, and I shouldn’t let his wife worry me too much, he’ll talk to her about it. Also, although she really wants us to move into the house on their property, I shouldn’t let that limit my choices. There are several houses available in their neighborhood, and some nice empty lots too.
Winona is watching me with drowning eyes.
I smile and nod as he talks, and I’m not at all offended or upset, but I can see how it would ride on Winona’s nerves. I just say a lot of “yes sirs” and “of course, sirs” without promising anything that Winona will murder me for.
Then Anna Lou and the rest of the ladies start wrapping up food from the buffet table in napkins and stuffing it in their purses, and Winona looks like she’s going to die of embarrassment, so I hurry over to rescue her by inviting the ladies to a behind-the-scenes tour of our runway show downstairs. We’ve got plenty of celebrities in the crowd today that I can introduce them to. That should help score some brownie points for Winona. Right?
Winona’s lips are pressed tightly together as I shepherd everyone to the employee door in the back of the department.
On the menu tonight: a healthy heaping of crow, served up cold.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Winona
“Thanks for meeting me here.”
Blake’s waiting for me at the end of the hall on the eighth floor, his body radiating waves of tension so thick they’re visible to the naked eye. He’s standing by The Door That Shall Not Be Opened. Except it’s open, and he’s standing next to it, and his smile is wavery and tentative.
Maybe he’s still suffering from Popup Palooza hangover? Or exhausted from ferrying everyone from Peach Pit around town, personally? Yes, Mr. Busypants actually took half a day off yesterday, during the second day of the popup event, and we all drove around town in a stretch limo, taking the crew to the tourist sites. When they tried to make snarky comments about my clothes and hair, he blithely deflected them, talking about how fashion-forward I am and how my movie-star clients keep asking where they can buy the outfits I’m wearing.
And after that, he insisted on giving me the rest of the day off so I could spend more time with my family and take everybody to a Broadway musical.
My parents swelled with pride, and my heart melted at Blake’s kindness. I know that he did what he did with the best of intentions – although I also privately reminded him that not all surprises are good ones. He’s promised to check with me first next time.
“So, here we are. The mystery door.”
“Yep, the mystery door,” he echoes flatly. No snarky remark? That’s…different.
I follow him through the door into a short hallway. “Just checking. Are you planning on killing me and hiding my body back here?” It’s hushed and quiet back here, an overhead light panel throwing a sickly white light onto faded maroon Oriental carpeting. “It would be the perfect murder. Nobody would ever find me.”
Blake snorts in amusement. “What the hell, woman? Have you been watching Hallmark Movies and Mysteries again?”
“You know I have.” In fact I forced him to watch one with me last night. Afterwards, we watched his choice: a sci-fi shoot-‘em-up. My dirty little secret is, I also love sci-fi shoot-‘em-ups, so I got my choice twice in a row. Winning!
“Well, for the record, I haven’t been tempted to murder you in weeks. Not seriously tempted, anyway.”
I follow him down the hall to an ornately carved wooden door. He pulls the door open; the hinges creak in protest.
A musty odor tickles my nostrils, and I sneeze violently. "I've never been to this part of the floor before."
"Nobody has, for twenty years. It was my father’s office.” He tries to keep his voice light and breezy, but it’s laden with hidden pain.
"Oh. You haven’t been in here since…” My voice trails off.
He walks in, and I follow him. A gust of cool air blows from the air conditioning vent in the wall.
"No, I haven't set foot in here since the accident.”
I put my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze, and he flashes me a quick, pained smile.
We’re squinting in the darkness. Heavy curtains cover a floor-to-ceiling window. He flips a switch on the wall, but the lights have apparently burned out.
Heaving a sigh, he walks over to the window and opens the curtains. The tracks make a squeaking nose as he pushes the curtains back, and light floods in, illuminating a room stuffed with bulky, outsized furniture. Facing us are a gold-inlaid teakwood desk that could easily seat half a dozen executives, and behind it a wall of bookshelves full of fashion magazines, oversized books of photography, and golf trophies.
A leather sofa and chairs cluster around a clunky coffee table. Opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a wall full of industry awards and photographs of Blake’s father posing with models and actresses who were famous decades ago.
Not a single family photo that I can see. Not even any pictures with just him and his wife.