Hell. I’m going to die single.
Alice scrunches up her nose. “Whew. Close one.”
I frown. “I thought you liked her?”
Alice shrugs and makes a face. “I didn’t dislike her. She just wasn’t…” She trails off.
I nod in understanding. Yeah. She just wasn’t.
“How’d she take it?”
I wince. “Not well. She pretty much pretended it didn’t happen, tried to make it sound like I was just stressed out from work and she’d give me some time to myself. That reminds me, it’s her birthday in a couple of days. I have to make sure that Thérèse knows that she’s off my gift list and not to give her a present. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.” I glance at Henry, who’s returned with the suitcases. “Tell Thérèse,” I say to him.
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you don’t mind us popping into town at the last minute like this, Blake. I know you hate surprises,” Alice says as we thread through the crowds. “We’ve missed you, and Steve’s at his annual conference, so I figured I’d take Tamara to the Museum of Natural History and try to catch you in between appointments. Maybe fit in a dinner or two.”
“I am always delighted to see you.” That part is true. The fact that I hate surprises—that’s true too.
As we make our way towards the exit, she nudges me. “You never did explain about the perfume.”
“Long story. The short version is, a woman jumped in the cab with me and dumped a bottle of perfume in my lap.”
Alice stifles a laugh. There’s my loving sister for you. “Why? What did you do to her?”
“Why do you automatically assume it was my fault?”
“You’re answering my question with a question. I’m sensing there’s a story here. Does this have anything to do with why you broke up with Sloane?”
“What?” I splutter. “Of course not.” It didn’t…did it? Or did I only start noticing how comfortably dull things were with Sloane after Winona and I started clashing? No. Total coincidence.
“Sooo…”
I narrow my eyes. “So, I did nothing to provoke her. She was dangerously unstable. A freaking leftover World War Two ordnance that could go off at any time.” We walk outside to the sidewalk.
Alice smiles knowingly. “Something fairly heinous, then.”
“What’s heinous?” Tamara pipes up. “It sounds like a bad word. Do you need to put money in the swear jar?”
“It’s not a swear. It just means very bad,” Alice assures her daughter, who looks disappointed. She returns her attention to me. “Was she pretty? You seem kind of rattled.”
“Being drenched in stench will do that to a man. What kind of twenty-something-year-old carries perfume that went out of style during the great depression? She must have inherited it from someone who really hates her.”
“Twenty-something?” Alice smirks. “Hair color? Eye color? Height?”
Flame red. Tawny brown with dark flecks. 5’3”.
“No idea,” I say sourly. “Don’t make me prank you, sister.” Alice and I have a long and very immature history of inflicting minor acts of sabotage on each other. She had purple hair for her sweet sixteen. She retaliated with chocolate Ex-Lax brownies served to me right before I went on my first date.
“Bring it, brother.”
Our limo driver is just gliding up as we step outside into the sunlight and noise. As I wave him over, I make a note to send one of my assistants to deal with the Hell’s Kitchen construction project from now on. Winona not only wields chemical weapons, she takes up far more mental real estate than I can spare.
As Henry loads the suitcases in the trunk, I slide in next to Alice.
“So, about your new friend …” Alice prods, as she buckles Tamara’s seatbelt.
I shoot her a narrow-eyed scowl. “Time to change the subject, or I’ll hug you so hard you’ll need a Brillo pad to get the smell off.”
Alice flashes me a pained smile and rolls down her window.
Chapter Five
Winona
I mope in the waiting room of the human resources department, avoiding the scornful gazes of the three other candidates. A man and two women, they’re as sleek and pretty as Vogue models. They don’t so much sit on the lipstick red Eames sofa as pose. The room’s mid-century modern aesthetic is the perfect backdrop for their effortless chic.
As for me, I sit separate from them, perched on an angular black molded plastic chair designed for maximum discomfort. I jogged the whole way here, and I look it. My ankles are throbbing, and my swollen feet are pulsing with pain. Those boots were made for walking…not running.
I can’t even blame the other interviewees for their snotty attitude. When I stepped into the Hudson’s elevator, I was confronted by a crazy bag lady, and I shrieked in horror before I realized I was looking at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My face was tomato red, my smoky eye makeup melted into raccoon rings, and my hair had exploded into a giant frizzball. My sweat-soaked dress clung to my body like Saran Wrap.
Instead of giving up and going home like a sane person, I limped into the waiting room – five minutes late. Wincing, I gave my name to the secretary.
The interviewer, Thérèse, came out to greet us. She’s the head of the personal shopping department. A reed-slim woman who looks to be in her sixties, she stood there in the doorway of her office, effortlessly chic with her shiny gray bob and a pink Chanel suit. She took one look at me and swiveled to the girl to my left, a brunette with hair that flowed down her back in beachy waves.
I was already on thin ice after sleeping through the last interview. I had zero room for error – and here I am, showing up late and looking like this. If this had happened to anyone else, it would have made for a hilarious anecdote, but I’m sitting here trying not to cry. I Winona’d it – again.
After chatting with the brunette for half an hour, Thérèse came out and called the beautiful Asian girl to my right. When she was done talking to her, she called on the handsome, goateed Indian man sitting across from me.
My appointment was for 9 a.m. It’s 11 a.m.
My phone vibrates, and I glance down to see a message from my mother.
Hey, peach-pie! Did you get the job? Of course you did. When do you start?
It’s accompanied by a few rows of smiley faces, angel wings, champagne bottles, and balloons, and, for some reason, a little alien head and a castle. I regret few things in life, but teaching my mom how to use emojis is right up there.
I quickly tap out a text.
Not sure yet! I hope so!!!! Love you!!!
Ever since my mother’s cancer diagnosis, I’ve been relentlessly cheerful when I talk to her and my dad. Everything is fine! Everything is great! With exclamation points! And hearts and flowers!
Everything really is fine, all things considered. Dropping out of school to help care for my mom was a small price to pay to see her getting well. My parents are still financially reeling from the medical bills, trying to hold on to our little farm, but the most important thing is, she’s alive and the cancer is gone. How can I complain about anything, ever? I feel guilty that I’m stressing about anything at all. My credit card bills, my failure to make headway with my career – it all shrinks in significance when held up against the dizzyingly fearful threat of losing my mother.