She’d left that place behind at the age of eighteen, catching a bus out of downtown Roanoke for New York City where she’d been offered a job as a prostitute within twenty-four hours of arriving.
For the first few days, she wandered the streets with her small suitcase, sleeping on benches in Central Park, wondering if someone like her could ever make it in a place like this. She decided then that one of two things could happen. She could let the city run right over her, or she could breathe in the heady power of the place and let it fuel her ambitions. She chose the latter, and she’d never looked back.
At exactly eight-thirty, Jason pulled over in front of her office building on Madison. He got out and opened her door, again leveling her with a steamy gaze she felt certain he’d used to great effect numerous times before now.
“Good luck with the audition this afternoon,” she said, slipping out with her briefcase and purse in one hand, coffee in the other.
He smiled the smile that would surely win him the role. “If I don’t get it,” he said, “I’m going to come see you about that image redo.”
She laughed, shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll be needing it, Jason.”
“Have a great day, Ms. McAllister,” he said. As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her backside. In Timbell Creek, they’d had names for guys brazen enough to cop a feel or leer behind a girl’s back. It was just plain bad manners, like talking with your mouth full of potato salad at the church picnic, and would have earned the offender a cuff in the head from Somebody’s Daddy. Those of them who had a daddy, anyway.
But with forty in the headlights, Grier decided to take it as a compliment.
Franklin, the doorman, smiled as she approached the building. “Notice anything different about me today, Ms. McAllister?” he asked, with an exaggerated smile.
She stopped, gave him a surmising look. By Manhattan standards, she wouldn’t call herself tall, but Franklin stood a good foot below her. He was seventy if a day and had worked the eight to four shift in this building for nearly thirty years. He had a book’s worth of short stories he could tell about the people he’d seen come and go through its doors. “That’s a new suit, isn’t it?” she said.
He straightened, lifted his chin a little, then smoothed his hands down the center of the navy jacket. “What do you think?”
“Smashing.”
He flashed her another big grin. “Anything else?”
She smiled. “Why, Franklin, look at your teeth. They’re beautiful.”
“Who knew I still had these under all those years of smoking? Thanks for telling me about that dentist. Nice guy. And the whitening thing didn’t hurt a bit.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “You look great.”
“Remember I told you about Marla, the lady who works in the Macy’s shoe department?”
“I do,” she said. “Any luck?”
“I haven’t asked her out yet. She’s taller than I am,” he said, sounding suddenly worried. “Think that matters?”
“With that smile? No way.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed. “I wanted to get your okay on the changes first.”
“Franklin, she’d be crazy not to go out with you.”
“You think so?”
“I absolutely do.”
He nodded hard. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said and headed for the elevator.
On the third floor, she stepped through the glossy red door of Jane Austen Girl, Inc. to find her assistant, Amy, hovering by her desk. As always, Grier felt a little surge of pride for this office she’d worked her way up to. Literally, worked her way up to. The early days of her business had been conducted in an apartment approximately the size of a walk-in closet. A small one at that.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Amy said, her voice a near squeak of excitement. She pressed one hand to her cheek, the other waving wildly in front of her like one of those wind up toys kids get in their Easter baskets. A huge fan of old movies, she changed her style according to whatever was currently in her DVD player. Judging from the leggings, the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and ringlets in her normally straight hair, Grier guessed last night’s showing had been
Flashdance
.
“Very Jennifer Beale,” she said.
“Thanks!” Amy said, obviously pleased that she got it. She clapped her hands together, her voice catapulting to another pitch. "Oh, my gosh, Grier. You are
so not
going to
believe
this."
Amy talked this way. Emphasis on every two or three words, her eyebrows rising with the intonation so it was easy to get distracted and end up with no idea of what she’d just said.
“Try me,” Grier said, heading for her office where she dropped her briefcase and purse onto a leather chair by the window.
“So-an-Irish-Duke-is-coming-to-New-York-and-you’ve-been-chosen—"
Even though Grier was dying to hear the rest, she held up a hand to keep Amy from hyperventilating. This happened to Amy with over stimulation of any sort. The last incident involved a drop-in visit a few weeks before from an A-list movie star whom Grier had worked with in the early days of both their careers. Jess Mercer had been her first real transformation, a guy born with true physical beauty and not even a modicum of style. The day he’d come to her then pitiful excuse for an office, he’d been wearing a horizontal striped rugby shirt with plaid pants and shoes that could only be described as a close cousin to those most often used for bowling.
Apparently, a drama teacher at Juilliard had told him he could be the next big thing if he’d hook himself up with an image consultant who could teach him how to dress. He’d found her in the Yellow Pages, confessing he’d picked her ad because it was the smallest, and he figured he could afford her. No great boost to the ego, but Grier liked to think it worked out for both of them.
At the sight of him in a black Armani jacket and Lucky jeans, Amy had simply lost the ability to breathe. The three of them ended up at the Cedars-Sinai Emergency Department where she was treated for a panic attack and earned the eternal gratitude of the on-duty nurses who got autographs from Grier’s former client.
Thinking they might be headed that way again now, Grier pulled a paper bag from the stack in the bottom of her desk drawer, popped it open and handed it to Amy. She took a few deep breaths, and when she spoke again, her voice was back in its normal range. “Thanks,” she said.
“So tell me.”
“Okay. George Fitzgerald, Irish Duke of Iberlorn is coming to Manhattan next month for a charity fundraiser ball. The KT Network is doing an episode on it for their show
Dream Date
.”
Grier sat down at her desk, flipped open the lid to her MacBook and turned it on. “Are we being asked to do one of the makeovers?”
“Noooo,” Amy said, all but shaking with excitement. “It’s even better than that! They want to use the name Jane Austen Girl for the episode and the ball. They also want you to hold a contest in your hometown to pick ten girls for the show.”
At this, Grier sat back in her chair, feeling the color drain from her face. “What?”
“Isn’t it
great
?” Amy went on without noticing that Grier had just choked out that last word. “To be able to go back to where you grew up and pick some lucky girl who might end up on a date with a duke? How
cool
is that?”
“Why my hometown?”
“Apparently, they want a small town girl makes good story. Like your own, I guess.”
Quiet for a moment, Grier said, “Is that part optional?”
“Which part?
“The hometown part.”
Amy looked at her, blinking as if she could not imagine where the question came from. “I don’t think so. It sounded like part of the setup.”
“Could you call and check?” she asked, trying for nonchalance and hearing her own failure.
“Why?” Amy asked, blue-shadowed eyes widening. “Is that a problem?”
“Ah, yes, actually, it is,” Grier said. An understatement, if there ever was one.
“But things have been kind of slow,” Amy reasoned. “This could keep us busy, like,
forever
.”
“You might be right, but I haven’t been home in nineteen years. Going back to Timbell Creek isn’t even a possibility. Not for a duke. Not for anyone.”
“Oh,” Amy said, all of the enthusiasm draining from her face almost instantly. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth, looking at Grier with uncertainty, as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.
“You can call me an idiot for turning it down, if you like,” Grier said. “Most likely you’d be right.”
“It’s just that—”
“Just that what?”
“Mr. Goshen from the bank also called this morning. He asked me to let you know they can’t give you an extension on the remainder of your loan. He said the balance would be due at the end of the month as originally scheduled.”
Grier sat back in her chair. “Why? He was just here yesterday and agreed to it.”
“I know,” Amy interrupted. “He said to let you know it was out of his hands.”
Grier turned to stare out the window, trying to remind herself that she had been in tight spots before. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the discomfort. But paying off the loan at this point would wipe out any cushion she had.
“Did I tell you how much the KT Network is willing to offer you?” Amy wheedled.
“No, you didn’t,” Grier said, not sure she wanted to know.
“Twenty thousand,” Amy said. “To set it up, do an initial cattle call, narrow the choices down to ten, at which point they will send in some of their people for the final decision-making.”
“Did you say twenty thousand?”
“I did,” Amy said, her tone making it clear that she couldn’t see how Grier had any choice but to accept the offer.
Twenty thousand dollars. Pay off the balance of her last loan and be debt free. In exchange for something she said she would never do. Go back to Timbell Creek.
She thought then of the eagle she’d seen earlier, so conspicuously out of place. Was this its message?
Alert: life-changing decision ahead. You’ll have to think long and hard about this one.
She didn’t need an eagle to tell her that.
From the
Timbell
Creek Gazette
Hometown Girl in Search of Date for Duke
Timbell Creek born Grier McAllister will be making a hometown visit this week as an ambassador for the hit reality television show
Dream Date
.
McAllister will head up a
Jane Austen Girl
contest for eighteen-year old Irish-born George Fitzgerald, Duke of Iberlorn, in his quest to pick a date for the Harker Foundation Jane Austen Girl Ball.
New York based image consultant Grier McAllister has been asked to return to her hometown of Timbell Creek to choose a young woman who may just fit the bill of perfect date for the duke. The reality series will film the interview process from start to finish, the last episode of which will be shot in Manhattan at the Jane Austen Girl Ball.
McAllister owns Jane Austen Girl, Inc. an image-consulting firm in New York City. She is the daughter of Maxine McAllister. She is a graduate of Timbell Creek High School.
Never, ever, wear open-toed sandals without a fresh pedicure. Chipped polish is the first thing a man will notice even if the rest of you
is
picture perfect. Think
Boomerang
with Eddie Murphy.
Grier McAllister - Blog at Jane Austen Girl
CHAPTER ONE
Grier had long envisioned the day she rode back into her past on a white charger, swiping the muck from every bad memory with an industrial size mop until there wasn’t a single marred image left.
But as she drove into Timbell Creek at noon on a beautiful Virginia May day, her white charger had begun to limp and the landscape of her childhood appeared distressingly familiar.
The oil light on the BMW’s control panel had begun to flash a few miles back. Now, the engine made a startling sputtering sound, and then cut off completely. Grier glanced in the rear view mirror, gave the wheel a sharp yank to the right, managing to land two tires on the shoulder before the engine died altogether, and the steering locked.
Sebbie, the twelve-pound ball of poodle fluff who had declared himself hers three years ago by following her home from a run in Central Park, cocked an ear at her.
“Don’t ask,” she said. “When was the last time I drove the thing?”
Sebbie barked once, now facing her on the leather seat. If he were a man, the translation would be, “So when was the last time you checked the oil?”
“It’s not my fault,” Grier said. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do when the car’s taken in for service?”
Sebbie whined and plopped down on the seat, head on his paws, as if he found the question unworthy of an answer.
Not once in all the times Grier had designed her return-to-the-past stories had they ever contained a scene where she let her car run out of oil. Nonetheless, here she was. She tried the engine again, only to be met with a low groaning sound that signaled nothing more than a complete lack of cooperation. She sat for a moment, her head against the back of the seat, staring through the sunroof at a swipe of vivid blue sky.
How exactly had she let herself be talked into returning to Timbell Creek?
She reached for her phone, swiped the screen and tapped in 411. Nothing. No signal.
Great. Sebbie emitted another low whine, as if this, too, could be blamed on her.
“Looks like we’re walking, buddy.”
At this new development, he hopped up and wagged his tail.
Grier opened the door and slid out, glancing down at the strappy Via Spiga heels she’d paired with a Donna Karan sleeveless wrap dress this morning. The car had decided to have its oil crisis ten or so miles from the town limits of Timbell Creek, and she did a mental calculation now of how long it would take her to walk that far in these shoes.
She snapped on Sebbie’s leash, and he leapt from the car, his opinion on the status of their day clearly having changed.