A Girl's Best Friend (30 page)
“It hasn’t been that long since you dressed up.”
“I don’t care about the ball. I’m just going because Lilly will make me a gown, and everyone can say how scandalous I am in red. Any publicity is good publicity. It worked for Paris Hilton.”
Mrs. Henry purses her lips together in that way she has that makes you feel about two feet tall. “Gwen is coming over with Frick and Frack, the designers, this afternoon.”
I groan. “My lawyer’s going to be here. Can’t you tell her to keep out?”
“She’s good for your father. He’s determined to make it long enough to get her to sign a prenup. Gwen gives him a reason to get up each day and battle that stroke.”
“I’m going to see him this afternoon. I don’t care what that lawyer says.” When I think about my father, I see this poor helpless lump in a hospital bed who longs to see me, but I know that’s a mythical and thoroughly wrong view. I’ll go in, he’ll ask me about the store and the lawsuit and send me on my way. Ah, the father-daughter bond.
“That lawyer is a nice-looking boy.” Mrs. Henry says, looking for more information from me.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She laughs. “Morgan, you have man radar like I have never seen before. You can walk into a room of four hundred married men and find the finest, richest one in half a second. You’ll sell them a piece of jewelry for their girlfriend and then go find the poor, helpless loser in the room for yourself.”
“Those days are gone. I’m learning to be independent.”
“As a nanny? Honey, that salary couldn’t pay for your monthly gym bill.”
“Then I’ll have to join another gym. Or maybe I’ll just run up Telegraph Hill once a week.”
“You’re going to work out without some gym rat hanging around and barking at you continuously?”
“If I have to.” I mean, I do possess a certain amount of vanity. Okay, an inordinate amount. I am my mother’s daughter as well.
Mrs. Henry smiles, and I see the warm side of her. Every so often, there are the days she defrosts just a tad and let’s me see into the side of her that cared for my mother. I never heard a harsh word from her mouth to my mother, and there’s something innate in humans that when you see that warmth and comfort in a person, you long to make it your own.
“Your mother used to say that, too, about working out. She always had to be the thinnest woman in a room.”
“Luckily, I’m friends with Lilly, so that isn’t possible and I have no false hopes.”
“Your mother was a shapely woman. It wasn’t good for her either.”
“How come you are so sweet when talking about my mother?”
A grin graces Mrs. Henry’s face as she talks of Mother. “Because I knew a Traci Malliard no one else got to see.” Mrs. Henry gets up and starts to clean imaginary dust from trinkets around the room.
There’s so much I want to ask her, but the doorbell rings, and it’s like the foghorn. Life is clouding up, and my transparent view to the future is about to get muddled. It’s time to go back to the lawsuit and back to an unknown world.
I open the door to George, and my heart beats just a little faster. He’s wearing a wool jacket the color of his eyes over a business shirt with no tie and a pair of jeans. One advantage to jail is that when I get a visitor it’s going to be this hottie. There are worse things.
Of course, a better thing would be that this hottie would actually be a good lawyer and get me out of this mess.
“George, it’s good to see you,” I say.
“Hello, Morgan,” he nods back like I’m one of his mother’s friends or, worse yet, just a client. He walks straight to the dining room table and plops his briefcase there, pulling out files.
“Can we do this at the kitchen countertop? That’s a French antique.” I’m cringing for Mrs. Henry, who is beside herself, eyeing George as though he’s the devil himself. Being handsome is one thing, abusing the antiques she cares for quite another to Mrs. Henry.
George stuffs his briefcase again, pounding on the table as though it’s a voodoo doll of Mrs. Henry, who flinches and aches with his every harsh move. He moves to the counter, slams the folders onto the granite, and opens them before me. Mrs. Henry rests on the sofa, her hand over her chest.
“I’ve run the numbers, and you’re entitled to this much salary as a partner in the business.” He points to a number I must say is a little less than I was expecting. “Your credit cards will still be frozen, so you have to learn to live within this number.”
“Do you think I’ll have difficulty with that?” I give a lighthearted, tinkling laugh, wondering how the heck I am going to buy highlights with that paltry number. I am not about to leave Franco, San Francisco’s highlight guru. I mean, the gym I can give up, the fancy eateries, but a girl has her pride. I am not going with boxed highlights for any amount of money.
He scans me, my unkempt nails, and I close my fists around them, very aware that my hygiene is not up to Malliard standards. “You’re used to more than this, I would think.”
“I can live with that.”
“Good. You can’t sell any assets at the moment. Your car is under surveillance, and the penthouse will be put up as collateral.”
My stomach twists as I think about our home being used in this way. But before I can comment, Gwen comes bounding through the elevator doors.
“Dad gave her a key?” I ask Mrs. Henry across the room. She nods.
“Mrs. Henry, do get my bag,” Gwen drops her Coach duffle bag, one exactly like mine (oh the horror), at the door. “And we’ll need something to eat when Sven and Jackson get here.”
George stands up. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“My father’s girlfriend,” I explain.
“Fiancée,” she corrects. “I’m meeting my designers here. We’re ready to gut this place and bring back its elegance.”
Fiancée. As if. Where’s your ring? I mean, is it just me or does my father specialize in diamonds and you’re not wearing one?
“Well, I’m sure you’re concerned for your fiancé’s future but we are in need of some privacy here,” George says with such grace.
“Apparently, we don’t have enough animal print,” I say under my breath.
“Why is she here?” Gwen points to Mrs. Henry.
“She might be indicted as well. This concerns her.” Mrs. Henry’s eyes get round, but George winks at her and she relaxes. I’m not prone to lying, but it’s a selfish plea. I want Mrs. Henry’s cooking.
“Gwen, why don’t you and Sven and Jackson meet in the foyer to go over the designs,” I say.
“Absolutely not.” George stands up. “This home is up as collateral to the government. There will be no redesign nor anything done to the home until the lawsuit is over.”
“Well, when is that?”
George shrugs, “It could be years.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere.” Gwen parks herself on the sofa, and I see George’s eyes flash. I rest my chin on my hands. Let the games begin.
Y
ou are going somewhere,” George says this in the same tone as Bond, James Bond. And I have to say, his confidence is quite appealing. I know, I know. He’s my lawyer, and as far as buoyancy options, all I’ve got to save me from drowning. Nothing is going to happen, but if I live in this imaginary place in my mind, where George Gentry rescues me from certain death (or in this case, federal prison), life is just easier to deal with. Why shouldn’t I live in a fantasy? What else do I have?
“Do you realize who I am?” Gwen stands up straight, though there is very little difference in her potato form. “I am Gwen Caruthers.”
“According to the paperwork I have here, your name is nowhere on this deed, and this concerns the people with rights to the properties. I’m doing what’s best for you, Miss Caruthers; I’m working on showing the U.S. government this property and all the others have been paid for accordingly. Now, I hate to be rude, but I will call the police if you don’t vacate the premises immediately.”
Gwen’s mouth drops. “You wouldn’t dare!”
George is all business. He doesn’t care an iota about the drama of my father’s girlfriend. He’s thinking billable hours, and this woman is in his way.
I sit back in my chair, confident that if my lawyer can take on the U.S. government, Gwen and the frat boys are no competition. But she surprises me.
“Do you have a key to this penthouse apartment?” she asks, crossing her long but substantial arms. I must say if they got into a fight, I think it might be a draw. George has the abs, but Gwen clearly has the pure brute strength on him.
“I have better.” He pulls out a sheet of paper. “A copy of the deed that’s being fought over. I suggest if you ever hope to live in this apartment, you’ll leave me and Miss Malliard to our business of saving Mr. Malliard’s hide. There’s not a government agency in San Francisco that will approve permits for a house being held as collateral.”
Meow! You go, Georgie.
Gwen huffs off, lifting her Coach signature bag with such force that it slams into the wall sconce and breaks the light. “Mrs. Henry!” she shouts, as though her temper is the light’s problem. And I suppose it is.
Mrs. Henry rushes over with a broom she managed to get so quickly it’s like it extended from her arm or something and starts to sweep up the glass on the floor.
“I’ll meet Sven and Jackson downstairs. Call the lobby when you’re through with this ridiculous business.” Gwen focuses her steely gaze on me. “Don’t think I don’t know where this started, Missy.”
Before I even have time to protest my innocence or stick my tongue out at her, she’s gone. George dives right back in and continues to tell me all the places I can have access to, and where I’ll need to cut back, and where I’ll especially not want to be seen spending money, what will raise red flags for the government, etc. Blah, blah, blah, blah.
“Do we get to the keep the apartment?” There’s this dark side of me that would rather get rid of it than watch it fall into the hands of Gwen’s designs. “I mean, when all this is over, and it’s not collateral anymore.”
“Morgan, we haven’t even heard the indictments read. A lot will depend on the grand jury they’ve called, and their reactions. You have to know, your recent history in the paper can go either way. Either people will feel sorry for you, or they’ll think you’re only getting more of what you deserve— that you feel entitled to act any way you feel, so creating that emotion in the jury will be crucial.”
“What do you think?”
He slams his stylish Mont Blanc lawyer pen on the table. “Why are you always asking me that? Do you want my legal opinion? Or do you want to be pacified?”
“I want to be pacified. Duh.”
“Then life will go on, Morgan, with a few kinks.”
“I can’t read you at all, and you fascinate me because there are so many things that don’t make sense. Like why do you have a twelve-dollar haircut and Bowflex abs? Why do you wear a European suit and yet walk into a steam sauna with it? Why aren’t you married?”
Did I just say all that out loud?
“Why do you want to know all that?”
Why not. “Would you stop lawyering my questions with more questions, and answer me? I have a right to know.”
“You really don’t. Legally, anyway.”
“But what reason do you have to keep it from me? I figure, why beat around the bush? You know every square inch of my financial history; why shouldn’t I know why you work for those abs of steel and yet share them with no one? You’re not gay.”
“How do you know that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No, really, I do.”
“A gay man would never notice my figure. That day at the spa, you did. Then again, at the health club. A gay guy might notice my clothes, or even my accessories. He might hone in on my daddy’s latest bling, but never, never . . . ” I put my forefinger up for emphasis. “ . . . would his eyes scan me up and down, and then pretend to not notice. I saw your Adam’s apple move when you finished.”
“I beg to differ with you on that. I think anyone would notice your figure.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Anyone.”
I smile a little self-satisfied grin. Of course, I don’t admit to him that I’m noticing his abs right now, and the tuft of hair that’s peeking from the collar of his unbuttoned business shirt. That’s extremely pathetic and sexist. Besides which, a girl has to have a few secrets. “So you’re not answering my final question: why aren’t you married?”
“I was engaged once,” he says, still scanning the paperwork as though he’s not really participating in our conversation.
I know he had to break it off. No one in their right mind would walk away from George Gentry. “Why didn’t you marry her?”
“She had a thing for another guy. I suppose you’d say she just wasn’t that into me.”
“She had a crush on another guy?” I ask.
“Actually, a little more. She had a little fling with the stripper at her bachelorette party.” His face gets red, and I see the humiliation flood his senses. I hadn’t meant to make him feel that way.
Ick. “She had a bachelorette party?” I have always wondered about the fascination with bachelor and bachelorette parties. To me, if you need one, you really might want to think about getting married in the first place. Of course, I may have fared better with the stripper. I’m kidding.
“Did
you have a bachelor party?” I ask, wondering if she was only exacting her revenge.
“I went golfing with my friends at the Olympic Club. One of the partners got me in and we had a wild day on the links.” He shrugs. “I think she needed a little more excitement in her life.”
“Why did you think she was the woman you wanted to marry in the first place?”
“I didn’t really think at the time. I thought it was the point in my career where I should get married. She was a legal assistant in the office, cute, and it just seemed right. She was—” He pauses, unsure of what he wants to say. “She was stupid, quite frankly, but very attractive, and she had the partners wrapped around her finger. It seemed like a good career move at the time.”
I smile and cover his hand with mine. “Thanks, George.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me that I’m not the only one who makes mistakes and being honest enough to tell me the truth.”
“What if I just reached for a storyline from
Dynasty
years back during law school?”