A Girl's Best Friend Page 10

chapter 12

  I turn the bathwater off and scoop up a handful of bubbles to sniff them as I gaze out into the twinkling lights across the Bay. “Life is good.” Well, this life is good, anyway.

  Just as I’m about to slip off my robe, the bedroom phone rings. I think twice about answering it, but what can I say? I’m a slave to the phone. Isn’t it every girl’s hope that Prince Charming is on the other end? Remember, I just want that one good fish.

  “Hello.”

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” It’s Lilly. “One offer of Cup O’ Noodles, and you slip off into the night? Morgan, weren’t you even a Girl Scout?”

  “No, that green is horrible on me. Besides, the other mothers didn’t want their daughters around my mother. They said she wore too much cleavage and set a bad example for their girls.”

  “Enough of the woe-is-me pity party. I don’t think the girls would have even known what cleavage is. You’re making this up. Are you coming back here? Nate said he put you in a cab, and Max was worried because he said you were white as a sheet.”

  I look at the bath and take a whiff of the swirling, aromatic scents. “I don’t think I’m coming back, no.” Because life here is really good.

  Lilly is quiet for a moment.

  “So, we’ll do a spa trip soon?” I ask cheerily.

  “No, we won’t do a spa trip soon,” Lilly barks. “You are nearing thirty. You cannot live with Daddy forever, Morgan. Maybe it’s none of our business. Maybe you’d prefer if Poppy and I just stayed out of your life. But you said you wanted our help. You said you wanted to be responsible for yourself and learn about reality. Well, Cup O’ Noodles is reality, honey. You can buy them for a paltry fee at Costco and live large for a month.”

  “Dried vegetables gross me out, Lilly. Besides, it was really more your comment that ticked me off.” Currently, I can smell fresh artichokes cooking, and I know Mrs. Henry will have a delicious cream sauce on the side for dipping. Maybe real butter and lemon juice—oh, I so love that. Maybe she’ll have the beef with tarragon she makes. I feel my mouth watering at the thought. “Yeah, I’m not coming back.”

  “Fine, Morgan, this is your life, I’m not going to meddle. If you want to be the princess of San Francisco, you go right ahead. It’s good work if you can get it.”

  I should have known Lilly wasn’t going to offer up any apologies. “It really is my life.”

  “I know now when you say you want help, you just really want to be told your life means something. I can understand that. Your life means something—you’re Richard Malliard’s daughter. Woo-hoo!”

  “What are you mad at me for?” I ask, suddenly incensed.

  “I’m mad at you because you say you want to get out of this vicious cycle you’re in. You say you wish your church did more to help the poor. You say you wish your father would have faith in something other than diamonds. You say all these things, but they mean nothing to you, Morgan. Not really. If they did, you’d do something to change your life, not fall back into your precious down comforter and city views. Get yourself a life!”

  I look out the window and feel a pang of guilt. It does rock up here.

  “Someone has to witness to the wealthy,” I say confidently.

  “Last night at singles, did you meet anyone who cared who you were?”

  “Not a one. It’s like those people never pick up a paper. Which is good and bad, I suppose. They don’t know about my history, but they probably don’t know if we’re out of the Cold War either.”

  Lilly exhales. “You are living in a fishbowl, and there is an entire world out here waiting for you. People who gaze up at the bowl, but who actually get to be part of the audience and participate. Climb down out of your tower, Morgan, or don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?” She acts like I’m in a Lifetime movie or something. “I’ll be suffocated in a bad facial accident?”

  Again she’s silent for far longer than is comfortable. “I think your faith is part of the show, Morgan.” She clears her throat. “Personally, I think right now if Jesus Himself walked up to your doorway and asked you to come with Him, you’d look back.” She pauses to let this soak in, and I have to say, it’s like a fist across my jaw. “Just like Lot’s wife, just like the rich, young ruler. You’re about the stuff.”

  My first instinct is to deny every word and turn right back on Lilly and her self-righteous preaching. “Letting your boyfriend sulk and wait around for you to come around to marriage? Where is that on your faith scale? It is by faith we are saved, not by works so that no man can boast.”

  “Faith in what, Morgan? Your daddy’s credit card? How is living one day in my apartment and not finding a job having any faith?”

  Her words pierce me. I’ve never had my faith questioned by anyone, and how dare she? She doesn’t know my heart, nor my motives. How can I possibly leave my dad in the clutches of that woman who will systematically destroy all he’s built, starting with this penthouse?

  “Lilly, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve tried to do, but my father is going to marry someone who I think is out for his money. I have to stay here or I’ll find my trust fund dwindled to nothing, not to mention the crime she wants to perpetrate against this penthouse. Would you let your nana suffer when you could stop it? My dad has worked hard for all he has; he’d be crushed if it were gone.” I don’t relay the fact that I miss my great bathtub, or that I was completely the third wheel at the loft, and that I just feel lonely and so falling in my soft, downy nest is just what I need to do right now.

  “It’s his money, Morgan. If he chooses to give it to his new bride, that’s precisely the reason you need something to fall back on. What if they marry and your dad keels over without ever changing his will?”

  “You didn’t answer me about Max. Are you going to marry him?” I tap my foot against the travertine.

  She ignores the question again. “We’re not talking about me. Let the money go. If you get a job, you won’t need your dad’s money. You can live in my place for as long as you want, and Poppy would love to have you if you want to get away for the weekend. She’s bored senseless down there in Silicon Valley.”

  “Newsflash: I’m not qualified for anything, Lilly. My résumé is a mishmash of celebrity parties and grunt retail in my dad’s store. I can barely remember what I majored in, much less any of the information I learned. Basically, I have a Stanford degree in Johnny Depp movies, because that’s about all I remember, and that’s not exactly marketable.”

  “You’re not trying. Nate talked to Max, and he’s going to get you a job as a concierge in his father’s hotel until you can find something better.”

  I swallow hard and look at my bath drawn to perfection and steaming up the beveled window’s view, creating a frosted, hazy, Monet-like scene. “I don’t know anything about being a concierge.”

  “Max is here. I don’t want to dress up, but I want good food for dinner, and within walking distance of Nob Hill. Where should we go?”

  “The Nob Hill Café on Taylor.”

  “No, wait a minute,” Lilly backtracks. “I think I’m in the mood for Italian.”

  “Venticello, but you should probably dress a little. Not too much—dressy-casual. Doesn’t Max know where he wants to take you?” And how on earth did we get from me renouncing my Christianity to restaurants?

  “Well, we’d like to see a play afterward, and I heard Cats was good.”

  I start to laugh out loud. “Lilly, I don’t think Cats has played here for a decade or so. Gogol’s Overcoat is playing at A.C.T.; see if you can get into that. I think you’d love it!”

  “You’re hired!” A male voice comes on the line.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Max,” the deep voice says. “My father is looking for a new concierge, and you’re our woman. We can’t pay what the Mark Hopkins or the Fairmont pays, but then again, you don’t know French or Japanese,” he stops for a mome
nt. “Do you?”

  “Max, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but–”

  “But what, Morgan? You forget I’ve lived your life. Do you really want out? Or do you just want to fall back into Daddy’s arms and have the rest of us leave you alone? It’s your choice, but there’s no going back once they’ve taken full possession.”

  Max Schwartz was offered a significant share in his father’s hotel chain, but he turned it down for his love of words and television. Perhaps it isn’t the most lofty of positions, but he did escape with enough money to live in the Marina and be on speaking terms with his parents.

  I peek out and see Gwen bent over my father, her rustic cleavage enticing him to avoid the facts laid out before him in blueprints: tanking real estate.

  I quietly shut the door again. “Of course I want out, but one has to make plans. You don’t just move out when you have no job and no income. Besides, my father needs me right now.”

  “Your father will always need you. It’s his modus operandi. Trust me. I’m offering you a job, Lilly. You can have it for as long as you need it.”

  “I don’t want to be a concierge, Max. I appreciate you trying to get me a job, but I don’t want to answer tourist questions all day. I think my skills entitle me to more than that. Tourists annoy me.”

  “That’s fine,” he says shortly.

  “Tell Lilly I appreciate what she’s trying to do, but I don’t want her help right now. I need to be here for my father.”

  “I’ll pass that along.”

  I place the phone back in its cradle, and I notice my bath doesn’t look nearly so inviting. She’s ruined it for me, Lilly and her incessant nagging. People are so anxious to get you work, when all they do is complain about it. I fail to understand their actions.

  The phone rings again, and I shout into the phone, “What?”

  “Morgan?” It’s a male voice I don’t recognize.

  “Who’s calling, please?” I ask, anxious to find out if my private line got out to the press.

  “It’s George Gentry. I met you today again in a hallway in the financial district.” His voice is buttery smooth, just like I prefer them. I wonder how many wives in the closet this one has.

  “I know who you are, George Gentry. You’re the man who let me believe you were a journalist. Today, surprise, surprise, you’re a lawyer. What’s next—tomorrow will I get your FBI card? And are you planning to continue popping up everywhere like a terrifying jack-in-the-box? If so, please bring chocolate so that I might appreciate your presence.”

  He clears his throat. “Right. Well, I need to speak with you, Morgan, on a legal matter.”

  “Mr. Gentry, I have no interest in meeting with you or hearing what you have to say. For all I know, your business card is still warm from the Kinko’s printing press. You do forget, sir, that I’ve been the target of many a con man and fallen for each and every one. I’m now what you might call savvy.”

  Don’t I sound the epitome of confident? But I am curious about what he has to say, what he’s up to, and what any of this has to do with me. And his sable eyes have nothing to do with it.

  “You have every right to be leery, Miss Malliard, but I think you’re going to want to hear why I’ve been following you. We can meet in a very public place. You name where you’d feel comfortable. A coffee shop? A hotel lobby, maybe?”

  “Now it’s ‘Miss Malliard’ you’re calling me? Such formality for someone who informed me I didn’t consummate my marriage and seems to know my every move. I would think we’re on more intimate terms, Georgie.”

  I don’t like the way I feel after these words. I don’t like what I’ve become after Andy. Fearful of everyone and suspicious. It’s not becoming.

  “Morgan, aren’t you even curious why I might want to talk to you? How I know so much about you?”

  What really makes me curious, I suddenly think, is why I want so desperately to talk to him.

  “Not in the least bit,” I lie easily. “I keep hearing that Police song ‘Every Breath You Take’ and thinking ‘stalker.’” Even if he does look like heaven on a stick. The fact is Andy looked that way, too. I’m so inclined to trust the wrong people. I can’t take a chance.

  “I understand your objections, but you should know that you’ll be served papers soon. Along with your father. I don’t usually send warnings, but you’ve been through so much, and I didn’t want to catch you by surprise. Your father knows all about this. I thought you deserved equal treatment.”

  He hangs up on me, and I feel my heart race. Suddenly I wish it was safe to run in the night streets of San Francisco. I feel this intense need to expel energy, and nowhere to go with it. I reach in and let the water drain from my bathtub and slip into a cashmere sweater and my Lilly jeans. I unlock my desk and pull out two hundred dollars in cash, stuffing it into the pocket of my jeans. Opening my bedroom door, I see that the destruction of my father’s penthouse is still on the table.

  I rush through the apartment and catch my father’s gaze for a moment. He’s no match for the evil threesome of dire decorating, but I’ll worry about that when I get home.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy, I have to run out.”

  “Will you be home tonight?”

  Whatever Mrs. Henry is cooking, it smells delectable, and I wish I had time to eat, but I want to escape and if there was a safe landing, out my bedroom window would have been preferable.

  Lilly’s loft simply wasn’t far enough. I never truly left my comfort zone, I never got the peace I needed to figure it all out. I think best in my car. Hopefully, I’ll get in and know exactly where I’m running to.

  “No, Daddy,” I shake my head. “I won’t be home tonight. I have some things to figure out.” As Gwen is deeply entrenched in conversation, I stare deeply into his intense black eyes. “Have you ever heard of a George Gentry?”

  My father grabs my elbow and pushes me backwards into my bedroom. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “You know him?”

  “Has he contacted you?”

  “Sweetie!” Gwen’s whiny voice screeches from the dining room, echoing off the travertine floors. “We need you to tell us how high the bookcases should be.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Daddy growls. “Has he contacted you, Morgan?”

  “Who is he, Daddy?”

  “Just another leech, Morgan. No one you need to concern yourself with. Make sure you stay away from him until I tell you differently.”

  I think about relaying the information about papers and being served, but something holds me back. “Right, Daddy.”

  Mrs. Potatohead hollers again.

  “Daddy, you should really tell her we don’t yell in the house. An inside voice, I think they tell the preschoolers at church.”

  “You’re going to love her, Morgan. I know you will. It will just take some time alone for you two to get to know each other. She’s brilliant.”

  His comment is really more command than gentle prophecy. Somehow, I don’t see myself feeling the love.

  chapter 13

  For lack of a better place to escape, I drive straight to my health club. After placing my car in the skillful hands of Johnny, the best valet on earth (my father simply must put him in his will), I enter the hallowed halls of Square One. Kingston Crane is working behind the long, rock-faced counter, the song of dripping water in the wall-length fountain behind him giving the eerie echo of a natural fountain in a well-equipped cave. I want to feel relaxed walking into the carefully architected building, but Kingston’s presence unravels any sense of well-being with his creepy gaze and moist, glossy, maraschino lips.

  Kingston is the living, breathing clarification of why I will never be a concierge. With a shrewlike face and black, darting eyes, Kingston is the boy who ate paste in school. The boy whose mother glued his hair down in a shellacked side part. He moves frantically and erratically, like a rodent caught in the bottom of the garbage bin looking for his way out. I can only imagine how he got
this job, since I’m pretty sure he strikes the entire club the same way. He’s the face you will eventually see on an episode of 48 Hours with someone commenting, “There was always something not right about him.”

  “Miss Malliard,” Kingston mews.

  “Kingston.”

  “May I help you, Miss Malliard? Did you have a question for me?” He leans over the counter and licks his lips freshly.

  “Is there someone for a pedicure at this time of night? Perhaps Julia’s still here?” I look at the clock above Kingston’s small head, and it ticks loudly at three minutes before eight.

  “Of course there is. Why don’t you relax in the sauna, and I’ll get the room set up. We haven’t seen you in a while, though you have been keeping yourself busy, I suppose. You look as though you’ve gained a little weight, so it’s good to see you back. Maybe you’d like some personal training?” He grabs a calendar from behind the counter.

  “I’ll be in the whirlpool or sauna when Julia is ready for me.”

  It takes every Christian principle I’ve been taught not to comment on his lack of masculinity as I head down the glass-mosaic hallway into the changing room, mumbling the entire way, and unlock my locker. My swimsuit hangs neatly alongside my goggles, and I reach for the suit and a fresh club robe. The towel girls, as Lilly calls them, have all gone home for the day, so I pick up a fresh towel, ponder the nearby whirlpool for a moment and then decide the sauna is more of a departure from my regular reality.

  A charge of cold air hits me as I exit to the hallway. But it’s nothing next to the icy chill of reality that next bolts through my system. Outside the door, leaning against the wall, is something I never thought I’d see. I feel my soul flutter within at the sight of Andy Mattingly. (Or Arnold, depending on who you believe.)

  “Andy, what are you doing here?”

  “You won’t answer my calls. My brother’s a private investigator, and I had you followed.”

  Right. And Agent 007 is on the case. This guy wouldn’t know the truth if it sprouted eight legs and crawled up his back. “How did you get in here?”