A Girl's Best Friend Page 14

  I dash behind the Chinese screen and climb into the new outfit, starved for the feel of fresh clothing on my limbs. In this, I know I will be able to get a job. I feel like a million! And it didn’t cost me a thing. Now I know how Daddy feels when he collects the rent. Advance to go, collect two hundred dollars.

  “So you’ll meet Max’s parents and you won’t freak out on commitment while I’m gone?” I say while I admire my image in the mirror.

  Lilly nods. “You’ll stay away from my Max?”

  I laugh. “Lilly, he’s all yours, but I’ve got news for you. Max sees no one but you in the room, and if I were you, I wouldn’t give him the chance to question his affections. Or next thing you know, you’ll be on the front page of the newspaper in the arms of a bigamist.”

  I slip into a pair of comfortable Cole Haans, which I snuck over, and head out the door feeling like the San Francisco executive I’m about to become. My reality just got kicked up a notch. Financial District, here I come. And this time, I’m dressed for the occasion.

  chapter 16

  I feel like a new woman in front of Lilly’s building. I don’t even have matching accessories, and I still walk like I’m on the runway. That’s how one knows good clothing. Lilly’s designs are enough without baubles and trinkets, though I’d never let my father hear me say that. That’s blasphemy to a Malliard. Good clothes always call for fine jewelry, my dear. But seriously, Lilly really is a talent, gifted with fabric, like I’m gifted at sniffing out the best spa products. Too bad she’s socially inept. Well, I guess it’s not actually too bad, because if she and Poppy weren’t socially inept, we never would have met and bonded. If there’s one thing that’s good in my life, it’s that I have friends as strange as me. Just in their own particular way.

  Poppy honks the horn of her Subaru Outback. You can tell it’s Poppy’s because it’s the only Subaru in town without the mandatory bumper sticker of the following persuasion:

  Free Tibet

  Love Animals—Don’t Eat Them

  KQED (public television)

  Pro-child, Pro-choice.

  No, Poppy has none of those bumper stickers, but rather a big silver Jesus fish on the back of her Subaru. The car, which is a cranberry red and as sporty as you can go with a Subaru, is perfect for getting her to her little mountain hikes.

  While we’re on the subject, what is the actual point of hiking, can you tell me? Does the view not look just as good from a well-appointed balcony? Having a goal is really not necessary to enjoy the outdoors. I want to tell Poppy this, but she doesn’t get it. Any more than I get her desire to view the Valley from nearby peaks. Sweating for fun is completely outside my realm of understanding, unless a sauna is involved.

  I head towards the wannabe SUV. She honks the horn again to let me hear its cute little whimper, and I climb into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, thanks for picking me up. I needed the moral support, because working world, here I come!”

  “Great outfit. Is that one of Lilly’s?”

  I nod. “Isn’t it fabulous? I printed some leads off the computer last night, and instead of business, I’m going to concentrate on the fashion sector. I thought we’d start at some of the boutiques I used to frequent.”

  “Good idea. And I have a lead for you I think you’re going to like. It’s right up your alley.” Poppy turns off the radio, which is playing some new-age Enya-type music, and looks at me. “Did you see the newspaper this morning?”

  Oh heavens, when will I not learn something personal in the newspaper? “I’m avoiding it. Is there something I should know?” I really wonder what it must be like for families who actually talk and tell each other things rather than learn them in the gossip rags and society pages. Imagine what it would be like to hear your mother was a Hollywood actress from her, rather than in her obituary.

  “I wouldn’t have seen it,” Poppy continues. “But I got into town early and read the paper in a coffee shop.”

  “You went to a coffee shop without me?”

  “I had a green tea. Relax. I’ll stop anytime you’re ready if you want to ingest more poison.”

  I pull at the waistline of the pants Lilly made for me in “my size.” That’s a relative term, as in the last month I’ve put on a few pounds and apparently I am currently someone else’s size. Someone who is distinctly bigger than me. I’m surprised Lilly didn’t notice, but since she didn’t, I have a feeling I’m going to be permanently tattooed with the waistline of these slacks.

  “So what did the paper say? Am I going to jail? Is the tax man coming?” I try to laugh off any fears.

  “It had nothing to do with the tax stuff. What’s that about?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to call my lawyer with the abs of steel.” I start to giggle to myself. “He should have been a plastic surgeon.” Mostly because he doesn’t need an ounce of work himself. He belongs in Rome, cut from marble.

  “Who should have been a plastic surgeon?”

  “My lawyer. He’s all clean-cut and pretty, like a plastic surgeon. Perfect teeth. I just don’t think I can trust a man with perfect teeth.”

  “Maybe his father was a dentist.”

  “So how’d he get the abs? Is his mother Jane Fonda?”

  “How do you know he’s really a lawyer? Lilly said this was the guy at Spa Del Mar.”

  “He said my dad hired him after it was clear the government wasn’t going to leave us alone and instead was deciding to pursue a lawsuit.”

  “Your dad hired a lawyer? And you believe that?” Poppy asks, a distinct tone of disbelief in her question.

  “The charges are true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Daddy’s getting a wife.”

  “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

  “She looks sort of like Pumbaa with microdermabrasion.”

  “Oh,” Poppy nods. “I see.” And it’s clear, she does. My dad is all about image, and he did not suddenly change overnight. Gwen clearly has some cash. I know it’s awful to think such things about your father, but if there’s one person I love, and yet still see the truth in, it’s my dad.

  “Did you look your lawyer up in the phone book?” Poppy asks.

  “No.”

  “On the state bar website?”

  “No.”

  “Did you even Google him?”

  “No, okay, I didn’t do anything. I lusted over his Bowflex bod and that was it. What more did I need to know? I’m shallow, and a wee bit desperate, all right? ‘You’ve got a good behind, I’ll follow you into court.’ Is that what you want to hear? I was an idiot. Once again.”

  “Absolutely not. I’d just think if I was facing tax evasion charges, I’d be a little more serious. I mean, even that Survivor winner faced five years in jail for not claiming his million. I imagine your dad hasn’t claimed a lot more than that.”

  “You’re assuming he’s guilty.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s not like you, Poppy. What about his right to a free trial, and innocent until proven guilty? You’re all about the ‘peace first’ effort.”

  “He’s guilty in my book already for putting you on his business. You and Lilly have spent a lifetime answering to nana and your father. To the point that you’re both scared to live. I’m tired of watching it, and tired of you both making excuses for your dysfunction.”

  “Dysfunction?”

  “That’s right. I’m surpassing ‘issues’ and ‘fears’ and going straight for ‘dysfunction.’ If your wedding history doesn’t prove to you something’s off, I don’t know what will, Morgan. The fact that you’ve never had a full-time job, were engaged to a man you felt sorry for, and then one who conned you? If you’re not seeing some dysfunction here, I can’t help you. You’re like a walking definition of neurosis.”

  “We may be dysfunctional, Poppy, but you’re in the same pen as us. If we were dogs in the San Francisco SPCA, we’d be in the same chain-link box for our issues. Lilly with her little
doggie Lysol can, you with your little hemp collar, and me getting ‘fixed.’”

  “I am a working chiropractor. I have a career. I have people who come to me for advice. I’m not dysfunctional.”

  “You haven’t bought a new skirt in this decade. You smell like herbs rather than a woman, and the last date you had was probably when that skirt was in style. Am I right?”

  “Unlike you, Morgan, I don’t measure my successes in terms of men in my life.”

  “And that’s a good thing, because it would make you a failure. I would assume you need men in your life to measure them. And cracking their backs doesn’t count.”

  “I came up here to help you. Like Lilly, you’re picking on my clothes. What is it with you two and my clothes?”

  “If you have to ask, that’s a problem. Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just tense. I suppose you have a balm for that.”

  “No, but I brought you some oolong tea. I’m wondering if I should have gone straight for St. John’s Wort.”

  “What did the paper say this morning? Am I engaged to someone I should know about?” I might as well have it all in front of me before I go in and try to sell myself as the newest fashion maven.

  Poppy doesn’t answer me but instead drives for a long time until she gets to the edge of the Embarcadero past the Giants’ stadium. She pulls over to the side of the road. The Bay’s waves are lapping up against the docks, and occasionally over their edge, and I realize how much I miss the view. Here, when I look into the horizon, I feel like there’s a whole life of adventure and opportunity out before me waiting to be lived. I’m not boxed in Lilly’s windowless loft actively searching for something that may not exist. The truth is I’ve never had a better opportunity to sail off into the sunset than right now, and I certainly hope today’s my day.

  “There’s a rumor circulating that you aren’t really your mother’s daughter,” Poppy says in a low and serious tone. I imagine it’s the voice she uses to tell someone they need surgery.

  “Oh trust me,” I laugh. “If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times about my mother’s poor abdominal muscles ripped to shreds by me, the enormous baby.”

  “It’s just a rumor, Morgan; they got it from the Hollywood press.”

  I laugh out loud. “Next thing you know, I’ll have sprouted from her costar chimpanzee if you believe what you read.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. I just thought you should know about it, in case we run into anyone who might ask.”

  “What’s the point of this?”

  “I suppose it’s to dispute your mother’s fortune.”

  “Oh right, because The Main Street Follies made her so much cash. She wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, Poppy. Traci Malliard’s claim to fame was her halter-dress dance in a B movie.” I scratch my head. “No, at best a C movie. She basically had a few bit parts in the Alexander the Great or Waterworld of her day.”

  “People don’t realize that. I think they believe anybody on TV is wealthy, and your mother did marry wealthy. But maybe we’re assuming the worst—or at least the newspaper is.”

  “Where are we going first?” Even as I say it, I don’t believe it. I loved my mother, and though she may not have been Mrs. Cunningham, she tried in her own way. She bought me painting canvases and tried to teach me to paint. I get the past mixed up with her illness, and by then the drugs had settled into her system. I don’t know what her truth was, I suppose.

  “I got you an interview this morning for a VP job of shoe purchasing at Ami’s Boutique,” Poppy says, pulling out a sheet of paper and turning towards San Francisco’s fashion district.

  “Oh, I love Ami’s.”

  “Now, you’re supposed to have shoe-buying experience, so you need to embellish a bit.”

  “What do you mean? I can buy shoes.”

  “You have to know about how many to buy in which sizes and such, and you have to purchase the shoes people will want, so it means being ahead of the trends.”

  “Poppy, look who you’re talking to.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I am so glad I brought my Cole Haans up to Lilly’s. I have to go back for my Donald Pliner’s if I get called in for a second interview. Can you imagine showing up in cheap shoes?”

  “Let’s get through the first interview.” She eyes me.

  Poppy knows me well. “There’s a coffee shop right there. I need a brew.”

  Poppy exits traffic like the proverbial bat out of the dark place and pulls into a twenty-minute parking zone. “Let’s go.”

  Walking into the coffee shop, I sniff the rich scent of espresso and pop a few chocolate-covered coffee beans they have out for sampling. “Oooh, I feel a buzz coming on already.” If you want to feel your humanity, try going without a steady diet of whatever your addiction might be. I’ll tell you, I never thought walking into a roasting company would feel like an extravagance, but here it is.

  Poppy shakes her head. “I don’t know how you can drink that rotgut, much less eat it in pill form. Do you know what it’s—”

  “Yes, I know what it’s doing to my kidneys, and my liver, and all the other hosts of organs, and it’s still worth it, so that ought to tell you something. Maybe your detoxified system is missing out.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Once at the counter, I see the newspaper and the picture of me on the runway in the wedding dress. Isn’t that the epitome of irony? I’m in the newspaper every day as a bride, and I’ve never been one. It really takes on a sickening hue of irony. If it were someone else, I might actually see the humor in it.

  chapter 17

  It’s an odd feeling to walk into the behind-the-scenes warehouse of a boutique you’ve frequented. There are boxes everywhere, piled high to the ceiling as we walk along a dank hallway. Trust me, it’s not the same high as walking into a carefully arranged shoe boutique where there are smartly dressed shop girls jockeying for your attention. Still, I’m mystified by the power of the box. Loving shoes as I do, I can’t help but wonder what type of magic is within each box. The space smells like old books, though I don’t see any, and I suppose I’ve never kept a pair of shoes long enough to find out if they do, indeed, eventually smell like books.

  Ami Crittenden has several boutiques and has made a name for herself in San Francisco. I’ve never met the woman, but I’ve seen her in the newspaper. Which, I imagine, is one thing we have in common.

  Poppy is behind me, praying loudly and asking for God to cover me with His grace as I go into the interview. Now, I’m all for praying, but Poppy sounds like she’s having her own revival right here in the hallway. I turn and face her.

  “Do you have to do that?”

  “Pray? I thought you’d like it. I enjoy it when people pray for me.”

  “I do like it, but you know God has really good ears. We needn’t shout.”

  “I want Him to know I mean it.”

  “God looks at the heart, Poppy. He knows you mean it. Are you coming into the interview with me?”

  “No, I’m just making sure you get there. You have been known to chicken out at important events, you know.”

  I know Poppy means well, but sometimes, she’s as bad as Mrs. Henry or my father. She watches me to the point that she hovers and makes me overly anxious. I’m going for a job interview as a shoe buyer; just how stress inducing can this be?

  “I’d have been smart if I chickened out of Lilly’s fashion show,” I say aloud.

  “Look at the good side of it—her gown appears in the newspaper almost every day.”

  I just gaze at her. “With me in it. Not really a highlight of my life, Poppy.”

  “Yeah, but it’s Lilly’s turn, Morgan. We’re the ones always singing backup to your lead. Don’t you love seeing Lilly be important to San Francisco fashion with all she gave up to get there? In college, we remember what it was like to see you in the Women of Stanford calendar in your cute little shorts. No one asked us to be in the calendar.”
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  “Would you have been?” I ask.

  “Of course not; my father would kill me.”

  “My father suggested it. I wore a San Francisco Jeweler’s T-shirt.”

  “We remember, Morgan.”

  The only saving grace for my little calendar stint is that no one actually cared at Stanford. People went on with their lives, and the importance of a calendar to raise money for alumni was met with about as much interest as the girl’s water polo team efforts. Maybe less than that.

  I cross my arms to say something else, but I know Poppy is right. She’s always been there for me, acting as a human Kleenex and putting her own needs aside as I went through one trauma after another. Most of them of my own making.

  I can’t really quibble with a friend like her. When the girls made fun of me for posing in the demeaning calendar, she was there to say to them that I had my reasons. Even if they weren’t my own. When Poppy says to me that it’s someone else’s turn, I suppose she’s right.

  “Poppy, thank you for coming up here and for getting me this interview. I know I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

  “You bought me my first chiropractic table when the bank wouldn’t lend me money,” she reminds me. “You bought Lilly fabric so she could start her business. You’ve been there for us, too, you know. Now it’s our turn.”

  But as she says it, it sounds like my father’s money has been there for them more than I have.

  My cell phone rings just as I reach the end of the hallway. I think about not answering, but what if it’s Ami canceling my appointment? Maybe she saw me in the cheap shoes and my interview is over.

  “Morgan Malliard speaking,” I answer professionally.

  “Morgan, it’s Daddy.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I need you to come home, princess. The lawyer just delivered the list of indictments against us. They’ll be read to us soon before a grand jury. It’s only because George is friends with someone that we got a preview.” He stops for a long time, and I think I hear him choke back a sob. “It’s not good, Morgan.”