A Girl's Best Friend Read online

  “I wouldn’t leave my little girl to these wolves alone,” he whispers.

  The charges against us are officially only criminal complaints. The grand jury has the power today to make indictments against us, and the list seems endless. I can honestly say after reading over the complaints last night that I’ve done nothing wrong, but as I look at the list of witnesses the prosecutor will call, I’m glad we won’t be able to stay to hear the witnesses speak. I can see most of them avoiding my gaze.

  I lean over to my father, afraid to speak, but needing some form of comfort. “Let’s pray this is over today, Daddy.”

  He pats my leg. “It will be, Morgan. We’re innocent.”

  I wish I had his confidence.

  The first witnesses are called, and my father and I are excused from the room, though our lawyers stay. When I come back in the jury room, I try to decipher any expression, but there’s none to be had.

  My father is the picture. Clearly he has no worries, and he leans up and asks his accompanying nurse to get him a drink of water. If I didn’t know him so well, it would invoke sympathy within me. Which it’s clearly meant to do. I see his strained expression, and him clutch the nurse’s arm as though it’s taking every last ounce of his strength. “Water,” I hear him croak again.

  As he faces the jurors, he puts that plastic smile on—the one I know has absolutely no meaning of true affection behind it. It’s troubling to see your parent’s worst side, and for me, I suppose that one is so intermingled with his good side I can’t discern one from the other. I imagine he’s seen my bad side as well.

  He won’t look at me. He’s withholding any emotion until I’ve proven my worth and testified accordingly, but as I search his face, I see the seething anger boiling under his plastered expression. He really feels as though he has a right to do whatever he wants. My heart sinks as I finally discover who he has always been. George was right.

  The prosecutor turns to my father, and I watch his smile get bigger.

  “How are you today, Mr. Malliard?” The prosecutor asks.

  Bigger smile, “I’m fine, young man.”

  “We’ve heard from several witnesses that you and your daughter have taken in quite a bit of money.”

  He laughs. “That’s what a successful business is supposed to do, is it not?”

  As the questions become more difficult, I can see the strain on his face become more evident. The prosecutor has become less openly friendly and has started pointing out exact things my father did as general partner of the business.

  Things like business trips to Caicos.

  Tax returns that were lower than your average plumber’s.

  Extravagant business trips to Saudi Arabia, Aruba, and more.

  And the wire transfers. Lord, the wire transfers. The money taking better trips than I ever thought possible. Clearly, that’s the most damaging of it all, and I see the jurors shift as they hear about how many countries my father’s money visited before it made it back to the United States—to us.

  Through it all, my father doesn’t flinch. When they’re through with him, the prosecutor, a young man of about thirty-four or so fighting for the ideals of his country and justice in all things, turns to me. I’ve already been sworn in, so he begins to ask questions.

  “You live a pretty good life?”

  “I do,” I admit. I figure he doesn’t want the sob story about how my parents didn’t hug me, so I go straight for what the world sees. Life in a penthouse, wearing elegant jewels to elite parties.

  “Is this your signature?” I look closely at the paper he’s thrust before me.

  “No,” I shake my head, more surprised than he is. “It isn’t my signature.”

  “Objection,” Monkey says.

  “Objection to what?”

  “She’s been through a lot in the last few days. I’m certain her memory—”

  “I know my own signature. It’s not mine.”

  “This is your limited partnership agreement.”

  “I signed a lot of things. I’m not denying that. But that isn’t my signature.”

  “Objection,” my so-called-lawyer says again and I turn to him.

  “What are you objecting about? That’s not my signature. Are you my lawyer or aren’t you?”

  The judge knocks his gavel.“Mr. Lemur, is there a problem?”

  “Permission to approach the bench, your honor.” I got that from Law and Order.

  He sighs. “Come ahead.”

  As I come to the bench, which is really just a raised table on a carpeted step, I say my fears out loud, “Your honor, that isn’t my signature, and it’s dated back when I was in college. I wasn’t even living here in the city. I don’t think my lawyer is acting in my best interest.”

  “Do you want to fire him?”

  I look back at the desk where Lemur and Lemur are consulting with my father in deep conversation.

  “Can I?”

  “It’s not the best time to be without a lawyer. You’re lucky you’re getting counsel at all before a grand-jury indictment.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Recess.” The judge calls. “Counsel, approach the bench. Ten minutes for everyone else.”

  As the judge tells my lawyers what I’ve just said, I see my father’s expression darken and he looks at me the same way he used to look at my mother—as a boulder in his very clear path towards whatever he wants. I’ve tried so hard to believe the lie. The lie that he was the part he played—the perfect father who loved me unconditionally. My heart sinks as I realize that my wanting to believe in him was wasted emotion, and living in the fairy tale I always wanted to make happen.

  The signature isn’t mine, and neither is the life I thought I had.

  My father beckons me over with his finger, but I look away. I feel my whole body as though it’s in muck, and I have to force each step. I won’t look at him. If I look at him, I’ll feel the guilt. I will feel it’s right to go down with the ship, but the truth is I never embarked on this ship in the first place. I was packed in a crate and taken along for the ride. I wish with my whole heart that George was here.

  This is it. I may still go to jail, and I have just said goodbye to my family. If you don’t play by Richard Maillard’s rules, he takes his toys and goes home. I close my eyes as I walk down the makeshift aisle. I can’t bear to look at him.

  It’s then that I feel the sharp sting in the back of my head. My surroundings suddenly become fuzzy and I see the ground rise up. I feel the darkness surround me . . .

  “Morgan? Morgan.”

  “Here, let her sniff this.”

  When I wake up, I see Lilly and Poppy hovering over me. I’m in a hospital room. Poppy is shoving a sharp-smelling element from a jar in my face, and Lilly is trying to pull it away. “Quit it, Poppy; you’re probably going to keep her out for a week with that stuff.”

  “What do you think they used in Victorian times? They used smelling salts. This is just the natural version.”

  “What if the doctor comes in here and sees you with that stuff? She’s got a welt the size of Mt. Tamalpais on the back of that head.”

  I blink a few times, wondering if I’m imagining all this, but then I feel myself break into a grin as I realize my wonderful, bickering friends are here.

  “I’m awake,” I say, pushing the foul-smelling potion away. “What are you trying to do, kill me?” I start to sit up and feel the headache rush my entire noggin. “Oh,” I grab my temples. “What the heck?”

  They both look at each other, unwilling to tell me.

  “Did someone hit me?”

  “A brass paper weight, actually,” Lilly says.

  “I take it someone threw it.”

  Poppy nods.

  “Is it who I think it is?”

  They both nod again.

  I grab my head with both of my hands. My family is gone. I know I never had the type of family that would tempt anyone, but it was all I knew. “I said I wanted
to be free. I suppose I should be careful what I wish for.”

  Poppy takes my hand, and my two best friends, my real family, hover over me. “The good news is the grand jury dropped all charges against you. The foreman said anything you signed would be null and void due to the abuse.”

  “He’s never hit me before,” I say, stunned.

  “He never had to, Miss Compliance.” Lilly brushes my hair off my forehead. “You all right?”

  “I want a hot-stone massage.” I giggle, which makes me groan in pain. “I suppose I’m too poor for that, with the exception of the gift certificate you two got me.”

  “Your salary will continue to be paid until the lawsuit is over. Your dad was indicted on all counts.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just would have never thought him capable of cracking like that publicly. Our whole lives have been about the show, and when it really counted, he couldn’t do it.”

  “I guess we all have our snapping point,” Poppy says.

  “I guess we do.” I try to feel happy about being free of the indictment, but for the time being, I can only think about my father disappearing from my life. What’s next?

  chapter 35

  The Red & White Ball is the height of luxury in San Francisco, and as I dress in the dreamy scarlet gown Lilly made for me, I realize tonight is the first time I will have seen my father in two months. I suck in a deep breath wondering what it will be like. I will forever be his Benedict Arnold. His turncoat. How appropriate that I should be wearing red tonight.

  I look into the full-length mirror that Lilly glued onto the wall with some industrial product (I know because I tried to tear it off to no avail) and I can see my nerves showing. I did my own nails in a matching red, and they look homespun, but that’s the least of my problems.

  My gown is a subtle shade of scarlet, sort of a fire-engine red with a layer of chiffon over it to tone it down. It’s got a ruched bodice and free-flowing skirt that still clings, but the chiffon gives it an ethereal feel that makes it look as if I’m floating on air. The gown is strapless, but there’s a matching wrap and I pull it around me, clasping it with the fabric knot Lilly created. Lilly is as good as any of the top designers I’ve paid for in my lifetime.

  As I look into the mirror I note there’s not a single piece of jewelry on me. Not a pair of simple earrings, not even a necklace. I reach for my collarbone, feeling a bit naked to be entering a party wearing absolutely no gemstones and no sales pitch. My tenure as the daughter of San Francisco’s Jeweler is over.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “You ready?” Nate and Kim are at the door, and they look like the picture of mainstream society. Kim is wearing the same dress, albeit with straps and a high back to cover her tattoos, and Nate is in a black tuxedo.

  “I’m ready,” I nod. I look back at the loft, a hobby of sorts that I’ve spent time cleaning and designing on my meager budget, and the stipend my father has been court-ordered to pay. It’s not the stuff of San Francisco’s top designers, but it’s mine. Every last Cost Plus trinket and Target painting.

  “Did you talk to Lilly today?” Kim asks. “Is she nervous?”

  I smile to myself. “She’ll be thankful when it’s over, but this is good for her to mingle with a crowd that will pay the type of money she’s ready to charge. This gown feels like a glove.”

  “Mine, too.” Kim agrees. “She’s amazing. I sewed them all in a week, but it’s her measuring. She just knows exactly what darts to put in where and she puts them all on paper. The girl can do couture in a day. It’s amazing.”

  Finally. Something Kim and I agree upon.

  “The place is looking nice,” Nate says to me. “You have a good eye. How’s the new job working out?”

  Besides being a part-time nanny, after the Chronicle ran my grand-jury indictment story and the legend of my father lobbing a brass paper weight up the backside of my head, the media suddenly grew much more understanding of my bad choices regarding men, and I suppose you could say I got a “get out of jail free” card.

  Of course my nanny position came to an end when Jenna found someone full time who looked more like Mrs. Bush, Sr. I loved the girls, and Jenna loved having me help her, but she kept me locked away as though any sighting of me would have constituted my complete evaporation. It wasn’t working out, but I did find out that I love children, and I have a special affinity for them. I’m nothing like my mother, it turns out.

  The mayor’s office called after all the sympathy and my recovery, and I’ve started working as San Francisco’s assistant chief of protocol. Which basically means when dignitaries come into town, I tell the city how they are to be treated based on their net worth. All right, perhaps that’s a little pessimistic, but I help organize events for foreign dignitaries (meaning anyone from outside California). I’m a glorified concierge for people who would never be caught dead eating a Big Mac.

  As we drive up to the War Memorial Opera House, the lovely French Renaissance building is glowing with the evening’s activity. Tuxedos and women in wonderful shades of red are entering on the red carpet, and I feel my stomach twinge at the thought of being back here in a non-working capacity. Unless you count the protocol thing, which basically means I can’t be caught eating without the proper utensil.

  “Invitation, please,” a man in a tuxedo asks as I get to the door, and he looks at the engraved masterpiece that was designed by the senior chief of protocol. “You’re attending the Schwartz-Jacobs wedding?”

  “I am.”

  “Right this way.”

  Nate, Kim, and I are ushered into a room off the main elegant entry. Inside are several socialites I recognize milling about with champagne. And there’s Poppy, who looks absolutely stunning in her gown, but who is pouring some type of elixir into a guy’s drink.

  “Dr. Clayton,” I say to her. “Tonight’s not the night for health concerns.” I pull the guy’s drink away from him and grab a fresh one from a nearby waiter’s tray. “Here, this will taste better.”

  The guy reaches for the drink and hustles off. He does look disappointed, though, and I imagine to be near someone who looks like Poppy does tonight he would have drunk any potion she gave him. He leaves the two of us alone, but he’d rather be drinking a lactobacillus latte, or whatever she gave him, and talking with Poppy.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her, with a hand on my hip.

  “He was complaining of sinus trouble. I thought he’d enjoy the party more if his lung meridians were open.”

  “Where do you store that stuff?”

  She points to her tapestry bag sitting in the corner.

  “You did not bring that ratty thing here tonight.”

  “It’s got my stuff in it. I’m a doctor. I told them at the door it was my bag. They actually went through it, if you can believe that.”

  I let my head fall into my hands. “I can’t believe they didn’t strip-search you. Lilly had to get you a matching purse for tonight. She knows you better than to not make a matching bag.”

  “She did. It’s inside my tapestry one. I couldn’t fit anything in it. It’s got room for, like, a lipstick and maybe a comb.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to put in an evening bag with a compact. You are hopeless.”

  “But healthy.” She smiles, and her gleaming white teeth (from a lack of caffeine habit) make me jealous. “This is my chance to share natural healing with Lilly’s friends. Think about how much happier the elite would be with natural health.”

  “You look beautiful. No one would ever know you’re anxious to fill them with enzymes. When do we get to see Lilly?”

  “She’s not here yet, her nana says.”

  Poppy looks at me, and we share a knowing glance. “You don’t think she’ll bail?”

  “No, no I don’t think she’ll bail. She’s already married, and this is the chance for people to see that dress make it down the aisle. She wouldn�
�t bail if only for her career.”

  “True. Doesn’t she want us in back when she gets here?”

  “Nana says no. Just to stand here, and she’ll meet us when the wedding march starts. She just wants to get it over with, so the attention is off her as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s so weird. Totally improper protocol.” I’m shaking my head when I turn to see Georgie, dressed in a tiny tuxedo, and holding a lace pillow and I feel my entire being smile. “There’s my date. Gotta run.”

  Georgie is the epitome of joy. He smiles morning, noon, and night, his delighted grin lighting up the room. I notice people around me whisper at a child being here and then I hear the horrible whisper behind me: “Down’s Syndrome.”

  “Georgie.” I bend down beside him. “How’s my precious man?” I straighten his bow tie, and he stands with his shoulders back, clearly proud of his dapper appearance. “Don’t you look handsome.” He reaches for my hand, and I stand as I see his father enter frantically looking for him.

  “George, you were told to stay by me.”

  Whispers of discontent surround me, and I know what they’re saying. My love life is once again on display, but this time, I could care less about the talk. I stand between my two beloved Georges, taking each of their hands, and I am the belle of the ball. Lilly may be getting married, but tonight is mine alone.

  “You look gorgeous,” George says into my ear, and I feel a tickle from his lips.

  “Are you ready for the wedding?” I ask.

  “You mean the connection celebration,” he laughs. “I don’t want to get it wrong in front of the assistant chief of protocol.

  Georgie is the ring bearer. Lilly thought it would be a good idea to announce to society that my current man comes with a precious bundle, and if the paper chooses to discuss it, they’ll answer to me—and my boss, the chief of protocol.

  “Did you bring the ring?” George asks.

  I nod. He’s given me back the blue diamond and told me I simply must return it to my father tonight as a symbol for leaving the past on the table. I thought it was a good idea until I stood here under these twinkling lights with a magical set of men as my escorts. Now, it seems like a complete waste. There is no going backward.