Which was totally his fault, of course.
That’s why I desperately needed that Judith Leiber evening bag. If a beautifully boxed clutch with Austrian crystals, a satin lining, and a keepsake bag couldn’t cheer you up, was there any hope for mankind?
I pulled into the parking lot in front of the Holt’s store. It was almost empty. The store was closed until 6:00 p.m. today to get ready for “our biggest sale of the season.” That’s what the sign in the front window said. But, really, the inventory team was working inside and didn’t want to be bothered with customers.
I know exactly how they feel.
I swung around back and parked. The area outside the loading dock had been completely transformed. A big white tent-top had been erected. Latticework screens circled the tent and blocked out the view of the Dumpsters. Tables were decorated with pastels, and a runway led from a curtained platform. Another table held a couple dozen wrapped gifts. Potted green plants and blooming flowers were everywhere. One of the loading dock doors was open and I saw the caterer’s staff working inside the stockroom.
Holt’s had decided to treat us employees to a luncheon and a fashion show of the new line of spring clothing we were going to carry. They were also raffling off prizes.
I had to admit, the place looked great and the idea was a good one. I didn’t really want to admit it, though, since the whole concept was Sarah Covington’s, Holt’s vice president of marketing.
I hate Sarah Covington.
Which is all her fault, of course.
An RV was parked near the stage, and I could hear teenage girls inside, giggling and chattering. I guessed they were the models, excited about strutting the spring fashions on the makeshift catwalk.
Two of my friends were already seated at a table. Bella was tall, black, and working at Holt’s to save for beauty school. Girlfriend knew hair. I was thinking she was into an international landmark phase. Today, her hair looked like the Eiffel Tower. Next to her was Sandy. White, young, pretty, and, judging by the idiot she dated, had the word doormat tattooed across her back.
They’d saved me a seat, which was way cool, so I gave them a wave as I headed for the steps leading up to the loading dock. Then Rita planted herself in front of me and folded her arms.
“The store is off-limits,” she said. “You can’t go in there.”
Rita was the cashiers’ supervisor, though from the way she dressed—stretch pants and tops with farm animals on the front—you’d think she was the corporate clothing buyer.
Rita hated me. I hated her first. Then she took it to the next level when she jacked the purse party business idea Marcie and I came up with and stole all our customers. Now I double-hated her.
“The inventory team is working in the store,” Rita said. “Absolutely nobody is allowed inside.”
“If I throw a stick, will you leave?” I said to her.
“Nobody.” Rita sneered and leaned closer. “And that includes you, princess, no matter who you’re sleeping with.”
Rita gave me one last nasty look and stomped away.
I was pretty sure she was referring to my sort-of boyfriend, Ty Cameron. He was the fifth generation of his family to own and run the Holt’s stores.
You’d think that would entitle me to a few perks around here—I don’t think there’s anything wrong with preferential treatment as long as it benefits me—but no. I was still pulling down seven bucks an hour; plus, I had to actually wait on customers.
Contrary to what Rita and most everyone else thought, Ty and I weren’t having sex. Yet. Which was totally his fault. Okay, well, maybe some of my fault, too.
I bounded up the steps to the loading dock. The servers were bustling around getting ready to take out the first course. I recognized the caterer, Marilyn something-or-other. Everything looked and smelled great.
In the corner sat dozens of bouquets of chocolate-dipped fruit, cut into the shapes of flowers, and arranged in little terra-cotta pots. They were from Edible Elegance, my mom’s latest experiment with living in the real world.
My mom was a former beauty queen. Really. Before she married my dad and had my brother, sister, and me, Mom was prancing the runways, performing—I’m not sure what Mom’s “talent” was; she told me, but I wasn’t paying attention—and wishing for world peace.
Mom never really hung up her crown. Once a beauty queen, always a beauty queen, apparently—sort of like the marines, except the marines aren’t quite as ruthless. She was still involved with the pageant world and a coven, as I liked to think of them, of other ex-queens, though I wasn’t sure how, exactly; I wasn’t paying attention to that either.
Just where Mom got the idea of the Edible Elegance fruit bouquets I don’t know—I doubt Mom knew, either—but they’d been making a splash at L.A. events for a few months now. I helped out with the business, sometimes.
So you’d think that my mom was a hardworking, inventive, highly motivated businesswoman. Right?
No. My mom’s idea of running a business was to hire a manager, turn the whole thing over to her, and see what happened. This, of course, drove the old geezer who oversaw the trust fund Mom’s grandmother left her—along with a fabulous house in LaCanada Flintridge—absolutely crazy.
That’s my mom.
I checked out the fruit bouquets. Everything looked great. The crew Mom’s manager hired had done a terrific job. They’d added a chocolate name tag to some of the bouquets, which I hadn’t seen before, and I thought the personalization was a nice touch. I guess Mom was still coming up with some ideas after all.
Outside I heard Jeanette Avery, the store manager, on the mic welcoming everyone to the luncheon. Jeanette was in her fifties, looking to retire in a few years. She was dedicated to Holt’s. This inexplicably manifested itself in her attire. She always dressed in Holt’s clothing. Today, she had on a purple-and-yellow-striped dress. The remaining nine dresses that had been shipped to the store were on the clearance rack.
I was about to head outside and take my seat with Bella and Sandy when I noticed someone in the domestics department section of the stockroom. At first I thought it was a member of the inventory team, sent to the store for the day, then saw the gold vest, white shirt, and bow tie, and realized it was one of the servers. A girl, twenty years old, maybe, leaning heavily against the big shelving unit.
She didn’t look so good.
I walked over, and the closer I got, the worse she looked. Sweaty, yet flushed, palm on her stomach like she might throw up.
“Need some help?” I asked.
She jumped as if I startled her, and pushed herself up straight.
“No, I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m great. Just great.”
“No offense, but you look like crap,” I said.
She gulped hard, as if she was trying to keep something down. “I’ll be okay. I—I will.”
I could tell she didn’t believe it—and I certainly didn’t believe it—so I nodded toward the food station where the salads were being plated.
“I’ll go tell them you’re sick and you need to go home.”
“No!” she said, suddenly springing toward me. “Don’t do that. You’ll get me in all sorts of trouble. I need this job. If I don’t finish out the day, I don’t get paid. And I’ll never get hired again.”
“Yeah, but if you’re sick—”
“Look, I need the money. I’ve got school and rent and everything.”
I