Читать книгу My Favorite Mistake - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 9

THE WHOLE “self-fulfilling prophecy” thing was still nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase. Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the full-length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.

Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision, added it to the giveaway bag, as well. Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.

The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for caller ID on my landline phone.) “Hello.”

“Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”

I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard still smelled faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”

“I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.

I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”

“I just passed Ellen in the hall—you really bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”

I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and Ellen Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dollar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”

When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing yacht- load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bill). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.

I wet my lips carefully, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’ll open an account at Trayser Brothers?”

“I’m almost sure of it. You’re still coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”

“I might not win,” he chided.

I pshawed, supportive girlfriend that I was.

“Ellen will be there. I’ll try to pull her aside and feel her out,” he promised.

I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded all the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while collectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised all my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, Ellen’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfalls of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, Ellen is your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”

He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”

Ouch. I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”

“Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, Ellen will be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”

“Okay,” I said cheerfully, pushing aside my reservations.

So help me, dollar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.

“What’s the dress code for this evening?”

He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And Ellen is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’ll make a difference…”

“But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous for my style—my most trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times called for plastic measures. “I’ll find something nice,” I promised.

“I know you’ll make me look good.”

I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.

“Anything for you,” he said, then hung up.

I smiled, but when I disconnected the phone, panic immediately set in—I had two pimples from last week’s peanut M&M’s binge, and my nails were a wreck. It would be next to impossible to get a manicure at the last minute on Saturday.

I jumped up and whirled into action. After a shower, I dialed the cell phone of my friend Kenzie Mansfield Long, who was the most stylish person I knew; although I wasn’t sure if she’d have service in the rural area of the state where she lived on weekends.

“Hello?” she sang into the receiver.

“Hi, it’s Denise. I was taking a chance on reaching you—you have service now?”

“A tower just went up on the next ridge. Jar Hollow officially has cellular service.”

“Did Sam arrange that just for you?” I asked with a laugh. Her doting veterinarian husband was doing everything in his power to make country living more bearable for his city-bred wife, à la Lisa in Green Acres.

“The service isn’t just for me,” Kenzie protested. “It’s for the entire town. And it helps me and Sam to stay in touch when we’re apart during the week.”

At the mischievous note in my friend’s voice, I had the feeling that phone sex supplemented the couple’s seemingly insatiable lust for each other. Kenzie’s—or should I say Sam’s—homemade dildo cast from the real, um, thing was infamous among our circle of friends. After seeing it, I could barely make eye contact with the man. In fact, it was that darn dildo that had resurrected my fantasies of Redford. He had been an amazing specimen of virility and, um…dimension.

Okay, the man was hung like a stallion…not that I’d ever seen a stallion’s penis, but word on the street was that the equine species was gifted in that department. The fact that Redford’s family in Kentucky was in the horse business had burned the association even deeper into my depraved brain.

No, I wasn’t jealous of Kenzie’s relationship with Sam…most of the time. I had known great, mind-blowing lust with Redford, but our relationship had burned out as quickly as a cheap candle. Barry, on the other hand, was no dynamo in bed, but he had staying power in other areas.

His IRA account was a whopper.

“How was the ‘running of the brides’?” Kenzie asked, breaking into my strange musings. “Did Cindy find a gown?”

“Yes,” I said, then decided to ’fess up before Cindy told on me. “And I, um, bought a gown, too.”

There was silence on the other end, then, “Barry proposed?”

“No,” I said quickly, feeling like an idiot. “But I thought, you know, if ever….well…the dress was dirt cheap,” I finished lamely.

“Ah,” Kenzie said. “A bargain—now I understand. Well, one of these days, Barry is bound to come around. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, you know.”

“Subject change. I called because I have a style emergency.” I explained about the honors dinner and my desire to wow Ellen Brant and her pocketbook with my stunning sense of fashion. “Any suggestions?”

“You could wear your wedding gown,” Kenzie said, then cracked up laughing.

“I’m hanging up.”

“I’m kidding. Gee, lighten up.” Then she snapped her fingers. “I saw the cutest striped dress in the window of Benderlee’s, and I remember thinking it would look smashing on you.”

“Will it smash the credit line on my VISA card?”

“Probably, but think of it as an investment.” She laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll think of a way to write the dress off on your taxes as a business expense.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I’m not kidding—I can’t believe how much Sam and I are getting back on our taxes this year, thanks to you. If you ever decide to go into tax preparation, I want to invest.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

“And go to Nordstrom’s for shoes. Ask for Lito, tell him I sent you.”

My shoulders fell. “Okay.”

“And tell me you’re not going to wear your hair in a ponytail.”

I squinted. “I’m not going to wear my hair in a ponytail?”

“For goodness’ sake, Denise, loosen up. Your ponytail is so tight, it’s a wonder you don’t have an aneurysm.”

My friends were good at reminding me that I was a tight ass. And a tightwad. “I’m loose,” I argued, rolling my shoulders in my best imitation of a “groove”—until my neck popped painfully. I grimaced—was it possible to break your own neck?

“Wear your hair down and buy a pair of chandelier earrings.”

“You think?”

“I was under the impression that you called for my advice.”

“I did.”

“You want this woman’s business, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you gotta do what you gotta do.”

I sighed. “You’re right.”

“So…Barry set you up to do business with his boss,” she said in a singsongy tone. “Maybe it’s a good thing you bought that wedding gown. It sounds like he’s thinking long-term.”

I glanced at the dress I had so foolishly purchased and gave a nervous little laugh. “Or maybe he’s trying to suck up to his boss.”

“Hmm. Sounds like someone needs to take a lesson from Cindy in positive thinking.”

I thanked Kenzie for her help, then hung up with a cleansing exhale. Kenzie was right—I should be grateful for the opportunity that Barry had made for me, instead of questioning his motives. I was letting my frustration with our lackluster sex life color other aspects of our relationship. It was embarrassing, really—I was an intelligent woman. I had proof that elements other than sex were more important to a successful long-term, um…association. Financial compatibility, for instance. Sex waned over time. But dividend reinvestment stock plans were forever.

A sudden thought prompted me to pick up the phone and order two plane tickets to Las Vegas for a long weekend as a Valentine’s Day surprise for Barry. When I hung up, I heaved a sigh, feeling much better. Then I slanted a frown toward my bedroom.

I was suffering from a bad case of the all-overs, and the culprit was taking up too much room in my closet. I was already letting that ridiculous wedding gown interfere with our relationship, and for no good reason. Barry needn’t ever know what I’d done. Tomorrow I’d put that sucker on eBay and be rid of it for good.

Er—the dress, not Barry.