A Girl's Best Friend (27 page)
Okay, I’m embarrassed at how completely good that sounds to me right now. Was I not just in Bible study? Lord, the flesh is weak.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” I say in my best coquettish voice.
“What?” George asks, clearly confused.
If by all accounts my mother was gifted in the realm of flirting, it’s definitely not a gift she passed on genetically. I’m shot down like a duck over a hunter-infested bog.
“Just a little joke.”
“Right. Listen, can we meet? There’s a lot we need to discuss, and this is going to be hard to understand.”
Okay, not appreciating the “You’re stupid” implication. “I’m quite bright, George. Went to Stanford. I think I can handle it.”
“No, actually, I don’t think you can, because it’s a complicated case, Morgan. The U.S. marshals don’t come after just anyone. There has to be proof and a victim. They claim both.”
“Who is the victim?” I ask, knowing full well my father’s schemes may be elaborate, but he would never harm someone.
“Your dad sold some property on Union Square and held the mortgage. That’s where the wire fraud comes in. The mortgage owners are the victims.”
“Are they complaining?”
“No, actually, they’re getting a better rate than the U.S. banks would give them, but that’s hardly relevant to mortgages being held offshore. It’s still illegal what he’s doing—and you’re doing.”
My head is swimming. Normally, this is the point where I’d run to Bloomingdale’s and buy myself something really fabulous, but of course, my credit cards will be denied like a homely girl at the Viper Room.
“I might have found a job,” I inject. “I have an interview tomorrow morning.”
“Morgan, that’s fabulous. Do the people realize that you’ll be at the government’s beck and call for a while?”
“No, but the job is part time. I imagine I’ll be able to do it and work around the trial. It’s just helping an overwhelmed mother out for a few hours a day if she likes me.”
I wait for awhile and he says nothing. “No comment about me being a nanny?”
“So tomorrow after your interview, can you meet?”
“I can. Say lunchtime?” Okay, I know this is pathetic, but I am starving for some stimulating conversation and a fabulous restaurant ambience. A girl like me just can’t be expected to give up everything cold turkey. I mean, the credit cards were bad enough, but I cannot be expected to live on Ramen noodles forever. I figure George has access to my money and he’s like calling in overdraft protection.
“We have a lot to discuss. How about if I bring something to the penthouse?” George asks.
My excitement withers. “Can’t we even meet at the club? The health club?”
“Morgan, I know this is hard on you, but we really can’t. Everyone will recognize you, and this is really private business. Any word that gets out, and it could be worse on you and your father.”
“What could possibly be worse, George? I don’t have any part of my life any longer.”
“Jail could be worse, Morgan. You’ll have your meals regularly then and they won’t be the fine dining you’re craving.”
“Point taken.” I look down at the cowboy boots, and I have to say, I’ve gotten used to these shoes. Sure, I look like Daisy Duke or Ellie May come to San Francisco, but I’m comfortable. Precisely because for the first time in my life, no one really cares. No photographers are stalking me, as they clearly have yet to figure out where I’m staying, and I’m not attending any fabulous dinner parties to be seen. So for now, the boots work.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow at noon. Your father’s place,” George says curtly.
“George, when are my credit cards going to work again?”
“I’m working on it, Morgan. I told you to take some cash. It may be a while before we can access any of those accounts.”
“No, I don’t need cash. I can do this a little longer,” I say, more for myself than George. “Can you do me a simple favor, though?”
He sighs. Clearly, his clients are usually far more savvy than me and probably less high maintenance. “What is it, Morgan?”
“Can you get me a Starbucks card? I think I could deal with a lot if I had caffeine in my system. Lilly has this weird neighbor with an espresso machine, but that isn’t going well. I sort of gave him a piece of my mind today, and I think he’s not apt to share anymore. But if I had espresso, then I wouldn’t remember that I don’t have Bloomingdale’s or fine restaurants or even my hair highlights.”
“Done. Anything else?”
Well, since he’s asking. “Maybe some Godiva chocolate?”
“Would you like a butler to deliver it?”
Now that’s not nice.”You asked if there was anything else.”
“I’m your lawyer, Morgan, not your personal shopper. Need is generally not associated with chocolate.”
Spoken like a true male. “I should think for what you’re charging me an hour, you’d be whatever I want you to be.” Oooh, I sound like Potipher’s wife here. I start to apologize before realizing I am spending a small fortune on defending something I didn’t even do. Technically speaking, anyway. “Besides, don’t you have a secretary or something?”
“What, are you living in 1950? I can’t ask my secretary to go shopping for coffee and chocolate. It sounds like I’m having an affair.”
“Then I’ll ask her. What’s her number?”
“Fine. Those two things, but any other luxuries, including hair products, are your own responsibility.”
“You’d be content to see me using cheap shampoo, wouldn’t you? Well, George, if you ruin my hair during this trial, I’ll blame you publicly.”
He laughs at this. “Now that’s a new one. I’ve
been the victim of many a threat as a lawyer, but hair ruination is definitely original.”
“This is California fog country. I bet you’d be held liable too.”
“I have a question for you.”
“Yes.”
“What is the difference between me giving you cash and you doing your own shopping, and me picking up your—” He stops for a moment. “Ahem, your necessities.”
“Cash makes me feel cheap and tawdry,” I announce.
He laughs again, “Morgan, you are anything but cheap, and tawdry women eat Russell Stover’s chocolates. They don’t hold out for Godiva.”
“Very funny. I’ll see you tomorrow at my dad’s place. Bring the chocolate.”
“The Feds have been through the house and may be back.”
“I understand.” I cannot help but wonder if Homeland Security is this thorough. I mean, we have no real victims, and look at their stealth handling of this case. Granted, my father probably didn’t exactly play by the rules, but that whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing comes back to haunt me. How exactly am I innocent here if agents are trudging through my bedroom?
“Morgan Malliard.” I turn. Standing here in front of the church, a female flashes her badge at me and reminds me she’s my parole officer. As if I’d have trouble remembering that fact. You know, I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but women assigned to follow me I remember.
“I have to go, George.” I snap my phone shut and concentrate on the officer—who clearly has been endowed with healthy-sized implants. I wonder if that helps stop a bullet.
“Yes, are you here to search me?” I say, rolling my eyes.
“No, I’m just checking your whereabouts.”
“I’ve been to church, and I’m going to a friend’s house tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be on a job interview for a nanny position at a pastor’s home. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow me in. You might scare the children.”
Her eyes narrow at me, and I can’t help what comes out of my mouth. “You should really use eyeliner. It would make a big difference in the appearance of your eyes. They’re quite pretty.”
After a look of disbelief, the woman nods. “Thank you. Keep out of trouble.” She swings her badge shut, just like an episode of
Law & Order: SVU
.
She’s way cool. I wonder if I would be a good federal agent.
“I haven’t gotten married in the last twenty-four hours, so I suppose I’m doing pretty well,” I quip.
“Keep up the good work.”
Man, I need a spa treatment. Not just a measly pedicure or a pink-and-white nail fill. I need the full treatment: an enzyme peel, a moisturizing facial, a cucumber mask for my puffy eyes, a hot-stone massage, and maybe even a diamond treatment (where they put diamonds on pertinent acupuncture points). Poppy turned us on to this one (I know—it really should have been me).
I know all of the above are just habits I’ve gotten into— more of my costly addictions. My life of purpose was really summed up in spectacular grooming, and I suppose that’s not really a purpose at all. Unless you’re a chimpanzee.
Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, I’ll interview for a job and eat at home with Mrs. Henry. Maybe George will bring me some takeout with my Starbucks card.
Oh heavens, I
do hope Mrs. Henry is still there.
I imagine if they’ve frozen our accounts, she’s not being paid, and that usually doesn’t go over well with the hired help. Even if they have been around forever.
Poppy and Lilly pull up in my convertible, giggling. Lilly’s hair is now highlighted with gentle streaks of strawberry blonde.
“You look fabulous.”
“At least I don’t look pregnant,” she says as I climb into the car.
“Mrs. Schwartz is going to be a piece of cake, Lilly. It’s your nana I’d worry about,” I say. Lilly’s face contorts into a new look of anxiety and Poppy gives me a “What are you doing?” look. Sorry, can’t help it. I know just how Lilly feels. It’s always the curve ball that gets you. You’re looking straight ahead, and bam!
M
ax’s house is all lit up like a Christmas tree as we get there. He’s obviously more than expecting us. He’s guiding us down the runway like a DC-10. I have the distinct feeling that if he could have rented a spotlight to beacon us there quicker, he would have done so. I hear Lilly taking deep yoga breaths, with Poppy whispering calming mantras to her: “This is the way things in my life have been written. God loves me. Jesus died for me. I’m married to the man I love, and I will love his mother. Even if she doesn’t welcome me with open arms, I can run to you, Father.”
“Poppy! Would you cut it out, you’re making
me
nervous.”
She shakes her head at me to let me know I’m interrupting their Zen.
“Poppy, we’re here,” I tell her. “She’s meeting her mother-in-law, for crying out loud, not facing the firing squad.”
“She’s facing her nana, too,” Poppy reminds me, and at that remark Lilly stiffens. We all see the comparison is easily made.
“Let’s go home!”
“This is home, honey. You’re married now.” I get out of the car and allow Lilly to exit from the backseat. I should have let her continue to drive after they picked me up, but I was worried we’d end up at Spa Del Mar instead of here. If there’s one thing the spa has taught us, it’s that while lying under a pile of sweet-smelling papaya plaster, the ugly realities of life just drift away. Farther and farther, until waking up is like a newborn being slapped as he’s brought into the world.
Nana’s apartment on the street level of Max’s house is pitch dark. Which can only mean one thing: Nana is up there as well. Together the three of us look up at Max’s brilliantly lit house and then to one another. I know what we’re all thinking. We’re all thinking that Lilly’s regular Diet Pepsi fetish and pickles sound pretty good about now. Too bad she’s on this recent health kick for the baby. Here, Poppy thought she’d suddenly cared about her health. It was just mother’s guilt.
We’re like three kids at the haunted house, each one of us wanting to run for our lives, but we’re here gaining strength from each other and it’s time to get this over. Yet we can’t seem to move.
When I first met Lilly, I thought she was kidding about her nana driving down every weekend to check on her at Stanford. Lilly was a grown woman, but somehow that message took a long time to take root in Lilly’s brain. (I suppose I wasn’t much different, except for the fact that no one cared to check on me unless I did something unworthy of the Malliard name.)
Lilly’s nana loves drama and direction. She’s been watching
Days of Our Lives
since its inception, and she can relate anything that happens in life to something Marlena or Bo went through. Actors always say they want to direct, but Nana just does. She’s been choreographing Lilly’s life since her son (Lilly’s father) was killed and Lilly’s mother abandoned her daughter.
Nana is the Fred Astaire of the Italian set, and Italian weddings are apparently a big deal. Therefore, getting married without her nana’s approval and wedding coordination is about as rebellious as Lilly can get. It’s worse than her rejecting the Stanford degree Nana paid for to be a fashion designer. This drama tonight has a starring role for Nana, and she doesn’t like surprises, nor parts she can’t control. All I can say is let’s hope Marlena handled this well.
Before we slam
the door on the car, Max is on the porch on the second level, and I watch as he bounds down the steps like an overeager puppy. He gets to the iron gate that separates him from the world, and he zeroes in on Lilly. He doesn’t notice her hair; he’s far too manic and I suppose it is rather dark under the orange street light.
“What took you so long?” Max wonders.
“I got my hair done,” Lilly says, waiting for her compliment. “And Morgan went to church. I didn’t think I should turn away my friend’s spiritual enlightenment.” She looks at me, and we both smile.
“Are you ready for this?” Max asks.
“I brought backup. Did you prep them?”
“I told her you were after my money and poorer than a church mouse.”
“Great, that should help. Did you warn her about my hair?”
“Your nana has stuffed her full of lasagna. I think she has less fight in her than an hour ago.”
“What about Nana?”
“She is buzzing around like a springtime bee spreading her sunshine. She thinks we’re announcing our engagement tonight.” Max reaches for Lilly and kisses her cheek. I’d like to say she dissolves into his warmth, but she’s a nervous wreck, and his kiss only causes her to weaken until her knees buckle.
“Just think how excited they’ll be that we’ve already taken care of the details for them,” she says sarcastically, matting down her hair out of habit.