After Hours (8 page)

K
arla touched Ronald's arm to get his attention. “I'm going inside to see if Sybil needs help.” He nodded and went back to his conversation with his host and two other men.

Navigating her way through the small crowd gathered in the expansive backyard of the two-story house in a new upscale West Orange, New Jersey, suburb, she slid back the screen door and stepped into a stainless-steel kitchen. Sybil Cumberland, dressed in a white tunic over a pair of pin-striped pants, stood at a cooking island, tossing salad fixings in a large glass bowl. Classical music flowed from speakers concealed throughout the house.

“I came to see if you needed help with something.”

Sybil's head came up. She smiled, her upper lip disappearing against the ridge of her teeth with the gesture. “Thanks, Karla, but I have everything under control.”

Resting a hip against the cooking island, Karla took a sip of her sweet tea. “Do you mind if I hang out here and watch you?”

Sybil's wide-set, slanting brown eyes bore into Karla's. “Something the matter with the company outside?” she asked intuitively.

Karla twisted her mouth at the same time she rolled her eyes. “You know Maxine Owens and I can't be within spitting distance of each other without shit goin' down.”

“I'd never invite her to my home if her husband wasn't related to Cory, and you know how he hates drama. The horse-face bitch will go after anything with a
dick.
” She'd spat out the word.

Nodding, Karla agreed with Sybil. The one time she'd seen Maxine with her hand near Ronald's crotch, she'd been up and out of her chair and heading toward the woman with the intent of kicking her ass but not before snatching every track of weave out of her basketball-size head. Ronald had managed to defuse the altercation when he forcibly removed Maxine's hand, and whatever he'd whispered in her ear, it hadn't been to her liking, because she'd told her henpecked, frock-tail, candy-ass husband they were leaving.

Consciously dismissing Maxine, she watched Sybil quickly and expertly put together an antipasto platter. Green and black olives, marinated artichokes, roasted red bell peppers cut into narrow strips, anchovy fillets and parmesan cheese broken into bite-size pieces were put into separate small bowls and plates, then on a large serving tray along with serving utensils. She then separated thinly sliced Italian cured prosciutto and bresaola and layered them attractively on a hand-painted platter.

Sybil, who operated her own catering business, moved around the kitchen without wasting a single motion. She removed a parchment-lined baking sheet from the oven. The tantalizing aroma of tiny golden parmesan shortbreads filled the kitchen. After cooling them on a rack, she topped them with roasted cherry tomatoes and feta, parsley pesto and goat cheese. She removed another tray, this one with cocktail corn cakes she topped with spicy mango salsa.

Karla was introduced to Sybil three years ago after their husbands met at a Vegas-based computer show. She felt a particular kinship with the chef because Sybil's ambition matched hers. At thirty-six, Sybil was five years younger, and although she ran a successful business, it wasn't enough for the talented chef.

Sybil had a nervous energy that at first wasn't discernible. It was on rare occasions that her black shoulder-length hair wasn't pulled off her oval face in a ponytail. The inky darkness of her hair made her light brown complexion with yellow undertones appear sallow unless she wore makeup. A small, straight nose and high cheekbones made for an overall attractive visage.

“Do you sample everything you cook?” Karla asked.

Sybil shook her head. “If I did, then I'd weigh more than I do now.”

“You weigh less than I do.”

“I doubt it. I'm five-seven and weigh one sixty-three.”

“I—I don't believe it,” Karla sputtered. She couldn't believe Sybil weighed almost twenty pounds more than she did. “Maybe you look thinner because you don't have a sister-girl booty.”

“I'm built like my mother. But if you tell anyone how much I weigh, I'll deny it. Even Cory doesn't know.”

Karla pantomimed zipping her mouth. “Your secret is safe with me. Are you sure I can't help bring something outside?”

“What I'd like for you to do is tell Cory to come and take these trays outside. If I cook, then he has to serve.”

“Okay.”

Karla returned to the patio. Cory had taken up a position behind a portable bar, pouring and mixing drinks. Tall, dark and slender with an athletic physique, he had soulful dark eyes, a square jaw and had recently begun growing a goatee. His easygoing personality made him the perfect host, and whenever she observed him with Sybil there was no doubt he was hopelessly in love with her.

A DJ had arrived and was setting up his equipment. The Cumberlands, who'd moved into the sprawling high ranch in early January, had invited friends and family members to join them in celebrating their new home.

Karla moved behind the bar with Cory. “I'll take over here. Your wife needs you in the kitchen.”

Cory handed a chilled martini to one of his guests. “Are you sure you can handle the bar, counselor?”

Karla smiled as if she were hiding a secret—and she was. “I promise not to poison anyone.” She turned her attention to a BOTOXed woman with a short, stylish haircut. “I'm going to have to see some ID before I can serve you,” she teased.

The woman blushed to the roots of her frosted hair. “Stop! I'm a grandmother.”

“You'd never know. Grandmas come young nowadays.”

The woman placed a hand over Karla's, the gems on her bejeweled fingers sparkling in the bright sunlight. “Do you know what?” she asked as if sharing a secret.

Karla leaned closer and the smell of scotch wafted over her face. It was apparent she wasn't ordering her first drink. “What?”

“I like you.”

Karla winked at her. “I like you, too.” She reached for a tumbler. “Scotch and soda on the rocks?”

“How did you know?”

Filling the glass with ice, she wrinkled her nose. “Lucky guess.”

She wanted to laugh when Cory asked whether she could handle the bar. She was as knowledgeable about cocktails as an experienced mixologist.

She took orders for a Salty Dog, a Rusty Nail and an Old Fashioned before Cory returned to relieve her. When she went to look for Ronald among the three dozen people who'd come to eat, drink and listen to music, she found him staring at her with a strange expression on his face.

“Please don't say anything, Ronald.”

His mouth thinned noticeably under his mustache as he averted his gaze. “I wasn't going to say anything.” His gaze swung back to meet hers, holding it for a full minute. His hands slid down Karla's arms, pulling her to his chest. “When are you going to learn to trust me to keep your secret?”

“I do trust you, Ronald. I love
and
trust you, darling.”

Ronald held his wife close, feeling the pumping of her heart against his chest. She loved him and he loved her so much that it frightened him. Karla had become his world, his life.

Dipping his head, he brushed a kiss over her parted lips. “I love and trust you, too.”

“M
s. Jenkins, Mrs. King will see you now.”

Dina stood up and gave the receptionist a baleful look. She'd arrived at the offices of Siddell, Kane, Merrill and King at nine-thirty, yet the dour-faced woman had made her wait an hour before she'd announced her. There were times when she appeared to doze off but wake up whenever the telephone rang.

She walked to Karla's office, knocking lightly on the door. “Mrs. King?”

Karla glanced up from the document she'd read twice while waiting for Dina Gordon. “I expected you half an hour ago.”

Dina didn't miss the censure in the attorney's voice. Karla had pulled her hair back, leaving a wisp of bangs over her forehead. “I've been here since nine-thirty,” she countered.

“Why didn't the receptionist let me know?”

“You'll have to ask her that.” Her tone was cryptic, but after waiting she didn't much care.

Karla nodded, waving a hand. “Please sit down, Dina.”

Concealing a smile, Dina sat on a chair in front of the desk. She'd called her “Dina.” “Thank you.”

Picking up an envelope, Karla handed it to her. “Everything you need to secure documents with your new name is in there.”

She opened it and examined a set of triplicate birth certificates in a glassine envelope. She was now legally Dina Gordon. Her birth date and everything else had remained the same. There was also a smaller envelope. A soft gasp escaped her when she opened it, her gaze shifting from the contents to Karla.

“What's up with the money?” The envelope was filled with one-hundred-dollar bills.

A hint of a smile touched Karla's generous mouth when she said, “That's the firm's hourly fee.”

Dina's mouth opened, but nothing came out. “I—I don't understand,” she stammered.

Pressing a button on her telephone, Karla buzzed the receptionist. “Mrs. Siddell, will you please bring the receipt book.” Minutes later the receptionist entered the office, book in hand. Karla smiled sweetly at the elderly woman. Jane Siddell was the widow of the man who'd set up the firm sixty years ago to handle the finances of wealthy New Jersey residents. Her son, who took over after his father's death, humored his mother when she'd volunteered to act as receptionist Tuesday mornings. Most times the impeccably dressed octogenarian literally slept on the job.

“Miss Jenkins will give you our hourly fee of six hundred dollars in cash. I need you to give her a receipt.”

Dina handed her the envelope. Jane Siddell counted the money and wrote out a receipt with a flowery cursive that harkened back to another era. Waiting until the door closed behind the receptionist, she gave Karla a questioning look. “Do you want me to give you six hundred dollars?”

“No, Dina. It's the firm's policy to waive the fee for the initial consult. However, you've come in twice, therefore I must show a billable hour.”

She couldn't believe the attorney had put up the money for her, even if it had come out of the ten grand she'd given her. “Thank you.” She leaned closer. “The money's not dirty,” she said sotto voce. “I found out where the cheap bastard hid his stash and I stole every penny. It's a small price to pay for what I had to go through for ten years.”

Karla now understood why Dina had given her the money. It equaled one thousand dollars for every year she'd been abused, and the flip side was that it'd bought her freedom to live her life without fear. “I suggest you apply for a social security card and driver's license in your new name as soon as you can.”

Dina met her direct stare. “I can't apply for a social security card until I get an apartment. I need a legal address.”

“Are you still staying at the motel?”

She inclined her head. “Yes.”

“Have you looked for an apartment?”

“Not yet. I wanted to wait until I was legally Dina Gordon.”

“I suppose you're going to need employment, too?”

“I need a job, like, yesterday.”

Karla stared at the woman on the other side of the desk. She looked nothing like the frightened, anxious young woman who'd sat in her office three weeks before. She now appeared older, worldly. Subtly applied makeup, her long hair fashioned in a chignon, she wore an ice-blue linen pantsuit with a matching shell and black patent leather pumps. She appeared very much the young professional.

“Do you have experience waiting tables?”

“No, but I'm a quick study.” Dina hadn't lied when she'd told Karla she needed a job yesterday, because there was still the matter of repaying Payne Jefferson. If she got a position waiting tables, then there was no doubt she would be able supplement her salary with tips.

“If I'm able to contact a friend who owns a catering establishment, would you be available to go on an interview?”

Dina sat up straighter. “Yes.”

Picking up the telephone, Karla punched in a number. Her eyebrows lifted when she heard Sybil's greeting. “This is Karla.”

“What's up?”

“Do you still need a waitress?” Sybil had told her that she'd had to fire a waitress who'd gotten into the habit of showing up late.

“No. I just hired someone this morning. Why?”

“I have someone looking for work. She doesn't have any experience, but she's willing to learn. She's just applied for her social security card.” Karla winked at Dina. “Will that be a problem?”

“Not usually. I'd pay her like a contract worker where she'll be responsible for her taxes until I put her on the regular payroll. If the girl I just hired doesn't work out, then I'll let you know.”

“Sybil, I really need you to help me out now.” Karla had lowered her voice to a whisper.

There was a noticeable pause before Sybil said, “Is she one of your special clients?”

Karla smiled. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you well enough to know that you don't beg too often. Look, I have some free time tomorrow. If she can be here at six, then I'll see her.”

Karla covered the mouthpiece. “She can see you tomorrow at six.”

“I'll be there.”

“She's available, Sybil. Her name is Dina Gordon.”

“Tell Ms. Gordon that if she's going to be late, then she should forget about coming.”

“I'll tell her. Thanks, Sybil.”

“No problem, Karla.”

Karla ended the call and reached for a pen. She wrote down the name, address and telephone number of SJC Catering on a legal pad. Tearing off the sheet, she handed it to Dina. “You'll have to go to West Orange. You're to see Sybil Cumberland. She said if you're late, then forget about coming.”

Dina stared at the bold handwriting before she looked at Karla. “I'll be on time.”

There was something in the hazel eyes that said that Dina Gordon had been given a second chance to live a normal life and she wasn't about to blow it by not making it to an interview on time.

Pushing to her feet, she extended her hand. “I'll let you know how everything works out.”

Karla stood up and took her hand. “Please keep in touch. Good luck, Dina.”

“Thank you, Mrs. King.”

“You're welcome. I think it's time you call me Karla.”

The glow of Dina's smile reached her luminous eyes. “Thank you again—Karla.”

Dina was there, then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. Karla admired and respected the former Adina Jenkins. She'd fled her abuser
and
taken his money.

She was a woman after her own heart.