Just a Number (Downtown #1) (22 page)

“A cheeky one! Short for Daschel?”

“When I was born, my mother said I was dashing. Dash it was, instead of your basic Thomas. But, my name incited a lot of ribbing from mean kids in my neighborhood and at school.”

“You look like you fared well. Must have told them to piss off a time or two. I can’t imagine you taking rubbish from anyone.”

“I like you. You speak your mind. I’ve seen you around.”

“Hazel.” I saw her extend her hand to him. I was on my way to join them when I stopped. Something told me, or perhaps it was the eavesdropping over her next few words that stopped me dead in my tracks. Glued to the spot, I listened. “Yes. I remember you. You were in a bad way. But you found
her
. I had no idea
she
was
my
Willow.”

“I had no idea who she was. She snuggled up to me in a bar. Unfortunately, her friend Thumbelina pulled her off of me.”

“You mean Tomasina.”

“Yes. Willow, it seemed, had had too many martoonies, a name I learned from her in another inebriated moment, and she wrapped a hand around my tie. She doesn’t remember. I could never forget
my
corporate-girl. Her dark hair and red lips not to mention her gorgeous, icy-blue eyes… I was haunted by her. I couldn’t shake her memory from my brain.”

“That’s when Mr. Simon and I first saw you?”

“Yes. I was shocked you knew so much. And, about me. How did you know I had an Uncle Bob? My mouth dropped when you said Bob’s your uncle.”

My cover was blown. I laughed as Hazel did. “It’s an expression like: You’ve got this! Go for it! Good luck! The sky’s the limit! Go forth!”

He joined in our laughter, lightly, as I joined them. “Good morning. I see you and a half-naked Dash have met.” I looked at him, sitting on a barstool in long yoga pants only, then to her grinning face.

“Oh. I don’t mind, love.
Your Albert
here is rather lovely to look at. How are you this morning? Coffee?” She winked at both of us.

“Sorry, ladies. Let me pour you each a cup.” He started to stand, but Hazel waved her hand for him to stay put.

“I’ve got it. Stay where you are. You took away my java making chore.” She pulled out two cups from the cupboard and went to grab the cream from the refrigerator. “Looks like you need cream, love. I’ll add it to my shopping list,” she said nonchalantly, tossing Mr. Simon a tiny biscuit from a jar I had for him on the counter.
Of course, he caught it!

“Oh. Yes. Willow did mention a friend shopping for her cream and all.” I narrowed my eyes at his smirking denim-blue ones.

“Yes, dear. I clean, do her laundry, cook her meals, and shop for her.” Then she lean with her elbows on the island, eye to eye with him. “I include a few extras not on her list, occasionally. Even
cream
. It works quite well, I might add. My Regg is quite fond of it, and I can’t complain.”

“Oh. My. God. You and that man on the ninth floor? I knew it!” I said slapping my hand down on the granite top, then laughed. “By the way, you should thank Dash for bringing pleasure to your love life.” Hazel lifted one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows, turning her head in his direction.

He shrugged. “My college buddies and I invented that particular cream.”

“Are you leading me up the garden path, young man?”

He smiled cheekily, as Hazel would quip, with his mind blowing, panty dropping, and full dusty, dark-rose lips. “Check the initial next time you use it: LTRD. D is for Dash.” He was so adorable. No. Sexy. Delectable. I wanted a nibble, but settled for a, too brief, peck from him as he stood to get ready for work.

Since he had invaded my life…
Invade
might not have been the right word. It sounded like he had captured me and taken over my
queendom
. Well, in a sense, he had. I had no real complaints. Spending time with him at home and at work was something I was getting quite comfortable with as the days rolled by. More so once we sat down with Suze and talked about our business and personal relationship. I refused to be without him. I refused to slink around. Not to mention a good majority of the staff had witnessed our conference exchange of words, and assumed there was something going on between us already. No one seemed to mind when it was made known. Or obvious with our hand holding.

Because I was already an account manager, there would be no vying for a better position in the company. The other fact that I had established clients and had always brought in my own, showed that I wouldn’t be receiving preferential treatment or be given accounts based on my performance in the bedroom with one of the co-owners. Not my boss, I might add—Suze was still my superior.

Dash and I were getting better with our collaborations. I had taken him to meet Skylar Lovingier at her stunning showroom loft in the fashion district, and to see the room for her planned extravaganza. Arriving, we were greeted by Lark. She looked elegant as always, draped in layers of thick gold-linked jewelry against a slightly fitted cream jersey designer dress. The ensemble was striking in contrast to her dark hair and eyes. People often told us we could be sisters, including Dash. But truthfully, observers focused on our hair color; we could
maybe
pass for cousins.

I was excited to have
my
man see what Lark had created for the West coast division of Durpree-Lovingier. Before we even entered the landmark New Mart building, he was blown away by its architecture. It is impressive if you love architectural embellishments. Wanting to compliment the outside, she had contractors open up the walls and ceilings to exposed hidden elements such as old brick, metal beams, and air-ducting that the previous tenant had covered up with drywall. Before we even made our way into the actual showroom, I saw his jaw drop in the shelved hallway where sparkling Jewelry by Tomasina was housed next to a beautiful line of designer handbags. Along with industrial caged lighting high above, spotlight tracks dramatically highlighted each designer’s goods displayed on free-floating shelves. Pulling him farther into the vast space, seven individual areas, stunningly decorated, were designated for their different fashion designers, including a shared new client, Katie’s Swimwear of the showroom. The expressions on Dash’s handsome face were priceless, he was sold!

Finished with the tour, the three of us had lunch in a nearby bistro, and discussed every detail of the upcoming show. She showed us the guest list; who was sitting next to whom and where—of course, the big names would be seated in the front row. The fashion show lineup was strategically planned; every design client would be featured. A theme had been established, according to the time of day; what you would wear from morning to midnight—brilliant! The jewelry and handbags would be teamed with the clothing lines. As always, Lark had thought everything out perfectly.

After lunch, we visited the event room located on the ground floor of her building. Several rows of gold cane chairs with bright-orange, padded cushions were lined up in two darkened areas of the room, facing a raised t-shaped runway. Behind each set of chairs, along the walls, sheer fabric was draped randomly and backlit with varying shades of pink and orange. Everything else in the room was a stark white. A hand full of people moved around the room, taking care of a few last minute touches. It looked like we were ready to go, with the exception of items that would be brought in on the day of the event: the music, the food, and the wine.

Our beloved and extremely talented colleague, DJSuze, had agreed to handle the music and laser lighting for the event. She was taking care of all of it, including the pre-show, fashion show, and the reception immediately following the main production all in the same room. I was amazed by how much she was able to incorporate into her gigs, and all by herself.

To ensure things moved smoothly in the transition, additional staff had been hired for the night. Once the fashion show concluded and all of the designers took their well-deserved bows, attendees would be ushered to the building’s foyer. Then the chairs could be removed and low tables and sofas could be moved in to create a swanky, lounge atmosphere. They had estimated the timing and been assured by the set decorators that within ten, fifteen minutes tops, guests would be, once again, in the event room. In the meantime, guests could mingle with each other, and the press would be able to conduct several interviews, before they were excused for the evening. We anticipated everything flowing exactly as planned. Of course, there was always the possibility of a flaw or two, but we hoped they would not be noticeable. Knowing how refreshments usually appeased and distracted crowds, we scheduled servers to pass hors d’oeuvres and beverages the second the doors reopened.

The food was being catered by a downtown restaurant conglomerate known for their involvement in the entertainment industry. They were always on their game with the help of culinary students from a local school. And as I insisted all along, wines from the Pinard Vineyard were being featured, thanks to Dash finally agreeing with me.

Only a few days to go, everything was moving along smoothly. Then, I received an email from my mother and a letter from my father. His letter was dated the same day that I had caused my big infamous scene in our family home and walked out the door. They were not what I expected. Their… his words were not things I wished to deal with at that moment.

From: Marian Dane

To: Willow Dane

A letter from your father

Yesterday at 10:00 PM

Hello Dear,

He doesn’t know who I am anymore. When he found me at his computer, he thought I was his secretary and he was at the office. He got upset with me when I asked him questions about working on the computer. He said I should know how to do my job. He fired me! I laughed at first, quietly. Of course, so he couldn’t see. He said he would hire a more computer savvy woman. When he insisted I leave the house, I had to call one of your brothers to come calm him down. I sat in the car until he arrived. He wouldn’t listen to your brother and he left the house in his car. We had to call the police when he didn’t come back. They found him sitting in his car several miles away, confused. We took him to a facility yesterday that handles people with Alzheimer’s disease. He had made up files on all of us, as I said before. Inside, I found letters that he had written to all of us at some point in his life. I thought you might like to read the one to you. I’ve attached it. It’s terribly long, but I think it proves what I’ve tried to convey to you. He has always loved you.

Love,

Your Mother

Attachment:

Willow,

I’m sorry that you found my words so harsh. My way of thinking might be old fashioned to you, but it was how I was brought up. I stand by my words. I also know that they don’t apply to everyone. I wanted you to be like your mother. The truth is; I saw from the very beginning you were more like me. You wanted to be at the car showroom with me after your mother brought you by one day for lunch. Your brothers wanted to be outside running the neighborhood, playing games. You asked me business questions that made sense, and it shocked the hell out of me. You were supposed to be my little princess. You were supposed to want to play dress up and with dolls, but not you, Willow. Though, you were never a tomboy, either. Dressed in your finest clothing, you wanted to see the brand new shiny cars as they came off the transport trucks. You told me how to rearrange my showroom every time you and your mother stopped in, and later, when you were able to drive yourself to the lot. I was wrong to drive you away from the business because you wanted it, but I didn’t see you there. Hell, I never wanted to be there. Your grandfather got me into the dealership. Told me to stop being foolish. He said I could never be a race car driver. He would never support it financial or otherwise. I was good at driving. Won amateur races. He didn’t care. A man must provide for his family. You need to find a nice woman and settle down. Have some kids. Time to grow up. I thought he was right. I’m not saying I didn’t want the things he said I needed to have; no, I wouldn’t trade your mother, your brothers or you for the world. You’re my life. But maybe, if I had been brave like you and stood up to my father like you did to me (maybe not with the colorful language you used), maybe I could’ve gone after my dreams and had both. I’m proud of you for pursuing your dreams. I wish you continued success. You are going to be one hell of a business woman.

Sincerely,

Your Dad

What kind of father signs a letter to his daughter with
sincerely
was my first thought when I finished his letter. Then, I went back and read his letter again, and then once more. Opening up my mother’s email, I went over that again, too. The mention of a letter from my father in the subject line had thrown me for loop. Then, the word shitty Alzheimer struck me and tears flowed from my eyes, they signified both sadness and anger.

Why did he not tell me any of that growing up?

Why did he not send me the letter?

Why? Why? Why?

He didn’t know my mother, my brothers and their families. He surly wouldn’t have known me. I was never going to get to talk to him about the letter. There was never going to be closure between us. I had, in an essence, heard his apology, read it. But, he would never hear my words. I would forever be the rebellious daughter. Maybe that was okay. He was proud of my strength and my courage to go after what I wanted. Perhaps it was time for me to forgive and thank him for my own sanity, for my own healthy mind and body. Time to let go of the past.

Sitting at my desk, Tomasina tapped on it. I looked up to see my friend sporting a pale-pink, shoulder-length, bobbed hairstyle. I hadn’t even realized she had walked in. “What’s wrong, Lolo?” she asked, moving around my desk and hugging me from behind. “Did that bastard hurt you?”

“What? Who?” I was a bit confused, dazed and confused.

“Dash. When a woman cries ugly tears, like yours, it’s usually over a man.”