Raindrops on Roses: Book One of the Favorite Things Trilogy (13 page)

"You know, this is getting
old, Douglas," she said. "
Please
let it go."

"I just don't want you to regret not taking
the opportunity to sit down and represent Gran with someone as
respected as Ginger Wallford. It's not like it's Access Hollywood
or the National Enquirer that we're saying yes to."

"You mean, that
you're
saying yes
to."

"Whatever."

Priscilla rolled her eyes.
It was the same old conversation and the same old pressure
being applied. She was so over it. Not to mention
how much she hated being forced into things she didn't want to
do.

"So, when are you planning to finally fly
back and meet our mysterious aunt?" she asked. "Aren't things
falling to pieces at Blue Satin without you? And I'm pretty sure
that by now, Soléna must be missing you terribly."

"Ha-ha," Doug replied dryly. "It just so
happens that I've booked my flight for the day after the Academy
shindig. Believe it or not, I'm pretty eager to get back home now,
myself. I'm missing my neighborhood, thank you very much."

What a relief,
thought Priscilla. Since he'd flown in from
France the day after Gran died, she was now quite eager to be left
to her own devices at Emerald Leas. Sink or swim.

"But there
are
still a few things I
need to get settled at the hotel before I depart for better
shores," he said with a wink. "One being the new hires. I think the
standards are a little too low and it could wind up hurting the
brand in the long term. We have to prune the employee pool and hire
more quality people. Even if it means an increase in starting
salaries."

"Well, what have you been noticing?" she
asked. She parked the cart and they went inside for a late
lunch.

"Well, without being too particular, I think
it's a matter of presentation, really...the kind of experience
we're creating for the guests; and whether or not the people who
interact with them actually help to maintain a brand of class and
elegance, you know? Every single employee either helps or hurts the
Favorite Things brand, Cilla. None of them are neutral. I want to
impress that upon the management team, and it'd be great if you
could keep an eye on it for me."

Priscilla pondered that as she grabbed from
the oven a pasta dish the housekeeper had prepared. "So how are you
planning to correct this in such a short period of time?"

"We're hiring a few new people and I'll be
sitting in on the rest of the interviews this week. It's my way of
retraining the hiring managers."

"Then I think I should sit in on them with
you. It would be a good jump-start on my apprenticeship."

"Absolutely, Cilla," he said, looking at her
with pride. "It's nice to hear you talk like that."

"Well, truth is, I'm still
not sure if taking an
active
part in the business is for me or not. I feel
like I'd need to go to business school like you did...and right now
my artwork is much more appealing. Drawing is very instinctual for
me. And I'm not sure business would come as naturally."

"Well, you'll just have to find out, won't
you?"

"Yeah, I intend to explore it. And the
interviews sound like a pretty innocuous way to see you in action
and get my feet wet."

"Good. We start Wednesday morning. We're
replacing a few people on the housekeeping staff and a gift shop
clerk." He checked his watch. "Oh. That's time. I need to return a
few calls before it gets later in London. Then I'm off to get ready
for the big interview."

"Right," she replied. "When does it
air?"

"Not sure," said Doug, leaving the barstool,
plate in hand. "I'll ask her, but it's either this Friday night or
next. Wish me luck."

"Luck," said Priscilla with a mouthful of
penne.

•~•

The morning of the first interview at the
hotel came fast, and Priscilla took care to dress suitably for the
occasion in a silver-belted navy blue sheath and matching jacket.
She brushed her hair up into a high ponytail, did her makeup and
jewelry, and slipped into a pair of beige Tom Fords.

"You look good," Doug said when she came
down the stairs.

"Thanks," she said, smiling. "Let's
roll."

They saw four people that
morning, then three in the afternoon for the gift shop position.
Priscilla initially liked them all but didn't trust her own
judgment once Doug started questioning them; five had buckled under
pressure. Turns out he knew
exactly
what to ask to get to the truth about their past
experience.

"Who chose these applicants?" Priscilla
asked Doug when they had finished.

"Jerry," he replied.

"Well, I don't think it's his fault. He can
only go by what they have on their resumes or their applications,
right? And anyone can exaggerate their work history, Doug."

"Yes, but interviewing effectively is a
skill, Cilla. You have to be able to read people and know what to
ask. It's not one size fits all, but not everyone gets that."

Priscilla listened intently, absorbing the
information like a sponge. Her first proper venture into the
running of their heritage was surprisingly stimulating, and she now
realized she was more than ready to roll up her sleeves and get to
work.

•
CHAPTER SIXTEEN •

T
he Renaissance Hotel in Stuart was the perfect mid-way point
between his office and Mayfair Island. Michael had checked in,
still not quite believing how much life had changed for him in the
last few weeks.

He did think about Amber—a lot more than he
wanted to. Her words about his mother had bounced off the walls of
their apartment and were now echoing throughout his hotel room.

Whenever he thought about her rage,
Michael's heart began hammering away in his chest and his muscles
became tense. He'd maintained a brave face in front of her, but she
had frightened him. It was a side of Amber he'd never experienced
before.

Well, she does have a lot
to fight for
,
now
doesn't she?
he thought.

Amber had always depended
on him quite a bit financially. Not just for herself, but also for
her mom, Julie. They were both used to squandering their own
paychecks, living well above their means because Michael was always
there and always willing. He knew
he
was the one making the $600 lease
payments on Julie Holland's Lexus. Amber had set up a monthly debit
from their joint account and Michael had said nothing, he had never
complained. He was doing well after all and saw no reason to make a
fuss; it was just money.

And now that he'd left
her, he was feeling guilty. But he kept telling himself that Amber
was
not
his
responsibility, that she would just have to learn to shop less and
start taking care of herself. If they wanted to drive luxury cars,
it could no longer be at his expense.

Signing into their joint account online,
Michael saw the balance was enough to cover Amber's living expenses
for the next several months, even if she decided to move
elsewhere.

Well, I can leave her with
that
, he thought. But he wouldn't make any
more transfers into the account.

Having stayed in for the last few
days—avoiding the office, avoiding the world—this morning, Michael
decided to have breakfast in the neighborhood diner he'd seen on
his way to the Renaissance.

When he walked in, he chose a corner table
where he'd be least likely to interact with other patrons. And just
as he started eating his deliciously well-loaded omelette, Jason
called to see what he was up to.

"So," his friend said.
"Amber called
me
this morning, M. She must be getting desperate."

"I know." Michael kept his voice low to
avoid being overheard. "But you're not thinking about calling her
back, are you?"

"Not unless you want me to try talking some
sense into her."

"No, she's just shocked and pissed off, and
she needs some time to accept this. I think it's best if we just
let her wear herself out. She has to give this up eventually."

"Have you talked to your father about it
yet?"

"No. I've been working
from my room and e-mailing him about the projects
only
."

"Well, you can't ignore him forever," Jason
cautioned.

"Don't I know it?"

His father had left him an urgent voicemail.
Apparently, Amber had called to tell Larry that Michael had moved
out and his father was basically demanding a response. But Michael
didn't feel he owed him any explanations...And he just wasn't ready
to discuss it with him anyway, so he kept himself scarce.

His phone chimed, signaling an incoming
text. "There she goes again. I think I'm going to change my number,
Jay. My e-mail, too—just make a clean break. Blocking her number
won't be enough, she'll just use other phones."

"Good idea," replied
Jason. "That way she'll know you're serious—even if showing up with
the police didn't. I mean, I still can't believe Amber! She totally
lost me at fake pregnancy, dude." He paused. "I mean...you
are
absolutely
sure she was lying, right?"

"Definitely. I'm positive.
And if there had been any room for the benefit of the doubt? She
crushed it when she said I was leaving her when I had no
proof
she wasn't really
pregnant. It was unreal. I don't know when Amber became
so...manipulative." Michael took a sip of orange juice. "You know
what she said in the last text? That I've been 'led astray' and she
considered it her 'duty' to save us."

"Geez, man," said Jason. "I'm really sorry
about all this. I feel bad—but look on the bright side. Priscilla
Bauer, and a whole new chapter, awaits."

"A
very
bright side, indeed," said
Michael. "I can't even describe the way I felt when I got that text
from Priscilla the other day. I wasn't about to let her slip
through my fingers again."

After he hung up with Jason, Michael took a
deep, calming breath before reading Amber's latest.

I'm never giving up on us.
U know we belong 2gether. ~ 4Ever Amber ~

Sighing heavily, Michael finished his orange
juice and left the diner. It was time to put this problem to bed.
For good.

•~•

When the day of the Veronica Bauer event
arrived, Michael was so eager to see Priscilla again, he could
hardly keep a thought in his head the entire afternoon.

He had gone out and bought a new tux for the
occasion, along with a single long-stemmed red rose. He couldn't
help glancing over at it as he moved about the hotel room getting
dressed for the evening. The rose seemed to express exactly the way
he was feeling about Priscilla.

The drive to Mayfair was uneventful and he
made it in just under two hours. His anticipation swelled as he
crossed the causeway.

Just
relax
, he told himself.
She likes you. Everything's gonna work out
fine
.

•
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
•

F
or whatever it was worth—and despite having had the most
important part of her life ripped away—Amber
was
trying to keep up with her
work.

As luck would have it, one
of her long-term clients had decided to become this week's resident
pain in the ass. So after ending yet
another
frustrating Skype call,
Amber decided to take a much-needed break and go make herself a cup
of coffee.

Jeez,
she thought, strolling into the kitchen.
What I really need right now is a French latte with a double
shot of espresso and extra foam stirred in.
Her mouth watered at the thought, but she had no time for
that.

As she got the creamer out, her mind
inevitably turned to Michael and she felt the familiar dip in the
pit of her stomach as their last encounter came rushing back...

After he had returned with the police that
night for the rest of his things, Amber had seized almost
everything he hadn't taken with him, piled them into the living
room and started going over every square inch. There were old CDs,
his work files, scraps of paper, and legal pads filled with
sentence fragments or randomly jotted numbers that made no sense to
her, but must've been relevant to him at some point. She found
herself lying on the sofa for hours, trying to figure out what
Michael might've been thinking as he'd scribbled this or that, what
the notes and the figures had been all about.

She missed him too much for words.

He hadn't taken his iPod, and she kept a
Black Lab song he loved blaring on the stereo almost day and night,
the haunting lyrics about wrapping the night around you like a
sheet to find peace almost ripping her heart out.

He had also left some
t-shirts in the bureau and every evening Amber opened the drawer
and just stared at them, feeling the urge to sleep in one,
especially the
Breaking Bad
shirt—they had spent days binge watching it on
Netflix—but she couldn't bring herself to put it on. It was almost
too painful. So she would just sit there for the longest time,
staring at his shirts before finally closing the drawer and
crawling into their bed alone, feeling as if the sane parts of her
mind had gone right out the front door with him.