The Fixer Upper (2 page)

I
’d been out in the alley for only about twenty minutes, but in that time, every cubicle geek in D.C. seemed to have wandered into the Filibuster. The jukebox was playing some ’90s Madonna song, and the guys standing around watching the basketball game were jeering and cheering. With my red-rimmed eyes and snotty nose—and sudden status as a virtual untouchable—I felt unbearably self-conscious.

“Let Dempsey sit in the middle,” Lindsay ordered Stepanie. “We don’t want people staring at her.” Stephanie got up and let me in and I squeezed her hand in gratitude.

“We’ve got a little problem,” Lindsay said quietly. “Dempsey just got fired.”

“They can’t do that,” Stephanie said. “It’s illegal. Isn’t it?”

Lindsay and I shrugged. Although we’d all met in law school, none of us had taken any classes in employment practices.

“I’m through in D.C.,” I said, drawing circles with my fingertip in the wet glass ring on the tabletop. “You guys better start looking for another roommate.”

“Oh stop,” Stephanie said. “Don’t be so dramatic. Hodder and Associates is one of the top public relations firms in town. People know that. They’ll be climbing all over each other to sign you on. Alex will give you a good reference, right? I mean, they won’t say you were fired. They couldn’t. Right?”

“Ruby said something about referring me to an outplacement consultant. I guess that’s like a headhunter firm. But she didn’t say anything about paying for it. And I think those places charge big money.”

“You know tons of people in D.C. And so do we,” Stephanie said. She
pulled out her BlackBerry and started scrolling down her list of contacts. “We’ll just get busy and network.”

A round of boos went up from the front of the bar. We looked up. The game had apparently ended badly and the channel had now been turned to Fox News. There I was again, clomping behind Alex in HDTV, headed straight to doom.

“Everybody in town is seeing that right now,” I said, looking away. “They’re hearing the words ‘Hodder’ and ‘scandal.’ I’ll be tainted goods.”

“That’s crap,” Stephanie said. “Alex will ride this out. And so will you. You know what this town is like. You wait. Tomorrow another scandal du jour will come along. Some congressman diddling some intern or page, or a minor war in East Bumfuck, and suddenly Hoddergate will all just be a dim memory.”

“She’s right,” Lindsay said. “It’s not as if you did anything wrong. You weren’t indicted. Right?”

I tried a smile. It felt fake. “According to Ruby, the FBI has my hard drive. With all my e-mails from the last six months.”

“Oh my God!” Stephanie cried. “All that stuff about me missing my period back in October. You deleted those, right? And the ones about my bitchy boss?”

Lindsay’s face had taken on a faintly green sheen. “Oh Christ. I e-mailed you about asking Alex to get Licata’s chief of staff to talk to my cousin about a job. Oh shit. The FBI’s going to think I’m mixed up in this mess.”

“Shit.” The three of us said it in unison.

My cell phone rang again. I stared down at the readout. The phone number had a California area code.

“It’s Lynda,” I said glumly. I let the phone ring five times. It stopped and then started ringing again. “I can’t deal with her right now.”

“You’re not going to take a call from your mom?” Lindsay asked. “That’s kinda cold, isn’t it?”

“You guys all met my mom at graduation,” I reminded her. “Did she strike you as the kind of person you want to chat with in the middle of a crisis?”

The ringing stopped and then started again.

“Either turn the phone off or take her call,” Stephanie said, stepping out of the booth to let me by again.

Out in the alley, I took a deep breath and pushed the connect button. “Lynda?”

“Sweetheart!” she cried. “I’m looking at you on CNN. Now, don’t be mad at me for telling you this, but I really, truly think you should fly out here and let my stylist do something about your hair. Maybe some layers to soften things up around your cheekbones. You do have those unfortunate Killebrew cheekbones that tend to make you look like Hiawatha. And the color. What have you done with your color?”

Without thinking, I put my hand to my cheek and then pulled out a strand of hair to see what was wrong with it. My hair was what I thought was a perfectly nice deep shade of brown. Chestnut, an old boyfriend with a flair for the poetic had called it.

“Mom, this is my natural color,” I said. “I haven’t done anything to it.”

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Anyway, there’s no reason you have to stay a brunette for life. From what I’m seeing on television right now, you’re going to need some kind of makeover, and your hair is the perfect place to start. And don’t get me started on your clothes. Tell me something. Do they make all you girls in Washington wear those straight skirts and heels as a uniform? They make you look like a prison matron.”

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize my mother, out in San Jose, watching me on the tiny television in her jewelry studio. She’d be dressed in the bright blues, greens, and yellows she called her trademark shades, probably a flowing silk flowered top and yoga pants. Her feet would be bare, the toenails in a French pedicure, with a ring—of her own design, of course—on the second toe of each foot. It was nearly six in D.C., which meant it was three in California, which meant she’d be sipping a Perrier and lime with vodka—low-carb vodka.

“In Washington women are expected to dress like professionals,” I said. “Which means no toe rings and no visible tattoos.” Lynda had gotten a butterfly tattooed on the small of her back a dozen years before.

“All the more reason to get the hell out of there on the next flight west,” Lynda said. “Does this mean you’re really in some kind of serious trouble?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Not intentionally anyway. I’m just a tiny little minnow. The feds are probably really just after the big fish—Congressman Licata.”

“Fucking Republicans,” Lynda said. “No senses of humor.”

“Not when it comes to bribery,” I agreed.

I heard the faint tinkle of ice, and I knew she was fixing herself another drink.

“I’ll be all right,” I said bravely. There was no way I was going to admit to my mother that I’d already been fired and that even as we spoke, the FBI was poring over my best friends’ e-mails about bitchy bosses and skipped periods. “Hodder and Associates is one of the top firms in D.C. And I’ve got a little money saved.”

“Of course you do,” Lynda agreed. “You were always the most practical child I ever saw. You were born competent. Practically came out of the womb clutching your Day Runner. You used to tell me what to pack in your own diaper bag. I have no doubt that you’ll be fine. There’s just one thing I’m dying to know. And you
can
tell me, you know. I mean, we both know I’m not exactly the garden-variety little soccer mom in polyester sweatpants, right?”

That did give me a laugh. The thought of Lynda in polyester. And elastic. “Right. So go ahead. What do you want to know?”

“This Alex Hodder,” she said slowly. “I’m looking at him right now. And I must say he is a fine-looking piece of man. I have always had a weak spot for a man with a firm chin and a Southern accent. That’s how your daddy got me into bed on our first date, the rascal. You are sleeping with Alex, aren’t you? I mean, if you’re mixed up in this little mess, that must mean he’s taking care of you. Right?”

“No, Lynda,” I said. “I’m not sleeping with Alex Hodder. He’s married.”

“Mmm,” she purred. “He doesn’t look all that married to me.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I announced. “Good talking to you, Lynda.”

“Wait,” she said quickly. “Think about what I told you. About your
hair, I mean. I’ll have Leonard send you a plane ticket. We could have a mother-daughter spa weekend. Wouldn’t that be delicious?”

“Yum,” I said dully. I flipped the phone shut and started back inside. It was full dark now, the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees, and it was starting to sleet.

My phone rang again. “Damn,” I said. It was parents’ weekend in D.C.

Dutifully, I punched the connect button.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said, forcing a smile into my voice.

“This is all your mother’s fault,” he said.

“I take it you’ve seen the news.”

“Pilar called me at the office. The boys were wrestling with the remote and it accidentally switched to CNN, and there you were, being hounded by a pack of reporters, like a common criminal. They started hollering, ‘Dempsey! Dempsey!’ the minute the camera panned to you. Pilar told them you’d won a spelling bee, and that’s why you were on the news.”

“I wish,” I said weakly.

“This thing sounds pretty serious, Dempsey,” my father said. “This Hodder fella, is he a stand-up sort?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering if he really was.

“Does the Justice Department really have the goods on him? Wait. Where are you? Don’t answer that.”

“I’m in Georgetown, at a bar,” I said. “Or, outside a bar.”

“Drinking? Is that a good idea?”

“It seemed like an excellent idea an hour or so ago,” I said.

“You don’t sound like yourself. Is there something else going on that I should know about?”

I bit my lip. I’d lied to Lynda, but my father was different. I’d never been good at lying to him. Anyway, what was the point?

“I’ve been fired,” I said finally. “Well, the office manager didn’t put it that way. She said Alex is restructuring the firm. To concentrate on his core business. And they did give me a month’s vacation pay.”

“Bastard,” my father said. He sighed. “Do I need to hire you a lawyer?”

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes again. “I don’t know. The FBI has my hard drive, and all my e-mails for the past six months, but, Daddy, I didn’t have anything to do with this mess. Honestly, I thought the wakeboard instructor down in the Bahamas really was a wakeboard instructor. How did I know she’d end up in a hot tub with Congressman Licata?”

I shuddered at the thought of it, Licata, with his bulbous vein-streaked nose and hairy potbelly, naked with a twenty-year-old hooker at the Lyford Cay Resort.

“This is all your mother’s fault,” Daddy repeated. “You’ve always been insanely naive, just like her. No street smarts at all. I really thought when you got into law school at Georgetown you would outgrow that unfortunate tendency. Toughen up. Make your way in the business world.”

I sniffed. “I thought I
was
making my way in the business world. I was in the top ten percent in my class. Hodder and Associates could have hired anybody, but they hired me. Alex told me I was his first choice.”

“Doesn’t mean jack now,” Daddy said. “Christ! Listen, what are your plans?”

My most immediate plan was to go back inside the bar, thaw out, and switch from beer to margaritas. After that, my agenda was pretty open.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “They’re going to hook me up with an outplacement consultant.”

“A lot of bullshit,” Daddy said. “All right. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll have my assistant book you a flight down here. Tomorrow. Pilar and the boys will pick you up at the airport, we’ll have a nice family dinner, and then you and I will strategize.”

“Strategize,” I said dutifully. “About what?”

“Your future,” he boomed.

“I’ve got a month’s pay coming,” I started. “I just thought I’d lie low for a little while, polish up my résumé, maybe call some of my law school classmates…”

“Screw that,” Daddy said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated. I closed the phone and pulled my suit-coat collar up against the chill wind blowing through the alley. Hell, I was apparently going to Miami tomorrow to visit my father and stepmother and my twin four-year-old half brothers. Surely the sun would come out tomorrow in Miami.

I
’d been to Alex Hodder’s house in northwest Washington exactly once before, when Trish, his wife, had thrown Alex a surprise fiftieth birthday party. Now, emboldened by the pitcher of margaritas we’d slurped down at the Filibuster, I sat in the back of the cab parked at the curb in front of his town house and dialed his cell phone one more time. One more time, the ringing went straight to his voice mail.

“Alex,” I pleaded. “Please pick up. I’m leaving town in the morning, flying down to Miami to see my dad, and I really, really need to talk to you.”

Nothing.

It was still sleeting, and the windows of the three-story white brick town house glowed a golden yellow. Through an opening in the thick drapes I could see the glittering crystals of the Hodders’ dining room chandelier on the right side of the house, and on the left, I could just glimpse the book-lined shelves of Alex’s study. Maybe that’s where he was right now, sitting at the simple pine table that served as his desk, sipping from a tumbler of Dewar’s, pondering his future the same way I was pondering mine.

“What’s it gonna be, ma’am?” the cabbie asked, half-turning in his seat. We’d been sitting there a good five minutes while I tried to figure out if I was really drunk—or brave—enough to ring Alex’s doorbell.

“Give me a minute, please,” I said.

“It’s your dime,” he said, turning back around and picking up the neatly folded sports page he’d just put down. “But the meter’s running, you know.”

The mention of money gave me all the courage I needed. The meter was running on my life. I needed some answers, fast.

“Wait for me,” I said, hopping out of the cab and buttoning up my coat. A thin sheet of ice coated the high, white marble stoop at the front door, and I had to cling to the iron handrail to keep from sliding off in those damned black suede stilettos.

I punched the brass doorbell and could hear it buzzing from inside. A moment later, I heard footsteps approaching the door. The brass lanterns on either side of the door flickered on. “Who’s there?” a woman’s voice called.

“Mrs. Hodder?” I’d only met Alex’s wife that one time. It didn’t feel right calling her Trish. “It’s Dempsey.”

“Who?”

“Dempsey Killebrew. From the office. I work for Alex, I mean, Mr. Hodder.”

I heard her mutter something under her breath, and then the click of the lock tumblers. The door opened a few inches. Trish Hodder obviously wasn’t expecting callers. Her dark auburn hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head, her pale smooth face scrubbed clean of any traces of makeup. A long, pale blue mohair robe was belted loosely around her waist, and her feet were encased in thin, monogrammed leather slippers in the exact same shade of blue.

All the other previous sightings I’d had of Trish Hodder had been at charity functions where Alex had purchased tables or tickets for the office, or in photographs of her in the society pages of the
Washingtonian
or the
Post
. Always, she was exquisitely dressed and groomed. Annabeth, one of the other women in the office, told me that Trish dressed exclusively in Carolina Herrera for evening and Michael Kors and Zac Posen for daytime. But tonight, she seemed dressed mostly for bed.

She looked me up and down, as though trying to place me. “Oh yes, Dempsey,” she said finally. “It’s pretty late, you know.”

“I know, and I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you,” I said eagerly. “But I really need to talk to Alex, please.”

“A lot of people need to talk to Alex,” she said. “But as you might imagine, he really isn’t seeing anybody tonight. I’m sure if you call Ruby tomorrow, she can work something out.”

“I’ve already talked to Ruby,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush hot from the memory. “According to her, Alex has terminated me.”

Trish shrugged. “Then there’s probably not much more he can say to you, is there?” She started to close the door.

“Just like that?” I said shrilly. “I’ve worked for him for two years, and he fires me the same day we’re implicated in a federal bribery case? Doesn’t even tell me in person—just has his assistant tell me to buzz off?”

She cocked one eyebrow. “What would you have him do? Look, um, Denise—”

“Dempsey,” I said. “My name is Dempsey Killebrew. I’ve been an associate for two years. I’m the one he told to hire that wakeboard instructor down in the Bahamas. I’m the one who was standing right behind him today when this whole mess exploded. The FBI is going over my e-mails right this minute. I don’t know what do. I really,
really
need to speak to your husband. I need to figure out what to do next.”

“Alex doesn’t have a clue about what you should do next,” Trish said. “And I’m damned sure not going to wake him up to let you ask him. He doesn’t even have a clue about what he’s going to do. It’s his ass on the line, sweetheart, not yours. I can assure you, the FBI doesn’t give a good goddamn about any of the silly little girls my husband has been having do his dirty work. And neither does Alex. You want to know what to do next?”

She leaned out the door and saw the cab parked at the curb, its motor—and meter—running. “Go home, Dempsey. Sober up and start polishing your résumé. And stay away from men like my husband.”

Trish stepped back inside the house. She closed the door gently. Then the lights flickered out, and I was standing outside on that icy stoop, watching the lights in Alex Hodder’s town house switch off, one by one.