Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (2 page)

“I did,” Nikki agreed, knowing exactly what her mother was leading up to.

“I was just in your room, and the closet is empty. Where are all your clothes?”

“Most of them were old,” Nikki said, stalling for time. “I had stuff in there from high school.”

“There were some expensive clothes in there! What did you do with them?”

“Took them to the Goodwill,” Nikki mumbled.

“What?!” The screech echoed across the airwaves, and Nikki held the phone away from her ear as Nell continued at full volume. “I paid for those clothes! You had no right . . .” Nikki held the phone out even farther until the words were just a high-pitched jumble. When the pitch dropped, she put the phone back to her ear.

“I am very disappointed in you,” Nell said.

“Sorry, Mom,” Nikki said, paying more attention to the passing crowd than to the conversation. She knew the script by heart.

“Hmph,” Nell snorted, not placated by Nikki’s rote apology. “I suppose you took the remote to the Goodwill, too?”

“No. Did you look under the couch cushions?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “And in the drawer and under the couch. I may not have gone to college like some people, but I’m not an idiot.”

“How about under the newspaper? Sometimes it gets lost under the newspaper.” Nikki ignored the jab about college; it was barely a two on the Nell scale of snide. There was a silence on the other end of the line, and Nikki knew her mother hadn’t looked under the newspaper.

“That’s a stupid place to put the remote. I don’t know why it would be there.”

“I agree, but sometimes the paper just gets spread out over it on accident.” Nikki kept her tone soothing. She heard rustling in the background, followed by a click and the theme song from
Jeopardy
.

“Are you sure about this job?” asked Nell, changing subjects. “I thought you wanted something in your field. Selling cosmetics clearly isn’t something you’re trained for.”

“Linguistics jobs weren’t exactly hopping out of the woodwork, and besides, I won’t be selling cosmetics. The Carrie Mae charity foundation is different, and it’s a really good opportunity.”

“Do you even know what you’re going to be doing?”

“Well, no,” said Nikki, squirming, “but that’s why I’m going to do training.”

“I just think it’s weird, is all. I mean, why you? Why did Mrs. Merrivel offer you a job?” Nikki didn’t know why Mrs. Merrivel, the Carrie Mae recruiter, had offered her the job, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her mother.

“OK, well, I’m at the airport now, and I have to look for my ride. Gotta go.”

“Well, you could call me next time. I’m only up here worrying
myself to death about your safety.” She could hear Alex Trebek introducing the contestants.

“Yeah, I’ll call. Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

Nikki hung up the phone and ran her fingers through her hair. Worse than simply irritating her, Nell always managed to plant the seed of doubt that Nikki had spent careful time weeding out. Today was no exception.

She checked her watch again and scanned the room: still no one. She was starting to sweat.

Another unbearable minute ticked past, and then an older man in a rumpled green Tommy Bahama shirt and navy slacks entered through the doors opposite her. He was tall and fit and, but for the wrinkled shirt, managed to look distinguished. Pausing by Nikki, he placed his foot on a bench and used his bent leg as a steady writing surface for a yellow legal pad. He paused with pen poised over the paper and then flipped over his left hand to consult something written on the palm. From where she was sitting Nikki could see that it was “Nikki Lanier.”

“Excuse me,” Nikki said.

“Just a sec,” the man said without looking up. “Got to get this spelled correctly.”

“It’s
i
, then
e
,” corrected Nikki.

“Thanks,” the man said, and then held the sign out at arm’s length to view the results. “Now, then,” he said, tucking the pad under his arm and putting the cap on the pen. “What can I do for you, young lady?” Nikki smiled. She liked this man; he had an absent-minded professor sort of aura.

“I think I’m who you’re supposed to meet.”

“You are?” asked the man with surprise. He flipped his hand over and read it again. “You’re Nikki Lanier?”

“Yes,” said Nikki, smiling again. “That’s me.”

“Oh,” the man said, and pulled out the pad with her name on it. “Well, I guess I don’t need this.” He seemed a little disappointed.

“No, I guess not.”

“Oh, well,” said the man, shrugging it off. “Should we get your luggage?” he asked, looking around as if expecting suitcases to appear.

“Nope, this is it,” Nikki said, grabbing her pack and standing up.

“Good heavens,” the man said. “Are you sure you’re with Carrie Mae?”

“Sort of,” said Nikki. “I’ve never actually sold anything.”

“Ah, well,” the man said kindly, “some people aren’t meant for sales.” He smiled, and Nikki felt a sudden relief. It was true; she wasn’t meant for sales, and that was just that.

“Well, this way,” said the man, and walked back toward the doors.

Nikki followed him out into the blinding California sunshine and toward the parking garage. His car was a large black Mercedes and spotless—a power car. Nikki glanced at her escort. His lanky figure was set off by a head full of white hair, and he carried himself with confidence; he was obviously not a mere chauffeur.

“Just shove those clubs over and put your pack in the trunk,” said the man, popping the trunk with his key fob as they reached the car. “It’s why I’m late,” he said, unlocking the car. “I was playing a few holes with the fellas, and the game ran long.” Nikki moved the golf clubs as instructed and went to sit in the passenger seat.

“Say,” the man said as she closed the door. “I guess I know your name, but you probably haven’t a clue who I am.”

“Well, no,” confessed Nikki.

“John Merrivel,” said the man, and they shook hands. “And you should be more careful about wandering off with strange men.” Nikki grimaced unhappily and sighed. He was absolutely right, and after her conversation with Mrs. Merrivel, she’d promised herself that she would be less trusting and more vigilant.

“Mrs. Merrivel said that, too. Apparently, I wasn’t listening very carefully.”

Mr. Merrivel laughed. “Well, some things take practice,” he said. “But what I want to know is why
not
wandering off with strange men is something you need to practice?” he asked quizzically.

“There was this thing . . . in Canada . . .” Nikki stumbled around, looking for words to describe the fiasco that had been her most recent trip to Canada. “It was kind of a mess,” she finished lamely. “It’s where I met Mrs. Merrivel.”

“Ah,” Mr. Merrivel said, as if she really had explained everything. “Well, as long as it worked out all right in the end.”

“It did!” affirmed Nikki. She ran over the events in her mind; it had worked out . . . mostly. “I’m here, anyway,” she said with a shrug. “It was nice of Mrs. Merrivel to send you to pick me up.” A change of topic was probably for the best; he was the boss’s husband after all.

“To tell the truth,” he said, easing the car out of the airport parking garage, “I wasn’t supposed to pick you up today, but there seems to have been a bit of a dustup at the ranch over your arrival, so Mrs. M sent me to bring you round to our house while she gets it all straightened out.”

“I’m staying with you?” Nikki asked, nervous at the prospect of being Mrs. Merrivel’s houseguest. “I thought I was going to some sort of training center.”

“Well, you will eventually, I expect.” Nikki looked doubtful. “It’ll probably only be a night or two,” said Mr. Merrivel cheer
fully. “And we’re perfectly good hosts, I assure you. None of our guests have died since that time in ’92.” He waggled his eyebrows comically, and Nikki couldn’t help but laugh.

“Wait,” Nikki said, catching up to the rest of Mr. Merrivel’s comment. “Dustup? Over me?” Nikki was worried that her potential job was in peril.

“Not to worry,” said Mr. Merrivel. “Just that Connie’s got a bee in her bonnet about you starting late.”

“Late? How late am I?” Nikki was confused. Mrs. Merrivel hadn’t said anything about starting late.

“A couple of weeks, I think. Not really my department, you understand. More the wife’s thingie. Connie doesn’t like to bend the rules so much, but I expect Mrs. M will get her way. She usually does, my little Miranda.”

“That was my impression of her,” agreed Nikki, trying to keep her tone diplomatic.

“She’s a bit of a bulldog,” Mr. Merrivel said, smiling fondly. Nikki thought Mrs. Merrivel was probably more of a Rottweiler in poodle’s clothing, but didn’t mention it.

They passed through smoggy Burbank, and Nikki noticed with a comforting feeling of familiarity that they were on I-5 going north. If they stayed on this little ribbon of concrete, in another seventeen hours she would be standing on her mother’s doorstep. Nikki laughed at herself a little; it was ridiculous to feel comforted by an interstate. Especially since she didn’t want to go home at all. At least, most of her didn’t. There was a little voice in the back of her head that was insisting that this entire escapade was doomed to failure. The voice sounded suspiciously like her mother’s.

Mr. M turned on the radio. He flipped channels for a while before settling on an oldies station. They caught the last half of
“Last Train to Clarksville” before it ended and the DJ began to talk. After a moment of chatter, the DJ stated that they were listening to K-Earth 101 and this was the Mamas and the Papas with “California Dreamin’.”

“And the skyyy is grayyyy,” harmonized Nikki, unintentionally singing out loud. She stopped moments later, blushing, but Mr. M picked up the next line as if singing with strangers were perfectly natural.

“Say,” he said as the song ended, “we sound pretty good.”

The DJ began to talk again, and Mr. M snorted with irritation.

“Let’s see what we’ve got in the old CD player. Maybe we can find something else to sing to.” He flipped through several CDs, listening to the beginning of each before punching up the next one.

“Mr. M?” Nikki said, distractedly feeling through her own thoughts. His finger was still hovering over the Fast Forward button.

“Did you just call me Mr. M?” Mr. Merrivel asked. Nikki paused guiltily, and hesitantly she nodded. “Ha. I like it! I always call Miranda Mrs. M, but she just thinks I’m strange. What’s up?”

She smiled, relieved that her habit of shortening names hadn’t offended him.

“Well, frankly, I’m a little nervous.”

“About the job?” he asked, nodding sympathetically.

“Well, I’m not really sure what I’m expected to do. And I didn’t realize I’d be behind in the training. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to catch up, because I don’t really know what kind of training it is. And I really want this job. Well,
a job
anyway. And . . . I’m just nervous.” Nikki stopped herself before she devolved into a blubbering fountain of uncertainty. She hadn’t meant to spill that
much; she’d meant to ask for a few useful hints about the new job, not reveal her quaking Jell-O center. Mr. M’s cheerful face wore an expression of seriousness for a moment.

“They didn’t tell you what you’d be doing?”

“Mrs. M just said she’d tell me all about it when I got here,” Nikki said.

“Hmm.” He scratched his forehead. “Well, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“What will be fine?” asked Nikki, wondering if one more time she’d gotten herself in over her head.

Mr. M shook his head as if to dismiss her question and his thoughts at the same time. “Not my place. But trust me, everything will be fine. If you want this job, it’s yours. And since you seem to be a very bright, in-shape person, I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to excel.”

His calm statement of confidence in her abilities momentarily relaxed Nikki. And then she began to worry about being “in shape.” What had he meant by that? What kind of charity foundation required people to be in shape? Her ribbon of thoughts was snipped short by the musical jangling of Mr. M’s cell phone.

“Sounds like the wife,” said Mr. M, reaching for the phone. “Hello, sweet pea!” he proclaimed. “Yes, mission complete, got her right here!” He was silent for a moment, listening.

“Hmm,” he said. “Well, yes, but I’m not sure . . .” He trailed off, listening to Mrs. M. “Nope, it’s not a problem.” He glanced at Nikki. “Yup, love you, too. Bye.”

“Everything OK?” Nikki asked.

“Just fine, but Connie’s being a stick-in-the-mud, so until Mrs. M can get all your paperwork signed off at headquarters you’ll have to stay with us.”

“How long will that take?” asked Nikki, worry lines furrowing into her forehead.

“A couple of days. A week at most. Not to worry. We’ll think of something to do. I don’t suppose you play golf?” Nikki shook her head, still worried. “Want to learn?” he asked with a cheerful grin.

CALIFORNIA II

Permanent Record

“Well, it’s very clear that a bunch of women live here,” Nikki said.

“Yes,” Connie agreed. “And in line with our company philosophy.”

The week with the Merrivels had flown by, but eventually Mrs. Merrivel announced that Nikki would be meeting Connie for a tour of the facilities on the following day at 8:00
A.M.
sharp. Mr. M had gotten up early to drive her over the winding Santa Clarita roads and up to a wide plantation-style property that encompassed several acres and was surrounded by a rock wall and arching iron gates.

“The company philosophy?” Nikki was trying to ignore the alarm buzzing in her brain.

“Making the lives of women everywhere a little better!” Connie looked at Nikki as if she’d asked what color the sky was. Connie Hinton was tall and broad-shouldered with a wide, flat bottom. She reminded Nikki of a basketball player she had known in college.

“I haven’t been with the company very long,” Nikki said, by way of explanation. Connie sniffed with disapproval.

The alarm was flashing purple now. The tour really hadn’t gone as she had expected. First there had been the nondisclosure form with the clause on death and dismemberment, and then there had been the guns. Nikki was pretty sure that most charity foundations didn’t have their own gun range. Not to mention an obstacle course and scenario training ground. The computer lab and the dorms had seemed reasonable. Connie had been very keen on the dorms: they all had en suite bathrooms. And now they were standing in one of the bathrooms and admiring the multiple outlets, dual sinks, marble tile, and built-in gun safe. It was a very pretty gun safe—Carrie Mae purple.