Curveball (25 page)

“That’s because I can read. Your designer brands always plaster their names on every
buckle, button and zipper so the rest of us can see just how much you spent on them.
I don’t know why you just don’t staple hundred dollar bills to your collars.”

“Oooh, good idea. I’ll bring that up at our next Rich Bitch meeting.” She nudged Cat’s
foot with hers. “Come on, let’s go shopping.”

“We’re working.”

“Too hard. We need a break. This is supposed to be an internship, not an internment.”

“How do you even know—” Cat stopped herself. “Never mind, I guess I’d expect you to
pick up a couple of history classes in your six years of college.” She patted Paige’s
knee. “Get off my desk and go to work. You can shop later this afternoon.”

“Morning is the best time to try on clothes to avoid bloating bias. I’m going whether
you come or not.”

Cat didn’t doubt that. She tried one last plea. “Why don’t you just shop online at
your desk like you always do?”

“Because I want to get a new dress for
tonight
,” she whined. “Come on, if you don’t come with me, I could get kidnapped and murdered
and then you’d have to tell my dad you lost me, which—let’s face it—is exactly what
he hired you not to do.”

She was right. Selfish, shallow and bratty—but also
right
. Cat opened her desk drawer and pulled out her purse.

Paige’s eyes lit up.

The crossbody canvas might as well have been a white flag gliding up an aluminum pole.

They strolled down Avenida Winston Churchill from one shopping center to the next.
Paige had two shopping bags slung over her wrist. She fanned herself with the other
hand. Cat clasped nothing but a small plastic bag holding two t-shirts from the Acropolis
Center’s Hooters, where the girls had stopped in for salads and margaritas.

Cat peeked in the bag and grabbed the receipt, shoving it in her purse.

“So who are the shirts for?” Paige scrunched up her face in mock horror. “You’re not
gonna like, wear it to work, are you?”

“No. One’s a gag gift for Benji. He’s a member of this owl conservation group, so
I think it’ll be a hoot.” Cat chuckled. “
Hoot
. Get it?”

Paige raised an eyebrow over her sunglasses. “And the other?”

“Oh. It's just a Christmas present for someone.”

“Who? Junior?”

“No!”

“Then who?”

“None of your business,” Cat snapped back.

“I’m just going to keep asking until you tell me.”

“Fine.” Cat sighed and relented, “My half brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“Half, and yes. Why are you so surprised? I wasn’t hatched.”

Paige laughed. “It’s just weird, you don’t talk about your family at all.”

“Well, they aren’t exactly worth bragging about.”

“What about your parents?”

“Mom’s AWOL, Dad’s in the slammer.”

Paige’s jaw dropped. “You mean like prison?”

“Not like prison. Prison.”

“For real?”

“’Fraid so. Not all dads come with their own trading card.”

Paige plucked the lime wedge out of her margarita and squeezed it between her fingers.
“I’d trade him if I could.”

Cat snorted. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Ha!”

“Roger is amazing. I would’ve killed to have a dad like that growing up.”

“Amazing,” Paige scoffed. “He was an amazing ballplayer. He was an amazing teammate.
He’s an amazing general manager. But an amazing dad? Let me ask you this, how many
times has the Amazing Superdad called to check on me since we’ve been here?”

Cat had expected Roger to call at least once a day for a report on his daughter, but
he hadn’t called once. Or emailed. Or texted. Or faxed.

“It’s a busy time right now in baseball, the winter meetings are starting tomorrow
and—”

“Okay. How about this? My birthday is in the second week of April. Do you know how
many times my dad was there for it?”

Cat didn’t respond. She already knew the answer was zero; baseball season began every
April.

“Toward the end of his playing career, when he started fading and no teams wanted
him, he could’ve retired. God knows we had the money. But instead of hanging up his
cleats, he spent three years in the Japanese leagues. At least it’s incarceration
that makes your dad a deadbeat, not his ego.”

Cat blanked, completely caught off guard by the realization. Behind the shallow she-devil
was just a sad kid. They finally had something in common, though Cat wished it’d been
their dress size instead. It's hard to resent someone you pity.

Paige waved her hand through the air. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.
You’re right, I am still kinda lucky. At least I got to dab my tears with twenty dollar
bills.”

Cat politely chuckled. A year ago, she would’ve wholeheartedly agreed, but now she
wasn’t so sure. Paige signaled the end of the conversation by tossing her lime wedge
into the empty margarita glass and pointing across the street.

“Hey, there’s the Blue Mall.”

The tiny tank tops and orange shorts in Hooters were a nostalgic reminder of America,
but when they walked into the Blue Mall, Cat felt like she’d been instantly transported
back into the U.S. of A.

A Cinnabon, Sbarro and Burger King wafted familiar odors at them from the food court.
A GNC was visible beyond the jewelry counters of an Albert Hern. The escalators led
down to even more familiar sites of a Nine West and Steve Madden.

Cat smiled. It was very Paige of her, but she loved malls—had loved them ever since
she was a kid, when window shopping had been an oasis of free air conditioning. Plus,
for a seven-year-old who has never been to Six Flags or Disney World, an escalator
can seem like quite the ride.

Malls were full of clothes she couldn’t afford and cliques she couldn’t join, but
they offered one-stop-shopping for everyone. People like Paige could blow daddy’s
money at the Armani Exchange, while people like Cat could hit the layaway counter
in the softer side of Sears.

“Are you smiling?”

Cat blinked out of her daze. “Oh, yeah.” She pointed up to the rafters. “The air conditioning
feels good.”

“Phew. I thought you were having a stroke or something.” Paige stopped in front of
a busy hair salon. Something had piqued her interest.

Cat wondered if she was going to axe the platinum stripes that ran down each side
of her face.

Instead, she turned back to Cat, her nose wrinkled in scrutiny.

“Have you ever thought about coloring your hair?” She pointed at the client in the
chair, foil being removed from sections of her hair, unwrapping to glistening chestnut
locks.

“My hair? No way.” Ailsa McDaniel would clutch her chest and collapse if her little
robin showed up on her doorstep looking like a sparrow, and the lecture from Benji
about the chemical toxins in hair dyes would go on until the ambulance arrived.

Paige reached for a strand of Cat’s hair, squinting at it with a practiced eye. “Some
highlights would really tone this color down. I’d love to see that on you. I’ll pay
for it.”

Cat took a step back. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve heard that it’s really hard
to get red highlights right.”

“Oh, I bet you’re right. I just meant a little color might perk up your complexion.”

Cat frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with my complexion.”

“Even the freckles?”

“Even the—what does
that
mean?”

Paige painted on a fake, toothy smile. “Oh, nothing. I mean, they’re kind of cute,
I guess. I was just giving you some advice. I only hope that if I needed some, you
would help me, too.” She pressed her palm against her heart as she said it.

If
by help, you mean shaving that zebra stripe off in your sleep, you got it
.

Instead, she reciprocated with an equally disingenuous smile. “Trust me, I would.”

Cat edged away from the salon, fearing Paige was going to slip a chloroform rag over
her mouth. She’d wake up tied to a beautician’s chair.

Paige sidled over next to her and pointed across the mall with the shopping bags.

“Ooh, Louis Vuitton. Let’s go there first.”

She veered toward the store.

Cat stopped in her tracks.

Paige halted and whirled around. “What’s your deal? You acted this same way over at
Acropolis. I thought you were either going to burst into tears or go on a killing
spree at Prada.”

“Just go in without me. I need to call Benji anyway.”

“You’ve left him two voicemails already today. Come on, retail therapy cures all relationship
worries.”

Cat shifted her feet from side to side. “I’m just not very comfortable in those kind
of stores. I feel like the security guard’s always watching me extra hard, like I’m
going to hold the place up or shove my purse full of scarves and sunglasses.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Paige crossed her arms, the bags swinging across her body in the process. “No, I mean,
if you were going to steal something, you wouldn’t come here with me. You’d bring
someone with even more pitiful clothes than you. You know, to distract him. Isn’t
that what thieves do?”

“How would I know?”

“It’s called something. Dispersion, division—”

“Diversion?”

The second it came out of her mouth, Cat cursed herself for helping Paige insult her.
She might as well be the Soldiers’ catcher telling the rival’s cleanup hitter that
the pitcher was getting ready to leave his fastball up in the strike zone.

“That’s it. You’d just create one of those things, and while he’s looking over there,
you snag all the sunglasses and scarves you want.” She gave a tiny shrug before turning
on her heel and continuing on to the boutique.

Cat didn’t move from her spot in the walkway, a smile slowly crawling across her face
as she watched Paige bounce into the store. She didn’t know it, but she had just become
the diversion Cat needed.

Cat could’ve flown back to Buffalo in the time it took Paige to primp in the bathroom.
As tempting as that thought was, she had to stick around for now; this time she’d
put Paige’s vanity to good use. The blow dryer kicked on and she slammed her book
shut and rolled off the bed.

She scanned the room for Paige’s purse of the day before spotting the Judith Lieber
clutch sticking out from under a Soldiers’ throw on the couch. She wondered if the
placement of the blanket was merely coincidence, or if Paige had put it there intentionally,
suspecting that sooner or later Cat would resort to thievery. Knowing Paige, she’d
probably done a background check and concluded red hair wasn’t the only trait Cat
had inherited from the incarcerated Michael McDaniel.

Cat shrugged. She wasn’t in a position to be offended. She tossed the orange throw
on the armrest and took a moment to study the purse. It had a gold-toned clasp that,
knowing Paige’s tastes, was probably solid gold. The bulk of the purse was composed
of champagne beading and bronze nappa leather lining. She didn’t know which component
was responsible for the high price tag but she was certain that she didn’t have a
high enough limit on her Visa. Before sharing a room with the designer diva, Cat had
thought her Fossil purse and Kenneth Cole handbags were as luxury-brand as it got;
Paige Aiken wouldn’t have used those mall brands as doggie doo-doo bags. Inside the
Judith Lieber were yet more status symbols—a Cole Haan slim wallet, three tubes of
Yves Saint Laurent lip gloss and finally, her prized cell phone—the newest iPhone
on the market—enclosed in a ruby red case. Cat grabbed the cell phone and snapped
the clutch shut, tossing it back on the couch. She threw the throw over the top, just
in case it was serving as a burglar trap.

The hum of the blow dryer ceased. The room fell quiet and the shot clock had started.

She spun around the room, desperate for the perfect hiding spot and determined to
avoid any paths that Paige might take in her date preparations. She spotted the hotel
laundry bag hanging from the closet knob and tippy-toed over. She felt for the upper
left-hand side for the volume switch, pressing it until the icon confirmed silent
mode. Tugging the drawstrings open, she tossed the phone on the mound of clothes.

The bathroom door cracked open.

“Cat?”

“Uh … yes?” Cat hurried over to the table and opened her laptop.

“Is Chance here yet?”

“N—”

A rap sounded on the door.

Chance’s ethics may not be perfect, but his timing was downright flawless.

“I bet that’s him now.”

“Tell him I’ll be just a sec, okay?”

Before Cat could respond, the bathroom door slammed shut.

Cat scanned the room one final time before opening the door. Facing the opposite direction
while he checked messages on his iPhone, Chance stood in the hotel hallway dressed
in a full formal party regalia. His tuxedo jacket spanned his broad shoulders with
nary a wrinkle. Then he turned to face her. The head-to-toe black made him look taller
and offset his light hair and hazel eyes. He looked handsome enough to make her momentarily
reconsider her love of the t-shirt.

“Hello, Cat.” He said it guardedly, as though she was going to slam the door in his
face for tossing her out of his office.

“Chance.” She made a point of examining every inch of his tux. “You look nice.”

“Thank you. We have tickets to
Cirque Éloize
.”

“So I heard.” She waved him in. “She’ll be ready in a bit.”

“Great.”

He surveyed the messy hotel room. Cat waited for a snide remark but he said nothing.

She sat back down at her laptop and pushed the other chair toward him with her foot.
“You might as well have a seat. Fashionably late for Paige is at least fifteen.”

He wiggled out of his tuxedo jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Without
the jacket, the cummerbund and bowtie said more monkey and less suit.