Island Girl (45 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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Tuesday morning dawned overcast and muggy. By eight o’clock I was showered and by eight fifteen, I was feeling like I could use another. At nine forty-five, Brenda pulled up to the curb in front of my house. By nine fifty-five, the entire staff of Sideshow Legal was belted in and ready to go—taking our show on the road to Champlain Aerospace in Oakville, a town about forty minutes west along the Queen Elizabeth Way.
As clown cars went, Brenda’s wasn’t half bad. Sunshine yellow with air-conditioning—thank God—a decent stereo, and enough leg room in the back for Nadia, if she sat behind Brenda. As the star of the show, I had been granted the front seat and control of the buttons on the stereo, Brenda’s gift to me for still having a seat on the wagon after four days. Hitting Seek for the tenth time in as many minutes, however, it occurred to me that one simple drink before we left could have saved us all from the agony of my musical indecision.
Rock?
Seek
. Jazz?
Seek
. Talk radio? Please Lord,
seek
.
“I like easy listening,” Nadia said, shoving a fist between the seats and opening it to reveal a handful of Werther’s. “Take candy and find easy listening.”
I shook my head. “It’s too early for candy. How about country?”
“Whose country?” she asked.
“Never mind.” I hit Seek again and promised myself it would be the last time. How could I have known it would come up punk/ heavy metal/angry?
“Get rid of that crap,” Brenda said, smacking Seek herself and shooting me a look that said,
Touch that button and die,
when Sting growled
Rrrrroxanne
. “Oldies work,” she said, tapping the steering wheel and nodding her head. “You look great by the way. The suit came out real nice. And I love your hair.”
“I took her to Olga.” Nadia unwrapped a candy and held it out to her. “She did cut, manicure, pedicure, even waxing of eyebrows and hairy upper lip. All for one hundred bucks. Such good friend.”
“Such good job,” Brenda said, which was true. But I still felt guilty about the hair.
I’d only let Olga wash and trim it a half inch, but I shouldn’t have let her do even that. I should have asked Grace to grab her kit and meet me on Hanlan’s. Dunked my head in the lake and then let her work her magic on my unruly mop. Not only would that have given me a great cut, it would also have given me a chance to make up for missing our picnic, and to catch up on all the wedding news.
I still couldn’t believe that one. What had Ruby been feeding Mark anyway? Poor guy was going to wake up one morning and wonder what the hell happened to his balls. Then he’d remember. He’d given them to Ruby as a wedding gift.
“You are quiet,” Nadia said to me. “Are you going to throw up again?”
Brenda immediately started to pull over.
“No, I’m fine. Just drive.”
I wasn’t fine. I was nervous and shaky and I wanted off the fucking wagon so badly I would have sold more than my soul for just one drink. That would be enough, I swear. But Nadia had been like a bodyguard since Thursday. Always there, hovering, chatting, and offering food. Turned out she was a great cook, and since I wasn’t drinking I’d developed an appetite again. Four days of cabbage rolls, pierogies, and lasagne, and the suit had gone from sagging to merely slack. Another week and I’d have been out shopping for this meeting.
Brenda had spent the weekend with Mitch and the kids of course, which had left the two of us to finish up the last-minute details. We’d had cards printed with my address and cell phone number. We’d picked up legal seals, heavy vellum paper, and envelopes. Nadia had typed the petition, then proofread and printed it. All I’d done was sign the thing and let Olga make me presentable. The only step left was the delivery, and my legs were already rubbery just thinking about the long walk to Klaus Vandergroot’s office.
The drive was fast and uneventful, getting us to Champlain’s front door in thirty-five minutes flat. The company occupied five units in a nondescript grey brick industrial complex—roughly 250,000 square feet, the average for a medium-sized business such as this. The plant was on the left, the executive offices on the right, and Klaus Vandergroot sat in a back corner office. According to Nadia, I would take the main hall leading from the reception area, turn left, and there he’d be—the shit who had caused all of this trouble.
We’d chosen Tuesday because our surveillance indicated that he was always in the office on Tuesdays. To be sure, Brenda drove around to the side of the building.
“There’s his car.” She hopped out of the driver’s seat and Nadia hopped in. “I’ll text you if he’s in his office,” Brenda said, and jogged off across the grass toward the building.
She was light and quick and our hope was that no one would notice her prowling around, peering in windows. Watching her go, I realized this was probably one of those plans that sound better than they work. But there was no calling her back. Nadia already had the car in gear and was heading around to the front door.
“Do you need picture again?” she asked, putting the car in park and opening the door.
She had blown up a photograph of Klaus Vandergroot and posted it on the fridge on Saturday. Now, three days later, it was unlikely I would ever forget the pale and pudgy face with the neatly combed blond hair and perfectly trimmed mustache.
I shook my head, gathered up my jacket, and stepped out into sunshine and a breeze, proving there were indeed advantages to life in the suburbs. Slipping on the jacket, I reached back into the car for my new briefcase. Butter-soft black leather with brass locks—a gift from Nadia. “To make good impression,” she’d said, after discovering I had used my old briefcase to start a marijuana crop one long, drunken weekend last winter.
Her phone chirped with a text message. “Is Brenda. He is not in his office. You wait.”
I set the briefcase on the hood of the car, unsnapped the locks, and lifted out the first of two envelopes. This one was addressed to Klaus. The other was destined for the manager of Champlain’s bank. I tucked one into the side pocket of the case, dropped the other back inside, and grabbed a couple of cards while I was there. Shoved them into my jacket pocket, closed the case, and told myself I would not throw up here in the parking lot.
“Squeeze this.” Nadia held out a small blue ball. “Will help.”
I took the ball. It was soft and squishy, yet gave just the right resistance and returned to its original shape quickly. I squeezed again. And again. “You’re right, it does help.”
“Bounce like this, one hand, other hand. That’s it. Good. Should have brought two. Let you try juggling.”
I laughed and bounced the ball, one hand, other hand. “Thanks. I needed this.”
“All drunks need something.” She held up a butterscotch. “That is why I have this.” She frowned as she unwrapped it. “Ball has fewer calories. I wish I needed ball.”
I watched her pop the candy into her mouth, suck it slowly. We stood like that for a few minutes, staring at the front door of Champlain, waiting for Brenda’s text. The giant and the freak, bouncing and sucking. It wasn’t much of an act, but it was all we had.
“You were a drunk?” I finally asked.
“Smoker too. Double whammy.”
I watched her with that candy. Brow furrowed, chin working. Never had I seen anyone suck a butterscotch with such determination. “How long have you been sober?”
“Three years, not one drink. Olga helped me. Taught me what I told you. Today, don’t drink. Tomorrow, maybe. She is good friend.”
I tossed the ball high in the air. Caught it. Tossed it again. “Will it disappoint you if I said I would kill for a drink right now?”
“It would disappoint me more if you said you would not, because I would know you were lying.” Her hand shot out and caught the ball. “I am three years sober. But still are days I would kill too. Today is one.”
“What would you want?” I asked, a stupid question to ask a recovering alcoholic, but I was curious. “Vodka?”
“Straight up, out of freezer.” She kissed her fingertips. “Heaven.”
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” I held up my hands. “Kidding. Just kidding.”
“No. You are not.” She handed me the ball. “So today we help each other. I do not let you drink, you do not let me. Deal?”
I bounced, she sucked, and we both wanted a drink. Lucky Brenda. What a team to have on your side.
“Deal,” I said, and tossed the ball high in the air. I wasn’t sure how to stop a 250-pound woman from doing anything, but I could give it a try. I caught the ball, tossed it again. Maybe a bat would help.
Her phone chirped. I jumped, startled, and missed the ball. It hit the ground with a surprising thud but didn’t roll. The perfect toy for drunks.
“Is Brenda. He is in office.” She snapped the phone shut and held out a hand. “Give me ball.” She dropped it into her pocket. “I go now. You follow ten seconds after I am inside.”
She lumbered across the parking lot, up the walkway, and through the front door. I started to count. Smoothed my hair. Tugged on the front of my jacket. When I reached ten, I picked up the briefcase. Checked for the envelope in the side pocket and raised my chin.
“Good luck to us,” I whispered, and followed her path across the parking lot on legs growing shakier and shakier by the second. By the time I reached the front door, my stomach was reeling, my knees were rubber, and I could feel sweat trickling down between my breasts.
I walked into a wall of air-conditioning. Shivered and took a look around. Marble floor, dark wood reception desk with a pretty young redhead in a heavy sweater answering the phone—a novelty these days. Their customers must get a kick out of it.
Nadia was at the desk talking to her. “I was here few weeks ago. Singing telegram, remember?”
The girl smiled. “Yes, of course. How are you?”
“Not good. I have lost earring. I think when I leaned over desk, it fell off.” She went around behind the girl’s desk. “I will look quickly. Not bother you at all.”
“No, no,” the girl said. “You’ll have to go back around ...” She spotted me on the move, making my way across the reception area to the main hall. She held up a hand as she came out from behind the desk. “Excuse me, you can’t go in there.”
“I’m just visiting,” I said, and kept going. “Won’t be a moment.”
The girl started to follow me. Nadia opened a drawer. “Maybe in here,” she said, and started taking stuff out. Files, pens.
“What are you doing?” The girl went back to the desk. “You can’t be back there.” She turned to me a moment before my foot was in the hall. “Miss. You can’t go in there!”
“Found it!” Nadia cried. “Oh no. My mistake. Is someone else’s.”
“Will you get out of there?”
And I was on my way, walking along that hall, smiling and nodding at the faces that popped up above cubicles and appeared in doorways. “Hello. How are you. Lovely day.”
Passing the boardroom. Paneled walls, leather chairs. Reaching the corner, turning left. Seeing the door ahead of me. Open. Bingo.
A voice behind me. Male. “Miss, you can’t go down there. Miss.”
Hurrying now. Trotting in high heels, afraid one would snap, hoping I didn’t fall if it did. Arriving at the door, breathless. Pausing, wiping sweat from hairless upper lip. Seeing that pudgy face bent over papers at a fabulous rosewood desk. Leather chair, matching credenza. Art on the walls. Champlain was doing well. Now, so would Mitch.
“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Vandergroot?”
He looked up. Smiled and put down the pen. “You do indeed. How can I help you?”
Behind him, I could see Brenda through the window, pointing at him and making stabbing motions.
Gimme an
L.
Gimme an
I . . .
I walked toward him, my hand already sliding the envelope out of the pouch. “Mr. Vandergroot, my name is Liz Donaldson.”
“Miss, you can’t—” A man came to the door—young, eager, a toad in the making. Brenda dove, hitting the ground hard, I was sure of it. “Mr. Vandergroot,” the man said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how she got in here.”
“I walked,” I said, and turned my most charming smile on the shit in the fancy chair. “I’ll just take a moment of your time. Do you recognize the name Mitch Bradley? How about the firm, Bradley Mechanical?”
His face started to fall. “Get her out of here.”
“I thought you might.” I gripped the envelope, drew it all the way out of the pocket, and prayed I didn’t drop it between there and the desk. I saw my hand extending, his mouth rounding, the envelope falling, landing faceup on the blotter in front of him.
“Mr. Vandergroot, that is a petition into bankruptcy. Consider yourself served.”
Vandergroot jumped up, as though I’d dropped a dog turd in front of him. “You can’t do this.”
“I can and I have. My next stop is your bank.”
“Get her out of here, God damn it!”
“Miss, I need you to leave.” The young man grabbed my arm.

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