Miss Adventure (26 page)

“So…how was your Thanksgiving?”

Mia already asked me that when she got here about twenty minutes ago. Maybe she’s still in a turkey stupor from yesterday. Very possible. After all, she’s supposed to be sorting and answering RPM email, but she just sits at her computer, staring at the screen and pushing the space bar over and over. I don’t think I’m getting my fifteen-bucks-an hour’s-worth.

“It was wonderful,” I say, wondering what’s wrong with her. “I was at the mission from the crack of dawn until two, then I came back here and got a lot done. And did you know Velma from Scooby-Doo donated her yellow sweater?”

Mia looks up when I stop talking. “I’m glad. And Mags? Have you heard from her?”

“She called about a half hour ago. She made a billion dollars this morning during the first hour the boutique was open and RPM gets it all.”

“Awesome,” Mia says. “See? I told you letting her use us to promote her shop would be good for RPM in the long run. She was smart to have her grand opening on Black Friday. Especially since we’re getting a piece of the action.”

It’s true. Mia was right and I was wrong. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Mags when she wanted to jump on the RPM bandwagon.

But if exploiting each other for financial gain is the way to sisterly affection, so be it. I know, at least a part of me knows, that I should just forget about Mags. Forever. But I just can’t.

I look back to Mia, thankful she’s not my sister. Because then I’d probably hate her.

Mia stares right through the laptop in front of her. Her smaller desk is butted up against the smaller section of the L of my L-shaped desk. And since the smaller part of the L is where I’ve set up my computer, we sit facing each other over our computers as though we’re playing Battleship. Still, I can peek around to get a better look. But she actually notices me spying.

“What?” she asks.

“Mia, what’s wrong?”

Mia looks back down at the desk and spots a scribbled message about
Dancing to the Moon
. “Did you get on?” she asks, suddenly all excitement and encouragement.

“Yep. They called to confirm Wednesday.” God, that seems like a long time ago.

“Cool.”

Maybe Mia’s having boyfriend trouble. Maybe Rob Yeager—

“Manny told me he saw Jack leaving here the other day.”

My head snaps up. “So?” I demand.

Mia shrinks into herself. “It’s just that…” She trails off, bites her lip. But not visibly. She just kind of presses her lips together, but I can tell she’s biting them inside her mouth.

Great. I’m intimidating a high school girl. Wonderful.

I make my voice soft and kind. “Sorry, Mia. I can tell something’s bugging you. Just tell me.” I smile at her. “It’s okay.”

Great. Now I sound like a kindergarten teacher assuring a student that pants-wetting is no big deal.

“Come on,” I try again. “Out with it.”

Mia scoots her chair over, so we can see each other clearly with no computer screens between us. “You told Garry Minor that Jack was just a fling,” she begins.

Oh, God. Am I going to have to do birds and bees stuff? Jesus.

“But you really liked him,” she continues.

I assume she means Jack, not Garry Minor. I must remember to warn her about ambiguous pronouns.

“Jack wasn’t just a fling,” Mia says. She looks around. “He helped paint this room.”

Thank you, Mia. Thank you for reminding me that Jack is
everywhere
. I follow her gaze, checking out the pale cobalt walls with natural wood trim.

“So.” She stops, all frustrated. “I mean, I know why you didn’t tell Garry Minor the truth, but, well, what about Jack? What happened? Why was he here? What did he want?”

I lean back in my chair and look at her. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t. I wasn’t thinking about what he wanted. I was thinking about what I want.”

“And you want Jack, right?”

“Yeah, but Jack…” I trail off, confused all of a sudden.

Mia pounces. “What did he
say
he wanted?”

“That he wanted us to get back together.”

“Lisa!” Mia is alight with excitement. “What did you say?”

“There is no back, Mia.”

Her face falls so suddenly it’s like someone turned out the light.

“Mia,” I say, scooting closer, “he wants to go back to fun and games, but I can’t because I love him and he doesn’t love me back.”

“You told him you loved him?”

“Yes.”

“And he never said he loved you?”

I open my mouth to answer. I close my mouth. I try to think. “Well, he did, but…”

“But what!?” Mia’s eyes are popping out of her head.

I look at her.

But what
?

What
had
Jack wanted? Sex and affection without being
my guy
? But he
did
invite me to Thanksgiving with his family.
With his family
. And what he actually said was that he wanted to
try again
.

Start over
.

“Oh, God!” I bolt up from my chair with such force that it ricochets into the wall. “Oh, God!” I shout again. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! What have I done?”

I run out into the living room.

“Lisa?” Mia gives chase.

I flop onto the couch as she catches up to me. “Just let me think,” I say, clenching my hands to my skull.

What does Jack want
?

Did I reject the opportunity of eons by not going to Thanksgiving at his house yesterday?

Did I destroy my life?

His life?

Oh, God!

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

“Lisa?” Mia leans over to try to peer at my face as I rock myself into crash landing position. “What’s going on? What did he say when he left?”

My head juts up like a turtle’s.

“Lisa? What did he say when he left?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “He didn’t say anything.” My spine straightens, as though I’m a turtle moving right on up the evolutionary scale.

“He didn’t say
anything
.” I stand. “He still doesn’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Duh-nuh-nuh-nuun.

The dogs race to the front door.

Ca-thump.

Mia looks at me. I look at her. She scurries to the door. Pausing for a second, she takes a deep breath, then yanks it open.

“Hello,” a voice says. A crisp, no-nonsense, female voice.

It’s not Jack. My racing heart drops momentum so suddenly it feels like I hit a pocket of turbulence in my chest.

“I’m Tina Chung,” the voice continues. “Is Lisa Flyte here?”

Mia looks back at me where I stand dressed in tartan plaid pajama pants. But I took a shower this morning, and I’m wearing a decent long sleeved T-shirt, bra, and clean socks.

“One sec,” I say, shuffling across the floor so I can put the dogs out back. When I return to the living room, Tina Chung, well dressed in a taupe business suit, stands there with Mia.

She extends a hand in greeting. “Tina Chung,” she reports.

I shake. “Lisa Flyte. What can I help you with?”

“I’m here to get a job,” she states. “Can we talk?”

A job? With me? Doing what? I honestly don’t care.

I just desperately need to talk about something other than Jack Hawkins. “Come into the office,” I offer, leading her back.

Tina settles herself into one of the comfy chairs in front of the big part of the L.

“What’s up?” I ask, my gaze drifting to the doorjamb that Jack leaned against just two days ago.

Then Tina surges forward, perching on the edge of the chair, boring into me with this galvanizing intensity. “You want to take some money and make lots more money for RPM. I’m an investment banker. I can do that for you. I got in the 95
^th
percentile on my SATs and my GMAT, graduated third in my class from Boston University and first from the UCLA MBA program. I’ve worked at J.A. Wheeler and Ang for the past eighteen months. I want to retire by the time I’m fifty with enough money to enjoy life to the fullest. To do that, I need more than talent and a good job. I need a platform, a name. Success with RPM can do that for me. I can work for you for four to five years, make you millions of dollars, and get myself the high profile I need. It’s a win-win situation.”

I’m paying attention now. “Is Wheeler and Ang your first job since your MBA?”

“Yes,” Tina answers. “I’ve done excellent work for them, but I’ll never get the recognition I need buried in an investment firm.”

I nod, my head spinning. Her dark hair is so thick and lush I can smell her apple blossom shampoo from here. I’m dying to ask her what brand it is.

“Do you know anything about RPM?” I ask instead.

“Just about everything there is to know,” she assures me. “But I’ll be up front with you, because that is the only way I do business. Helping the poor and the homeless and the downtrodden is not a prime directive in my life.”

She said prime directive, like from
RoboCop.

“My parents arrived from Taiwan with nothing,” she continues. “They worked very hard to build a real estate business and make a life for all of us. I believe that hard work and determination can get you the future you want. My goal is to make a name for myself in high finance. To accomplish that, I will need to make truckloads of money for you. Our goals dovetail perfectly. And that,” she says, her sharp eyes gleaming, “is the secret to success. Finding the one who can provide exactly what you need.”

I smile at Tina. “Exactly.”

* * * * *

“Do you see?”

I look over at Ethel. “I, uh, I don’t think so.” I look back at the wooden filing cabinets lining the wall of the dining room. “Don’t you like them?”

“There is no K, Lisa.”

“There’s not?” I blink a few times, trying to find it. “Did you look everywhere?”

Ethel rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, yes, I did. When I didn’t find it between J and L, I looked to see if you put it somewhere else. You didn’t.”

“Daaamn,” I groan, lolling back my head and stamping my foot. How could I lose K? Stupid, stupid letter. “How many drawers are left over after Z?” I ask Ethel.

“Three.”

“Put K in one of them.”

“It won’t be alphabetical.”

“I’ll rearrange all the drawers later tonight and put the brass plate on when I get another one.” As soon as the words are out, I’m wondering how many I’ll have to move. K is in the first half of the alphabet, so I’m looking at pulling out and putting back over thirteen drawers tonight.

She purses her lips, theatrically resigned that this is the best she is going to get.

“Do we have anything to file under K yet?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re right,” I say.

The point is that now I’ve got to rearrange a filing cabinet I screwed up in the first place in time to catch a red-eye to Chicago to do some talk show Dolly set up. “Carry on as best you can,” I tell her, then head back to my office. In the hall I see Mal, so I scoop him up and kiss him between his ears.

“Don’t cuss, Derek.” I can hear Tina through the open door. She doesn’t even say the word
curse
, like the word itself is a bad word. “You sound like Lisa, and she’s the boss.”

“So?” This from Derek who shares the biggest office with Tina. It’s the hunter green master bedroom. Jack painted that room, too.

“So, you’re not the boss.”

“Neither are you, so I’ll friggin’ cuss if I want to.”

But I notice that Derek doesn’t actually curse. Those two are going to end up in bed together, I just know it.

I head to my office with Mal.

“What are you looking so giggly about?” Dolly taps away at the laptop on her small desk in the corner of my office.

I sit down, pushing back to prop my feet on the desk so Mal can stretch out on my lap. “Derek,” I say. “I was so brilliant to hire him. Just as ambitious as Tina, and just as competitive. They’re outdoing each other to see who can make the most money for RPM.”

“Well,” Dolly says, “until they get down and dirty, they have to channel all that sexual energy into something.”

“Dolly!”

“Oh, please. By the way, when does the Christmas special tape?”

My feet thunk to the floor, and Mal darts away. “Don’t you know?” I squeak. “You’re supposed to be my agent!”

“Manager.” She levels me with a haughty look. “Of course I know. But do
you
know?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to remember what day it is. “Next Thursday?” Total guess. “I have to be at CBS by 5 a.m.,” I add, just to make it sound as if I know what I’m talking about.

“Very good,” she says, clearly impressed. She gets up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“Sweetheart, it’s two o’clock.”

Two o’clock? Already? I didn’t even have breakfast yet. “Oh,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

“Love ya.”

“Love ya back.” Man. How did it get to be afternoon so fast? I have a billion things to do.

I swivel to the computer to catch up on email. Mia will be ticked off if she gets here and I haven’t gone through all she sorted yesterday. I quickly type in my password, realizing that I’m scared of my teenage assistant. Tapping my foot, I click my INBOX.

My foot stops tapping.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: For Lisa

Oh. My. God. Jack has
never
emailed me. Never ever.

I open the email. But it’s not just one email. I scroll down, starting at the bottom to read through a series of emails between Jack and Mia.

Lisa, this is for you. Jack.

Jeez, it sounds like he’s about to stab me in the throat with a pair of scissors. I look up to the top of the email. There is an attachment. But before looking at it, I continue reading through the exchange between Jack and Mia. Next is Mia.

Is this a hoax? How do I know you’re really Jack Hawkins?

Jack’s reply:

Is this Mia?

Mia:

Yes. And that’s not proof.

Jack:

I helped you and Lisa paint her house. Wash got his tail in the paint, and when it comes to belting out Bonnie Raitt, neither of you can sing worth a damn.

Mia:

Fine. I’ll forward your email to her.