Outside The Lines:: Third Person Narration (2 page)

Which meant she was like him.
 
Might turn out like him.
 
Admired and glacial.
 
At the top of the pile, all alone.

A cold chill rippled through her.
 

She touched the edge of the uppermost file.
 
“Well.”

One of his dark eyebrows went up.
 

She raised one of hers back.
 
“And if it were a problem?”

Grimness emanated from him like a fog. “Then you can let Mrs. Billings know you aren’t available.
 
I’m sure she’ll find someone else.”

Someone else to handle the valuation in the divorce of the presiding juvenile court judge Donald ‘Buck’ Billings and his wife, the wife who was Juliette’s very biggest client?
 
From whom flowed not only money but the possibility of referrals?
 

She pulled the pile closer.
 
“Over my dead body.”
 

He smiled at her again, slowly. Some people considered him handsome. She considered him predatory. And handsome.
 

“That’s my girl.”
 
He turned on his heel and strode out.
   

“I’m not your girl,” she called after, but there was no reply.

 
She glanced out her fifth-story window, with its oblique view of the downtown corridor, and its direct view of the trashcan-strewn alley below. Tiny lights twinkled in storefronts across the street and windows of the apartments above, muted by curtains and the shifting silhouette of people who had somewhere to go and someone expecting them. Someone who they’d argue with and disappoint in some crushing way, then kiss goodnight and wake up beside the next morning, ready to try again.

Good thing she didn’t have to deal with
that
, she consoled herself brightly.
 
Then she slumped in her chair.
 
It wasn’t a terribly consoling thought.
   

She reached out, flipped on the desk lamp, and pulled the files toward her.
 

Johnny was right, she did like a challenge.
 
On paper.
 
She challenged herself with numbers every day and most nights, corralling them to march obediently down the page in neat, manageable lines.
 
She’d been in training for those lines since kindergarten, when the nuns would rap her hand if she colored outside them.
 

It seemed reasonable at the time.
   

She worked almost non-stop through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, sleeping on the small cot she kept in her office for those (frequent) occasions when she realized, about three in the morning, that there was no point in going back to the empty apartment at all.
 
She worked and drank coffee and ordered Chinese takeout in peace, never inconvenienced by the petty interruptions of people calling to ask where she was or why she was running late.
 
Two days late.
 

She reflected grimly that if she died in her apartment, it could be weeks before someone discovered her body.
 
And then, who would water her little African violet?

She needed a milkman.
 

At nine p.m. on Christmas night, forty-eight hours after beginning, she returned the files to a neat pile at the edge of her desk, right back where they’d started from.
 

A chill moved through her.
 
There was an unpleasant, metaphor-like nature to that thought.
 

Drifting up from the streets below came the sound of a car door slamming, and calls of people to one another.
 
Someone laughed.
 
Christmas night.
 
People spending time with family and friends.
 
Except Juliette.
 
And Johnny Danger of course, who was out there somewhere, spending time with business associates, calling them friends.
 

She would have to climb hard even to reach that low summit.
 

She looked at the files again.
 
Success.
 

Her life, not so much.

Ridiculous, she thought angrily, spinning her chair around.
 
She had a life.
 
A focused, hardworking life.
 
If she didn’t do something, it was because she didn’t
want
to.
 
For goodness sake, she was thirty-three years old with a good eye for color, a string of accounting acronyms after her name, and her very own, extremely small accounting firm. She could do
anything
.
 

Except maintain a relationship.
 
Or hold a conversation that didn’t revolve around accounts receivable.
 
Or have a hobby.
 
Or friends.
 
She couldn’t even ski.

‘Didn’t want’ could grow a little thin if she looked too closely.
   

She smacked the edge of her computer keyboard to wake it up, then sent emails containing her report to all the relevant parties.
 
Then, for no clear reason, she dialed the number on Johnny Danger’s card.
 

A woman picked up.
 

“Danger Enterprises,” the woman said, smooth and controlled.

“Oh, hi. I was just— I’m sorry, I was trying to reach Mr. Danger.” Juliette glared at the wall, feeling like an idiot.
 
He’d probably made the name up to force people into saying something as inane as
“I’d like to speak to Mister Danger, please.”
As if he was James Bond or something.

She loved James Bond.

“You almost made it,” the woman said. “This is Roxy, his personal assistant.”

“Oh, well, I’m very sorry to bother you on Christmas night.
 
I thought I’d get a message.”
       

“Not a problem,” his assistant replied in a polished, unruffled voice.
 
“What can I help with?”

“My name is Juliette Jauntie, and the Billings valuation is complete.
 
Mr. Danger asked me to let him know when it was done. I already sent an email,” –thereby making this phone call technically unnecessary— “but I wanted to leave a message as well.
 
He said it was important he get it before a meeting in the morning.”

“Certainly, Ms. Jauntie.
 
I appreciate your follow-through and I’m sorry he’s unable to take your call.”

“Well, it
is
Christmas.”
   

She gave a soft laugh. “That wouldn’t matter to Johnny.”

“Of course not,” Juliette murmured, secretly pleased she’d nailed him so well.

“He forwarded his calls to me because he’s having trouble with reception out on the boat.”
 

Or, not so well.
 
“Right. The boat.”
 

“Okay, the yacht,” his assistant corrected with a laugh.

Yes, because that’s what she was worried about, the terminology. Juliette shifted her glare to the window.
 
“Well, you know how it is.
 
I’d be out on mine too, but it’s in the shop.”
 

 
A long, warm laugh came through the phone lines.
 
“Funny, so is mine.
 
I believe Ms. Marcuso specifically made sure hers was out in time.”

“Good planning,” Juliette said vaguely.
 
Marcuso… Marcuso…. The movie actress Andrea Marcuso?
 
Johnny Danger was spending Christmas with a movie star?
   

She felt suddenly, unaccountably numb.
 

His assistant’s calm, competent voice came again.
 
“I’ll let him know you sent the report and followed up with a call.”

For some reason, her jaw was clenched.
 
It was difficult to unhinge. “Thank-you. I just wanted him to know….”
   

What
did
she want him to know? That the fact he had a life and she didn’t really pissed her off?
   

Maybe Danger was only pretending it was enough, but dammit, at least he was pretending.
 
Juliette wasn’t even doing that.
 

She sat forward sharply.

Maybe that’s how you had to do it.
 
Maybe Johnny was onto something.
 
Fake it till you make it. Go through the motions.
 
Stop waiting until you were good at something before you tried it.
 
How else were you ever going to know?
 
Heck, maybe she was great at lots of things.
 

Maybe it was time to at least try.

“What was it you wanted him to know, Ms. Jauntie?”

She looked around at the neat and orderly stacks of papers in front of her, the neat and orderly shelves of books all around her, the neat and orderly design of a life that was going nowhere.
 

She desperately needed a life. A little messiness. Maybe a one night stand.

For God’s sake, a
hobby
.

Something inside her snapped.
 

“Let him know the previous valuation was off,” Juliette announced, more loudly than was required. “I made some adjustments. And had some questions. They’re all in my report.”

“Absolutely,” Roxy said.
 
“I will let him know.
 
He’ll be glad you called.
 
Thank-you.” A pause.
 
“For working on Christmas.”

“Well, thank-
you
.
 
I sure didn’t plan to.”
   

“Johnny has a way of persuading people, doesn’t he?”

“Doesn’t he?” Juliette agreed grimly.
 
He was probably persuading Ms. Andrea Marcuso of something out on the ‘boat’ right now.
 

For some reason, that made her face get hot.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Ms. Jauntie,” his assistant said.
 
“I hope you take some sort of post-holiday holiday after all this.”

“Oh, I am,” she said grimly, getting to her feet.
 
She noticed her hands were shaking.
 
“I’m going…skiing.”
 

“Oh, I love skiing,” his assistant enthused.

“I don’t,” Juliette said in a voice of icy calm. “Do you have any tips?”

Roxy was quiet a second. “First, don’t panic.”

“Got it.”

“The Tahoe area has some nice places. There’s a smaller town nearby, Destiny Falls.
 
They have a nice resort, smaller, but usually less crowded.
 
And lots of beginner slopes,” she added, showing great insight.

Destiny Falls.
 
It had an ominous, fitting sort of ring to it.
 
And was less crowded.
 
And had bunny slopes.

“It sounds perfect.
 
Thanks.”

It was decided.
 
Go where Roxy went.

Juliette updated her voice mail, sent her active clients an email stating she’d only be available by email and phone for a couple days, then swung her ‘Gone Fishing’ sign around and hurried out.
 

She’d have to hurry if she wanted to make it to the mountain by morning, and still had to dig out or buy the things she’d need to go plummeting down the side of a mountain. Ski jacket. Gloves. Other puffy things to ward off hypothermia. Vodka.
 

Oh, and one of those avalanche beeper-things. She’d definitely get one of those.

A cold, unpleasant chill went through her at the thought of avalanches.
 

She hurried home, threw a change of clothes in her bag, watered her African violet, then drove east toward the mountains.
 

As she started to climb, it started to snow. It looked beautiful against the dark green hillsides, white and pure.
 

The beautiful snow kept up and slowed her down enough that she didn’t make it to the mountain until afternoon the next day. One could almost take it as a sign.

Fortunately, Juliette didn’t believe in signs, so she kept going.
 
She believed in determination.
 
And avalanches.
   

She reached the Destiny Falls Resort early in the afternoon.
Your Destiny Lies Here!
the sign told her as she drove into the huge parking lot.
 
She found the sign presumptuous.
 
And unsettling.
   

The good news was, her cell reception was spotty, so she didn’t know when Johnny Danger left her a voice mail.
 
And then a text.
 
Several of them.
 
Several dozen.
 
All ominously calm and succinct.
 
Except the last one, which was in caps.