City Chicks

Chapter 5

Five

Randy had never been away from home for more than the duration of a spring break trip to Mazatlan. At twenty-four, it was high time, but running all the way to New York?

I was hesitant, to say the least.

“Have you told Mom and Daddy yet?” I handed him a tall glass of sweet tea and moved to sit beside him on the floral sofa.

“I left a note.”

Swallowing a groan, I smacked him on the back of the head instead. “A note? You leave home for New York City without so much as an ounce of warning, and you leave a note?”

“What?” He blinked his wide, green eyes innocently. “Not good enough?”

If I hadn’t been so happy to see him, I might have been more upset. I was about to relieve his concern, to assure him that everything would turn out okay, when my phone rang.

And I had the tiniest idea who it might be.

Gingerly holding the it several inches from my ear I pressed the talk button.

“Hello?”

“My gawd, Bethany,” my mother screamed into the phone, “Randy’s gone. Vanished without a trace.”

Leave it to Mom to overreact.

“Mom, it’s fine, he’s—”

“We got home from the club and called him to dinner, but he never came.”

“Mom, he’s—”

“So your father went up to his room and he wasn’t there.”

“I know, Mom, he’s—”

“Randall James Lange!” Daddy’s booming voice echoed through the phone line.

I turned my best you’re-in-so-much-trouble-you-won’t-be-able-to-walk-for-a-week scowl on my angelic brother. Sounded like Daddy had found the note.

As if he weren’t already mad enough at me.

“Is your brother with you?” he asked when he commandeered the phone.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The sound of my whining, obliging voice turned my stomach. I took the phone and swung it repeatedly at my head, stopping a mere millimeter away each time. Why did I always become a simpering doormat around him? Maybe someday I would outgrow my instinctive reaction to metaphorically kneel before my father.

So far, on the one occasion I had ever stood up to him for what I really wanted he had practically disowned me.

“What is it, Franklin?” I heard Mom ask in the background.

“That no good son of yours up and flew to New York.” The disgust in his tone was unmistakable. He drew out the end like it made his lip curl. New Yaw-ark.

Making eye contact with Randy, I clenched my fist and shook it at him. Why did he have to go and involve me in his bid for independence? I had enough problems of my own.

Mom’s scream broke the silence.

I could almost picture her collapsing onto the settee and fanning herself with whatever she could find. If smelling salts had still been in vogue—she constantly lamented the disappearing art of “having the vapors”—she’d have had a little bottle in every pocket.

“My boy, my boy, oh my dear, sweet boy,” she chanted.

“Put him on the phone,” Daddy commanded.

It was not a request.

I held out the phone, shrugging helplessly at the accusatory look Randy gave me. I was not about to make this stand for him. This was his rebellion.

I was still suffering for mine.

Hey, maybe if Daddy were mad enough at Randy, I would be back in his good graces. That always worked with Gramma Rose. She never really liked any of us grandkids, she just hated some less than others at any given time. Every time cousin Daphne wound up pregnant I got some of great-Gram’s jewelry for Christmas.

“Yeah, Dad,” Randy said casually as he took up the phone.

He followed my example of holding the phone away from his ear—a good thing, too. Daddy could work up more decibels than Mom.

Since my presence was not required for that conversation, I slipped away to my room. Dad’s tirade would probably last a long, long time. I still needed that long, long bath. Now was my best chance.

Pink terrycloth robe and matching slippers in hand, I ducked through the living room—catching snippets of “No, I’m not coming home no matter what you say” and “I don’t want your money, anyway”—and into the bathroom. A shrine to hospital quality tiles, the room’s only redeeming feature was the bathtub. And, boy, what a feature it was.

The first time I walked into the apartment, I nearly turned around and walked right back out. It was tiny and filthy and wholly without a feeling of home. The only person I knew with a smaller space was Fiona, and she lived small by choice. But the real estate broker had been adamant, “You must see the bathroom.” She resorted to taking my by the hand and dragging me in. At first glance, my opinion did not improve. Then I saw it. A beautiful, porcelain claw-foot bathtub. A genuine antique—not one of those fiberglass copies so popular today.

The kind of tub I could soak in, surrounded by bath salts and rose petals, and melt the day away in spacious style.

Needless to say, I was sold.

My first act of housekeeping was to re-glaze the tub. It was a major investment, but so worth the cost. That tub was my sanctuary. Hell, it was cheaper than therapy.

I set my robe and slippers on the commode and turned the vintage hot and cold spoked handles on full. When steam started to fill the room, I turned the hot down, dropped the plug, and poured in a dose of rose-scented salts. By the time they’d dissolved, I was lowering myself into the nearly-scalding water with a blissful sigh.

The only thing missing was a glass of wine, but I was not about to venture through the battle zone for anything.

“Hey, sis, you in there?” Randy pounded on the—thankfully locked—bathroom door.

Rather than answer, I took the pair of silk sachets from the chrome tub tray, dunked them in the bathwater, and pressed them over my closed eyes.

“Come on, Bets, I can hear you splashing.”

Grrr. Randy knew better than to interrupt my bath.

“You know the rules,” I said.

I heard him groan through the door, followed by the thunk as his forehead dropped against the wooden surface.

“I know, I know. Bath time is sacred. Thou shalt not disturb Bethany when she’s in the bath. Thou shalt not stand outside the bathroom jiggling the door handle. Thou shalt not—” He paused, as if trying to remembering the third, and most important, bath commandment. “—no, I remember, Thou shalt forfeit thy bathroom time if the first two bath commandments are broken.”

The rules were clear. Randy would go away. I released a deep breath and sank further in the bath, stopping when the water touched the tips of my earlobes.

“But aren’t there exceptions for long lost little brothers?” When he got no answer he continued, “I guess you don’t want to know what Dad said to tell you.”

My ears perked up. Drat! Randy knew I couldn’t resist knowing what anyone said about me. And he would withhold every last detail. He was to only person I knew who could withstand Chinese water torture.

“Five minutes, okay?” I compromised. “Just give me five minutes to soak away the day from hell.”

I could almost feel his grin through the door.

I hated being played almost as much as being mugged.

“He offered me what to come home?”

“A Porsche.”

My eyes narrowed. “A $60,000 car. Just to come home for a week?”

“Well, you’d have to bring me with you.”

That was a new low. A new tactic. Usually Daddy was a lot more passive with his manipulation. A hint of my mother’s failing health. The empty receptionist’s desk at his real estate office. Musing about redecorating my old room.

He probably turned it into a gallery of dead things—oops, I meant Hunting Trophies—a long time ago.

“Or,” Randy continued, “as he put it, ‘knock that darn fool notion clear out of his skull’.”

What notion? I suddenly wondered if something more than escapism and a handy sofa-bed had prompted this trip to the city. “Why are you here, Randy?”

The instant his cheeks infused with red I understood.

“It’s Laura Jane, isn’t it?” Only talk of his on-again off-again high school sweetheart could make my brother blush. “What’s she done now?”

Randy plucked nervously at the gold fringe on a tufted, ivory throw pillow. Though I wanted to strangle the news out of him, I knew better than to rush him into anything. Though he might appear to act rashly, he never did anything without long and careful consideration.

“She me left, Bets,” he finally admitted. “Really left me this time.”

“Oh, honey,” I soothed. Laura Jane had left Randy once a year for the last ten, and always—always—came back. “It won’t last. She’ll see what—”

“No.” He met my gaze straight on, his mouth tight with determination. “She’s with another guy. Some flashy New York businessman with a private jet.”

“But I’m sure—”

“She’s wearing his ring, Bets.”

Oh. Well, that was a little more serious. Southern girls did not wear the ring of a man they weren’t planning on marrying.

Though I knew Randy was hurting, this was for the best. Laura Jane had tied his heart into more knots than my cousin Nicky—a career sailor—could unravel. He was the only boy in his high school with an ulcer. He gave up a full ride to Auburn to stay in Atlanta with her. And she repaid him by treating him like lowest kind of bass bait.

Not that I would ever say any of this to Randy.

Whenever I’d suggested that Laura Jane was a heartless b***h, he’d either walked out on me, punched a hole in my wall, or got drunk and wound up needing five-hundred dollars bail for an indecent exposure arrest. We never spoke of that night.

“So why New Y—” I began, even as the thought occurred to me. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

He dipped his head, hiding his expressive eyes. But I had my answer.

“You can’t win her back, honey. She’s made her choice.”

“I know, I know. Really.” He dove both hands through his shaggy blond hair. Clearly frustrated. “I just want to know.”

“Know what?”

“Why. Why she left me. Why she left Georgia.”

My heart ached for him. As big sister, I wanted to make all the pain go away. But some things can’t be healed with a few soothing words.

I did know from personal experience that the quickest route to recovery was occupation. Randy needed something to keep his mind off that witch Laura Jane. Idle hands were the devil’s playthings and without something else to focus on he’d wind up with another ulcer.

He needed a hobby. Or a job.

And I had a good idea of where he could start.

“Well, while you’re finding out,” I said, hugging him close to my side, “how would you like to help out in the shop?”

His green eyes looked shocked and a little insulted. “In your boutique?”

I granted him a little male indignation. He was in emotional turmoil, after all. At least there was something other than despondency in his voice.

“It’s not the end of the world.” Maybe even the opposite. “You can earn your keep. This couch isn’t free, you know.”

He had every right to look skeptical. Because I had an idea that working in the shop might erase Laura Jane from his memory.

As I knew from personal experience, brown curls and a dimpled smile could be awfully distracting.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too ...” Danial fingered the charcoal silk tie I had just knotted around his neck, “... James Bond.”

“Not James Bond,” I explained. “Classic.”

Danial was not the first to complain about the tie. But when I finally got all five cast members dressed for the publicity shoot, I had to admit they did look a little James Bond mixed with classic mobster. That was fine. Gave them a sleek, unified image for the first marketing campaign, which was due to start in less than two weeks.

While they posed in front of the camera, playfully hugging—and occasionally groping—each other, I smiled in satisfaction. One task off the list.

I glanced down at the clipboard and checked off the photo shoot. Now if I could pull the wardrobe together in time for the pilot shoot tomorrow, I’d be in terrific shape.

“Stop that, you tramp.”

I looked up at Evan’s exclaimed outrage. Bryce had grabbed him in a clinch-cover embrace, running his leg along Evan’s thigh and stroking his chest beneath the suit jacket.

“C’mon, Bryce,” Chris argued. “Leave the guy alone. The sooner we get this shoot done, the sooner we go home.”

Evan managed to shove Bryce away, sending him tripping over Adam, who was squatting in front of the group, and tumbling to the floor. I saw Chris tense to intervene, but Bryce came up laughing and calling Evan a tease.

“A guy has to try,” he said as he stood, brushing off the seat of his pants.

Adam slapped him on the butt for tripping over him.

Danial said, “We all know who the real tramp is here.”

Chris looked relieved.

Evan looked annoyed. “Can we just get back to work?” he asked. “I don’t know about you losers, but I have plans.”

The guys “ooohed,” slapping Evan on the back.

Bryce sang, “Evan’s got a da-a-ate.”

He shrugged them off and they finally got back to focusing on the shoot.

I, on the other hand, focused on Evan. Plans? What plans? But then, I had a pretty good idea. Plans of the female variety.

Deciding that I needed to finish up so I could be ready to leave when the guys were done, I quickly scanned my checklist and headed back to my office. I was just shoveling a stack of catalogs into my tote when Evan popped his head in.

“Got a minute?”

Um, ah, well, “Of course.”

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Looking around the room uncomfortably, he finally took a seat on the couch, resting on the edge as if afraid to get too comfortable.

“Before this thing,” he waved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “goes any further, do we need to have a talk?”

“About what?”

“About,” his hand waved again, indicating the space between him and me, “us.”

About us. Right. There was no us anymore, and he was chicken enough to hide the fact there ever was. Well, I was not going to give him the satisfaction of a good, sit down, heart to heart. Not if that might alleviate—even the tiniest bit—his guilt for deceiving the producers, dismissing me, and being an all-around lying louse.

So rather than berate him as was my God given right as a scorned woman, I tilted my head at a brainless angle, smiled brightly, and said, “What’s to talk about?”

Evan sighed with relief. “You’re great, Bethy.”

He sprang off the couch and practically skipped out of the room. Must have been much lighter with all that weight lifted off his shoulders.

Little did he know.

I couldn’t believe he’d called me Bethy, his pet name. He was the only one who’d ever called me that, and it grated. I cringed and fisted my hands so tight my French-manicured nails dug little crescents into my palms.

He might feel relieved right now, but he wouldn’t when I made him pay. When I gathered incontrovertible evidence that he was a counterfeit queer.

He said he had plans tonight? Well, so did I.

Wherever he went, I went.

Whomever he met, I photographed.

I could see the front pages headlines already.