City Chicks

Chapter 6

Six

At 4:32 p.m. I set Jawbreaker’s pug loose on the beach.

I didn’t mean to. Really. It was an entirely accidental occurrence. Mostly.

When I came downstairs after the potato truck shower, the little monst— um, darling started nipping at my feet. My fabulous new pair of grass green flats with the cute flower cut-outs. The heels now bear several indentations that look remarkably like canine bites.

Where the little mon— um, darling had been until that point I had no idea. Probably sequestered in a bedroom or something. Or mingling quietly with the guests until Jawbreaker gave him the attack command.

I should have known there was a reason the French doors leading onto the deck were no longer wide open. I should have thought it at least a little odd.

But no, I just flung open the door, hoping to escape onto the deck and close the little mon—oh, all right, he was a monster—off in the house, securing a pane of hurricane glass between us.

Then I heard the scream.

“Miissterr Puuggssleey!!!” Jawbreaker wailed as the little monster—now the little escapee—squeezed through the closing door and raced across the teak decking as fast as his stunted little legs could carry him.

Quite fast, surprisingly enough.

“What have you done?” Jawbreaker cried as she reached my side, staring plaintively after the fast disappearing sight of Mr. Pugsley—no really, that’s his real name—stirring up sand behind him as he made for the surf.

“I’m sorry, Janice. I had no idea he could run like that.”

She glared at me like I had just eaten the last Junior Mint in a theater-sized box before the previews even started.

“You did th-that on p-purpose.”

Oh no, those looked suspiciously like tears. I didn’t know heartless corporate robots could cry. I guess when their Mr. Pugsley beat feet for the beach, all stereotypical bets are off.

Before I could stop myself—or realize what I was doing, for that matter—I put my arms around her shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” I soothed, “we’ll get him back.”

“Last time he didn’t come home for three days.” She sobbed and pressed her face into my offered shoulder.

I felt her tears wetting my second-of-the-day sundress.

Gingerly patting her back, I looked desperately around the room for any sign of reprieve. I found Phelps, heading our direction with that confident grin on his handsome face.

“Which way did he head?” Phelps asked.

“West,” I answered, relieved to have the help. “Toward the city.”

“L-last time,” Jawbreaker lifted her head and sniffled, “the Monteforts said he came and made puppy love with their Shitzhu.” She wiped at her tears, smearing the pool of mascara out to her temples in a kohl-black sweep. “Their house is three properties down.”

Phelps smoothed a reassuring hand over her platinum hair. “I’ll get him back Janice.” He turned and looked at the room full of stunned guests. “I bet Fairchild will even help me, won’t you?”

Gavin grinned thinly. “I live to serve,” he said as he followed Phelps out the French doors and headed onto the beach. Probably cursing every grain of sand that scuffed his leather loafers.

If not for my weeping boss at my side, I might have gloated. Yet a tiny little kernel of something deep inside my brain poked me with a feeling much like guilt.

Double Bubble Damn. Now I was going to have to be nice to Jawbreaker for the rest of the weekend.

Phelps and a very bedraggled Gavin returned with a grinning and well-satisfied Mr. Pugsley just in time for the scheduled lawn croquet tournament.

The front lawn had been set with a dozen different croquet courses, differentiated by variously colored wickets. Each guest was assigned a course color and a mallet color. Guests with matching colors were teammates. Twenty-four teams of two.

My card read: Green Course, Pink Mallet.

I never knew there was a pink mallet in croquet, but I was content because this color scheme coordinated nicely with my equally pink-and-green sundress—this one decorated with charming pink elephants on grass green, um, grass.

Spying a field of green wickets, I headed that direction as Phelps headed for Yellow Course to retrieve his Blue Mallet. Noticeably on the opposite side of the lawn.

A servant clad in white tie formals stood in attendance at the mallet stand, ready to quell any color conflicts, I assumed. I handed him my card as I watched Phelps receive his blue mallet. Why was I not surprised when Kelly bounded to his side, cheerfully waving her card that presumably also sported Yellow Course, Blue Mallet?

I briefly wondered how far a croquet ball could fly given enough motivated force. Then my brain jumped to a realization. If Kelly were paired with Phelps, then who—

“The gentleman already has the pink mallet, ma’am.”

Following the servant’s extended arm, I turned to see Gavin palming the pink mallet, slapping it against his khaki-clad thigh.

“Hello, Lydia.”

Leave it to Gavin to try and single-handedly bring back the alligator shirt.

“Gavin,” I answered in acknowledgement.

All guilt-induced sympathy for Jawbreaker and the plight of the lost-but-now-returned pug evaporated. Unlike Mr. Pugsley’s purely accidental release—I mentally retracted any confession of knowledgeable intent—this was entirely deliberate. Malice aforethought.

“I hope my being here isn’t making you uncomfortable.” He even had the gumption to look contrite.

Gavin? Contrite? That was a first.

I flashed him a scathing smile. “Why should I be uncomfortable?”

Since I wasn’t interested in having the highly overrated let’s-put-this-behind-us-and-still-be-friends conversation, I focused every ounce of my attention on the idea that winning this tournament would be a terrific means of making up for this malicious match.

Beat Jawbreaker and the KYs at their own social game and redeem some measure of pride. If Gavin managed to benefit from my competitive determination, then I’d just have to take the bad with the good.

I eyed the mallet hungrily and tried to grab it from his hands.

“Don’t be like this, Lydia.” Gavin stepped back, holding the mallet securely behind his back. He placed his hand on my arm and gave me an all-too-familiar squeeze. “We can be civilized.”

“What is civilized about a man boinking his already-married secretary two weeks before his own wedding?” I said. On the inside. On the outside, I said, “I don’t want to talk about this. Just play the game.”

A shrill whistle sounded and a voice over loudspeaker commanded that the games should begin.

As I stalked past him toward the first green wicket, I grabbed the mallet from his fist. And smacked the head into my palm for maximum effect.

My game had already begun.

Gavin and I played surprisingly well together. Not that I would ever tell him, but he had skill with a mallet. We won our first three matches easily, ending up among the teams playing in the final on the white wicket course set up on the central lawn contained by the circular drive.

The other finalists included Jawbreaker and bottom feeder Brant, Kelly and Phelps, and myself and Gavin. Ferrero and his partner—some young metrosexual-looking hunk—also advanced, though from what I saw of their last game, they advanced because everyone kept granting Ferrero gimmes.

It paid to be the boss.

We all got to keep our balls. Even though another pink team made it to the final, ours had green stripes. They all had stripes that matched their initial courses.

My adrenaline was pumping. Years of practice at the Westchester Country Club assured that my game was head on. And Gavin was much better on the other side of a croquet stake than he had ever been on the other side of an engagement ring.

We were going to win, I could feel it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jawbreaker called out, “before the championship match begins, you should know to the victors what spoils will go. Armando.”

She motioned to an Italian-looking servant standing at the edge of the circle of guests. He made his way through the crowd and handed Jawbreaker a large white envelope with the Ferrero Couture logo embossed in gold.

“In this envelope are four first-class tickets to Milan, one-week for four at a five star hotel and four week-long, all-access passes to fashion week for the Fall season.” She waved the envelope above her head and announced, “To the winners and their guests.”

The crowd cheered and on cue an army of servants appeared carrying silver trays laden with glasses of white wine.

“I don’t know about you,” Gavin leaned in close to whisper, “but I could use a week in Italy.”

As much as I wanted to disagree with everything out of the man’s mouth—for reasons of morality—I had to concede that Italy sounded wonderful. And if Ferrero really did use my jewelry in the Spring collection, it would be beneficial to have the experience of a fashion week extravaganza before I was expected to participate.

I smiled—an actual, unforced, genuine smile. “Then let’s win this thing.”

Gavin rested his hand at the base of my spine, guiding me toward the first wicket. I had to suppress a shiver at the memory of how his touch used to make me feel.

The teams drew straws for order of play. Jawbreaker drew the shortest straw and last start. Ferrero drew third to last. Kelly squealed as she and Phelps drew the longest straw. Looking at the straw in my hand I realized we would play second, directly after Phelps and Kelly.

Gavin realized this, too.

“Good,” he said in their direction, “after you go, we can show everyone how the game is really played.”

“Don’t let your talk get bigger than your game, Fairchild,” Phelps replied with that arrogant grin.

“A whisper would be bigger than your game, Elliot.”

Oh no, the pissing contest began. I bit my lips to hide a smile as I took two steps away in an act of self-preservation.

That shrill whistle blew again, announcing the start of the match. Phelps grabbed the blue mallet from Kelly and dropped the yellow-striped blue ball at the starting stake. He whacked the ball, sailing it perfectly between the uprights of the first wicket and into position for the second. Gavin’s triumphant smile dimmed.

Well, I was not about to give up after one shot. Besides, we were playing alternate turns. Scoring a wicket did not earn a consecutive hit. No one could get very far ahead at any one time.

And I planned on keeping right up.

“Give me the ball,” I demanded.

Gavin smile, like he wanted to say something inappropriate.

I scowled, determinedly holding out my hand palm up for emphasis. He placed it in my hand without letting go. I snatched it out of his hand. “We’re winning this trip to Italy,” I said, “no matter what your stupid bet was.”

For the first time in memory Gavin looked impressed. By me.

Had been part of our problem? Well, his problem really. Had I stopped impressing him? Men bored easily, didn’t they?

Phelps interrupted my ponderings. “You going or not?”

I turned to him and smiled brightly. “Shut up, Sweet Tooth.”

Setting my ball perfectly at the starting stake, I shimmied and aligned myself into perfect position before smoothly striking the wooden ball. Pink-and-green went rolling over the closely groomed lawn, through the wicket and into the blue-and-yellow ball. Knocking it several inches out of the path of the next wicket.

Gavin wrapped an arm around my waist and squeezed me close. “Looks like you might be eating those words, Elliot.”

Part of me wanted to elbow him in the ribs. The rest of me saw the glare Kelly threw my way and leaned in closer to his side.

After my masterful stroke, if Gavin didn’t hold up his end of the game, I would seriously reconsider my opinion on capital punishment.

The other teams played their turns, each pretty dismal after the first two shots. Ferrero managed to hit his black-striped pink ball into the driveway. And Jawbreaker’s purple-and-red followed right behind.

Unfortunately, my need to kiss up to the boss was heavily outweighed by my need to win the trip. Or just win period. Other people clearly didn’t have that problem.

After several rounds of play, we four were two wickets each from the finishing stake and the trash talk—if trash talk is even legal in croquet—had escalated to mountainous proportions. The other teams had actually given up, resigning themselves to shared last place and first dibs on the fresh round of wine.

“Why are you taking this competition so seriously?” Jawbreaker asked before downing an entire glass of Pinot Grigio in one gulp. “No matter who wins, all four of you will be going to Italy.”

We turned to stare in unison.

“The glory,” Gavin said.

“The bragging rights,” Phelps added.

Kelly and I glared at each other.

“I don’t like to lose,” I said.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kelly replied. “I’ve never lost.”

Oh, it was on.

It came down to the last shot, two balls side by side and equally aligned for the perfect shot, Kelly stepped up to take her turn. She had two choices. Shoot the wicket and win the game. Or knock our ball out of play.

Guess which shot she chose. No really, guess.

As I retrieved our ball from a very thorny bush I could almost see the ego swelling her golden blonde head to monstrous proportion, glowing with the glory of my humiliation.

Phelps handled the win gracefully.

If by gracefully you meant grabbed Kelly around the waist, spun her around like a cotton candy machine, and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Eat that, Fairchild!”

By the time we retired to our room at around three a.m. he had calmed down. Mostly.

“Did you see that last shot?” he called up from the floor. “Masterful I tell you, masterful.”

I leaned over the side of the bed.

“I was there, remember?”

If I sounded bitter, it was only because I really wanted to win. Not because it seemed Kelly was everyone’s golden child. Jawbreaker’s favorite. Gavin’s favorite. Now Phelps’ favorite. No, that didn’t bother me at all. Not. At. All.

“Knocked your ball out of play like a real pro.” He waved his hands around, presumably reenacting the path of the redirected ball.

“Yeah, she should go on the international croquet circuit.” My humor level was at an all-time low. And I had other things on my mind. “We need to talk.”

He lifted himself up on one elbow. “Sounds serious.”

“Not really.” I sighed, thinking over everything that had happened in the last few days. “I just need to know if you are available for some upcoming business functions.”

In the soft moonlight I saw him smile. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that sets my teeth on edge, but a genuine friendly smile.

“You asking me out on a date?”

“I guess,” I replied. “What’s the going per-date rate?”

He frowned and rose to a full sitting position. “What do you mean?”

“People will expect me to show up with you by my side. At least for now. I just want to know what each date will cost me. A date should run about two to three hours. There are a couple of cocktail parties that will probably be longer, but I figure we could come up with a set rate.”

“Oh.” Phelps laid back down and folded his arms behind his head. “I kinda forgot I was being paid.”

That threw me for a loop. He sounded almost wistful. Almost sad.

Great Gobstoppers, Lyd. Get a grip.

The man was only here because he was being paid. Why else would a wild adventurer with Hollywood looks spend time with a dull Westchester girl at an even duller Southampton party?

“Can we just wing it?” he asked, rolling away from the bed to lie on his side. “I’m too tired to do math right now.”

“Sure.”

I collapsed back onto the mattress, feeling a little guilty for hogging the bed and for something else I couldn’t quite name. At least I could do something about the bed. “Phelps—”

“Before I forget.” He rolled off his makeshift bed and grabbed something from the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair. “Take this.”

I leaned sideways and started to take it, before I realized what he offered me. “No, you earned the trip,” I pushed the envelope back into his hand. “When the time comes take whoever you want. Consider it a bonus.”

Snatching the envelope back, he shoved it back into the shirt pocket before dropping back onto his side.

Before I could even begin to apologize for whatever I had just done, he bit out, “Good night, Lydia.”

Let me tell you, my dreams that night were not about tubfuls of hot tamales.