you, too, Mother,” Christian whispered into the phone before he snapped it shut. “I’m so sorry about that. You know how mothers can be.”
“What does your mother do? She sounds like a busy woman. Does she live around here?”
“She’s a self-absorbed artist. Patricia Mercer. You may have heard of her?” When Derek shook his head, Christian said, “It doesn’t matter. We lived all over the place when I was growing up, ending up in Terre Haute. When she moved back to Manhattan, I stayed. What about your family? Are they nearby?” Derek shook his head, then shifted his eyes, gazing at a couple a few tables away. After a few seconds, Christian asked, “Is that someone you know? Do you want to invite them over?”
Derek jerked his head around as if he’d been caught putting a sale tag on a full-price pair of Bruno Magli pumps, and said, “No. I mean, I don’t want to invite them over.” He must have noticed Christian’s curious expression because he said, “That’s Hannah. She comes from a wealthy family who sent her to the best schools and had high expectations of her. Then she met him.”
Christian glanced again at the man with Hannah, seeing nothing about him that warranted Derek’s ominous tone. “Who is he?”
“Damien? He’s a drug dealer.”
“He doesn’t look like a drug dealer,” Christian said after a more circumspect peek at Damien.
“That’s why he’s so good at it. No one suspects him. It’s really sad, because you just know he’ll ruin Hannah’s life. But she loves him. Love is such an irrational emotion.”
Christian frowned and said, “They look like a couple of tourists. Are you sure—”
“I told you, appearances can be deceiving,” Derek said, interrupting him. “See that guy at the end of the bar?”
Christian looked where directed and saw an older man staring at the bottom of his empty glass. “Yeah?” he asked.
“What do you think he does?”
Christian looked again and hesitantly said, “Sells farm equipment?”
“That’s really good,” Derek praised. “He does sell farm equipment. Including backhoes. Which is exactly why his next-door neighbor has been calling the police about him for the past five years.”
“His neighbor doesn’t approve of backhoes?” Christian asked, bewildered.
“The neighbor insists that Ralph—that’s his name—dug up his backyard and installed a fish pond about the same time his wife ran off with another man. The neighbor is sure that Mrs. Ralph is actually buried under the fishpond.”
“Oh, my God, are you serious?” Christian asked, gaping at Ralph.
“No.”
Christian swung his eyes back to Derek, who was grinning like a little kid. “You made that up? About Ralph?”
“His name’s not Ralph. It’s Buzz.”
“Buzz?”
“Yes. They call him that because he’s a beekeeper. It’s kind of funny, because his wife’s name is Honey. It’s her real name, not a nickname.”
Christian narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re making that up, too, aren’t you?” When Derek didn’t answer, Christian said, “Hannah? And the drug dealer?”
“Probably here on their honeymoon from Billings, Montana.”
Christian started laughing and said, “You’re insane, Derek.”
“Maybe,” Derek agreed. “But I never buried anyone under a fishpond.”
“There’s always Natasha Deere,” Christian said, laughing again as Derek’s eyes brightened.
8
Down in the Valley of the Dolls
Natasha flew across the sales floor, having just come from a meeting of the department managers, the expression on her face leaving no doubt that it hadn’t been positive. She made a beeline to the sales desk, looked at the schedule, then demanded, “Where’s John?”
“He’s at lunch,” Missy answered.
“Lunch? He’s only been here an hour!”
“He had something he had to do, and we’re slow, so Erik said he could—”
“Erik.” Natasha spat the name in disgust. “Hasn’t he done enough damage around here?”
Missy wisely kept her mouth closed, and Natasha scanned the schedule, comparing it to Erik’s list of the staff’s responsibilities for the day. The “Chore List,” as the sales crew referred to it. She made a mental inventory of all the tasks that were supposed to have been done by now and weren’t, then retreated to her office.
She sank to her desk, exhausted. It had been quite a day, not at all like the one she’d envisioned when she got up that morning. First she’d had to intervene when that imbecile Derek screwed up a phone order. After nearly a month, he remained one of her most inept employees. Then she’d been stuck in that endless meeting, where Oscar, manager of Men’s Shoes, had complained about Natasha encroaching on his floor space and his sales. For months, her requests to get Men’s Shoes moved away from her department had been ignored. But all Oscar had to do was whine about her, and suddenly the idea of separating the departments was treated like a brilliant concept that Oscar had come up with. She mentally filed her grievance against him, knowing that sooner or later, she’d get her revenge.
As if she hadn’t endured enough, she was informed that her only competent assistant manager was being promoted and relocated to one of the Wisconsin stores. The regional manager had suggested that she replace the assistant with Erik. Natasha had pleasantly replied that she’d be considering all qualified candidates for the job, but inside she was seething, recognizing his suggestion for the decree it was. Especially after Hershel, the store manager, mentioned that he’d gone to business school with Erik’s father. There was no doubt about it; she was surrounded by fools of the Old Bores Network.
She sat motionless for a few moments, wondering if she shouldn’t just pack up her things and head home. This was, after all, her day off. Not that she ever really took one. She grabbed her phone when it rang and snarled, “Natasha Deere.”
“I got it,” a gravelly voice on the line said with no other greeting.
Natasha gasped and looked over her shoulder to make sure there was no one in the stockroom with her. Her voice was almost a whisper when she said, “I told you not to call me here.”
“Do you want it or not?” the voice responded.
“Of course I want it.”
“Meet me at the usual place. One hour.” The line went dead.
Natasha felt her heart race with adrenaline as she fumbled to hang up the phone. This was so wrong, and she knew she shouldn’t be doing it. If anyone ever found out, her reputation would be ruined. But although she could barely admit it to herself, and certainly to no one else, it was her compulsion. Her only other compulsion besides work, and the one thing that made her daily suffering of fools bearable.
She quickly gathered up her things, threw her bag over her shoulder, and strode toward the sales floor. She could hear the associates scurry like rats at the sound of her approach. By the time she set foot on the floor, they were scattered throughout the department, attempting to look busy. It was a dance that had had many rehearsals. Erik was the only person behind the counter when she approached.
“That will be four-hundred forty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents,” Erik enunciated loudly. “Would you like to put that on your Drayden’s card today?” He glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure Natasha had heard the size of the sale he’d just made.
Natasha stepped in closer,