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Her lips etch into a firm, thin line as she tosses her purse and coat on Sophia's desk in an overly dramatic gesture before she walks straigh
t towards me.
***
"Your father would have no part of this." She arches her neck to once again look at the now closed doors of my office. It's the third time she's done it since I suggested she sit on the black leather sofa before I sat next to her. "He wouldn't approve of this at all."
I unbutton my suit jacket. "When is the last time you spoke to him?"
"Why? It doesn't matter when I spoke to him."
It actually does.
Since their divorce more than a decade ago my parents' broken relationship has swung on a pendulum from adoration to unconstrained contempt, bordering on hatred. The latter usually is in play when my father brings his latest companion to a company function in full view of my mother.
The string of dalliances he's had since they separated has been with women younger than me who view him as a tolerable rung on the ladder to success. Not one of the dozen or so women who have flirted their way into my father's life has lasted more than a few months.
"You know how much I value your input, Mother." I lean back wanting my body language to convey my message just as much as my words. I've learned in the most difficult way possible, through much trial and error, that the only way to handle Gianna Foster effectively is to make her feel valued and irreplaceable. "You also know that I'm not hiring any new designers at the moment."
She scratches the top of her forehead. The motion pushes a few strands of her deep brown hair aside. My mother has never made a secret of her pursuit of youth. She's on a first name basis with at least three of the most prestigious plastic surgeons in Manhattan. In her ongoing effort to recapture the face that once was reflected back in the mirror, she's lost the natural glow she had when I was a child. I remember back then thinking that she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Now, as I look at her perfect complexion, I see a woman battered within by the ever moving hands of time.
"Did your father put you up to this? Is that what this is about?"
It's an underhanded tactic devised to halt the conversation in its tracks. In the tug-of-war that was, and still is, the dissolution of their marriage, my parents viewed my two brothers and me as the ultimate prize. When we refused to take sides, my mother upped her game. Now, whenever there is a business related matter, she reverts back to blaming my father. He's too busy with his latest twenty-something girlfriend to even realize the company still exists.
"This is about Dante Castro." I stop for a beat before I continue, carefully considering my words. "He's a talented designer, but we have no place for him. You need to rescind the offer you made him."
Her jaw tightens at my words. "I'll do nothing of the sort. I already called a friend or two to announce that he's heading the men's division."
At last count, she'd called contacts at four of the premier fashion magazines. Each had reached out to me within the past two hours for my reaction to the announcement that my mother had secured the virtually unknown talents of a designer whose ability is questionable but whose presence is meant to make my father jealous. I'm not about to hand over the reins of our men's fashion line to someone whose claim to fame is designing t-shirts emblazoned with logos for skateboarding aficionados.
"You need to call him now." I tap the fingers of my left hand on her knee. "He's not a good fit for us."
"He's a perfect fit." Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. "Gabriel, I've already made the announcement. How would it look if I didn't give him the job?"
I push out a quick puff of air from between my lips, tempted to tell her that the position is already filled by one of the most creative designers in the world today. That would fall on her deaf, and now frustrated, ears. "If you can't handle it, Mother, I can. Give me the word and I'll make this disappear before the official announcement sees the light of day."
"Do it," she says as she smooths her hands over the fabric of her navy blue slacks. "Fix it the way you always do."
CHAPTER THREE
Isla
I nervously fumble with my smartphone as I sit in the reception area at Foster Enterprises. Cicely had stuck to her plan for us to bring each and every lace garter slip that was packed in the box she ripped open, to Mr. Foster's office with us.
We'd shoved the overstuffed Liore bags into the trunk of a taxi outside the store. I briefly argued the point that the tennis shoes that were already occupying the cramped space smelled like a dead body, but Cicely was too amped up on adrenaline to even acknowledge that I was along for the ride.
We've sat here for almost thirty minutes now and Cicely has used at least twenty-nine of those to quietly rehearse what sounds like a late night infomercial about the undeniable alluring qualities of the over-priced garter slips we brought along with us.
If she'd bothered to ask my opinion, which she hasn't, I would have told her to bring one and that if honesty is what Mr. Foster wants, a critique about the quality of the materials and the location of the hooks for fastening would be first on my list.
"Do you like working at the boutique?"
My gaze jumps from the addictive game I'm playing on my smartphone to the face of the woman who greeted us when we stepped off the elevator and approached Mr. Foster's office. The space is large and airy. The furnishings are exquisite and the walls are painted light grey.
The only spot of brightness is the woman behind the desk, Sophia. She has a slight southern drawl that reminds me of my third grade teacher. She's pretty, but in a muted, unassuming, way.
I glance towards Cicely who is still in full-on preparation mode. I will the doors of Mr. Foster's office to open but they don't. Engaging in idle talk about a job I may no longer have, isn't helping with my increasing anxiety. If I'm fired, I want to know so I can start looking for something else to fill in my time until my future really begins.
