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Chapter 1
Abby Greer’s nail polish tower was on the coffee table, surrounded by Q-tips, cotton balls, and a tall bottle of QVC acetone-free polish remover. She was spinning the tower – a shopping channel purchase she actually used -- reviewing her fifty-six color choices for the third time. This meant it was Friday.
She had settled on Strawberry Milkshake when the phone rang. Seeing that it was her husband’s assistant, not some telemarketer she could ignore, she set the bottle of polish aside and answered the phone.
“Hi Krissa. What’s up?”
“Hi Abby. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Greer would like you to be ready to be picked up at 6:40 tonight to meet him and the Cadburys at Parsley. He’d like you to wear the black Calvin Klein dress that I bought for you last week, that sleeveless one? You know which one I’m talking about? The plain one?”
“Yeah, I know which one you mean.”
“Good. He’d like you to wear that and your shoes with the two small straps, you know which ones I mean, right?”
“Yeah, I know which ones you mean,” said Abby.
“Good. And your hair up. He says please go get it done if you’d like to, at that place right down the street. He says no creative braids please. He says they’re cute but not for tonight. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Great!”
When speaking with Abby, Krissa walked the line between babysitter and friend, her tone a practiced, conspiratorial lilt. Humor me, it said. She made it clear, but in a way that wouldn’t piss off Randall if he overheard, that she was a little embarrassed to have to relay such basic information to Abby. She spoke like they were rolling their eyes a little, like they were in this together. “And he says to please be prompt, to be ready exactly at 6:40.”
“Got it.”
“Okay. Talk to you soon.”
Abby set the phone to the side and began spinning the nail polish tower again. Dinner at Parsley called for something subtler than Strawberry Milkshake. She rubbed her eyes, squinting at Pearl Pink and Barely Pink. She went back and forth between them, applying a small swab of each to the back of a magazine, blowing on the samples, evaluating. She decided that Barely Pink seemed safer.
Halfway through her second coat the phone rang again. She paused The View and answered it.
“Hi, Abby. It’s Krissa again.”
“Hi, Krissa.”
“Question for you. Did Mr. Greer talk to you about getting a job?”
“A job? For me?”
“I guess he hasn’t talked to you about this.”
“Sorry, Krissa, but there must be a mistake. I’ve tried to get a job, like probably ten times, and he is really opposed to the idea.”
