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CHAPTERFIVE
Olivia was running late…again. No matter how early she got up, she just couldn’t seem to keep from being late. This morning she’d been distracted by the pretty hummingbird that fluttered by her kitchen window, Mr. Huckabee watering his flowers in the nude, and her trash and recycling bins sitting by the curb. Not that there was anything unusual about her trash bins being out. Especially on trash day. At least there wouldn’t have been if she had been the one to roll them out to the curb. But until she saw them, she’d forgotten that it was trash day. Which meant that someone else had put her trash and recycling bins out. Just as they had the week before. And the week before that.
Late or not, she couldn’t help opening the balcony doors and calling to Mr. Huckabee, whose dangling parts were thankfully covered by the large watering can he held, “Good morning, Mr. Huckabee.”
He squinted over at her. “Is that you, Britney?”
Britney had been the former owner of Olivia’s house. And even after five years, Mr. Huckabee still thought she lived there. Olivia had corrected him numerous times and had finally given up.
“I wanted to thank you for putting out my trash,” she said.
“I didn’t. And you left your garage door open again.” Mr. Huckabee lifted the can to water his geraniums, displaying his private parts.
She averted her eyes. “Yes, I know. I guess I need to tie a string on my penis—I mean finger.” With a heated face, she backed toward the doors. “Well, have a good day.” On her way inside, she noticed Jonathan Livingston Seagull standing in the corner of her balcony, eating what looked like a piece of moldy banana peel. “Shoo!” she yelled, and waved her arms. The bird stared her down with a beady-eyed look before he picked up the banana peel and took flight, leaving his calling card on her rug.
She usually took the trolley to work, but after cleaning up Jonathan’s mess she was running too late to wait for public transportation, so she decided to take the Porsche Michael had given her for her thirtieth birthday. It was a nice car—fast, sleek, and a pretty French Kiss silver. Which didn’t explain why she felt so uncomfortable driving it.
Backing out of her garage, she ground the gears and almost ran over her trash bins. The sight of them at the curb had her glancing around to see if any neighbors were waiting to be thanked for putting out her trash. But the only person she saw was the guy who sold lemon juicers to the tourists on Fisherman’s Wharf. He hurried down the street, pulling his roller suitcase of juicers behind him.
He had to live somewhere close by because she saw him almost every day, although she couldn’t see him making enough on lemon juicers to afford to live in the wealthy neighborhood. She would think he was a street person if not for the quality of his coat and pants. Even his Nikes looked new. When she drove past and waved, he ducked his head and ignored her. She should really buy a juicer from him. Maybe she would get one for her mother as well. Deirdre loved kitchen gadgets. Thinking of her mother, Olivia tapped the screen on the dashboard.
After a few trilling rings, her mother’s voice came through the Bose speakers.
“When are you coming to get this woman?”
“Today.” Olivia stifled a yawn. Her sleep the last two nights had been plagued by nightmares. Not about being eaten alive by mosquitoes or death-rolled by an alligator, but about showing her panties to Deacon Beaumont and him laughing hysterically. Of course the nightmares weren’t any worse than the daydreams that kept popping up since she left Louisiana. Daydreams about Deacon’s body. Even now it was hard to blink the image of his manly muscles and lightly furred chest away. “So how is Babette this morning?” Olivia asked. “Has she gotten any work done?”
“It appears so. She spent all day yesterday scribbling on some design or another.”
“That’s great.” Olivia passed a Starbucks and struggled with the strong desire to turn in. But since she was already late, her caffeine hit would have to wait until she got to work. “Tell her I’ll send a car to pick her up this afternoon. And as soon as I call a board meeting and present her designs, she can start working with the designers at French Kiss.”
“As if the woman can work with anyone,” her mother said. “And instead of sending a car for her, why don’t you come and pick her up yourself? I’d like to see you.”
“I’d love to, Mother, but now that the Beaumonts have signed over their shares of the company, there’s just too much to get done. What about if we have lunch this weekend?”
“Fine. And afterwards you can help me go through some of Michael’s things. If the house sells quickly, we’ll need to have it done. Although it’s a shame to sell the house when it would be a perfect home for you to start a family.”
The comment took Olivia completely by surprise. “A family?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what a family is, Olivia. Yours wasn’t conventional—what with your father running off and you having a workaholic stepfather who ran the largest lingerie company in the world—but you certainly don’t want to end up like Regina Longley’s daughter, who has to hire men to escort her to social events. You need a husband. Even if for nothing more than arm decoration.”
“I have a boyfriend, Mother.”
“That young man who works at French Kiss? Does he have money?”
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t plan to marry for money.” In fact Olivia didn’t plan to marry at all. She had enough complications in her life.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Olivia Harrington. I won’t have you marrying some yuppie businessman with nothing more than a 401(k). Do you know anything about this Parker’s family?”
Olivia opened her mouth and then closed it when she realized that she didn’t know anything about Parker’s family. Not one thing. She didn’t know if his parents were living. If he had siblings. Or even a dog.
A faint stream of French words came through the speakers before her mother spoke. “I think you owe me more than lunch for putting up with this French tyrant.” Her mouth moved away from the receiver. “Yes, yes, I hear you, Marie Antoinette! And your chocolate chip crepes are coming!” She lowered her voice. “Along with a little arsenic.”
Olivia laughed. “Hang tough, Mother. She’ll be gone by this afternoon.”
After ending the call, Olivia concentrated on taking the fastest route to work. But due to heavy traffic and a missed turn caused by admiring the haircut of the woman in the car next to her, she still arrived late.
French Kiss’s corporate headquarters were located in a high-rise office building just a block away from the flagship store on Union Square. Michael had spared no expense in remodeling the historic building. While the outside kept its Gothic look, the inside had been totally gutted and refurbished, using plenty of French Kiss’s trademark colors—lavender and silver. The lavish decor of the lobby included purple variegated marble floors, plush furniture upholstered in gray and purple velvet, and a huge crystal chandelier hanging over the receptionist’s desk.
