Just Flirt (22 page)

“Can I get you ladies anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Perrier mineral water?” Aaron asks, resting his manicured hand on Mom’s shoulder.

Mom clasps her hands. “Ooo, Perrier, that sounds lovely, Aaron, thank you! Sabrina, would you like some Perrier?”

I’m too focused on Aaron’s lingering hand to answer.

No, no, NO
, is he the mystery man Mom has had dinner with every single night for over a week now? Is he the reason she’s dressed like a Sunday school teacher in a prim summer suit with her hair smoothed in a neat bob instead of its usual teased bouffant?

The thought of having to deal with a different man in our house is uncomfortable enough as it is without it being
this
man. I bet he wears robes in the morning. I can imagine him at the breakfast table—chest hair poking out of his robe while he enjoys his cappuccinos and crepes. I’d prefer Chuck Lambert over him. Barely.

“Sabrina, honey, are you okay?” Mom asks.

I shake off the nasty image and nod. Yes, I will be okay once this settlement meeting is over and life goes back to normal. I’ll spend the rest of summer having fun with Torrance and Bridget, and maybe I’ll try out for cheerleading in August, since my reputation might need a pick-me-up. Blaine and I will patch up the awkwardness between us, and he’ll no longer act so distant, like at Torrance’s Fourth of July party when he skipped the fireworks to play pool or all this week when he spent most of his time on the golf course instead of calling me.

Aaron admires his reflection in the window that overlooks historic downtown Riverside and straightens his tie. “I’ll have my secretary bring your drinks. Take your time enjoying them,” he says, giving Mom a wink. “Ivy Neville and her party are already in the conference room, but it wouldn’t hurt to let them stew for a while.”

Okay, it’s official. I’d jump off a cliff if he became my stepfather.

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, after Mom has enjoyed every last sip of her Perrier—and stated a million times how she has to get a case from Costco—Aaron finally takes us into the conference room where Dee, Jane Barton, and two older women are waiting. I recognize one of them from the campground, but she looks so different now with her cut hair and tailored suit. The other I don’t recognize. Dee’s grandmother, maybe? They do have the same blue eyes. But what about Dee’s father, are her parents divorced like mine?

“Well, well, Ivy Neville, it’s good to see a former employee,” Aaron says. “How’s retirement treating you?”

From the way Ivy’s jaw braces, I can tell her relationship with Aaron is not a good one. She forces a smile and reaches out to shake his hand. “Hello, Aaron, always a pleasure, and my retirement is getting longer by the minute considering you’ve had us waiting in here for
almost an hour.
”

“My apologies, ladies, I had a conference call,” Aaron says, pulling out a chair for Mom at the head of the table. Liar. “Would anyone care for a beverage? Coffee, tea, tap water?”

Tap water, huh?

Ivy grabs her pen. “We’re quite fine, Aaron. What we would like is for this meeting to start sometime
today
.”

“Suit yourself,” Aaron says, sitting on the opposite side.

The other elderly woman raises her hand. “I, for one, would love a refreshment,” she huffs.

“Well, then, Madeline,” Jane Barton says through clenched teeth. “You should have stayed home and had all the refreshment you wanted.”

As Aaron leisurely arranges his papers, I slump down on a chair by the window, trying hard not to notice the way Dee and her mother lean toward each other, as though they are holding hands underneath the table. Man. I can’t remember the last time I held my mother’s hand. Even if I tried, she would only think I wanted something from her, and to be honest, I’d feel the same way if she held mine. Our relationship is more like Jane and Madeline’s, with the bickering, bickering, bickering. Is that how Mom and I are going to be for the rest of our lives?

Yes, we probably will. It’s kind of sad, really.

So maybe I was right to be jealous of Dee when Blaine and I started going out.

But not for the reason I thought.

Aaron Wyatt opens a manila folder, his motions fluid and impassive, as though tearing people’s lives apart is just another day at the office. “Now, Ms. Neville, we have received your client’s settlement offer of twenty thousand dollars.”

Ivy nods. “That’s right, to be paid immediately.”

Aaron leans back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His elaborate pinky ring sparkles as he squints and says, “Well, unfortunately, after consulting with my client, your counteroffer is not adequate.”

I expected this to happen. I knew Mom would do her Mexican bartering for as much as possible. She told me a few days ago that she would accept twenty-five, so
come on, Ivy, say twenty-five and let’s just end this!

Ivy crosses her arms, giving me the feeling that her retirement wasn’t all that voluntary, especially when she glares at him and says, “Not adequate, huh. Well, would twenty-two be more adequate?”

I watch Mom inspect a fingernail, majestic as a queen bee on her throne. She really is enjoying this, her moment of power. She shakes her head, stretching this moment out as long as possible. “No, Ms. Neville, twenty-two is not adequate.”

Aaron gathers his papers and stuffs them in a folder as though the meeting is over, causing Ivy’s eyes to widen. “Okay,” she says. “We’re prepared to raise the offer to twenty-five thousand.”

Oh, thank you. The magic number.
Mom pretends to contemplate this by pressing a nail against her chin. “Well … no, it’s still inadequate.”

Mom …

“Twenty-six thousand?”

Aaron grins, reminding me of a cat we used to own who would catch a mouse and bat it back and forth between its paws before killing it. “Actually, Ivy, our client has decided that no settlement offer will be adequate.”

Some of the color drains from Ivy’s face. “Meaning?”

Mom leans forward, placing her forearms on the table and clasping her hands. “
Meaning
I am proceeding to trial for the full two million.”

The room begins to spin.

Someone gasps.

I shoot out of my chair, sending it crashing against the wall behind me. “Mom—you promised we were going to settle! You said this was all going to be over!”

“Not now, Sabrina,” Mom whispers.

No, this is not happening.

It feels as though my entire world has been ripped out from underneath me, just like when Dad came into my room on that night so long ago and told me he was leaving to be with Belinda. I sink into my chair, unable to comprehend how Mom can just sit there calmly and not be affected by the sheer terror on Jane Barton’s face. And Madeline’s.

And especially Dee’s.

“What’s going on, Aaron,” Ivy barks. “You arranged this settlement meeting
yesterday
. What could possibly have changed since then?”

“My client told me her decision earlier today. I’m just honoring her wishes.”

Mom brushes lint off her lapel, and then turns to him. “Isn’t there something else that needs to be discussed?”

Aaron nods, pulling another folder out from his pile. “Yes, there is. We have received word that the daughter of your defendant, Dee Barton, has threatened one of our witnesses, a Mr. Blaine Walker.”

What? She threatened Blaine?

“No, that’s not true,” Dee says, her voice rising with each word. “I mean—yeah, I did call him, but it was only to find out why he lied, because he did lie, I
never
asked him to come upstairs. I told him to
leave me alone
, so yeah, maybe I did tell him to watch his back!”

“Well,” Aaron says with a lofty smirk. “Isn’t that the same as threatening?”

Tears start to stream down Dee’s face. She swipes them away with the back of her hand. “No, no, that’s not it at all. Blaine lied. And you—Sabrina—”

She thrusts a finger toward me.

“You know I never pushed you. You know.
YOU KNOW!
”

Our eyes lock.

I have to look away.

Ivy grabs Dee’s elbow and pulls her down. “Dee, it’s okay. Relax.”

Aaron slides the contents of the folder across the table to Ivy. She quickly scans the paper, her fury growing with each word. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aaron says. “Considering the possible witness tampering and Miss Barton’s violent nature, as proved just now, we’re filing a restraining order against Dee Barton.”

What?

“She needs to stay a hundred feet away from Sabrina Owens and Blaine Walker at all times.”

*   *   *

“How ’bout some coffee?” Mom chirps from the front seat of her Trooper after driving out of Aaron’s parking lot. She turns off Main Street and onto a side road, nodding toward the Starry Night Bakery. “We can get some of those fancy chocolate ones, with whipped cream and cocoa sprinkles, yum-yum!”

Yum-yum?

She just dropped those major bombshells at the meeting and now she’s casually talking about
yum-yums
? “No, Mom, I don’t want any stupid coffee!”

Too late. She puts her blinker on.

“Oh, I
hate
parallel parking,” she moans, looking over her shoulder and cutting the wheel. She backs a few feet and then jerks to a stop. Forward, stop. Backward, stop. The truck behind us honks. “Hold your horses, mister! And, Sabrina, it’ll be my treat, since you’re still a little annoyed.”

“Annoyed?” I shoot back. “Annoyed doesn’t even begin to cover it, Mother. You lied about going to trial. You
promised
me that would never happen!”

Mom hits the curb with the right rear tire. She spins the wheel hard to the right and moves forward until she hits the curb with her front tire. “Now, honey, you best remember that I’m the adult, and I make the decisions, okay?”

“No—not okay. Why did you change your mind? And the restraining order, how do you explain that?”

Especially when Dee never once touched me, except when she was trying to help. And Aaron told us about Ivy’s claim that
Natalie
wrote the blog. Of course, he doesn’t believe it and neither does Mom. But if it is true—if Dee didn’t even know about the blog like Ivy said—then was she playing games with Blaine or not?

And what did Roxanne tell me?
Dee seemed upset, like she wanted to be left alone, not like how she sounded on her blog.

This is such a mess. And who really is to blame? Is it Dee, if Natalie was the person who wrote the blog? Roxanne, because she was the one who told me they were upstairs? Mom, for being a total court whore? Or am I to blame, for agreeing to this whole stupid thing to begin with?

“Sabrina, honey, I changed my mind because … I changed my mind, okay?” Mom slams the Trooper into park and gives me a wink. “Besides, the restraining order was Aaron’s idea. He thought it would strengthen our case at trial.”

I stare openmouthed at her. She clearly has no clue about how all this is affecting me. “You’re unbelievable, Mom.”

“Thanks, sweetie!” Mom beams, reaching into her purse for a ten-dollar bill. “Now, what do you want, huh? You can have anything at all.”

“Fine. A mocha frappe light, no whipped cream,” I say, leaning back in my seat.

Mom hands me the money. “Yum. Get me one, too, will ya? But with the whipped cream and no light. Life’s too short for light!”

“Me? I thought you were treating?”

Mom flips down her visor, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick that was bleeding into a wrinkle. “Well, I am paying. Now scoot!”

Great.

I slam the door loud enough to startle a woman who is walking out of a nearby florist shop with a large plant arrangement. Then a parked Mercedes on the other side of the street makes me stop in my tracks. No, it can’t be Blaine’s,
please don’t be Blaine’s
! He’ll think I’m stalking him. But … maybe it would be good if he is here.

Maybe I can find out if we’re still together or not.

I walk inside the dimly lit bakery with its deep purple walls, painted murals, and a rubber ducky collection lined up on a long shelf. So far, no Blaine, which is a relief. Facing him isn’t something I’m prepared for. Not today. A cute, tattooed girl makes my mocha frappes, but as I turn to leave, I remember the back tables.
No, forget it.
The best thing to do is just go home. But once I reach the door, my resolve snaps like a rotten rubber band, making me spin around and almost run into a college student with an armful of books. Sure enough, there he is in the back, sitting with his feet hiked up on a chair.

“Blaine,” I say, stronger than I mean to.

He jerks his head up, his handsome face distorted with alarm. He glances at the back door behind him and stammers, “Sabbie! Hey, what a surprise.”

I put the drinks down. “Yeah. Today has been full of surprises, so it makes perfect sense to find you here.”

There is genuine concern in his voice when he asks, “Are you okay? Do you need to talk about it?”

My heart pounds. I long to kiss him, feel his lips on mine, have him wrap those strong arms around me … but there are two cups on the table. One has lipstick on the brim, a pretty coral shade that is somewhat familiar. Which means—

Blaine isn’t alone.

Of course he isn’t.

I shake my head and let out a bitter laugh. “Wow, I’m so stupid. All this time, I’ve been so
stupid.
You’re nothing but a Mr. Booty-Bagger, aren’t you, Blaine?”

“Mr. What?”

“A Mr. Booty-Bagger. Blaine the Booty-Bagger.”

Blaine looks at me as though I am absolutely nuts but I don’t care. For the second time this month, I think of what Dee—or Natalie—wrote about relationships on the blog. Whoever it was, she was so right:

Relationships are supposed to make you feel good.

Relationships are NOT supposed to make you feel bad.