Like Jazz (15 page)

“I’m so glad our paths have crossed again, Cazz. I think I’ve missed you.”

I smiled shyly, secretly drowning in the sweetness of her comment. I tipped my head up and back to indicate the entrance we’d stepped through a moment earlier.

“Thanks for the fancy welcome. This was delightful.”

She turned fully toward me and smiled. “It was.”

The valet pulled up her car. The combination of joy at seeing her again, compassion for her grief, and warmth at being in her presence moved me to advance toward her and gather her in my arms. After a momentary stiffness from surprise, she returned my embrace. When we broke apart, she raised her telltale left eyebrow in disbelief while the right corner of her mouth teased up.

“Twice in one night. Since when did you become so affectionate?” she asked.

“I’m not. Not usually.” It was the truth.

She squeezed my hand. “It’s nice.” She rummaged through her purse as she walked to the open car door, gave the valet some money, and slipped into the driver’s seat. Moments later, she was gone.

As the other valet pulled my Corolla forward, my mind flashed to my confident musings of mere days ago: that no one could divert my attention from this assignment. I shook my head and gave the valet a few dollars before climbing into my car. As I put the car in drive, I offered a crooked smile to the universe.
No one, that is, except Sarah Perkins.

Tuesday morning, Morrison assigned me to handle all the checks that had arrived over the past week. I had to endorse and scan them, print the bank deposit slip, and enter the data into the donor tracking system that synced with the accounting software. The latter effort was a mind-numbing task avoidable with optical character-recognition software, and I intended to suggest acquiring this time-saving upgrade to Morrison.

Apparently many of the donors were using their wallets as sympathy cards, as the memo field on some of the checks had sweet comments such as “Miss you, Luke!” or “In honor of Luke P.” People didn’t seem to realize that unless they were paying a bill and using that field to note the invoice number so someone like me could properly apply the payment on their account, no one ever used these comments; no matter what they wrote, only some lowly clerk would ever see it. I made a mental note to tell Sarah that people were missing her father.

The Foundation also received many donations via wire and electronic funds transfer, so I set about manually entering the incoming wire and EFT information into the donor tracking system and ensuring the accounting software accurately reflected the transactions. Once it was properly updated, another employee would handle sending the written acknowledgments regarding whether goods or services (such as the cost of fund-raiser dinners) were provided in exchange for monetary gifts.

By the end of the day, I’d been a productive accountant and was comfortable with the systems and processes the Foundation utilized. That comfort would allow me to interact with Morrison and keep up my front. Tomorrow I’d have to start using my investigative skills to track down whether anything was amiss financially.

Toward the end of the day, Sarah, who had been out all day in various meetings, popped her head into the office I’d been assigned.

“What are you doing first thing tomorrow?” she asked.

“Coming here.”

“I mean before that.”

“Spin class, probably. Six thirty.”

Sarah tilted her head. “You still play tennis?”

“Not in years.”

“Are you up for trying something new?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Meet me at the Pinnacle Sports and Fitness Club on Wilshire at six thirty. Wear gym clothes, and bring your work attire.”

I’d heard of the Pinnacle and doubted I had the pedigree or bank-account balance that would gain me access. “I’m not a member.”

Sarah looked at me as if my comment was asinine, then gave me a winning smile. “Tell them you’re with me, silly.” She instantly vacated the doorway.

The next morning, having no idea what was in store for me, I decided to hedge by wearing layers and going for comfort. I sported a white-trimmed navy jog bra with matching shorts in case I was going to be running. Over that I wore a tight-fitting light-gray workout tank top made of a stretchy material that felt wonderfully soft against my skin. I covered all that with a navy fleece pullover and my least-ratty sweat pants.

When I arrived at Pinnacle at six twenty-five, I told one of the three clerks at the front desk that I was with Sarah Perkins. The girl nearest to me immediately rose and offered a welcoming smile. “Please, right this way,” she said. I followed her into the women’s locker room. It was more like a spa prep area, complete with a closet section filled with plush white cotton robes. She pointed to an open locker from which a plastic wrist coil key ring dangled, allowing me to lock my personal items. She then motioned for me to follow her through another door and showed me a small waiting area with magazines, lemon water, and tea.

“You’re welcome to wait in here for Miss Perkins. She’s usually here no later than six thirty, so she should be here any moment.” She turned and closed the door. I glanced around and wondered if this was a waiting room for massage appointments. Lavender scented the air and relaxing new-age music wafted quietly through the ceiling speakers. Pinnacle membership was definitely above my pay grade. Moments later, the door opened and Sarah walked in.

How anyone could look so good this early without makeup seemed both unfair and impossible. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she wore a light-green V-neck tank top with pink accent stripes, matching shorts, and running shoes. The stretch of sinewy, tan leg she showed between her ankle socks and shorts was as long as the Nile. She gave me a wide smile.

“Good morning.” Her cheerful voice reminded me she was a morning person. I stood and her eyes narrowed as she appraised my outfit.

“Morning,” I responded, in my not-a-morning-person voice.

“Didn’t you get a locker?”

“I did, but since I’m not sure what’s in store for me, I didn’t know what I’d need to wear. Or not wear.”

Her eyebrow rose at that last comment and she gave me her mischievous smile. “Follow me.”

We returned to the locker room, where she removed a racquet from a large red duffle bag. “Racquetball. Ever played?” She held up the racquet.

“No, never.”

“Good, then I have a slight chance of beating you.” She grinned and pointed to my sweats and fleece. “You won’t be needing those or that.”

I sat on the bench between the lockers and gently tugged my sweat pants over my shoes. I stood and pulled my fleece over my head, then hung both items in my locker.

“Will this work?” I asked.

Her eyes traveled unhurriedly down my body to my shoes and back up to my shoulders. “With those arms, you must do more than spin class.”

I felt a mix of pleasure at the recognition of my routines and discomfort at feeling on display. “I get bored if I do cardio every day, so I do some weight training now and again. But you should talk. You’re the one who looks like you’re shooting an infomercial for some insanely effective fitness machine.” Though I was merely stating the obvious, Sarah’s eyes gleamed with delight.

“Schmoozing donors at L.A.’s finest restaurants is part of the job, and I like to eat. It’s either stay active or balloon to a size twenty.” She handed me a racquet. “Let’s go.”

I desperately over-swung during the first game. Tennis training was helpful for hand-eye coordination, but I found myself trying to hit hard groundstrokes with fully extended arms instead of flicking my wrists and aiming for good angles. For a fairly jerky kind of game, racquetball as Sarah played it was almost elegant. She swung through the ball efficiently, and her racquet position always seemed properly placed.

The second game was a little less lopsided as I concentrated on trying to follow what Sarah was telling me: lead with the elbow, snap the wrist, follow through. I still over-hit everything but flailed about slightly less. I was breaking quite a sweat, surprised at how much exertion went into hitting a little blue ball within a small, confined rectangular space.

After the second game, we crouched through the bite-size door built into the court wall, drank from the nearby water fountain, and toweled off our faces. I was breathing heavily compared to Sarah, who gave me her assessment.

“I’m impressed. Usually it takes longer for tennis players to get the hang of the wrist action involved. You’re doing great.”

I laughed. “If I’m doing great, I’d hate to think of how awful the not-great players are.”

“Trust me, your ability to retrieve nearly everything makes you a tough opponent.”

After a minute or two, my breathing finally returned to normal. “All right. I’m done taking it easy on you. Ready for your beating?”

Sarah squared her shoulders, took a step toward me, and met my challenging glare with a playful cockiness. “I’m shivering with fear.”

I stepped forward and stood nearly toe-to-toe with her. “Bring it.”

As if a lighting designer was staging a production starring Sarah and me, the only thing that seemed suddenly illuminated was her face and upper body; I noticed nothing else. A current of electricity shot between us. Our eyes shifted back and forth as if we were both searching the other for the party responsible for flipping whatever switch had just been thrown. After several moments passed, Sarah swallowed audibly.

“I intend to,” she said. Then she stepped back and motioned for me to enter the court. It took me a few seconds to register that I was supposed to move, and a few more to get my shaky legs to walk toward the door since all I’d wanted to do was step forward and kiss her.
Jesus. Not this again.

Feeling a bone-deep weariness from the strenuous workout and my third straight loss, I seconded Sarah’s invitation to head to the locker rooms and clean up. Thankfully her locker was around the corner from mine, so I didn’t have to pry my eyes from her or pretend not to notice her when she undressed. We both seemed to shower and dress on the same schedule, since she appeared at the shared multi-sink area that housed the personal and hair-care products right after I grabbed one of the hair dryers. I was wearing a black pantsuit with a lavender oxford shirt, while she wore a periwinkle skirt suit with a pale-yellow blouse.

While I dried my hair, I occasionally stole glances at her as she dried hers. She could have been in a hair-color commercial, though the reddish tint in hers was natural. Her auburn hair was shiny, silky, and radiated a softness that begged to be stroked. Its natural wave made it look like she curled the length that fell over her shoulders. She set aside the dryer, then leaned in toward the mirrored wall in front of the sinks and began to apply mascara.

After finishing with her right eye, she stopped and looked at me through the mirror. “What?”

Only then did I realize I’d been staring. I quickly turned back to the mirror and started to arrange my hair so I could snap in a hair claw.

“Cazz.” Her voice held a smidgen of annoyance, trying to prompt a reply.

I flicked my eyes through the mirror in her direction. “Sorry. Just intrigued by your transformation.” I had to work to keep my voice steady. She was astonishingly pretty, and the way she’d slightly parted her lovely lips and exposed just a hint of tongue when concentrating on her eye makeup was fantasy material.

“Transformation?”

“You’re a far cry from looking like the take-no-prisoners opponent crusher you were a half hour ago.”

“I am?” She began to apply mascara to her left eye. “Then what do I look like?”

“Like you could have breakfast with the president.”

She finished with her mascara, straightened, and turned to view me directly. “More demure?” She was clearly amused.

I finished inserting my hair claw and faced her with a smile. “Less assertive.”

“I find it has more to do with attitude than outfit.”

“Possibly.”

Her expression became focused—almost cocky—as she held my gaze. After a few contemplative moments, she strutted over and stood directly in front of me, the toes of our pumps nearly touching. I noticed my breath for the first time since our final racquetball game. Her face moving to within inches of mine, she reached past my ear and pulled the claw from my hair, sending my dark tresses tumbling to my shoulders. She held one end of the plastic clip in her teeth and kept her eyes on me as she combed back her hair with her fingers in several strokes.

She placed the claw in her hair, which lifted some of it off her enticing neck. “Have dinner with me Saturday.”

As with my breath earlier, I noticed for the first time today that I swallowed. Unable to take my eyes off hers, I gave a weak response. “Okay.”

She smiled, looked back to the mirror, made slight adjustments to the way her hair was arranged, and turned to me.

“Like I said. Attitude,” she said. She spun around and spoke over her shoulder. “Follow me in your car. I’ll introduce you to my favorite bagel place.”

Thankfully the destination was merely breakfast, not some remote location involving BASE jumping or the equivalent, since I would have followed her anywhere for any—or no—reason.

Having Sarah single me out for one-on-one time felt just as wonderful as it had a decade ago.

Damn the woman and her “attitude.” I was spellbound and she knew it.

I was lucky the desk in the office I was given faced the doorway, which meant my computer screen wasn’t visible to anyone who peered in. They would have to stand behind me to see what I was up to, and by then I could easily use my keyboard to ALT-TAB away from a software application or close any open windows on my screen.

I launched the accounting software and ran an income statement. Given the small office space the Foundation occupied, I was shocked to see the staggering amount of donor contributions and special-event revenue it received. The Statement of Activities (an income statement, a.k.a. P&L for a nonprofit) showed prior year support and revenue of nearly twelve million dollars, excluding investment income of almost two million. Grant expenses totaled roughly nine million, and general and administrative expenses came in at close to three million.