Slightly Irregular (3 page)

“At six,” I called as he left in such a hurry that the collection of drawings piled on his desk fluttered.

I picked up the one that fell on the floor and placed it in the center of his desk. It was a pencil sketch of some sort of bird, but I didn’t give it any attention. My entire brain was fixated on the knowledge that tomorrow night would be my first date with Tony.

“Just like that?” Becky
asked the next morning when we met at the Gardens Mall. “No preamble, nothing?”

“Preamble?” I asked, laughing. “He wasn’t writing the Constitution, he was asking me out on a date.”

We were standing outside the about-to-close Crate and Barrel, our usual meeting place. And also as usual, Liv was late. And since Jane was riding with Liv, Becky and I stood chatting while we waited.

Becky and I have been friends since college. We graduated from Emory together, then Becky went on to law school while I came back to Palm Beach and went to work for Dane-Lieberman even after I’d aced the LSATs. Becky joined the firm after earning her J.D., and I was thrilled to have my best friend back in town.

Becky works for Ellen in contracts, and until the surprise addition of a criminal specialist, everyone assumed she’d be the next and youngest-ever partner at the firm. I knew she was disappointed, but I also knew she’d get there eventually. Becky is a smart, savvy attorney, and clients love her—male clients especially. She’s tall, attractive, and always put together. She’s on a very bright rust-orange-amber binge right now. She wears high-end clothing in various shades of orange to set off her reddish-auburn hair. She softens the tailored look with fun, funky jewelry.

Jane, on the other hand, doesn’t tone down anything. She was fifty yards away in the parking lot, and I could tell it was her. I met Jane at a two-for-one gym promotion. We pretended to be friends to get the better price. The friendship lasted. My membership at the gym did not. Jane exudes sensuality. She can’t help it. She has long, dark hair and a toned body that most women would kill for. Everything up top is cut low, and everything down below is hiked high. And why not? She has a perfect body and somehow manages to show skin without looking
cheap. She’s an accountant, though to anyone getting their first glance at her, they’d probably think she was one of the Pussycat Dolls.

Liv was with her, handing something—most likely a generous tip—to the valet attendant. Liv makes the rest of us look like trolls. She’s a very successful event planner. Almost no one hosts a party or a wedding on Palm Beach without hiring Concierge Plus to deal with the details. Liv is an exotic-looking woman. She has eyes that match the ocean, clear turquoise, with midnight black hair like a modern Cleopatra. The biggest perk in knowing her—aside from the fact that she’s a great friend—is she can slip us into a lot of the über-rich parties on the island.

Once the four of us were together, we made a mandatory swing through one of the mall’s two Starbucks. I was so excited about my first date with Tony that I’d had a hard time sleeping. Thank God for caffeine and MSC concealer.

“He just asked you out of the blue?” Liv asked as we waited for our coffees.

“Geez! Why does that seem to surprise all of you?” I asked, minorly irritated.

Jane passed me my skinny vanilla latte. “Men aren’t usually that spontaneous. Think about it, Finley. He e-mailed, asking you to come to his office so he could ask you out? Why not go to your office?”

“Or for that matter,” Becky said, “why run the risk of asking you out at work and leaving a paper trail to do it?”

“The e-mail was harmless, and what risk?” I asked.

Becky rolled her eyes. “We all know there was no risk you’d
say no, but Tony didn’t know that. A smart guy—and he is that—would call you after work so there could be no misunderstandings.”

“Like?”

Becky took a long sip of her chai tea. “Like asking while at work could be construed as harassment. You could claim you felt pressured to go out with him because he’s your boss.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Becky’s green eyes bored into me. “You’d better hope Dane and Lieberman don’t hear about this. Especially Ellen. She’ll freak out if she thinks he’s creating a hostile work environment.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a major buzzkill?” I asked.

Becky raised her hands. “Sorry I mentioned it.”

“Okay,” I said, happy to have that bit of unpleasantness quashed. “It’s got to be black. I’m thinking something subtle, but I don’t want to look like a mortician. Shoes and a clutch.”

“Um,” Jane began cautiously, “where does this fit into the budget we did for you?”

“Whatever I get for tonight, I’ll wear to Lisa’s rehearsal dinner. That cuts the cost per wearing in half right there.”

“How many little black dresses do you have in your closet?” Liv challenged.

“Not as many as you and besides, the LBD never goes out of style.”

“And Finley never gets out of debt,” Jane grumbled.

I looped my arm through hers. “Lighten up. I’m splurging this once, then I promise to return to living like mortgaged-to-the-gills Mary. Okay?”

“You’re pulling equity out of your house. You have every
right to do that. I’m just telling you, in my capacity as your financial planner, what I think.”

“Fine. Then be my friend, not my financial planner.”

Jane smiled. “Well, in that case, I say we go to Nordy’s and find you
the
perfect dress.”

“And shoes,” Becky said.

“And a purse, and maybe some new jewelry,” Liv weighed in.

Three hours and four lattes later, I had a stunning BCBG Max Azria, belted, one-shoulder sheath dress. It was fitted jersey and fully lined and, according to the saleswoman, required nothing but a thong.

I’d found the perfect shoes in a matter of minutes. Stuart Weitzman silk-satin platform sling backs with a wrapped heel. The saleswoman raced over and grabbed the matching clutch as I yanked my debit card from my wallet. I found a stunning Judith Jack double-strand pendant necklace and chandelier earrings to go with my new ensemble, finishing it off with three skinny bangles.

As I drove home, I didn’t have buyer’s remorse so much as paid-full-price remorse. If Tony had given me a week’s notice, I could have put something together online, and even with expedited shipping, I wouldn’t have spent nearly two thousand dollars. Then again, it was worth it. If I parceled the cost between the Tony date and the rehearsal dinner, it didn’t seem so bad. If I could think of another occasion to wear it, I could keep dropping the CPW—cost per wearing—down to a more reasonable number.

Who was I kidding? I looked, I liked, I bought.

I stopped on the way home for a polish change and a brow
wax. Add another fifty dollars to my ever-growing debt. By two thirty I was on my way over the bridge to Palm Beach. Thanks to selling my soul to the devil—that would be my mother, the only living heart donor—I owned a very modest cottage on the beach. Thanks to my friend Sam, it was a showplace. It was sleek and beachy, comfy and posh all at one time. Handyman Harold still came by almost every day to tighten something or hammer something else, but for all intents and purposes, my home renovations were finished and stunning. And had me several hundred thousand in debt. Oh, Liam helped too, but I wasn’t in the mood to give him credit for anything. Not after he’d kept Patrick’s secret. And was still taunting me about the whole “three wishes” thing. It was silly, really. Liam had come to my rescue and pulled some lame
I Dream of Jeannie
thing, telling me he was now entitled to three wishes. I figured he’d used up more than three wishes by hiding the fact that my boyfriend was cheating. Well, maybe cheating was an understatement. At any rate, I wasn’t playing.

My mother sold me a shack on primo land. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction when she finally decides to accept my standing invitation to see what I’ve done with the place. She’s currently back in Atlanta helping my sister get ready for her enormous wedding. In two weeks, Lisa will be walking down the aisle to become Mrs. David Huntington-St. John IV. Actually, she’ll be
Dr.
Mrs. David Huntington-St. John IV. Except that David is a doctor too, so I guess they’ll be Drs. David Hunt—oh, who gives a shit.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my little sister, and I’m happy she found the man of her dreams. But her dreams are amazingly dull. David is nice enough, but he’s a nontalker and a big rich geek. Of
course my mother loves him. He’s rich, he’s a doctor, and his family is old money. They are pillars of Buckhead, the tony suburb of Atlanta. Like my sister, Lisa, David is an oncologist. He and Lisa met on one of those Doctors Without Borders things.

I’m all for humanitarianism, but do you have any idea what it’s like to have to compete with a perfect sibling? Lisa went to med school. Managed to finish the first seven years of academic work in three and a half. Lisa made something of her life. My mother considers me a failure. Maybe I am uninspired, but I’m happy in my mediocrity. Lisa never looks happy. Maybe you can’t be a pediatric oncologist and be happy. Who knows?

But that wasn’t the real reason I resented David and found fault whenever I could. If I was being totally honest, I was suffering some sibling envy. It was bad enough to be second on my mother’s list, but once David was part of the family, I’d drop down to a distant third. Hence, I kept trying to find something, anything, wrong with my sister’s fiancé. So far all I’d come up with was slightly large lips. And by slightly I’m talking millimeters. But I’d take what I could get.

I lingered in my spa tub, allowing the warm water to relax me. First dates always make me tense. It’s like opening a can and not knowing whether there’s a diamond in the bottom or if a dozen springy fake snakes will explode out of the top.

Tony didn’t impress me as the fake-snake kinda guy.

Post soak, I carefully applied my makeup, savoring every second of the anticipation building in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t looking forward to sitting through
The Magic Flute
, but imagining all the delicious ways the evening could end made the notion more palatable.

I was really pleased when I finished dressing. The only thing that would have made it perfect would be a pink oyster-face Ladies DateJust Rolex. Unfortunately, I didn’t own one. Yet.

I was well on my way, though. Since I couldn’t afford the actual watch, I’d begun collecting parts on eBay. To date, I had several links, the screw-down crown, an authentic box, and a pending bid on the watch face. At my current rate, I should have all the parts for my build-it-from-scratch Rolex by the time I’m thirty-five.

Grabbing a black pashmina from my closet, I took my keys and headed out to my car. It was a beautiful night but there was no way I would sacrifice my perfectly coiffed hair by putting the top down. I punched Tony’s address into the onboard GPS, and after a second a map appeared and a cheerful male voice with a touch of a British accent began giving me instructions.

I exceeded the speed limit on I-95 north since I hadn’t bothered actually to look at Tony’s address; I didn’t realize he lived in Hobe Sound, seventeen miles north. I had eighteen minutes to make the twenty-five-minute trip.

I made it too, hitting the Bridge Road off-ramp with six minutes to spare. Making a left on Federal Highway, I went a few miles, and then followed the signs to the Falls at Lost Lake. I wouldn’t have pictured Tony as a golf-course-community kinda guy, but as I scrolled through the keypad at the gate, I quickly came to “Caprelli” and pressed the button.

“Yes?”

“It’s Finley,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears.

There was a beeping sound, and then the gate swung open like a horizontal mouth of an alligator.

The British voice told me to turn right at the stop sign, and then Tony’s house was the third one down on the left.

I pulled into the driveway and parked next to a vintage red Porsche. I’d never seen it at the office, so I figured it had to be his “fun” car. I couldn’t imagine being so flush with cash that I’d have a car for work and a car for recreation, but I’m sure I could get used to it.

I tucked my keys into my clutch as I walked past the garage and up a pathway to what was easily a five-thousand-square-foot house. Like all the other homes in the community, the stucco was painted a shade of beige—in this case peachy beige—and the trim was fresh and white.

I went up one tiled step, took a deep calming breath, and then stood in front of etched glass doors as I pressed the doorbell. I mentally reminded myself not to look overly excited. Be cool and collected.

I heard a playful chuckle just as the door swung open. I lowered my gaze maybe an inch and found myself looking into a pair of big chocolate brown eyes. The mini-Tony had to be the daughter, Isabella. She wore rolled-just-below-the-knee sweatpants that were turned down at the hips, and double tank tops. Her long dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and when she snarled at me, I saw that she had inherited her father’s right cheek dimple as well. Attitude and a killer dimple—dangerous combination.

“I’m Finley. Your dad is expecting me.”