Stabbing Stephanie (17 page)

“S
tephanie really likes you, Lana.” Faith Carson glanced at Stephanie, who sat beside Faith's desk in the small, windowless office. She set down Jane's application and gave her a frank look with those famous violet eyes beneath thick light lashes. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Jane nearly burst out laughing. This was that cliché of a question she herself used to ask people she interviewed, people in their early twenties, just starting out in their careers. Here she was, thirty-nine years old, being asked the very same question. Quickly she thought back to how those young people had answered her.

“I would hope to move up,” she said, her voice earnest. “Maybe some day—perhaps not in five years—I could even be an editor.”

Faith gave a nod, equally serious. She referred again to Jane's application. “You've put down that you have experience with literary agencies. You worked for Silver and Payne in New York years ago, and more recently you've worked for a . . . Jane Stuart, right here in Shady Hills.”

“That's right.”

“Didn't that work out?”

“It wasn't that. I just felt I needed a change—you know, wanted to try something new. I'd like to see how it is on the other side.”

“You mean inside a publishing company,” Faith said with a modest smile.

As if, Jane thought, Carson & Hart were a real publisher. But she nodded solemnly.

“Stephanie,” she said, turning to her friend, “I think I share your enthusiasm for Mrs. Pitt.” She turned to Jane with a smile. “Let's do it.”

“Great! Thank you so much,” Jane said.

Faith merely gave a quick, insincere smile. “Can you start right away? Today?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Stephanie will show you the ropes.” Faith directed her attention to what looked like a set of page proofs that lay before her. Clearly, Jane and Stephanie were dismissed. Stephanie gave Jane a meaningful look and a tilt of her head that meant she'd talk to her outside.

As Stephanie closed Faith's door, she said loudly enough to be heard, “I'll show you where your desk is, Lana, and we can go over your work.” Then, when the door was completely shut, she whispered, “You did great.” She led the way to the left, down a corridor whose sides were stacked with boxes. Very soon on the right-hand side this corridor widened enough to accommodate two desks. One, the farthest one, was empty. At the nearest desk sat a young man whose gaze shot up at the sound of their approach. He gave both women the kind of appraising up-and-down look Jane hadn't experienced in years. As gauche and obvious as it was, it made Jane blush, for this was one of the handsomest young men she had seen in a long time. This, she thought, must be Faith's son, Sam—the lounge lizard, Stephanie had called him.

“Well, hello, hello,” he said in a deep mellow voice, and stood up. He was of medium height and slim, in black slacks and a gold shirt that looked as if it were made of silk or rayon, open at the collar. To Jane these clothes seemed more appropriate for a Saturday night out than for the office, but then, he was Faith's son, and traditional office rules could not be expected to apply to him.

He didn't look at all like his mother; Jane couldn't see Faith in him at all. His features were strong and regular—a hard clean jawline, a deep cleft in his firm chin, prominent cheekbones, a low forehead under crisp, curly black hair. His skin was a flawless gold color, as if he had a perpetual tan, which made his eyes especially striking. They were a very pale blue, the kind of eyes that were so light that Jane found them unnerving. These eyes, she reasoned, must be from his mother.

Clearly he was waiting to be introduced. Jane turned to Stephanie, who looked bored. “J—Lana, I'd like you to meet Sam.”

“Hello, Sam,” Jane said, extending her hand.

“Lana . . .” he breathed, as if tasting the name, and gently he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Lounge lizard indeed!

Suddenly he glanced quickly from Jane to the empty desk next to his. “Are you my roommate?” he asked eagerly, and when she nodded, he said, “Oh, we're going to have a
good
time.”

Jane had a bad feeling in the middle of her stomach. She wanted to run away from this young man who was obviously as obnoxious an office neighbor as she could have hoped to find. Then she reminded herself that she had agreed to this insanity for only a few days at most. She supposed she could put up with anything for that amount of time.

Stephanie showed Jane to her desk, on which sat a messy stack of papers about a foot high. “Filing,” Stephanie said with an embarrassed grin.

“No problem,” Jane said cheerfully. “Just show me where.”

“These cabinets here.” Stephanie indicated a bank of horizontal file cabinets about two yards from Jane, perpendicular to the two desks. “The filing's backed up, as you can see. The files are arranged alphabetically by author, so you'll need to look at each piece of paper to see who it's about.”

“I think I can handle that,” Jane said, and smirked.

Stephanie grimaced uncomfortably and mouthed the word “Sorry.”

Jane shook her head to say it was okay, then set to work.

“All right, then,” Stephanie said briskly, “see you later.”

Jane watched her enter an office just opposite her own desk. This was the layout of the office, then, Jane thought: Stephanie, Faith, and the last office, which opened off the far end of the corridor, she guessed belonged to Gavin, whom Jane hadn't yet seen.

“Good morning,” came a booming voice behind her, and she jumped, spinning around.

A good-looking middle-aged man stood in the corridor, smiling at her. Unlike Sam, he was dressed for business in an expensive-looking charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a maroon-and-gold rep tie. His hair, neatly trimmed, was black, with touches of gray at the temples. He put out his hand. “I'm Gavin Hart, Faith's husband. You must be Lana.”

For a second she just stared at him; then she remembered that Lana was her “cover.”

“Uh—yes! Lana, Lana Pitt,” she said, flustered, and took his hand. His handshake was warm and firm. Nice-looking man, she thought, now that she saw him up close, though not the kind of man whose looks one would necessarily remember for a long time. Perhaps that was the best kind of husband for a former queen.

“I hope you enjoy working with us,” Gavin said, then looked at Sam. Jane followed his gaze. Sam was playing tic-tac-toe with himself on a yellow legal pad. “Sam,” Gavin boomed, “I trust you'll help Lana with her work, showing her how things work at Carson & Hart?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam said, not looking up, still making
X
's and
O
's.

Gavin threw him an irritated look, then returned his gaze to Jane and smiled warmly. “If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask any of us.” He gave her a sporty wink. “Glad to have you aboard.”

“Thanks,” Jane said, and watched him walk to the last office, the one she'd guessed was his, and go in, closing the door behind him.

At that moment Faith emerged from her office and went into Stephanie's. Jane heard Faith asking Stephanie a question, then Stephanie's response. Seconds later Faith emerged, looking impatient, and walked up to Sam's desk. Still he did not look up.

“Sam—”

“Mm.”

“Sam, Stephanie says the reason the
Who's Who of American Gardening
direct-mail piece hasn't gone out yet is because she's still waiting for you to give her the labels. Where are you with that?”

“Labels?” At last he looked up at his mother, a vague and slightly irritated look on his face. “I'm printing them.”

“You are? Then where are they? Why didn't you give them to Stephanie?”

He drew a deep breath and lolled back in his chair, one arm dangling over the side, as if his patience had run out. “I
can't
give them to her because they're not complete. You said not to bother giving them to her until they were complete.”

“Why
aren't
they complete?” Faith said, as if speaking to a simpleton.

“Because,” he replied reasonably, “I didn't key in the names and addresses from the bird-watcher mailing.”

“And why not?”

His face darkened. “Because,
Mother,
I really haven't felt like it!” He leaned forward defiantly, waiting for her response.

Faith opened her mouth, then shut it tightly. She appeared to compose herself. “I want you to give the whole thing to Lana, do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

She continued to stare at him, as if she just couldn't stop. At last she pulled her gaze from him and turned to Lana. “You'll help us out with this, won't you, Lana? Sam will show you what needs to be done. That computer over there”—she indicated a machine against the corridor wall across from Jane's desk—“that's where we key in names and addresses for our mailings.”

“No problem,” Jane said crisply.

“Thanks.” Faith gave her a tiny smile, which promptly vanished as she passed Sam's desk and returned to her office.

Sam looked up from his legal pad. “No problem,” he mimicked, and gave her another up-and-down once-over.

What an obnoxious young man, Jane thought, and knelt to resume her filing.

“Tell me, Lana,” Sam said dreamily, leaning way back in his chair again. “What's an old broad like you doing in a place like this?”

She stared at him over the file drawer, her mouth agape. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

He laughed—an extremely pleasant, almost musical laugh, she had to admit. “How dare I? Sweetcakes, that was my
mommy
just now. The
Queen of Ananda!
I can basically do whatever the hell I like, and I'll still get a paycheck. In fact, I could stay home and watch reruns of
The Andy Griffith Show
all day, and I'd
still
get my paycheck. So. Let's start again. What's a beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She found his candor alarming yet also refreshing. She couldn't help smiling. “A minute ago you said ‘old,' not ‘beautiful.'”

“So I did. You have to remember—to a twenty-year-old, a woman your age is old. How old are you, by the way?”

“None of your business, but I'll tell you anyway. I'm thirty-nine. What am I doing here? Earning money to feed my ten-year-old son.” Jane had always believed that the best way to lie was to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“A son,” he said thoughtfully. “Married, are we?”

“A widow.”

“Mm.” Not the usual “I'm sorry”; just “Mm.” He doodled happy faces on the edge of his legal pad. “You're beautiful, too, do you know that?”

“Yes. My husband used to tell me that all the time.”

“He was a lucky man.” He gave her yet another appraising look, but this one was more respectful, more admiring. “That's some head of hair you've got there. I love redheads.”

“Auburn.”

“What?”

“I'm not a redhead. My hair is auburn.”

“Okay,” he said, humoring her. “I love auburn-heads.”

She lifted her shoulders in a carefree little laugh, closed the drawer she was working in, and opened the one below it. “Love whatever you like.” Her gaze met his. “Just leave me alone.”

He sat up straight. “My, my! A woman with spirit! I love that. Lana . . .” he said, savoring the name. “Hey, Lana,” he said, lowering his voice and looking around to make sure no one heard, “are you seeing someone? I mean, you got a boyfriend?”

“Sam!”

They both jumped.

A stocky woman, around the same age as Sam, stood in the corridor near Jane's desk. She wore a navy pantsuit and had shoulder-length black hair. Her complexion was olive, like Sam's, but unlike Sam, she was not, in Jane's estimation, at all attractive, with an almost perfectly round face and tiny, piglike eyes.

“Sam, get back to work,” she barked at him, then turned to Jane. “You're the new woman,” she said briskly. “I'm Kate.”

She didn't put out her hand, so Jane didn't put out hers.

“I'm sorry about my brother. He thinks we're all here to play.”

Sam sat up suddenly, as if startled. “You mean we're not?”

Kate rolled her eyes and started down the corridor toward Gavin's office. A door not far from Sam's desk opened and a young man emerged with a mail cart. He looked about nineteen, wore baggy corduroy trousers and a T-shirt with writing on it Jane couldn't make out, and had a mop of light brown hair over a long, acne-spotted face.

“Mel,” Kate called to him. “Come here.”

Mel walked his cart down to her, casting an uninterested look at Jane.

“Mel, this is our new person, Lana. Lana Pitt, is that correct?” she asked Jane.

“That's right.”

Kate turned back to Mel. “Now you know who she is if any mail comes for her.”

Mel nodded once, leaned into his cart, and hefted out an enormous pile of mail, which he dropped into Sam's In box. Then Mel walked away, Kate right behind him.

“You've certainly got your work cut out for you,” Jane observed.

“Just because they put it on my desk doesn't mean I'm going to do it.” With a suave smirk, he skimmed a few pieces off the top and flung them into a wastebasket that stood behind his desk in the corner.

Jane opened her mouth to protest, then stopped herself. He was like a child, being outrageous, incorrigible, trying to get a rise out of her. She wouldn't give him that pleasure. Besides, she wasn't here on this insane mission to bother with his silliness. Stephanie had asked her to try to discover whether anything odd was going on at Carson & Hart, and Jane intended to do that and get out.