having learned Suzanne Gould sat on the public library’s steering committee, I deduced that she attended benefits all the time as part of her job. Everyone was talking about the state funding cutbacks, and fundraising was indeed a worthy cause. I loved my library—how else could I set up a hard-to-trace Facebook and LinkedIn account?
She friended me back the next day, using that sort of obscure language people use when they have forgotten who you are but are embarrassed to say so. I grinned and perused her “friends” list. Sure enough, there was a Janet, and her picture indicated she was indeed the blonde I saw at the restaurant.
My parents always taught me to be modest and not to brag, and I took it to heart for the most part. Their wisdom was now apparent to me. Had Janet Barnaby not crowed about that upcoming trip to Europe and had she not posted pictures of a recent landscaping and remodeling project, I would have never known where she lived. As it was, I recognized the street, and I had a street number from above their mailbox by the road; all I had to do was wait a few days.
I HAD the next night off, which was a financial killer for a waiter, because tips are always heavy on Saturdays. I had to see Reyna, though.
“So, have you applied?” I asked, twirling my beer glass in my hands.
“Yeah. He didn’t like my red nails. He said they’re too long. And the tattoo on my neck wasn’t covered up; he said it was unprofessional.”
The huge, black banana spider still sat on the nape of her neck. The tattoo was part of Reyna’s individual style; she had always been the kind of a girl who would never give a damn what others thought of her appearance, and she aimed to please only herself. If a black, lace-edged camisole revealed her poison-green bra straps and she happened to like it, that’s what she would wear. Sporting a bit of ink on her skin was a personal matter, as were her long, red nails. Or so she said. This attitude of supreme confidence, together with her athletic figure and ravishing hair, swept away most of the people she met, her quirky fashion choices notwithstanding. She was like a force of nature, and I’d always been a bit jealous of the way she could wear a garbage bag and nobody would notice because they were so focused on the sparkle in her eyes. I always looked like a pity date by her side—or her little brother. It was virtually impossible to cruise for guys with Reyna around—but I digress.
“And I was good and all. I had a blouse on I totally despise, and my hair was put up in a conservative bun. What else does he want, anyway?”
The image of the good and honorable Auguste Bernard Pillory III, with his old-blood pedigree and old-money backing, popped into my mind, and I found the image of him and Reyna in the same room rather amusing: there was Reyna, doing her level best to wear the clothing that would make her fit in, and there was Pillory, unable to take his eyes off the gigantic spider on the back of her neck.
“Did he look at your resume?”
“Yeah…. He looks a bit cold, your Mr. Pillory. He didn’t say anything one way or the other. I think I have a better chance elsewhere.” She popped a salted almond into her mouth, raising a groomed eyebrow in my direction. “So… how is it with you?”
I grimaced. Finding a real job was hard enough with a good recommendation, let alone with a tarnished record on account of my extremely poor judgment. “My infatuation cost me dearly, I’m afraid. When I tell my prospective employers that I won’t get a good recommendation from Pillory, I get the ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ treatment.”
Reyna sighed. “That’s tough. But, hey, think out of the box for a minute, will ya? What is it you’re good at?”
Breaking and entering. “Um…. Nothing….”
“Bullshit!” Reyna crowed, ready to give me a professional makeover. “Didn’t you say you have prepared analyses of your clients’ existing
She friended me back the next day, using that sort of obscure language people use when they have forgotten who you are but are embarrassed to say so. I grinned and perused her “friends” list. Sure enough, there was a Janet, and her picture indicated she was indeed the blonde I saw at the restaurant.
My parents always taught me to be modest and not to brag, and I took it to heart for the most part. Their wisdom was now apparent to me. Had Janet Barnaby not crowed about that upcoming trip to Europe and had she not posted pictures of a recent landscaping and remodeling project, I would have never known where she lived. As it was, I recognized the street, and I had a street number from above their mailbox by the road; all I had to do was wait a few days.
I HAD the next night off, which was a financial killer for a waiter, because tips are always heavy on Saturdays. I had to see Reyna, though.
“So, have you applied?” I asked, twirling my beer glass in my hands.
“Yeah. He didn’t like my red nails. He said they’re too long. And the tattoo on my neck wasn’t covered up; he said it was unprofessional.”
The huge, black banana spider still sat on the nape of her neck. The tattoo was part of Reyna’s individual style; she had always been the kind of a girl who would never give a damn what others thought of her appearance, and she aimed to please only herself. If a black, lace-edged camisole revealed her poison-green bra straps and she happened to like it, that’s what she would wear. Sporting a bit of ink on her skin was a personal matter, as were her long, red nails. Or so she said. This attitude of supreme confidence, together with her athletic figure and ravishing hair, swept away most of the people she met, her quirky fashion choices notwithstanding. She was like a force of nature, and I’d always been a bit jealous of the way she could wear a garbage bag and nobody would notice because they were so focused on the sparkle in her eyes. I always looked like a pity date by her side—or her little brother. It was virtually impossible to cruise for guys with Reyna around—but I digress.
“And I was good and all. I had a blouse on I totally despise, and my hair was put up in a conservative bun. What else does he want, anyway?”
The image of the good and honorable Auguste Bernard Pillory III, with his old-blood pedigree and old-money backing, popped into my mind, and I found the image of him and Reyna in the same room rather amusing: there was Reyna, doing her level best to wear the clothing that would make her fit in, and there was Pillory, unable to take his eyes off the gigantic spider on the back of her neck.
“Did he look at your resume?”
“Yeah…. He looks a bit cold, your Mr. Pillory. He didn’t say anything one way or the other. I think I have a better chance elsewhere.” She popped a salted almond into her mouth, raising a groomed eyebrow in my direction. “So… how is it with you?”
I grimaced. Finding a real job was hard enough with a good recommendation, let alone with a tarnished record on account of my extremely poor judgment. “My infatuation cost me dearly, I’m afraid. When I tell my prospective employers that I won’t get a good recommendation from Pillory, I get the ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ treatment.”
Reyna sighed. “That’s tough. But, hey, think out of the box for a minute, will ya? What is it you’re good at?”
Breaking and entering. “Um…. Nothing….”
“Bullshit!” Reyna crowed, ready to give me a professional makeover. “Didn’t you say you have prepared analyses of your clients’ existing
Similar Books
