“It’s not that. Just want you to be careful.” She sighed. “I feel awful. I suppose that’s what happens when you haven’t done any catering for such a long time.”
“Tell me about it.” I used my poor-little-me voice.
“Monica, you know I had no choice this time. I like having you around. Anyway, please hurry. Most of the guests are already here. You know where Kay’s condo is, right? The Nest...and don’t drive to the main lobby. Go around, south side of the building, to the delivery entrance. Leta or her helper Sue will meet you there. Thanks, Monica.” And she was gone.
Leta, Brenda’s trusted supervisor. Hummh, Leta liked me. Maybe I could convince her to let me carry the trays upstairs to Kay’s place. All I wanted was a little peek; then I’d split. Couldn’t wear my catering dress, or my ploy would be obvious. I quickly slipped on my black jeans and black sweater before crossing the driveway to Brenda’s backdoor. I could hear Dior, her blue Great Dane, barking as I unlocked and let myself in. He was in the laundry room. Perfect. The last thing I needed was trying to control his rambunctious antics while I carried the trays to my car. I did however take a treat from the pantry, pitching it to him without lingering, afraid he would muscle his way out of the room. “I’ll take you for a walk when I get back,” I promised. Only loud crunching came from behind the Dutch door.
Being so close to Christmas, even Thursday night traffic was heavy, and a joyful sense of anticipation filled the early evening. I had rehearsed my lines while driving. Had to sound convincing—Leta was no fool. The last time we worked together had been at the Dumont’s housewarming party a few months ago. Somehow it felt like a lifetime. The Nest, the high-rise housing Kay’s condo, sparkled in the advancing darkness, all lit up inside and out. Too bad I wouldn’t get to see the main lobby. I had been told it looked like a super fancy European hotel. I had never set foot in any fancy European hotel even if I was from Italy, but I had been to Vegas. Their over-the-top casinos with names like Paris and Bellagio served as a good point of reference.
The delivery entrance was barely lit, and the dark surrounding walls felt a bit intimidating—quite a departure from the front of the building. I welcomed the sight of Leta’s grumpy face when she opened the heavy security door and walked over to my Fiat. I quickly got out and offered her my best smile. As for my well-rehearsed lines, I never got the chance to try them out.
“I’m not letting you go up,” Leta said matter-of-factly. “Brenda warned me. Sorry, Tootsie, my job is on the line.” I’ll admit she sounded sincere. “You aren’t missing much. Trust me.”
And with that, she ignored my pouting, grabbed the trays, turned around, and disappeared into the service entrance. The door slammed shut behind her. I moseyed back to my car, but instead of driving straight out, I decided to play dumb and—oops—made a few wrong turns and found myself coasting by the formal, brightly lit lobby.
Parked at the curb was a Maserati Quattro Porte. A dark, shiny, bred-for-racing luxury sedan. Stupenda. My eyes were still admiring the cursive brand name on the back trunk when a burly doorman rushed to open the door to the driver’s side, and who came strolling out but Mister Double Wide. What? OMG! No wonder Kay didn’t want anyone from the office at her party. She was in cahoots with him? Our biggest competitor? Well, la-di-da, caught! It couldn’t be romantic. He had to be at least fifteen years her junior. And that brought images of Tristan and Angelique Dumont into my mind’s eye. Fifteen years? Peanuts compared to the Dumonts’ age difference.
Would Kay leave Desert Homes Realty to join D. W. Brokerage? I sat in my idling car, sucking air, when I noticed the somewhat disheveled doorman walking my way while he buttoned up his jacket. That was a lot of gold buttons. And weird hair, too. Curly, like Shirley Temple wore her curls in the old black-and-white movies. I didn’t like the scowl on his face.
Panicking, I accidentally revved up the engine while attempting a sharp U-turn, missed it, and ended up with my back tires on the sidewalk—the private sidewalk I might add. Somehow, I managed to get off it but not without scraping my rear bumper against the curb. The commotion attracted Double Wide’s attention, and the prick, all decked out in a dark, expensive-looking suit, walked over to check the back of his Maserati.
Seeming to stagger a little, he ignored me and focused on the car. Seriously? I wasn’t anywhere near his precious Italian import. Oh...so tempted to give him the finger.
Better not, better get out of here quickly before the doorman, in his stupid gold-buttoned uniform makes a note of your license plate.
Funny Monica, very funny. How many hot pink Fiat 500s do you think drive up and down private sidewalks on Camelback Road on any given day?
Hmph—good old Double Wide with his impeccably groomed hair and tailored dress shirt that was whiter than the wimple that topped off the habit of Sister Maria Rita, my old kindergarten teacher. Oh, and would you look at that? A breast-pocket handkerchief. This is the 21st Century, dude. Who wears a handkerchief a la Dean Martin and the Rat Pack Era anymore?
For all his splendid attire, he still walked like a tipsy old man. Or maybe he really was old, but had a lot of, you know, upgrades. Couldn’t figure out how he earned that misleading nickname, Double Wide. He wasn’t heavy, au contraire, he leaned toward the hunky side, at least from the window of my Fiat. A slow-moving hunk.
Flooring it to get the heck outta there, I zigzagged around,
