My Lucky Stars (15 page)

“How’s your daughter with the skull problem?” she asked against her better judgment, giving in to her sudden need to know what losing this job was going to do to his family.

“Melanie doesn’t have a
skull
problem.” Herb’s head tilted slightly, and he gave her a strange look. “She’s got
scoliosis.
She wears a brace that’s helping to straighten her spine.”

“Ah . . . that’s right.” Tara nodded her head up and down.
Braces, skull problems—I was close.
She thought it pretty amazing she’d remembered that much.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Herb reminded them.

“Going to make copies.” Cynthia waved the folder in the air and walked down the hall.

Gabby continued to look down at her hands, folded together on the table in front of her.

Tara sat up straighter and took a deep breath, ready to continue now that she realized the news she was about to deliver wasn’t going to kill a kid.

“Herb, how many sales have you made this last quarter?”

“None of my listings have sold, but I got one and a half percent off a townhouse sale in—”

“As Jonathan just noted in our meeting, one and a half percent off someone else’s listing doesn’t do much for the company. Did you know that during the same amount of time, I’ve been able to close on five listings? That’s
five
different commissions that have come back to this office—to pay
your
benefits.”

Herb shrugged. “Everyone has good and bad months.”

“Maybe so,” Tara said. “But some people’s worst months are consistently better than your best.”
He’s making this so easy. Poor, pathetic, middle-aged man.
“Those five sales I had didn’t just fall into my lap. I had to
work
for them. Long hours—long after you’d gone home most of the time. I had to invest the time into getting to know my clients’ needs and wants.”

Gabby snorted. Tara glared at her across the table, but Gabby only arched an eyebrow, challenging her.
See if I share any more of my secrets with you
, Tara thought. That Gabby’s own sales remained high, that she was one of those selected by Jonathan to stay, was largely due to the things she’d learned from Tara.

And they were all good
, Tara rationalized.
I haven’t done anything wrong, haven’t broken any laws—technically speaking.
She’d only made suggestions and hinted at things that might or might not have been true. Sure, there was something in the Realtor’s creed that mentioned honesty with all clients, but her own mother had taught her that a little white lie wasn’t really bad, so long as no one got hurt. And no one ever did. They got properties. The ones they wanted. The ones they might have believed they were going to lose if they didn’t bid a bit higher or act quicker. But in the end everyone was always happy. No one was complaining when she handed out a celebratory bottle of champagne, along with keys or a big, fat check. And the end result was all that mattered.

She’d first discovered her gift of persuasion years ago when trying to help her friend Jane close one of her own listings. Tara’s little trick had gotten her a lecture from Jane—
the ingratitude—
whereas Jane had ended up with a great house and a handsome husband. And it had all started with a little fib. But still, Jane had been upset with her. Some people just didn’t get it.

Like poor Herb.

Tara leaned back in her chair, studying him. “What do you think it would take for you to have sales like I do?” she asked, fully expecting to render him speechless. And then, when he couldn’t answer, she’d have her way out. After all, how would he be able to argue with being let go when he’d just admitted to being an underachiever?

“Well,” Herb said thoughtfully as his eyes met hers. “I suppose I could ignore my wife and children for several months. I could flirt with clients. I could fudge a little on the stats. But I don’t imagine wearing short, tight leather skirts would help me the same way it seems to work for you.”

Gabby laughed then tried to cover it with a fake cough. Tara didn’t bother looking at her but stared at Herb, shocked at what she’d just heard. He brought a hand to his chin as if further considering.

“I could kiss up to the boss. Work absurd hours, have this—” He held his hand out, indicating the posh conference room “—be my only life.”

Dead silence met his comment for a full ten seconds, then Tara found her voice.

“That’s enough. You’re fired.”

“I figured as much,” Herb said calmly and turned to leave.

Tara stood, her eyes shooting daggers his direction. “Why’d you want to be a Realtor anyway? You’re a lousy salesman.” She tried to think of another insult that would hurt as much as the ones he’d so passively flung at her.

“I didn’t.” Herb paused long enough to send a look full of sympathy her way. “I wanted to be a good dad, and I figured real estate would be a flexible job for that. Until now it has been. It’s been enough to pay the bills, and I haven’t missed any ball games.”

It took Tara a second to realize what ball games he was talking about. Then she remembered the times Herb had left early, mentioning Little League, soccer, or some other kid-related event.

“But don’t you
want
to be successful? Don’t you want to get ahead?” She’d seen the dumpy car he drove—a Nissan from the early nineties. “Don’t you ever want to go anywhere—besides some field where your kids are playing?” She stepped closer to him, having momentarily forgotten his insults in her desire to understand.

He shook his head and continued to look at her sadly. “Not if success is this . . . you, Gabby—” He looked her way. “Max, Cynthia. If corporate decrees the four of you are the kind of success this company wants, then you don’t need to fire me. I quit.” Herb left the room and walked down the hall, out of sight.

“That went well,” Gabby said.

“Shut up.” Tara returned to her chair and began gathering her things.

Cynthia came back in the room, a stack of papers in her hand. “All in favor of my brilliant idea?”

“Aye.” Gabby waved her arm in the air.

Tara didn’t say anything but hurried to shove her portfolio into her oversized Coach bag.

“Don’t mind her,” Gabby said to Cynthia. “She’s pouting. Herb quit before she could fire him.”

Tara whipped her head around to look at the two women. “Technically I fired him first.”

“What’s it matter?” Cynthia sat on the edge of the table, her legs, bare to mid-thigh, crossed. “He’s gone. One down, how many to go?”

“Don’t you feel just a little bad?” Tara asked, disbelief on her face. “I mean, these people have lives. Some have families. They have their own mortgages to pay.”

“Not my problem,” Gabby said.

It echoed one of Tara’s frequent sentiments and stopped her cold.

One hand held her purse while the other reached for the back of the chair to steady herself. She felt as if a bucket of ice water had just washed over her. Almost like the icy air that had hit when she’d first stepped outside in Salt Lake City.

Not my problem . . . I could kiss up to the boss . . . Have this be my only life . . . If corporate deems you four the best . . . Your name ought to be Tiara . . .You’re such a spoiled little princess . . .

A huge lump formed in her throat, and Tara knew she was going to cry—again. She still wasn’t quite certain why, but tears were imminent. She stared at Gabby—cold, calculating, selfish Gabby.
Just like you taught her to be
, an inner voice whispered.

And Cynthia? Out to use her body to get whatever she wanted.
And I’ve been jealous.
Along with the threat of tears, Tara felt nauseated. Angry. Disgusted.

With herself.

“Twenty-seven,” Tara said.

“What?” Cynthia wrinkled her pert little nose.

“Twenty-seven people you have left to fire,” Tara said. “I’ve taken care of two for you.”

“Two?” Gabby asked. “There was just Herb.”

“And me,” Tara said. “I quit.”

Seventeen

Tara walked around her living room, picking up glasses half-full of champagne and plates with half-eaten hors d’oeuvres.

“What a waste,” she mumbled, conscious, for the first time in a long time, of the money she’d thrown away on a party that was . . . pointless.

The people who’d come weren’t really her friends. Sure, they’d go to lunch with her or shopping or to a club, but that was where it ended. As deep as it got. They wouldn’t slow down long enough—take time from their own self-centered, fast-track lives—to listen when she wanted to talk, to care about something she cared about, to help her when she’d practically begged them to.
Recommend me to your boss for the job that’s opening in your office. Introduce me to a guy who’s decent. Come over just to hang out and talk. Help me figure out who I am—what I’m doing here.

“What
am
I doing here?” Tara stopped at one of four vases of red roses scattered throughout the room. She bent over, inhaling their fragrance, and found they didn’t smell sweet to her at all. “Stupid holidays,” she muttered then picked up the vase and dumped it, water, flowers, and all, in the trash.

“Hey, babe.” Doug appeared in the bedroom doorway, his shirttails hanging open above a pair of unbuttoned khakis.

“Oh.” Tara glanced at him then returned to her work. “You’re still here.”

“Well, yeah. It’s Valentine’s. I assumed you’d want me to stay over.”

Do I?
Tara examined her thoughts for a moment. She could spend the evening alone,
or
she could share it with a guy who didn’t really care about her.
Some choice.
She was tired of pretending, tired of being with people who only used her to get what they wanted.

“Nope. I don’t want you to stay.”

Doug’s mouth opened and he held out his hands, palms up. “Did I do something? Was it because I was talking to Lisa all evening? She and I used to have a thing, but it’s been over for a long time. We’re not—”

“Out.” Tara pointed a polished nail toward her front door. “Just get out.” She dumped another plate full of food in the garbage.
So much for the splurge on catering. Better not use that company again. Do I
want
to do this again?

Behind her, Doug expressed a few choice words about her hospitality then left, slamming the door behind him.

“Love you too,” Tara said bleakly. She dropped the trash bag on the floor and sank onto her plush, white sofa. Grabbing up the nearest flute of champagne, she leaned her head back and drank the entire thing. Added to the alcohol she’d already consumed, she was starting to feel a little light-headed. Not an entirely great feeling, but it was a whole lot better than her usual Valentine’s Day misery.

She found an open bottle and drank some more. The room was beginning to spin a bit now, a little like the Tilt-A-Whirl at Knott’s Berry Farm when it first started going. She’d had a date there last year. She’d been furious at first, when her date—
what was his name?
—had told her that’s where they were going. But surprisingly she’d had a really good time. Until the end of the evening, that is, when the guy had accidentally let slip that he took his kids to Knott’s Berry Farm a lot. She’d had enough fun and liked him enough by that point that she might have attempted to give the he-has-kids issue a chance, but then she’d discovered he also had a wife to go with the kids—a wife whose season pass Tara happened to be using.

“Jerk,” she muttered then brought the bottle to her lips again. When it was empty, she tossed it toward the trash bag but missed. Instead, the bottle hit the corner of the wall, shattering before it fell in pieces to the floor.
What a mess. Like me.

Grabbing up one of the heart throw pillows she’d purchased as part of her decor for the ultimate Valentine party, Tara lay on her side, curling herself around the pillow. Instead of being soft and comforting, like a stuffed animal might have been, it was stiff and unyielding.

Like a real heart. Or the ones
I
encounter, anyway.
She lay there a long time, staring at the empty room, the
emptiness
surrounding her. For weeks planning this party had been the thing she’d focused on, the thing she’d looked forward to, the thing that kept her going. Now it was over, leaving her feeling emptier and even more alone than she had before.

“It’s over,” she said to herself and knew she was talking about much more than the party. The life she’d planned out for herself, the posh condo, the six-figure income, the social scene in LA. None of it mattered anymore. In fact, she couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand being here. She wasn’t sure why it had appealed to her in the first place.

What’s a girl to do?
she wondered. According to Fergie, crying wasn’t an option. And she hadn’t cried once since the day she quit. But she was tired—oh so tired—of feeling lost and empty. Tired of being here. There had to be something better. Some
place
better.

Her eyelids closed in sleep, the last images floating before them—water, a snow-capped mountain, a quaint island, a place she’d once considered home . . . a friend she’d once considered true.

Spring

“
Restlessness is discontent
,
and discontent is merely the first necessity of progress.
”

—Thomas A. Edison

Eighteen

Seattle, Washington

Dr. Chasson adjusted her glasses as she stared at the lines on the hospital monitor. “How much longer will Peter be out of the country?”

“Eleven weeks, four days.” Jane pulled her gaze from the screen to her doctor’s face. “He just left on Monday. We thought he’d make it home in plenty of time for the babies’ birth.”

“He will if I have anything to do with it.” Dr. Chasson glanced at the IV line going down to Jane’s arm. She walked around the side of the bed, checking the bag and adjusting the drip. “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm what?” Jane asked. She pushed the button on the remote, raising the bed, and herself, to more of a sitting position—no easy feat with her bulging stomach and the various things currently attached to it.