She's All That (14 page)

Callaway stops in front of a frosted glass door. “I can't go in—it's the
women's
whirlpool—but I'd love to take you to lunch one day if you see your client again.” He pulls a card from his golf warm-ups.
People sure are at-the-ready with the
business cards these days. I definitely have to get some made!

I push Poppy in the door before she answers.
One friend
marrying a man old enough to be her father is quite enough.
“We do have to run,” I say to him, snapping his card up. “But thank you for your help.”

“Lilly, that was rude,” Poppy says after I shut the door. “That was the first time I've been asked out in a year!”

“Listen, I'm not sitting in the hospital with the two of you while your husbands get their third face lifts. This has got to stop!”

“Lilly? Poppy?” Morgan emerges from the whirlpool in a Tommy Bahama suit, and some woman hands her a towel. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone hands you a towel?” I ask incredulously. Looking around at the waterfall wall and scent of lavender mixed with chlorine, I'm a bit shocked. And envious. I start to walk around the whirlpool. “Why on earth do we drive down to Spa Del Mar? You've had access to this and haven't shared the wealth? Morgan, Morgan, Morgan.”

“Lilly, do you want to get back with the program here?” Poppy crosses her arms, trying to appear angry. “Morgan, Lilly needs to know why you're getting married to that man. Do you want to explain?”

“How did you two get in here?” Morgan asks.

Poppy is suddenly not with the program either. “I wish I'd brought my swimsuit. This conversation would be much better in the hot tub. It would help ease our stress points.”

“Would you excuse us?” Morgan says to the towel lady.

I wonder how you get that job?
She has beautiful skin, standing in this steamy room all day. The towel lady nods. She doesn't speak. Just like you'd see in that old Cleopatra movie, she exits like an Egyptian slave. I should definitely apply. I could
so
do that! I practice looking at the floor when Morgan speaks.

“So you've tracked me down,” Morgan says.

“What kind of friend doesn't answer her cell phone when her friends are concerned?” Poppy asks. “If I believed in karma, you'd be in bad shape, Morgan. You're lucky I'm a Calvinist.”

“Yeah!” I say, crossing my arms, not having the least idea what Poppy is talking about. “What kind of friend ignores her best friend in a restaurant?” I ask. “What if I had been trying to impress my date?”

“You had a date?” Poppy asks.

“Yeah, with Robert's brother,” Morgan says.

“Wrong. It was a mercy date. And he had no mercy on me whatsoever, trust me. Now, Morgan?”

“I'm ignoring you both because I don't want to hear it.” Morgan towel dries her hair. “I'm getting married, and you have no control over this situation. So get over yourselves! Lilly, this is perfect timing for your business. My dress will be in every paper in the city, and probably some national rags too.”

“Who
does
like to be told when they're wrong?” Poppy says, sitting down on the teak bench. “You think you've got a corner on that market? Did Lilly like being told Robert was an idiot? Or that Steve Collins just wanted to sleep with her, but didn't want to pay for a date?”

“I thought this wasn't about me!” I croak.

“It's not!” Poppy and Morgan shout back in unison.

“Then could we leave my relationship humiliations out of this?”

Morgan steps back down into the whirlpool, throwing her towel at me. “See, this is exactly what I was afraid of. You've both made up your minds, and you don't even know the story behind my engagement. You just assume it's like Lilly and her cache of bad men.”

“Ahem!” I say. “This isn't about me, Morgan. Just explain to us why you're marrying someone your father's age whom we've never even met or heard about. That's all we're asking. If I was to marry one of Nana's beaus, wouldn't you be a little suspicious?”

“I know the truth,” Poppy says. “So don't try to get around it. Your father told me this man needs his green card. The question is, Morgan, when you could marry anyone, why help this man get his green card?”

Morgan gives us a look of resignation. “I'm marrying Marcus Agav. That's all you need to know.” She slinks down for a moment under the water, and her hair splays on the surface.
Dang, what I'd give to have hair like that.

“Who is this guy?” I ask when she emerges.

“He's a friend of the consulate general for Russia,” Morgan says authoritatively. “I have a great love for all things Russian. You know that.”

I look at Poppy and shrug. “Since when?”

“Morgan, we know there's something behind this match. This is not a love connection. You can trust us enough to tell us. We're your Spa Girls. We're in a spa. How much more appropriate do you think it's going to get?” Poppy asks.

Morgan pauses for a moment, like she's about to unleash, but snaps her mouth closed. “I can't tell you why. But it's something I have to do in order to continue to call myself a Christian. You'll like Marcus, girls. He's a fabulous man, and he treats me well. Love will come. Look at Ruth in the Bible. She fell in love with Boaz when given the chance. I just need a chance.”

I cross my arms. Morgan appears the cynical ice queen, but she is extremely gentle-natured, and she needs a man who understands her. I've watched her dad parade countless wealthy men before her, and she's never been tempted. Her first love, a music pastor, was poetic and artistic. Perhaps a little too artistic. Andy left her for Nashville, hoping to make it big in the Christian music scene. He sent her his poems for a little while, before his complete and utter failure in the music industry halted his long-distance quest for her heart.

San Francisco's Jeweler has never understood Morgan's genteel nature; he's only pushed her to become the brand he created. With the right finishing schools, nannies, and the Stanford School of Business, Morgan's exterior is nothing like the artist within. I always wondered when she'd snap. Maybe this is it.

“I won't design this gown,” I announce.

“And I won't come to the wedding,” Poppy threatens.

Morgan's bright blue eyes fill with tears, but she won't look at us. “Please, girls. I'm fighting my dad on this tooth and nail. I can't fight you too. You have to be there for me, because that's what friends do. Even when it seems their friend has lost her mind.” She grabs us both by the hands and looks at us both. We stand there with our hands dripping and clenched. “I haven't lost my mind, but I have to do this.”

Poppy pushes back her red hair. “Morgan, what are you doing?”

I feel like I'm talking to a complete stranger, not my best friend since college, not the one who dissed a guy for me just to show her loyalty.
Where is that Morgan?
“What do you know about Russia?” I ask.

“I know all about the Fabergé eggs. My dad took me to see them once when they were on display in New Orleans.”

We're both just staring at her.

“Well, Lilly, what did you know about Ireland? Did that stop you from chasing after that Steve Collins?” Morgan shouts—
completely not like her
. “I'll learn what I have to about Russia. Haven't I always?”

“We know you're capable; that's not the problem,” Poppy says calmly. “Do you remember how you felt every time you got a poem from Andy?”

“I don't want to talk about Andy! Don't bring him up!”

“Does Marcus make you feel that way?” Poppy asks.

“They're apples and oranges. Marcus is a nice man. Really. That's all I can say. I'll never feel about another man like I did Andy. His poetry is etched in my mind forever, like Roxanne who longed for Cyrano.” Morgan searches the ceiling, then her eyes pierce mine. “Not Christian, whom she
thought
she loved.” Morgan shrugs. “I'm a realist though. If I've learned anything from my father, it's to be practical. Living around diamonds has taught me that all that glitters is not the real thing. There are definitely the four Cs of men. Right now, I have complete clarity about Marcus.”

Morgan lets go of us, and I watch her sink back under the water. I've never seen Morgan yell before. The only time I ever saw her show deep emotion is when Andy dropped her via a letter. A twenty-seven-cents postage-due letter! I thought she'd cry until there was nothing left of her. One thing is certain; Morgan is drowning. What she forgets is that Poppy and I will inevitably head into the deep waters after her. Because
that's
what friends do.

chapter 12

W
e don't get any further information out of Morgan, who stays submerged until we leave after watching her for a few seconds. I figure her getting oxygen is more important in the long run than us knowing right this minute why she's getting married. Poppy shrugs, decides it's up to us, and we make a hasty retreat from the excessive health club.

Poppy heads for the Russian consulate, but sends me home to get to work. “You can't run a design business if you're not designing.”

I start to argue, but if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that Poppy on the job is more than enough manpower for any given task. I've got a good dose of guilt happening for leaving her alone, but we'll regroup tonight and compare notes. Doesn't it sound so
Alias
?

I wait in line to take out a business license, and the magnitude of what I'm doing begins to take shape. I am going to have a business.
Based on my talent.
I've been hearing my whole life that I'm not good enough. Not in those exact words, but in little soundbytes that mean the same thing. Now, as I stand here with every other hopeful business- person, that voice starts to talk to me again.

You can't design.

It's an artistic business. You aren't artistic enough.

Stick with math. Math is an absolute.

A Stanford degree to play with a sewing machine?

You never were a good judge of your own abilities.

And then I hear the cackling, and I unwittingly grasp for my hair.

I struggle with my self-image while waiting in the snaking bureaucratic line and listening while all the immigrants starting their businesses speak in their native tongues to annoyed Americans behind the counter.

“They are the American spirit!” I want to yell. Look at them. They barely know how to say “yes” in English, and they're embarking on the adventure of a lifetime: to make it or break it in the American business world—in their new, capitalistic society. That's impressive. But of course, there aren't any brownie points for trying and failing, and I'm more than aware of this.

“You start business?” a man in front of me asks.

I nod. “Fashion design. I make dresses.”

“Ah, very nice.” He pats his chest. “Pho Noodle House in Tenderloin. You come; here's coupon.”

“I love soup!” I take the coupon from his hand. “Thank you so much,” I say, waving the paper. “I'll visit.”

Another line opens, and he's off. I'm a little awestruck at how prepared he is. I mean, no business license yet, and he has coupons! He hands another coupon to the city clerk.
Lord,
I hope I know what I'm doing.
The voices start back up again.

As the city clerk beckons me toward him, my stomach starts to rumble at the mere thought that
this is it
. Or maybe I'm just hungry. You know how they say skinny people forget to eat? And that it's a special kind of stupid? It's not stupid really. It's just that life gets in the way, and my stomach doesn't shout for attention until the dizziness starts. Perhaps if I had something more than work in my life, food would be more important. As it is, which soup can I'm going to have a relationship with tonight is definitely not worth much brain activity.

“I'm starting a business,” I tell the clerk, a slender, middle-aged woman without much regard for fashion.

“Honey, you're all starting businesses. Look around you at all the ahn-tree-pre-newers,” she says sarcastically. “Forms?” She holds out her palm.

So it's not new to her. Must she stomp on my heart? I hand over my forms, which are apparently filled out wrong, and I almost go home at this point, but I wait through the line again and—
Ta da!
—I have a business license!

I grasp the paper from “Miss Happy.” Here it is. I hold in my hand the last opportunity to make something of myself in design, and it's all on other people's dimes. I know this isn't exactly as fear-inspiring as, say, impending death by Amazonian snakes or anything, but I hear the
Indiana Jones
music anyway.
Gulp
. Lilly Jacobs Design is officially open for business.

Failure now means Starbucks would no longer be a luxury. Eating would be. Still, you can't wipe the grin off my face the whole way home on the bus—which, incidentally, I've learned is as good as bug spray in warding off unwanted seatmates. Smile, and people evidently think you're scary. But back to the job at hand: I think even more important than the business is the fact that I have taken a stand! I'm going to live my own life! I'm not looking backwards at what I maybe
should
be doing, but looking forward to what I think I'm called to do. Now, if I can just get Morgan to follow my lead, find the man of my dreams, and tame my hair, all will be good.

My answering machine is beeping as I unlock the latches and enter the loft. Kim is asleep under a mountain of tangled blankets.
At least, I think she's under there.

I press the blinking machine.
Beep
. “Lilly? I trust you received my check today. Let me see your sketches before purchasing any fabric. I want approval of colors as I know it's not your strong suit.”