Page 43 of The Frog Prince
And we leave Mr. J’s. Brian turns right; I turn left, and as I walk the couple of blocks back to the office, I study his business card.
Brian Fadden.
Brian Fadden.
It’d be great if he called, invited me out sometime. But knowing how things work in my world, he probably won’t.
ChapterEight
I’m still studyingBrian Fadden’s card when I step off the elevator and into our second-floor loft office. So engrossed in Brian’s name and number am I, that I walk through the office reception without looking up.
“Holly.” Josh’s voice stops me as I head for my cubicle.
I look up, not entirely pleased to be pulled from my wishful thinking. Fantasies are so much more pleasurable than real life, and I can guarantee a happy ending. “What?”
“Olivia’s been looking for you,” he says, and although the words are innocuous enough, his tone conveys a warning. Something’s not right.
My stomach free-falls, and I quickly drop Brian’s card into my purse. “Do you know what she wants?”
“The Oracle info.”
Right. And of course it’s not together. “I don’t have it yet.”
“So she discovered.” He pauses. “When she went through your files.” Another uncomfortable pause. “You are careful with your files, aren’t you?”
I know what he’s saying, what he’s asking, and I manage a sickly smile. “Definitely.” Not. And I start for my desk, tugging off my coat. “Is she here right now?”
“No. She had a meeting with the Beckett board, but she should be back soon.”
“I’ll get on the Oracle stuff now. Maybe I can have it done by the time she returns.”
“It’s a nice thought.” And Josh clears his throat. “Um, Holly, one more thing.”
I look up at him, trying to hide my panic because I’m freaked, freaked that Olivia went through my files, freaked that she might have seen something she shouldn’t have seen. Like the notes all over the inside of a folder, regarding staff writers contacted at the various papers. “What?”
His expression is downright apologetic. “Your mom is here.”
He might as well be speaking Greek. “What?”
“Your mom arrived just after you left to meet Fadden. She’s in David’s office.”
He’s got to have it wrong. He’s thinking of someone else. My mother doesn’t leave the San Joaquin Valley. Those foothills and mountain ranges keep her from getting lost. “Mymom?”
He points toward David’s office. David’s been gone all week on a trip back east, but the light is on in his office, and, brow furrowing, I stare into the office. And yes, Josh is right. A lady sits in there, hands folded in her lap, studying the wall of awards and blown-up press clippings, the clippings now huge, colorful posters, mounted, laminated, hung up for all to see.
She’s medium height. Medium build. With medium graying brown hair. In a glaring pink and turquoise dress.
Mom.
For a second I feel as if someone had hit me over the head with a two-by-four. Seeing her here, sitting in one of David’s mammoth leather chairs, makes absolutely no sense.
And then she looks up, and her expression lightens, and Mom’s on her feet, arms outstretched, waving madly. But the wave isn’t enough. Her fingers—all ten of them—are wiggling delightedly. “Holly!”
The wiggling fingers have stilled, and her arms flap now. She’s guiding traffic or trying to take off in flight—I’m really not sure which—and I dart a quick glance in Josh’s direction and am relieved to see that his expression is courteously blank.
I can’t help wondering if Josh’s Beckett School alum father married a woman like my mom, and somehow I doubt it. People with serious money dress with serious intent: understated, sophisticated wardrobe pieces, expensive understated footwear, shimmering yet unassuming makeup and hair color. I love my mother, but she’s far from understated. She’s like that girl in high school who tries too hard—and is still trying too hard nearly forty years later.
But maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with trying so hard. Maybe it’s just survival. We couldn’t afford a cushy house or car, clothes that didn’t come from Target, JC Penney, or Mervyn’s. There were no trips to posh hair salons or weekly appearances from cleaning people, yard people, child-care people. Mom did everything.