Mac considered as she waited at a light. "Sometimes I wish I was as genuinely nice as Emma. But not very often. It's too much work."
"You have your moments. Me? I'm intimidating."
Mac snorted. "Oh yeah, you scare the shit out of me, Parks." She eased through the light. "But you are pretty scary when you put the Parker Brown of the Connecticut Browns cloak on. And if you give it that little swirl, many fall dead."
"Not dead. Temporarily stunned perhaps."
"You knocked Linda cold," Mac commented, speaking of her mother.
"You handled that yourself. You stood up to her."
Mac shook her head. "I'd stood up to her before. Maybe not like this last time, not as tall and straight. But if I started it, you finished her off for me. You add in Carter, and the fact that as, God, kind as he is, he's not susceptible to her bullshit-then the fact she's getting pampered by her rich fiancé in New York? My life's gotten a lot smoother."
"Has she contacted you since?"
"Funny you should ask. This morning, in fact, and as if we'd never had that really ugly last scene. She and Ari have decided to elope. Sort of. Those crazy kids are jetting off to Lake Como next month, and they'll be married at the villa of one of Ari's dear friends once Linda's planned all the details-which is her version of eloping, I guess."
"Oh God, if you say George Clooney, I'm going to go."
"If only. I don't think we're invited anyway. She mostly called to make sure I understood she's doing a lot better than Vows for her wedding."
"What did you say?"
"Buona fortuna."
"You did?"
"I did. It felt good. And I actually meant it. I do wish her luck. If she's happy with this Ari, she'll leave me the hell alone. So . . ." She turned, turned again, and pulled into the lot of Kavanaugh's. "It's all good. Do you want me to wait, just in case?"
"No, you go on. I'll see you back at the house for tonight's consult."
Parker got out, adjusted her grip on her portfolio bag as she checked the time. Right on schedule.
She scanned the long building that housed what appeared to be offices attached to a large garage. She heard the whoosh of some sort of compressor as she approached, and saw through the open garage doors the legs, hips, and most of the torso of the mechanic who worked on a car on a lift.
She caught glimpses of shelves, which she assumed held parts and other paraphernalia, racks of tools. Tanks, hoses.
She smelled oil and sweat, not offensive to her mind. Work odors, productive scents. She approved of them, especially since she saw Emma's car sitting in the lot, very clean and very shiny.
Curious, she detoured to it. The chrome glinted in the sunlight, and through the window she noted the signs of meticulous detailing.
If, she mused, the car ran as good as it looked, she'd bring hers here instead of to the dealer for its next regular service.
She crossed the lot toward the office to settle the bill and get the key.
Inside, a woman with hair more orange than red sat on a stool at the short leg of an L-shaped counter, pecking with two fingers at the keyboard of a computer.
Her brow furrowed, her mouth twisted in a way that told Parker the computer was not her friend.
She stopped, sized Parker up over the top of a pair of bright green cheaters. "Help you?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm here to pick up Emmaline Grant's car."
"You Parker Brown?"
"Yes."
"She called, said you'd be coming to get it."
When the woman made no move, just continued to stare over the tops of her glasses, Parker smiled politely. "Would you like to see some identification?"
"No. She said what you looked like when I asked, and you look like what she said."
"Well then, if I could see the bill?"
"I'm working on it." The woman shifted on the stool, pecked at the keys again. "You can sit right down there. It won't take me long. Take less time if I could just write it out on an invoice pad, but Mal has to have it this way."
"All right."
"Vending machines through that door there if you want something to drink."
Parker thought of her client, and the distance to the bridal boutique, the traffic. "You said it wouldn't take long."
"It won't. I'm just saying . . . What does this demon from hell want from me?" The woman raked long red nails through her orange frizzy hair. "Why won't it just spit the damn thing out?"
"May I . . ." Parker leaned over the counter, scanned the screen. "I think I see the problem. Just point and click here, with the mouse." She tapped the screen. "Good. Now see where it says Print? Click that. There you go. Now click on Okay."