Evening Bags and Executions(61)

“Bad news,” Marcie said, when I answered.

Crap.

“My uncle died,” she told me.

Okay, now I felt like a complete jerk.

“Sorry to hear that,” I told her.

“Don’t be,” Marcie said. “I never met him. Mom wants to go to the funeral and, well, you know how family things can be, so she doesn’t want to go alone. Dad can’t take time off from work. I’m going with her. To Maine.”

“How long will you be gone?” I asked.

“A week at least. We’re leaving tonight,” Marcie said.

She paused, and I knew something more was coming.

“So I won’t be able to track down Sarah Covington and find out if she’s engaged to Ty,” Marcie said.

My spirits fell. I’d really counted on her to handle that for me. I couldn’t stand not knowing, but no way could I ask Sarah or Ty myself.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Family comes first.”

I didn’t really think that, but it sounded nicer.

“Call Amber, Ty’s assistant,” Marcie said.

Marcie was usually right about things, but I didn’t know if I could do that.

“I’ll think about it,” I told her, and we hung up.

Damn. Was I having a crappy day or what?

I didn’t see how my day could get any worse. Then my cell phone rang.

Mrs. Quinn’s name appeared on the caller ID screen, and my spirits lifted. She had no doubt found several candidates for Mom’s housekeeper position, all of whom were perfectly suited for the job. Thank goodness this was one problem I would be done with.

“Good news?” I asked, when I answered my phone.

“Not exactly,” she replied.

Not exactly didn’t mean bad news, did it?

“Word has gotten out about your mother,” Mrs. Quinn said. “No one will work for her.”

Not one housekeeper—not that I blamed them, of course—would work for her? There had to be someone who would do it.

“I’ll just call another agency,” I said.

“It won’t matter,” Mrs. Quinn said. “Your mother has been blacklisted.”

Oh my God, this could not be happening. Mom absolutely had to have a housekeeper.

And what if she found out she’d been blacklisted? I—along with everyone else in the family—would never hear the end of it. She might completely lose it, take off to some exotic country, stay for ages, I’d never see her—

Okay, hang on a minute.

I let the idea play around in my head for a while—which was really bad of me, I know—and then came to my senses. No matter what she was like, she was still my mom. I would have to find her a housekeeper somehow.

“I can keep the temporary housekeepers at your mother’s home for a while longer,” Mrs. Quinn said. “But I’m having to change them out every other day now. I only have a few more who are willing to go there.”

“I’ll figure out something,” I said.

“Good luck,” Mrs. Quinn said, and graciously left the you’ll-need-it unspoken.

Oh, crap. Now what was I going to do?



“This is b.s.,” Bella said. “You ask me, this is all b.s.”

I didn’t disagree.

We were leaving the Holt’s breakroom where we’d both just clocked in for our evening shifts. Near the customer service booth, all the merchandise was being moved and workmen were busy setting up the curtained walkway that would connect the stock room to the stage and runway for the upcoming fashion show—or something like that. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention when Jeanette explained it.

“I can’t believe Holt’s found actual models—women with real fashion sense—to put these clothes on and parade down the runway in front of people,” Bella said.

“Holt’s must be paying them a fortune,” I said.

We made our way through the roped-off work area and went through the double doors into the stock room. The clothes for the fashion show were where we’d left them; none of them had magically morphed into something remotely stylish.

“I say we put on blindfolds and starting picking up clothes, shoes, and accessories,” Bella said, shaking her head. “At least we won’t get nauseated from actually having to look at everything.”

“Haley? Bella?”

I spotted Jeanette walking toward us.

Speaking of nauseated . . .

Her ode to the fall season continued with a skirt and jacket of mustard yellow and burnt orange plaid chenille.

She looked like a seventies bath mat.

“How is everything going?” Jeanette asked, standing next to us and studying the hanging dresses.

No matter how awful the so-called fashions were, this was better than being out on the sales floor—which just shows how I feel about waiting on customers—so I decided to take the route that would most benefit me.