Part 1 (2/2)

The saleswoman is a thirtysomething sleek-haired brunette wearing a shade of red lipstick that would brand me as a tart. On her, it looks regal. She smiles and slips the tray with our discarded choices behind the counter and nods to me.

I properly interpret the nod but defer to Trish with a shrug. ”My niece is buying.”

One carefully shaped eyebrow lifts the tiniest fraction. ”And how would you like to pay, miss?” she asks Trish.

Trish returns the smile. ”Cash.”

The saleswoman nods and turns to ring up the purchase.

”Are you sure you have enough cash?” I whisper to Trish. ”Because I can-”

Trish's face glows. ”I want to do this myself,” she says. ”Without Grandma and Grandpa Strong, I don't know where I'd be right now. I want to show them how much I appreciate everything they've done for me.”

I give her shoulder a squeeze. Unfortunately, I do know where she'd be. Either with a truly miserable b.i.t.c.h, her real grandmother, or in a foster home. Hard to say which of those alternatives would have been worse.

Which is why I made the decision I did. Neither Trish nor my parents know that she is not really my brother's child. DNA tests confirmed it, tests that I've buried. I'll never be sure if Carolyn knew the truth or not. It doesn't matter. Trish is where she belongs and if I have any say in the matter, where she'll stay.

The saleswoman is back. ”That will be $297.80,” she tells Trish.

Trish grins at me, pulls three one-hundred-dollar bills out of her wallet and hands them over. About the only good thing Carolyn Delaney did in her last months on earth was to take out an insurance policy naming Trish as beneficiary. Maybe she sensed that the mess she'd gotten them in would not end well. Maybe it was a pathetic attempt to tell Trish she was sorry when that end came. In any case, most of the money went into a college fund, but my parents thought Trish should use some of it on herself.

What Trish has done is use most of it on gifts for her new family.

The only thing nicer than Trish looking so happy that she can pay for the earrings herself is the expression on her face when the saleswoman comes back with one of those delicious blue Tiffany signature boxes. She slips the box into a matching bag and hands it to Trish along with her change.

Trish is beaming.

I feel like I must be beaming, too. At least until we ease our way back into the throng circling Horton Plaza. The shoppers have the look of hungry wolves. More desperation than inspiration on these less-than-happy faces. You'd think there were only two shopping days left before the big day instead of two weeks.

This many pulsing jugulars makes my own anxiety start to peak. The hair p.r.i.c.kles on the back of my neck.

Time for a break. ”I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I tell Trish, when in fact what I'm feeling is I'll kill if I don't get a cup of coffee.

”Starbucks?” Trish asks. ”Or do you want to try the coffee bar at that new restaurant?”

Since that new restaurant belongs to someone I'd give up drinking coffee to avoid-my business partner's ex-girlfriend Gloria-it takes me a millisecond to respond. ”Starbucks.”

Definitely, Starbucks.

We reverse directions and head toward Broadway.

Usually, my senses are on high alert when I'm in a crowd. It's natural and instinctive. The animal side of my nature scans the air like bug antennae for any sign of danger, for any vibration of impending doom.

This time, the internal radar fails miserably.

My breath catches in my throat.

It's suddenly right in front of us.

As if conjured up from my worst nightmare, she's slipped like a c.o.c.kroach right past all my defenses. I clutch Trish's shoulders, ready to propel her in the opposite direction.

Too late.

A hand reaches out and stops me with a firm grip.

Trish is smiling, unaware of the peril.

”Hey, Gloria,” she says. ”David didn't tell us you were back in town.”

CHAPTER 2.

I STARE. GLORIA IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN TOWN. She's supposed to be in Los Angeles or New York, doing whatever the h.e.l.l supermodels do.

s.h.i.+t.

Gloria aims her thousand-watt smile at Trish. ”He doesn't know yet,” she says. Then she puts a finger over her lips. ”I want to surprise him so if you see him first, don't spoil it, okay?”

Trish nods that the secret is safe. ”We were going for coffee. Want to join us?”

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t.

With all the obnoxious, rude teenagers in the world, my family has to end up with a nice, polite one. My insides curl into a ball.

I'm saved by a shake of Gloria's auburn mane. ”I can't, honey. I do need a word with your aunt. Do you mind?”

Trish nods again. When Gloria doesn't immediately launch into whatever it is she needs to tell me, Trish accepts that it's one of those adult things and moves off to look at some decorations in a nearby store window.

I watch Trish, then turn reluctantly to fix my attention on my least favorite person, human or otherwise, in the entire world.

Gloria Estrella is a model and an actress. A well-known model and actress. Now, as we stand here in Horton Plaza, life seems to s.h.i.+ft into slow motion as those pa.s.sing around us cast one look at her and falter in their steps. Even though half-obscured behind oversize sungla.s.ses, women recognize the heart-shaped face, the huge almond eyes, the artfully tussled mane of shoulder-length hair. Men recognize the t.i.ts and long legs. She has on jeans and a cashmere sweater and three-inch Ferragamo pumps, but men know what's underneath. They see the Victoria's Secret model prancing on TV ads in thong underwear and a push-up bra every d.a.m.ned day.

I hate her.

She hates me right back. Usually, we avoid each other like I avoid garlic. She's noxious to my system.

<script>