Laina Turner - Presley Thurman 01 - Stilettos & Scoundrels Page 6

  “Hey, you too. Glad to know who to call if I get in trouble,” I teased.

  Chapter 4As the bright sun washed into my room, I opened my eyes and for a moment forgot where I was. I didn’t really care, as long as I could get some more sleep. I closed my eyes again and rolled over, hugging my pillow and snuggling down, in anticipation of at least a few more minutes of sleep. I’d been having a wonderful dream about a beach, a parade of good-looking men, and me in a size-four bikini. I wanted it to continue.

  “Get up, lazy head! Breakfast is on the table!” My mother yelled up the stairs.

  I sat up and was quickly jolted into the reality that I was home. Not in my own home, but rather my parent’s home. Arg. I flopped back down on the bed and shut my eyes again, willing myself to go back to sleep and to dream of anywhere but here. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the world this morning—a common anxiety for me, especially before coffee. There was a brief moment of silence before I heard the noises of the coffee maker and smelled the rich aroma of coffee and homemade waffles winding its way up to my room. Mmmm… heaven. Now this was motivation to get up. It was almost worth getting up this early. I wasn’t my best in the morning, so I tried to avoid early mornings as much as possible.

  “Come on,” my mother yelled again. She wasn’t the most patient person in the world. She also didn’t believe anyone needed to sleep past five a.m. When I was in high school and stayed out late at the occasional party, (ok every Friday and Saturday night), this aspect of my mother’s personality really sucked. My friends always hated staying over because she always made them get up early too. The pleasure she derived from it was ridiculous.

  “I’m coming! Give me a minute,” Hold your damn horses, woman, I muttered under my breath, because it sure wouldn’t do any good for my mother to hear me. I lay in bed one more second and, groaning inwardly, pushed myself up and swung my legs over the bed. I shuffled to the bathroom, trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. My room was still the same as it was when I had lived at home; lime green walls with hot pink trim. I had chosen the colors in middle school, and while I still liked that combination, a room full of it was a bit much. Stuffed animals lined the shelves, along with my pom-poms and other memorabilia. It made me laugh when I thought of how important I used to think all of this stuff was. Even now, it would be sad in a strange way if I ever came home to an empty room. One time, when I asked my mother why she never redecorated my room into something more practical, she said she was waiting for grandchildren so she could turn it into a nursery. It wasn’t a topic I ever brought up again. I didn’t need that headache, and even though I loved kids, at this point in my life, it wasn’t something I wanted to think about.

  I needed to wake myself up, so I stepped up to the antique pedestal sink (a true antique my mother found at a flea market, not a faux antique from Home Depot) and splashed ice-cold water on my face. It helped a little and I knew the coffee waiting for me downstairs would finish the job.

  I often wished I could mainline coffee, stick the needle in a few minutes before I woke up so I was infused with what it took to get my day started. I thought about getting dressed for all of two seconds, but decided I really needed that coffee sooner rather than later. If my mother didn’t like my blue Scooby Doo pajamas, well too bad, she would just have to live with it. They were my favorite pair because they were so comfortable, and that was all that mattered to me. Why people felt compelled to wear nightgowns or even lingerie was beyond me. I preferred warm and cozy any day, though it might be one reason I was still single.

  I padded down the stairs into the kitchen where both my parents were seated. This had always been the gathering spot growing up and was one of my favorite parts of the house. The other parts of the house seemed rarely used compared to the kitchen, when I thought about it. My mother was constantly in the kitchen cooking something, or brewing an endless supply of iced tea. The smells were always wonderful coming from here. The kitchen was a warm and homely place where, as a kid, I would tell them about my day after school, leaving out any bad things I did, while eating fresh-baked, homemade cookies. The kitchen was still decorated the same as it was when I was growing up, but I liked it. It felt comfortable: pale yellow walls with light blue trim, accented with a brick red tile design as a splashguard behind the sink and around the counter. The whole house had beautiful oak wood floors; real wood that stood the test of time, not laminate crap, and the kitchen was no exception. In this room, my mother had a beautiful handmade rag rug under the table, the kind where you wanted to take your shoes off and dig your toes in.

  My dad sat at the table, talking to my mom and nursing his coffee. Together since they were fifteen, they were still best friends and never seemed to run out of things to talk about. My mother was already dressed for the day in her Junior League uniform—ivory dress slacks and a rose-colored silk blouse with ornate buttons, complete, of course, with earrings and her pearl necklace. She handed me a steaming cup of coffee when she walked in, just the way I liked it: lots of cream, two Splendas.

  “Thank you,” I said and gave her a hug while I inhaled the wonderful aroma of the coffee.

  “So when is your appointment to interview Senator Daniels?” asked my dad over his coffee as I sat down to my plate of steaming waffles and crispy bacon. It was nice to be spoiled with coffee put in my hand and food on the table. I could get used to this—there had to be some great guy out there wanting to cater to me. Was that really asking too much? I noticed my dad was still in his bathrobe, so I didn’t feel so bad for being in pajamas, though I was surprised my mother let that slide. She must be loosening up.

  “Sometime this afternoon,” I replied and took a sip of coffee. The first sip always tasted so good; I knew it was purely psychological, but I swore I felt it coursing through my veins, waking me up bit by bit. I poured syrup on my waffles and dug in with my fork. My taste buds were in ecstasy. So good! I had become so used to the frozen stuff that I had forgotten how much better homemade ones were. I didn’t ever cook. In fact, I wasn’t even sure the stove in my condominium even worked and I was pretty sure I didn’t own a waffle maker. I was a microwave girl. It wasn’t worth the trouble for me to cook, but I was more than willing to eat someone else’s efforts.

  “His assistant, who by the way is Tobey Stone, you remember Chris Stone, don’t you,” I said looking at my parents. “He was, well still is, the younger brother of Chris Stone. The tall dorky guy who used to hang out with Brian sometimes. He said to call this morning between nine and ten to confirm a time. Except for that, I have my morning free. So, I was thinking about going into town to see Katy. I would love to see her new salon and the look on her face when she sees me.”

  Katy, my best friend from high school, owned the town’s most upscale beauty salon. To be more accurate, it would be the town’s only beauty salon, unless you counted Bob’s Barber Shop, which wasn’t technically a beauty salon. I knew it was the best, even by Chicago standards. Kay and I both attended cosmetology school via the vocational program in high school. Katy did it because she loved it; I did it because Katy was doing it and because it got me out of two class periods in school. Since it had been a while, I was looking forward to surprising Katy.

  “Katy does a great job, Presley,” my mother spoke up. She was now standing at the waffle maker, waiting for the remaining waffle to finish cooking. “You should see what she did with Gertrude Mayweather. She looks ten years younger.”

  “Then she looks seventy instead of eighty. Is that really an improvement, Sue?” my dad teased.

  “It’s important to women,” she replied, and gave him a dirty look. “It might be something you should take note of,” she continued, frostily.

  At this, I rolled my eyes. To an outsider, it might look as if he had made her mad, but I knew this was a game to them. My parents found it amusing to pretend-argue. I thought it strange. A hobby or something would make more sense, but after all these years, I was used to it.

  “Have you guy
s talked to Jesse lately?”

  “He’s like you. Doesn’t call like he should,” my mother replied.

  “He called last week, Wednesday I think it was, to let us know that he was going on a few interviews, or auditions, whatever they call it,” my dad said.

  “That’s what he said last time I talked to him. Does he really think he’s going to make it as an actor?”

  “Who knows with him, Presley. But at least he goes for what he wants. Even if that changes every few months,” my dad replied.

  “He just needs to get some direction, but you can’t rush that. Better he try out some different things than rush into something,” my mother added.

  “You always make excuses for him. It’s not fair.”

  “You have always had a plan, Presley, that’s just the way you are. He’s always been a dreamer. He’ll find his way,” my mother replied.

  I didn’t disagree with my mother’s assessment of my brother’s personality, and he always got so fired up about his new careers that you couldn’t help but get excited with him. I just got jealous sometimes that it seemed like my parents had different expectations for him than for me. You had to love family dynamics.

  I took my dishes to the sink, rinsed them off, and put them in the dishwasher. This was the rule. My mother always cooked, but if you ate, you were responsible for cleaning up. It was a small price to pay for such great food.

  “What are you two doing today?” I asked.

  “I have a garden club meeting. We are planning the annual summer show. I hope to have my roses in there this year. I skipped last year because they just weren’t where they needed to be. I still think I under fertilized in the spring, but it’s so hard to know,” my mother fretted. “Who knows what your father’s doing.”

  “Might go see if Bill needs any help. He’s restoring an old Corvette Stingray. Piece of junk now, but she’ll be cherry when she’s finished,” he replied. My dad loved old cars and was always helping his buddy, Bill, with his old clunkers. How they spent hours out there, I didn’t know. It didn’t always seem like they got a lot of work done for the amount of time they spent working. However, they did seem to have fun.

  “Waste of time, if you ask me,” my mother said. “If I’d known this was how you were going to spend your retirement, I would have made you keep working.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, Sue,” he replied. Oh, for the love of Pete, they were at it again. This was my cue to exit. I could only take so much of this.

  After a quick shower, I dried my hair and threw on a pair of boot cut jeans and a black lightweight turtleneck, perfect for a cool spring day. Black boots with two-inch heels and matching silver necklace and earrings completed my outfit. Simple and casual. I called Tobey and confirmed my appointment at 3 p.m. with the Senator. Planning to come back to the house to change into something more professional looking before the interview, I headed into town to visit Katy’s Klassy Kuts. On the way, I thought about the past. Katy and I had been inseparable since second grade, but once I went to college and Katy stayed here and opened her salon, we just drifted apart. Katy never understood why I liked the city so much. Katy preferred to be a big fish in a small pond. She always told me that the city was too busy and impersonal. I couldn’t see why Katy would want to stay here in this small town. It was, ironically, the same issue I had with Brian, but unlike with Brian, despite our differences and the distance, Katy and I still were great friends.

  Katy and I hadn’t seen each other in almost two years because I rarely came back home. My parents usually came to see me in the city, but I was beginning to wonder if maybe that was the wrong way of thinking. Good friends were hard to find; I needed to make more of an effort with Katy. A friend who could remember who you were at thirteen was truly rare. Those were the friends who kept you grounded...or at least helped you make fun of yourself.

  Boy is Katy going to be surprised, I thought as I pulled into the parking lot of the salon. The parking lot was full. Business must be booming. I walked through the door with my resolve to be a better friend and could hear the gossipy chatter of the salon. I smiled as I heard Katy’s voice over the noise of the dryers. Looking around, I was impressed. Remodeled since the last time I saw it, the salon was decorated simply in white and black with small splashes of vibrant color here and there. It was laid out in several different mini rooms - one for manicures and pedicures, another for massages and facials, and the main area was for hair. It would give any of the salons I frequented in Chicago a run for their money. It sure didn’t look like a small town salon.

  “I don’t know, Joyce. He looks pretty damn cute to me…” I heard Katy say as I snuck up behind her. “I sure wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for a small transgression like that.”

  “But, Katy, he was ogling that new waitress and I was right there. All I can think of is what he must be doing when his I’m not with him.”

  “Honey, men are always going to look. It’s in their nature and we can’t stop it. As long as he knows what you will do to him if he does any more than look, then I don’t see the problem. He’s a fine looking man, and you don’t want to get rid of him.”

  “Well then I wouldn’t either,” I interrupted, surprising Katy by walking up behind her. “You’ve always had good taste in men, even if you have a one track mind with what to do with them.” I had always admired Katy’s openness about sex. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t always make the best choices. But who did?

  Shocked, Katy turned around and squealed, “Oh my God! It’s really you, Presley Thurman in the flesh. You do still exist. And here I thought those Christmas cards were computer generated.” Katy gave me a big hug, excited. “What brings you here, and how long are you staying?”

  Katy was exactly as I remembered from the last time I saw her. Beautiful blond hair, of course out of a bottle, like so many others, but hers sure looked natural. Five foot three with generous curves—the kind men liked to grab on to, in Katy’s words. She had always been a little self-deprecating when discussing her body and so tended to refer to how her body was built for sex. Even back in high school she did this, which was how she explained her many boyfriends. I wondered, as I got older, why Katy was still insecure about her voluptuous chest and curvy hips, which many women would kill for. Katy was the kind of girl who looked great with an extra ten pounds, because they went to all the right places. On me, those pounds always went to the wrong places. Katy looked great in her form-fitting jeans and low-cut fuchsia top. She had on some great large black costume jewelry that really accented the fuchsia. She did have on tennis shoes, which didn’t exactly go, but considering she spent most of her time on her feet, it made sense. Plus, they were really cute fuchsia Adidas. I thought I might have to see where Katy got those.

  “I just found out yesterday that I would be coming into town and wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Are you here visiting your parents?”

  “No. Actually, you won’t believe it. I am here to interview Senator Daniels. Then my plan is to stay a few days and visit before going back home.”

  “You’re interviewing Senator Daniels? I thought you did something in human resources,” Katy questioned, as she continued to work on Joyce’s hair.

  “Yeah, well, that was yesterday. Now I have a new career, and I feel like a whole new person.” Albeit it a scarey one, when I thought about it too much, but there was no reason to let on to that right now. “I’ll fill you in later when we have a lot more time, but enough about me. You look like you’re doing wonderful for yourself, Katy. This place is gorgeous! I’m so happy for you,” I said, giving Katy another hug.

  “Well, I have always wanted a good man too and that hasn’t happened yet,” laughed Katy. “But, as far as the salon, I can’t complain,” she continued, with well-deserved pride in her voice looking around at all she had built. “I forgot you hadn’t seen it since I remodeled.”

  “She should be proud,” said Joyce, Katy’
s current customer. “Nobody can do color the way Katy does. Look at this. You can’t tell this isn’t my natural color. Besides, who cares about men? Nothing but trouble.”

  “You can say that because you’re married,” teased Katy.

  “Happily married for five years. Five out of forty ain’t bad,” Joyce cackled.

  The women in the salon laughed at that remark. Many other patrons chimed in with agreement to Joyce’s statement. I rolled my eyes, but admitted it was amusing and there was a fun energy in this place.

  “Listen, Katy,” I said, “My appointment with Senator Daniels is later today, but I should be done by late afternoon. I was hoping we could get together for dinner. You know, catch up.”

  “That would be great, Pres, but only if drinks are involved,” laughed Katy. “Meet me at La Casa at seven tonight. I’ll buy the margaritas.”

  “Yum! La Casa has the best margaritas anywhere,” I said. La Casa wasn’t a Mexican restaurant, as its name implied. Rather, it was a melting pot of food. If you craved it, it was probably on the menu and could be counted on to be fantastic. How it got its name was anyone’s guess, but it was your typical greasy spoon with a liquor license.

  “Even better than anywhere in your fancy Chicago?” Katy teased.

  “Even there.” Just thinking about a cold margarita made me salivate, probably not a great thing to think about when it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  “It’s a date. I get done here at six, so I shouldn’t be late,” Katy said.

  “All right, see you then.”

  ******

  At three o’clock sharp, I walked into the lobby of the Hilltop Marriott where Senator Daniels and his entourage camped out while in town. The lobby wasn’t busy for a Friday, but it wasn’t as if Alkon was a great tourist spot or the ideal place for conventions. It was too far off the beaten path for that. What the Marriott didn’t have in the way of regular guests today, they made up for with private security. I saw security agents wherever I looked, at least I presumed them to be some type of security as they were all dressed in black and had those cool earpiece thingys. Must be nice to be this important…But why did Senator Daniels need all this security? Was it all for him? Who else could it be for? Was he really in danger? He was a Senator, not the President, and Alkon wasn’t exactly the crime capital of Illinois. I hadn’t been inside the hotel in a long time, but it looked recently renovated and very upscale: all done up in dark, rich hues of red. I looked at the monstrosity of the chandelier and wondered if it was real glass or plastic. It must have weighed a ton if it was glass, but it fit right in with the deep red-velvet wallpaper and high-backed chairs in the lobby. I was glad I had gone home and changed into a nice outfit for the interview. I had on one of my favorite suits: a light grey Donna Karan pantsuit with killer red stiletto heels that added some flair. I had my hair up in a French twist and had on my favorite set of triple-strand pearls, a gift from my parents. I exuded a confidence I didn’t necessarily feel, but a hot outfit, especially by Donna Karan, always made me feel good.