Chasing Serenity Page 9

  “I hear that,” she muttered, staring down at our “conference table” (which was in quotes because it was small, round, barely seated four people, was tucked into a corner of my equally small office that I had perhaps budgeted a tad too much into making spectacular, so I wasn’t sure what kind of conferences it could host, considering it barely fit me and Mi and only me and Mi ever sat at it—when we had full staff meetings, I took us all out to a nice restaurant).

  “We can try adding on a few more,” I suggested. “Say, go from doing a candidate a quarter to one every other month.”

  She looked at me, fear in her eyes.

  I understood her fear.

  It was fear for the amount of work that would be and money it would cost that we had to raise for the program we ran that we were currently discussing.

  “Okay, maybe not,” I mumbled.

  “We need more publicity for this program,” she said, not for the first time.

  My neck instantly started itching.

  “Mi—”

  “Hear me out,” she requested.

  “Is it something I haven’t heard you say before?” I asked.

  Her expression grew determined. “Maybe not, but I really want you to listen to me this time.”

  I sighed and then rolled a hand, even if, in it, I was holding my Marilyn Monroe inspired Mont Blanc pen with its ivory barrel, rose gold accents and pearl at the base of the clip.

  “You are Imogen Swan’s and Tom Pierce’s daughter,” she stated.

  “I know—”

  She held up one of her pretty, petite hands, which was Mi. She was pretty, exceptionally so, and petite. I looked like an Amazon next to her.

  I loved our dichotomy, it so worked when we were out on the prowl (though Mi didn’t prowl anymore, she was now very taken).

  I further loved that she was one of the few people I knew who understood and loved herself in a way everyone should aspire to.

  It was perhaps unprofessional (though I didn’t care), but the truth of the matter was, I just loved her.

  Outside of Sasha, Mi-Young was my best friend, which made work even more fun than it normally was (and I never did anything I didn’t think was fun, especially not for a living).

  In other words, at receiving The Hand, I stopped speaking.

  “You can’t get away from that, Chloe. And if more people knew you ran this program—”

  “We’d get more applicants,” I pointed out.

  “We’d get more clothes to give to more applicants. We’d get more volunteers to help more applicants. Department stores and designers would be falling all over themselves to support what we’re doing.”

  Left unsaid, If Imogen Swan endorsed it.

  Further left unsaid, By becoming the face of it.

  “We’re far from the only ones who offer makeover services to women who don’t have the means to put their best foot forward, clothing-wise, while trying to get a leg up in life,” I told her something she knew.

  “We’re the only ones with an extensive interview process and internship opportunities, so we can write them meaningful recommendations letters. And we are absolutely the only ones that don’t only offer them an interview outfit and a new hairstyle but give them the full lineup of cosmetics and facial care they need and a solid starter wardrobe so they don’t have to spend the money to invest in one when they get the job. That’s a head start for any woman. Corporate or office jobs have a wardrobe they expect in such a way they should pay for it because it’s essentially a uniform. Because it is, it isn’t an expenditure they’d normally make. And if you’re spending money on clothes, you aren’t spending it on other things you need to do to achieve what all our ladies want to do when they come to us. Getting ahead in life.”

  She didn’t have to explain my own program to me.

  She did it to drive home her point, so I didn’t call her on it.

  I drawled, “I’m not sure we’re the only ones who do that.”

  “One of the few,” she retorted. “Coco, this program has the potential to be a true non-profit. We could get 501(c)(3) status. Be tax-exempt. We could apply for grants. Fundraise. Hire staff.”

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door to my office, which led to a tiny hall, which led through our stock rooms and eventually fed into my boutique.

  Which was fabulous.

  This boutique was where she and I worked. Mi-Young as my store manager, me as owner and buyer. We had four other staff, a full-time and two part-time sales associates, a website/newsletter/social media person, and interns worked with me and the rest of the staff to get skills and experience to pump up their resumes.

  But here, at this tiny conference table, was where she and I ran my true love.

  A small, tidy program that I seeded with some of my trust fund money and kept funded by allocating five percent of my profits to it. Along with requesting customers to round up their purchases, all that extra going into the program. Last, receiving additional funds (though they weren’t much, they were still steady) through a donation option on website sales.

  We referred to it as Triple F.

  Fabulous Foot Forward, a program where we did just what Mi said. We accepted applications from women who wanted to move on, and move up, but life circumstances made it difficult for them to afford the trappings of what would make HR managers across the country sit up and take notice.

  We didn’t only offer makeovers, clothes, cosmetics and experience working with us at the store doing everything from sales to online customer service and website design to marketing, inventory and buying.

  We had a group of volunteers who helped our candidates write their resumes and taught them interview tactics and follow-up.

  Triple F was my brainchild.

  My baby.

  My pride and joy.

  Mine.

  And as such, even if Mi was very right, we’d be able to do so much more if I used my familial connections to do it.

  I just couldn’t.

  Because our previous applicants might have eventually found out I was Imogen and Tom’s daughter, but in one part of my life, this most important one, I wanted to be just me.

  Chloe Pierce.

  Fashion-forward small business owner and feminist who put time, effort and money into helping her sisters build a better life for themselves.

  After jerking her thumb to the door, she said, “Everyone out there is with you on this, we all love it, we want it to grow. But already, it’s a lot.”

  We had the means to pick a single applicant every quarter. Four women a year. I did the wardrobe stylist stuff. We had hair stylists who did free hair and makeup artists who gave free makeup tutorials. And I had ins with people so we could get some products and clothes for free or at cost.

  But just going through the applications every quarter took us days. And it wasn’t easy, because everyone was worthy. It took an emotional toll to turn people down or ask them to re-apply the next cycle. A toll that wasn’t completely wiped clean with the good work we were able to do for a couple of fabulous ladies.

  “You could make a call and be on a morning news program,” Mi went on, paused, held my gaze, and finished, “Your mom could make a call and probably get on the Today program.”

  “That’s not happening,” I said flatly.

  “Coco—”

  “Let it be mine.” I now spoke softly, and she shut her mouth. “For a few more cycles. Let me see if I can figure out how to raise a bit more cash. If I can make some more inroads with some suppliers to get more donations. Maybe, if we can raise the funds to hire someone part-time, it’ll make the difference and we can add a candidate or two to each cycle without it becoming a burden that’ll burn us all out.”

  She nodded, and I knew it wasn’t that she had any hope of me hiring someone part-time.

  It was my soft voice.

  It was knowing how much this meant to me.

  “I shouldn’t have pushed,” she said.


  I rolled my eyes. “Please, shut up.”

  “I—”

  Mi didn’t finish what she was saying because there was a knock on the door.

  I called, “Come in!”

  Madison, one of our part-timers, a student at ASU, opened the door and came in, saying, “Mail arrived.” She looked to us at the table then across the space to my desk. “Here or there?”

  “Desk, please,” I requested.

  She moved that way, and I watched as she did, because there seemed to be a big manila envelope in the pile of mail.

  Had I ordered a sample I forgot?

  Or, almost better, a catalog.

  “We’re done and I gotta get back on the floor,” Mi-Young said, rising from her chair.

  “You come back to the floor, maybe I can pop down the street and get us some coffees?” Madison asked.

  “Dirty chai,” I ordered immediately.

  “That means yes to coffee,” Mi-Young said on a smile as they both exited my office. But Mi-Young stopped at the door and looked to me. “Open? Or closed?”

  “Open, ma chérie,” I murmured as I got up from my own seat, my mind already ticking to the next thing to do.

  I headed to my desk, and it must be said, I was never too busy to appreciate my office décor.

  I did this during the short journey.

  Simple white desk, no drawers. White credenza behind it, precisely the same width as the desk. Two gold lamps on the credenza framing a piece of art on the wall that looked like a golden branch with golden leaves growing from the top of that bureau. White glass accoutrements. Acrylic trays. Compact forever floral arrangement of pink and yellow flowers. And a stack of old Vogue magazines on either side of the credenza, piled high, on top of which were framed designer sketches (left, Givenchy, right, Valentino).

  My rolling office chair was upholstered in gold velvet, the seat in front of my desk was a square bench covered in green velvet and trimmed in gold. I had a built-in wall of cupboards to one side that included filing cabinets and a hidden printer so I didn’t have to see anything messy or techy (I used a laptop, which was closed and set in the credenza whenever it wasn’t needed, it also matched the décor, being a Mac Air in gold).

  The walls were a buttery cream.

  And then there was the round conference table.

  It was overkill for my position as only a very recent entry into the retail world, not to mention this small room.

  It was perfect.

  I had an upscale shop in the Melrose District on 7th Avenue in Phoenix, a large-ish space sandwiched between vintage shops, other boutiques, galleries, restaurants and bars. A district that proudly called itself a “gayborhood.”

  I would move far more stock in Scottsdale.

  I didn’t want to be in Scottsdale.

  Nothing against it, I spent a goodly amount of time there, but I wanted people to find us in the midst of life and vibrancy. For passers-by and window shoppers, I wanted us to be a surprise. I wanted mature women to come in and feel young. I wanted young women to come in and learn that there was no expiration date on fabulous.

  Scottsdale was Scottsdalian, and it was awesome in its way.

  Everyone felt safe and welcome in the Melrose District.

  So that’s where I wanted to be.

  In the thick of things.

  I stopped behind my desk and reached directly for the big manila envelope, because samples were samples, but I preferred to think of them as surprise gifts.

  And everyone loved a gift.

  Me especially.

  I could feel immediately it wasn’t a sample, it was paper.

  So perhaps a catalog of possible future samples.

  I grabbed the Meissen Ming dragon letter opener Dad gave me as a store opening present, slit the envelope open and slid out the contents, seeing it was not a catalog.

  It seemed to be a pile of photos and paper.

  A thick, embossed, cream notecard was attached to the top with a gold paperclip, and the card said in bold black, Save your money.

  And chillingly, this wasn’t all it said.

  It ended with, Your Uncle will always look out for you.

  It ended with a distinctive -R.

  This was chilling because Mom was an only child and Dad had one sibling.

  A sister.

  And her husband’s name was William.

  Even with that mysterious initial, my uncle could only be…

  “Corey,” I whispered, pulling the card away and seeing a black and white 8 x 10 of a very attractive, mature—what seemed from the gray shading in the photo—blonde lady.

  I didn’t understand.

  I shuffled through the papers.

  More pictures and a report.

  This report read like a detective’s report.

  A detective’s report—I flipped forward to see—at its end was signed again simply “-R.”

  A detective’s report on a woman named Susan Shepherd.

  The woman my father was unfaithful to my mother with.

  Mom officially engaged to, and happily ensconced with Duncan, in the days after Christmas, I had hired a PI to find out who she was.

  I had not done this out of malice or spite or misguided curiosity, because I might occasionally dabble in the first two, my curiosity was never misguided.

  I’d done it because I knew my father. And knowing him, I knew he would never, not ever, cheat on my mother with just anybody.

  Whoever she was, she’d meant something to him.

  Whoever she was, they’d connected, and not just physically.

  And Mom was now ecstatically happy with Bowie.

  I needed…

  And I could not emphasize this enough…

  I needed Dad to be happy too.

  However, even though I paid my PI far too much money, he’d been coming up with zilch.

  It was, apparently, the secret of the ages.

  Until whoever this R was who sent this.

  Whoever that was being someone who did the bidding of a dead man.

  And whoever that was was very good at what he did. Because I didn’t hire a hack.

  And this mystery detective had found her.

  Not only found her…

  I sifted through the pile…

  I had everything on her.

  Name. Address. Email. Cell. Education. Social.

  She was wealthy (I had bank records).

  She’d moved to Phoenix from Indiana a few years ago.

  And she was infamous, but not of her own doing.

  She’d been, some years ago, kidnapped by a serial killer.

  She’d barely survived his final rampage.

  I’d heard of this guy, in the peripherals of living life, like you learn of people like this.

  Everyone had.

  Dennis Lowe.

  My God.

  My God.

  My phone rang.

  Staring at all that was now strewn across my pristine desk, I reached for my cell, not even looking at it, and I took the call.

  I put it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you gonna hold my coat hostage, or what?”

  I shook my head a little, still staring down at the emotional carnage on my desk. “Sorry?”

  “Chloe?”

  Susan Shepherd.

  She wasn’t as beautiful as Mom, but she was very pretty.

  Very pretty.

  And she’d been kidnapped by a serial killer.

  God, Dad.

  Such a sweet sucker for the damsel in distress.

  “Chloe.”

  “Yes?” I whispered.

  Nothing on the phone until, “Babe, you okay?”

  I laughed. Laughed and laughed.

  But nothing was funny.

  “Chloe.” That was sharp.

  “Sure,” I stated fake-breezily, but I couldn’t quite wring out the depths of sarcasm infused in that one word. “I’m fine. Parfait.”

  Perfect.

&n
bsp; I’d had that once.

  A perfect life.

  “What?”

  “Perfect,” I whispered, concentrating.

  Concentrating very hard at not coming apart at the seams.

  “Where are you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Where…are…you?”

  “In my office.”

  “In Phoenix?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fuck,” he clipped.

  His intense frustration brought me fully into the conversation.

  A conversation I was having with Judge Oakley.

  “Why are you being rude?” I snapped.

  “Because you’re two hours away, and not at Duncan’s, which I can get to in fifteen minutes.”

  Why was he saying this?

  “If you want your coat so bad, Judge, I’ll see to it that you get it.”

  Though, he’d have to wait because I’d brought it home with me, and I would not admit to anyone but myself that was far from an oversight when I’d packed to come back to Phoenix on New Year’s.

  What could I say?

  It smelled like him.

  “I don’t give a fuck about my coat, Chloe.”

  “Is that not why you called?” I asked.

  “It was, until you sounded a second away from bursting into tears.”

  Oh no.

  He already knew far too much.

  “Now, we’re talking about something else,” he concluded.

  “I’m fine,” I declared.

  “You are now. A second ago, you were losing it.”

  God damn it.

  “I was fine then too,” I lied.

  Poorly.

  Even I could hear how hollow that sounded.

  Usually, I was a virtuoso with a little white lie. I’d been honing my craft since before I could form coherent sentences.

  Case in point, I remembered stealing a donut when Dad wasn’t looking. I was two. When he turned around and asked who did it, regardless of the fact I held the purloined donut in my toddler fingers, I pointed at Matt, who I wasn’t sure had teeth yet.

  Or perhaps that wasn’t a memory and just that Dad and Mom told that story to everybody.

  Judge seemed to leach me of this genius, which was tremendously annoying.

  “I see,” he said disbelievingly. “So what you mean is that you had time to pull your act together, and I use the word ‘act’ purposefully.”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine who gave you my telephone number so you could delight me with your insights into my character when you barely know me.”