Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2) Read online

  “I’ll order Chinese takeout, Sam. And we’ll get dog food for Sweetheart. She’ll like that, right?”

  It was the promise of dog food that did it. Sam pushed his hat back on his head and walked toward the car. Sweetheart, after what I swear was a wink of her eye right at me, followed obediently. At the car, I told them to get into the back and closed the door behind them. “I’ll sit up front with you, Henry.”

  “Right. Of course you will. The front.” His voice was dry, and the look in his eyes? Distinctly disapproving.

  “Henry, don’t be such a buzzkill. We’re doing something good here.”

  He squinted as he gazed at me. “Miss Heywood, I had you pegged completely wrong. I’m usually quite good at reading people, but you are a surprise.” He said the last part almost to himself as he moved around the front of the car to open my door.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Never mind.” He opened the door and waited for me duck inside.

  I wasn’t that easily dismissed. I wanted him to tell me how exactly how he’d had me pegged. “What surprised you? That I actually have a big heart under my designer suit?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What else?”

  “I thought you played it safer than this.”

  I nodded, thinking about that for a moment. “Well, that just shows you did have me pegged wrong. All my life I’ve done the unexpected. It’s a gift, actually. And, you know what, I built a career on it, too. I take huge risks every time I agree to come into a company and turn it around. I like projects, the harder the better.” I paused, taking in a deep breath. “And last night, all alone in that awful hospital room, I decided my life was a little too sterile, despite the business risks I take. I need a life other than work, Henry. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Might I suggest, again, a boyfriend? Maybe have a baby. Or just get a friend.

  “Dammit, Henry, that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m making friends.”

  “Taking in a homeless man and his three-legged dog? Well, Miss Heywood, that’s not seeking friendship but rather just this side of crazy.”

  I laughed one of my deep belly laughs that usually only come out in the company of my sister. “Come on, Henry. You need a little crazy in your life. Let’s shake it up a bit.” I smiled and tapped my hands on the hood of the car. “How about you and me, Henry? You want to be friends? What do you say?”

  “You’re not going to make me take tequila shots, are you?”

  I flashed him my best smile. “Great idea.”

  “Get into the car, Miss Heywood. Please.” He actually looked pained when he said this, so I took pity on him and did as requested.

  I settled into the car, fastening my seatbelt, and then put my gloved hand up to my nose. One thing was for certain. Sam needed a bath. I think he was about eight years late for his date with a bar of soap. And Sweetheart? She smelled like ten dogs instead of one, three-legged pooch.

  It was going to be a long ride to my condominium.

  * * *

  I instructed Henry to park in the garage of my building, as I had a guest spot no one ever used next to my car I rarely drove. Sweetheart, sniffing, put her nose on the window and barked. She was ready for the next adventure even if her master, who looked decidedly apprehensive, was not. “Come on, gang,” I said. “Let’s go up. Sam, a shower will feel good.”

  He nodded and tugged on his cap. Henry was outside of the car by then, holding the door for Sam and Sweetheart. We all walked to my elevator in silence. For the first time since I’d hatched my plan, I felt apprehensive. Was this a terrible idea? Was Henry right? Had the bump on the head caused me to think crazy? I glanced at Sam. He was visibly shaking. “Sam, don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll like my place. I have a guest room, and you’ll have your own bathroom.”

  Once inside the elevator, I pushed the button for the top floor. Sam gripped the railing as we travelled up. Sweetheart pressed into his legs. I was feeling relieved that we were alone on our ride up to my place, thinking we’d dodged questioning looks from judgmental people. Then, we stopped in the lobby. When the doors slid open, an older couple, carrying Gucci shopping bags, took a step forward to get on, spotted Sam and stopped dead in their tracks. Unfortunately, we’d managed to stink up the elevator as much as we had Henry’s car. Not exactly the most inviting place in the world.

  Being the nomad I am, I had no idea who this couple was or what unit they lived in, which in hindsight might be a reason to attend the twice yearly tenant parties, especially when sneaking homeless guys and their three-legged dogs into your residence. After a second or two, they stepped inside, both of them directing their gaze for a moment on Sam, then Sweetheart and then me. “Hi.” I flashed my best dazzling business smile, known to make cranky businessmen lose some of their crank almost immediately. But no such luck today. They both looked at me like I was a demon in high-heeled boots. Henry, to my irritation, had hidden his mouth behind his hand. I couldn’t decide if he was trying not to laugh or attempting to mask the odor of my new housemate. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, I told myself. I don’t need anyone’s permission to invite someone into my home. It’s not like he’ll be roaming the building or anything. I just needed to get him up to my place and get him showered and cleaned up. The man punched floor 7 as the elevator doors slowly closed. The woman pulled several tissues from her purse and put them up to her nose.

  There was silence as we ascended floor by floor. Why was this elevator so slow? About floor five, I glanced over at the woman. “Staying warm enough?”

  Her only answer was a glower in my direction before moving even closer to the wall. The husband shifted his feet and held his packages closer to his chest.

  They exited, and as the doors to the elevators closed, we heard the woman say to her husband, “Wait until I call Raymond about this.”

  Raymond, I was almost certain, was the president of the homeowners association for our building. No matter, I thought. Sam will be all cleaned up and presentable by the time anyone visits.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Sam and Sweetheart’s makeovers were complete. With a few flicks of scissors, a slide of a razor and good old-fashioned soap and warm water, they had been transformed from grimy street dwellers into a respectable-looking man and his loyal companion. Well, and a trip to Nordstrom. No makeover is complete without a trip Nordys. Everyone knows that to be one of the basic tenants of attractiveness.

  However, there was still the matter of his hair. I needed the big guns for that tangled web. No one but Aurora would do. Aurora was my Portland hair designer—that’s what the fancy salon where she worked called them, as opposed to merely stylists or cutters or colorists. Aurora was a package of muscle dressed in stilettos and skinny jeans, with a tattoo of a purple rose from one shoulder blade to the other. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. I think that quality came with the Harley she rode. Or was it like the chicken and egg? I often wondered what came first, Aurora’s attitude or the Harley? It didn’t matter either way. I knew she’d help me out with Sam if I asked. Along with her badass attitude, she also possessed a soft heart. She’d have to come to my home, I thought, as I dialed her number. Sam could never handle the salon. I’d barely gotten Blythe into the salon in Seattle when I’d supervised her makeover last summer. Something about those places intimidates a person if they’re not used to it. But look what my makeover had gotten Blythe: a multi-millionaire with a house in the foothills of Blue Mountain. I know it’s not that simple. Obviously, there were other factors to their falling in love, not just the haircut and color I recommended. Good hair doesn’t solve every problem. But it’s a great place to start.

  The first makeover I ever did was on myself. I’m not a great beauty. My face is slightly asymmetrical, for one, and studies have shown that the more symmetrical one’s face, the
more beautiful they appear to others. My nose is fine, of regular size, except one nostril is smaller than the other. My eyes are deep set and almost disappear when I smile. Also, there was the problem of my teeth. My mother refused to pay for braces, so I was lucky to have a wide mouth and small teeth. Unfortunately, my two front teeth were considerably longer than the others, giving me a rabbit-like countenance. All I needed was a carrot to pull off the entire look. No need for Halloween costumes, I always thought, just go as a bunny. As a child I did not smile in school photographs for that very reason, the outcome of which was twelve years’ worth of stoic and somber poses that make me look a bit like a serial killer. Blythe says I exaggerate how bad the photographs are and how much I resembled a bunny. She should know, she always says, since she’s a professional photographer, always adding that I most certainly did not look like a bunny. She says I was cute. But she loved me. Love makes one blind.

  Regardless, years ago I put all that aside, this question of am I beautiful or not, knowing I am average, at best. However, it became clear from observing classmates in college, both male and female, that attractive students did better than unattractive ones. We all say, no matter our profession, that looks do not play into hiring decisions, grades, salaries and so on, but it’s a lie. Attractive people are more successful. They get more opportunities, more mentoring, more everything.

  With that understanding, I decided I would learn how to make the most of my appearance with the same dogged approach I used in my studies. I studied attractive women, both real ones and the ones in the media. I figured out a secret. Except for the truly beautiful, being attractive is a mirage, a trick. Anyone can do it if they have the tools and discipline to implement it. Anything you need to know is in books or periodicals, even those with anorexic fifteen-year-olds on their covers.

  For most women, it’s only vanity that prompts them to turn their attention to appearance, but for me it was deeper than that. I was outrunning my name, symbolic of my mother and my childhood. I would be successful no matter what. If appearance mattered, I would conquer it, just as I had the honor classes in high school and the stiff competition at Stanford and later, Harvard Business School.

  So I made myself a project—a makeover project. I became a different kind of girl, one who should and would talk to any boy she pleased and would never be passed over for a career opportunity because of appearance. I studied current fashions and hair in the ridiculous women’s magazines I abhorred. Those magazines instructed me on everything from what clothes looked good on a tall girl with long legs and small breasts to how one might choose the right hair color to flatter certain skin tones. For example, Blythe and I have dark blonde hair and butterscotch skin that tans easily, which is a great combination for straw-colored highlights that project the feeling of sun-kissed dewiness.

  In addition to my study of clothes and hair, I took up daily exercise. I watched calories to remain slim, restricting my beloved peanut-butter sandwich to one a week. I had a dentist even out and whiten my teeth so that I flashed a toothpaste commercial smile. A professional makeup artist taught me how to make my deep-set eyes pop and advised me on the right shade of lipstick. I remade myself so that by the time I entered the business world, the geeky bookworm persona was dead and Bliss Heywood, executive, emerged. Most of the time I didn’t even think of the old Bliss, remembering only when Blythe or I happened to look through the very few photographs from our childhood. The girl I see there I feel sorry for, mostly, for how lost and lonely she was, especially after Blythe left home. I love her, this girl with the bunny teeth. I want to tell her, hang in there, you have the last laugh.

  I wanted Sam to have the last laugh, too. When he was in the shower, I called to ask if Aurora would consider coming to my house to give him a haircut. Once she heard of his plight, she agreed without hesitation. By the time he was out of the shower and dressed in my pink fluffy bathrobe, a gift from my nieces last Christmas, she was already set up in my kitchen with scissors in hand. Aurora has white-blonde hair she wears in long waves and makeup that looks like she just came off a movie set. She told me once that Aurora wasn’t her real name; the salon she works for has them choose ‘stage’ names, which I find amusing. I think we should all get to choose our own names. That way I could get rid of Bliss, which, let’s be honest, sounds like a name chosen by one of Aurora’s hipster salon colleagues rather than a successful business woman.

  Scissors flying as white hair cascaded to the floor, Aurora snipped away. Sam sat still as a statue, his hands clasped on his lap, the pink collar of the bathrobe pulled tightly around his neck. While she continued, I left the room to talk to Henry about heading to Nordstrom to buy Sam a new wardrobe. I felt like a child at Christmas, giddy and excited. My headache was long forgotten. I hadn’t had this much fun since, well, I couldn’t remember. Fun? I didn’t really have much of that, I thought. But things were about to change, I promised myself. More joy, less work.

  Henry was in the front room talking on the phone. When he saw me, he told the person on the other end of the line that he had to go and turned to me. “I’ll need to run home and get some things for the trip tomorrow.” He indicated the couch. “I suppose you’ll want me on the couch tonight?”

  “You really think it’s necessary you stay here?” I asked. “Sam’s totally harmless; even you can see that, right?”

  As if she understood what I’d just said, Sweetheart let out a bark from where she was having a lie-in by the front door. “See? Sweetheart agrees.”

  “I do think it’s necessary I stay here. Furthermore, what do you plan to do about your trip? Please tell me you’re not bringing them both along?”

  I hadn’t really thought it all the way through. My sister would be even more appalled than Henry at this latest project. But I couldn’t leave them here alone. Even I wasn’t that crazy. “We are most definitely taking them with us. I’ll book them a room right next to yours at the bed and breakfast.” I snapped my fingers. “Don’t let me forget to call them.” I smiled. “Anyway, yes, you need to go home and pack, and on your way back here, you can stop at Nordstrom.”

  “Nordstrom? For Sam? Have you heard of Marshalls, Miss Heywood?”

  “Oh, God no. I wouldn’t wish that on you. It would take forever. I’ll just call my girl over at Nordys. She’ll get everything we need and all you have to do is pick it up.” The problem was, I didn’t know what size Sam was. He was skinny; I could see that from how my robe fit him, and I figured he was about the same height at me, around five feet nine if I guessed correctly. “What size is he, do you think?” I asked Henry.

  “Thirty waist, thirty-six length, medium-size shirts. Size eleven shoes.” He rattled it off without pause.

  “Henry! Are you a clothes horse in disguise?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. I worked in the costume shop during my MFA program. I used to make a little extra money working with the seamstresses.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You do have other talents besides waiting tables and driving me around.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I was an actor, Miss Heywood. A fine one, but I am not good at much else, unfortunately.”

  “I disagree. So far you’re a great wingman in my quest for friendship.”

  “I am not, and will never be, your wingman.” He said it like he’d just taken a bite of something sour.

  “I know you don’t mean that. Isn’t this fun?” I grinned at him as I dialed the number for my personal shopper, Marjory, over at Nordstrom. I asked her first to pick out a scandalous piece of lingerie for Blythe, winking at Henry as I did so, which made the tips of his ears glow pink before he shoved his hands in his pants pockets and turned away.

  “Northwest casual,” I told Marjory. “Jeans and some nice sweaters. Maybe a khaki pant for special occasions. Socks, of course. A nice pair of flannel pajamas and some shoes and boots. And boxer
s. None of the tighty-whitey stuff for Sam,” I said into the phone before hanging up.

  I looked over at Henry, expecting enthusiasm for this latest venture, but instead he met my gaze with an expression of horror on his elegant face.

  “What? Everyone needs underwear, Henry. What you wear underneath says a lot about a man.”

  He whispered through gritted teeth. “May I remind you that this man is currently homeless? I don’t imagine he’s going on Match.com anytime soon, Miss Heywood.”

  “Henry, you’re absolutely no fun at all. I thought actors were supposed to be wild and crazy.”

  “That’s celebrities, not actors. We’re often introverts and most certainly can’t hone our craft by acting wild and crazy.”

  I laughed. “You know, Henry, you and I are more alike than you realize.”

  He shook his head in a gesture of either disgust or disdain, took my Nordstrom card and left without another word. Ah, but Henry was not fooling me. Behind his attitude of scorn I could see he was as engaged in this as I. We were doing something. Something that made us both feel alive. My instincts told me the reason for Henry quitting acting were complex and had rendered him diminished, unable to fully leap into life. I understood this for the first time, having been so very humbled just the day before. When your identity is suddenly robbed from you, everything that once glimmered is now like a black shoe in need of polishing. Or, sometimes, you just needed to throw the old pair out and buy a new one. The shiniest pair you could find. I made up my mind then and there to find out why Henry had quit acting. Maybe he could return to it, I thought, depending on why he’d left it in the first place.

  Just then Aurora called to me from the kitchen. “Come see Sam’s new look.” Eager to see the results, I rushed into the kitchen and almost tripped when I saw him. I stared, opening my mouth to speak but unable to utter anything for at least ten seconds. “My God, Sam,” I said, finally. “You’re so handsome.” Regardless of my commitment and full belief in makeovers, I couldn’t believe the difference a good haircut made. He didn’t even look like the same person. What had been a scraggly mess was now a gorgeous splay of silver hair somewhere between George Clooney and the Seahawks coach Pete Carroll.