Page 7 of Sunset Beach
The reception area had been carved out of the former living room. Thick Oriental carpets covered the gleaming hardwood floors and stiff formal draperies framed the picture windows that overlooked the street. There was a handsome fireplace and glass-front bookshelves full of obsolete leather-bound law journals. A pair of navy leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a matching leather sofa was placed against the adjacent wall. A framed generic color photograph of a Florida sunset hung over the mantel.
“Hi,” the young man said, turning to her. “Can I help you?”
“Hope so. I’m Drue Campbell. My father is expecting me.”
“The new girl!” he squealed, clapping his fingertips together. “Thank God!” He stood and extended a hand. “Welcome! I’m Geoff. Spelled with aG,not aJ.It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Okay,” Drue said slowly. “Good to meet you too.”
“Listen,” he said. “Brice is in with a client right now, but he asked me to take you back to Wendy, the office manager, since she’ll be doing your new-employee orientation.”
She followed him through a doorway and down a short corridor until he paused in front of an open door. He poked his head inside. “Hi, Wendy, I have our new employee here.” He gently pushed her into the room. “This is Drue.”
The office manager sat at a contemporary glass-topped desk. She lowered a pair of Chanel reading glasses onto her nose and looked up, her pale eyes appraising Drue with a hint of amusement. She was very tan and wore a chic blush pink sleeveless sheath dress with a string of rose quartz beads looped around her neck.
Drue returned her gaze with an uncertain smile of her own. There was something eerily familiar about this woman.
Before either could speak, Brice burst through the door of his adjacent office.
“Oh good, you’re here,” he said, beaming at Drue. He stood behind the glass desk, one hand placed lightly on his manager’s bare shoulder.
“Drue, you remember my wife, Wendy, right?”
She gawked, trying to make sense of the surreal scene in front of her. Drue knew that name, but the rest of the package was different. This Wendy was slender and petite, not pudgy and awkward. The orthodontia and mall bangs were gone. The frizzy long strawberry-blond hair was now short and sleek and a shimmering red. The sharp chin and high, rounded cheekbones were the same, but the lips were plumper. It was the nose that had thrown her off. This nose was definitely not factory equipment.
“Wendy Lockhart?” She blurted out the name, glancing at her father for confirmation. “Wait. YoumarriedWendy Lockhart?”
“That’s right,” Brice said. “It’ll be three years on the twenty-eighth.”
“Twenty-seventh, you shameless cradle robber,” Wendy cooed. She gave Drue a mirthless smile. “So that makes me your stepmother. Isn’t that hilarious?”
“Hysterical,” Drue mumbled, sinking onto the wing chair facing the desk. “Mind-blowing.”
What’s the worst that could happen? she’d asked herself, the previous night on that long, mind-numbing drive across Alligator Alley from Lauderdale to St. Pete. And now she had the answer to that rhetorical question. This. Right here. The prospect of having Wendy Lockhart, her junior high best friend/worst frenemy as both stepmother and supervisor.Thiswas absolutely the worst that could happen.
“I didn’t even know you’d remarried,” she finally managed, when her brain began to thaw.
“It was a veryintimateceremony,” Wendy said, casually flaunting themotherlode of an engagement ring on her left hand. “Just a few friends and close family.”
Drue chewed the inside of her cheek and wondered if this office had a trapdoor, or maybe a fire escape.
“How did you two, uh, reconnect?” she asked.
“Reconnect?” Brice frowned. “I handled some legal work for Wendy, but I didn’t actually ask her out until after she’d gotten her settlement.” He winked. “Don’t share that with the Bar Association ethics committee, okay?”
“He didn’t remember me at all,” Wendy assured her. “I mean, it wassolong ago. And when I hired him, I was Wendy Harrison, which was my ex-husband’s name.”
“We were in eighth grade,” Drue said, her voice cracking in disbelief. “You spent the night at our house nearly every Friday night of eighth grade. We’d tapeSabrina the Teenage Witchand watch it together on Friday nights. How could he not remember you?”
Wendy laughed and waved away Drue’s insistence. “Same old Drue. Still wildly exaggerating things. It wasn’teveryFriday night. I spent the night maybe twice, three times tops. Your dad wasn’t even around that much back then, the way I remember it.”
Drue’s memories were distinctly different. She and Wendy had been nearly inseparable in the eighth grade, bonding initially over their shared misery at being the new girls in school, their friendship deepening over painful problems at home.
“Whatever,” she said now.
“Right,” Wendy said briskly, consulting her Rolex. “I was actually expecting you earlier, so we’re already behind with your training schedule.”
“My car wouldn’t start this morning,” Drue said, instantly feeling both lame and defensive.
