Page 74 of Single-Minded
“Was that Daniel Boudreaux I saw?” I ask, attempting to appear nonchalant.
“Yes, it was,” says Olivia. “What a lovely young man.”
I push my luck with her a little further.
“What did he want?” I ask. Olivia glares down her nose at me.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she says, “but he gave me a lovely donation for the foundation. Five thousand dollars.”
I’m completely taken aback. “He did?”
Olivia rolls her eyes at me. “Are we ready to start the program or not?”
62
I’m fortunate that my work for the benefit is completed, because I can’t get Daniel out of my head. Standing at the edge of the ballroom, I sip a glass of ice water and make sure that everything goes off as scheduled.
The program moves from drinks and dinner into the presentation and auction. By the time the auction is at full steam, the guests are deeply connected to the plight of the animals, and primed for generosity. Once the auction is finished, the orchestra plays on so that donors can continue to socialize and dance. The bar too stays open. Olivia and her team work the tables; the golden triangle now wrung out, they make their way around the perimeter of the ballroom to squeeze every last donation they can muster.
I sit down at my table, relieved that the evening has seemingly gone off without a hitch. Which is probably my first mistake.
63
No one is certain what set off the fire sprinklers, but all of a sudden it’s raining in the ballroom. The guests start scattering, squealing and running for the exits, and the hotel staff circles around the room in a panic, checking to see if someone has accidentally pulled down one of the fire alarms. There’s no fire anywhere to be found. The catering manager radios the assistant hotel manager to stop the water, but it takes several minutes and half a dozen phone calls to contact the alarm company responsible for monitoring the system. The system can’t be overridden off-site, for some reason, probably due to the same malfunction that set it off in the first place. So by the time the alarm company representative is on-site, the water is two inches deep in the serving bowls, and the entire room looks like the main dining room of theTitanicafter it struck the iceberg and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
Olivia is howling in the corner, her hairpiece drenched and hanging off the side of her head. Her soaked silver gown sticks to her scrawny body, and her eye makeup runs down her face in gray-blue streaks.
She lets out a bloodcurdling scream and screeches across the room as soon as she sees me: “This isall your fault. You’refired!!!!!!”
64
I’ve never been fired before. From anything. It’s awful. I feel terrible and worthless and helpless.
Intellectually I know that the random malfunction of a fire sprinkler system doesn’t have anything to do with me, but the humiliation I felt when Olivia Kensington Vanderbilt screamed my name across the Ritz-Carlton was going to poison my confidence with self-doubt for the rest of my years.
How could this happen? Everything was going perfectly. The irony is, I was just planning to leave when the sprinklers went off. My job was done. Donations were wrangled, the program was over, all that was left was dancing and gabbing, neither of which were under my purview. Plus, it had been a really, really long day. I needed a hot bath and a glass of wine and a really good night’s sleep since my weekend from hell was only halfway finished.
“I’m sorry that this happened, Olivia,” I say, not wanting to sound defensive, but also not willing to shoulder the blame for something I had absolutely no control over. “I’m going home,” I say. “I’ll speak to you on Sunday after we’ve both had time to think this through.”
“You’ll speak to me now,” she yells.
“No,” I say weakly. “I’m going home now.”
I grab my go-bag and my tote, which, thankfully, are dry under the cover of the table where I left them. That’s a relief. My whole life is on my iPad, as well as all the details for Boudreaux’s opening night. I thank the Universe for the lucky break and stick to the perimeter of the room, where it’s slightly less boggy, using my garment bag as a waterproof shield for my belongings as I make my way outside. The line for the valet seems miles long, understandable since three hundred benefit guests all decided to leave at once. I give the valet twenty bucks in exchange for my keys and walk to the parking lot in search of my car.
I spot him first, leaning casually against my car in the dim light of a streetlamp, holding a bouquet of pale pink roses and looking better than any man has a right to. Jesus, this isn’t fair. His sea-colored eyes are searching mine, the color so intense I can still discern it ten paces away. I stop dead in my tracks just a few feet from him. His tailored suit hangs perfectly on his lean body, and I will myself not to be swayed by his obvious physical charms. Deep breath. I remind myself of this morning’s humiliation, and in particular, the look on the face of the woman who surprised the two of us in bed. There’s no way I’ll let myself be responsible for causing that expression of hurt again. I know that feeling of betrayal. I know it as well as anyone.
“Why are you here?” I ask, sounding tougher than I feel.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I had to speak with you. If you’ll just let me explain…”
“Daniel, I asked you to go. I’ve had a very long day, and a very long night, and a long day planned for tomorrow. I will listen to what you have to say tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow. I’ll be at Boudreaux at ten in the morning.”
“And we can talk then?” he asks, his voice tinged with melancholy.
“It’s your dime,” I say cruelly. “Can I go now?”
He steps away from my car door, and I hit the button on the key fob to unlock it. Once it clicks, Daniel opens my door. I stop myself from glaring at him in response. He’s a client, and I just have to make it through one more day.
