[Jennifer Cloud 01.0] The Shoes Come First Page 6

  “Oh, Jen, did you hear? The feds came and took poor Mr. Stone to jail.”

  Men in gray uniforms were carrying boxes of shoes out of the store. Following them was a large man with a commercial dolly wheeling out Mr. Stone’s computer and filing cabinet.

  “What are we gonna do?” I asked.

  Evelyn dabbed at the mascara running down her face. “Mr. Stone said not to worry; he’d see us in five to ten.”

  “Years?” I asked as I sunk down into the giant purple chair shaped like a stiletto that the customers used for trying on shoes. My chest ached, and my hair was frizzy. Could this day get any worse?

  “Why don’t you just go on home, dear?” Evelyn asked. “There’s nothing more you can do here.” And then she started to cry. “There’s nothing more any of us can do.”

  I decided to pack up my desk and go home. Maybe I could get my mom to make some of her pick-me-up brownies. She always made them when I was down in the dumps. I found an empty shoe box and put my few personal belongings inside. I attached the “I love my job” pin to my shirt and sneered at the feds as they checked off my contents. I hugged Evelyn good-bye and headed out the door to my new life.

  I smelled the brownies as I entered my house. My mom must have seen the news. I thought to myself, Isn’t it wonderful moms have that intuition when their children need comfort and comfort food? I went upstairs to take a shower and wash my misery away.

  The Steve Stone shoe store was closing. I sat in the kitchen with my hair wrapped in a towel, wearing my pink fluffy robe and slippers.

  “Why is this happening to me?” I wailed to my mom as I ate my third brownie.

  “You’ll find another job, dear,” she said, patting my hand, completely aware of my over-the-top drama-queen attitude. Dad came in through the back door. He must have come home early from work because he knew I lost my job. How thoughtful.

  “Dad, you didn’t have to leave work early.” I gave him my sad-little-girl smile.

  “Well, Jen, that’s not really why I am home early,” he said, sitting down next to Mom at the table. He sighed, and they both looked at me. Something was up; they were double-teaming me.

  “What?” I asked. They were about to tell me something important. I knew by the way Dad took Mom’s hand and they looked at each other and then at me. What was wrong? Was somebody sick? Just tell me and get it over with already.

  “Maybe now is not such a good time, JW,” Mom said.

  “No time like the present,” Dad responded.

  “But she lost her job today.” Mom looked woefully at Dad.

  “I’m right here, you guys!” I frowned. The little-girl sympathy I was feeling was flung out the door. “Out with whatever it is.”

  “Well, Jen, we are moving,” Mom said to me. The words sounded like the Charlie Brown cartoon’s teacher—slow and muffled.

  “Moving? But we have always lived in the townhouse. Where are we moving?” I asked.

  “Well, dear, weeee are not moving, just Dad and I. All you kids are grown, and we would like to move into a retirement community, a place where JW could play golf and I could relax and write that cookbook I have always talked about.”

  “But you’re not retired,” I said.

  “That’s true,” she said, “but these places are really hard to get into, and we need to strike while the iron is hot.”

  I sat staring at them in disbelief, the brownie halfway to my open mouth.

  “I know this is bad timing, but there is a house available, and it’s right on the golf course,” Dad explained with a “please understand” expression. “We love it and want to put a contract on it before someone else snatches it up.”

  Although I was happy my parents wanted to improve their lifestyle and the thought of having my own place was appealing, it was also a little scary. They had allowed me to live rent free while I went to college and began my career.

  “What about me?” I stuttered. “Where am I going to live?”

  “We don’t want to sell the townhouse; it will make a great rental property. So we are going to rent it to you.”

  “Rent it to me? I can’t afford a whole house. I just lost my job.”

  “Yes, we thought of that. Your brother has an opening at his new clinic. I called him when you went upstairs to change. He said you would be a great CA.”

  “What’s a CA?” I asked.

  “Chiropractic assistant,” Mom responded with a satisfied smile. The same one she used when she scratched an item off her to-do list.

  Go to the grocery store.

  Pick up dry cleaning.

  Get Jen a life.

  Now, I knew I was way too old to be acting like a teenager, and I should have been grateful my mom was helping out, but I was feeling full of self-pity.

  “Mom, I don’t want to be a CA; I want to buy shoes.”

  “It’s only temporary, and to help with the rent, your cousin Gertrude’s moving in. She needs a place to live while she finishes college, so I told her she could come live here and pay half the rent. How great is that?”

  My life was truly over. I no longer had a great job, my parents were deserting me, and my smelly cousin Gertrude was coming to live with me. How much more could a person take?

  My parents left me alone in the kitchen to contemplate my future and probably eat the entire pan of brownies. I reached in my pocket for my cell phone and hit speed dial for Jake’s number. If anyone could make me feel better, it would be Jake.

  Jake and I had seen each other on and off during college. On one of his rare visits home for a weekend, we would hang out just like old times, except there would be some kissing, and after I showed him what I learned in the barn with the Scottish creep, our relationship was way more exciting. This was an added bonus. Jake was very good at the extracurricular activities.

  I still wondered about Mr. Sexy, occasionally. I never told anyone about the outhouse or the time travel, and I continued to wear the necklace as a daily reminder of what not to do. Sometimes at night I would wander out back and imagine myself sitting in the outhouse, going for another ride so I could tell him a thing or two. But I was scared. What if I didn’t return? I needed answers, but I had no idea whom to ask.

  Jake had graduated from college with a degree in criminal justice and returned to Dallas to work at the office of internal affairs. He traveled between Dallas and Washington, DC, but mainly he worked in Dallas. I’m not sure exactly what he did, but I knew he worked long hours and hoped to get a job with the CIA.

  After taking our relationship to the next level in college, I decided we wouldn’t work out as a steady couple. I knew there were girls he was seeing at school, and I didn’t want to have the pressure of jealousy. Jake insisted we could work long distance, but I knew deep down he couldn’t make the commitment and it would tear our friendship apart. In the end we decided to see each other when he came home and keep it a “casual” dating relationship. Since he’d moved back home, we had been seeing more of each other as his work allowed.

  Jake lived in a loft apartment off Main Street in Downtown Dallas. Once an industrial district, now it was the cool place to live. At night you could raise the windows and hear the bands in Deep Ellum playing the divergent sounds of local musicians. I called to tell him of my plight, and he agreed to meet me at our favorite little Mexican food place.

  I decided I would wear my favorite red sweater and black leather miniskirt with my red Escada pumps. I added some devil-red lipstick and felt a little bit better. I pulled my hair back in a low ponytail, dumped the contents of my purse into my red Prada bag, and headed out the door. When I was working at Steve Stone Shoes, I’d purchased a used Mustang convertible from Mrs. Peterson. Her husband had been having a midlife crisis, but after it was over, he was ready to go back to his pickup truck. The car was white with gray leather bucket seats, a custom Bose sound system, and chrome wheels. It occasionally smelled like Old Spice, but I felt very sexy driving it around town. The construction workers w
ould whistle as I drove by; however, they also whistled at Ms. Martin down the street, and she drove a Cadillac—go figure.

  I drove out of our neighborhood and hopped on the Lyndon Banes Johnson Freeway, which connected to Interstate 30 to take me downtown. Driving into Dallas always made me feel energized. The setting sun illuminated the skyline of tall buildings. I could see the ball at the top of Reunion Tower with its dancing lights that begged you to come have an expensive dinner in its rotating restaurant. As I turned east onto Main Street, the Deep Ellum arts and entertainment district came into view.

  Deep Ellum was the renovated warehouse district about three blocks from downtown. Some creative genius had taken the decrepit, run-down industrial warehouse area of Dallas and turned it into a dwelling place for the eclectic. People who lived here marched to the beat of their own drum. Most were musicians and entertainers and artists, and occasionally, mixed in with all the graffiti, you’d find a yuppie. I am not sure I would classify Jake as a yuppie, but he was somewhere in between. He dressed like one, but had the heart of a guy who would rather be playing lead guitar for Van Halen.

  Luckily I found a parking place in the lot next to the Blind Lemon club and took the short walk to Monica’s. Jake and I had discovered the small Tex-Mex restaurant shortly after he moved back to Dallas. It was charming and funky at the same time. I ambled in past the brick walls that were painted with swirls of various red colors and displayed bright, attention-grabbing art pieces done by local artists. There was a live band playing jazz in the corner. The tables were all set with red-and caramel-colored linen tablecloths, and the smell of homemade tortillas filled my nostrils, making them flare out and making my mouth water. Jake was already there, sitting at a corner table drinking a Corona. I slid in the booth and kissed him hello. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes. I thought of how wonderful he was to come out and meet me when he was obviously exhausted.

  “Do you want a beer?” he asked and signaled the waiter.

  “That would be great. I have had quite a day.”

  “Me too,” he said, but a sly smile crept at the corners of his mouth.

  The waitress brought my Corona, and I squeezed the lime slice that rested on the mouth of the bottle down into the golden liquid. I pushed the lime through the neck so it floated in the beer. I took a long pull on the bottle. The beer tasted good, and I could feel the tension ease in my neck. Jake was watching me intently. I knew he hated when I drank straight from the bottle. He thought a girl should drink a cocktail, and, heaven forbid, if she had a beer, she should at least ask for a glass to pour it in. This was one of the many pet peeves we argued about. Jake wanted his girlfriends dainty and with manners that would make Martha Stewart proud. I had the style, but my manners were all Chelsea Handler. I could put on a good show, but I decided I wanted a man who didn’t roll his eyes if I burped or drank from a bottle. Hence the fact that we were friends with benefits.

  “So, tell me what’s up,” I said.

  “No, I would rather hear about your day first; mine is sort of confidential. I’d have to kill you if I told you.”

  “Wow, they are really giving you some serious cases. Should I fear for your life?” I said it jokingly, but his eyes didn’t laugh with me.

  “I do have some good news, but first tell me what happened to make you dig out your favorite red sweater,” Jake said, placing his hand in mine.

  It was a little early in the season for a sweater in Texas, but when tragedy struck, the red sweater was my comfort blankie. I told Jake about my terrible day, and he listened intently. He was always good at letting me get it out of my system and not providing any opinions that would make me pissy.

  “What am I going to do?” I whined. “My life is a black cauldron swirling with the bowels of disappointment and despair.”

  “It can’t be that bad. You have a new job, and you have shoes that will last you at least two seasons,” Jake said, tweaking my cheek.

  This was true; I could probably make do before they went out of style. Plus, after I spoke with Eli on the phone, he was going to pay me. Not as much as I was making at the shoe store but a fair wage. Maybe working in a chiropractic office wouldn’t be so bad. I was going to help sick people get well with my spunky spirit and appreciation of life. After a few Coronas, I was feeling a little better.

  “So, what’s your news?” I asked, turning my attention away from my miserable life.

  “You are looking at the newest member of the CIA,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “Jake, that’s wonderful.” I gave him a big hug. “I know you have been working your butt off.”

  “Amen,” he said as we tapped our beer bottles together in a toast.

  We ate and listened to the band. Jake explained how impressed one of the directors had been with his work. He couldn’t go into all the details because they were top secret, but I could tell he was excited to get a position in the CIA at such a young age.

  After dinner we walked hand in hand back to his apartment. We passed a tattoo parlor, several bars, and a sushi restaurant before we came to a stop in front of his apartment building.

  “Do you want to come up?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling a little tipsy from the beers at dinner.

  Jake lived in one of the converted warehouses. It was a little more upscale due to the fact that it had a small reception area downstairs with a guard and a doorman. A few rich and famous young people lived in Jake’s building. It was a mix of wealth and upwardly mobile executives trying to downplay their stuffed suits by living in an uber-cool neighborhood. I had run into a pro hockey player on the elevator one day, and I knew a relative of Ross Perot lived in the penthouse. Jake’s grandma Pearl had left him a small inheritance when she died—enough to allow Jake to pursue his dreams of becoming a CIA agent while living like a poor James Bond. Jake got stocks and bonds; I got an outhouse. Go figure.

  “Good evening, Mr. McCoy,” said the doorman, tipping his hat to me.

  “Hey, Mike, how are the Cowboys doing tonight?”

  “Pretty good, beating the Giants twenty-one to seven. It’s the third quarter.” He pointed to an earbud he had hidden in his left ear.

  “I’ll catch it upstairs, thanks,” Jake replied as we entered the elevator.

  Jake’s apartment was more of a New York–style loft. It was open and airy. Since it used to be a warehouse, the windows were big and tented open. He had huge pieces of art decorating the walls. My favorite hung over his brown leather sofa. It was a picture of the Beatles walking across Abbey Road. I sank down in the soft leather and propped my feet up on the rustic wood coffee table. Everywhere you looked, Jake’s apartment shouted comfortable. All he needed was a big hound dog lounging around to complete the ambiance.

  “Jake, you need a dog,” I called to him from the sofa.

  “I told you before, Jen, no pets,” he said as he came into the room carrying two beers. Mine was poured conveniently in a glass.

  “I think you are trying to get me drunk,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said, handing me the glass.

  “Well, maaaybe I’m trying to get you drunk so you will let me buy you a dog.”

  “I can’t have a pet,” Jake said, looking at me sternly. “I didn’t want to tell you since you were already having such a terrible day, but I am leaving in the morning. Jen, I am going overseas.”

  “Overseas!” I sat up quickly, spilling my beer down the front of my sweater. Another reason I preferred drinking from the bottle. “Damn, that’s cold,” I said, placing my hand on my chest and pulling my sweater away from my skin. “Overseas, like Europe?”

  “No,” he said, handing me a towel he had retrieved from the kitchen. “I can’t tell you where I will be, but I am getting a top-secret assignment.”

  I dabbed at the wet spot on the front of my sweater. “Jake, are you going somewhere dangerous?”

  “Not really. I am going to be in charge of a top-se
cret project that needs…sort of a babysitter.”

  “As long as you are the good guy and you aren’t going into a war zone, I guess I’m OK with that, but I will miss you,” I said as I took a drink of the remnants of my beer.

  “Me too,” he said. Removing the beer from my hand, he pulled me to my feet and gave me a long, deep kiss.

  “Your sweater is all wet,” he said, running his lips along the nape of my neck.

  “I should probably take it off.”

  He agreed, pulling my sweater over my head.

  “Well, since I’m the good guy…” And he unhooked my bra with a flick of his finger. I leaned into his arms, wrapping my legs around his middle, and he walked me into the bedroom with his lips pressed to mine.

  I woke up the next morning in a tangle of sheets and nothing else. I could hear noise in the kitchen, and the smell of coffee floated into the room. Jake walked in right behind it. He was showered and fully dressed in a suit and tie.

  “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said.

  Jake had lost the Zac Efron hairstyle and boyish face of high school. What stood before me was lean and sexy, a combination of Brad Pitt and Ryan Seacrest. His hair was shorter and stood up in spiky peaks in front.

  “Did I miss church?” I asked from under my sheet shield.

  “Funny,” he said. “I have an early flight.”

  “Jake!” I shot up, forgetting about my lack of clothes. The sheet dropped, and my girls spilled out, exposing me to the handsome CIA agent.

  “Damn, Jen, why did you do that? Now I’m gonna have to go take another shower, a cold one.” He laughed as I pulled the sheet back up over my chest.

  Jake came and sat on the bed next to me. “As much as I would like to stay, my flight leaves in two hours, and if I’m not on that plane, I’m pretty sure my new position will belong to someone else.”

  “Jake, when will you be back?”

  “Don’t know. I’m not sure what kind of contact I can make once I am there.

  “No phones, not even your cell?” I asked, frowning. “Are you going to Antarctica? Wait, I think they even have cell; I’ll check my coverage.”