Sometimes the real world just sucks.
Kitty Giroux Clifford looked at the man sitting across from her, straight in the eye, and asked, "So, how much will you give me for my Mercedes?"
The used-car dealer put one finger on his pudgy chin and hesitated. "It's got a lot of miles on it for last year's model. And there's not much call for convertibles here in Maine. Winter's too rough."
Kitty pulled herself up taller in her chair. She needed every penny she could get for the car to pay her debts and keep her business going, but she was not going to appear desperate.
Even though she was. And the dealer knew it. People didn't trade in their Mercedes for cash unless they were going down in the world.
"Maybe there's more call for convertibles at the dealership in Scarborough," she said. She pulled down the jacket of her designer suit and made as if to stand, and was rewarded by the dealer holding up his hands to stop her.
"Hold on, Ms. Clifford," he said. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
Victory.
She smiled, and at that moment felt her handbag vibrate. Her heart leapt, as it did every time her cell rang. This could be it.
"Excuse me," she said, and pulled her phone out of her bag.
Big surprise—it was her mother's number on the phone and not the business deal of the century. Seemed as if Kitty would be used to being let down by now.
"I'm sorry, I have to take this," she said, anyway. It couldn't hurt if the car dealer thought her time was valuable. She rose and pressed the answer button as she walked out the door and into the parking lot. "Katherine Clifford."
"Kitty!" Her mother's voice was high-pitched and excited. "You just got a call from someone who wants you for a job! And guess where?"
Kitty's calmed-down pulse sped up again. She'd started her interior design business here in Maine six months ago, and this was the first bit of interest she'd had.
"It's work? Where?"
"Oh, you'll love it. He's bought the Delphi Theater, on Congress Street. He's restoring it."
"Yes!" Kitty practically shouted it. She spun around and punched the air.
The Delphi Theater was the most elegant building in Portland. She'd never been a movie fan, but Kitty had loved the Delphi ever since she'd been a little girl. It looked like a shabby palace. The sort of place where you'd find a slightly tarnished Prince Charming.
Of course, she'd grown out of fantasies like that. But ever since she'd moved back home, she'd stopped to admire the now-derelict cinema whenever she passed it. Even years of neglect hadn't been able to destroy its art deco lines. Restoring it was an interior designer's dream come true.
Maybe her luck was getting better, at last.
"He said he'd be at the theater this afternoon, if you could come by," her mother said. "And I've written down his number, if you want to call him."
Kitty skipped in her high heels. "Mom, this is great! What's his name?"
"Taylor."
She stopped dead, halfway across the parking lot.
Jack Taylor always loved the movies.
It couldn't be.
"What?"
"Taylor. That's his name."
Everything, suddenly, felt very brittle. Kitty spoke into the phone carefully. "What's his first name?"
"I didn't catch it. He sounded very nice."
This was her first real chance since her divorce and starting her new business. And her client might be—
"How do you spell Taylor, Mom?"
"I wrote it down as T-a-i-l-o—"
"Are you sure it's not T-a-y?"
A pause at the other end of the line. "Well, it sounded like it was spelled with an 'i' to me."
How on earth had her mother survived for thirty years as a receptionist at a vet's office? Maybe dogs didn't mind it if you misspelled their names.
"Tailor. Taylor. Mom, they sound exactly the same."
"Kitty. It doesn't matter, does it? It's exactly the job you've been waiting for."
Yes. It was her dream job.
But Jack Taylor was her worst nightmare.
He was Kitty's high-school crush. The person who'd trampled on her heart and humiliated her in front of the entire school at her junior prom. The one person in the world she never, ever wanted to see again.
She'd been back in her hometown for six months without running into Jack Taylor. She'd thought maybe he'd left. Portland was a small city. It would never hold enough women to keep Jack happy.
Forget Portland. The whole world probably didn't hold enough women to keep Jack happy. The man went through girlfriends like most people went through Kleenex.
That was, if Jack was still the same as he'd been in high school. But why would he change? He was rich, and gorgeous, and charming enough that females fell in love with him on sight. Kitty certainly had, thirteen years ago.
"Sweetheart? Do you want his number? You can ask him how he spells his name yourself."
Real world. Stay in the real world, Kitty. She realized that she was standing in the middle of the lot, twisting a lock of her red hair tightly around one of her fingers and holding the phone in a death grip to her ear, while the dealer watched her through the window. And before that, he'd probably seen her dancing around and punching the air.
But what the car dealer thought didn't matter now. If she had work, she could keep her car. She could talk with the bank, and rearrange her loan payments, and
She wasn't going down in the world, after all.
"Mom, my day planner's in the car. I'll call you back in a minute and get Mr. Taylor's number, okay? I need to talk with someone first."
Kitty shoved her phone back into her handbag and walked into the office. The dealer didn't bother to stand when she entered.
"I've decided not to sell my car, Mr. Dawson," she said, scooping her keys from the desk. "Thank you for your time."
The surprised look on his jowly face was enough to make her giggle as she left. Her luck was definitely changing. The Delphi. Wow.
Suddenly very anxious to call her mother back, Kitty hurried across the parking lot again to her convertible. She needed this job. Not only because of the money—she needed it for herself. She'd been successful in California, but she'd failed at her marriage to Sam. Coming back to Maine was supposed to be a whole big self-renewal thing, to prove she could be a success on her own, but so far it hadn't worked, and her savings had all but disappeared.
If she could get this job right, everything would finally fall into place. She knew it. A movie theater was high profile. A real showcase for her talent. It would lead to more work.
By the time she reached her convertible, her giggle had turned into a full-size grin. She reached for her handbag to unzip it, and found it was already unzipped. Her grin fading, Kitty stuck her hand inside her bag.
Empty.
"Oh, no." She looked back over the parking lot. Her wallet, her car keys, a powder compact, six or seven pencils, a lipstick, a brush and her sleek, expensive, high-tech silver cell phone all lay on the pavement in a trail behind her.
She stepped forward to pick up her stuff, and jumped back against her convertible when a horn blared in her ears.
Kitty watched as a red Lexus with a sign on its windshield saying "Take Me For A Test Drive!" drove straight over her phone. She heard a crunch of plastic.
"Hey!" she yelled, waving her empty handbag at the Lexus. "You killed my phone, you jerk!" She ran after the car for a few steps. It didn't stop. The driver didn't even glance in his rearview mirror, as far as she could tell.
"Hope you buy the car and get ripped off," she muttered as she stooped and collected her wallet and other belongings, thankfully undamaged. She prodded what had once been her phone with the toe of her ivory shoe. It was a pile of sleek silver smithereens.
Kitty straightened. Okay, her phone was dead. And she couldn't afford to replace it. But she had other things to focus on right now. Such as getting this Delphi contract and doing a fantastic job.
Her mother had said she could just go by the Delphi and talk with this guy, Tailor, Taylor, whoever he was. So she'd do that.
These days, she carried her portfolio with her everywhere, in case she got a call. She was dressed for business already, wearing her best designer suit in ivory silk, to impress the car dealer. She'd fought with her hair for a good hour this morning and won the victory, more or less. She looked as good as she was going to look.
If Kitty had learned one thing in her life, it was that appearances were important. An interior designer had to look tasteful. Even more importantly for business, she had to look successful—wear the right clothes, drive the right car. Winners looked like winners.
That was the idea, anyway. It hadn't always worked for her, so far. Her expensive car and her designer clothes hadn't helped her keep her marriage going, or gotten her any work yet in Maine.
But this time, Kitty vowed to herself as she got into her Mercedes and started the ignition, she was going to be a winner. Everything was going to go right.
And if her new client was Jack Taylor, she would just… deal with it.
But it wouldn't be Jack. There were a hundred Taylors and Tailors in the phone book. What were the chances that her new client was her high-school crush?
Even Kitty's luck couldn't be that bad.