CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I don’t have long to celebrate. Back at the office, I have more errands to do. Greta Carr is back from Los Angeles so I take her mail, neatly filed, to her apartment with a bouquet of flowers to thank her for her business.
“These are lovely. Thank you.” Greta’s voice is soft and high and she cradles the paper-wrapped peonies in the crook of her arm like a new baby. The flowers are a pale shade of pink that matches her pink-on-pink décor and Greta’s even wearing a pink sundress.
I’m just about to push her mail at her and leave when Greta says, “Come in for a minute while I put them in water.”
I close the front door behind me and trail Greta to her kitchen where she opens and closes several cabinet doors.
“They’re in the upper cabinet, to the right of the refrigerator,” I say. Greta finds the vase I neatly organized along with the rest of her kitchen and meager pantry while she was away. I place the mail file on her dining room table.
“Everything’s so organized,” she says, filling a vase with water. “You should be a personal organizer. It was great coming home to this, especially all the food in my fridge.”
“You like it? I was trying to pick stuff you’d enjoy but there wasn’t much to go on.” I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t offended her. When I found out she was coming home yesterday, I spent part the morning at a gourmet market choosing fresh berries, Greek yogurt, salad greens and several healthy entrees from the deli section.
“It was so great to just have stuff here so I didn’t have to order delivery. I don’t cook much.”
I nod. Understatement of the year.
Greta scrunches her mouth in concentration as she trims the peony stems and arranges them in the vase, but her brow doesn’t wrinkle—is it paralyzed by Botox? She can’t be more than thirty but it looks like she’s already on the plastic surgery train.
Not that I should be surprised after seeing her marked-up magazines. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need all that intervention, but there’s no way I can bring it up without admitting to snooping.
I hear the yapping before I see it—a fluffy white purse-dog comes charging at me. Greta barks a stern command at the dog and instead of biting my ankles, it halts, flips on its back and wriggles with all its might. I laugh and bend to scratch its belly.
“That’s Peekaboo. She thinks she’s a two hundred-pound pit bull and I don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.”
“I watch a dog that’s not much bigger than her. Supposedly, Jasper’s ancestors were bred to hunt lions. I guess dogs don’t think size matters.”
“Oh, but women do.” Greta’s finely plucked brows arch and she giggles. “Unfortunately, it’s not the only thing that matters, or else my last boyfriend would have been perfect.”
“My last boyfriend was far from perfect,” I say, enjoying this girl-talk moment with Greta. I shake my head as if to say “men,” but wonder why she is being so nice to me.
Most of the women at the charity ball treated me like I was diseased when they found out I’m not rich. Maya the model-slash-booty-call-girl treated me like the hired help. But something’s different about Greta.
Thinking of the last charity ball reminds me of something else, and an idea blooms in my mind.
“Greta, I was wondering, do you have a favorite charity?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, honey, I go to plenty of events. They get so boring after a while. They need young people like us to liven them up.”
“I didn’t mean the galas, I meant the causes, the good they do. Are you on a board or a committee for any of them?”
“No. I’ve been asked, but they just want my dad’s money. They don’t care about my ideas, and that’s how I really want to help. I’ve always wanted to be an event planner, but I can’t get a business like that going without some experience.”
Greta frowns and I see that beneath her spoiled rich-girl trappings she’s dying for someone to take her seriously.
“Well, why don’t we do it together? I like organizing and it will help me meet more clients.”
Greta puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Beryl, but they probably wouldn’t let you. It’s strictly pay to play. And, no offense, but you’re a house sitter.”
“You mean I have to make a big donation to get on the committee?”
“Yes.”
“Like, how big? Ten thousand dollars?”
“Twenty. Twenty would get their attention and probably get you on a committee, but not as committee chair.” Greta nods sagely. She knows the prices for things that don’t have a price.
“How about fifty?”
Greta laughs. “You’d be in for sure!”
I grab Peter’s check from my purse and push it across the kitchen counter to her. “Then we’re both in. We’ll make this a joint donation and then we can get on the committee together.”
Greta’s eyes go wide. “Wait. You’re independently wealthy and you make a living as a house sitter?”
I shake my head. “It’s not my money. It’s from”—I search for the right words—“a contract that required a donation. But I earned it.”
She sees the name Peter Todd on the corner of the check. “I’ll say. This guy is bad news. He seems charming, but he hurt a friend of mine.” She studies me with narrowed eyes. “Did he hurt you?”
I take a quick breath. “Not exactly. But what he did deserved more than an apology. And so I thought I could put a hundred thousand of his little apologies to good use.”
“Damn, girl. You’ve got guts.”
Greta pulls out her rhinestone-studded phone and dials a number while I scratch Peekaboo’s tummy. I hear a gushing greeting and then Greta gets down to business.
“So, I called because I’m wondering if you’re doing the Safe Haven Network ball next month. Are you still on the events committee?”
My ears perk up. Of course Greta has other socialites on speed-dial.
“Well, congratulations! That makes my question even easier, since I’m sure a chair has the authority to add committee members. What do you think about adding two members right away?”
She pauses, listening.
“I can understand you don’t want too many cooks in the kitchen. But my friend Beryl …”
“Sutton,” I whisper quickly.
“Sutton and I just have our hearts set on helping with Safe Haven Network, and we’re both prepared to chip in a hundred to join you.”
I see Greta grinning widely. Money talks.
“We look forward to it as well. See you next Monday!”
Greta clicks off her phone, grabs two sparkling waters from her refrigerator and plops on a kitchen barstool next to me, her eyes dancing. “We’re in. I think I heard her head explode when I told her our donations.”
“Thank you for making that call, Greta. But I can’t help but feel a bit out of my league.”
“What league? The thing my dad always says is, ‘You get to choose where you stand.’”
“I don’t buy it. It seems like the pecking order around here is based on your tax bracket.” I wince, realizing that I’ve just made this inane comment to the wrong audience. Open mouth. Insert foot.
But Greta surprises me. “It takes more than a bank balance with lots of zeroes, sugar. They like that, don’t get me wrong, but they prefer money with a bit of dust on it. Like, if you inherit money, it’s better than if you actually work for it.”
“It all spends the same.” I shrug. I’ve thought more about money since I’ve been in New York than I ever did in Eugene.
“Wrong. There’s some stuff money can’t buy, meaning, they won’t even take your money if you’re not the right kind of wealthy. I’m not the right kind of wealthy. Too new. I’ll bet my high school job sucked worse than yours.”
I raise my brow. Greta had a job? “I’ll take that bet. I was a dishwasher at a retirement home. I came home every night smelling like creamed corn. Top that.”
Greta gives me a Cheshire smile. “I worked in one of my dad’s canneries. On the line. I came home every night smelling like fish guts.”
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” Her job is so craptastic I cackle at the thought of it. From the tabloids, you’d think the hardest work she ever did was buffing her manicure.
“If you want to stand up to Peter Todd and take his old, dirty money to Safe Haven Network, let’s go for it. Plus, with your organizational skills, I think we’d throw a killer party.”
“Greta, you’re awesome.” I genuinely like this woman.
“This will be fun. So, next Monday night we’ve got our first committee meeting. The dress code is anything you want, so long as it’s expensive. Can you do that?”
I think of Lulu’s wardrobe and nod. She gives me the address and I type it into my phone.
“If you can help me get the committee to take my ideas seriously, I’ll be more than happy to make sure we spend Peter’s money wisely.”
“What about his mother? She’s on the board of directors.”
“If she gives us an ounce of trouble, we’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what inspired the donation.”
I shudder. “But I’m not supposed to say a word to anyone. It was in the contract.”
“I didn’t sign a contract,” Greta says, a wicked gleam in her eye. “And with this crowd, it’s what isn’t said that matters.”