those harried, scary days of new independence. Rosamond—nobody had suspected that her sudden tendency toward forgetfulness and fits of temper was the beginning of Alzheimer’s disease—had been living on a rancho in Mexico then, with her sixth and final husband, blissfully unconcerned with her daughter’s problems.
Now, sitting there in Marvin’s spacious, well-appointed office, Shay felt a sting at the memory. She had telephoned her mother right after her ex-husband, Eliott, then principal of a high school in a small town in Oregon, had absconded with the school’s sizable athletic fund and left his young and decidedly pregnant wife to deal with the consequences. Rosamond had said that she’d warned Shay not to marry an older man, hadn’t she, and that she would love to send money to help out but that that was impossible, since Eduardo had just bought a Thoroughbred racehorse and transporting the beast all the way from Kentucky to the Yucatan peninsula had cost so much.
“Shay?”
Shay wrenched herself back to the present moment and met Marvin’s fatherly gaze. She knew then that, even without the bonus check, she would have agreed to be in his commercials. He had believed in her when she had jumbled important files and spilled coffee all over his desk and made all the salesmen on the floor screaming mad by botching up their telephone messages. He had paid for the business courses she’d taken at the junior college and given her regular raises and promotions.
He was her friend.
“It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” she said softly. It was no use asking for approval of the storyboards; Marvin’s style, which had made him a virtual legend among car dealers, left no room for temperament. Three years before, at Thanksgiving, he’d dressed up as a turkey and announced to the viewing public that Reese Motors was gobbling up good trade-ins.
Marvin unearthed his telephone from underneath a mountain of paper and dialed a number. “Jeannie? Shay’s going to take over the commercials for me. Dust off your passport, honey—we’re going on the trip!”
Shay rose from her chair and left Marvin’s office for the sanctity of her own smaller one, only to be followed by a quietly delighted Richard.
“I have three of the four storyboards ready, if you’d like to look them over,” he offered.
“Why does Marvin want me to do this?” Shay complained belatedly. “Why not one of the salesmen or some actor? Your agency has access to dozens of people.…”
Richard grinned. “You know that Marvin believes in the personal touch, Shay. That’s what’s made him so successful. You should be proud; he must regard you as practically a member of his family.”
There was some truth in Richard’s words—Jeannie and Marvin had no children of their own, and they had included her and Hank in many of their holiday celebrations and summer camping trips over the past six years. What would she have done without the Reeses?
She eyed the stacks of paperwork teetering in her in-basket and drew a deep breath. “I have a lot to do, Richard. If you’ll excuse me—”
The intercom buzzed and Shay picked up her telephone receiver. “Yes, Ivy? What is it?”
Ivy Prescott’s voice came over the line. “Shay, that new salesman Mike hired last Tuesday is…well, he’s doing something very weird.”
Shay closed her eyes tightly, opened them again. With one hand, she opened the top drawer of her desk and rummaged for a bottle of aspirin, and failed to find it. “What, exactly, is he doing?”
“He’s standing in the front seat of that ’65 Corvette we got in last month, making a speech.”
“Standing—”
“It’s a convertible,” Ivy broke in helpfully.
Shay made note of the fact that Richard was still loitering inside her office door and her irritation redoubled. “Good Lord. Where is Mike? He’s the floor manager and this is his problem!”
“He’s out sick today,” Ivy answered, and there was a note of panic in her normally bright voice. “Shay, what do I do? I don’t think we should bother Mr. Reese with this, his heart, you know. Oh, I wish Todd were here!”
“I’ll handle it,” Shay said shortly, hanging up the receiver and striding out of the office, with Richard right behind her. As she passed Ivy’s desk, she gave the young receptionist a look that, judging by the heightened color in her face, conveyed what Shay thought of the idea of hiding behind Todd Simmons, Ivy’s fiancé, just because he was a man.
Shay was wearing slacks and a blue cotton blouse that day, and her heels made a staccato sound on the metal steps leading down into the showrooms. She smiled faintly at the customers browsing among glistening new cars as she crossed the display floor and stepped out onto the lot. Sure enough, there was a crowd gathered around the recently acquired Corvette.
She pushed her way between two of the newer salesmen, drew a deep breath and addressed the wild-eyed young man standing in the driver’s seat of the sports car. “Get down from there immediately,” she said in a clear voice, having no idea in the world what she would do if he refused.
Remarkably, the orator ceased his discourse and got out of the car to stand facing Shay. He was red with conviction and at least one coffee-break cocktail, and there was a blue stain on the pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt where his pen had leaked. “I was only—” he began.
Shay cut him off swiftly. “My office. Now.”
The errant salesman followed along behind Shay as she walked back into the building, through the showroom and up the stairs. Once they were inside her office, he became petulant and not a little rebellious. “No woman orders me around,” he muttered. Shay sat down in her chair, folded her hands in her lap so that—she glanced subtly at his name tag—Ray Metcalf wouldn’t see that they were trembling just a little. “This woman, Mr. Metcalf, is ordering you out, not around. If you have any commissions coming, they will be mailed to you.”
“You’re firing me?” Metcalf looked stunned. He was young and uncertain of himself and it was obvious, of course, that he had a problem. Did he have a family to support?
“Yes,” Shay answered firmly.
“You can’t do that!”
“I can and I have. Good day, Mr. Metcalf, and good luck.”
Metcalf flushed and, for a moment, the look in his eyes was ominous. Shay was a little scared, but she refused to be intimidated, meeting the man’s contemptuous glare with a level gaze of her own. He turned and left the office, slamming the door behind him, and Shay let out a long breath in relief. When Ivy bounced in, moments later, she was going over sales figures for the month before on her computer.
Despite the difference in their ages—Ivy was only twenty while Shay was nine years older—the two women were good friends. Ivy was going to marry Todd Simmons, an up-and-coming young real-estate broker, at Christmas, and Shay would be her maid of honor.
“Todd’s taking me out to lunch,” Ivy said, and her chin-length blond hair glistened even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”
“How romantic,” Shay replied, with a wry twist of her lips, and went on working. “Just the three of us.”
Ivy
