Catherine Baker could not say why she wanted to go to Palm Springs. She wished no ill on her former employer, John Schatz, having long since bested him in money, power, prestige. His personal behavior did not offend her. If Li-Li Feng was dumb enough to run off with him, so be it.
With the help of her personal assistant, she packed her bags. “Will you want a business suit?” Fiona asked.
“Absolutely not. Get my Givenchy sandals. And my high heels.”
“Which ones?”
“The highest ones.” Baker found a Tommy Bahama floral dress. She would wear it without a bra, and the heck with appearances. It was 107 degrees in Palm Springs. This was war.
“Will you be swimming?” Fiona asked. She unzipped a day bag.
“Not on purpose.”
When under pressure, Catherine could be a little short. Her phone pinged. Walt and Reba texted from the airport, having already arrived. They were like that.
Over their objections, she had bought the tickets. She also booked rooms at the Kimpton Rowan, in downtown Palm Springs. “Ground Zero,” she told Reba. “Close to all the stores. We’ll hunt him on foot.” If Catherine couldn’t help her best friend, who could she help?
Certainly not Schatz. It was far too late for that.
Packing her makeup tote, she found herself mulling all the business trips they had taken together. One in particular stood out. It also involved a woman. And a splendid opportunity. Mrs. Wenzel was a rich widow, anxious to get rid of her late husband’s flooring stores. Catherine and Schatz flew to Atlanta, intent on keeping one step ahead of any other buyers, and closing the deal, if possible. Mrs. Wenzel was quite taken with the urbane Schatz.
“John is an attractive man, don’t you think?” Clara Wenzel sipped tea in her former husband’s large office. It was more like a well-appointed living room, with a bar, couches, a fireplace.
“If you like the type,” Catherine said. Schatz had gone to inspect a store in Brookhaven.
“I do.” Mrs. Wenzel was a large woman, not too large, black-haired, and quite young for a widow. “He’s married, of course?” Her dark eyes flashed.
Catherine saw the advantage. “You might say.”
“You might?”
“He’s rich and handsome.”
“Yes.”
“And you know how men are.” Catherine sipped her tea.
“Indeed I do.”
“And he’s a man.”
“Indeed he is. And I think he’s as sweet as sugar pie.”
Nothing more was said. Or needed to be said. They would dine that night at Le Carrousel, one of Atlanta’s more exclusive restaurants. A booth, Catherine specified, phoning the reservation in to the homme en charge. Dark. Very private. You understand, don’t you? Exactement, Madame.
That evening they attended a cocktail party on the showroom floor. Catherine spent most of her time with a pair of bankers. She liked to fund any deal with local cash, if possible. It was faster, with less goofing around. She found Schatz laughing with Mrs. Wenzel. “John,” she said, frowning dramatically. “I have an awful headache. You and Clara go to dinner without me.”
“We’ll go tomorrow night,” Schatz said, easily.
“No-no. You two go alone. Reservations are impossible. Take it from me.” She gave Mrs. Wenzel a very knowing look, one returned in kind by the intrepid widow. They were two tigers passing in the forest.
The next morning she found Schatz lounging in the lobby café. This wasn’t good.
“Where’s Mrs. Wenzel?” Catherine asked.
“At home. Where should she be?”
“I don’t know. How was Le Carrousel?”
“Fabulous! They have a boeuf Bourgogne that can’t be beat.”
“I mean how was Mrs. Wenzel?”
“Fine. Quite frisky, I must say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I really tried to wrap things up. But she wouldn’t talk business. Not at all. She was rather aggressive, if you know what I mean. I think she misses her husband, poor woman.”
“Doubtless.”
“Tell me something. Am I that attractive?” Schatz happily buttered a biscuit.
At the moment, not especially.
The deal never did close. Another buyer was coming in the following week, a hedge fund run by a real bastard. Doubtless he would be less squeamish than her boss. Catherine flew home in a very dejected mood, but a month later they bought Mrs. Wenzel’s stores, all of them, for a fair price. Which is to say, for more than Catherine wanted. The purchase was leveraged with stock from Lock and Key, of which she owned a sizable amount. She figured Schatz, with his annoying chivalry, his insufferable monogamy, had cost her about half a million dollars.
She shook off the memory, finding herself back in her bedroom. “Do you want this one?” she heard the assistant ask. “Or the Julianna Rae?” Fiona stood before her dangling silk pajamas.
“Neither. I’ll sleep nude.” It was probably 190 degrees in the desert. “Zip those bags,” she said. “If I need anything else I’ll buy it down there. You drive. And don’t be pokey about it. I don’t want to miss that plane.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com