Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 18

"They can't, or you'll collapse."

"I wish everything hadn't come in all at once. The big donation is driving me crazy." She took off her flats, pink scoop-neck s.h.i.+rt and black linen pants and tossed them onto the overstuffed chair next to the bed, where they joined other outfits she'd worn recently.

"Why are you putting in so many hours? Isn't Lola in charge of fund-raising?"

Destiny turned back the covers and slid into bed next to me. "She's doing all she can, but it's overwhelming. We have a short window to match the funds. Whatever we can't match, we lose. I hate stipulations. I understand the philosophy behind them, but in practical terms, they put pressure on donors and staff. I feel like a used-car salesman, twisting people's arms to meet a deadline that benefits us, not them."

I stroked her hair. "Are you sure you can't postpone some of the work with Carolyn O'Keefe, at least until the grant period expires."

"I tried. But she's insisting on meeting almost daily, in person or by phone. She wants to prepare as much as possible before the educators' conference in Steamboat Springs. Which makes sense," she said, her voice disappearing, "but this schedule is killing me."

"It'll be over soon."

"I hope so." She snuggled against me and murmured, "Thanks for understanding, Kris."

"Sure," I said, unconvincingly to my ear, but she didn't notice.

Within minutes, she'd fallen asleep, and for a long time, I left the light on and watched her.

Wednesday at noon came all too soon, but as long as I kept breathing through my mouth, I knew I could last ten more minutes.

While I sat fully clothed on the toilet in the ladies room at the Westin, three hundred yards from the source of my avoidance, I put a hex on Fran ^teen. She'd brought me to the Denver Women's Chamber of Commerce *Meeting thirty minutes earlier, only to abandon me.

"We'll get more done if we split up," she reasoned, then she headed straight toward the most attractive woman among a crowd mingling near the registration table.

In her absence, I'd tried several times to hold a conversation that lasted longer than ten seconds, but nothing clicked.

Failing at networking, I staked out a seat at a back table and killed a few minutes acting as if I were intensely interested in my newcomer's grab bag. I took out each item, studied it and pretended I wasn't in a windowless, arctic-cold room, surrounded by people who were ignoring me.

By the time I'd emptied the bag, I could only conclude that the women's movement had been a figment of my imagination. Forget the free consult for Botox, 20-percent off coupon for treatments at a day spa and booklet on dressing for success. The stack of recipe cards, swatches from an interior designer and child-rearing tips really raised my ire. Only the miniature highlighter and key-chain flashlight had a chance of escaping the nearest trash can.

I played with both for a while, but when three coworkers at a utilities company sat across the round table for eight and dismissed me after brief introductions, I'd had enough.

I figured the bathroom would be a safe refuge for the remaining minutes, but I hadn't factored in the stench. The floral deodorizer was only managing to coat, rather than eliminate, the ripe smell. Nonetheless, I waited until the last possible second to exit the bathroom, barely allowing enough time to scurry to my seat before s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sett took the stage.

From two tables away, Fran tendered a slight wave, but I didn't reciprocate. Instead, I focused on Carolyn O'Keefe's lover, who cleared her throat, tapped on the microphone repeatedly and instructed everyone to take a seat. She intensified her pleas until we all had shuffled into place.

Wearing an apple blossom print jacket dress with matching flyaway jacket, s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sett used the podium to sound the battle cry for continued growth of chamber programs, partic.i.p.ation in more national events and outreach to members outside the Denver metro area.

None of which interested me, so I turned my attention, out of the corner of my eye, to the woman on my right.

Middle-aged, she had black hair cut short to disguise balding on top, and she'd attached a few bobby pins, but their effectiveness seemed minimal. Large rectangular black gla.s.ses gave her small, narrow eyes a cartoon look, and a weak jaw and drooping mouth made her face seem on the verge of collapse. When she pushed a smile, her dour look transformed into a smirk, with gums overshadowing teeth. She wore a peach sundress, sandals with no panty hose, and three-inch long beaded earrings that lengthened her already oversized ears. Black cat hairs, spread across her chest and lap, were a sharp, almost comforting, contrast to the excess of cosmetics, perfume, accessories, hairstyling, pantsuits, short skirts and leather briefcases that filled the room.

My scrutiny must have caught her attention, because she leaned close and whispered, "Have you met our president, s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sett?"

The wall of alcohol hit me before her words, and it took me a second to reply. "No, you?"

"We knew each other quite well when I lived in Phoenix."

Jackpot.

I smiled inside and said conversationally, "Really?"

"We mixed in the same crowd. We called ourselves committed feminists."

"Lesbians?"

"Women-loving women," she said, chuckling.

I extended my hand. "I'm Kristin Ashe."

She grasped it firmly with both of hers and wouldn't let go. "Patty Ossorio."

"Nice to meet you."

"My pleasure," she said, slurring her words.

s.h.i.+rley's recitation of chamber news prevented my reply.

In the vacuum of excitement that accompanied the announcements, I stole a glance at Fran. Her stage whispers to tablemates had begun to turn heads, and for the first time, I felt grateful for our separation.

Patty startled me by sliding a note next to my salad plate.

I opened it and read, "Are you as bored as I am?"

"Probably," I wrote back.

During the clapping for the speaker s.h.i.+rley introduced, Patty said out of the side of her mouth, "You hate these functions, don't you?"

I replied under my breath, "Is it that obvious?"

"Why did you come?"

"My business partner forced me. You?"

"Memory loss," she said with a friendly smile. "I forget how stressful they are, and I return."

"Seriously?"

She nodded as we directed our attention to the front of the room, where a spokeswoman from the mayor's office had begun a spiel about how we, as women, could get involved in the political process.

I fidgeted in my seat and yawned through the civics lesson on the interdependency of local governments. I ate most of my salad and very little chicken, or maybe it was pork, through the protocol for contacting government offices. I gave silent thanks for women's perpetual dieting as I downed several large slices of cake that our table had been given to share. I needed the chocolate to perk me up through the power of donations.

The chart of government offices was enough to put anyone to sleep, but I soldiered on, resting my chin in my hand, when another note appeared. "The speakers aren't always this awful."

I returned the correspondence. "Do you come often?"

"Third Wednesday of every month."

"Why?" I wrote back, accenting my question with exclamation points.

"It's the best marketing I do."

The tepid applause that followed the speaker's departure gave me a chance to whisper, "I can help you implement marketing you wont hate."

"You'd do that?" Patty said, almost delirious.

I pushed back my chair to stretch my legs. "Absolutely."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"Marketing for small businesses," I lied, falling back on my former career. At least the fib felt better than posing as a multilevel marketer, Fran's suggestion.

"I need a Web site. The company I rep for has one, but I want my own. Could you write it?"

"Maybe. What do you want?"

"Nothing fancy. A bio of me, response-oriented copy, benefits of customer appreciation gifts, importance of brand ident.i.ty, something along those lines."

"What kind of business do you own?"

"I distribute customized promotional products. The flashlight in your bag came compliments of me."

"Thanks," I said sincerely. "What else do you sell?"

"Anything that will hold a logo. Calculators, pens, s.h.i.+rts. Some items sell for as little as a nickel."

"What could I get for five cents?"

"A personalized mint."

"Mm."

"I consume a fair amount of those, as you might have guessed."

"Are you drunk?" I said, matching Patty's wild smile.

"A little. Do you mind?"

Before I could respond, s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sett interrupted our conversation with closing remarks, but few women in the room heard them; most had fled or begun to pack.

s.h.i.+rley's return caused Patty Ossorio to comment dryly, "For being so wealthy, you'd never know it. She works the room as if she has to earn last month's rent."

"How rich is she?" I said casually.

"Rich. With her trust funds, she ought to be able to buy a better girlfriend."

The hair on the back of my neck stood at the mention of the woman who had hired me to follow Destiny. "What's wrong with the one she has?"

"Some would say," Patty Ossorio replied, rather loudly, "that Carolyn O'Keefe has an unnatural attraction to women."

Chapter 17.

An unnatural attraction to women.

Coming from a lesbian, what the h.e.l.l did that remark mean?

I never found out.

Patty Ossorio became sidetracked by a woman who interrupted to complain about binders she'd ordered but never received. As soon as I politely could, I broke in to schedule an appointment with Patty to work on her Web site, and we shared a loose hug before she turned to the irate customer.

I left in search of Fran and found her at a drinking fountain in the hall.

She straightened up and wiped her lips. "You try those breadsticks. Tough as rebar."

I gave her a scathing look.

She cleaned her teeth with her tongue. "Any interesting scuttleb.u.t.t at your table?"

"None."

"Nothing on s.h.i.+rley B. or Carolyn O.?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't see you doing much schmoozing."

"Your point?" I said, barely controlling pent-up rage, raring for her to call me to task.

"Never mind. We'll work it from another angle," Fran said easily. "By the way, need to take the day off tomorrow."

"For?"

"Personal reasons. That a problem?"

"No," I said, my tone clipped.

"How many days we get?"

"I have no idea."