Sunset Beach(8)

“Drug test?” Drue asked. “Are you seriously telling me I have to pee in a cup before I can work here?”

“Surely we can skip that for Drue,” Brice said. “I mean, she’s family.”

“Sweetie?” Wendy said, raising one eyebrow. “You know it’s office policy. How will the rest of the staff feel if they find out we made an exception for your daughter?”

“Oh. Right.” He glanced at Drue. “The drug test won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No,” Drue said, her lips tight. Unlike many of her friends in and out of kiteboarding, she’d never really developed an appreciation for pills or weed. But the drug test itself wasn’t the issue here. The issue was that her father was once again siding with his wife, instead of her. The last time it had been Joan. Now it was Wendy.

Suddenly, she was fifteen years old again. Pissed off and pissed on. Literally.



* * *



The training room was a cramped space with a conference table, a desk, complete with desktop computer and phone setup, and a whiteboard that took up one entire wall.

“Okay,” Wendy said, gesturing for her to sit at the table. She plunked a thick loose-leaf binder onto the surface in front of Drue. “Policies and procedures. Basic best legal practices. Company policy.” She consulted her watch again. “Read it, digest it, memorize it.”

Drue opened the cover and scanned the first typewritten page.

“What kind of sandwich do you want?” Wendy said. “I mean, you’re not a vegan, right?”

“Huh?”

“Sandwich. For lunch,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes. “You can have a fifteen-minute break. I’ll have Geoff order something in for you. I’m sorry, Drue, I know Brice means well, but things will go much smoother here for all of us if you’re treated exactly the same as your coworkers.”

“Right. Turkey on rye. Tomato, no lettuce, mustard, not mayo. Unsweet tea.” She turned back to the page, willing Wendy to disappear, which she finally did, after drilling Drue on the importance of discretion and nondisclosure in all things regarding the firm’s clients.

After three straight hours of reading and note-taking, the type began to swim around the page. Drue stood, walked around the room, then sat and did some stretches.

Wendy walked into the room with a white paper sack and a Styrofoam cup.

“What are you doing?”

“Stretching my knee,” Drue said, feeling guilty for slacking off. She eyed the bag hungrily. She hadn’t eaten since leaving Lauderdale the previous day.

Wendy placed the bag on the table and pointed at Drue’s knee. “I was wondering about the brace. What happened?”

“Sports injury,” Drue said. She opened the bag, took out a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, took a bite and nearly spat it out.

She pried the sandwich apart and glanced over at her supervisor. “Mayonnaise.”

Wendy shrugged. “That place never gets orders right. I keep meaning to tell Geoff to find a new deli.”

Drue lifted the top layer of bread and set it aside. Using a single leaf of lettuce she managed to scrape most of the mayonnaise aside. She ate four bites, then set it aside in disgust. Mayonnaise taint.

“What kind of a sports injury?” Wendy asked.

“Torn ACL, torn meniscus, torn medial collateral.”

Wendy regarded her with disbelief. “You don’t look like a runner.”

“I’m not. I hate running.”

“So, what then? How did you hurt your knee? Jesus, Drue, why are you so angry and hostile? Your dad and I are just trying to help you.”

Drue wiped her hands with a paper napkin. “I hurt my knee kiteboarding. Right before my mom got sick. Some quack at an emergency room at Delray Beach sewed me up, and I’m pretty sure he botched it. So now, I can’t do the one thing I was good at, the one thing I loved. And, oh yeah, I’m essentially an orphan because my mom is dead and my dad doesn’t actually consider me real family, hence the not letting me know about that ‘intimate wedding’ to you.”

She turned a level gaze at Wendy.

“You and I were best friends a long time ago, whether or not you choose to admit that. Now you’re married to my dad, who happens to be, what, thirty-five years older than you? Swell. Good luck with that, because he’s such awesome husband material. I know he cheated on my mom, and I’m guessing he cheated on Joan too. I don’t know and I don’t care. But don’t expect me to throw you a lingerie shower, m’kay?”

Wendy’s face turned pale. She brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her dress. “Look,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “First off, he’s only thirty-two years older than me. And since we’re being so brutally frank right now, let me just go on the record as saying I was against Brice offering you a job here, but he absolutely insisted on hiring you out of some sense of misplaced obligation. You’ve got, what, two years of community college? You can’t even keep a job waiting tables at some shitty beach bar. You’ve clearly got anger management issues, and it’s a total conflict of interest to have you working for this law firm. As for my marriage to Brice, let me point out that you know absolutely nothing about your father. He’s the finest, kindest man I’ve ever known, but you’ll never figure that out, because you’re thirty-six years old and still whining about being from a broken home.”