California Girls(9)

There was no answer, no sound, nothing but her phone screen slowly fading to black.

Finola stood. Nigel was gone and she didn’t know if he was coming back. He’d always been there for her, loving her, making her feel amazing and now it was all gone. Just gone. Worse, she didn’t know how much of their marriage had been a lie.

She walked into her own closet and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. After she washed off her makeup, she went into her small study and booted her laptop. Thank God for the internet, she thought bitterly. It only took a few clicks and zero conversation to undo their trip. Once that was done, she went into the guest room and closed the blinds before crawling into bed and pulling the covers up over her head.

She curled up as tightly as she could and told herself to keep breathing. That was all she had to do. Everything else would take care of itself. Nigel wasn’t an idiot—he would remember how much he loved her and how good they were together. Treasure was just a fling. He would get over her and come back where he belonged. They’d go into couples therapy where he would realize how much he’d hurt her and he would beg for forgiveness. She would refuse at first, but then he would win her over with his love and kindness. The break in their marriage would be healed and they would go on, slightly scarred, but wiser and more in love than ever. They would grow old together, just like she’d always imagined. It was going to be fine. It had to be.





Chapter Three


“I’ve got a guy who needs fog lights and brackets for his ’67 Mustang. The computer says we have fog light kits but when I went back to get them, I couldn’t figure out what was what.”

Ali Schmitt waited as her printer spit out the end-of-week inventory control log. She looked at Kevin and raised her eyebrows.

“Really? What was unclear?”

The eighteen-year-old shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “You know. Ah, which ones he, ah, wants. Ray said to make sure I got it right because there’s a difference between the ’67 and ’68 Mustang.”

Kevin had been with the company all of six weeks. He’d hired in as a picker—the person who literally picked parts off shelves and took them over to the shipping department, where they were boxed up and sent out to customers. Ray, Kevin’s boss and a man who lived to terrorize all the new hires, had given the kid a difficult job, probably for sport.

Ali looked at Kevin and knew she’d been just as confused when she’d been hired. She’d had the added disadvantage of not being that into cars, although in the past eight years, she’d certainly learned plenty. While she would never physically quiver at the thought of a fully restored 1958 Thunderbird, she could hold her own in most car-related conversations. She was also something of a motocross expert, at least when it came to parts. In truth, she’d never been on any bike with an engine and her skills on the kind you pedaled were average at best.

“What year?” she asked, putting her inventory sheets on her battered desk, then walking over to one of the computers used to check availability. “The Mustang. What year is it?”

“Um, a 1967?” His tone was more question than statement.

“You need to be sure,” she said as she punched in a few keys, then arranged two pictures side by side on the screen.

She pointed. “The one on the left is a 1967. See the bar across the front grille? That bar runs behind the fog lights and holds them in place. No bracket required.” She pointed to the picture on the right. “On the ’68 Mustang, there’s no bar, so the fog lights are held in by a bracket. If you’re looking for a ’67 with brackets, there’s no such animal.”

Kevin was nearly a foot taller than her, but as she spoke, he seemed to shrink.

“Okay.” He drew the word out into three syllables. “So there’s a problem with the order and I need to get it confirmed.”

“Exactly.” Ali smiled. “You need to talk to Ray.”

Kevin went from confused to scared. “Do I have to?”

Ali sighed. “Yes. He’s your boss.” She hesitated, then gave in to the inevitable. Somehow she was always the one shepherding the new guys through their journey with the company. “He has a dog. Coco Chanel. There’s a picture on his desk. Do not, under any circumstances, make fun of the picture. Simply notice it and tell him she’s the cutest dog ever. Then ask him to help you confirm what the customer wants.”

Kevin’s expression of confusion returned as he considered her advice. Ali knew once he saw the picture of a five-pound Chihuahua dressed as a pirate all would be revealed.

“Thanks, Ali.” Kevin started to walk away, then he spun back to her. “Didn’t Ray already know there was a problem when he told me to go find the fog lights?”

“Probably. He wanted to see if you could figure it out on your own.”

“Oh.” Kevin’s skinny shoulders slumped again. “But I couldn’t.”

“Not today, but with time. When in doubt, look up the car and confirm you have the right part.”

“Good advice. Thanks.”

Ah, to be that young again, Ali thought with a smile, then she picked up her inventory sheets before glancing at the clock on the wall. Not that she didn’t love her job, but she had so much to get done this weekend. The wedding was only seven weeks away and her to-do list had quadrupled in the past few days. Tonight she wanted to check for RSVPs, pack another cupboard in her kitchen, then narrow the centerpiece options down to two. She’d already chosen the flowers and now had to pick the style of the centerpiece itself. The florist wanted a final answer by Monday morning and Ali was determined to settle on her favorite by then. If only her favorite didn’t keep changing.