easy on the eyes—in a Lawrence Welk sort of way, not a Brad Pitt kind of way. Thank God. I could only handle so much active testosterone. I was still humiliated over the way I had ogled Vice Principal MacKenna in his office the day before.
I popped over to Mr. Cabrera's and, er, persuaded him (okay, so I used a little blackmail) to help Mrs. Krauss with her garden. I had just enough time left over to answer a few e-mails at work before heading over to meet with the congressman.
The telephone book listed Chanson's headquarters in a mini-mall near Vista View. I was early so I decided to take a spin through the subdivision and see if I could scare up a clue as to who was behind the shenanigans at Sandowski's Farm.
Construction on a gatehouse had begun, the first few bricks having been laid. Confidence that Mrs. Sandowski would soon be evacuating her farm?
I drove through the maze of side streets, stopping occasionally to check in on the jobs I had done. These yards had been a particular challenge, not just because of the high quality the homeowners expected, but because the houses were packed together like sardines. Not a lot of elbow room.
The houses stood two and three stories high. Elaborate masonry played a key role in the style of most of the homes. Every now and again, a house veered from the popular colonial style: a Spanish villa on one corner, a Mediterraneanstyle beach house on another.
I drove out of the subdivision shaking my head. I just didn't see the appeal. But then again, I'd always been a little slow on the uptake.
Finding a parking spot in the mini-mall wasn't too difficult. I parked in front of Domino's and walked two storefronts down, to where a large sign proclaimed congressman chanson hq in bold letters.
Not one for modesty, was he?
I straightened the skirt of my all-purpose dress and smoothed my hair. I hoped I passed for an extremely wealthy woman who had oodles of money to throw around at will.
I donned an air of confidence and strode into the office. Workers had gathered at a table nearby stuffing envelopes. The receptionist looked up at me, a phony smile plastered on her face.
I smiled brightly, talked through my nose. "I'm here to see Congressman Chanson. He's expecting me." My voice sounded as though I had gone to a prep school on the East Coast instead of St. Valentine's Parochial School.
"Ms. Quinn?"
"Yes."
"The congressman is awaiting you."
Awaiting me? It sounded so quaint, I almost wished I had a few hundred thou to bandy about.
She led me into a small office in the back, where another receptionist, a buxom blond with mile-high legs, sat behind a slab of marble designed as a desk.
I hated her instantly.
And I hated that I was so callous and judgmental, so I tried, really tried, to find something to like about her. I studied her bloodred fingernails, her full lips, her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her made-for-earrings earlobes. Nothing. I couldn't find a damn thing.
"Please have a seat, Ms. Quinn."
Her voice was a high-pitched nasal whine. That I liked! Made her somewhat human.
I sat in a nearby chair and crossed my legs. I figured people with scads of money wouldn't lower themselves to flip through the array of magazines on the glass coffee table before me, so I eyed them with disinterest and studied my fingernails. They were chipped and cracked and not at all the nails a high-society woman would have. Folding my fingers into a fist, I shoved them under my thighs.
Ten minutes went by, then twenty. I started to fidget. My pantyhose itched. I hated pantyhose. The last time I had worn pantyhose was my wedding. I was a more natural type of girl. What you saw was what you got, except in this case, where I was trying to be someone I wasn't. Using my toe of my low-heeled pump, I surreptitiously scratched the back of my calf.
Big-busted, blonde, and beautiful looked up.
I froze in mid-scratch and pretended to find interest in a Thomas Kinkade painting on the wall.
Blowing out
I popped over to Mr. Cabrera's and, er, persuaded him (okay, so I used a little blackmail) to help Mrs. Krauss with her garden. I had just enough time left over to answer a few e-mails at work before heading over to meet with the congressman.
The telephone book listed Chanson's headquarters in a mini-mall near Vista View. I was early so I decided to take a spin through the subdivision and see if I could scare up a clue as to who was behind the shenanigans at Sandowski's Farm.
Construction on a gatehouse had begun, the first few bricks having been laid. Confidence that Mrs. Sandowski would soon be evacuating her farm?
I drove through the maze of side streets, stopping occasionally to check in on the jobs I had done. These yards had been a particular challenge, not just because of the high quality the homeowners expected, but because the houses were packed together like sardines. Not a lot of elbow room.
The houses stood two and three stories high. Elaborate masonry played a key role in the style of most of the homes. Every now and again, a house veered from the popular colonial style: a Spanish villa on one corner, a Mediterraneanstyle beach house on another.
I drove out of the subdivision shaking my head. I just didn't see the appeal. But then again, I'd always been a little slow on the uptake.
Finding a parking spot in the mini-mall wasn't too difficult. I parked in front of Domino's and walked two storefronts down, to where a large sign proclaimed congressman chanson hq in bold letters.
Not one for modesty, was he?
I straightened the skirt of my all-purpose dress and smoothed my hair. I hoped I passed for an extremely wealthy woman who had oodles of money to throw around at will.
I donned an air of confidence and strode into the office. Workers had gathered at a table nearby stuffing envelopes. The receptionist looked up at me, a phony smile plastered on her face.
I smiled brightly, talked through my nose. "I'm here to see Congressman Chanson. He's expecting me." My voice sounded as though I had gone to a prep school on the East Coast instead of St. Valentine's Parochial School.
"Ms. Quinn?"
"Yes."
"The congressman is awaiting you."
Awaiting me? It sounded so quaint, I almost wished I had a few hundred thou to bandy about.
She led me into a small office in the back, where another receptionist, a buxom blond with mile-high legs, sat behind a slab of marble designed as a desk.
I hated her instantly.
And I hated that I was so callous and judgmental, so I tried, really tried, to find something to like about her. I studied her bloodred fingernails, her full lips, her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her made-for-earrings earlobes. Nothing. I couldn't find a damn thing.
"Please have a seat, Ms. Quinn."
Her voice was a high-pitched nasal whine. That I liked! Made her somewhat human.
I sat in a nearby chair and crossed my legs. I figured people with scads of money wouldn't lower themselves to flip through the array of magazines on the glass coffee table before me, so I eyed them with disinterest and studied my fingernails. They were chipped and cracked and not at all the nails a high-society woman would have. Folding my fingers into a fist, I shoved them under my thighs.
Ten minutes went by, then twenty. I started to fidget. My pantyhose itched. I hated pantyhose. The last time I had worn pantyhose was my wedding. I was a more natural type of girl. What you saw was what you got, except in this case, where I was trying to be someone I wasn't. Using my toe of my low-heeled pump, I surreptitiously scratched the back of my calf.
Big-busted, blonde, and beautiful looked up.
I froze in mid-scratch and pretended to find interest in a Thomas Kinkade painting on the wall.
Blowing out
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