All That Was Happy by M.M. Wilshire Page A

transition into something more
solid.”
    “ You must have been a banker,” Beckie
said. “That was a very graceful analysis.”
    “ Being on Wall Street isn’t all it’s
cracked up to be,” Huntington said. “My first year everyone
referred to me as “Peckerhead”. After that first year, I did okay
with my portfolio, so they stopped calling me “Peckerhead” and
elevated me to “Butthead”. It wasn’t until my fourth year of
continued success that the managing partner actually used my first
name.”
    “ What drew you to Wall Street in the
first place,” Beckie said.
    “ In a word--money,” he said. “I wanted
to make barrels and barrels of it.”
    “ Did you succeed?”
    “ You’d be amazed,” he said. “But I
finally had enough and I got out--I was one of the lucky ones--some
guys never do.”
    “ Oh no,” Beckie said.
    “ Oh no?” Huntington said.
    “ You’ll never believe this,” Beckie
said, “but in all the confusion, when I dismissed the limo, I
forgot to take my big straw carryall out of the
backseat.”
    “ What’s in the bag?” he
said.
    “ Not much,” she said. “Just my
bathrobe, my gun and my dog--not to mention that I left the trunk
filled with about fifteen-thousand-dollars’ worth of designer
labels.”
    “ You sure you’re not just wiggling out
of our evening?” he said.
    “ No,” she said. “But may I borrow your
cell phone? I’m going to call my driver and have him meet me over
at my house--that way, I can set Mr. Boopers free and get him fed
and bedded down for the night before we head over to your place--do
you mind?”
    “ Not a bit,” Huntington said. He was a
banker, and used to the changing variables inherent in any
investment of time and energy.
     
    Chapter
20
     
    “ What do you mean I’m not allowed on
the property?” Beckie said.
    “ I mean just that,” the man in the
guard uniform said.
    They’d arrived to find the limo waiting
curbside at Beckie’s off-Wilshire Santa Monica residence, the
driver standing by the trunk. But they’d found something more--a
uniformed, armed security guard, his cruiser blocking the driveway,
his presence there to prevent her from entering the premises.
    “ But this is my home!”
    “ I’m sorry, lady,” the guard said,
handing her a card. “Here’s a number you can call to discuss the
details.”
    “ I’m calling the police and have you
arrested for trespassing!” Beckie said. “That’s my home--everything
I own is in there--my food, my clothes, my bed--everything! You
have no right to prevent me from entering!”
    “ I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly am--but
it’s my job to secure the residence--as to calling the police,
they’ll just tell you what I’m telling you--it’s all legal. The
paperwork has already been filed with the Santa Monica PD. However,
you’re certainly welcome to call them if it will help put your mind
at ease.”
    “ It looks like the fight is
escalating,” Huntington said. “Your husband just upped the
stakes--he’s just putting the division of property into the legal
arena. Beckie, there’s nothing you can do about it tonight--I know
it’s hard, but we can get you through this. I know a good lawyer we
can call in the morning.”
    “ What am I going to do?” Beckie said.
“Where am I going to go? What about Mr. Boopers? It’s past his
bedtime. He’s accustomed to sleeping at the foot of my
bed.”
    “ We’ll go to my place,” Huntington
said. “I can put you up in my bed--you’ll be safe and comfortable
there.”
    “ Oh no,” Beckie said. “I’m not sleeping
over at your place--we don’t even know each other. I’ll get a room
at the Westwood Marquis.”
    “ You don’t want to go to a hotel,”
Huntington said. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sleep
in the Suburban tonight so you can have the place to yourself--you
can lock all the doors and put the perimeter alarm on so you’ll
feel safe against any untoward advances you fear I