Not Quite as Advertised

3

AFTER DISCOVERING Dr. Dan had recently started seeing someone and then spending a fruitless hour studying color samples, Joss arrived home Saturday evening with a taupe-tan-rosy-beige migraine and a hissing Siamese who harbored plans to lacerate her while she slept.

Despite the imminent kitty threat, she retired to bed early after a salad and a TV movie. It had been an exhausting week, and she needed rest before she tackled any of the formidable redecorating. She snuggled under the duvet and crashed hard, waking Sunday to a feeling of invigorated well-being…that lasted three and a half seconds.

Then she winced in uncomfortable realization. Damn, she thought as she reached in her nightstand drawer for the plastic aspirin bottle, it was that time of the month.

Brunch with her mother.

Amazing how quickly headache threatened at the thought of seeing Vivian. Joss was tempted to cancel, saying she was under the weather, but mothers didn’t fall for that sort of thing—a lesson she’d learned when she’d claimed appendicitis in a fifth-grade attempt to gain more study time for a math test. Of course, she might’ve been more convincing if she’d been clutching her right side.

She stomped toward the shower, wondering what kind of mood the schizophrenic water heater would be in today, and ignored Dulcie’s feline smirk from the foot of the bed. The vengeful Siamese, a Christmas present from Vivian three years ago, obviously sensed that Joss’s day would be an experience comparable to yesterday’s shots. Though Joss and her mother lived in the same urban area, they only saw each other on the first Sunday of each month, meeting for strained brunches. Maybe it was an odd tradition, considering their busy schedules and the lack of effusive affection between them, but they were each all the family the other had.

Today was likely to be even less pleasant than usual, Joss thought as she washed her hair. Vivian had made her mark in the city as a high-end real estate agent, and she hadn’t been amused when her only daughter bought a house without once picking up the phone to consult her. You’d think she would applaud my self-sufficiency. After all, it was Vivian who had always endorsed striving for excellence and relying only on yourself. Viv’s motto was an adjusted version of the army’s—Be All You Can Be…because you can’t depend on anyone else. A cynical creed, perhaps, but one that had helped her raise a child by herself, while not only holding a job, but becoming something of a local expert in her field. Vivian never accepted anything short of excellence.

Still, Joss thought as she went to her closet and debated what to wear, just once, it might be nice if she and her mother went somewhere casual, where they could relax and catch up and…wait, she must be thinking of someone else’s mom. Normally, their monthly brunches were held at a French bistro near Vivian’s condominium, but there had recently been a change in chefs. Joss’s mother refused to set foot in the place until “culinary integrity” was restored.

Instead, Vivian had picked out the Well-Fed Waif, a place downtown that consistently garnered rave reviews. Joss could attest to the excellent service and food, but these days, she rarely visited the restaurant where she’d once been a regular. Located around the corner from where the Mitman offices had been, the Waif had been a favorite of hers and Hugh’s.

It would be heavenly to enjoy the restaurant’s eggs Florentine again, she thought as she pulled on a lightweight turtleneck. Of course, since it had been a place she and Hugh had visited often and since she’d seen him so recently, he was bound to cross her mind. But that just made today the perfect opportunity for an emotional exorcism. What better way to drive out lingering memories of intimate working dinners and shared glances over morning mimosas than a few hours with her mother?

“IF I’VE DONE SOMETHING to offend you,” Joss muttered, “just turn me into a dung beetle and get it over with.”

Vivian paused in her small talk with the Versace-clad hostess standing behind a stained-wood podium. “Who are you talking to, Jocelyn?”

The universe. “Nobody.”

“Mumbling isn’t very well-bred,” her mother reprimanded.

Neither was the four-letter word that had sprung to Joss’s mind when she’d entered the Well-Fed Waif and spotted Hugh Brannon. He sat at a corner table near the decorative fireplace, across from a gentleman who looked about Vivian’s age. Obviously the cosmos was having a little joke at Joss’s expense.

Hugh. He’s everywhere you don’t want him to be.

At least he wasn’t with a woman. Joss was over him, but that didn’t mean she was in a hurry to find him wooing a date at their old table.

Vivian took in the conservative art, the strains of violin overhead and the fresh-cut flowers hanging in glass wall vases, then allowed a small smile of approval. “This place is acceptable.”

Geez, Mom, contain your exuberance—what will people say?

Truer to form, Vivian frowned suddenly. “I’m not pleased with the wait, though. If I’m to lunch with clients here, I need to know we’ll be seated a bit quicker. You don’t waste the time of Important People.”

The hostess looked down, busying herself with straightening the reservation book and a basket of mints, clearly abashed, even though Joss and her mother had arrived mere minutes ago.

Vivian had that effect—making people feel their best was inadequate. She would’ve had da Vinci stammering that of course the Mona Lisa needed a wider smile, and he didn’t know what he’d been thinking! In real estate, Vivian was such a whiz at finding fault with property that by the time her client made an offer—well below asking price—the grateful seller was ready to agree to anything just to offload the dump.

Joss watched as her mother glanced around the restaurant again, not evaluating the setting itself this time, but looking to see if she knew anyone and whether there were any noteworthy individuals present. “Noteworthy” to Vivian wasn’t just someone with enough money to potentially buy or sell in her specialized area of town—although that helped—but anyone with status in the community. Financial security and respectability were what a twenty-year-old and pregnant Vivian had been denied when she’d shared the news of her pregnancy with her fiancé. He’d backed out of the wedding, which was only weeks away, and the appalled McBrides had threatened to disown their daughter if she didn’t put the baby up for adoption, convinced single parenthood would ruin the life they’d envisioned for her.

Vivian had vowed to raise the perfect daughter all by herself, refusing her parents’ help when they softened a couple of years later. Instead, she’d busted her butt to make money, and as far back as Joss could remember, her mother had taken every opportunity to rub elbows with those who had local prestige—business owners, philanthropists, the deputy mayor. Even now, Joss caught occasional glimpses of what a younger Vivian must have been like, facing abandonment with the determination to prove she was Someone.

“Jocelyn! Do you know who that is over there?”

Nine times out of ten, the answer to this question was no, but Joss dutifully followed her mother’s gaze, anyway. You have got to be kidding me! For a horrible second, she thought her mom meant Hugh, which would be bad because Vivian wouldn’t like finding out her daughter had been involved with a man for almost a month and hadn’t mentioned him; much less introduced him. Then Joss realized Vivian meant Hugh’s companion, which, come to think of it, was just as bad if it meant Vivian wanted to say hello.

“That’s Stanley Patone,” Vivian said, emphasizing Patone as if the single word should draw the same social recognition as DeNiro, Madonna or Brad and Jen. Then came the dreaded words, “We simply must go over and say hello!”

Life as a dung beetle was looking better all the time.

Reminding herself that she’d survived plenty of encounters with Hugh Brannon and that this would be brief, Joss held her head high and followed her purposeful mother.

Hugh saw them first, doing an astonished double take. Dallas was big enough that they seldom bumped into each other without expecting it beforehand, and he had to be wondering about the petite woman who was so obviously Jocelyn’s mother barreling, in her own graceful way, toward him. Joss had always found it oddly poetic that she looked exactly like a younger version of Vivian, with no visible genetic trace of the father she’d never met or the grandparents who had balked at her existence.

“Joss!” Recovering quickly, Hugh rose from his chair. Joss could have sworn jeans were against the Waif’s dress code, but he looked so good in them, who would complain? “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You two know each other?” Vivian shot a questioning glance over her shoulder, clearly displeased that Joss hadn’t armed her with all pertinent data.

“I had the privilege of working with her sister at Mitman,” Hugh answered, flashing one of his patented charming grins at Joss’s mom. “She didn’t tell me she had a sister.”

As the smiling and portly Stanley Patone—whoever he was—got to his feet, Vivian shook her head. “Young man, do I look like someone who’s easily won over with glib flattery?”

Easily won over? Vivian McBride? Ha. Suddenly Joss regretted never having brought Hugh to a Sunday brunch. It would be fun to see him squirm.

Unfortunately, being Hugh, he didn’t.

Instead, he grinned. “No, ma’am, but it was worth a shot. If you’re anything like your daughter, I need all the help I can get.”

Vivian actually chuckled before turning to Stanley, taking his hand in hers. “It’s so nice to see you again. Perhaps you don’t remember, but we met briefly—”

“At the Fosters’ garden party in June,” the man finished for her. With his self-conscious expression and a bulky-knit sweater that exaggerated, rather than flattered, his girth, Stanley Patone was less polished and more endearing than Viv’s usual Important People. “How could I forget? The mosquitoes were Jurassic-size, but you were enchanting.”

“Aren’t you a dear! Allow me to introduce my daughter, Jocelyn McBride.” As Joss shook Stanley’s hand, Vivian added, “This is Stanley Patone. Of Patone Power Tools.”

Any chance they made wallpaper steamers? Joss nodded obligingly. “Of course. Nice to meet you.”

Stanley sighed. “You’ve never heard of us, have you? No, it’s okay. Too few people have, but Hugh here tells me he can change all that.”

Next to her, she noticed Hugh fidget. Clearly, Stanley was teetering on the brink of an ad man’s worst nightmare—the prospective client letting another agency know he was looking.

Regaining his composure, Hugh smiled smoothly. “It’s practically criminal to be sitting in here on such a gorgeous Sunday morning talking business, I know, but I’m afraid that’s what we’re doing. We’re grateful you lovely ladies stopped by and broke up the monotony, though.”

Translation: You should be going now, but really, you wouldn’t want to stay anyway because our conversation is dreadfully boring. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with.

With a wide isn’t-this-a-small-world smile, Vivian placed her hand on Stanley’s arm. “You know, Jocelyn’s in advertising, as well. She’s building that up-and-coming Visions Media Group.”

Joss winced inwardly at her mother’s version of the truth, which ignored the fact Wyatt Allen had been steadily growing his respected company long before Joss arrived, needing a job after the Mitman fiasco. She did her part, certainly, but she couldn’t take single-handed credit for the success Wyatt had been seeding for years.

Stanley gestured toward the two empty chairs. “We’ve neglected our manners. You will join us, won’t you?”

“Absolutely!” Vivian stepped around the power-tool purveyor to squeeze into the far chair against the wall. “It would be our pleasure.”

Joss fully expected Hugh to fume over this turn of events, but when she glanced his direction, he looked almost amused.

“Allow me.” He pulled her chair out, which would have worked better if she hadn’t been trapped between Hugh and the chair. “You smell great. Dior?”

She nodded.

“I always loved that perfume on you,” he murmured as he helped seat her. “You remember the night—”

“So what’s good here?” Joss asked heartily. She remembered many nights. And wanted to discuss none of them.

Vivian stared across the table as though her daughter had grown another head—one with last year’s haircut. “Jocelyn, I thought you said you’d been here. Often.”

“Y-yes. But not in a long time. Maybe the menu’s changed?” Avoiding Hugh’s gaze and what was sure to be a smirk, Joss edged her chair closer to Stanley’s side of the table.

A discreet beeping came from inside Vivian’s handbag—none of this belting out Beethoven’s Fifth for her, thank you very much—and she smiled in apology. “I know it’s horrid of me to keep the cell on during a meal, but one of my properties is in a bidding war, and the buyers have until six o’clock this evening to outdo each other. Jocelyn, just order for me, won’t you?”

Great. Because she so needed the added pressure of potentially screwing that up. But by the time water glasses had been shuffled and the waitress had come by to add the newcomers to the ticket, Joss had regained her composure. As long as she focused on Stanley, she’d be fine. She listened intently while he filled her in on his company.

“We were the ‘house brand’ for Tucker Home and Hardware for ten years, and turned an extremely lucrative profit,” Stanley explained. Extremely lucrative certainly clarified her mother’s interest in the man. “But Tucker’s management didn’t fare as well, so when the chain folded, Patone became its own line. We’re free to sell everywhere now, but that won’t do us any good if no one knows who we are. We don’t have nearly the name recognition of, say, Black & Decker.”

Joss nodded. “So you’re looking for marketing solutions?”

“And solutions he will have,” Hugh promised. “I’ve been brainstorming with some of the best minds in our creative team all week.” He might not look actively furious about her intrusion, but he was definitely sending out a back-away-from-the-client vibe. “With any luck, this time next year, I’ll be taking home an ADster for the work that brought Patone to the forefront of consumer consciousness.”

Joss’s jaw clenched at the dig. She hadn’t crashed Hugh’s brunch with the intention of preying on his client—not that she had enough information on Stanley to bid for his business yet, anyway—but she didn’t have to help Hugh win the account for himself, either. “Mr. Patone—”

“Stanley, please.”

“I just had an interesting thought. What about a female ad executive? If you go with Kimmerman, I’m sure Hugh can recommend someone wonderful.”

Hugh folded his arms across his chest. “Interesting is one word for it.”

She kept her attention on Stanley. “Most power-tool consumers are men, and you, the manufacturers, are all competing for the same buyers. But imagine if your campaign was aimed at women. Bring in that market, and you’re a leg up on the competition already.”

Under his breath, Hugh mumbled something about ads in pink fonts, but not loudly enough to alienate his potential client. “We can certainly explore that idea if you’re interested, Stanley, but I have to say, ignoring your target market is risky at best. Practically speaking, how many women do we think spend their disposable income on power tools?”

He turned to Joss, his eyebrows raised in an expression of mild curiosity. “You, for instance, just as a demographic example. Would you know the difference between a skill saw and a reciprocating saw?”

One of the fundamental rules of gunning for an account was demonstrating familiarity with the product, and everyone at the table knew Joss had never heard of Patone before today. Hugh’s attempt to discredit her was simple, but delicately handled. An allout assault on her credentials would seem like bullying, and besides, she sensed he saw her more as an annoyance than a real threat to be feared.

“No, I guess I’m not the reigning expert on saws. Or drills, or wrenches.” Eyes innocently wide, she smiled at Hugh. “I admit it. When people think tool, you’re what comes to mind.”

He blinked, and she turned away quickly, appealing to Stanley. “But I did spend hours yesterday in home-improvement stores and can give you a female’s perspective, if you’re interested. I can also tell you that the popularity of home-makeover shows can be used to attract women.”

She outlined a few of her thoughts, expounding on how and why women could be a valuable asset, especially when they were Christmas and birthday shopping for the men in their lives.

Vivian returned to the table, zipping her cell phone back into her purse. “What did I miss?”

Ever charming, Hugh rose to pull her chair out, but his smile was strained. “Joss has been sharing her…wonderful ideas.”

Smiling inwardly, Joss cast a small sidelong glance in Hugh’s direction. Do you fear me now? Good.

After the food arrived, all talk of anything requiring power cords and drill bits was put on hold, and Vivian genteelly monopolized conversation with real estate anecdotes. But when the check came, she reverted immediately to their earlier topic. “You should take Joss’s card with you.”

Joss almost flinched. As much as she wanted to succeed, especially if she beat Hugh in the process, there was something a little embarrassing about being twenty-eight and having your mother try to direct your business endeavors.

But Stanley was nodding. “I had already planned to ask. Young lady, you had some terrific ideas, and I’ll be in touch with you this week.”

Avoiding Hugh’s gaze, she reached for her purse. Despite the few times this morning she’d wanted to cringe over Vivian’s “help,” Joss would be thrilled to have Stanley as a client. After everything that had happened in the past week—being told over a breakfast her agency had paid for that Neely-Richards was going with someone else, dealing with the EWA agent, not winning an ADster—Joss craved that adrenalized buzz of feeling like a winner.

“I’d love to hear from you,” she told Stanley. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

She’d intended to tackle her kitchen wall today, but now she was torn. It ate at her to be surrounded by unfinished projects, but maybe her time was better spent researching and working up ideas for Patone instead. When Stanley called, she would be ready. What a coup it would be for Visions to sign him out from under Kimmerman!

Although Wyatt had assured her he wasn’t disappointed with the second-place standing Friday night, her boss had been uncharacteristically subdued. Joss loathed the sensation of having let someone down, and this was her chance to make it up to him. She couldn’t wait to get to work Monday morning.

In hindsight, she’d been in a slump lately, but her luck was about to change. She just knew it.

4

“WYATT, I HAVE GOOD NEWS!” Actually, what Joss had was more like a tentative lead, but why split hairs? Besides, she’d embraced the power of positive thinking.

Her boss lowered the coffee he’d been pouring into his Real Ad Men Get the Job Done in Under Thirty Seconds mug and gave her a wan smile. “Actually, I have some news of my own. Maybe I should go first.”

Her breath caught. His mood lately hadn’t been in her imagination. “What is it?”

“Let’s talk in my office.” Did he suggest that because they’d be more comfortable there, because no one arriving at work would walk in on the conversation, or because he was stalling?

She followed him past deserted cubicles. Joss was always among the first to arrive, but today, mocked at home by windows that needed new treatments and a kitchen decorated in Early Whorehouse, she’d left her place even earlier than usual. By the time she and Wyatt entered the glass-fronted presidential suite, she felt almost queasy with nerves.

“I was planning to tell the entire staff today, but maybe telling you first would be good practice,” he said ominously, making her wonder if he suffered some ailment she didn’t know about.

“There’s something wrong?”

“Not technically. In fact, it’s even good news.” Yeah, he looked like a man bursting at the seams with joy, what with the way he sighed heavily and fiddled with the container of pens on his desk instead of meeting her gaze. She lowered herself to the buttery-soft leather chair across from him and experienced a moment of déjà-dread. The knots in her stomach were tied in the same formations she’d felt when she watched a newscaster tell the city about Mitman’s fraud.

Oh, God, surely she wasn’t about to lose another job?

“I’m proud of Visions,” he told her. “Proud of each of my employees, especially you. But I don’t have your youth and energy, and I’ve been receiving buyout offers that are becoming more and more difficult to turn down. So Penelope and I decided to take one of them…. I’m retiring. I’ve worked hard over the last thirty years, and I’ve put in hours my wife was a saint to tolerate. But now we’re going to spend time together before we get too old to make the most of it.”

The words sank in slowly, in the same manner that water drained drop by excruciating drop in her clawfoot tub. “You sold Visions?”

“Legally, it’s set up more as a merger—with me stepping down from the merged company. You, the staff, make Visions what it is, and you all have brand-new jobs waiting for you. With raises.”

She liked the job she had. “And who will be paying these raises?”

“Kimmerman and Kimmerman.”

Oh, no. Working for Hugh Brannon’s employer? No, no, nooo.

Wyatt must have sensed her—bone-deep hatred of the idea—reluctance. “Joss, you’re a talented young lady with a great career ahead of you. With your drive and ambition, you should be at a company like Kimmerman. They’ve got the resources to take you places.”

“Mitman was a top company with prestige and national recognition, too.” That had been one of the things that had drawn her to the position—even Vivian had been impressed. Until the slightly less impressive criminal suit.

Wyatt shook his head. “I know Rob Kimmerman and his son, and they’re running an honest ship over there. Of course, I can’t make you accept a job with them, but they’ll need someone like you to ease the clients through the transitional period. And it’ll be something of a transition for your colleagues, too.”

Joss bit her lip. She didn’t think Wyatt was trying to emotionally manipulate her, but she came preprogrammed with a sense of obligation to others’ expectations. She didn’t want to fail him. Besides, smart women didn’t voluntarily chunk their incomes when the ink on their mortgage papers wasn’t quite dry.

A raise would certainly make it easier to refit her kitchen with a stove not off by sixty degrees and wallpaper that didn’t say “hourly charge includes condoms.” Then there was the new water heater she needed, the sink that needed to be replaced in the laundry room so that she wasn’t in danger of a small domestic flood every time she ran a load of darks, her bedroom floor upstairs that dipped ominously if you stepped beneath the ceiling fan…

“When are you telling everyone else?” she asked, trying to get her bearings.