Page 33 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
Not the point right now.
I shake my head, clearing it of any other questions besides the most important one. “Are we even now?”
I expect Piper to meet my snort with a yes. What I get is a dark glower. She stands, keeping me trapped in her mesmerizing stare the entire time she walks toward me.
“I’m only getting started, Archie,” she growls before planting her hands on the counter opposite me and leaning closer, all while not breaking eye contact. “Sign that deed, so I don’t have to make your life miserable the way you have mine. You didn’t pay for this house. You have a dozen others you could live in, andMom deserves more than betrayal for putting up with Malcolm for ten years.”
Her eyes flicker with a searing amber that sends a prickle of heat over my skin. “I’m not signing the deed until I’m good and ready. I’m not scared of you, Piper.”
That last part is a complete and utter lie. Judging by the smirk on her face, she knows it.
“You should be.” She pushes away from the island and saunters past me. “If you think tampering with your smoothie is bad, you may want to consider carefully everything you do today. And tomorrow. And for the next eleven days. You should be very,veryscared.”
Her menacing voice simultaneously freezes me in place while also sending blood burning through my veins. Fear? Excitement? I’m not entirely sure. I can’t move until I hear her on the stairs. Even then, I wait until I’m sure she’s not coming back down before I dart to the table.
She’s left her smoothie behind, and I drink it down in two gulps. I look at the spot where she’d been standing and swipe the back of my hand across my mouth.
“Delicious.”
The smoothie is good, too.
Chapter 13
Piper
Tuesday morning, I board my bus with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Not just a spring, a bounce. I’m bouncing. That’s apparently what holding back laughing hysterically does to a person. The look on Archie’s face when he drank the smoothie I’d made for him would have been enough to make me laugh. But picturing what’s coming next for him has me close to kicking my feet and giggling.
I take a seat next to an older woman who I recognize from yesterday. Like me, she waited for the replacement bus, then walked the block from the bus stop to Valente. She entered through a side door while I went in the main entrance. Today, to avoid another DJ Risky encounter, I take the seat next to her. And maybe it’s my good mood, but I’m feeling chatty, and she looks friendly.
“Hi,” I say as I sit. “You work at Valente, right?”
Her smile is like a warm hug. “Si. Yes.”
“I’m Piper. I started an internship in the design department.”
“Julia,” she says with a heavy accent.
Between my broken Spanish and her much-better English, we spend the next twenty minutes getting to know each other. She’s an accomplished seamstress who had her own shop inGuatemala before moving to LA almost twenty years ago. Now, she uses her skills to do piecework at Valente. Her eyes are warm and friendly, and when she pats my hand, I remember my grandma, who died when I was ten.
For the first time since being back in LA, I’m home again.
After getting off at our stop, we walk the block to Valente together, still talking. Inside, before we go our separate ways, I ask, “Will I see you on the bus after work?”
“I hope. My arthritis is acting up.” She holds up her hands and curls and uncurls her fingers. “I may be late tonight.”
My questioning look prompts her to add quietly, “I have to do two hundred seams before leaving.”
Before I can respond, Julia waves goodbye and hurries away.
I’m not bouncing anymore. It sounds as though Julia has a quota to meet, but I thought Valente paid by the hour, not by finished piece. Piece work usually results in longer hours and lower pay. Plus, workers do the same thing over and over for the entire day, “piecing” together the same parts of a garment before handing it to the next person, assembly-line style, to do their part.
It’s mind-numbing work—from what I’ve heard—and a lot of designers I’ve studied don’t like it. At least the ones who want to honor and respect the entire production of their work, not just the finished garment. Which is the kind of designer I want to be, and the kind of designer I thought Luca Valente was.
The thought troubles me all the way to the sixth floor where the designers work, and where I’m faced with other worries. As soon as I cross the threshold into the office I share with the other three interns, an air of competition hits me with the force of a hot, dry wind.
Unlike Julia, who was warm and friendly the second I sat next to her, my coworkers are only vaguely polite as I cross theroom to my workstation. If today is similar to yesterday, there won’t be any connecting conversations, only clipped small talk.
We’ll all be applying for the same position at the end of this internship, so I guess it makes sense we’re not insta-besties. That fact doesn’t change the reality that I could use a friend.
