Tutoring Tucker. Debrah Morris
his tip. She was not in the mood. “And it’s only noon.”
“What happened?” Tiggy folded her arms on the table.
They ordered, and Dorian relayed the story while they waited for their food. She even included the part where she had to accept Malcolm O’Neal’s paltry wad of twenties. A minor humiliation really, compared to the major disaster her life had become. Tiggy was sympathetic but on a tight allowance herself. Her trust fund was a mere shadow of Dorian’s, and since she wasn’t exactly the creative type, Tiggy had little to offer in the way of suggestions.
“Is there a problem with the Cobb salad, miss?” The waiter hovered at Dorian’s elbow.
Yes, there was a problem. She hadn’t wanted a salad. Compelled to scan the right side of the menu, she’d chosen the least expensive item listed. Then she’d lost her appetite when she realized for the first time that many people probably couldn’t afford anything on any menu. She’d had a disconcerting flashback to the night she and her friends had cut through an alley and seen a dirty man digging through the restaurant’s trash cans. They’d shuddered, joked and gone on their irresponsible way. Why hadn’t they given the poor soul some money?
They’d had more than enough.
“I’m just not hungry.” She pushed the plate of salad a few inches away. “Bring me another glass of wine, please.” If she had more cash, she’d order the bottle. Normally, she didn’t try to drown her troubles, but a little judicious soaking wouldn’t hurt.
“Do you want a to-go carton, miss?”
“Of course not.” How gauche to wag leftovers home from a restaurant. Then she thought of the empty shelves in her imported French cabinets. There wasn’t much in her restaurant-size chrome refrigerator, either, and she wasn’t about to spend any of her precious dollars on groceries. She smiled up at the waiter. “On second thought, why don’t you box that salad up for me, sweetie?”
“What are you going to do?” Tiggy asked after the waiter returned with the wine and removed the neglected salad.
“Eat leftover Cobb salad for dinner, I guess.”
“No, what are you going to do for money, hon?”
“I don’t know. Care to buy some jewelry?”
“I wish. But I can’t.” Tiggy glossed her lips with a tiny wand. “I’m living pretty close to the edge myself these days.”
“What am I going to do?”
Tiggy shrugged. “I heard one of mother’s maids say she lives on oriental noodles when she runs out of money before payday. You could probably buy a whole case of those for eighty dollars.”
“Maybe I’ll hole up in my apartment until this nightmare is over.”
“Yuck. How fun is that? Oh, no! Does this mean you won’t be flying to Cozumel with us after all?”
Dorian groaned. A large group of her favorite friends were planning a week at a resort on the exotic Mexican isle. This time yesterday, she’d assumed she would be sipping frozen margaritas on the beach alongside them. Now that seemed unlikely. She had never questioned their loyalty, but how would they react to her current state of forced insolvency? If their acceptance was based on her net worth, might they dismiss her as easily as they had the hungry man at the trash can?
She longed for Tiggy’s reassurance but didn’t dare share her misgivings with anyone, not even her best friend. Better to keep doubts hidden. They would grow in the light of day and eat away what was left of her shriveled self-confidence, like so many insect-devouring plants.
“Are you kidding?” Maybe derision would hide her insecurity. “I couldn’t finance a trip to a mud bank on the Brazos at the moment.”
The tinny strains of “The Eyes of Texas are Upon You” jangled from Dorian’s bag. She checked her phone, and Malcolm’s private office number appeared on caller ID. “What?” she asked without preamble. “Did Granny Pru discover your duplicity and demand you take your eighty bucks back?”
She leaned against the banquette and listened. Her financial manager swore he had the answer to her unprayed prayers. When he finished, she said, “Now I know you’re kidding. Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t have a sense of humor. Which means you think I would seriously consider such a ridiculous suggestion.”
Malcolm refused to take no for an answer and threw in a crack about her temporarily desperate circumstances. He made her promise to return to his office immediately. Short on options, Dorian reluctantly agreed and placed the phone back in her purse. “I have to go.” She stood, picked up the plastic box of salad the waiter had placed on the table and fished in her purse for one of the precious twenties.
Tiggy tossed back her long, dark hair and placed a couple of bills in the check folder. “Let me get this. Save your money. You might need it.”
“Thanks.” She’d often picked up the tab for Tiggy and others in her circle. So why did she feel strange accepting her friend’s gesture? Did those who had to accept charity feel even worse? A guest at many fund-raising galas, she hadn’t once considered the recipients of those funds.
“What was that all about?” Tiggy asked. “Good news I hope.”
“Depends on your definition of good.” The two women model-walked through the dining room, turning male heads as they passed. “Are you ready for this? Malcolm claims he found me a job.”
“Already? Good Lord! Doing what?”
“Apparently some redneck I saw in his office today just won the lottery, and he wants someone to teach him how to be a man of culture. Kind of like Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle. Only reversed.” At Tiggy’s blank look, she added, “My Fair Lady? The movie? Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn?”
“Oh, yeah. And he’s willing to pay you to tutor him?”
“Apparently so. He wants someone to take him from roughshod to refined. To help him buy the right clothes, choose the right home, teach him to appreciate fine wine and gourmet food. According to Malcolm, he wants to learn to dance at balls and understand art and literature.”
“That sounds like your kind of job.”
“No, what it sounds like is a job for a freaking fairy godmother. Too bad I’m fresh out of magic wands.”
Stepping out of the cool restaurant into the bright midday sun, they crossed the parking lot and stopped to talk beside Tiggy’s Porsche.
“Malcolm says the man wants to be a real gentleman, so he can move with confidence in civilized circles. Apparently, he wants to understand how the millionaire mind works and use his nouveau riches for the good of his fellow man.”
“How noble,” said Tiggy sarcastically. “He’s a regular philanderer.”
“Philanthropist,” Dorian corrected absently. She was still trying to understand what kind of perverse fate made a poor man rich and a rich woman poor. Life simply wasn’t fair.
“So, do you think you’ll take the job?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should,” Tiggy urged. “Sounds like fun.”
“Fun would not be my primary motivation. Fairy godmother or not, I guess if an incredibly lucky bumpkin needs someone to spend his money and teach him the difference between a shrimp fork and a demitasse spoon, Dorian Channing Burrell is his woman.”
“You go, girl!” Tiggy used her keyless entry device to unlock the car door and ducked inside. “By the way, how much did he win?”
Dorian sighed. That was the biggest irony of all. “Fifty million dollars.”
Chapter Two
Briny Tucker glanced