My crazy family Christmases from childhood were starting to feel very tame in comparison.
We only had to work a half day Thursday, so when it was time to shut down for the holiday, I stuck my head in Owen’s office door and asked, “Are you ready to leave?”
He looked up at me, frowning. “Is it that time already?”
“Five minutes past.”
“I still have a few things to wrap up. You don’t mind heading out by yourself, do you?”
Not only did I not mind, I was relieved. I needed to do some shopping, and I had that meeting with Philip. “That’s okay. I’ve got stuff to take care of. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay. See you then.” He’d already returned to his work by the time I turned to leave his office, and he didn’t seem to notice when I left for the day, judging by the fact that he didn’t respond to my farewell as I passed his open office door. He was lost in his project and probably would be for the rest of the day, if not all night.
Shopping for Owen’s foster parents looked like it was going to be quite the challenge. Owen himself had to ask me for advice to get them anything more personal than a gift basket or a charity donation in their name. Their apparent wealth and grandeur made them even more difficult to shop for on my budget.
After looking at and rejecting any number of items as I browsed the stalls of the Union Square holiday market, I came to the conclusion that when it came to finding gifts for people like that, it took either a lot of money or a lot of personal effort. Personal effort I could do. I had a nearly finished cross-stitch sampler somewhere in the closet, so if I got a nice frame and buckled down to work, I figured that I could have it done and offer a truly personal gift. There was an ornate metal frame at one of the stalls that seemed ideal. I bought Owen a nice wool muffler that would go well with his coat and that had blue flecks in it that matched his eyes. It seemed a safe enough gift, personal without being too personal and demonstrating that I had some concern for him.
Then I had to hurry to transform myself into an oil baron’s daughter before Philip came over. I wore a slim skirt, one of Gemma’s silk blouses, and my own red stiletto shoes, now unenchanted. I made liberal use of all those Mary Kay makeup samples my mom kept sending me and teased and sprayed my hair to within an inch of its life. All I needed was a fur coat to complete the effect, but that I’d have to do without. Philip’s reaction when he came over told me all I needed to know about how effective my transformation was.
“Hi, hon,” I drawled. I hooked my arm through his and added, “Now, let’s go find us a place where I can invest all of Daddy’s money.”
“Is this really what an oilman’s daughter would be like?” he asked, his eyes popping enough to remind me that he once was a frog.
“No, not based on the few I’ve met, but it’s what people around here will expect from TV shows and movies.”
“Very well, then. I propose we take the subway, as it’s faster than surface transport.”
I didn’t think your typical oil baron’s daughter would set foot on the subway, but he was right about the speed issue. The company that should have been his was located on the far tip of Manhattan, below Wall Street. Its building looked like it might have gone all the way back to Colonial days. Philip stood on the sidewalk in front of it for a moment or two, gazing up at it. I tried to imagine what this must be like for him, to see his family business about a century later in a very different world. Then he took a deep breath and opened the front door.
The interior was full of heavy antiques that had probably been new when the building was built. Philip approached the receptionist’s desk and said, “I have a two o’clock appointment with Mr. Meredith.”
She checked her computer. “Ah, you must be Mr. Smith.”
I remembered myself just in time to keep from giggling. I could see why he might want to use an alias when checking out his family business, but he could have found one that sounded a little less like an alias. Come to think of it, I needed an alias of my own.
The receptionist gave me a sidelong glance. “And is Miss…”
“Sue-Ellen Hunt, of the Texas Hunts,” I drawled, sticking my hand out at her. My alias wasn’t much better than Philip’s, as Sue-Ellen had been a character on Dallas and Hunt was the only family name associated with oil I could think of off the top of my head. If someone Googled the name, they’d certainly get the Texas oil associations.
She eyed my hand for a second before shaking it, then she said to Philip, “Miss Meredith will be with you in a moment.”
