Free Tote Bags and Toe Tags by Dorothy Howell Page B

look through the peephole in my front door. Amber waited outside, holding a garment bag and a small duffle.
    â€œHow is he?” she asked, when I let her in.
    â€œSleeping,” I said.
    â€œStill?” she asked, looking troubled. “He doesn’t have a head injury, does he? Did the doctors tell you to watch for signs of a concussion?”
    Was Ty lying in my bedroom, dead? At this very moment? And I hadn’t noticed? Jeez, what kind of girlfriend was I?
    Good thing I didn’t go into the medical field.
    â€œI was just about to check on him again,” I said to Amber, which was a total lie, of course, but one I figured needed to be told.
    â€œWhere should I put these?” she asked, hefting the garment bag and duffle a little higher.
    I pointed behind me as I hurried down the hallway. “In there. It’s really packed. Just shove them in as best you can.”
    Ty—thank goodness—was breathing steadily, so I closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Amber was plugging Ty’s phone into a wall charger she must have brought with her.
    â€œI hope his phone wasn’t damaged in the crash,” Amber said. “His entire life is in this thing.”
    â€œWant some Chinese?” I asked.
    She eyed the take-out cartons for a second, then shook her head. “Can’t. Too much to do.”
    I followed her to my front door.
    â€œI’ll let Corporate know Ty won’t be in tomorrow morning,” Amber said. “There’s some mix-up with his auto insurance company about the Porsche. I’ll get it straightened out. Other than that, everything is handled. I’ll have all the details for Ty as soon as he needs them.”
    â€œYou rock,” I said.
    Amber gave me a grateful smile and left.
    Â 
    First-date sex was good—not that I’ve ever done that myself, of course—third-date sex was great—no comment—and so was make-up sex, but so far I liked car-crash sex the best.
    Ty woke up early the next morning well rested from his twelve-plus hours of pain medication–induced sleep, which benefited me in the best way possible—twice. I told him Amber had brought his clothes over last night, but he said he wasn’t going into the office today. Then he fell back to sleep while I showered, dressed, and left for work.
    My afterglow was humming along nicely as traffic crawled south on the 405, so when my phone rang and I saw Mom’s name on the caller I.D. screen, I didn’t even cringe.
    â€œSomething terrible has happened,” Mom said when I answered.
    My afterglow shattered. Oh my God—Juanita. I’d forgotten all about her.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked, visions of having to dive across three lanes of traffic and head to the morgue to identify her body bouncing around in my head.
    â€œThe caterer I want is already booked elsewhere,” Mom said.
    The caterer? What the heck was she talking about?
    She huffed irritably. “I explained to them in detail how important this dinner party was, but they absolutely refused to work with me.”
    â€œWhat about Juanita?” I asked.
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œDid she come to work today?” I asked, and managed not to scream into the phone. “Did she call? Have you heard from her at all?”
    â€œYou were supposed to handle that, Haley,” Mom said. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in you.”
    Great.
    â€œI’m working on it, Mom. I’ll let you know something soon,” I said, and hung up.
    With one eye on the freeway traffic, I scrolled through my address book—which was against the law, I know, but this was an emergency—and punched in the phone number of Mom’s accountant.
    The old geezer who handled Mom’s trust fund was nearly ninety and acted as if the money were his . He also seemed to think there was some sort of accountant–client confidentiality, like lawyers and priests,