Wooing Cadie McCaffrey

by Bethany Turner

  “Okay, what is going on?” I asked—of anyone, really.

  “Has she been in there yet?” another voice called out from behind me.

  “Oh! Good morning, Cadie.” This time it was Anna Alvarez, at the door of the accounting suite.

  I took the last few steps toward her. “I know. I’m apparently late.” Being late wasn’t like me. Having no idea what I was late for was as unlike me as you could get. “Did something not get put on my calendar, or—”

  “It’s not that,” she replied, shaking her head. “In fact, if you want to give me a few more minutes I’ll get this all cleaned up so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the small crowd that had gathered. I had no idea what was happening, but I was growing increasingly certain that I hadn’t missed a meeting and increasingly suspicious that the accounting suite was ground zero of a zombie outbreak.

  “I’d like to go to my office, please,” I said, forcing a smile for the benefit of all present. My tone, however, was stern enough to get Anna to move out of the way.

  What awaited me on the inside of my usually meticulous department sure smelled better than I imagined a zombie outbreak would smell, but apart from that I wasn’t able to make a lick of sense of any of it.

  Daffodils. Real live daffodils. Hundreds of them. In the accounting department. In November, for goodness sake! Not in pots or vases, but somehow laid out as if there were a field of them.

  “What in the—” Darby’s voice came up behind me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight in order to look at her. She groaned and softly muttered, “Will.”

  Of course it was Will. Over the course of the past week or so, I’d received gifts from him every single day. Silly, insignificant, easy-to-ignore gifts like candy and CDs of music he’d picked out and burned for me. But a field of daffodils? That was a little more difficult to ignore.

  I have to admit, the sight was pretty spectacular. My mind began to play wonderful tricks on me, as boring gray desks transformed into sunny hillsides, and various filing cabinets became multilevel rock gardens. Against all reason and better judgment, I found myself wanting nothing more than to invite Will into the accounting department for a picnic.

  “Gordon? Are you okay?” I heard Helene ask.

  I didn’t pay much attention until Gordon’s emphatic assurances that he was fine were interrupted first by a sneeze that I’m fairly certain deposited Gordon’s lung onto Pam’s shoes, and then a horrible wheezing sound that made me wonder if I’d been right about that zombie outbreak after all. He hadn’t walked through the door. He hadn’t even fully passed by. But apparently something about cramming half the Flower District into the accounting suite had been enough to set him off.

  “Are you allergic to flowers, Gordon?” Helene asked in a loud, clearly enunciating tone—I suppose in case his face had just swelled past his ears.

  “No,” Darby whispered to me. “He probably just had some bad shellfish for breakfast.”

  I shot her an expression of warning, which of course was laced with a smirk that clearly stated, “I’m in management. Don’t you dare make me laugh right now,” and shooed her away so I could focus on Gordon.

  Right about then, Gordon began pointing to the fanny pack around his waist. Helene unzipped it and pulled out an EpiPen, which Gordon quickly administered with skill and ease. Soon after, the injection began working its magic and Gordon began apologizing to me.

  “Sorry, Cadie. My allergies are so bad, you can’t take me anywhere during the blooming season. This has happened a lot.”

  I grabbed his hand as the EMTs some quick-thinking individual had thought to call stepped off the elevator and approached with a stretcher. I only jumped a little upon discovering that if I’d had to differentiate between Gordon’s hands and Mickey Mouse’s right then, I’d have been at a complete loss.

  “Hey, don’t you apologize. I’m the sorry one. You just take care and let us know if you need anything. Okay?”

  Minutes later the crowd had dissipated, Gordon had been moved to someplace less allergenic, like Mount Sinai hospital, most likely, and the custodial staff had seen to transforming ASN back to our usual workspace—and a little less like Eliza Doolittle’s.

  “You have to admit,” Darby mused as we watched the final clusters get carted out, “that was pretty romantic.”

  “Romantic?” I scoffed. “I’m not sure Gordon sees it that way. Which reminds me . . . will you have Anna send him some—”

  “Balloons?” she asked, a sheepish grin on her face. “Surely you weren’t about to say flowers.”

  I giggled . . . and instantly felt bad about it. “I’ve never seen anyone’s face take on that Gumby quality before.” Poor Gordon. “What in the world was Will thinking, bringing so many daffodils in here like that?”

  She bent over and picked up scattered petals from the carpet. “In Will’s defense, I don’t think he was thinking.” She clutched the remnants to her chest like a bouquet. “He was only feeling.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to put that on the worker’s comp incident report.” I groaned and shook my head at the thought of how bad it was, and how bad it could have been.

  “You heard Gordon. He said you can’t take him anywhere in the blooming season. It could have happened anywhere.”

  “But the poor guy should have been safe indoors in November. Where did Will even find that many daffodils this time of year?” I asked rhetorically as we walked into my office, which was, mercifully, flower free. “And why daffodils? Daisies are my favorite. He knows that.” I caught myself focusing on the wrong thing. Although, really, what was the right thing? The fact that after all these years, he didn’t know my favorite flower, or the fact that we’d been broken up for weeks and he shouldn’t be sending me flowers at all?

  None of the above, Cadie. What matters is the way Gordon’s lips resembled the giant koi fish at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

  Darby shrugged. “There are greenhouses and such, right? And as for the why . . . I don’t know, but it’s kind of like in that one movie you love. Which one is that, where Ewan McGregor plays the younger version of the guy who played Daddy Warbucks? And his son is trying to sort out how many of his dad’s stories are actually true?”

  Recognition dawned. “Big Fish?”

  “That’s the one!”

  Ah yes. That was why I’d experienced a short moment of déjà vu while observing the seemingly endless array of yellow flowers. But there had been no time to place the memory once Gordon’s anaphylactic shock set in.

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “Not a chance. Will’s never seen Big Fish. Not exactly his type.”

  She shrugged again. “Be that as it may . . .”

  “Don’t you start!” I laughed. “It’s not romantic, Darb. I mean, was there a moment when I found myself getting caught up in the grandeur of it all? Sure.”

  “It sure smelled good.”

  I shut my office door and then turned around quickly to face her. “It was like he found a way to give me the gift of spring.”

  “And that isn’t romantic?”

  I sighed. Begrudgingly. “Okay, sure . . . it was romantic. But it was also kind of sad, actually.” I leaned back against the door. “He can’t heal all the scars of the past year by making the office smell good and copying Big Fish—”

  My mouth abruptly stopped working as I saw the image of the daffodils in my mind again. I walked over to my desk and picked up the CD Will had burned for me and slid under my office door the day before, to add to the collection of the six he had given me already, one for each of the six work days prior.

  “Is he doing some movie homage thing?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Think about it. We’ve got the potentially fatal Big Fish attempt, and the CDs, and the lifetime supply of orange Tic Tacs? There is no possible explanation for the Tic Tacs unless he’s trying to channel Juno.”

  “So he bou
ght you candy and made you some mixtapes. That’s not unique to the movies. I mean, aren’t mixtapes pretty much the soundtrack of our generation’s lives?”

  “Sure, sure,” I agreed, “but the cover art? I mean, it’s a little Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, don’t you think?”

  “Did he put any Manilow on the CD?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Just making sure he hasn’t gone completely off the deep end.” She winked, delighting as always in giving me a hard time about my musical tastes.

  I was used to it. “But what’s next? Is he going to storm the castle to keep me from marrying Prince Humperdinck? I’ve already been kissed. Otherwise would he be waiting for me on the pitcher’s mound?”

  “That wouldn’t make sense. Drew Barrymore was the one who had never been kissed, and she was the one waiting on the pitcher’s mound.” When I didn’t laugh, she smiled and added, “I love you, but you’re overreacting. He sent you flowers and candy and made you a mixtape. Eh, so he went a little overboard, but he basically just did what every guy trying to win back a girl has ever done.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. I’m sure you’re right. But I wish he’d stop. How am I supposed to move past him if he won’t get out of the way?”

  “McCaffrey, I need you in this meeting,” Kevin barked from the entryway to The Field.

  I’d known better than to go down that hallway. For about a month and a half I had carefully avoided that entire section of ASN headquarters. For the extra effort I’d received not only the satisfaction of limited interaction with Will but also the daily commendation of my Fitbit.

  “I’ve got some reports that need my attention, Kevin, but I can send Anna—”

  He crossed his arms and his brow furrowed. “Who’s Anna?”

  “Anna Alvarez. You know Anna.”

  “The intern?”

  Kevin Lamont was a brilliant man, but after working with him as long as I had, I was aware that he remembered the details that mattered to him. Those details received his complete focus while many others slid through the cracks. Those who understood such things said that his focus was part of what had made him one of the greatest basketball players of all time. I suppose that same focus had resulted in his rise to the top of sports broadcasting, but I couldn’t help but wonder if any of his teammates had ever found it as frustrating as I did.

  “She’s not an intern anymore, remember? I hired her to take over after Debbie left.”

  I could tell by the distracted look in his eyes that he wasn’t going to remember those details this time either.

  “Fine, bring her. It will be a good opportunity for her to learn some things. But she doesn’t have the experience to take this one and run—”

  “I’ll send Darby too,” I replied a little too eagerly.

  We’d been having the entire conversation about ten feet away from each other, with various ASN employees passing between us, but he quickly took a few steps to bridge the gap before quietly repeating, “McCaffrey, I need you in this meeting.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  He spun on the heel of his designer Italian loafers and returned to The Field. I, meanwhile, lamented the fact that I had not only let down my daily step goal—I had let myself down too.

  I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding all of the major Will Whitaker moments at ASN—no small feat considering every moment at ASN had seemingly been a Will Whitaker moment. He needed to sign off on the policies and procedures for his new expense account, I sent Anna. We needed to look at the budget for that week’s “Will Whitaker is the greatest thing to happen to baseball since catchers decided to wear facemasks” special, I sent Darby. The staff got together for drinks or dinner or celebratory cupcakes in the shape of magicians’ hats, I just went home. It had been working for me.

  Except it really hadn’t been working at all.

  I was exhausted. I was miserable. I was continually walking on eggshells. And I had missed out on far too many opportunities for free food.

  Ten minutes later, The Daily Dribble conference table was completely full, minus one empty chair that was reserved for a noticeably absent Will Whitaker.

  Hey, why should he be on time? It’s not like it was his meeting or anything.

  Oh, wait. It was totally his meeting. Completely, 100 percent all about him and how we could best thrust his goofy ears and shaggy head of hair on the world just a little bit more. Because it obviously wasn’t enough that ASN had begun sending him everywhere to cover everything. There were plans for him to be on the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl and drive the pace car at next year’s Indy 500. That, of course, was all in addition to his new seat beside Kevin and Ellis on The Daily Dribble and reruns of his Magician special, which seemed to run every hour on the hour.

  Yes, clearly the world was suffering from a Will Whitaker shortage and we simply had to do something about that.

  “Do you have a problem with that idea, Cadie?” Kevin asked, interrupting my mental snark session.

  Had Kevin Lamont taken to reading minds?

  “A problem?” I asked.

  “Yes, a problem. I just laid out the plan, and every other person at this table oohed and aahed and said they were on board, while you rolled your eyes and let out the biggest groan I think I’ve heard in my life. You’ve always been an independent thinker and I respect that about you. So, I would love to hear what it is about this particular idea that you object to.”

  Well, crap.

  A big part of me wanted to be completely honest and say, “Sorry, Kev. Wasn’t listening to a word you said. Not exactly sure what I rolled my eyes and groaned about, but you can be assured that all eye rolls and groans in the foreseeable future will have something to do with Will.”

  With a roomful of eyes on me, I was too proud for that, of course. Instead, I would answer in a generic, insightful way that would once again set me apart as an independent thinker, and not just a yes man to Kevin, unlike the rest of them.

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” I improvised. “I’m looking at it from all angles and trying to find the upside, but—”

  “But you’re having a difficult time overlooking the cost and how tight it could make the margin for the next quarter, until the dividends begin to roll in?” he asked, making my concerns sound much more legitimate than they would have if I’d been allowed to continue speaking.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “There you go again, kid,” he said, his smile conveying his approval. “Thinking the thoughts no one else thinks. Or at least that no one else dares to say.” He looked around the room, the smile of approval becoming a glare of discontent. “Cadie’s going to take lead on this.”

  Um . . . what’s that now?

  “So sorry I’m late, you guys,” Will called out as he rushed into the conference room and took his seat.

  “I hope the tardiness is for a worthwhile reason?” Kevin asked Will.

  “Yes,” he responded. “That is, if you call getting the commissioner’s office to confirm that the ‘Make Good, Do Good’ game is actually happening a worthwhile reason.”

  The entire room seemed to be holding its collective breath as Kevin prodded, “And?”

  “And . . . ASN has exclusive first run coverage rights.”

  Hoots and hollers erupted around the table, and Will just sat there soaking it all in, enjoying the praise. Kevin patted him on the back and then shook his hand in that same way Dr. Houseman shook Johnny Castle’s hand at the end of Dirty Dancing—after he’d been informed that Johnny had not, in fact, been the one to get Penny in trouble, and after Johnny and Baby had demonstrated that they could pull off the lift.

  The problem with the whole situation wasn’t everyone’s excitement. It wasn’t Kevin’s approval, or even the fact that Will was reveling in (admittedly extended) fifteen minutes of fame. The problem was that I didn’t think about Dirty Dancing all that often. Okay, mayb
e that wasn’t the problem. If anything, it just proved I had ultimately grown out of my teenage dreams of spending summers at Kellerman’s, learning to dance the pachanga. But because I didn’t think about Dirty Dancing all that often, my mind immediately flashed, without my permission, to a time when Will and I had talked a little bit about Dirty Dancing and a lot about romance.

  We had been at the wedding of my cousin Justine, and our senses had just been assaulted by my cousin Victoria. I had warned Will, as Victoria approached, that her life was fabulous, mine was a joke, and every other word out of her mouth had always been a lie. She wasn’t even a very good liar, but no one ever called her on it, so she just kept on lying.

  Will had called her on it. He’d caught her in her lies and stayed one step ahead of her the entire time. And when she told us she was about to marry Aimè Meunière, whose family supposedly owns most of the vineyards in France (mostly in Provence and Bordeaux, but they have the cutest little 20,000-acre estate in Côtes du Rhône, according to Victoria), he’d asked to see her engagement ring. An engagement ring she didn’t have—because of course the whole story was made up as an attempt to prove that I was pathetic and she was to be envied.

  It didn’t take much effort at all to transport my mind out of the boardroom and back to that church. To remember how warm and secure I’d felt as Will wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder from behind, as we faced the aisle and waited for the bridal party to oh-so-slowly make their way to the pulpit.

  “Do you know how many romance movies you’ve made me watch?” he asked. “I’ll tell you how many. All of them. And I’ve paid attention. There is rarely ever a ring when a man proposes in those movies. Do you realize that?”

  “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” I shrugged and leaned my head against his. “Also, you really think you’ve seen all of them? You’ve watched ten. Fifteen, max.”

  “There are more?” he asked and I giggled. “Well, anyway, the man just never seems to see it coming. That’s absurd. Don’t you think that’s absurd? Maybe the woman doesn’t see it coming, but how does the man not see it coming? I don’t think that’s how it happens in real life.”