Sideways

by Lisa Hughey

  Unfortunately it had been a really slow news week and the press was digging in on her and the app. They’d accused her of being elitist and trying to create a master race because of the cost of her program. When she’d set it up, she’d thought the buy-in fee of ten thousand dollars a year was a good figure. Not small change but also not exorbitantly expensive. But they were making it sound like she was stripping people of their life savings to find a good match.

  She’d been in contact with her CEO about damage control. They’d done several press releases over the past two days, announcing that their background checks were strict and defending the buy-in cost.

  They still had some people demanding refunds. And the fame seekers had gone on talk shows detailing horror dates, which anyone who’d ever been on a date through an app knew was bound to happen, even with all the safeguards she had put in place.

  On the other side, she had a file full of testimonials from satisfied customers. But the loud and squeaky complainers got more coverage. Unhappy customers sold airtime, not happy couples.

  She had people coming out of the woodwork to do interviews about her. They’d dredged up the article that D’Andre’s girlfriend, Elise, had done last year about her friends, the Billionaire Breakfast Club.

  And she was getting crap about that too.

  #boycottfairytalebeginnings #boycottfairytale #elitistapp was trending on Twitter. The company’s Facebook page had been spammed by trolls writing horrible things about her.

  It honestly threw her off. People lied about things all the time. She knew that better than most. It was the reason she’d started the app in the first place. To give people a high level of comfort and confidence about their prospective partner.

  They had done their best to eliminate undesirable people who misrepresented themselves. They did extensive background checks, credit analyses, and social media audits to make sure that the person was credible and to weed out people who were married or in a relationship or looking to swindle money from unsuspecting clients. They wanted clients who were serious about monogamy and finding a life partner. But nothing was foolproof.

  People were angry and most of that rage was directed at Tracy. Even if the company shut down tomorrow, which she had no intention of doing, she would be fine.

  The company was hers. She had a fierce sense of pride for what she’d built. And Esmerelda was not going to take that away from her. Dammit.

  Tracy headed back over to the Speakeasy for lunch.

  Her brain hurt.

  It had been a long three days and she was ready to get back home.

  She sat on a stool at the bar so she could order a glass of white wine and enjoy her lunch. Or at least try. She chose the last stool on the left and slid onto the seat.

  A gust of cool air rushed over her. She looked up, thinking she must be sitting under an air conditioning vent but there wasn’t one nearby.

  “Oh, you probably don’t want to sit there,” said the manager, who according to the nametag was named Phoebe. “That’s Hamish’s seat.”

  Tracy shrugged and moved down one, curiosity getting the better of her since she hadn’t seen anyone nearby. “Who’s Hamish?”

  “Our ghost.”

  She nearly spit out her chardonnay. “Excuse me?”

  “I know. I felt the same way when they told me that the ghost of the artist who used to own this building was here, but there’s no denying that Hamish is hanging around.”

  Tracy eyed the stool. A ghost? “I’ll just go sit over there.” She waved to the other side of the restaurant. “Bye, Hamish.”

  Tracy sat at the high-top table she’d occupied the first time she’d come here.

  Phoebe swung by. “The usual?”

  “That works.”

  Phoebe hustled toward the kitchen and Tracy pulled out the extra burner cell and dialed her brother. She was tired of waiting for someone to get back to her.

  He answered on the first ring. “Who is this?”

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  “What are you doing? We shouldn’t have any contact right now. I’m trying to salvage my campaign.”

  That hurt but she let the rejection roll off. She was going stir crazy in Colebury. “Let me come help.”

  “No! I need you to stay out of the media. Stay hidden and don’t get caught. How did you leave town? Please tell me you didn’t take your Tesla.”

  Her electric car was an understated white. And while there were definitely more electric cars in the Northeast than a few years ago, the Tesla would stand out in the wilds of Vermont.

  “I rented a car.”

  “Under your own name?”

  Jeez, he was treating her like an idiot. No wonder Esme had left him.

  “I had a friend do it.”

  Even if she’d done it herself, she would have used an alias. She liked to travel a lot. And the press was unnervingly interested in her life even though she wasn’t the politician. Maybe because of that article last year about her friends, the BBC. But she’d put together a pile of aliases over the last few years. In the past that had worked just fine.

  “Great. Don’t tell me what it is.”

  “I’m in—”

  “No. I don’t want to know.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “Trust me, we need you out of the picture so you can’t do any more damage.”

  That hurt. But she still wanted to help.

  “I can—”

  “Seriously, stay away and stay hidden. We’re in major damage control mode. Esme is threatening to tell the media about you-know-what unless I give her money.”

  That bitch.

  And of course, that right there was why she was never honest with her boyfriends. And if she wasn’t honest, how could she ever find a partner? Intimacy was difficult when one partner was holding back. She’d never been able to trust anyone enough to share their family secrets.

  Speaking of money. If he wanted her to stay away, she was going to need more. “Listen, I need some cash. Can you wire me money?”

  “Figure it out, Trace. I don’t have time to deal with your petty issues.”

  She’d hardly call not having money a petty issue.

  “Don’t use your credit cards, don’t use your cell phone. Just stay off the radar until we can get a handle on this fiasco.”

  “But—”

  “And you need to shut down that matchmaking app before it causes any more trouble.”

  What?

  Fairy Tale Beginnings was her business. She wasn’t about to shut it down. It was her baby. The one business idea she’d conceived of and implemented on her own. She’d used the skills of New Wins Tech to set it up, but the app was all her. Giving people their fairytale and happily ever after was her dream, embedded in her psyche ever since she was thirteen. Getting rid of the app would be like cutting off her arm. The lump in her throat had grown to the size of an overly large bridal bouquet. But she couldn’t get out the refusal fast enough.

  “I am not shutting it down.” Her company wasn’t just her. She had employees and other businesses that relied on her business doing well.

  “Don’t call again.” Thomas was brutal. “Don’t come home until the media furor has died down.” Then he abruptly hung up.

  He hung. Up. On her.

  She frowned at the phone in her hand.

  She wasn’t about to shut down her app. She’d matched plenty of couples with no problems. The reality was that the app wasn’t one hundred percent effective. Nothing could be. But she had a high success rate. As a matter of fact, there were entire Instagram pages devoted to Fairy Tale Engagements and Fairy Tale Weddings portraying couples who were engaged or married because of meeting on her app.

  She’d done that. Helped them find their fairy tale. Her!

  Hopefully this whole thing would blow over in a day or two. A freak summer snowstorm, or a shakeup at the Red Sox, or some other political scandal would come along and dominate the next news cycle. Right?
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br />   Phoebe placed her plate of a pile of pulled pork, gouda cheese and cherry BBQ sauce on a bed of lettuce on the wood tabletop. “Trouble?”

  Her entire life had gone sideways.

  “Minor inconvenience.” Groomed in the art of distraction at an early age, Tracy gushed about the food. “This looks delicious. As always.”

  Phoebe put the check on the table. “Whenever you have a chance.”

  The bite of delicious food soured in her stomach. She was running out of money.

  Anne, her waitress from the first day she was here, rushed into the dining room, buzzing by Tracy and heading for Phoebe. “Sorry I’m late. My professor kept us after again. Is there time to grab a plate before I start?”

  Phoebe glanced around. “Make it quick.”

  Anne sat at the bar and wolfed down a fancy-looking slider. Then bussed her plate and came to collect Tracy’s payment and tip.

  Tracy carefully counted out her money. Thought about the cost of the motel room and the cost of food.

  This shit needed to wrap up soon. She was running out of cash.

  “What did you eat?” Tracy asked curiously. She’d been in a rut, ordering the same thing every day. Maybe it was time to try something new.

  “The special.” The waitress counted out her change. “We get to eat for free. It’s one of the perks of working here. Plus they pay pretty well.”

  An idea sparked as she considered her dwindling pile of money. After all, she ate out all the time. She could handle waitressing. Right? I mean, how hard could it be?

  When Phoebe walked by, Tracy stopped her. “Excuse me.”

  “Problem?”

  She was pretty sure the Help Wanted sign was still in the window. “Do you still need workers?”

  Phoebe eyed her, her gaze skimming over Tracy’s short-sleeved silk button-up shirt and cropped khaki trousers. “Are you asking?”

  There was enough incredulity in her voice that Tracy bristled. “I am.”

  “Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?”

  “No. But I eat out a lot.” She gave her a brilliant smile.

  Phoebe laughed. “The job is a little more complex than that.”

  Tracy said earnestly, “I am a fast learner, and I won’t eat much.” But not having to pay for all her meals would totally help out. If she was careful about money it could last her while she was in exile. She might feel a little guilty since she wasn’t planning on staying long.

  But once she was done, she’d never see these people again. And while she was here, she could help them out as well. After eating here for a few days, she knew that their customer traffic was uneven but the food was top-notch. They just needed a little marketing boost.

  Phoebe eyed her. “What other experience do you have?”

  “I’m excellent at marketing.” She left off image consulting. That would bring up questions she didn’t want to answer. And really, she didn’t think they needed an image consultant or a spin doctor. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been suggesting to the waitstaff that you might want to put your social media handles on the menu. That way people can tag you when they tweet or post about their experience.”

  Phoebe shuddered as soon as Tracy mentioned social media.

  Well, it was their loss if they didn’t want to increase their visibility.

  Phoebe shook her head skeptically. “I’m not sure you’d be happy here.”

  Her soft words were like a sharp knife to the heart.

  Tracy Thayer wasn’t used to begging for anything. She’d pretty much been handed life on a platter and she’d taken that all for granted. “Please,” she asked. “I could use the money.”

  Phoebe sighed. “When can you start?”

  “Right away,” Tracy shot back.

  Phoebe eyed her one more time. “Okay. Trial basis.” She seemed to understand that Tracy had big problems and could sympathize with her predicament.

  “Yes!” Tracy pumped her fist in the air.

  “What’s your name?” Phoebe asked.

  Oops. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She shouldn’t use the alias she’d been using with the debit card. Right? But then she remembered that she’d brought Cee-Cee. That last-minute impulse was paying off. Although if she burned through Cee-Cee, she potentially wouldn’t be able to use her again.

  “Cee-Cee.” When she was little, after the shock that transformed her world, she’d created an imaginary persona. Cee-Cee was the girl she wished she was. She’d spent hours imagining Cee-Cee’s life. She’d even had a fake identification made. And Cee-Cee would totally work in a restaurant.

  “You sure about that?” Phoebe raised an eyebrow, as if she could see through Tracy’s lies.

  Tracy channeled her imaginary identity. “My full name is Cecilia, but I prefer to be called Cee-Cee.” That seemed to appease the questions that lingered in Phoebe’s gaze.

  “Can you start tonight?”

  “Sure.” Tracy fought the urge to wipe her damp hands on her khakis.

  Phoebe sized her up. “Small for the T-shirt?”

  A T-shirt. She hadn’t worn a cotton T-shirt since sailing camp in sixth grade. “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a shot.” Phoebe nodded as if she’d made up her mind. “Oh, wear jeans. And comfortable shoes.”

  Ugh.

  Jeans? “Is there a clothing boutique close by? I need to buy a pair of jeans.” She wondered if Lily Pulitzer had some cute ankle crop jeans she could pair with the quite unfashionable T-shirt.

  Phoebe snorted. “A boutique?”

  Tracy nodded. She didn’t know what was so funny. They had to buy their clothes somewhere. If she wasn’t mistaken, Phoebe’s clothes could totally have come from a boutique in New York. Her pants and shoes were premium quality. The T-shirt couldn’t be helped.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, honey. Welcome to the country. Try the tractor supply store.”

  Tractor supply?

  What had she gotten herself into?

  An hour later, Tracy arrived at the tractor supply store and pulled into the gravel and dirt parking lot. Outside the main building, around the side, were riding mowers, plow attachments and some giant V-shaped things.

  Inside was an assortment of tools that she had no idea what they were for. A giant scythe, hanging on hooks on a pin and hook wall, looked like it came from a horror film. Other giant tools were displayed in haphazard fashion. Tracy skirted the wall of large weapons and a line of shiny new lawn mowers in a straight row.

  There was even a section for camping. She shuddered. Cook stoves and propane and sleeping bags. People were not meant to sleep on the ground.

  Another section was filled with seed packets and small trowels and hand shears and had a sliding door that led outside to the gardening nursery section.

  In the back of the giant warehouse, she found the clothing section. A wall of jeans and shorts folded in stacks, T-shirts, plaid shirts, and tank tops with odd sayings like “Farm-er (fahr-mer) noun. A person who is outstanding in their field,” “I don’t need therapy, I just need to drive my tractor,” and “Never underestimate a woman who loves goats.”

  Goats?

  Tracy looked at the sizes for the jeans and had no idea what to wear. She was flummoxed.

  Colt

  Colt came into the tractor supply store to pick up some new gardening gloves. He’d torn a hole in his old pair yesterday.

  He never expected to see the woman from the Speakeasy again. She’d unexpectedly invaded his dreams the past few nights. He’d awoken aroused and annoyed.

  Kind of an amazing combination.

  She smelled really good. Like a mix of roses and patchouli. He inhaled her scent and then cursed himself. Her skin was the color of the blush roses that had been a hallmark of his eponymous restaurant in Boston. The roses, his mother’s favorites, had been on every table in the small dining room and on the maître d’ stand.

  He should walk the other way. Head to the garden section and forget ab
out her. But he was inexplicably drawn to her. “You look confused.”

  She jolted. She’d been so busy staring at the wall she didn’t hear him approach. “Oh!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I typically wear European sizes.”

  He sighed. “Of course you do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  This woman was the epitome of wealthy and entitled. European sizes for fuck’s sake. “Why are you buying clothes at the tractor store?” She was about the same size as his sister Maria. He reached out and grabbed the same waist size his sister wore. He held out the jeans and she gasped at the scars on his hands. Years in the kitchen had left him with scars and burn marks. Most of the time he forgot he had them. A hazard of his job.

  His former job.

  “Oh my gosh, what happened?”

  Up close he could get lost in the cornflower of her eyes. The shards of darker blue in a starburst reminded him of a kaleidoscope and he found himself wanting to edge closer. She’d forgotten to put on that polished, insincere demeanor and the difference felt striking. Like he was seeing into her like no one else ever had.

  That didn’t mean he wanted her seeing into him. “That size should work.”

  She took the hint and let her question drop. “I appreciate your help.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from asking again. She triggered something in him. A curiosity that had been missing for a while. He’d been subsisting on a bland diet of self-reflection and recrimination for months. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m going to work at the Speakeasy,” perky and peppy, she chirped.

  What? He couldn’t help it. The unexpected mirth started in his belly and spread through his body, his diaphragm contracting as he laughed in great big loud guffaws.

  “I don’t see what’s so amusing,” she said haughtily.

  He wiped away the tears that had streamed over his cheeks. “Have you ever worked a day in your life?”

  “Of course. I’ve been working since I was fifteen.”

  He’d bet his Iron Chef trophy that she’d never toiled in a restaurant. “In a bar?” The Speakeasy was more than a bar but the distinction likely was lost on Little Miss European sizes.