by Tessa Bailey
“How did your friend’s bachelorette party turn out?” I ask. “Now I remember. You were at O a while ago, weren’t you? I don’t think you booked the party with us?”
Amanda’s cheeks turn slightly pink. “It got a little out of hand,” she laughs. “Too many people for O. We ended up at a piano bar in Back Bay.”
Plausible. After all, why would Anterdec send a marketing exec to mystery shop their own property? And the report was from a firm called Consolidated Evalu-Shop. Hmm. But still, she asked some unusual questions. I make a note to have Carrie research the issue.
Thankfully, Amanda says nothing about Joe’s outburst last time we met.
I run swiftly through today’s presentation, truncating it. Amanda and Nick are quick studies. I’m relieved; there’s nothing quite as fine as realizing you’re in a room with people whose minds can pattern-match and analyze so that you can speak in shorthand.
Amanda picks up the jewelry ad and studies it. “Is this you?” she asks curiously.
“Well, yes,” I answer. “We just needed someone for the mock-up shot.”
“Chloe, you would be perfect to represent O’s image,” Amanda says, looking at me closely now.
I laugh. “Oh no, no, thank you, but I don’t think so.”
“I agree with Amanda. You are perfect,” Nick says. “I want to go ahead with this, and I want you to be O.”
“Really, I’m flattered, but I couldn’t,” I stammer. “We need a professional model for this. And even if I thought it would work, I couldn’t. I’m going to be gone for a while, soon. I’m taking, well, some…personal time.”
“I’m sending this all to finance,” Nick says. “I want you reassigned to the branding project as soon as you can hand off your retail design responsibilities. Amanda too. Chloe, you’ll report to me.”
“But I just said no to being the face of O.” I’m calm and clear. No.
“Then if you won’t be the face of O, you’ll be the brains behind the operation,” Nick says in a voice as firm as mine. His face is blank, those sapphire eyes piercing me.
“I already am.”
The placidity cracks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Touché. You and I will work on the branding. I want you driving the train.”
He stands up, and Amanda and I follow. She begins gathering up all the materials on the table.
“Thanks, Chloe. This is going to be so much fun. I’ll call you.” And she’s out the door.
I’m left looking at Nick.
And he’s looking back at me.
“How long do you think it will take to clear your schedule?” he asks.
“Nick, you can’t just pull me out of daily operations of O like this! I have projects there, and there’s no one who can just take over—and I love my job!” I pause. “Plus, I’m cutting back my hours starting in the next few months.”
He looks at his watch. “Let’s go to lunch and we can talk about it.”
That does seem like a good idea.
I lift my white leather bag off the back of the chair, and as I am slinging it over my shoulder, the bamboo handle comes unhooked. The bag drops, bouncing off the chair and hitting the floor, and of course it lands sideways. Most of what’s inside it spills out, makeup and pens and perfume, aspirin, keys. And—oh please no—my lipstick vibrator rolls under the chair.
Nick is on one knee, gathering coins. I kneel down too, and reach for the little vibrator but he gets it first.
“That’s a big lipstick,” he comments, holding it up.
“Economy size,” I smile brightly, reaching for it.
“Is this one of the mock-ups of O cosmetic packaging?” he asks, pulling the hot pink cap off.
“No!” I say, but too late.
Nick looks down at the USB charger he has just uncapped. Then he looks at me, puzzled.
“Yes!” I backtrack. “Yes, that’s a mock-up, yes it is. Part of my next presentation. Phase Two.” I hold up my hands like a TV game show announcer. “‘The Power of O’ is what we are calling it.”
I’m babbling.
I hold out my hand.
He smiles.
“I’ll keep it with the other package ideas,” he says, and drops it in his pocket. “You can tell me your plan for it at lunch.”
My plan for it was to reduce stress while caught in rush-hour traffic tonight. But maybe it would make a good new product line. Driving accessories! Is that dangerous?
‘O’verdrive.
I love my job.
* * *
This new little restaurant in The Fort shopping complex looks completely full, but somehow they find a table for Nick, tucked into a corner.
“It’s the Anterdec table,” he explains. “As long as James McCormick’s not in town, I can always get in here.”
“Tell me about Charlie,” I say. “What’s he doing now?”
He looks at his plate of grilled fish. “Charlie’s trying to figure out what he wants to do when he grows up. He’s on his third career and his second divorce. He’s actually been living with me for a few months, though he’s out of town right now. I have a lot of extra room with my kids all away at college.”
“I can’t believe that…even as a kid, he always knew he wanted to be a lawyer. He was going to be a public defender, help people who had nowhere else to turn. What happened?”
“He got into Yale Law School, but the pressure was too much. He took a leave of absence and never went back. Then it was culinary school, and now it’s some website selling surfing equipment for kids.”
“From Yale to surfer dude,” I say with a smile. “Only Charlie could pull that off. How’s it going?”
“Not well. Kids don’t have credit cards.” He sighs. “At least culinary school has come in handy. He makes dinner every night. He’s pretty good, too.”
“And your kids are all in college?” I know I should turn the conversation back to work now, but I’m just so curious. “You don’t look old enough to have—”
Shut up, Chloe! I scream inside my babbling mind.
My face must betray my thoughts, because Nick just laughs. “I’m flattered.” He won’t look away. I’m trapped, that electricity between us from earlier arcing, rising up. “My son went to NYU for summer session to get a jumpstart on his freshman year. Couldn’t wait to flee to New York. My daughters both work on campus at their colleges here in Boston. It’s quiet at home.”
“What’s it like to have an empty nest?” I blurt, back to safer territory, because a quiet home means an empty bed and….
He thinks for a second, as if dazed. Does he feel it, too?
“I’m at Anterdec because they acquired my company. I had a branding consultancy called FireBrand. Built it from the ground up. We did about $25 million annually, 37 employees. The McCormicks agreed to keep my whole staff.”
This is not the answer to my question.
“It was a great opportunity for everyone,” he continues. “Some of my people have really moved up fast, working for Anterdec subsidiaries all over the world. They learned the business from me, at FireBrand, and now they’re succeeding on a global level. I’m so proud of them.”
Still waiting to see where this is going.
“But I used to see everyone every day, and now I don’t. They’re launched. I just get the occasional email when they have a problem, or want to share some good news.”
I get it. “Two empty nests?”
“Exactly.”
“Ouch.”
He laughs, looking up from the rim of his wine glass to meet my eyes. “More like freedom. So close…”
Funny, though. He doesn’t look very free.
There’s a little bustle at the door. I look up to see Jessica Coffin headed toward our table, with three apparent clones behind her. It’s like the Neiman Marcus display window mannequins woke up and went to lunch. They are followed by the maître d’. Aren’t they supposed to be following him?
“Chloe!” Jessica says, looking at Nick. “H
ow are you?” It’s unclear who she is asking.
He stands and offers his hand. I introduce them, and then hesitate. Jessica helped to make O the success that it’s been. In business, you tap into the thought leaders to get your idea to go viral.
In the spa business, you find the equivalent, which means Jessica Coffin and her always-for-rent social media accounts.
Except she deleted her Twitter account a while ago and has been suspiciously silent. Hmm.
“You work for Andrew McCormick,” she says to Nick, her mouth twisting oddly as she says Andrew’s name. “I met you here, at some charity event.”
Right. I don’t know why I thought I had to explain the identity of a handsome, successful Boston man to Jessica Coffin. It’s her business to know. Might even be in her DNA.
She turns back to me, a tiny smile on her lips. “Chloe, didn’t I hear you’re about to be a mommy? That’s just so exciting. I guess we won’t be seeing you at restaurants like this anymore. From now on, you’ll only be eating—what are they called?—Happy Meals.”
She leans forward to kiss my cheek, then moves off, brushing against Nick as she goes, although there is plenty of space between tables.
He doesn’t seem to notice her. He is staring at my stomach.
Chapter Eight
Nick
A giant, overstuffed blue nylon bag masquerading as one of my daughters appears at the door on this fine Saturday morning. Morning-ish. I look at the clock. Noon. Although for her, that’s the crack of dawn.
“Are you selling dirty laundry? If so, that is a terrible business idea.”
“Dad!” Elodie whines, the tip of her nose and one wide eye appearing around the large lump. Her long, glossy brown hair is pulled into a ragged top knot and she’s wearing flannel pajama pants that are entirely too long, covering feet in flip flops.
Very familiar flannel pajama pants.
“Are those mine?” I grunt, as she thrusts her clothes at me.
I take the load from her arms and she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling like the T and cotton candy.
She also ignores my question.
“Where’s Uncle Charlie? Is he here?”
“No. He’s meeting with his business partner. They’re trying to trademark the phrase ‘Surf the Internet.’”
That gets an eye roll.
“But how wonderful you’ve come home to visit your dear old dad. What’s on the agenda for our relaxing hours together?”
“Is the washer empty? I have literally nothing left to wear and it’s ’80s karaoke night at school and Brandon is the emcee.” She’s standing in my doorway, phone in her hands, both thumbs flying. She is not even looking at the screen. How do they do that?
“’80s karaoke. So you’re Googling the lyrics to ‘With or Without You’? ‘Every Breath You Take’? ‘Born in the USA’?”
She’s nonplussed. “What are those?”
Let’s move on.
“How about a game of chess? Or we could play Candyland. You always loved that when you were little.”
I get a head toss and a sigh, as she drags her clothes into the laundry room off the kitchen. I accept my role as utilities provider and start up the espresso machine. Having my own washer and dryer has turned out to be a young adult insurance policy. At least once a week, I get their undivided attention for a few hours.
Especially when they know they can raid my pantry, too.
Elodie comes into the kitchen and snipes the shot of espresso I’ve just finished making. “Almond milk?” she asks, rummaging in the fridge.
“I don’t know how to milk an almond. Do they have udders? Besides, last month you drank nothing but coconut milk.” I point to the half-gallon I bought for her this week.
“Daddy! That was last month. Now I need the manganese.”
“Manganese?”
“It’s a mineral.”
“I know what manganese is, Elodie, but why do you need to drink it?”
She waves her hand in the air with an air of sophistication that reminds me so much of her mother, Simone, that I freeze, blinking into dead air.
“The college cafeteria refuses to stock almond milk now because of protests.” She settles for cinnamon and downs the espresso shot like tequila.
“Protests?”
“Almonds use too much water and some agricultural climate change group thinks we need to stop drinking almond milk because of a moral imperative.”
“Almonds have morals?”
“Daddy, stahp.” She draws out the word like a Minnesotan, then hoots.
Followed by the evil eye.
“You look different today,” she announces, peering at me. Of all my kids, she’s the one who looks and acts the most like Simone.
“Different?”
“Happier.”
I scowl.
“Ha! That’s what you normally look like. You have Resting Jerkface.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “What?”
“It’s like Resting Bitchface, but for men.”
I just peer at her. Sometimes I think I’ve produced progeny from another planet. Where do they come up with this stuff?
“You frown all the time, Dad! All the time. You never, ever smile.”
I give her the fakest grin I can muster.
“Now you’ll give me nightmares.” She grabs a reusable Trader Joe’s bag and starts stealing…er, liberally sampling from my pantry. “Where’s the good peanut butter?”
“Why don’t they make peanut milk?” I ponder, making myself an espresso and sprinkling cinnamon on top.
“Ewwwwww.”
“And almond milk is any better?”
She just sighs. Most of her tenth grade year involved nothing but sighs. I am fluent in Sigh. This one means, Shut Up.
Now that I think about it, they pretty much all mean Shut Up.
“How’s Brandon?” I ask.
Elodie has been half-chasing, half-ignoring Brandon for the past six months. I pretend to rifle through my day’s mail, giving her covert glances. If you look a young adult straight on while asking a question designed to elicit more than a Shut Up sigh, you will never get actual information out of them. You have to be an information ninja. Eye contact shuts down the speech center.
Better to act distracted, because then they actually try to get your attention. Make them work for it.
“He’s great! We hooked up last week and—”
“You went out on a date?”
“Went out, hooked up…you know.” She blushes.
Oh, no.
Sometimes, my covert information tactics work too well.
Danger, Will Robinson. We’ve ventured into sex revelation territory. Where’s the shotgun when I need it? I take a deep breath and let it out.
Sounding a little too close to Sigh.
“Dad, stahp!”
“What?”
“I know you don’t like Brandon.”
“How can I not like him? I’ve never met him!”
“What was that sigh?”
“It was an old man deflating. Sometimes we need to let some air out.”
“EWWWW!”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Says the man whose favorite bedtime book was Walter the Farting Dog.”
I start laughing at the memory. That really is one of the best children’s books ever.
She peers at me again. “Who is she?”
I choke on my coffee. From farts to women. Elodie can change a topic like no one’s business.
“Aha!”
“Aha, what?”
“That was a shot in the dark. So there’s a she? Finally?”
My front door opens. We peer around the breakfast bar to find another enormous bundle of laundry invading my home. It’s an infestation.
“What are you doing here?” Amelie yells, clearly offended by Elodie’s presence.
“Talking with Dad about his sex life.”
“I do not have a sex life!”
&nb
sp; That came out wrong.
True, but wrong.
“That’s the problem!” Elodie fumes.
“The problem is that you are hogging the washer and dryer, El,” Amelie says, frowning at the tornado of clothing poured out on the floor in the hallway outside the small laundry room. She gives me a pouty face and says, “Make her take turns.”
“You are not five any more. You are both twenty-one. If you need your dear old dad to mediate when it comes to laundry, how are you going to get anywhere in the business world?”
Her green eyes flash behind old-fashioned fifties-style glasses, big and rectangular with dark rims. Like her sister, she’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms, but her feet are stuffed into unlaced Doc Martens.
“It’s that woman you saved!” Elodie shouts, triumphant. She and her twin share one of the thousands of twin-looks that I can never decipher.
“Who?” Amelie looks as confused as I feel, which is small comfort.
“Dad is dating. He has a girlfriend!” Elodie is majoring in Folklore and the Spoken Tradition at her progressive college. It’s a self-crafted major. Highly employable.
“I do not have a girlfriend.”
Amelie turns her full attention to me. Elodie’s plan is clear to me: distract her sister so she can hog the washing machine.
“You do look different,” Amelie says with caution. “More relaxed. Happier.”
“Regular sex will do that,” Elodie announces.
I close my eyes and—yep.
Sigh.
“I am not—” I was about to say having regular sex, but that crosses a line. “I am not dating.”
“You should be.” Amelie scowls at me. She and Elodie are fraternal twins, and everyone in our lives has said she’s the feminine version of me. I wonder if I look that fierce when I’m studying a project at work.
“You need to ask her out.” Elodie has found the good peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, and a batch of Mint Milanos I thought I’d hidden carefully in the pantry, behind the black beans. Guess not carefully enough.
Amelie grabs the cookies and dips one in the peanut butter, then the Nutella, and stuffs her face. I turn away and make myself another espresso. Whatever happened to post-softball-game ice cream cones and fevered discussions about Justin Bieber?
This has veered into dangerous territory. When you become nostalgic for Justin Bieber, it’s bad.