by Ali Parker
But those plans went out the window as soon as I heard Dallas’s voice. Before buzzing him up, I took note of all the things I needed to quickly clean before he got to my door. The counters needed wiping, the floor needed a fast sweep, and, if I had time, I could fold the blanket that was messily strewn across my sofa.
I held the buzzer down to unlock the door. The light turned green, and I knew I had about a minute and thirty seconds to clean.
I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. I wiped the counters after spraying them with a lemon cleaner. Then I swept the areas of the kitchen floor that were the most crumb infested. After cramming the broom back into the linen closet, I folded the blanket and miraculously managed to light two pumpkin-scented candles before the knock at the door came.
I straightened up and fixed my hair. I’d forgotten that I was wearing leggings and a loose gray pullover with a hole in the armpit and the cuff of my right sleeve. It didn’t matter. It was too late to fix that. I gave my apartment one last look. Knowing full well it couldn’t get any better than this, I went to the door, unlocked the bolt and chain, and opened it up.
Dallas was standing there with one hand on Roy’s shoulder, who was beaming up at me.
“Hello,” I said a little breathlessly. “Would you like to come in?”
They both nodded, and Dallas let Roy come in first. Roy looked around before inhaling a deep breath. “It smells good in here.”
Dallas nodded. “It does.”
I pointed at the pot of spaghetti sauce. “I’m cooking. And the candles might be helping too.” I bit my bottom lip. I felt totally out of my element. I was not used to having anyone in my apartment, aside from Kate, and even then, I was a bit insecure about how tiny my space was. “Erm. Would the two of you like to stay for dinner? I have more than enough for the three of us.”
Roy looked wildly up at his father, who smiled down at him. “Can we, Dad?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out, Elise,” Dallas said.
I shook my head. “You’re not putting me out at all. Please stay. Spaghetti is one of those things that’s hard to make for one person, so I always make too much. Honestly, I would love the company.”
Dallas nodded. “Then we’ll stay. Thank you.”
I clasped my hands together. “Great. Um. Right. I have no kitchen table, so we can either eat on the sofa or at the counter. The sofa is more comfortable. And I hope you’re not particular about having your pasta in a bowl because I only have one.”
“One bowl?” Roy asked.
I nodded. I realized this was a stark contrast to his reality in a fancy house with everything he could possibly need at his disposal at all hours of the day. “Yeah. I live alone, so I don’t need more than one.”
“You don’t have people over?” Roy asked.
Dallas chuckled nervously and messed up Roy’s hair. “Stop asking questions, kiddo. It’s fine.”
“Roy, do you think you could help me finish off the pasta sauce?” I asked.
Roy nodded.
“Great,” I said, gesturing for him to follow me to the stove. “It’s in the final stages now. All it needs is a really good stir. Here, use this spoon.” I handed him a wooden spoon and lifted him up to put him on the counter. “Don’t lean too close. The stove is hot.”
“I’m not supposed to be on the counter,” Roy said.
I glanced over my shoulder at Dallas, who was leaning on my kitchen island with his chin in one hand. He winked at me.
I smiled at Roy. “Don’t worry. My house. My rules. You can go on the counter if I say it’s okay. Deal?”
Roy looked to his dad, who nodded. Then he looked back at me and grinned. “Deal.”
“Good. Get to stirring, mister. I hope you have strong arms. You have to keep it going for three minutes while the noodles finish cooking.”
“I can do it,” Roy said confidently.
“Perfect. You’re such a good helper. Thank you.”
“Can I do anything to help?” Dallas asked.
I shook my head and then thought better of it. “Actually, yes. There’s a bottle of red wine on the corner of the counter there. In that drawer,” I pointed to the drawer to Dallas’s right, “there’s a corkscrew. Do you mind cracking open the bottle? Wine glasses are in that cupboard.” Again, I pointed him to where he needed to go.
Dallas went about his task. He opened the cupboard with the wine glasses and smirked.
“What?” I asked.
He gave me a sly smile. “Only one bowl.” He paused and counted the wine glasses. “But seven wine glasses. I like your style, Billingsly.”
I blushed but giggled. “Well, you need different glasses for different wines.”
“Naturally,” he said as he twisted the corkscrew into the cork of the bottle of wine. He pulled it out and poured us each a glass. Then he brought me mine as I gave the noodles one last stir. “For the lady.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him. He clinked his glass to the side of mine, and we both took a sip. It was only then that I realized this might have been the cheapest bottle of wine he had ever tasted. Suddenly horrified, I looked at my feet.
Dallas smacked his lips together. “This is good. I like it.”
I shrugged. “It’s cheap.”
“Cheap wines are still good. In fact, they can be better than the pricey stuff. A lot of it is just branding. And people thinking they’re important because they buy a hundred-dollar bottle, rather than a thirty-dollar bottle.”
“This was fifteen dollars,” I said shyly.
He sipped it. “Doesn’t taste like it.”
“After tax.” I giggled.
Roy piped up from where he was stirring. “Has it been three minutes?”
I peered into the sauce. “Is your arm starting to hurt?”
“No,” he said defensively.
“Good, you’ve still got about forty seconds to go.”
He didn’t groan, but he looked like he wanted to.
I smiled. “You’re doing a great job. It’s that special touch that will make it taste even better. Trust me.”
Roy continued to stir, and when I met Dallas’s gaze, he was watching me. “What?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
I had to focus on preparing the meal for the last couple of minutes. I got out a strainer and dumped the noodles into it. Then I set out some parmesan cheese, as well as salt and pepper. I helped Roy down from the counter and scooped the noodles onto two plates and into one bowl before topping it with sauce. Everyone wanted parmesan, so I sprinkled it on top and gave the bowl to Roy.
“Go pick where you want to sit on the sofa,” I told him.
He carried his bowl over and sat down right smack in the middle. Adorable.
Dallas and I followed him in and took our seats. I slid off the sofa to sit on the floor so I could use the coffee table to put my plate and wine on.
“This is so good,” Dallas said. He had a glob of marinara sauce on his cheek, which caused Roy to erupt in a fit of giggles. “What?”
Roy pointed to the sauce, and Dallas wiped it off with his thumb. I was ashamed of myself as my thoughts wandered to dirty places again. Had Roy not been there, I probably would have just licked the spaghetti sauce off his face before kissing him.
And then working my way down, down, to his belt, and lower still—
“Where did you get this recipe?” Dallas asked.
“It’s Kate’s actually.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “She’s always been the cook of the family, and this is one of the only recipes I can duplicate without messing up. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Well, you have me convinced otherwise,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Roy chimed in. “It’s so good. Thank you for dinner, Elise.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. His manners were on point. Dallas was doing a good job raising him.
After our plates and sing
le bowl were practically licked clean, I collected them all and carried them into the kitchen. I heard Dallas turn on my TV and tell Roy to watch his cartoons while he talked to me. Then he joined me in the kitchen, carrying both our glasses of wine. He gave me mine.
“So,” he said, “I’ve arranged the phone meeting for tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“Oh, that’s soon.”
He nodded. “Is that all right?”
“Sure. I’m just a little nervous. That’s all. I’ve never done something like this before.”
“Don’t be nervous. It will go fine. Trust me. I’ll dial you in, and all you have to do is answer a few questions. At the end, propose your rate.”
“Right,” I said, trying to sound confident.
He saw right through me. He reached out with his free hand to touch my elbow. “It’ll be okay. I swear.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” he said, apprehension coloring his tone, “there is something you should know about my boss.”
“Oh great. Let me guess. He’s an egotistical asshole who hates women?”
Dallas snorted. “Where did you pull that from?”
I shrugged. “I just imagined my worst nightmare, and the words sort of came out.”
“Well, you weren’t all that far off.”
I swallowed. “What?”
“It’s my dad, Elise. Treo is still his company. I took over his office, but he still makes most of the hiring decisions, especially when it comes to our writers. I should have told you sooner, but I knew it would scare you off, and you’re too talented to let an opportunity like this pass you by. I’m sorry.”
“Your dad?” I breathed.
“He doesn’t know you’re the writer.”
“Which is why you scheduled a phone interview, rather than an in-person one?”
He nodded. “Are you mad?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek and then after a moment of deliberation, I shook my head. “No. I think you made the right call. I would have walked away if I knew it was him.”
His shoulders deflated a little like he’d been carrying a lot of weight on them by withholding this information from me. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Can I ask you something, Dallas? And please, tell me the truth.”
His stare hardened. “Anything.”
“Why are you helping me so much? I know this isn’t how you would treat any of your other writers.”
“No, it’s not,” he admitted. He took a sip of wine. I watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “It sounds pretty lame, but I just want what’s best for you and your family. I want to make amends.”
“Amends?”
“For who I was in high school. And how I treated you. I’m sorry for all of it, Elise. Truly.”
I put my hand on his chest. “I know. Thank you.”
The words, “I forgive you,” were at the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to speak them. Not yet.
Chapter 25
Dallas
The first thing I thought about on Monday morning after opening my eyes was Elise. It was easy to picture her sitting in the corner of her sofa, twiddling her thumbs as she anxiously waited for me to dial her in to the conference call this morning. Had she slept at all?
Probably not.
I sat up and raked my hands through my hair a couple times, slicking back the loose strands that were hanging over my forehead. Then I slid to the edge of the bed, reached my arms over my head in a long, back-cracking stretch, and stood up.
The hardwood floor was cool beneath my bare feet as I padded to the bathroom and turned on the hot water for a shower. I yawned as the bathroom filled with steam. I hadn’t slept much, either.
My mind had been utterly consumed with thoughts about this conference call. There was still a chance things wouldn’t go well. My father, though a brilliant businessman, had a tendency to be more than a little unpredictable. If Elise said the wrong thing on the call or he interpreted it the wrong way, all this hard work might have been for nothing. What was worse, the hope I’d implanted in Elise might be shattered.
And then there was the sticky situation of my father not knowing Elise was the writer. In hindsight, it might have been a better strategy to tell him right off the bat. At least then, I could have avoided this nail-biting tension.
I stripped out of my boxers and got in the shower stall, pulling the glass door closed behind me. The hot beads of water scattered across my shoulders, and I lifted my face to scrub the sleep away.
No. Telling my father Elise was the writer before the call was a bad idea. He’d write her off, and Treo would be worse off for it, just because of his personal reasons for disliking her. Reasons I still wasn’t sure I understood.
Sure, he thought she was bad for me, but he had no solid foundation to point to and explain why he felt that way. I supposed I’d never really come out and asked him, either. It had been easier to shrug him off and agree.
That was the sort of son I was.
I lathered my hair with shampoo, and the stall was filled with the scent of pine.
The silver lining to growing up with my father was that I knew the sort of father I didn’t want to be to Roy. I didn’t want to tell him what to do without explaining why I felt that way. Nor did I want to make him feel like I was micromanaging his entire life. I wanted Roy to feel empowered to make his own decisions, and I wanted to give him the tools he would need in life in order to make those decisions.
He was already a smarter kid than I ever was. He had his wits working to his advantage. It was only a matter of time before the tables would turn, and I’d be looking to him to teach me his ways.
That was something I’d always thought would happen between my father and me, especially when I took over his office at Treo. I thought, somewhat naively, that if I demonstrated my competence day in and day out, my father’s dismissive attitude toward me would disappear and be replaced with pride. All I wanted for him was to stand back and feel like he’d done a good job. His son was finally where he was supposed to be. Making good decisions, running the family business, and raising a happy, healthy, respectful boy.
But none of that ever happened. There I was, still as much of a disappointment to him as I had been since I was conceived.
There was no sense agonizing over it. Deep down, I knew nothing would change. And I also knew that he loved me in his own way. He was just incapable of showing it. He was too hard and too brittle to lean into showing that he cared.
I could live with that. As long as Roy knew he was loved by his Papa, I could live with it.
When I was scrubbed clean and smelling fresh, I got out of the shower, dried off, and left my hair wet as I dressed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. I went downstairs, where I opened the blinds and let the morning sun stream in and light up the living room and kitchen. The coffee was brewed shortly after that, and as I took my first sip, a small voice said “Good morning.”
I smiled at Roy, who was watching me from the entrance to the kitchen. Like every other morning, his hair was a mess.
“Morning, kiddo,” I said.
Roy gave me a sleepy smile and went about getting himself a glass of orange juice.
“I have a business call to take in about ten minutes. It won’t be very long, maybe half an hour or so. Are you all right with watching some cartoons, and then I can make us some breakfast? Or we could go out?”
Roy slid the kitchen stool back into its corner after pouring himself his OJ. “Okay. But can I have a snack? I’m hungry.”
“Of course. Toast? Cereal? I could cut up some strawberries if you’d like.”
“Toast. With butter, please.”
“Okay. You go sit in the living room. I’ll bring it out to you.”
Roy yawned and made his way into the living room. As I put the bread in the toaster, I heard the TV come on, and he began flicking through the channels until the high-pitched and familiar voices of one of
his favorite programs came on.
I smiled to myself. Even though my father and I had a rough relationship, I knew I wouldn’t have that with Roy. I would not make the same mistakes my father had.
I brought Roy his buttered toast and then kissed the top of his head. “I’ll be in my office for the call if you need me, okay?”
Roy never took his eyes off the TV as he took his first bite and nodded. “Okay.”
I went into my office, smiling to myself, and then I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Five minutes to the call. I texted Elise and told her we’d be calling in five. She replied right away with an “Okay” and a smiling emoji with a bead of sweat dripping from its forehead. That made me grin. She was nervous, as I’d expected, but she still had it in her to keep things light.
I called my father. He answered on the first ring. “Dallas,” he said in greeting.
“Morning, Dad. How are you?”
“Good. Looking forward to talking to this writer of Winzly’s. Is she ready?”
“I just gave her a heads-up that we would call her in five.”
“Call her now.”
“No, Dad. I said I’d give her five. So, we’ll give her five.” I spoke assertively, as a businessman would speak to another businessman. It was the only way to have a reasonable conversation with my father.
“Very well.”
There was a thick moment of silence between us. I couldn’t think of a damn thing worth saying, so I shuffled some loose papers around on my desk, hoping he heard the rustling and assumed I was doing something important.
“Are you and Roy still coming over for dinner on Thursday?” my father asked.
“It’s Thanksgiving. Of course we are. Roy has been excited all week.”
My father made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. “Good. I was going to have Vanessa prepare roast beef and Yorkshires, but she convinced me to stick with turkey.”
“Vanessa?” I asked.
“The new housekeeper. You haven’t met her yet.”