Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  “How’s it going, Daddy?”

  My dad rises from his seat at the table to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. We’re meeting covertly, because I want to hear his side of the story about retirement without Mamma interrupting every five seconds.

  We’ve been meaning to get together for weeks, but each time we make plans, my mother finds out about them (like a St. John–wearing bloodhound, that one) and insists on joining us. I suspect she doesn’t want me supporting him in his decision, so she’s done her best to keep us apart. We’re having lunch in the executive dining room of his law firm, the one place she can’t just show up unannounced.

  I haven’t been here in years and I’m impressed all over again about how swanky it is! Even though we’re in the middle of an ultramodern twenty-first-century city, this room feels like a throwback to a different era, when men wore hats and smoked at their desks and called one another Mr. So-and-so, and a three-martini lunch would get you promoted, not fired.

  The ceilings are impossibly high and the room’s anchored by a gigantic marble fireplace surrounded by ornate wooden carvings. The walls are paneled in gleaming cherrywood and the windows are individually paned leaded glass. If I were a potential client, I’d absolutely hire Daddy’s firm on the merits of this place. Fortunately, use of this magnificent room is one of the perks of Daddy’s having worked so hard for his company.

  “Hello, sweetie. Please have a seat.” His table is located directly underneath an oil painting of one of the firm’s founders.

  I point at the art. “Are they going to put your portrait up there, Daddy?” As he glances up, his face catches the muted light of the room. He seems kind of pale today and he looks a little skinny under his impeccably tailored suit.

  He shudders and replies, “God, I hope not.”

  “Really? Don’t you want your legacy to live on once you retire? I thought you loved it here.”

  “Then you thought wrong, kiddo.” Before he can say any more, a tuxedo-clad waiter materializes beside us with two crystal glasses of iced tea. My dad gestures toward the waiter’s tray. “Is this still your poison? I took a guess.”

  I grin. “It is.” I busy myself squeezing lemons and distributing sugar cubes while my dad places our order. We’re having lobster bisque followed by the chef’s special crab salad croissants and sweet potato fries. Yum!

  After the waiter leaves, Daddy asks, “How’s everything with Duke? And the office?”

  “Duke’s great and he says hello.”

  I don’t mention that Duke urged me to have my dad really consider his decision to retire. I have no idea why.

  “Excellent. Send him my love. Tell him we have a date on the links next spring.”

  “I’ll do that.” I can’t help but smile when I think about how alike Duke and my father are. “As for work? Couldn’t be better!”

  Actually, work could be a tiny bit better. Apparently revenue’s down since I returned from the past last month. I guess I was the one responsible for developing new business. I wouldn’t say I’ve lost my touch so much as I’m not sure where I found my touch in the first place. I kind of figured this knowledge would translate across the space-time continuum, but as yet, not so much. I know how to land an electric plating account and dot-com idiots, but real clients? I probably need to figure that out.

  Because of our newly (slightly) diminished returns, somehow I’ve been roped into meeting with Team ChaCha again this afternoon. Nicole was all, “Blah, blah, blah, your name on the door, make an appearance, blah-di-blah,” so I don’t have much of a choice. Really looking forward to that meeting. Not.

  My dad takes a long pull of his tea. “Glad to hear it. Knowing that you’re doing so well on your own takes a tremendous amount of pressure off of me.”

  “Meaning?” My stomach does a tiny backflip. Jean from accounting was rather stern about the state of our new receivables, which may or may not have coincided with my having recently discovered the company checkbook. Anyway, I plan on giving this an awful lot of thought. Later.

  “Meaning that I don’t have to take care of you. I don’t have to worry about what’s going to happen to you when I pass.” Daddy suddenly seems superfascinated with his tea glass. He wipes a bit of condensation onto his napkin.

  This is a surprise to me. “Were you and Mamma concerned that you’d have to provide for me?”

  On the one hand, I’m insulted that my parents don’t believe in me, and on the other, I’m grateful that they want me to have a security blanket. In the back of my mind, I’ve always accepted that failure is absolutely an option, because my parents would be there to bail me out.

  Daddy snorts. “Me? No. You’re an adult and it’s your responsibility to succeed on your own merits. I’m a self-made man and I have little respect for those who’ve had their fortune handed to them. Your mother, on the other hand, insists that we have a substantial nest egg set aside for you. In turn, I’ve spent your whole life economizing on the things I want so that one day you’ll get the keys to my empire. How fair is that?”

  I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or afraid. “Don’t I kind of have my own empire?”

  “Sure hope so, kiddo. Because I’m about to start living on my terms.”

  I swallow but I can’t seem to get rid of the lump in my throat. “Daddy, you’re making me nervous.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Don’t be nervous, kitten. But do understand this—I’m done. I’m checking out of the corporate rat race. I’m finished making sacrifices. I’ve spent almost forty years doing what everyone else wants me to do, following their lead, toeing their line. I’m sixty-five years old and I’m ready to start calling my own shots.”

  Our soup arrives, but neither of us touches our spoons.

  As tired as Daddy seems, there’s a set to his shoulders that I’ve never before seen. I’m wavering between pride and fear.

  “What’s next, Daddy? How does this all shake out?”

  My dad glances at the ceiling and counts off on his fingers. “My last day is the twenty-first, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The firm wants to throw me a retirement party. Considering I never want to see most of these bastards again, I may or may not attend. And then? Freedom. Absolute, pure, unadulterated freedom.”

  Daddy takes a bite of his soup and is suddenly reenergized. Whether it’s the bisque or discussing his new life, I’m not sure. But the color has returned to his cheeks and he speaks with a confidence I rarely hear.

  He leans in toward me and says, “I plan to sleep late and golf more often than once a week on Sundays. I want to do everything I’ve put off for the last four decades. First up? I’m going to learn to prepare that Bolognese sauce that Chef Mario used to make before he retired. You remember when he was here?”

  I surely met him at some point in the past twenty years, so I simply reply, “Oh, yeah. He was great.”

  “Damn right he was. On his last day, the chef let me in on the secret to his sauce. It’s cognac. Told me it doesn’t take much more than a drop, but a drop is enough to make all the difference. I’ve had his recipe for seven years, but I’ve never had the time to try it myself. Seven years I’ve longed for this sauce and I never had it. Kiddo, those days are over.”

  The more he describes his future, the more excited he becomes. “Then I’m buying a vintage thirty-eight-foot Chris-Craft and I’m going to refinish it myself. I’ve been scouring the Internet for months looking for the perfect boat and I believe I found the right one in New Buffalo. Heading to Michigan the Sunday after Thanksgiving to look her over. Hope you’ve got yourself a decent retirement plan, because I’m about to blow your inheritance. And I love you, kitten, but I don’t care, because this money is mine and I earned it.” He chuckles.

  Umm . . .

  “Best of all, I’m finally living my dream of being an author. I’ve been kicking around a manuscript for twenty years and it’s high time I made it into a real book. My golden years will be all about me, my
boat, and my writing. I can’t wait.” When he says this, his face is wreathed in a smile that takes ten years off his weathered face.

  I swallow hard. Nope, lump’s still there and getting bigger. “What about Mamma?”

  “Your mother can climb aboard the Hull Truth—that’s what I’m naming her—or be left behind at the dock. I’ve made my peace with either eventuality. If that means we go our separate ways and I wind up with half my money? I’m willing to take that risk.” He shrugs. “I’ll live on the boat if need be. That’s why I picked one with a double stateroom. Whether or not Ginny likes it, this is happening. Bank on that.” He gives the table a tap to emphasize his point.

  My soup has formed a skin, and as I poke my spoon into it, I find I’m not hungry for once.

  “Daddy, you realize we’re about to have the worst Thanksgiving ever.”

  He takes a bite of his soup before answering with more resolve than I thought possible.

  “Don’t I know it, kiddo. Don’t I know it.”

  * * *

  I leave my father’s firm more confused than ever. Suddenly I don’t have a choice on whether or not I want to put in the effort of making my business work. My safety net’s just been yanked out from under me.

  I return to my office and see that Nicole has sent me a link to the video presentation that she put together for Team ChaCha. I’m not sure why the kid doesn’t just shut up, sing, and allow the grown-ups to discuss business without her, but she seems intent on being present for every step of the process. Shouldn’t she be in school? I have no frigging clue what she plans to glean from today’s discussion of SEO (search engine optimization), but to appease her, Nicole’s prepared a video that breaks the whole process down into idiot-size bits of information.

  Actually . . . I could probably brush up on my SEO knowledge before everyone gets here. I have a cursory understanding of it from my previous lifetime, but probably not enough to merit the fee they’re paying us. I pull up the video link and press PLAY.

  Nothing happens, save for an endless loop of buffering.

  Argh!

  I thought the tech guy fixed the stupid thing!

  You know what? Screw it. I realize the company’s having some minor cash-flow issues right now, but I’m the CEO (or am I the president?) (note to self: Check), and if I need a new laptop, then I’m buying one for myself. I probably have someone who does my purchasing around here, but I don’t have the desire to figure out who that might be. I’m stopping at Best Buy the next chance I have.

  I’m already in no mood for shenanigans when I arrive in the conference room. ChaCha’s manager and attorney are in the hallway taking calls and I saw her father head toward the bathroom. Apparently these gentlemen are the glue that keeps the whole crew from going all Jerry Springer, for when I step into the room, shenanigans await. ChaCha’s lying on the table while Seraphina Tarzans from the light fixtures and steps on her back. Tawny’s with them but she’s not paying attention, as she’s preoccupied shoving my tiny espresso mugs from the buffet into her bag.

  What the fruck?

  I grab a chair at the head of the table. “Hello, Tawny,” I announce. “I see you’ve helped yourself to the coffee . . . cups.”

  Tawny seems awfully pleased with herself. “Yeah! They’re the perfect size to do shots without using your hands. See? Your mouth goes right around them.” She clasps her hands behind her back and then, like Deva with so many corn dogs, she bends over to demonstrate.

  That’s when Nicole enters.

  I beam at her. “Good news, Nicole! Our cups are the perfect size for doing shots.”

  Nicole pinches me as she passes, as if to tell me to cut it out. Oh, this is rich—the client’s giving our glassware oral and I’m the one who’s out of line? While we wait for the adults to join us, I pretend to look busy with my BlackBerry. I have a message from Jean in accounting.

  Delete.

  Nicole engages in small talk with the moron on the table and her posse while I make fists and imagine punching all of them.

  “What happened to your back, ChaCha?” Nicole asks in a tone that indicates she’s sincerely concerned about ChaCha’s welfare. If so, that would make her the one person in this room who actually is. I glower at Tawny, who’s now pilfering our entire assortment of LUNA bars and Bavarian pretzels.

  “I had, like, a rilly, rilly bad injury and stuff,” ChaCha replies.

  “Ah,” Nicole replies. “New choreography? I was a dancer and I know how hard it can be on your body with the repetition of learning a new move. One summer at cheerleading camp we spent a day practicing cradle catches for basket tosses and I couldn’t lift my arms for a week. Melissa over there had to help me brush my hair and teeth!”

  I can’t help but grin at this shared memory. That was the summer after our freshman year, when we were still at LT South. Our high school was divided into two campuses—one for the freshmen and sophomores and one for the juniors and seniors. At South, the clique lines hadn’t yet been drawn and everyone was still friends with everyone, because we’d all grown up playing Barbies and army and freeze tag together. Membership in our club had one requirement: living geographically adjacent. The Belles didn’t even form into a unit until we all hit the North campus. In retrospect, those days at South were simple, happy times and—

  “The doctor said she got hurt from texting,” Tawny volunteers.

  Oh, my God, who is parenting this child?

  “I’m so sorry!” Nicole gushes. “How does that happen?”

  Tawny shakes her head, yet her big blond bombshell of a hairdo moves entirely in unison with itself. “Well, Bobby ’n’ me checked her phone and she sends something like four hundred texts a day. I was all, ‘Keep it up, kid! You’re gonna get the Arthur-itis.’”

  “Then you took her phone away, of course,” I suggest.

  Tawny’s perplexed, like I just asked her to name the square root of pi to the tenth decimal. “Why’d we do that?”

  “No one’s touching my frucking phone,” ChaCha declares with her face pressed into the table and her arms folded up underneath her chest.

  “You would die!” Seraphina adds. She braces herself by holding on to the track lighting as she traverses ChaCha’s legs. I nervously eye the fixture. I can’t imagine they’re installed to handle any weight. They creak, but for now, fortunately, they’re staying put.

  ChaCha snorts. “I know, right? Like, if I can’t tweet and shit? Then how are my fans going to know what I’m wearing and eating and when I poop?”

  I’m about to interject when I notice that Nicole’s giving me the mother of all stink-eyes. Okay, fine. Let your not-stepdaughter get the Arthur-itis. I don’t care.

  Nicole tents her hands and rests her chin on them so she can gaze directly into ChaCha’s face. “Sounds like this one has an excellent grasp of the importance of engaging in social media.”

  “Um, duh,” ChaCha huffs. “Justin Bieber follows me. Actually, gimme my phone right now. I’ma DM him a picture of this!”

  Tawny reaches into ChaCha’s bag, which I now realize is a Birkin.

  Of course it is.

  Of course it frucking is.

  “One blingy ringy-dingy, baby gurl,” Tawny sings, sliding the phone down the length of the table, leaving many, many scratches in the fine wood.

  I’m really, really trying not to come across as aggravated but does no one else consider this whole table-walk thing a problem? Also, those lights aren’t equipped to handle Slutty Spice yanking on them.

  I say, “ChaCha, no one’s discounting the importance of building your brand via digital platform. But it stands to reason that if you’re injured, perhaps you could temporarily turn your texting and tweeting duties over to someone else, say, Seraphina.”

  “If she’s texting for me, then how would she text for herself?” ChaCha asks.

  That’s it. I officially give up.

  “You good?” Seraphina asks, hopping off ChaCha’s back with a dismount that involve
s her supporting her entire body weight on the fixture. I hear an ominous creak. Seraphina then sits cross-legged and sockless on the table. ChaCha rights herself and joins her. Every time ChaCha moves, her vertebrae make the sound of microwave popcorn. I try not to wince. (I fail.)

  “There’re plenty of open chairs if you’d be more comfortable there,” I offer, but no one listens.

  “What kind of treatment plan are you following for your back?” Nicole asks.

  “Doctor said he wanted me to do some physical therapy bullshit and he wouldn’t give me any drugs. Then Seraphina was all, ‘If I, like, walk on your back, you’ll be better,’ so that’s whassup. Still hurts, though.”

  “You don’t say,” I interject. “That’s so funny. Personally, I, too, have always found my swagger coach to be more skilled at providing treatment than an accredited medical professional.”

  Nicole, your foot had better have just connected with my knee by accident.

  Shortly, mercifully, the men join us and the meeting officially begins. We’re about two minutes into Nicole’s explanation of real-time searching when we hear a creak in the ceiling, which is immediately followed by the shriek of metal pulling apart, and then the entire string of track lights comes crashing onto the conference room table inches away from Seraphina and ChaCha.

  To say that chaos ensues would be an insult to the very nature of chaos. I’m talking a shit storm of such proportion that it makes disasters such as the Titanic sinking, the Hindenburg crashing, and all ten plagues of Egypt seem like a jolly old spin around the maypole.

  Despite having not been touched in any way, shape, or form by the falling fixture, ChaCha screams about how we’ve broken her back and she’s hustled out the door amid multiple promises of pending litigation.

  While Nicole coordinates conference room cleanup, I excuse myself to head to my office, as I should probably prospect for new clients sooner rather than later.

  I boot up my computer to discover no less than forty thousand poorly spelled, profoundly indignant tweets about how MCPR almost murdered a national treasure.

  I should probably track down whoever handles crisis management around here.