by Jayne Denker
Conn pauses at the entrance, hands in his pockets, looking like he's stopped for a red carpet photo. Hannah claps eyes on Conn as well, and she lets out a small, involuntary squeak. Really, who could blame her, in the face of the magnificent sight that is Connacht Garvey all cleaned up? Hair brushed, scruff trimmed. Open-collared white shirt, pegged pants, polished shoes. Plus the indigo color of his nicely tailored suit jacket insists his eyes make up their mind and be blue today. A few of the Ms. Moneybags start circling him like sharks, which I find hilarious. Should not tease…should not…and yet I'm crossing the room almost immediately, Hannah trailing after me.
"Well," I say, sidling up to him, "I'm shocked."
"Why? I have an invitation."
"Don't be so defensive. Of course you have every right to be here. I mean…this." I wave my hand up and down, indicating his outfit. "Very stylish. Honestly, you're behind the bar so much lately I forget you have a lower half to your body. It looks good. You should show it off more often."
"Cut it out."
"I'm not sure I can. I'm so in awe of your Garveyness I can't seem to control myself." I move to poke him in the ribs. He manages to block me without even looking my way. It doesn't matter because it was merely a feint. While he's busy deflecting my right hand, I pinch his ass with my left. Hannah gasps then giggles as a mini wrestling match breaks out. It's nothing to draw the attention of the yacht club members—just one of our usual subtle slapfests Conn always wins.
Except today, when he suddenly steps away from me, the tips of his ears turning pink. Have I gone too far? Hardly. I've said and done way worse in my day, and frequently in such tony surroundings as this. I follow his gaze and spot an older, slightly stooped gentleman and a woman in a wheelchair. Ah, that explains it.
"Mr. and Mrs. Garvey! How nice to see you!"
He and I approach his parents and, while Conn takes over wheelchair duties from his father, I hug Conn's mom. From what I've heard from my dad, her hip replacement surgery went well, but she's been relying on her wheelchair a little too long. She looks good though, as does her husband, and I tell them so.
"You're too sweet," Mrs. Garvey says, but the grim expression on her face contradicts her words. She's never liked me—I have no idea why—and she's tough as an old boot, so her small polite statement is like gushing praise. I take it as permission to continue chatting with her.
"Are you here for the rest of the summer?" I ask, cursing the chipper squeak of my voice.
"Absolutely," Bruce confirms, raking his fingers through his thatch of blindingly white hair, made even whiter by the contrast with his deep lots-of-golf tan. "Phoenix is broiling, and we miss this old town. Besides, gotta check in on the boy once in a while."
"You know I've got that covered for you."
"Yes," Constance says, drawing it out in her best Snape impersonation.
Before I can figure out what she's implying, Bruce asks, "I trust he's taking good care of the house?"
"It's fine, Dad," Conn says, cutting me off.
When I bug my eyes at him, he gives me a barely perceptible shake of his head. He hasn't told them he's planning to sell? I turn back to his parents and opt for a truth, if not the whole truth. "It's exactly as you left it."
"That's a relief," Bruce says.
That's a matter of opinion. "Are you staying with Conn?"
"Oh, no, no," Constance replies. "We're staying with the Davises—in their guest house. The beach house isn't ours anymore—"
"Mom, I told you, it's no problem—"
"Well, maybe we don't want to see so much of you, have you thought about that?" His mom's sharp words would be startling if not for the twinkle in her eye that contradicts her tone. She can be fierce with everyone else, but not Conn. She adores her boy.
"Impossible," he mutters, but he's smiling.
Conn introduces his parents to Hannah, gets them settled at a table by the windows overlooking the harbor, then fetches them some food from the buffet. I leave Hannah chatting with the Garveys and follow him.
"You're going to sell the house without telling your parents?"
"I'll tell them. Eventually."
"Really? When? When they decide to stop by for a visit and the new owners call the police to report an elderly couple attempting to break in?"
"I'll tell them when I sign a contract with a real estate agent. That is, once somebody gives me a contract to sign."
"You mean Taylor?"
"Stop fishing. I already told you she's not selling my house. If you recall, I'm still waiting for you to get it in gear."
"And I told you there's no way I'm listing it. Besides," I can't resist adding, "maybe something good will happen soon and you won't have to sell."
He stops foraging for food to stare at me, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "'Have to'?"
"Melanie Abbott! I always knew you were destined for great things!"
Evidently Rose Perdue, yacht club board president, has heard about Your New Best Friend, which is exciting—she's so well connected, she could help get me some new business.
"Oh, Rose, it's going to be a while before I hit the Fortune 500 list."
She rests her hand on my arm and laughs merrily at this. "I think you're well on your way. So tell me. How did you do it?"
"Do…? Oh, I don't know. The usual way—I came up with the idea and ran with it."
"No, I mean the press coverage!"
"Oh, of course—the Bugle has been instrumental in getting the word out."
She clutches my arm tighter. "The Bugle? Darling, I'm talking about the big time—your article in the Huffington Post!"
"The…what, now?"
Then I remember the last thing Taylor said after she talked to me about my social media setups—that she had one more surprise in the works. And here it is. It has to be her—no one else I know has the connections to get me mentioned in HuffPo. I have no idea how she managed it, but I'm immensely grateful for the exposure. It'll give me legitimacy that even multiple features in the Bugle and a whole roster of Abbott's Bay locals couldn't manage in a million years.
* * *
After Rose spreads the word that Your New Best Friend is featured on the famous news site, I start getting calls from cash cows. I'm thrilled the next part of my plan is coming together, but I won't abandon my low-rent customers now that the moneyed folks are calling. They need best friends too.
Right now I'm juggling planning a 25th anniversary celebration, coaching a couple of senior citizens on how to operate their smartphones, and my personal favorite, taking (very slow) walks in the park with old Mrs. McCluskey and her yippy dogs. Even though one of them tends to pee on my shoes when he gets excited at the sight of his leash, I enjoy the leisurely time with her. It's a nice break from the mounting chaos. Hannah, however, manages my calendar like a pro, and I start getting into a pretty good groove with my clients.
And then I get my first wakeup call.
Most of the people I work with are women. I don't try to speculate as to why that is, but if pressed I'd say it's because more women than men are on the lookout for best friends. My theory about this is men get by just fine with a handful of casual buddies, but women need at least one intimate, heart-to-heart-type bestie. That need is what most of my business is based on, to be honest.
Then I get a client like Petey Fagle, and I wonder why I didn't stipulate, in the Bugle article Laura wrote, that I would only work with women. Or would it have been discriminatory?
Doesn't matter. Right now I have to focus on Petey sitting across from me at Deep Brew C, perspiring profusely and fidgeting. I'm grateful we're meeting in a public place. Oh, Petey's not dangerous, but he is a little eccentric, not very socially adept (hence the sweating and twitching), and…okay, he makes me uncomfortable. He makes a lot of people uncomfortable.
Still, a client is a client. Even better, he's a highly desirable unicorn—a wealthy local—so I smile gamely, take a sip of espresso (for this meeting, I've decided, I nee
d the loving support of caffeine), and begin.
"Petey, it's good to see—"
"I need a friend." His knee is jiggling, and I'm captivated by its motion while put off by the high percentage of polyester in his trouser fabric.
"That is the line," I agree with a smile. "So what can I do for you?"
Petey reaches for his extra large mocha whip frozen drink. I watch in fascination as his tongue sneaks out like a reddish snake from a gap in a wall and flails about, seeking the straw. Eventually they connect. He clamps his lips around it and slurps for a few seconds. Finally he says, "Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?"
"We're having coffee now," I reply patiently.
"So…now?"
"Petey, do you think this is a date?"
"I am paying." he blurts out, pushing up his glasses, which have slid down his nose, accelerated by a sheen of sweat. The seeking tongue starts its dance again as it goes for the straw once more.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Conn drift closer, ostensibly to clear a nearby table, but I can tell he's keeping an eye on me. Although I can handle Petey on my own, it gives me a warm feeling to know Conn has my back.
"That's not how this works, you know," I say, keeping my voice congenial and my expression neutral.
"But I paid you."
"Not yet. And I wouldn't take money to go out with you. That's a different kind of business altogether, and you know it. Let's not get them confused, okay?"
"But—"
"Nope." Time to shut this down, not debate it. "I'm here to be a friend, not a date." Petey looks crestfallen. "Hey, how come you've never asked me out on a date before?"
"I did."
"No, you didn't."
He nods emphatically, the sudden burst of energy inspiring him to grab his drink's straw with his other hand and actually put it between his lips instead of employing the usual halfhearted tongue flailing. I'm glad I don't have to see the snake tongue again. After more slurps he says, "When we were in high school. I asked you to go to the Founder's Day Ball with me. The ball, remember? Founder's Day?"
He's slipping into a loop, so I cut him off quickly with, "Founder's Day. Yep. Go on," to get him out of it.
"And you said no. Your friend was there. You both thought it was really funny. I didn't think it was so funny."
I have no memory of any of this, but I have a sneaking suspicion the incident may have occurred during Taylor's and my dreaded reign of terror. I'm getting tired of that clever term, darn Conn anyway. But that's not the point right now. Petey's pride is.
"Did you really like me back then?" I ask in a softer voice.
He nods, head bowed. Considering how obnoxious Taylor and I were at the time, I'm not surprised I didn't let him down gently.
"Do you still like me now?" He shakes his head vigorously. "Oh, thanks very much, Petey." He looks up finally, and I smile at him. "Then why are you asking me out?"
"Because I thought this time you wouldn't be able to say no."
"Because you paid."
"Not yet."
"Touché. I'll bet you like somebody else by now anyway, right?"
At this the color rises in his cheeks, and he rolls his eyes awkwardly. This guy is twenty-seven going on twelve. And it can only mean one thing: he needs my help.
"Would you like to talk about it? Maybe I can give you some advice on how to ask her out instead?"
He nods so enthusiastically I think his glasses are going to fly off. I settle in for an interesting and, I hope, informative talk with Petey. Conn comes up on my right and picks up my empty cup. I catch his eye, and he winks, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
* * *
I'd like to say my adventure with Petey was the only time a guy tried to finagle a date with me through the business, but I'd be lying. Petey was a prince compared to the douchewaffles who hit on me. They got past Hannah, normally a great gatekeeper, with some fake issue. Then once I was sitting across from them, they started propositioning me.
To Abbott's Bay's credit, they were all summer people. And if I thought Petey was stubborn, these guys were far worse, because…well, because douchewaffliness knows no bounds. They acted as though they were doing me a favor, offering to take me out. Or—you know—stay in. Wink, wink. Sure thing, studmuffins. I'm desperate, and you're the answers to my prayers. As if.
It's not like I don't think about meeting someone. I meant it when I told Hannah I don't need a man in my life, but it'd be nice all the same. I dated one or two guys from town back in the mists of time, but I've always assumed I'd end up with someone from away, mainly because I know all the residents of Abbott's Bay a little too well at this point in my life. My flirtations with summer people have been fruitless so far though. I've met some nice enough men, but the summer's too short a time to determine whether we're serious enough about one another to begin a long-distance relationship when the season is over, and it simply doesn't happen.
So I stick with my friends, my family, and now my business, hoping for the best while not holding my breath. Fortunately, I'm able to stay optimistic, even when the Abbott's Bay Bugle publishes another one of their sneaky little Bites on the Bottom, this time about a "budding matchmaker who, curiously enough, can't match herself."
Gee, I wonder who they're talking about.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Can you believe that? I've been rejected!" I punctuate my heated words with a powerful swing of my golf club. I intend to send a ball soaring majestically through the air, but actually I just chuck a divot. It lands several feet in front of me, the dull thud of its impact nearly drowned out by Conn's snickering. "What's so funny? It's true." But it's not what you think.
"Rejected by a backwater local TV station—this bothers you why, exactly?"
At Taylor's urging I pitched Your New Best Friend for a spot on a local morning show, hoping to get some traction from my Huffington Post mention, but they turned me down flat, saying it was too close to an advertisement to be acceptable as a human interest story.
I should have known I wouldn't get any sympathy from Conn. Bristling, I snipe, "Why are you here, anyway?"
"Conn graciously stepped in," my dad declares, joining us on the country club's practice green, "when Bruce had to cancel."
Dear God, Dad's wearing his favorite golf pants. Red and blue stripes with huge white stars. I kid you not. They're from the bicentennial era, and they look the same as they probably did back then, because heavyweight seventies polyester never dies, although he's had them altered several times over the years so he could keep wearing them even as his build changed from twenty-something gangly to his more robust physique of today. He loves them that much. I've been trying to get rid of those pants for years, but somehow he always catches me sneaking them into the trash. He's got some sort of inhuman bond with them. Once I donated them to a church rummage sale where he found them, repurchased them, and brought them back home. The prodigal pants.
He sets his golf bag down and pulls something from a side pocket. With most golfers, it would be a flask. With my father, however…"Sunscreen?" he offers, holding the tube out to me.
I rub some lotion on my nose and cheekbones and pass it to Conn as I address my dad. "You do know Conn's a lousy golfer, right?"
"I am not."
"I'm better," I say smugly.
My father nods. "She's got you there, boy."
I puff up with pride and make a so-there face at Conn. Without missing a beat, he silently points at my fresh divot.
"I was getting out my aggressions."
"I like you anyway, Garvey," Dad continues. "You're like the son I never had and all that. Wear sunscreen. I want you around for many years to come." He gestures to the tube, and Conn pops the cap.
"Who's our fourth, Charles?" I ask, looking around as my father puts away the sunscreen and pulls out some hand sanitizer. "One of your drinking buddies from the nineteenth hole, or what?"
"'Or what' indeed."
I'd know t
hat lazy voice anywhere. "Jack!"
Jack Rossiter the Ridiculously Good Looking strides up to our group, simultaneously pinching the back of my neck affectionately with one hand while reaching out to Conn for a bro-hug with the other. After they've back-thumped each other nearly senseless, Jack turns to my father with a more sedate handshake.
"Mr. Abbott, sir. Good to see you looking so well. Excellent golfing togs."
He looks my dad up and down, and I wince, but Jack seems completely sincere, even as he's taking in the glory of those Old Glory pants.
I haven't seen Jack in quite a while. He used to be a fixture in Abbott's Bay back when he and Conn were in college together. Jack spent almost every summer and holiday here, even though his family was based in New York City in the winter and the Hamptons in the summer. He always said he preferred Conn's family to his. From what I'd heard about the Rossiter clan, I didn't blame him. Jack is an American Brahmin with scads of money, houses all over the world…and almost no relationship with his parents. Poor little rich boy, but so darned privileged, confident, and pretty it just doesn't matter.
I'm not exaggerating. He's like a Ken doll come to life—perfect, yet without Ken's blank-eyed, psychotic expression. Scratch that. He's like a Disney prince. Exquisitely styled brown hair, smiling brown eyes, blinding-white teeth, slightly tanned skin, classically stylish—and clearly very expensive—clothes. And he'll charm your socks off too.
If you like that kind of thing, of course.
Okay, there was a time when even a tiny bit of attention from Jack would send me into a fit of giggles and uncontrollable blushing, but that was ages ago, when I was young and impressionable (read: stupid). The guy does nothing for me now. I put away my Ken dolls and Disney videos years ago, and—
"Miss Melanie. Don't you look ravishing today."
I did not giggle. I didn't. And my face is warm from the sun—that's all. "It's good to see you, Mr. Rossiter. What brings you to Abbott's Bay?"
"Oh, this and that," he says as he pulls on a leather golf glove. "Some business deals. You know how it is."