Your New Best Friend

by Jayne Denker

  "I don't know. Give them to Caroline."

  "She likes vegetables."

  Oh, Petey. But far be it from me to argue. I'm about to present him with a stalk of Brussels sprouts when Caroline takes the bouquet out of his hands.

  "I like flowers, Petey," she says with a shy smile.

  "You do?" He sounds completely confounded.

  That's my cue to leave and let Caroline take it from here. I pat Petey on the arm as I move away. "Make a note of it for later," I can't resist whispering to him.

  He nods at me, still blank-faced. I realize that's the best I'm going to get. I'll take it.

  * * *

  "What are you doing here on a Saturday?" my father barks at me when I stick my head into his office. "Are you feverish?"

  "I work on Saturdays all the time, Charles, and you know it."

  He grunts and says, "Well, do me a favor then. I need you to contact a couple of Laura's clients. They're interested in the Garvey house."

  Ignoring the jolt that shoots through me, I ask, "Why? Where's Laura?" I've been feeling almost protective of her ever since I found out what's going on in her personal life.

  My father puts down the contract he's been reading. "She was in early today. Then she got a call from her grandmother's nursing home. It didn't sound good."

  "I'm so sorry. Where can I find her?"

  "You?"

  "Don't sound so surprised. She wanted to hire me for this and I avoided her for too long. The least I can do is help her out now."

  "Are you sure she wants you there?"

  "I'll let her decide when I get there. Now, where's her grandmother? What home?"

  "I don't know."

  Dammit. How can we know so little about one of our employees? Well, my dad knew about her grandmother when I didn't, so I'm worse off here, but we should be more sensitive to their personal issues. Then I have an idea.

  I call Randall, Laura's other boss at the Abbott's Bay Bugle, and get the name of her grandmother's nursing home in a matter of minutes…for a price. All I have to give him in return is an exclusive about the latest developments with Your New Best Friend. My one stipulation: that I write the article myself. I have a lot to say.

  But that's not important right now. I drive to Lowell as fast as I can, find the nursing home, check in at the front desk, and quietly slip into the hospice room.

  "Laura?" I whisper.

  I don't know how she'll react when she sees me. I don't know how I'm going to explain myself to a room full of teary relatives. But it's only Laura, sitting quietly at her grandmother's bedside. She looks up at me, shocked, and I'm already regretting my impulsive decision.

  I stammer, "I…I was worried. My dad said your grandmother…never mind. I can go."

  She says nothing for a minute—just stares, as only Laura can, light glinting on her glasses, her pale face even more peaked than usual. Then she turns back to her grandmother without a word. I'm trying to determine if this means I should leave when she reaches over and pulls a second chair alongside hers. I sit and slip my hand into hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  "Oh my God, chica! Where have you been? I've called you like five times. Did you turn your phone off? There's only one reason you'd be turning your phone off, and I know he's not back in Abbott's Bay yet!"

  Taylor's overly chipper voice is phenomenally jarring and makes my throbbing headache worse.

  "I had some stuff to take care of," I say as I wipe tears away with the heel of my hand.

  I'm sitting in my car, still in the nursing home parking lot. Laura's grandmother is gone. I wasn't with Laura for that, of course. She and I sat in silence for several hours, waiting as the old woman's breath became more labored then quieted, alternately. When a nurse came in to check on her and said, with the matter-of-fact nature of a caregiver who's seen this process countless times, that it wouldn't be long, I gave Laura a hug and waited in the hallway. Another hour passed before she came out, bleary but resigned and, it seemed, at peace—as much as she could be, that is.

  I stayed with her until she announced she was ready to take care of the rest of her duties—talking with the funeral director, gathering her grandmother's things—on her own. Then I gave her another hug and left the building. I haven't been able to see well enough to get back on the road quite yet though.

  "What's the matter with you?" Taylor demands, her voice muffled as she shifts the phone. She's probably multitasking, cleaning her kitchen sink, or sending emails while she waits for me to pull myself together.

  "Nothing."

  "Like I believe that. I don't suppose it'd have anything to do with a certain six-foot-two specimen of manhood, would it?"

  My stomach clenches. "Why? What did he tell you?"

  "Not a word. You know how he is. But I figured you guys had a fight or something. The entire time he was here, he was hanging his head, looking like a basset hound stepping on his own ears. He wasn't even excited about the place I found him."

  "You found him something?"

  "You'd better believe it. It's perfect. Right on Commercial Street, in the thick of things, and it's an entire building with rooms upstairs. He can expand, or he can rent it out, or hell, he can even live in it."

  I swallow around a new lump in my throat. "He said that?"

  "Said what?"

  "That he'd live there?"

  "Well, he's got to have a place to stay when he comes here to check on the renovations, right?"

  "Did he say anything about being there…" The word permanently won't come out.

  "What?"

  What if Conn moves to Provincetown? He said he wouldn't, but what if he's changed his mind? What if this isn't a fight we've had but something more serious? Did I offend him so much that he'd move to the Cape to get away from me?

  "Never mind. It's nothing."

  "Girl, what's going on between the two of you?"

  "Trying to find out if your turn is coming up?"

  "Shut up. I mean it. He's moping, you're crying—again, shut up. I know when my bestie's been crying. You sound like somebody punched you in the nose. I'm starting to worry."

  I'm not about to tell Taylor I'm crying about Laura and her grandmother, not Conn. Or maybe there are some Conn-related tears in there as well. I don't even know anymore. "Let's say I've been experiencing some fallout from my TV appearance."

  "Oh, that was righteous," she crows. "If anybody has a problem with it, you tell 'em where to get off. I mean it."

  Exactly what I expect from Taylor and exactly what I don't want to hear. Not anymore. "No. That…it was like the adult version of our reign of terror. And that's not a good thing."

  "Oh, whatever. You're being way too dramatic. Hey, make up with Conn so you can come along next time he has to come out here, okay?"

  Obviously Taylor doesn't grasp the gravity of the situation and isn't interested in having a serious conversation. Which is just about what I can expect from her, and always has been. I'm in no mood for a shallow chat, so I make my excuses and end the call. I have some work to do.

  * * *

  Taylor's right about one thing: I should be making up with Conn. It would be at the top of my list of things to do, but he hasn't come home yet. I know—I keep checking. Fortunately I'm busy enough that I don't text him every five minutes like I want to. Okay, I might check my phone every five minutes in case I missed a call or a text from him, but that's it.

  The Founder's Day Ball is in exactly one week, but I can't even think about it yet, because I'm focusing entirely on my article for the Bugle. I don't rest until it's finished, and I even manage to turn it in early. Although a stab of fear hits me right before I email it to Randall, once I force myself to click Send I feel nothing but relief. I hope this brings closure. I've spent too many days up my own butt with the whole TV thing. It's time to move on.

  Digging in at work is my next priority. I've let my actual profession slide for too long. I go in early and stay late, catching up with t
he endless paperwork I usually put off. I feel like I've gotten in touch with my inner Mary Poppins. Suddenly nothing's more important than clearing out the cobwebs and setting everything to rights.

  That includes facing the music with Hannah. Again, I'm wracked with nerves, but I force myself to go to her house and knock with a confidence I'm not really feeling. I may have destroyed the easy relationship I've had with her. Now is when I find out. When she answers her door, I stay on her doorstep instead of pushing my way inside without a second thought, the way I used to.

  "Okay," I say, a little breathlessly, as I hold up a sheet of paper. "I know you're not sure where you're moving, or when, or anything. But in the meantime, I want—" I stop, close my eyes, shake my head, and start again. "I mean…you can stay here as long as you like. I've drawn up a month-to-month lease for you now that your summer lease is up. I hope you'll stay. Please stay." I wait only a split second, taking in the startled look on my friend's face, then rush to add, "With Marty. By all means, with Marty. You two are perfect together, and I gave you terrible advice when I told you to walk away from him instead of working it out. I'm so sorry." Still she says nothing, just stares, wide-eyed, so I hand her the paper. "Anyway…do what you think is best. And call me sometime. If you want."

  Hannah's fingers finally grasp the corner of the lease. I let go. Then her other arm flies out and pulls me into a hug, and I nearly drown in the wash of relief.

  Once Hannah and I gleefully make up, I turn my attention to the Founder's Day celebration. I spend most of my time with Rose Perdue, finalizing the details for the ball, including the replacement charity event for the indoor miniature golf tournament that literally went up in smoke. I had come up with a bunch of different options, as promised, and she zeroed in on one that made her giggle like a schoolgirl—one that's also easy to pull off on short notice, if you've got the know-how and the focus. And I do. I don't mind putting in the extra hours either—it helps me keep my mind off the fact that my article will appear in this week's Abbott's Bay Bugle.

  When the Bugle comes out on Friday, I'm shocked to find my story on the front page. Above the fold. I didn't ask Randall for that, but he said this was hot news everyone would want to read—so much so that he made sure, for the first time in ages, to have someone at the Bugle update the paper's website, solely to put my article online as well.

  Soon after the paper hits people's mailboxes, my phone blows up, but in a good way. Everyone wants to talk about the article. I'm fine with that, but not to soak up their praise. I have a lot of apologies to make. When I do, and when my neighbors accept those apologies without a second thought, I'm humbled. My friends in Abbott's Bay are generous and understanding, and I've never appreciated those traits more than I do right now. Conn said Sasha used to make fun of this town and couldn't get away fast enough. I feel sorry for her; she doesn't know what she's missing.

  Best of all, I receive a lovely message from Zoë, my accidental first client.

  Hi Ms. Abbott! I hope you don't mind getting an email from me. I got your info from Vern. I saw you on NNN. So did my mom. You can guess how that turned out. But you were right about everything. I WAS raised by nannies! Anyway, my mom was talking about suing you for a while, but she got over it. She's changed lately—she's been trying to be a lot nicer. Sometimes it works—sometimes it doesn't, but what matters is she's trying. You help people so much, Ms. Abbott. I've always felt bad I never thanked you for everything you did for me, so here it is now: thank you! I had a wonderful summer in Abbott's Bay, and I'm so happy I met Vern. Who says hi, by the way!

  Now that's an endorsement. Zoë sounds like she's becoming quite the confident young lady. I wouldn't draw a direct line from my straightening her posture to her future as President of the United States, but anything's possible. In any case, her message means the world to me. It shows I wasn't a complete failure. I didn't run around destroying people's lives. I did do some good, even if the bad overshadowed it for a while. I decide to remember my successes instead of focusing on my failures, but rectify the failures if I can.

  Like Beebs and Ornette. They're next.

  "Beebs, my love, a gloppy mocha, if you please," I say, bellying up to the bar. "And an egg and cheese sandwich too."

  The barista looks at me funny. "Melanie, you never order that."

  "Well, maybe I like trying new things." Or maybe I like sending Beebs to the kitchen with an order so he can talk to Ornette.

  "I got it." Conn appears from out of nowhere and starts to head to the kitchen window to save Beebs a few steps.

  My brain stutters. Conn. He's back. Conn's back.

  The sight of him sends fireworks careening around my insides, destroying my stomach and making my hands, feet, and scalp tingle. I'm not sure, however, if those are good nerves or bad ones. Maybe both. After all, he's been gone more than a week, and I didn't get a call or a text the entire time. If Beebs hadn't told me he'd checked in from time to time, I'd have gone into a cold, hard panic. It's the longest we've gone without talking every day, the longest he's been away from Abbott's Bay…and me…since he moved back to town. I'm relieved he's okay. I want to throw myself into his arms even at the risk of him pushing me away. I want to pummel him for not letting me know where he was or what he was doing. Yet none of that matters more than my urgent need to keep him from scuppering the scheme I've got working at the moment.

  "Wait!" I yelp, and Conn turns to me, puzzled. "I—I've changed my mind. Conn, I've missed your triple espressos. Will you make me one instead of the mocha? Please?"

  He gives me a look, but complies, while Beebs takes my order to Ornette.

  Once Beebs is far enough away, I lean over the counter and hiss, "What is the matter with you?"

  "Why? I just…"

  I hitch my head toward the kitchen, where Beebs and Ornette are talking, and glare at him until he catches on.

  "Ohhhh."

  "God, you're crappy at this."

  Yes, it's the completely wrong way to talk to him now that he's right in front of me for the first time in eight days, but I feel a certain thrill that we're still able to fall back into our usual verbal sparring with no effort at all.

  I'm rewarded with a hint of his familiar warm smile when he says, "That's why I leave the manipulation of innocents to you. Me, I just make the coffee. Nice to see you, by the way."

  I stand at the counter, fidgeting as I watch the familiar choreography as he makes my espresso. God, I've missed him. I'm terrified to finally deal with what happened between us before he left, but I'm more terrified not to.

  "Conn," I start hesitantly when he hands me my coffee.

  Eyes alight, he's poised, attentive. God, I hope he wants to talk—

  "Melanie…?"

  What timing. Maude, my hateful coworker, shows up out of nowhere? And she wants to talk to me now, when she usually does everything in her power not to talk to me, ever? I want to put her off, but it doesn't matter—Conn is approached by another customer, and the moment's lost. Dammit.

  Tamping down my disappointment, I put on a smile that's probably more of a grimace. "Can I help you with something, Maude?"

  She fidgets, glances around, and then finally mutters, "I need help. Socially."

  Ain't that the truth. Too bad she's a little late to the party. "Maude, didn't you see the article in today's paper?"

  As if she doesn't hear me, she charges ahead with the rest of her pitch. "My high school reunion is coming up, and I want to…you know. Impress people. Show them I'm doing okay. High school wasn't my best four years, if you know what I mean."

  I can imagine. I don't say that. Instead, I try to figure out what to do to get her to understand the word no.

  "Laura said you were…a good friend. Helpful. And I need help." She hesitates then adds, "Please."

  Wow. "But…you hate me."

  "Yeah, I do."

  At least she's honest. "Why, Maude? I mean, I'm curious. What did I ever do to you?"

  "Do? Not
hing. It's the way you are. That…air of superiority, like your feet don't touch the ground. It's irritating."

  "I do that?"

  "Well, you've been different lately. Still acting superior, but at least now you don't look through everyone. Apparently you're still pretty self-centered though, since we just ended up talking about your issues instead of mine. Nice work," she grumbles. Then she hitches her shoulders defensively. "You know what? Forget it."

  She turns to go, but I stop her. "Wait. I do want to help. But not as a client. As a friend."

  "You mean I won't have to pay you?"

  Good grief. "I will not send you a bill. I promise."

  "Maude."

  Conn's voice doesn't come from across the counter, but at my side. When his hand cradles my elbow, I jump. But I don't move away.

  He continues, "Would you mind if I steal Melanie for a minute? I'll have Beebs make you a cappuccino while you wait. On the house."

  She nods, even smiles. Of course. Not even the sourest of crabapples can resist Conn's charms.

  He ushers me into his office and shuts the door. I can't help remembering what happened in this office nearly two months ago. Judging by the color creeping up Conn's neck, neither can he. This time, however, instead of pressing me up against the desk, he reaches past me and around his computer monitor.

  "So what's all this about?" He's holding a copy of the Bugle.

  Funny how my words have deserted me, like I spent all of them on the article and have none left. "You read it?"

  He nods and glances over the piece again while I watch him, trying to gauge his mood. "It was impressive."

  "I always did get good grades in English."

  Looking at me from under his eyebrows, he murmurs, "You know that's not what I mean. It took a lot of nerve to write all this."

  I guess it did. It's not easy composing the world's biggest apology to all of Abbott's Bay in general, and to my New Best Friend clients in particular, for everything: the missteps I've made with my business…taking advantage of my friends and neighbors…the on-air insults…hell, I even copped to my part in the Whitfield-Abbott Reign of Terror fifteen years ago. I got it all out there. Then I announced Your New Best Friend is ending its run. I've done enough damage. I'm taking myself off the market, so to speak. As I said to Maude, if people want my help, I'll be happy to offer my services—as a friend, not a friend-for-hire. Because the latter is just tacky.