by Jones, Gwen
“Come on down, Julie, we need to talk.” In truth, I sincerely doubted anything Gil, my former station manager, had to say would rock my world, but I managed to spare him an afternoon. For crying out loud, it wasn’t as if I didn’t have anything to do. Licking your wounds takes more time than you think.
Andy’s efficiency in finding me was indeed impressive. With all the global resources of a billionaire, I shouldn’t have expected anything less. By the night I left, he’d found not only Denny’s cell number, but Brent’s; he’d already given up trying to get me to answer mine. I deleted every message without listening, as I instructed both my protectors to do as well. By the next morning, Andy was on Brent and Denny’s doorstep, behind whose door I was barricaded.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Devine, she won’t see you,” Brent had said in a most diplomatic manner. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Could you please ask her again?” Andy had pleaded so desperately, Brent said, he nearly relented. “I won’t be long. You can stay with us if you like.”
“I’m sorry,” Brent said, “but it’s no good. She said if you persist she’ll go where no one could find her, including me or Denny. And in her current state, that’s a scenario I simply can’t allow.” He came off the stoop, placing a hand to Andy’s shoulder. “Perhaps if you just gave her some time . . .”
Andy took a deep breath, his gaze shooting up toward my window; I jumped back, hoping the curtain still hid me. He was pale and drawn, wearing the same clothes as the day before. I grunted; my fist flying to my mouth. He looked back to Brent.
“Tell her . . . tell her I have to go back to Marseille. I don’t want to, but if I don’t . . .” He coughed, handing Brent an envelope. “Give her this for me, would you please? My personal number’s inside. I’m available any time of the day or night. Tell her, well . . .” He coughed again, nodding. “Anyway, thank you.”
By the time he walked away I was back on the bed. A few moments later a knock came at my door.
“Julie?” Brent said, “May I come in?”
What a goddamned gentleman. “Of course.”
“He gave me this,” Brent said, placing the envelope on the bedside table. “How are you, darling?”
I laughed; a short burst or irony. “Why, peachy, doll.” I swiped my eyes. “Are you blind? Isn’t it apparent?”
“Oh absolutely,” he said, falling to his haunches before me. “Your exuberance is only matched by your unfailing wit.”
I laughed for real. “Oh, Brent!” I said, planting a smooch on his forehead. “Oh Brent . . .” I sobbed, crumpling against him. “He looked awful, didn’t he?”
“Nearly as awful as you,” he said. “Which is why you’re probably perfect for each other.” He held me out, thumbing tears from under my swollen eyes. “Why don’t you see him, Julie? Anyone can see the man’s about to die, he’s so in love with you.”
“Then why won’t he tell me!” I shot back. “I poured my heart out to him, made an absolute ass of myself, but when I asked him point blank, he froze. I’m sorry, but I’m never settling again.”
“But you already did when you married him. You know he never promised you love. What made you think you had the right to demand it?”
“Now you’re playing the other side of the fence?” I sat back. “Don’t you think once you cross that sexual line, you have a right to expect it?”
Brent eyed me wryly. “There’s a few people walking the street outside the bus station who’d beg to differ.”
“It’s hardly the same thing.”
“You’d be surprised how much it isn’t. My dear, I can’t possibly know what’s in either of your heads, or how you’ll sort this out. The only thing I can do is be here for you if you need me.” He nodded to the bedside table. “See what he has to say. Who knows? It might be just what you want to hear.” He left.
I plucked Andy’s note from where it sat against the lamp, fingering the word Julie written in his spare script across the envelope. I stared at it a very long time, my heart in my throat, before I could summon the nerve to open it. When I finally did, it read:
Ma petite Julie –
The time I spent with you was the happiest of my life. I’ve never known such joy with another person as my experiences nearly always have been otherwise. As much as I have disappointed you—and I do consider that an understatement—I’m working toward the day we will be together again, when I have proven myself worthy of your trust and, more importantly, your love. For the interim, I’ll respect your request for privacy, but have enclosed my business card with my personal number. Call any time of the day or night; I will be here for you.
Yours always,
Andy
I fingered the card; Compagnie du Mercier, André L. Mercier, Président-Directeur-Général. It listed several numbers and contacts for offices in Marseille, Belize City, and Shanghai, faxes, email addresses, and something called Radio Telex. On the back was a handwritten number, which I suppose was the satellite phone he’d kept at Uncle Jinks. Then maybe it wasn’t; who knew? There was so much I didn’t know about him.
Why would someone do it? Why would a CEO (or PDG?) of an international company advertise for a wife on a utility pole, then settle down in obscurity in the woods? Whatever reason he had probably wasn’t worse than my own, but why wouldn’t he tell me? Especially knowing I was a journalist and there was the risk I’d eventually find out? But I didn’t, did I? Maybe I wasn’t much of a journalist after all.
Which still gave me pause as I rode the Slowest Elevator in the World up to Gil’s office. After a month of haunting Brent and Denny’s, as Brent had the gallery and Denny had since found a job with an independent production company, I received a call from Gil’s assistant saying he wanted to see me. As far as Gil knew, I had simply gone out of town for the duration. I had not gotten married after knowing my intended for six days, I had not lived in the woods for six weeks, I had not had my heart summarily broken, I had not spent the first week afterward unable to get out of bed, the subsequent two too numb to do much more than watch TV and drink too much wine. The week after that I felt a bit of the fog lifting after a package arrived from Iron Bog, containing the rest of my things and a note from Uncle Jinks:
Dear Julie –
As you probably know, Andy had to close the house and return to France, but before he left he dropped off your things at my place hoping you might stop in. But unlike Andy I’m a realist, and I figure you’re going to need this stuff way before you cool off enough to come get it. In case you’re wondering, we did find good homes for the chickens and Betsy, and Bucky is here with me and missing you. (I was, and I did miss Bucky terribly.) But while I’ve got your attention, I think you should know something about Andy. After you do, it might lighten your load a bit.
I knew both his parents, and neither were what you would call model figures. But it was his mother who was as scheming as she was beautiful. She used her own son against his father more than once, to the point she forced Andy to choose between them. When he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, she did it for him, and one guess will tell you who paid the price. I have a pretty good feeling all this somehow fits into what’s going on now.
Please don’t give up on him, Julie. You might not believe it now, but he’s worth it.
Take care,
Jinks.
I was finding it hard to believe anything now; if someone were to tell me we were on planet Earth, I believe I’d ask for proof. So it was with a bit of numbness and quite a lot of skepticism that I tapped on the half-opened door of Gil’s office. He looked up from his screen and smiled broadly, waving me in.
“Miss Julie! How the hell are you?” he cried, jumping up. “Come in and tell me all about it!”
“About what, Gil?” I said, sitting down. “Aren’t you here to tell me?”
“Haw-haw!” he guffawed, his belly jiggling. “Same ol’ Julie, still full of fire!”
Why he was pandering to me, I couldn’t figure out. “Gil,�
�� I finally said. “I’m kind of busy, so if you could cut to the chase . . .”
“Oh right, right,” he said, with solemnity. “Denny had told me a while back you were working on a book. How’s that coming, by the way?”
Proceeding as fast as a full stop, I thought, not that he needed to know. “Just fine. Almost through.” With maybe the first paragraph. “Been a great experience, too. A real voyage of discovery.” Like sailing over a cliff.
“That’s terrific! Because, my dear . . .” He looked at me, most businesslike. “I’d like to offer you your old job back.”
“Really,” I said, piqued for the first time in weeks. “And what makes you think I’d be interested?”
His brow arched, expecting that. “Because I’m going to make it too attractive to refuse.”
He’d have to do better than that; I was so over pretty packages. “Okay,” I said, “wow me.”
Seemed he was ready to. “For starters, three years, your old position with a twenty percent raise, three spots per week, a personal assistant, plus you can even bring Mr. Denny back if you like. But . . .” His eyes lit. “That’s not the best part.”
“Oh?” The raise, the extra spot a week, and the assistant all were nice; I couldn’t speak for Denny, but I was sure he’d take a smug satisfaction in being asked. “Then what is?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” He shot me a cavalier glance. “Seems MSNBC has caught on to you and is now a fan, and they would like to replay one of your spots every Friday on “Morning Joe.” He threw out his hands. “National exposure, Miss Julie. Think of it—right up there with Jeanne Moos.”
I gripped the arms of my chair. “You’re joking.”
“Ah ha!” He pointed to me. “I thought that would get you! Let me hear you say no now!”
How could I? It was all I ever wanted and he knew it. But I also knew if I jumped on too quickly he’d only hogtie me again. My memory wasn’t that short, after all.
I rose, glancing at my watch. “Look, I have to be somewhere. Let me think about it, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, rising with me. “Just don’t let me wait too long. Offers like this can shrivel up in the sun, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, absolutely. Which makes me think . . .” I eyed him squarely. “Why all of a sudden this offer anyway? It didn’t have anything to do with the network making it so sweet, did it?”
Gil came around the desk, leaning against it. “Let’s not mince words, Miss Julie. I think we can both see our way around a mutually beneficial deal. But without each other, we sort of have nothing, don’t we? So I wouldn’t drag my feet if I were you . . . savvy?”
Our gazes met; held. Oh hell, what did I have to lose?“ Okay. I think I have an old contract lying around in my hard drive. I’ll revise it and send it on by.”
“It’s done,” he said, reaching to his desk. “All you need to do is sign. Here.” He handed me a sheaf of papers. I took a look, falling back in my chair.
“This is from Richard!”
“Well, he’s still your agent, isn’t he?” he said, matter-of-factly. “Who do you think sold me on the idea?”
“Richard? But . . . but . . .” I had no answer for him.
“Look, so he’s a shitty fiancé. You’re well rid of him. But the man’s one hell of a salesman. This is a deal too good to turn down. Take it home, look it over, and come back tomorrow. Run with it, sweetheart. What the hell?”
Richard did this? I couldn’t figure him out. Why was he doing this for me? Unless . . . I shoved the papers in my messenger. “Let me take a look. I’ll get back to you.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” He reached out and shook my rather-startled hand. “Come back tomorrow anytime. I’ll be waiting.”
Lately everyone had an open-door policy as far as I was concerned, the fact of which I passed to an equally-skeptical Denny over dinner at Spasso. He turned the last page of the contract, pushing it toward me.
“The bastard fuck wants you back, that’s why,” Denny said, chopping into his Chicken Fontinella. “I mean, you do realize that?”
“No kidding,” I said, “but why?”
He took a slug of wine, looking at me as if it were obvious. “Oh I forgot—you’ve been under a rock lately. Because Annika Eden dumped him, is why.”
“Seriously?” I said, pushing my salad aside. “Again?” I smiled most evilly. “Isn’t that just too bad.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?” Denny said, just as gleeful. “His loss, your gain.”
I looked at him, horrified. “You can’t think I want that bastard back?”
“Well, yeah—but only in the most selfishly beneficial way. I say let him grovel and lick your heels while you cut his commission and promise him nothing. You were his cash cow when no one would give him the time of day. It’s payback time, Jules.”
“But he hasn’t even tried to call me.”
“He doesn’t have to.” He flicked the contract. “With this, his bloated little ego is leaving it up to you. He figures you can’t resist.”
“Oh yeah?” I snatched it from the table, shoving it in my purse. “Watch me.”
So I didn’t call him, not that night, not the next day. In between Gil called and texted at least five times, but I wouldn’t budge, taking some measure of satisfaction in the brown leather journal that still lay unopened beside my laptop, its contents pressing most heavily upon my brain. But even though I was no closer to finishing the book than the day I started, it still gave me a measure of security: that story was all my own. Then that night, Richard finally called. And even more miraculously, I picked up.
“So how’s the wife?” I said.
Richard coughed. “So you heard about that.”
“Yeah. From everyone but you. So give me a good reason why I should continue this conversation, you rat-bastard piece of shit,” I said, surprisingly calm for all his fiery death scenarios I had once enacted in my head.
“Because I am a rat-bastard piece of shit, and I want to make it up to you. And I’ll do it for free.”
“Well, aren’t you just like me,” I said. “I would’ve killed you for free, too.”
He laughed softly. “I probably would’ve handed you the gun.” He sighed. “How are you, Julie?”
“Fabulous, no thanks to you. So let’s get down to it. Why the contract?”
“No matter what you think, no matter what I’ve done—and I’ll be the first to admit what I did to you was unconscionable—I’ve never stopped being your agent. Fact was that last contract was so minor league I should’ve never considered it. The station made so many changes it was an insult. Then they saw their numbers tank and started to panic, letting go of the best talent they had. By the way, that was a smart piece of work, your dropping under the radar for a while. Only made you more valuable. Where did you go, if I may ask?”
“Certainly not Seattle,” I said. “That would’ve been way too crowded.”
He laughed again. “Too crowded for me these days, too.”
“Like Philly,” I said, “So I’m thinking maybe I should be going—”
“Well don’t,” he interjected. “Not now. Not for a while. Julie, I’m serious. This is a good deal. As your agent, as someone . . .” I could hear his throat working. “Who still cares about you very much, I think you should seriously consider it. With the MSNBC clause, it’s your ticket to the big show.”
Didn’t I know it. But why did it have to come through him? “Why are you doing this, Richard? And don’t bullshit me. Tell me the truth.”
“Because I fucked up, Julie. I know it. I just want to make it up to you, that’s all.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with your girl dumping you, now would it?”
Silence, then: “It has everything to do with my girl dumping me. Because if I were you, I would’ve dumped me, too.”
Now I was just plain irritated. “Richard, I’m not in the mood for your being cute. I know you’re not that selfless, so answer my q
uestion.”
“It’s the truth, dammit, and just to prove it, I’m taking no commission on the contract.”
“Oh stop it—that was when we were together. I’ll cut it to ten, but you take it.”
“Look, I’m sending you a revised contract, so just quit arguing with me and accept it. I’m doing right by you whether you want me to or not, and I’m going to keep doing it until I can hold my head up to you again. Until then, call me anything you want, but don’t underestimate me. I’m going to absolutely make it up to you, with interest.”
And in the following couple of weeks, I quickly found out how much he meant it. For my grand return on December first, he arranged for the station to launch a publicity campaign, online, on air, in print, and on billboards warning, “Get ready for a new Julie!” commissioning a top Hollywood firm to make sure I looked totally A-List in front of the camera, hiring me a personal trainer, and weaseling from the station a wardrobe allowance. He opened a bank account in my name only, restoring all the money he had frozen, including an additional $5,000. He found a great row house in Northern Liberties and even paid the security and the first six months’ rent, furnishing it with the nicest pieces from our old penthouse, including that tea table Andy and I had talked about. I promptly put it in the closet. But the best part was how he tweeted everyday what a shit he’d been to me, and how blinded he’d been by that soprano succubus Annika Eden.
“That last part’s not necessary,” I told him over mulled cider and cheese. “Looks so petty.”
“Petty would be tweeting how fat she’s gotten.” He pulled out his phone, his grin all malevolence. “On second thought . . .”