You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  “I guess.” He’s practically an only child and an orphan. Kind of like me.

  “You drew this for me today,” Dylan said. “Do you know why?”

  I was nervous and needed something to do to keep my hands busy. “I just wanted to give you a souvenir.” Of the lunch “date” that didn’t really happen.

  He turned the copy around and held it in the air. “Look at this.”

  Hope looked.

  “This isn’t a souvenir, Hope. This is a signature character. She belongs on a greeting card.” He rattled the page. “Hope, I’d like to use this drawing on a few cards I’m working on, and I will give you half of whatever I make for every card sold.”

  I will be contributing to the beach house fund thanks to a doodle on a napkin from Buffalo Boss. Très étrange. I guess it’s no stranger than anything else in my life.

  “It’s just a little doodle,” Hope said. “I do them when I’m bored.”

  “But it’s not just a little doodle,” Dylan said. “I want to put her on as many cards as I can because she’s unique. She’s unusual. She’s ethnic. She’s multicultural. She catches the eye. I mean, it’s not just a cute stick figure with dreads. She’s saying something. She means something.” He stepped closer to Hope. “We have to give her a name.”

  “We do?” Hope asked softly.

  “A signature character needs a signature name,” Dylan said. “It makes it easier to sell.”

  “You can call her . . .” Oh, this will be ironic. “Call her Noelle.” Hope spelled it for him.

  “Noelle,” Dylan said, nodding. “And this is the first Noelle, get it?”

  Hope nodded, barely successful at not rolling her eyes.

  “Noelle is an excellent holiday name and a unique spelling.” He smiled at the drawing. “Hello, Noelle. Want to help make Hope and me some money?”

  I feel his warmth. I know it’s just the copier, but I feel warmer.

  “So, Hope, what do you say?” Dylan asked. “May I use your drawing?”

  “It’s not that good,” Hope said, gripping the edge of the copy. “I could dress her up a bit, maybe give her shoes, and clothes.” Aren’t stick figure people essentially naked? She tugged on the paper. “I can make it better.”

  Dylan pulled the copy away. “It’s perfect as it is. It’s simple, direct, and readily recognizable, like a symbol or a trademark. And I know just what to do with her.”

  He went to the counter, put another napkin in front of him, took the Sharpie, and did a rough re-creation of her stick figure as Hope drifted closer. Then he joined his long-haired signature stick figure to hers at their skinny hips. “I call him Dylan, for obvious reasons.”

  It’s a good name. Better than Riordan.

  “This drawing will be on the outside of the card,” Dylan said, “and on the inside it will read, ‘Siamese snow angels.’ ”

  Hope bit her lip. That is the most preposterous idea I have ever heard! Très bizarre, but it’s funny! A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Siamese snow angels.”

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Dylan asked.

  “I like it.”

  Dylan smiled. “You do?”

  Hope nodded. “They look like Siamese snow angels. It fits.”

  “So what do you say?” Dylan asked.

  “About what?” Hope asked.

  “About letting me use Noelle,” Dylan said.

  “I guess . . .” She laughed a little louder. That is in such poor taste! Siamese snow angels! We’re bound to offend someone. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “I’m going home to make this exact card right now,” Dylan said. “How late are you working tonight?”

  “I work every night until six.” Sometimes six-thirty when I’m running your ridiculous cards, and I might not even mind staying later tonight.

  “I’ll be back well before then,” Dylan said, “and if you like what you see, maybe you’ll consider doing more than only giving me the use of Noelle. Maybe you’ll think of joining me and my little company.”

  At the hip and making snow angels. “We’ll see,” Hope said.

  “And I will see you again soon,” Dylan said. He snatched up the bag containing his card order and the Buffalo Boss bags. “I am so glad I took today off.” He smiled. “Thank you, Hope.”

  “For what?” Hope asked.

  “For everything.”

  Hope watched him leave, enjoying the view of his paint-spattered jeans.

  He will see me later, Hope thought, but will he really see me? I’ll have to let him see more of me. Hope took off her smock and unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. I can be a mâtine, a hussy, when I want to be. Hope smiled and loosed another button. Now he’ll have plenty to see.

  Chapter 5

  Justin burst through the front door a few minutes later, his camera bag swinging wildly around him.

  It’s a regular circus in here today. This slow Wednesday certainly isn’t.

  Justin rounded the counter and stopped. “I smell hot wings.”

  “It was my lunch,” Hope said.

  “Oh, right, um . . .” He squinted at the floor. “Sorry for taking so long. Why don’t you, um, why don’t you take a break for a few minutes, maybe go outside and stretch your legs.”

  A break? What’s that? “Okay.”

  Hope put on her coat and darted through the front door before Justin could change his mind. The Brooklyn air was crisp and metallic as usual, but at least she was out in the sun. I wonder if I was a sunrise child. She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. Maybe I can get a freckle today.

  Hope crossed between several cars until she stood in front of Mr. Al-Hamsi. While he sat bundled up in a brown-and-white blanket on a green-and-white lawn chair, she browsed his DVD titles, most of them some of the newer releases with Christmas movies sprinkled here and there. She saw Elf, Four Christmases, The Nutcracker, This Christmas, Christmas with the Kranks, and all the Home Alone movies.

  “Gently used,” Mr. Al-Hamsi said. “You will enjoy.”

  Right. “How much?”

  “One for ten, two for fifteen,” he said. “Three for twenty.”

  “Even the Christmas movies?” Hope asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But you don’t celebrate Christmas, do you, Mr. Al-Hamsi?” Hope asked.

  “I celebrate money,” he said.

  “But it’s the middle of October,” Hope said.

  “Seventy-one shopping days left until Christmas,” he said with a smile. “Get them now before price increases.”

  She looked at the jeans, all of them men’s jeans, most of them overly washed and faded to a robin’s egg blue. Men’s jeans? Is he kidding? “And these?”

  “Gently worn,” he said. “Top quality.”

  “How much?”

  “One for twenty, two for thirty, three for forty,” he said. “Top quality. No disappointments.”

  She checked several labels. These are all huge, and a thirty-six is the smallest size. I could put one of me inside a single pants leg. “Nothing smaller?”

  “Baggy is still in,” he said. “Top quality. No disappointments.”

  She held a size thirty-six to her hips. The pants legs hit her at her shins. She held up a size thirty-eight, and the pants legs barely traveled past her knees. Where did he get these? “I need something much longer than these.” She nodded at her knees. “These are no better than shorts.”

  Mr. Al-Hamsi shrugged. “Wear as shorts then. Top quality. Gently worn. No disappointments.”

  Hope saw a man in a purple shirt waving to her from across the street. Who is that poorly dressed man? She shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted. Oh. It’s the boss. What was that, five minutes? She folded and returned the jeans to the stack. “If you get any size thirty with a thirty-two inseam, let me know.”

  “Do they make such a size?” Mr. Al-Hamsi asked.

  I am a thin woman in a baggy world. “They make,” Hope said, and she weaved around a bus and two hon
king cars to return to Thrifty.

  Justin already wore his coat. “I have to go, um, pick up a special order.”

  Right.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour at the latest,” he said, and he bolted out the door.

  Hope took off her coat, looked around for anything to do, found nothing, and stepped into the washroom, leaving the door open in case a rare customer or someone needing directions out of Brooklyn came in. She looked in the mirror and decided to remove the hemp string, letting her locks cascade down her back. I look like a black-haired lioness. Roar. Grr. I’ll bet the average lioness doesn’t have her hair going every direction at once, though. She looked at the dark-brown skin on her chest. Another button? No. I don’t want to scare the man away with my shiny breastbone.

  And then Hope watched the counter again.

  More nothing happened. Perhaps the ficus plant grew.

  At three PM, Justin returned, locking himself in the office.

  At 3:39 PM, a customer made ten self-serve copies.

  Hope collected a dollar and paid the tax out of her own pocket.

  The woman didn’t thank her.

  At 4:32 PM, Hope had some indigestion.

  At 4:35 PM, Hope’s indigestion passed.

  Perhaps the ficus wilted slightly.

  At a quarter to five, Justin emerged from the office, his coat already zipped up, his trusty camera bag on his shoulder. “I’m knocking off early today. Can you count down the register and put today’s money and receipts on my desk? You’ve done it before, right?”

  I hate you. Hope nodded. Please walk into a speeding bus.

  Justin handed her a key. “Here’s the key to the office. Make sure you lock everything up.”

  I always do. Hope took the key. “What about the deposit?”

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll do that in the morning.”

  That’s not the correct procedure and you know it. Are you trying to lose the job you never do anyway? “I’ve made night deposits before.” For other equally useless and former managers.

  “Um, well, okay,” Justin said. “Just sign my name to the deposit slip.”

  So it will look as if you did your job and stayed until closing. “Sure.”

  Justin left.

  Hope shook her head. That man has either a bookie or a girlfriend somewhere who is more important than his paycheck, and why does he carry a camera everywhere?

  By five, Hope’s stomach completely settled down, and Dylan breezed in waving a piece of paper. “Take a look.”

  Hope looked.

  Well, take a look at me—I mean, Noelle. She looks like a skinny blind Medusa with no breasts. Did he do something to Noelle’s lips? He turned them up. She’s actually smiling a sexy, sly, Mona Lisa smile. “How did you . . .”

  “Make her smile?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded.

  “Just added two little lines at the corners of her mouth,” Dylan said. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “It’s fine,” Hope said. Noelle actually looks happy. The snow angel outline around the “twins” could use a little work, but there’s no doubt what they’re doing.

  “Turn it over,” Dylan said.

  Hope turned the card over and saw “Odd Ducks Limited” instead of “Odd Duck Limited.” He added an s. “You changed your name.”

  “Only on the cards,” Dylan said. “It’d be a big hassle changing the name of the website. Maybe I’ll do that when the domain name expires in a few years.”

  “Why did you change your name?” Hope asked.

  “I’d like us to be partners, Hope,” Dylan said.

  So would I! I can see his tall body wrapped around my tall body and all our hair flowing together. Hope blinked. Where has my libido been? I feel like unbuttoning two more buttons and loosening my belt. No. My pants will hit the floor, and I’m wearing some old pink underwear today. Now if I were wearing some black satin underwear—

  “Hope?”

  Oh. I’ve kept Dylan waiting while I’ve been mingling with his body and disrobing us in my mind. She looked up. “Are you serious? Partners?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said. “Business partners.”

  Hope pouted for a moment. I like the sound of “partners” better. “But on the basis of one card?”

  “But what a card it is,” Dylan said. “Can you get on the Internet here? I’ll show you how well it’s already selling.”

  It’s already selling. Don’t I need to be under contract or something before he can do that? Why am I fighting this? The card is making money.

  Hope knew she could get to the Internet on the mainframe quickly, but she wanted a little more privacy. And intimacy. She dug out the office key. “Step into my office.”

  As Dylan came around the counter and followed her to the office, Hope had a momentary doubt. Now I’m breaking procedure by letting a customer come to this side of the counter. Oh well. No one will know. Or care.

  She opened Justin’s door, New York Rangers posters and player pictures assaulting her eyes. She wiggled the mouse and froze.

  That’s a naked black woman with very large breasts on that screen. Those can’t be real, and what is she doing with those two men? Those . . . things . . . can’t be real either.

  “My boss, he must have . . .” Hope started to say.

  “No explanation needed,” Dylan said.

  Hope quickly minimized the page, shrinking the threesome to a safe blue bar at the bottom of the screen. Then she opened another Internet browser.

  Dylan slipped around her but not before rubbing his hip against hers. “May I?”

  Yes, you may. You may rub my hip with your hip. You may even rub your hands all over my body and put me in the position that woman was just in. Where are all these thoughts coming from? I haven’t had these thoughts in years. “Sure.”

  Dylan’s fingers flew over the keyboard until the Odd Duck website appeared. “It’s a rudimentary site,” he said. “Nothing flashy. Easy to navigate, though.”

  Hope saw a series of white thumbnail pictures set against a black background. Each picture was of a different card cover, typed copy underneath.

  Dylan smells nice, like incense, and he has removed the stubble from his chin. He took time to shave. He looks so . . . clean, and I’m not being racist because he’s white. He looks clean. His skin looks and smells clean. He reminds me so much of that actor Colin Farrell, who had long hair in a couple movies, but why am I fixating on some distant Irish actor when a real Irishman is centimeters away?

  Dylan clicked a button to open a new page, typed in a password in a white rectangle, and a page bursting with text, columns, and numbers appeared, the numbers occasionally increasing. He pointed to the word “Siamese,” the last word on the screen. “One hundred and thirty-two bought and paid for already.”

  Is he kidding?

  “And in only two hours,” Dylan said, “you just made ninety-nine bucks.”

  Hope blinked at the screen. “Really?”

  “Really.” Dylan smiled. “I’m hoping ‘Siamese Snow Angels’ takes off like ‘Skinny Santa’ did.”

  Wow. “That’s . . . amazing.” Hope smiled as the number changed to 137.

  “Five more while we’ve been watching,” Dylan said. “Your character is amazing. Noelle is going to make us a lot of money.”

  I do not want to leave this office. I want to watch that number change for the rest of the night. I also want to bask in this man’s warmth. He is putting off so much heat!

  Hope sighed, realizing she couldn’t stay forever in the tiny office. “I’m kind of running the store, so I need to be . . .”

  Dylan closed the browser. “Should I . . . No.”

  What’s he mean—oh! Oh, yes. “Yes, I think we better return things to the way they were.” She reopened Justin’s last web page. Why don’t the women ever smile? She looks . . . fulfilled. Twice. There’s no way this is physically possible. I’ll bet they used Photoshop. I like her tattoo, though. I’ll bet it hurt to put
it way down there.

  Hope took one more peek and followed Dylan out of the office, locking the door behind her.

  Dylan returned to the front of the counter, propping his chin up on his hands. “So what do you think about us becoming partners?”

  After what I just saw in the office, I like the idea very much. I would need, of course, only one of you, Dylan, and I would promise to smile. “You really want to become business partners on the basis of one drawing?”

  “Yes.”

  He seems so sure. “Well, I guess it sounds . . . great.”

  “I am detecting doubt in your voice, Hope,” Dylan said.

  “Well . . .” This isn’t doubt. I’m feeling a chill. It was so much warmer in that office. “May I ask you a few questions first?”

  “Sure.”

  I have so many. Where to begin . . . “When your customers buy ten or more, you give free shipping, right?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “So you’re only pulling in a dollar net per card because of that, right?” Hope asked.

  “Right,” Dylan said.

  “So in order to keep at least that dollar-fifty net per card, I’d suggest making some minor changes.” She smiled. “You know, to save money and increase our profit.”

  “Our profit?” Dylan said. “So we can become partners?”

  Only ask that question of me if you truly mean it. Otherwise, stop saying that word!

  “I can’t say that I don’t like the idea,” Hope said. “I’ve made a hundred dollars in a few hours with a doodle.”

  “A great doodle,” Dylan said. “What are your ideas to increase our profits?”

  I have his undivided attention. When’s the last time I had a man’s undivided attention? I should have popped another button. No. Then he’d see my navel.

  “Okay, first,” Hope said, “you really don’t have to use such heavyweight paper or any kind of coating. Plain thirty-two-pound paper is sturdy enough for a greeting card. That’ll save you about five percent on paper costs, and it will probably save you money on bulk shipping and mailing costs, too.”