The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

  Taking a deep breath, Jackie slid a manicured nail under the lip of the envelope and tore it open. The letter was written on George’s gold-embossed paper and read:Dear Jacqueline,

  Jackie couldn’t help but smile. Even from across the globe, George insisted on calling her the name no one else did.

  I have left you several messages that you have not returned. And are you checking your e-mail? Your cell? It is critical we speak. Your late husband’s estate has been used in its entirety. I will need to meet with you regarding your situation. Your monthly allowance is no longer available due to insufficient funds.

  Contact me at your earliest convenience.

  Regards,

  George Edwards

  Jackie dropped the letter. As it fluttered to the floor, her full weight fell against the kitchen counter.

  When Jackie first moved to Paris, her goal was to reconnect with her art and mourn the loss of her husband. Thanks to her striking looks, the money Robert had left her, and some helpful contacts, Jackie found herself caught up in the glamour of Parisian high society instead. Practically overnight, her life had been filled with fashion events, gallery openings, charity balls . . . so many delightful distractions. One of her favorites was hosting extravagant dinner parties for her new friends.

  From where she stood, Jackie could see that ridiculous cheese wheel from one of the many dinner parties. It sat in the dining room on a medieval cart where its unsanitary, gooey concoctions had horrified and entertained countless French guests. They found the cheese wheel hilarious, just like any gimmick from the “fun American.” Covering her eyes and looking out through splayed fingers, Jackie took in the confetti-colored paintings, large and small, that covered the rooms’ walls. Every piece was gifted by the friends and artists who had come in and out of her home with the freedom of hotel guests. They had filled her life with art, wine, candies . . . any trinket that might make her clap her hands with glee.

  Now, Jackie’s hands simply shook. In the beginning, she had believed so much in her artistic abilities—the French would love her Americanized paintings and she’d be a celebrity overnight!—that Jackie had failed to plan ahead. In spite of George’s consistent financial warnings, she had treated the best Bordeaux like tap water. By the time she finally noticed that his predictions were coming true, it was too late to do anything about it. Although some of her early paintings had sold, it was not enough to support a career, and certainly not enough to support her extravagant lifestyle. The money had run out. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I have nothing,” Jackie said. It was like confessing to a stranger that her husband was dead, as though hearing it out loud for the first time made it true. She said it again, louder: “I have nothing.”

  “Chéri? Are you speaking?” Christian called her from the next room. That voice she knew so well was off-key.

  Jackie pressed her fingers under her eyes and raised her head. She swept out of the kitchen into her living room—the living room she had been paying for out of her dead husband’s money, the living room where she and Christian had made love in every corner, the same corners where he felt up sculpture models while she was out—and pushed aside the partition. Christian was naked, as was the girl. They were on the sheet, entwined next to the clay. It lay wet and forgotten.

  Seeing her, Christian gaped like a dead fish at the Sunday market. Apologies began tumbling forth in French.

  “Christian, I have something to tell you,” Jackie interrupted. “I am not thirty-one. I turn forty in one year and three months.”

  The model, bless her, appeared more shocked at Jackie’s age than her sudden presence.

  “And I have nothing.”

  His surprise and protests sounded like a horn out of tune.

  “Do yourself a favor, Christian,” Jackie laughed. “Learn English.”

  The French model gasped; the sound of so many French girls.

  “Good-bye, my darling,” Jackie said, reaching out to touch the soft hair on top of his head. No matter what Christian had done, she still appreciated him. Their casual romance had helped her to move on. “Good luck to you.”

  “Where do you go?” Christian panicked, struggling to stand.

  Jackie let out a breath. “Home.”

  Chapter Two

  “NICE SHOT, JACKASS!” CHERYL SHOUTED HAPPILY.

  Stan grunted, and this time made contact with the racquetball. It thwacked sharply against the wall. Although the red rubber was like lightning, Cheryl was the jar. She was on it faster than her boss could have dreamed. It flew right at his head.

  “Aargh!” he screamed, ducking.

  They laughed. It was part of their game to try to kill each other because both knew the other could handle it.

  “Pipsqueak,” Stan taunted.

  Cheryl swiped at the sweat on her forehead. Her wristband was already sopping wet, as was the rest of her body. Her legs ached but she relished the physicality of this sport. Where else could you be so violent and have nobody get hurt? She swung powerfully, aiming for a corner. The ball ricocheted as she’d hoped, bouncing just past Stan’s left ear.

  “Damn,” he swore, then they both stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths. “Are you beating me?”

  “What do you think?” she said, grinning.

  Stan was resting his hands on his knees, looking up at her through a lock of dark hair. Moments like these, Cheryl could appreciate her boss was a good-looking guy. There were probably hundreds who looked just like him on the East Coast; thick body, strong jawline, Italian. Still, Cheryl would never let him into her bed. Stan was married. More important, he was obnoxious.

  “So,” Stan drawled, poising himself for a hit. “I saw your wet dream in the locker room.”

  Cheryl had lifted the ball to serve, but lowered it back down. The rubber was hard in her hands. Hot from the beating it was taking. “And who would that be?”

  “You know,” Stan said, flexing his elbow. “Andy. The new guy.”

  Setting her jaw, Cheryl said, “Great sentiment, Stan. But to be honest with you, I don’t plan on getting arrested for statutory.”

  Stan laughed. Leaning back on his heels, he shook his head.

  Andy was at least ten years younger than she was, smart, and incredibly likable. He’d only been with TurnKey for a month but had infiltrated the firm like a partner. He practically waltzed into meetings, throwing around high fives like free beer. Of course, the guys at the marketing firm immediately handed him the respect Cheryl had to spend years cultivating.

  “You guys buddies now?” Cheryl asked.

  “Nah,” Stan said. “But I’d watch out for that one. Andy knows what he wants and it very well might be—”

  “My job?” she scoffed, swatting at him.

  Cheryl was second rung at the firm, right behind Stan. She liked to tease him that his hairy ass was the only thing blocking her way to the top.

  “Just saying.” Stan shrugged. “Glad we brought him in. Seems to know what he’s doing.”

  Stan was famous for giving the young guys the benefit of the doubt. With the girls, he would say things like, Think she can do more than flush a tampon down the toilet? to the other execs while the new girl was just out of earshot. Cheryl had always wondered what would happen if one of these girls overheard and decided to fight back in court. But Stan was an expert at walking the line. The poor new girl might sense something was very wrong from the muffled laughter and inappropriate glances but good luck trying to prove it. Cheryl empathized in these situations but didn’t dare intervene. She’d lived through the hazing. It was up to them to do the same.

  “Per usual, you’re giving the new guy too much credit,” Cheryl said. “Andy just started. He has no idea what he’s doing.”

  Stan positioned himself to hit. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Cheryl bit her lip. Joining the Racquet Club had been a savvy move on Andy’s part. It took most of the male executives years to cough up the membershi
p fee and gain that all-important after-hours access to Cheryl and Stan. Maybe the kid was brighter than she thought. As if that thought wasn’t irritating enough, there was another thing about him that had been pissing her off. Andy was good-looking. Distractingly so. And within the past week his floppy brown hair, omnipresent dimple, and piercing green eyes seemed to be everywhere. Cheryl grimaced and rubbed her right arm. As a matter of fact, everywhere had included the Racquet Club hallway, just before her game with Stan.

  Cheryl had been walking out of the locker room, sending a text and unwrapping a PowerBar when she crashed into a hard block of male flesh. “Fuck! Watch where you’re—” she’d said, before doing a double take. It was Andy. He was wearing silver soccer shorts and a close-fitting white T-shirt that showed off everything.

  “What are you doing here?” Cheryl demanded, staring him down.

  “Sorry.” Andy reached out a hand to steady her, which she brushed off. He held up his racket as way of explanation. “Racquetball. I’m a sucker for it.”

  The motion of his arm shot a scent of something spicy and extremely male in her direction. Cheryl found herself tongue-tied, which was absolutely baffling. She was the type of girl who knew how to small talk a man. Forcing herself to hold his gaze, she took a big bite of her PowerBar.

  “Just got a membership,” Andy said, smiling like she might be happy to hear it. When Cheryl didn’t say anything, he put his racquet behind his head and used it as a prop to stretch. “Heard it was where all the execs hang out. Figured if I wanted to join them, I’d have to pay up.”

  The stretching was really distracting. Every time Andy moved from side to side, the white T-shirt would creep up, exposing his taut stomach muscles. Cheryl kept her eyes directly on his.

  “You’re tan,” was all she could think of to say.

  “Single White Female.” He winked, indicating her bronzed form. At her confusion, he added, “You’re tan . . . I’m tan . . .”

  Ugh. He was funny. No one was funny. It was so . . . bothersome.

  Cheryl’s eyes betrayed her and wandered down. She could see It outlined in his soccer shorts. And It was not small. Her stomach did a flip-flop. There was no reason to sit in the sauna post-workout.

  “What time’s your game?” Andy asked.

  Cheryl jumped, peeked at the clock. She was late. “Right now.”

  “I’ll walk you,” he suggested.

  Shrugging, Cheryl let him follow her down the hall. She could feel his eyes on her legs.

  Cheryl was the type of woman other women loved to whisper about: “She’s not pretty—she’s just put together. She doesn’t even have boobs. I don’t get it. Why does every guy want her?” The answer was simple—older brothers.

  Cheryl had been good-naturedly bullied by David, Tom, and John her whole life, ever since she was a little kid. She learned that the way to show affection was to punch, hit, insult, or ignore; that simpering and whining was the fastest way to lose respect; and that challenging a man was fine if you could make him believe you’d acquiesce in the bedroom. Most important? Never let him get you there.

  Cheryl had been successful in that arena. The only guys she rewarded with sex were ones she didn’t need. As a rule, she only slept with men who were hot and dumb. The famous tennis player, the surfer who lived in Maui, the Italian who owned the winery . . . not to mention all the model-perfect conquests from ski trips, tropical vacations, and college . . . her online albums were littered with pictures of them. If it wasn’t for social networking, Cheryl wouldn’t remember any of their names, but they all remembered hers. Her in-box was constantly inundated with little notes designed to win her heart but it never worked. Cheryl was done saying those three little words. Those words took your power; she learned that in her first and only marriage. Of course, that left her almost forty and single, salivating over some thirty-year-old in see-through shorts.

  The locker room and the racquetball courts were on different floors and Cheryl usually took the stairs. When Andy stopped at the double doors of the elevator and pressed the Up button, she snorted and followed him inside. “Lazy,” she said, sliding an elastic band off her wrist and pulling her hair into a sleek ponytail. “Don’t you know you’re at a gym?”

  “Yeah,” Andy said, grinning, “but I ride in elevators with girls whenever I can. Elevators remind me of that Aerosmith video.”

  Cheryl crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “Okay. Let’s live out that fantasy. Press that emergency button and we’ll go for it right now.”

  As soon as the flirty words were out of her mouth, she looked forward to his response. Would Andy be the type to blush and stammer? Take her seriously and try to make a move? Or meet her eyes with an equal challenge, with a secret hope to take her up on it later?

  Cheryl smiled angelically. “Well?”

  Andy gave her a quick look up and down . . . and shrugged. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, singular movement. It was like a gavel dismissing a bid at an auction block.

  Cheryl’s mouth dropped to the floor. Quickly, she reached up to smooth her hair and found herself also adjusting her Nike sports bra, her tennis skirt, even the gold tennis bracelets on her arm, all while sneaking horrified glances at Andy out of the corner of her eye.

  “I wonder what that video would have been like if Tyler had been scared of elevators,” Andy mused.

  “Are you scared of elevators?” Cheryl stammered.

  The doors slid open and Andy tossed her a dimpled grin. “I’m not scared of anything.”

  Somehow, Cheryl managed to be cordial on the walk from the elevator door to the racquetball court. She made some funny remark that had made Andy laugh out loud. Cheryl even gave him a lazy wave and a nonchalant, “Welcome to the gym,” as he strutted away like some oversexed peacock. But the moment he was out of sight, she yanked a travel-sized mirror out of her gym bag and peered into it, hunting for signs of expiration.

  In the reflection gaping back at her, Cheryl saw tan skin, taut and clear. A small and slightly upturned nose, with a smattering of freckles across the ridge. Hair that was perfectly cut and highlighted, falling just past her shoulders. Breathing a sigh of relief, Cheryl snapped the compact shut. She looked good. Damn good.

  Andy had just made her shit list.

  “Don’t waste your time getting attached,” Cheryl told Stan. “That kid will leave us for New York in six months. And if he doesn’t, I’ll send him there myself.” She bounced the ball. “You ready?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Cheryl drew back her racket.

  “It’s just so funny that you don’t like the kid,” Stan mused.

  Cheryl rolled her eyes, once again dropping the ball. “And why’s that?”

  Stan grinned. “He certainly seems to like you.”

  Cheryl didn’t even bother to aim. She whacked the red ball as hard as she could. It flew against the wall and just as she felt the satisfaction of a firm hit, she realized something was wrong.

  The red ball was not flying at Stan’s head. It was coming straight at hers.

  Chapter Three

  DORIS PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT OF WOODFIELD MALL, self-consciously easing her Lexus sport utility into a tight parking spot. The car was a bit too flashy for her taste, all silver and chrome, but Doug had chosen it for her based on its safety rating.

  Doris thought she looked silly in it; a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman decked out in conservative clothing. Mandy was counting the seconds until her sixteenth birthday, expecting her mother to just hand over the keys. Doris and Doug had discussed whether to give Mandy the Lexus but in their generation, a car wouldn’t have been a gift. It would have to be earned. After all, look at the first car she and Doug had bought together.

  When he’d first found that old tank, Doug had called her from a pay phone. He was talking way too fast and too loud, something he did even back then when he got excited. Apparently, there was a navy blue Volvo parked at the side of the road, a bargain at
four hundred dollars.

  “It’s perfect for our little family,” Doug had crooned. “Grab the cash from my drawer and come down and see. We’ll celebrate with ice cream.”

  They’d spent the evening kissing each other with cold mouths as the radio crackled from the speakers. When the stars came out, Doris found herself staring up at them as she and Doug made love on the scratchy seats.

  Of course, as Doug got promoted and their bank account got bigger, all that early frugality gave way to luxury. Eventually, they donated the Volvo to charity. On days when she was feeling particularly nostalgic, Doris looked for it on the road, wondering if it was still puttering away. Maybe it was silly but Doris couldn’t help but miss that time when things were simpler. She was grateful for the security Doug gave her but sometimes it bothered her that Mandy didn’t know what it was like to save up cash in a drawer to get anything. They had raised her to be an only child who expected everything, and typically, she got it. What else was Doug working for? Certainly not them.

  Even though Doug and Doris had talked numerous times about going on a second honeymoon, they had never agreed on a location. Doris wanted to go to Hawaii but Doug was worried that the plane ride would be too long. Doug was interested in playing golf in Naples but Doris didn’t like the humidity in Florida. One of them had looked up Tahiti but in the end, trying to figure out where to go and what to do was overwhelming. Planning a vacation had turned out to be more stressful than their daily life.

  With a shake of her head, Doris removed the keys from the ignition and opened the door. She gasped as the wind whipped across her face. A light slush seeped into her gray boots the moment she stepped into the cold. Yes, somewhere warm would be a nice getaway. Doris tried not to be irritated that she was bustling across the mall parking lot in this weather instead of at home reading a good book by the fire.

  Then you should have been more careful, she thought, pulling her coat tighter around her.