The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

  “To tell you the truth, Stan should be worried.” Cheryl leaned forward onto her elbows to display just the right amount of cleavage. “I will be able to prove my computer was tampered with. Someone is planning to sneak me out the hard drive.”

  In reality, Blake had sneaked her out the hard drive just two days after she’d been fired. Blake had recommended the best computer wizards he knew so that she could determine exactly when her presentation for Fitzgibbon Ale had been deleted. But if Andy really was a rat, it was fun to let him think he still had a chance to stop the hard drive from leaving the office.

  Andy’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s too dangerous. That person could get caught. He could get fired!”

  Cheryl smiled. “Stan only fires people who bring the company millions of dollars in business, remember? Besides, he won’t get caught, because what I’m telling you is confidential.”

  Andy shifted in his seat, then nodded. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. Stan didn’t send me, I’m not going to run back with a report on you, and I won’t tell him anything you said, even if he asks. Okay?”

  Cheryl ran her finger around the edge of the coffee cup. When she looked up, Andy was still watching her, intent. He gave a little smile and Cheryl looked down again, suddenly confused.

  What if he hadn’t been sent by Stan to spy on her? Either the guy was an exceptionally good liar or this was supposed to be a date. If so, it was the most unusual one she’d ever been on. Cheryl couldn’t believe he’d brought her flowers. That was something Sean, in all the years they were together, had never done.

  Every time Cheryl thought about her ex-husband, she felt sick. The thoughts were always so petty. It was almost as though her mind was on a continuous campaign to convince her that the quiet, kind man she’d once pledged her life to had been a bad guy. That way, Cheryl wouldn’t have to go through the rest of her life with a noose around her neck for ruining a marriage that most people would have been fine with. She couldn’t believe her love had been dictated by something as foolish as a foam finger. That foam finger had started and finished her relationship.

  It had all begun at a Cubs game, back when she was still living in Chicago. It had been one of those hot summer days when even the lakeside breeze was lazy, refusing to push away the dust and humidity of the city. The only way to handle the heat was to cool off with icy beer. So, Cheryl met up with Sean and a group of friends for a morning of drinking in Lincoln Park. Slowly, they worked their way toward the game in Wrigleyville.

  That day, Cheryl had gone into their date ready to cut Sean loose. Sean was a fine enough Mr. Right Now, with his thin brown hair, lanky body, and obvious interest in her, but there wasn’t anything special about him or his mediocre ambition as a draftsman. There was another guy in the group Cheryl had her eye on, someone as loud and as ambitious as she was. By the end of the day, she planned to be rid of Sean and stumbling home with Charlie. As she tucked her long hair up into a ponytail, shimmied her body into a tight Cubs T-shirt and saggy jean shorts, Cheryl practiced her exit speech. “It’s not you, it’s me,” she recited. “I just need some time to myself.”

  When she and Sean were drinking at the bar in Lincoln Park, there was a quick moment when Cheryl almost said it but something stopped her. Maybe it was the bartender telling them a story about a couple of regulars who had just gotten married or . . . no. Cheryl remembered now. Sean had told some joke that everyone laughed at so hard and for so long that he was on cloud nine for an hour. Unwilling to burst his bubble, Cheryl threw back a few shots and decided to dump him at the baseball park. But by the time they finally stumbled through the gates at Wrigley Field, she was smashed. When Sean bought a blue foam finger from a vendor and held it up, everyone around him cheered. Cheryl looked on in surprise, then cried, “That’s my boyfriend!”

  From the start of the national anthem through the final pitch, Cheryl became transfixed by that fucking foam finger, and even more, by the way it transformed her date. Every time Sean raised that #1 for the crowd to see, the people around them would go nuts. Suddenly, she saw him as a warrior striving for greatness, the #1 symbolizing a mighty sword. That night, instead of getting “It’s not you, it’s me,” Sean got Cheryl’s first ever “I love you.” As the years went by, Cheryl realized her mistake. The warrior she had seen in Sean that day had been a product of wishful thinking. Maybe it had been the beer talking or heat stroke but Sean could never live up to what she’d seen in him. Through no fault of his own, the Sean she had fallen in love with that day didn’t exist.

  Looking across the table at Andy, Cheryl wondered what would happen if she shared that story. She’d never told it to anyone before. At the sudden impulse, she set down her coffee and pushed back her chair. She and Andy weren’t even friends. What on earth was she thinking?

  “You ready?” he asked and she nodded.

  From under her lashes, she sneaked a peek at him. Their eyes met. Lightning. Cheryl shivered, looking back down at her coffee.

  “How’s your head?” Andy said.

  Cheryl gaped. “My head?”

  Andy’s eyes widened, realizing that his innocent question did sound graphic over the low murmur of the intimate restaurant. “No! I mean, your injury, your cabeza . . .” At Cheryl’s smirk, he chuckled. “Never mind.”

  At the hostess stand, Andy helped her with her jacket. As she shrugged into it, Andy’s hands accidentally brushed against her skin and Cheryl jumped. All the way to the valet stand, she relived the moment. Her skin was still hot, as though he’d branded her.

  When the car pulled up, Andy raced to her door. He opened it and closed it behind her, then headed back to his side to pay. When he slid into the vehicle and clicked on the ignition, eighties funk blasted out of the speakers, full volume.

  “I can’t believe the valet didn’t turn that off,” Cheryl groaned.

  Andy smiled. “It probably rocked his world.”

  The drive home was quiet. Lit jack-o’-lanterns smiled from windows and bright stars dotted the late night. When Cheryl finally turned to look at him, it struck her how masculine and firm Andy’s profile was in the muted light. When they reached her house, Andy pulled up the driveway and shut off the ignition. He sat for a moment, then turned to her. Once again, their eyes met. After a long, silent moment Andy got out of the car and walked around to her side. As she got out, he took her arm.

  “Don’t want you to fall in those heels,” he said.

  His scent was already familiar. Cheryl breathed it in like pleasant cologne and walked as close to him as she could, enjoying the heat of his body. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. At her front door, Cheryl waited.

  And waited.

  This was the moment the guy always did something, tried to con his way through her front door and into her bed. Andy wasn’t trying anything. He was just standing there patiently, hands now stuffed into the pockets of his overcoat. The inaction was getting humiliating, so Cheryl crinkled up her nose in confusion, poking around in her purse. She found her keys and took them out as slowly as possible. Should she make the move? Invite him in?

  No way, she decided. Guys came on to her.

  “Well, thanks for dinner. That was a nice . . . gesture,” she finally said, smiling up at him.

  “You’re welcome,” Andy said. “It was good to see you.”

  Good to see her? What about seeing her naked? Cheryl bit her lip. “Okay, well . . .” She stuck her key in the door and turned it, looking over her shoulder with a seductive smile. He smiled back. Suddenly, she blurted it out. “Did you want to come in for a drink or anything?”

  It hung in the air, awkward.

  “I . . .” Andy looked away, back toward his car, then at the windows of her house. A light was still on in the den, from when he’d first arrived. “I really should go.”

  “Really?” she said, knowing she sounded like a total girl.

  “Really.” Andy nodded.

  Then shrugged.

>   “You certainly like to shrug,” Cheryl practically shouted, hands on hips.

  Andy cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

  She let out a huff. “Skip it.”

  What was with this guy? Every other male on the planet wanted to bed Cheryl. Why was he . . . ? Suddenly, she froze in utter disbelief. In all of her admiring, glancing, openmouthed stares she had forgotten to check for one thing—the ring. Andy’s hands were deep in his pockets.

  “Are you married?” Cheryl demanded.

  Andy’s mouth fell open and he actually started laughing. It echoed long and loud through the starry night. “Why would you care about my marital status?” He chuckled, rubbing his gloved hand across his forehead.

  “I don’t, I . . .”

  His eyes flickered over her body. “You got a little crush?” he whispered.

  Cheryl drew back, speechless. She wanted to punch him but at the same time . . . “No. I just . . . I . . .”

  Andy pulled his hands out of his pockets. He crossed his arms, the left hand deliberately on top. Cheryl glanced down and gasped. He was wearing gloves. They were thick leather, which made it impossible to see an imprint of a ring.

  “Asshole,” Cheryl said, stomping into her house and slamming the door in his face.

  She could hear him laughing all the way back to his car.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I REALLY CAN’T STOMACH A DINNER RIGHT NOW,” JACKIE LIED. “American food just isn’t working for me these days.”

  When George called, Jackie had been about to shove a grilled cheese sandwich into her mouth. It was made out of white bread, butter, and an orange substance pretending to be cheese. A handful of salty Pringles lay on the plate next to it, alongside a crunchy dill pickle. Even though her meal was as American as it could get, the lie was necessary. She couldn’t risk having a dinner date with George.

  “Well, that’s fair,” George said.

  Jackie let out a deep sigh of relief. She selected a chip from her plate and chewed it softly.

  “What about the art fair?” he suggested. “We could find some holiday presents?”

  “Little items made out of Popsicle sticks?” Jackie crooned. “How gauche.”

  “A play?”

  “Non.”

  “The symphony?”

  “Oh geez, George,” Jackie said. “You’re not going to let up, are you?”

  George agreed that no, he did intend to spend time with her. “You’re one of my best friends,” he insisted. “And we need to celebrate the successful acquisition of your new property.”

  The offer on Millstines had been accepted the day before. Jackie, Cheryl, and Doris were scheduled to sign off on the property the next morning. George had helped them negotiate the deal.

  With a huge sigh, Jackie agreed to go out with him on Friday. It was only polite, considering all George had done for them, but she would certainly draw the line if he tried to kiss her. There was a big difference between being indebted and being a prostitute.

  ON THE WAY to the signing, Doris could not stop worrying. “What if something happens at the last minute? What if everything goes wrong? What if we are making the biggest mistake of our lives?”

  Cheryl was driving, careening her BMW through the streets with a speed that made Jackie want to throw up. Sliding low into her seat, Jackie put on her sunglasses and cracked the window open. “The only thing that could go wrong,” she finally said, “is if we end up in jail for reckless driving.”

  “There are lots of things that could go wrong . . .” Doris started to say and Cheryl gave her a withering look in the mirror.

  “Did you get more Xanax from your doctor?” she asked.

  Doris nodded, clutching her purse and shooting a guilty look at Jackie. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Take it,” Jackie and Cheryl both chorused. The only sound for the rest of the car ride was Doris fumbling through her purse for her bottle of pills.

  At George’s office, the girls were met by an efficient secretary. She took them into a boardroom. Stacks of contracts glistened from the table, pens placed neatly beside them. At each seat, there was also a fresh cappuccino next to a plate with strawberries and a chocolate croissant.

  “The croissants were imported from Europe,” the secretary said.

  Jackie gasped, then clapped her hands in delight.

  Betsy bustled into the room then, in a burst of perfume and curly hair. “Good morning, ladies,” she sang, taking a seat at the table. “Ooh, who got us treats?”

  George walked in, looking handsome in his gray suit. “Guilty.”

  “Hi,” Betsy practically squealed, rushing over to shake his hand. “I’m the Realtor.” She stared up at him googly-eyed and Jackie felt an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “George darling,” she said, batting her lashes in spite of herself. “Merci de le chocolat.”

  “Anything for you, my dear,” he said, smiling at her.

  A disappointed Betsy flounced to her seat and said, “Shall we get this party started?”

  George went to the head of the table and began reading through the closing contracts. It was quite dull and Jackie wasn’t paying attention, simply enjoying the flaky croissant and its rich chocolate. She hoped George had more than the ones that had been on the table. Knowing him, he had probably ordered a whole case. Both he and Robert had never been shy about spending their money on the pleasures life had to offer. That was something Jackie had loved about both of them. Halfway through her reverie, Betsy’s cell phone rang and Jackie jumped.

  “It’s the Millstines’ Realtor,” Betsy said. “We better take this.” After a friendly exchange, it became clear that Betsy was on a three-way call with both the Millstines and their Realtor. Suddenly, Betsy’s face changed. “Uh, hold on just a second,” she said. Carefully, she put the phone on mute and set it on the table.

  “What’s wrong?” Cheryl said quickly. “Are they backing out?”

  “It’s a routine call,” Betsy said. “They just wanted to find out if we’d signed off yet but they just asked what type of restaurant it will be,” she said, yanking at a curly strand of her hair. “What do I say?”

  “Lie,” Cheryl said. “Lie!”

  “Do not lie,” George said, tapping a pen against his cheek. “The information is irrelevant. They have no legal right to it.”

  “But it could slow down the closing if I don’t answer,” Betsy said. The strand of hair she had twisted around her finger was turning her finger purple. “They are motivated, but nervous. They might relook at everything.”

  “We have to think of something,” Jackie said. Rapidly, she fanned herself with her hands, half standing up from her chair. She searched for the right words. “Tell them The Whole Package will primarily focus on women, giving them a fun place to go with their friends.”

  George shot her the thumbs-up sign. “Tell them that.”

  “Sure thing.” A flustered Betsy took her phone off mute. As she opened her mouth to speak, Doris shrieked, “Just tell the truth. I don’t want them to sue us!” At that, Betsy’s eyes widened and she blurted out, “Mrs. Millstine? The buyers would like you to know the food will be served by scantily clothed men.”

  George put his head in his hands. Jackie grabbed her purse and hit Doris with it, hard. Cheryl slammed the papers on the table and started to lunge for the phone. Betsy held up her hand and said, “Okay, great! We’ll sign the papers right now.”

  Betsy hung up and gave the thumbs-up sign. After a tense moment, the entire group turned to Doris and stared.

  “What?” Doris said, taking a sip of her cappuccino. “Honesty. It’s always the best policy.”

  George chuckled and went back to reading the contracts.

  AN HOUR LATER, the girls stood in the middle of Doris’s living room, champagne flutes raised. Doris’s heart swelled with pride. They had signed their papers, gotten everything in motion, and for the first time in her adult life, Doris felt like part of a majo
r project and responsibility. It felt good.

  “To my girls, bonne chance,” Jackie declared, raising her glass and looking at her friends with affection. “In spite of Doris’s ridiculous obsession with the truth . . .”

  Doris giggled.

  “Together,” Jackie said, beaming, “we are The Whole Package.”

  Doris clinked the fragile flute against her friends’ and took a long drink. The bubbly liquid was sweet in her mouth and she felt another rush of pleasure. Things were going well for now and Doris hoped that would last. At some point, she was going to have to deal with Doug and his opinion on what she had done with their money. Every time the phone rang, she jumped.

  One of these days, he was going to notice that their accountant had liquidated all of their stocks and transferred them to some fund he’d never heard of. In a normal situation, Doug watched their money like a hawk. Given his silence, Doris would have been worried that he was dead or something but she knew he wasn’t. Doug had been in contact with Mandy, on her private cell phone. Her daughter had confessed this the night before.

  “Dad called,” she announced, hopping onto Doris’s bed and crossing her legs.

  Doris froze. “Oh? Did he . . . say anything?” Instantly, she found herself wringing her hands, ready to reach for her new bottle of Xanax. She’d stashed it in her bedside drawer in a hollow book, a place Jackie wouldn’t think to look.

  “About . . . ?” Mandy said. It was almost as though Mandy was enjoying Doris’s discomfort. She was always punishing her for something.

  “Where is he?” Doris pleaded.

  “Arizona, New Mexico . . .” Mandy said dreamily, leaning back on the bed. “He’s living the life of a cowboy.”

  “Shooting people?” Jackie said from the doorway.

  “Just living free,” Mandy said. “By the way, thanks for telling me, Mom.”

  “He wanted a vacation,” Doris tried. “He had years of vacation time stacked up.”