The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

  “You’re wrong,” Cheryl said, voice final. “I would go there. And I’d go with clients. I’d come again and again,” she drawled, kicking her legs up on the table. “And again . . .”

  Andy’s face brightened. He ran his hands up and down her smooth skin, fingers kneading the soft area inside her thighs.

  “Look,” she said, touching his hand. “I don’t mean to be so protective about this but it’s a little late for stage fright. We open in a few days.”

  The long green tentacles of her spider plants were dangling behind his head. Cheryl realized they looked a little peaked. Reluctantly, she removed Andy’s hands from her body, hopped up, and started digging around the cupboards for a pitcher. Her cell phone ring cut through the kitchen. It was sitting on the counter, vibrating and beeping away. Cheryl hadn’t looked at it all day.

  “I’ll bet that’s one of the girls,” Cheryl said, voice guilty. “They are going to kill me for disappearing for the past twenty-four hours.”

  “If it is them, tell them I said the concept’s interesting,” Andy said. He gave her a cute little look and Cheryl smiled. If he was trying to charm himself back into her good graces, it was definitely working. “And if you’re hiring male dancers . . .”

  “We will audition you tonight,” Cheryl laughed. “That is . . . if you were planning on staying?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  Cheryl’s heart leaped.

  Looking at her phone, Cheryl couldn’t believe how many calls she’d missed. “Thirteen,” she laughed, holding it up. “I’m popular.”

  Cheryl scrolled through the numbers on her caller ID. Jackie . . . Jackie . . . Doris . . . her parents . . . David . . . TurnKey actor (Cheryl blushed—she’d better delete him) . . . Jackie . . . Jackie . . . some number she didn’t know . . . the same number she didn’t know . . . the same number she didn’t know . . . the same number she didn’t know . . .

  “Who on earth is that?” Cheryl puzzled. “Hey, let me check my voice mail. I’ve got five calls from the same number. Maybe it’s about The Package.”

  Andy’s eyes twinkled. “I think the idea is growing on me.”

  Cheryl elbowed him and then punched in her pass code. She stood behind Andy, absently running her hands over his starched shirt and broad shoulders. She skipped the messages from the people she knew and went straight to . . . Blake.

  “It’s Blake,” the voice practically whispered. “Sorry I called so many times but I wanted to try and get a hold of you. Andy’s a rat. Stan has been storming around the office, trying to figure out who stole your hard drive, which means Andy told him everything . . .” Cheryl’s insides went from sugary, liquid love to rock-hard, subtemperature hate. She stared at the top of Andy’s head, wondering how many years she’d get in the slammer for bashing it in with a cell phone. “Andy wasn’t at work today,” the message continued, “but when I see him I will . . .” The phone dropped from Cheryl’s hand and fell with a clatter to the floor.

  Andy looked over in surprise. “Hey . . .”

  “Get out.” Her voice was like cool steel.

  Andy swiveled around in the chair, baffled. “What?”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  Everything was moving in slow motion. Although something inside was playing out a video with her in a wedding dress, ripping off her veil, screaming and hitting Andy with all her might, Cheryl managed to keep her tone even and her face blank. The handsome face in front of her changed from confusion to guilt. Clearly, Andy knew she had discovered the truth.

  “Cheryl, wait.” Andy got to his feet and reached for her. “I can explain . . .”

  Cheryl jumped back. She stood poised but alert, as though facing an intruder. “Get out of my house,” she repeated.

  Even though Cheryl had suspected the dinner with her had been a setup, the time spent with Andy had convinced her otherwise. He’d said he wanted her since day one. If that was true, there was no way he would ever have taken her out to dinner just to get information for Stan. Clearly, everything that had come out of Andy’s mouth had been a lie.

  “I had to tell Stan,” Andy said. “He was . . .”

  “NOW.” The veneer finally cracked.

  Still, instead of breaking every dish in the house, Cheryl managed to stand stock-still as Andy went upstairs, got the remainder of his clothes and walked back down to the kitchen. He stood in front of her for a moment, face working, probably trying to think of a good excuse for taking her out to dinner that night not because he wanted to, but because he’d been sent to gather information. Cheryl looked right through him. With stooped shoulders, Andy finally showed himself out of her house.

  Cheryl raced up the stairs to her bathroom, barely glancing at the rumpled sheets on her way past the bed. She turned the shower on full force. The handle squeaked and steaming water hissed furiously out of the faucet.

  She soaped herself thoroughly, scrubbing any memory of Andy out and off her body. Opening her mouth, Cheryl turned the water to scalding. She let the heat wash away the taste of that wine she’d been waiting to enjoy for so long. How could she have been so stupid? Andy was definitely not her special occasion. He was nothing at all.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  JACKIE RESTED COMFORTABLY IN GEORGE’S LIVING ROOM, THUMBING through old photo albums. Vanilla and tobacco scented the room as George puffed away on his pipe, working on a deposition. A fire popped and crackled. Classical music played softly in the background.

  “Darling, perhaps you should invest in a hound,” Jackie joked, taking in the picturesque scene. “At this moment you are Mr. Darcy, in his most ravishing form.”

  George smiled, half listening. Jackie took in the airy sitting room with appreciation. George really had such elegant taste. His home rested on the top of a hill, situated on at least forty acres of land. The style was a grand Tudor, something Jackie would never have liked for herself but could always admire for its classic components. It was pleasant being there.

  The night before, after she’d called him to rescue her from the loony bin, they’d gone to see a play at a local theater. Afterward, she stayed over in his guest bedroom. The situation was perfect; Jackie didn’t even see George for the rest of the night and she certainly felt no need to turn the lock on the door. After that one phone conversation about their “relationship,” George had backed off entirely. He was now completely focused on being a friend. This was not to say that if Jackie were to dive across the room and push the paperwork from his hands, George would not be thrilled, but for now he seemed willing to bide his time. For that, Jackie was grateful.

  She went back to turning album pages. The pictures of her husband and George made her laugh. There was a whole section on their collegiate summer abroad. George had a beard, which was so unlike him now. Back then, he resembled a hobo caveman.

  The ring of his cell cut through the room. “George, here,” he said gruffly, getting to his feet and starting to pace. He glanced at Jackie. “Hello, Doris.”

  Jackie waved him off. She had left a message on the answering machine letting Doris know she’d be back sometime tonight but didn’t want to deal with her until then. Jackie knew her friend had probably needed support after that volatile call with Doug but Jackie was spent. Her own problems were really starting to take a toll. She needed some space.

  One thing Jackie valued more than anything was alone time. Being fabulous around other people had its perks but there was something to be said for a cold Chardonnay, a lilac-scented bubble bath, and the knowledge that, unless she felt like it, no one had a right to her time. Jackie needed those moments in order to stay who she was. Without them, she had nothing to give.

  “Were you looking for Jacqueline?” George asked.

  Jackie waved at him earnestly, shaking her head.

  “Ah, you wanted to talk with me,” he repeated, glancing at Jackie over his glasses. George listened, letting out a few grunts here and there. “I see,” he finally said. “However, this was a j
oint bank account, yes?”

  “Oh no . . .” Jackie whispered, heart catching in her throat. She set down the photo album and leaned forward in her seat.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Well, if he decided to pursue the issue, he could claim partial ownership and force you to pull out but that would take some time. How do you propose to handle it?”

  Jackie wrung her hands.

  “Pulling out as a partner would be complicated,” George blustered, clearing his throat and looking at Jackie. “Have you talked to the girls about this yet?” He nodded. “I see. I see. Well, yes, you certainly must speak to them before you make any hasty decisions. Yes, yes. Good-bye.” George placed his cell on the side table and took out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. After a moment, he set them down and turned to Jackie.

  “My dear,” he said, “we may have a little problem.”

  CHERYL WAS DOWN in her basement, angrily sorting through Christmas decorations. Her entire body ached from her activities with Andy. Plus, the thought of sleeping in the same bed he’d been in the night before made her want to drag the mattress outside and light it on fire. The pain of betrayal was starting to transition into rage, which was good. Get mad and get him out of her system—that was the key.

  Cheryl pushed through some dusty boxes of ornaments to get to the artificial tree. Decorating for the holidays would be a welcome distraction and the only way to get through the night. Hopefully, she’d wear herself out enough to fall asleep on the couch downstairs and if not, there was always the option of a midnight jog. Maybe that would get her blood pumping and strengthen her resolve to crush Stan and TurnKey like a bug.

  Spiders scurried out from year-old cobwebs on the tree and Cheryl let out an involuntary shriek. She hated spiders. Her brothers had ribbed her for it her entire life. Cheryl looked at the top of the basement stairs as though someone from her family would be there, dressed in a football jersey and clutching an eggnog, laughing.

  Cheryl took a deep breath. She missed her family. It had been so long since she’d seen them. After the lawsuit was over and The Whole Package set up and running itself, maybe Cheryl would finally have the time to get away. As she’d told Andy, her entire family had fled to the West Coast several years back, claiming intolerance for cold weather. She’d just shook her head, claiming intolerance for slow pace. Her visits to California had been quickies. In and out for business, sneaking joyous hugs with her nieces and nephews and admiring her brothers’ lucky wives.

  Cheryl breathed in the musty scent from the basement, remembering how close she used to be to her brother David. Only two years older, he had been her confidant and teacher for most of her life. The only time they’d fought was in junior high, when he’d tried to make the moves on Doris during one of the girls’ many Saturday night sleepovers. They’d all been watching The Empire Strikes Back, snacking on Doritos and Pepsi. To be fair, Doris had been giving David the eye all night, but when David tried to put his arm around her, Cheryl shot up like a rocket, switched on the lights, and kicked David in the shins until he ran yelping to his room. Once he was gone, she told Doris their friendship was over if she ever so much as looked at her brother again. To this day, Cheryl wondered if those two sneaks had ever done anything but both of them denied it.

  David and Cheryl had gotten especially close, managing life in Chicago together after college graduation. David was the first person in her family to have met Sean; in fact, he had even thrown the party where they’d met in the first place. Later, he was the only one who begged her not to marry him. If David had only said something sooner, Cheryl might have listened. Instead, he waited a few months after Cheryl had said yes to the proposal, on the day of the engagement party.

  Their parents had thrown the party at the lake cottage they had once owned in northern Michigan. Sandwiches, chips, and sodas adorned the tables next to cutouts of the bride and groom. Paper plates and napkins flapped in the wind like so many wedding veils. Everyone cooed about the cute decorations and what a great couple Cheryl and Sean made but David had hung back most of the day, choosing to play with Cheryl’s nieces and nephews instead of hanging out with the grown-ups. Doris had been the first to notice David’s reluctance and suggested Cheryl get to the bottom of it.

  Cheryl had dragged her brother away from the kids and pulled him into the woods. A path stretched out for them to follow and they walked it in silence, enjoying the sound of the loons in the distance. “So, what’s up with you?” she’d finally asked, linking her arm in his. “You’re acting like the grim reaper.”

  David hesitated. He looked over at her like a mirror, with his big brown eyes and smattering of freckles across his upturned nose. “I don’t want you to marry Sean,” he admitted.

  Cheryl stopped short. The drink she’d been carrying sloshed over the plastic red party cup. “Oh,” she said, quiet for a full minute. “I don’t want to marry him either,” she admitted. Cheryl started laughing, right there in the middle of the woods. “I’m making a huge mistake!” But it was too late. There was already an engagement party and a diamond ring and little dishes of pastel mints . . . At the hysterical laughter, David had looked at Cheryl like she was nuts and then finally joined in. The two leaned against the trees in the forest, clutching their sides as tears rolled down their cheeks.

  “You’re screwed.” David finally hiccuped, wiping his eyes. “Oh, geez.”

  “You couldn’t have said something a little sooner?” Cheryl said, punching him in the arm. “Warned me off?”

  David got serious. “I thought you’d kick my ass.”

  “Look, it’ll all work out,” she said, squinting up at the sun, “I’m gonna be thirty so I just figured it was time. Maybe Mr. Right doesn’t exist. Sean’s not my dream man, but it will be fine.”

  Breaking a tiny twig off the tree, David popped it between his teeth and said, “I’m here for you. If you need anything, please come to me, okay?”

  A few years later, she filed the papers for divorce and called David. He got on the first plane out of California and stayed with her for the entirety of his vacation time. He was the one who helped her find the new place and get moved in. When she was finally settled, sitting on moving boxes, talking over memories, David apologized to her. “I should have stopped you the second you said you didn’t want to do it.”

  “No,” Cheryl said. “I should have stopped me the second I knew I didn’t want to do it.”

  “I hope you’ll be okay.”

  “I will be,” Cheryl said. “Sean’s the one I’m worried about.” Cheryl kept tabs on her ex-husband through Doris. A year or so after the divorce, Sean found someone else. She was a schoolteacher and apparently, his soul mate. Cheryl couldn’t have been happier for him. The fact that Cheryl was still single, in the basement moping over some guy who had broken her heart in a matter of days, was . . . well, it was just desserts.

  Standing up, Cheryl shook the pins and needles out of her leg and grabbed the artificial tree. She held her breath against the dust and prayed all the spiders had vacated. Stomping up the basement stairs, tree awkward against her face, Cheryl cringed as its sharp branches poked her. Then, just like that leg lamp from A Christmas Story, Cheryl hoisted the tree into the center of her window.

  “Ta-dum,” she sang, with forced glee.

  Looking down her street, Cheryl realized she was the only one with a tree already in the window. Well, good. There was nothing wrong with being first; everyone would follow soon enough. As soon as she strung the lights and plugged it in, her neighbors would most likely hang decorations by the weekend, hating her for being so prompt.

  Bounding back downstairs, Cheryl rummaged for lights and ornaments. She hummed loudly, determined to enjoy the experience even though she was once again decorating for the holidays alone. As she grabbed sparkling tinsel from the boxes buried in her plastic bins, she glanced toward the stairs, sighing. The phone was ringing. She set down handfuls of gold, deciding then and there if it was Andy on the other l
ine she would get her number changed by morning.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “DORIS WANTS TO QUIT?” CHERYL ROARED. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW this would happen. Nobody’s quitting. It’s too fucking late for anyone to quit.”

  “She doesn’t want to,” Jackie clarified, drumming her nails against a small statue of a horse. Jackie had sneaked into a side room at George’s, knowing he wouldn’t approve of her making the call. “Doug might force her. And rather than deal with that . . .”

  “She’ll just pull out,” Cheryl railed. “I told you she would do this.”

  Jackie couldn’t argue. “She might.”

  There was a brief silence. A buck head with an impressive ten-point rack hung on the mantel. If they hadn’t been having the conversation they were, Jackie would have told Cheryl about it, then joked that Doris’s rack was an eleven.

  “Jackie . . .” Cheryl said. “Do you believe in this project?”

  “Very much,” Jackie said, absently touching a stained-glass lamp. “Why?”

  “We might fail,” Cheryl said glumly. “Everyone might hate our idea. We might lose everything.”

  “It’s just butterflies, Cheryl,” Jackie said. “Stay positive. We’ve done so much work. The staff looks great, the place looks great . . . it’s going to be great.”

  “Well, great,” Cheryl echoed. “Look, just find out what you can tonight. Let’s have a meeting with her tomorrow. If we have to, we’ll threaten her with legal action.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Jackie insisted. “She’s one of our best friends. The opening’s only a few days away. She can’t pull out now.”

  Cheryl’s voice was threatening. “We won’t let her.”