"Yeah, I think she'll talk," I say, popping open an edamame pod with my teeth. I chew and swallow the bright green bean before adding, "I think she'll have no choice."
* * *
The next morning, I enter the office shaking like a skittish kitten, in part from nervousness and in part from getting only three and a half hours of sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, mulling over the possibilities of Candace's secrecy. The half gallon of caffeine I dumped into my body before leaving the house twenty minutes ago isn't helping the shaking.
But it's all for naught because Candace isn't here. Not that I expected her to be in the office yet, since it's not even 8:30, but according to Carson, she's not coming in at all.
"So you've talked to her this morning?"
"Briefly," Carson says, rolling her eyes. "She's not very forthcoming with her schedule these days, which is kind of a problem when reps call. I don't know where she is or what's going on with her half the time."
It's the most information Carson has ever divulged to me at once. "Join the club," I say, nodding.
"Hey, Jen?" she calls as I start to round the corner into the studio.
I pause mid-step and crane my head back to look at her. "Yes?"
"Do you think… I mean… Should I be looking for another job?" Her eyes are filled with anxiety, and I think about the little girl she's raising on her own.
I turn around and walk back into the lobby, propping my arm on the reception desk as I lean in closer. I didn't get a full glimpse into the studio, but I did see Rachael's head bent over her desk just past the partition. "I don't know what's going on either," I say in a low voice. "But I'm trying to find out. I'll let you know if I learn anything."
"Thanks," she says in her quiet way, before the phone on her desk starts to buzz.
As her hand stretches toward it, I motion for her to wait. "Will you do the same?" I ask her.
She's nodding as she picks up the receiver. "Absolutely," she mouths at me before saying in a sing-song voice, "Greenlee Designs. How can we help you?"
As I push back from the desk and round the corner into the studio, I listen to her chat with the caller for a few seconds, sounding as if everything is fine, and it's just another normal day at the office. In a way, it's reassuring.
No, I can't get the answers I'm seeking today, but what I can do is work. I can move my clients' projects forward, out of the path of the rubble of Greenlee Designs that seems to be crumbling around my shoulders.
I sigh and settle in at my desk, preparing for a long, sleep-deprived day. First things first. Before my laptop even fires up all the way, I'm on the phone with two different sets of contractors, getting the ball rolling on Brewster's house.
As I transfer my mental to-do list onto my favorite purple pad of Post-its, "Jen's Amazing Comeback Plan" pops suddenly into my mind. I finish jotting down all the project-related tasks I can think of, among them checking the delivery status of every single item I have on order, and then pull up the document on my computer screen.
Against my better judgment, I stand and wander to the break room to pour another cup of coffee—my fourth this morning—before returning to my desk and studying the items on my list. What a crazy year. When I made the list, I was so worried about what I'd done, how it looked. Now that I'm on the other side of the Facebook crisis, with most of my comeback plan items accomplished, it's funny how much less vital the whole thing seems.
I mean, I do think my hard work and planning helped me overcome the screw up. At the very least, it helped me feel like I was doing something about it. And I am happy I didn't totally derail the career I've worked so hard to build. But the funny thing is, the part of my comeback plan that still eludes me—the part that, in all honesty, has nothing to do with Facebook or my job or anything that's within my control—is the part that really matters.
I think about Carrie and David and how truly in sync they are. They're helping each other on the path to following their dreams, which is what a relationship should be. Same with Amelia and Noah. I've never had that, not with Jeremy, not with anybody—not even when I thought I did, because now, looking back, I can see how empty we were, how unsupportive of each other.
I stare at the list, which has six items on it, and think about the final item I deleted so many weeks ago.
No. 7. Find someone to be truly happy with.
Work, I can handle. Life, not so much. Jeremy and I, we wanted the same things at different times, and different things the whole time. Brandon and me, same deal. And now I've screwed up my chances with Todd. My heart sinks, and disappointment tingles in my limbs as I picture his face the last time I turned him down.
When it comes to men and me, it's like I'm operating in a perpendicular universe.
"Stick with what you're good at."
I mutter the words out loud without meaning to. The advice came from my mom as I was struggling to pick a college major. Even though I loved art and knew I wanted to do something creative, I almost majored in engineering because I was worried art wasn't a practical career path. And now I can't imagine doing anything else.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push the images of Todd out from behind my eyelids. When I open them again, I focus on my work, because that is what I'm good at.
Work and me, we were made for each other.
* * *
By the end of the day, I've scratched off every item on my to-do list but one. I have a whole team of people scheduled to meet me at Brewster's door at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, thanks to extreme persuasion techniques (read, begging) and calling in every favor I've ever accumulated in this field. With any luck, and with a little strategic help from Aubrey, I can complete his rooms without ever setting eyes on the slimeball again.
I've also checked on all my orders and learned that the Santiagos' furniture deposits cleared the manufacturers' accounts. Whew. I won't be turning any more funds over to Greenlee Designs until I find out what the hell Candace is hiding.
Which leads me to the unchecked item on my list—I still have no freaking clue where Candace is or when she'll be back in the studio. I finally mustered the courage to call her cell…and got her voicemail. I left a message that I need to talk to her right away, but I'm not holding out much hope that she'll call back.
"Um, Jen?"
I snap my head up, shocked to hear Rachael's voice. "Yeah? Hi."
Her face is sheepish. "Hi." She shifts from one foot to the other, standing by the corner of my desk. She seems torn, unsure of herself.
"What's up?" I prompt her. The information Aubrey disclosed about Candace's further deception has me thrown off-balance, and I still don't know what to think about Rachael. All these weeks and months, I haven't trusted her, thinking she was working to turn Candace against me. In my defense, she fueled the flame of my distrust when she stopped talking to me.
Or did I stop talking to her?
"Well…" she starts. She looks exhausted, so I hold up a finger and jump up, snagging a chair from the community table and dragging it over for her to sit. Brice is the only person besides us who's still in the office, but he's back in the lounge area, talking quietly on his cell. Everybody's keeping secrets in this place, it seems.
Rachael puts her hand on the chair back but doesn't sit in it. She gives me a shaky smile. "I know you've been mad at me," she starts, and my mouth pops open the slightest bit. "I just want you to know that I never went after your spot on the Paris trip. When Candace told me you'd turned down the partnership, she said you didn't want to travel anymore because of the wedding and all."
When she realizes she's brought up my foiled wedding, her rosy skin turns four shades darker. But I barely register that because I'm focused on the sentence before it. Turned down the partnership?? I try to focus on the words she's saying while my brain spins in circles.
"I just wanted to let you know that I'm…I'm sorry about all of that. And that I'm leaving," she says, not exactly looking at me. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a desig
ner." Her chin juts a few centimeters higher. "I'm helping my brother with his start-up construction business. I'll be managing the books, and maybe down the road there'll be some design work for me to do."
I can feel my mouth opening and closing, trying to make words come out. When they finally do, I don't say any of the most important things I'm thinking. Instead I say, "The Paris trip. That's…" My brow furrows as I glance at the date on my laptop screen. "Shouldn't that be happening right about now?"
In past years, Candace and I have made our big buying trips in early September. I've been so busy that I haven't really thought about it, but it occurs to me that I haven't heard any discussion of the trip in weeks.
"Candace canceled it," Rachael says. "I…I figured she'd have told you. With her divorce and with Ellie Kate leaving… She said it wasn't a good time for her to go."
"I haven't talked to Candace in weeks," I say. "Months, it feels like. You know, I only work here." I smile at my weak attempt at a joke, but the anxious look doesn't leave Rachael's face.
"She told you I turned down the partnership?" I ask. I peer closely at her, trying to discern whether she's lying, but Rachael looks genuinely confused.
She stares at me for a few long seconds, agape. And then she finally sinks onto the chair I brought over for her. "You mean, you didn't?"
We continue eyeing each other in disbelief. Finally I mutter, "What has that woman been up to?"
"God, I'm sorry," Rachael says. "All this time I thought you were pissed at me because you'd changed your mind about France after your wedding—" She cuts off with a gurgling sound and then continues in a meeker tone. "Got called off." She looks at me. "Sorry."
I wave a hand in the air, dismissing it. "Don't worry about it," I say. "It was for the best. Trust me." I lean forward, folding my arms on my desktop. "She really told you I turned down the partnership?"
"Uh-huh."
"Huh." I have to get to the bottom of this now more than ever. Candace pitting my closest colleague at the firm against me somehow feels like her lowest blow, lower even than screwing me over by screwing Brewster.
I shake my head for a long time, processing this information. Finally, I lean back to shut down my laptop and start tidying up my workspace, feeling a sudden urge to escape this place. Rachael continues sitting in the rolling chair across from me, two lines in her forehead as if she's in deep thought.
As she stands and starts to push her chair back toward the table, I say, "Rachael?"
She turns.
"I'm not mad at you one bit," I say. "I owe you an apology as much as you owe me one, but I really don't think any of this is our doing."
She pushes the chair the remaining couple of feet and slides it under the table. When she turns toward me again, the cloud in her eyes has lifted. "I'm happy to hear you say that," she says. "I've always appreciated how much you helped me when I started working here."
"You're great to work with," I say with a shrug. She nods and starts toward her desk, but something is still bothering me. "Rachael?" I say again.
She stops and spins on her heel, one eyebrow raised.
"You are cut out for this," I say. "You're a damn good designer. Don't let Candace or these past few months here make you think otherwise. You're going to kill it at your new company."
She grins at me, taking big steps backward, almost skipping.
"Thanks."
* * *
That evening I'm sitting on my sofa with Simon curled into my side, indulging in a DVR marathon of Real Housewives of New York, when my cell starts to chirp on the table in front of me.
Annoyed for no real reason except the fact that I'm comfy, all snuggled under my favorite chenille blanket, I lurch forward and grab it. When I see the number on the screen, my heart leaps into my throat.
Candace.
"No freaking way," I say out loud as I fumble to accept the call. At the same time, I'm scrambling to find the mute button on the remote.
When she responds to my anxious hello, she sounds tired.
"Hello, Jennifer," she says. "I got your message." There's a pause that's so long and silent that I can hear Simon breathing on the sofa, though I'm no longer sitting on it. I start to pace the room, reaching up with one hand and raking it through my loose and messy hair. I hold it there at the top of my head, as if to keep it from exploding.
"I've been expecting you to call," she finally says.
"Where have you been?" I demand. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, since you never bother to show up anymore, but your company is falling down around you. Rachael's about to quit, Carson's scared she's not going to be able to feed her family, and people all over the city are talking…"
My voice trails off, but I can feel that I'm just getting started. I can't believe I've lived in such reverential fear of this woman. Right now she seems meek, and weak, and so unworthy of respect. And for some reason, that makes me even angrier—that she dares to be weak now, when the going is tough. I think about Ellie Kate and Quinn, Carson and Brice, and Rachael…hardworking, fretful Rachael, who's simply been trying to stay out of the way of two warring forces, to the detriment of her own hard-fought career.
I see that now, that this has been a war. A war where Candace held all the strategy cards, but a war I've been fighting nonetheless. This phone call, this lifeless Candace with her dull, tired voice and all the fight gone out of her, feels like a concession, a white flag.
"I've…" She trails off, falls silent for several more seconds. "I've made some mistakes."
I keep quiet, waiting.
"That's it?" I say finally, lifting my hand from my blonde locks and flinging it into the air. I'm shaking my head, feeling one screw shy of coming unhinged. "No. No, that's not it. You owe me some answers. You owe all of us some answers."
She sighs then, a long, shuddering thing that, if I weren't so worked up right now, might evoke pity. But I refuse to feel sorry for her.
I've stopped pacing and am standing, taut, in front of my fireplace.
"You're right," she says. "I know you're right." Her voice is an iota stronger, and I brace myself for more fight when she adds, "You might want to sit down." It's a hint of the old Candace, the commander in chief, the bully in coral lipstick.
"I'm all right," I say in a wry tone.
"Okay." Her voice is unsure again. "Well, I suppose the first thing you should know is the firm's been under an audit."
I'm nodding. It's a start. "Already heard that through the grapevine, Candace. You know it's not possible to keep secrets in a design community as small as ours. The question I have is why?"
I can feel her stunned silence through the buzzing phone connection.
"Well…" she starts again. "When Caroline bought out of the business, I brought Dan in as a partner, to help me manage the books. I gave him access to the firm's accounts." I hold my breath through several more seconds of silence. "I know it was stupid," she spits out in a rush. "But he's got such a head for business. He successfully started up and sold off three companies for profit."
I feel my eyes roll involuntarily. I'm not interested in ex-husband number three's Boy Scout résumé. Or in Candace's impressive ability to link herself with cunning executives. Apparently this time, the con was on her.
"Why didn't you turn the finances over to Carson?" I ask. "She has a business degree. Or why didn't you talk to Rachael? You know she has a background in accounting." I take a sharp breath, deciding to let the bull out of the gate. "And why didn't you ask me to partner with you when Caroline pulled out?"
I take another deep breath and hold it.
Again, she's quiet for so long that I start to feel pissed all over again. I exhale loudly.
"I know," she says. "I know. On all of it, trust me, I know." She sounds like she's choking on the words. "This isn't easy for me to say to you, Jennifer. None of it. But…" She pauses for another beat. "I was scared, okay? I could feel it all slipping away from me, my touch with the clients, my ability to ke
ep up with all these changes, what with the internet, and the blogging. The Interest, or the Pinterest, or whatever it is. Things were just changing too fast. I felt like, if I lost my grip on the business, I'd never get it back."
She sighs, on a roll now. "Hell, I should have just sold the place off and followed Caroline to France. I could be sipping Bordeaux right now, enjoying my early retirement and everything I've built. Instead I'm sitting here facing bankruptcy, with yet another failed marriage, and the business in complete shambles."
My brain is stuck on the word bankruptcy. I feel numb and weak with relief that my clients' money seems to be safe.
"Bankruptcy?" I repeat. "Candace, business has been strong. What the hell happened to put Greenlee Designs into bankruptcy?"
"We're not bankrupt. Yet," she says. "But Dan happened." She spits out his name. "I assume you know he cheated on me?"
She pauses as if the question isn't rhetorical, and so I answer, "I'd maybe heard that, yes."
"Not just once either. Who knows how many women he…well, anyway. So, he was away a lot, I assumed on business, but I should have been smarter than that. It turns out he was in Vegas half the time he was away, and the rest of it he was in Tunica." She says the last word as if it tastes bad. "Sleeping with God knows what and gambling away my life savings and the firm's profits." She pauses. "Apparently he'd already gambled away his own investments, so he married me for mine."
I'd been pacing again, but now I'm stunned into stillness, staring out my open front window into the darkened street, not seeing anything. "God," is all I'm able to say.
"I'm suing the pants off of him. Don't you worry," she adds. "The problem is, he doesn't have anything left to take. And I don't have much left to fight with." She emits a hard chuckle, and I finally understand what she wanted with Brewster and how she was attempting to pay for his services.
My mouth is set in a grim line as I picture Brewster's smug, smarmy presence. Fucking bastard.
"I'm stuffing dead fish in Brewster's curtain rods," I say in a spontaneous burst, my anger outrunning my brain. He'd never find the source of the stink. It'd be so bad he'd have to move out of a house he would never, ever sell.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 29