Do-Over

by Dorien Kelly

  “Yeah,” one of them shouted.

  Bri ducked inside. “Okay, that takes care of the ‘sucked into an alternative universe’ scenario, which leaves the question…why the hell aren’t you at your office?”

  Cara set her packages on the broad stainless-steel work table Bri had inherited from the now-closed restaurant next door.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. Just so you know I haven’t stooped to whining and mooching at the same time, I’ve brought all the necessary food groups for my party. Chocolate.” She held aloft the box. “Grain, or maybe this is starch since it started life as a potato,” she said, pulling the vodka from its bag.

  Cara was fuzzy on this food pyramid thing. Her major requirements in food were that it came conveniently frozen and could microwave in less than five minutes. In the office kitchenette, of course.

  “And fruits,” Bri said, completing the inventory as the cranberry juice emerged from the bag.

  Bri went to her back room and returned with a couple of Mason jars that Cara recalled last seeing full of buttons.

  “What, no coffee mugs or anything normal?” she asked.

  “Since when do I do normal? Besides, these should work. I hope the juice is chilled because I don’t have any ice.”

  “Just so happens it is,” Cara said.

  “So, before we get down to some serious drinking, wanna tell me why we’re doing it?”

  Cara gave her a brief of the situation.

  “Rat bastard,” was all Bri said.

  Cara didn’t bother asking whether she meant Rory or Howard, since the term applied equally well to both. “You know,” she said, “this day was fit for a visit from the do-over gods.”

  “The who?”

  “Those gods up there on Olympus or wherever, who keep us for their source of daily amusement.”

  Bri opened the vodka and began mixing their drinks. “I think you’re messing with a few commandments, here. Normally, I wouldn’t complain, but with Seth’s and my wedding in August, I don’t want to be struck dead at the altar if God’s aim is off with that lightning bolt.”

  Cara smiled. Bri’s world was always an entertaining place. “It’s not like I really believe they’re snickering up on Olympus, but on a day like this, a do-over wouldn’t be such a bad deal.”

  She sat on the tufted, plush red velvet fainting couch—complete with gold fringe—that reminded her of a turn-of-the-century New Orleans cathouse.

  Brianna deposited a drink in her hand. “Tell me if it needs more cranberry.”

  Cara took a sip and winced as it burned its way down. “Perfect,” she wheezed. “Now if I could just mainline the truffles.”

  She set the drink where it would be within easy reach, then toed out of her black pumps and lay back on the lounge. Frowning, she contemplated the black acoustic tile ceiling, complete with a spinning disco ball. Bri didn’t turn up her nose at any era, no matter how alien it had been.

  Her friend’s face superimposed itself over the disco ball. Cara went a little cross-eyed watching as Bri bent over her and placed a neat row of truffles down the buttons of her wrinkled silk blouse.

  “Eat your way through those,” Bri said, “and I guarantee you’ll feel better. I’ll be back. I just need to change the music.”

  Cara popped the first truffle into her mouth. The rich, dark chocolate complemented the tangy cranberry of her drink, even as overpowered by vodka as it was.

  After a moment, the sounds of The Clash gave way to Aretha Franklin. God, that woman could sing, Cara mused as she ate the chocolate from button number two. Bri reappeared and stole the sweet from button number three. Cara grabbed number four before her friend could filch it. She sat up, checked the level of her drink, and then lowered it.

  On impulse, she asked, “If you could have a do-over of one event in your life, what would it be?”

  “I don’t know. With the exception of the joy of making rent each month, I’ve been pretty lucky.” Bri popped a truffle, followed by a vodka-and-cranberry chaser. “Wait… Remember back in eighth grade when Robby Hanes stuck his hand under my skirt during assembly?”

  “Yeah, you got suspended for two days and he got off scot-free.”

  “Not to mention probably getting off,” Bri muttered as she tidied a rack of vintage bowling shirts. “If I had another chance I would have kept on slugging him—even after he blubbered about his stupid bloody nose.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Okay, so how about you?” Bri shot back.

  “That’s easy. I wouldn’t have dumbed down for Mark Morgan.” Cara gave herself a mental head-slap when she realized what she’d said.

  “Who?”

  “This guy back in law school. I might have mentioned him,” she added as a way of covering herself, even though she knew she’d never spoken about Morgan to anyone—not even Bri. It was too damned humiliating, the way she’d flouted every one of her beliefs. Since she knew there was no way her friend was going to let her off the hook, she gulped a little more of her drink before continuing.

  “We had this bizarre relationship…kind of a subliminal flirtation that verged on being more. Lots of verbal sparring in class… The kind of argument that can get you real hot—in more ways than one.”

  Bri snorted. “Arguing about stuff like contract clauses? I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Okay, so beneath this rumpled yet glamorous exterior beats the heart of a total geek. But, Bri, he was gorgeous.” She couldn’t help the easy smile sliding across her face at the recollection. “He had thick, dark hair, brown eyes and a smile that pretty much said he was going to give you the best sex of your life.”

  “And you never even mentioned his name to me? What gives?”

  “Well, as it turned out, I did get screwed, and it happened without him even touching me.”

  Bri raised her glass in a toast. “Now that’s talent. How’d he manage it?”

  “We were both being interviewed for editor-in-chief of the law review…the two of us in front of the current editorial board. Anyway, for the first time ever, I didn’t play at the top of my game. I kept looking at him and thinking… God, I don’t know what I was thinking except I wanted him to finally see me as more than the mouthy, smart girl in class.”

  She hesitated before admitting the truth aloud. “I let him out-interview me. It was like I was hovering somewhere on the ceiling, watching and totally freaked out as someone else down there operated my voice.” Her sigh was powered by sheer disgust. “I rolled over and played dead.”

  Bri’s green eyes grew wide and round. “Wow. Ms. High School Class President, college superstar and law school whiz? No way, I don’t believe it.”

  “Trust me on this,” Cara said. She and Morgan had been a total train wreck, ending with one best-forgotten scene on the night after the Michigan bar exam. Enough soul-bearing was enough.

  “So what happened to the guy?” her friend asked as she traced her fingertip over the raised lettering on her jar.

  “The Shark became editor-in-chief, and I was thrown the bone of managing editor of articles. When the big firms came to campus to interview for summer associate positions, they were all over him. He landed a dream job in New York City…my dream job, to be exact. I settled in at Saperstein, Underwood for about half the pay Mark was getting, and took their offer of a job after graduation. In fact, I didn’t even bother to interview elsewhere. The law review screwup really spooked me.”

  “You’ve done fine,” Bri consoled. “I don’t know anyone else among our friends who could afford a condo over there.” She hitched her thumb in the direction of Cara’s future three-thousand-square-foot home-sweet-home.

  “It’s not the money. It’s knowing that I was less than I could be. I failed myself.”

  She took the last sip of her drink, tucked the cup under the fainting couch, and lay back down. “And that,” she said, “is why I’m now officially applying to the do-over gods.”

  “I dunno,” Bri
replied. “I’m sure there are candidates with stronger cases. And what are these gods going to do, anyway? Spin the Earth backward until we reach that fated moment once again?”

  Cara watched the disco ball glitter as it spun. “Feels like we’re doing that already.”

  Bri hauled her up by the hand. “Stop watching that thing, you know it makes you dizzy. Now here’s the deal. Your do-over gods might be a little slow on the uptake, but I have just what you need.”

  While Cara stood a bit unsteadily, thinking that lunch might have been a bright option, Bri hustled to the back room.

  “These came in today,” she called from some muffled corner. “They’re the coolest ever.”

  Eyeing a display of embroidered Chinese robes, Cara wondered what could be exotic enough to summon this level of enthusiasm in her friend.

  Bri emerged with an armful of bright silk and satins. “Back in the early sixties, the lady who sold me these used to sing in the cocktail lounge at the Sands in Vegas. She said that Frank Sinatra thought the red one was real hot.” She thrust the dresses at Cara. “Come on, try them on. They’re going to take a skinny, leggy number like you to look good.”

  “I really don’t—”

  Bri planted a hand in the middle of Cara’s back. “This, babe, is your do-over. Do it or lose it.”

  Cara looked around for a means of escape, but saw none.

  “Don’t be a wimp,” her friend urged.

  Grumping and moaning, Cara made her way to the dressing room. She caught her reflection in the narrow mirror and made a sound of disgust. Her blue eyes had picked up the faint purple shading of the shadows beneath them, and at some point when she wasn’t looking, she’d worked her way past pale and gone straight to pallid.

  “Just do it!” Bri ordered from the other side of the curtain.

  “You can be such a pain in the ass,” Cara groused, but began sorting through the dresses. Honestly, she doubted that trying on some old clothes was going to improve her mood, but hell, the chocolate and vodka were beginning to kick in, so why fight the buzz?

  Like a modern-day and slightly slutty-looking Goldilocks, Cara worked her way through “don’t have the butt,” “too much on top,” and “white makes me look dead,” but then with a wiggle and a slight adjustment over the hips, found absolutely damn perfect.

  “Are you ready for this?” she called to Bri. “Because it’s showtime!”

  AT LEAST ROYAL OAK wasn’t country club territory, Mark consoled himself as he ushered two old friends down the sidewalk. But he knew he’d better work on his golf swing and get over this club phobia, because late this morning, he’d taken the offer from Saperstein, Underwood. And at S.U., he’d been told golf ruled.

  Mark had spent the afternoon preparing for reentry into the Midwest. He supposed that his moving from New York to Detroit was kind of like the experience an astronaut had reacclimating to Earth after having experienced the wonders of space. There was so damn much he was going to miss. And so damn much he needed to accomplish to make this new life work.

  When he’d contacted the management committee of his current firm, the conversation had gone well once he’d explained his family circumstances. Should he ever change his mind, a job awaited him in New York. Tempting, but impossible.

  After lunch, he’d talked to some of the clients he’d lured to New York over the past several years. More than a few would actually benefit by having Michigan-based counsel, and most of them had agreed to move to Saperstein, Underwood with him.

  Finally, he’d tapped his college pals to discuss prospects for new business, which was why he was about to have drinks and dinner with Bob and Trey.

  “How long since you’ve been in Royal Oak?” Trey asked.

  “About five years, I think,” Mark replied, trying to refocus his thoughts on his companions.

  Bob and Trey slowed, then stopped.

  “Five years ago, you wouldn’t have seen this,” Bob said in tones that could only be described as awestruck.

  Mark glanced in the window where his friends had halted. When his gaze was captured by the same sight that held his friends’ riveted, Mark’s world was rocked once again.

  In a man’s life, some females are never to be forgotten: first kiss, first breakup, first lover. Cara Adams was none of those women, but damned if she didn’t fall into the category of unforgettable, anyway.

  Six years ago she’d been vibrant.

  Now she was…

  She…

  Mark swallowed, trying to ease the cottony dryness that had settled in his mouth. He, king of the glib phrase, the subtle nuance, couldn’t summon a word sufficient to describe the incredible sight before him.

  It wasn’t just the dress, though plunging black fabric with a sprinkling of what looked to be diamonds was admittedly out of the ordinary. She shimmered, and he didn’t think it was because of the disco ball.

  Aretha Franklin’s unmistakable voice was belting out R-E-S-P-E-C-T with enough volume to travel through the thick plate glass of the window. Eyes closed, oblivious to her audience, Cara shimmied, shook and downright boogied to the beat.

  After some indeterminate amount of time—an hour, a week, a full loop around the sun—his friends hauled him away from the window. It was then that the word he had been seeking came to him: elemental.

  This morning, in a fit of self-delusion, he had signed on to compete against a full-out, red-haired act of God. And like any poor fool facing down a volcano, Mark knew that only some very fancy footwork would stop him from being cooked alive. Unfortunately, as a white-bread, country-club-bred boy, he couldn’t dance.

  Which meant…

  There was a distinct possibility that he was toast.

  3

  Cara’s Rule for Success 3:

  Reasoned thinking must always prevail

  over impulsive behavior…

  unless you’re temporarily incapable

  of thought.

  IT WAS NO TRIBUTE to self-restraint that Cara lasted until Saturday afternoon before she conducted a drive-by of her office. No, a killer harpy of a hangover, with its filthy, curved talons piercing the flesh of her skull and its foul breath curling down the back of her neck, had a lot more to do with it.

  She couldn’t recall how much she had drunk the night before, except that she hadn’t stopped until the cranberry juice was exhausted. She had a blurry memory of scrambled eggs and chili-cheese fries with a far more sober Bri and her fiancé, Seth, at one of those all-night greasy spoons where the only things slower than the cooks are the waitresses.

  She wasn’t certain when, exactly, Seth had arrived on the scene, but knew for sure that the enamored couple had taken her home, since they had also awakened her at nine this morning to return her car keys.

  After they flitted off, she’d dragged her sorry, aching carcass back to bed for a party girl’s ménage à trois with a pitcher of water and a couple of aspirin as her companions. There was a reason she didn’t drink frequently: she was no damn good at it.

  Just past three, Cara managed to shower without drowning, and then pull on her best pair of ripped-at-the-knees jeans, a T-shirt and the Spitfire cap her eight-year-old skateboarder nephew had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She’d found the hat a lot more entertaining than the office her co-workers had filled floor-to-ceiling with black balloons.

  Once she’d completed a mandatory stop at the dry cleaner’s to pick up half her wardrobe and drop off the other half, Cara headed north on Woodward, telling herself that she was just going for a relaxing drive. If it so happened that her randomly selected route took her past the imposing edifice of Saperstein, Underwood, it was mere happenstance.

  Yeah, and she’d be singing backup for Aretha real soon.

  As Cara neared her building, she asked herself a crucial question, one that should have occurred to her a good while earlier: Wasn’t there something the smallest bit sick in needing to see her office, if not actually be in it? She supposed there was, which mea
nt she could always blame it on the hangover. Feeling marginally more justified, she flipped on her right turn signal and approached her brick-and-mortar security blanket.

  In the lot were Vic Mancini’s Beemer and some cars she knew belonged to first-year associates. Among those, she still hadn’t bothered to sort out who owned what because they weren’t even blips on her “path to partnership” radar screen.

  Cara slowed. Stewart Harbedian’s dark blue Mercedes was parked on the back side of the building, far from its usual spot of honor by the entry. Stewart was a partner in the finance practice group, which meant he was supposed to be a few hundred miles north in Bay Harbor, plotting the future of the free world.

  Just the other side of Stewart’s car was the same black convertible she’d seen leaving the lot yesterday morning. She was sure of it; this wasn’t the sort of car you’d overlook. Cara narrowed her bloodshot and rather dry eyes.

  Maybe this odd tingling she felt was an aftereffect of too much Aretha Franklin.

  Maybe it was a harbinger of true craziness.

  Or just maybe she had good instincts.

  Whatever the reason, she pulled into the open spot on the other side of the sleek black car, and after glancing at the building to be sure nobody was watching her, switched off her Saturn and got out for a closer look.

  “Michigan plates,” she murmured. “No dealer tag.” She ventured nearer, to see if any papers or other hints of ownership might have been left on the seats. No such luck. Anyone checking out her car would immediately know that she was addicted to tall lattes, alternative rock and Diet Coke. This piece of fine British machinery was cleaner than a surgical field.

  Since it really needed a smudge of some sort to remove the pretentious aura, Cara touched the very tip of her finger to its shiny fender. Just then, the back door to the building slammed. Even her hangover-slowed neurons and synapses got the message. She jumped backward, but not with much grace. One foot tangled with the other and she staggered into the side of her own car.