by Suzie Carr
I had no idea what half of his words even meant.
Dean sat on the edge of his seat, timing his listening cues with precision, and pretending as if he understood the lingo of brilliant scientists who jumped for joy over atoms mixing with each other.
I kept eyeing the room around us, with its tall, hand-carved, wooden furniture and elaborate tapestries that hung sixteen feet tall, volleying escape ideas back and forth. I could pretend to get an emergency phone call. I could tumble over in pain. I could feign a migraine.
I needed to get out of there and find a job.
I had bills.
I had responsibilities.
I also had a new healthy respect for silence.
I squirmed and tapped Dean’s leg.
We exchanged a knowing look.
“Excuse me Mr. Allen,” Dean said, interrupting him mid-sentence about a metal’s property he discovered, yadda yadda yadda. “My friend wanted to hear your ideas on how to start a business.”
I braced for the unknown. Would he point us to the door for interrupting him? Would he continue on his metal rant?
“Well, that’s simple Dean,” he said with a straight face. “She needs to do what I did.”
“What’s that exactly?” Dean jockeyed for position like a salesperson with an edge.
Meanwhile, I sat like a third wheel with no business being in the room, as they discussed my future. No wonder Mr. Edwards liked the guy so much.
“Well first things first. She needs to pay off and cut all debt from her life. One never wants to start business in debt. Then, save. Then and only then, open up the business owing nothing to no one.”
I laughed.
Mr. Allen ignored my outburst and charged forward. "She also needs to be clear on why it is she wants to be in business.”
“What else?” Dean asked.
His lips remained in a straight line. His eyes blazed into Dean’s. He stopped talking. He allowed silence to fill the space. I heard a robin chirp. The fan creaked above our heads. The curtains swayed and rustled, kissed by the wind coming in through the screen.
Really? Silence? Now?
I cleared my throat. “Exactly. What else, Mr. Allen?”
Mr. Allen’s wrinkles spread as he smiled at me. “You need to have passion. Can you convince me of your passion?”
How? Jump up for joy? Run in circles? Sing a song? The guy was a loony.
Dean tapped my arm. “You heard the man. Tell him.”
I had passion. I had passion for things like chocolate, Merlot, and four color ads, CMYK and RGB color palettes, and crop marks. How would a scientist understand that passion?
“Lia?” Dean snapped. “Tell him your passion.”
“My passion.” I scanned the ceiling and its crown molding, the gaudy rag-rolled orange walls, and then Dean’s panicked face for my passion. “It’s hard to put to words.”
Dean blinked and tightened his lips, begging me to stand up to the moment, the moment he went on a limb to set up for me.
“Tell me what it is you want to do,” Mr. Allen said.
I settled on logic. “I want to open up a marketing firm.”
“Why?” he asked, crossing his leg over the other in a move much too fluid for someone so stodgy.
What did the man with all the answers to world metals want to hear? “It’s profitable.”
He shook his head. “A baker doesn’t open up a bakery to sell muffins. A baker opens up a bakery to bring a sense of comfort to her customers. That’s her passion, you see, bringing others a sense of comfort through her baked goods. It’s not the product. It’s the emotion her product delivers.”
I searched for a better answer in the afghan fibers under my legs; one that wouldn’t sound like I just picked it off someone’s cover letter.
Dean jumped to my rescue. “She’s fantastic at it. She motivates people. She’s the reason people rise out of bed in the morning, drive through maddening city traffic, and pay enormous parking fees just to be a part of the energy she creates. When an ad campaign comes together in all the right dynamics, her spirit balloons so wide, the room cannot contain it. She’s infectious, and is too talented to not be creating that same environment in her own business. That’s why.”
My jaw dropped. My back suddenly got too heavy to stay erect, and I collapsed backwards against the oversized pillow. “Really?” I whispered.
Dean ignored me, and focused on Mr. Allen. Failure of any kind was not an option for him, and who was I to get in his way?
Mr. Allen tapped his fingers against his wooden arm chair. He rose to his feet. “Let’s drink some tea and talk about your finances.”
Talk about my pathetic finances, did we ever. An hour later, embarrassed about my lack of financial responsibility, Dean thanked Mr. Allen for his time and I apologized for wasting it.
We stood in between our cars, fumbling with our sets of keys.
I broke the silence. “So, it’s been established that I need to start applying for jobs.”
“I wouldn’t surrender just yet.” He tossed his keys in the air and caught them before opening up his door, sliding in, and driving off.
I watched as he sped down the road, dizzy with how much I just wanted my old job back so I could slide back into that comfortable mode where I knew what sat ahead. If the past two days, filled with all of its political pulls and pushes, represented a typical day of running a business, it would kill me. Why would I ever want to bring that into my life anyway?
I slipped into my truck and realized I hadn’t thought of Sasha once since entering Mr. Allen’s house. A strength settled into my heart as I sped out of his driveway. Fuck Sasha. I didn’t have time to worry about her at that point anyway.
She was right. Everything was fleeting, even my feelings for her.
I had a new mission in life, and I had complete control over how I’d pursue it. I would focus on only what I could control from then on.
Later that afternoon, long after I drove myself home and ate a fattening lunch of pizza and fries with a side of coke, I sat in front of my computer scanning online job portals. Then, Dean called.
“Are you ready for some good news?”
I stopped reading the overly-complicated job posting in front of me. “I could sure use some.”
“I’ve got Mr. Allen on the other line, and he’s ready to talk funding.”
“With me?”
“He found out you saved me from getting fired. Needless to say, he’s all yours now. He’ll pad your account with whatever you need.”
“Oh my gosh.” I jumped up and paced my living room. “I’m not prepared.”
“He already knows that.”
“Right.” I ran my hand through my wild hair. “Send him through.” My voice rose up to meet with my joy.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous when I tell you that I prefer my own office with a window, and one of those cute little Keurig machines.”
“Just pass him through,” I said, already taking the liberty of setting the perimeters of a proper working relationship.
Present Day
After Willow dropped us off from the flea market ordeal, Dean knew I’d need some wine. Not more than five minutes off the elevator, we broke out one of the bottles of Merlot we had left over from a benefit dance we helped organize for the local animal shelter. I settled into one of the cushy chairs in the reception area and sipped thoughtfully.
Dean sat down on a heavy sigh. “I’m not going to get much work done on the proposal.”
“Screw the proposal.”
“The allergy is eating up my mind.”
I knew it. I knew he would trip over that prediction. Some things never changed. Even Willow’s aunt had the same impact on people, freaking them out with psychic babble. “It’s total bullshit.”
He sat up tall, combing his hand through his thick hair, nursing a worried look. “How did Willow’s aunt know about your truck?”
“Who
knows? Maybe she paid a guy to watch people as they entered. It’s kind of a creative way to build a loyal client base. Reel people in by scaring them just enough to excite a craving for more information.” I sipped again, balancing on the smooth, black cherry flavor.
“I’m going to have nightmares for weeks over this.” He sniffed the wine, swirled it, and then sipped it like a wine snob. He winced. “Is it me, or does wine just suck?”
I swallowed a mouthful. “I don’t care. It’s wine.”
We sipped in silence, both presumably tangled up in psychic wonder.
“So,” Dean said, lounging back against his chair. “Was it me or did I sense a little chemistry flying around that front seat?” He ran his finger around the tip of the glass, setting up too casual of a question.
“Chemistry?” I laughed. “No, you witnessed pure gratitude for help needed. She didn’t have to drive us all the way across the Massachusetts state line to bring us back to Providence the way she did.”
“Technically, I suppose she crossed state lines to help us out. But, the drive took us twenty minutes.” He arched his eyebrow at me. “So, no, gratitude is not it. The vibe in that car reminded me of an awkward first date when silence is the one obstacle both parties try to avoid at all costs. I could sense the rush to fill it on both of your parts.”
I poured myself more wine. “I’d never get involved with a psychic.”
He chuckled. “Famous last words. I can see it now.”
“It’s a shame.” I twirled my wine around, watching it flirt with the edge of the glass.
“A shame?”
“That she still freaks me out. We’d probably get along great otherwise.”
“I suppose it would be rather difficult to engage with someone who can read your mind. Imagine how entertained she’d be in your head.”
Some minds were better left unopened. “When she calls, just tell her I’m overbooked and not able to take on new clients. I don’t have time to be dabbling in affairs of the occult. That’s one door I have no desire to open.”
He raised up his glass. “If she calls, you mean?”
I chugged the rest of my wine. “Yeah. Whatever. If. When. Just blow her off.”
He watched me with a smirk on his face. I kicked his shin. He kicked mine back. I stuck out my tongue at him. He went a step further and chucked me the bird before sticking his finger in the wine and stirring it. “This would taste so much better with fruit, triple sec and some brandy.”
I stood up and took his wine from him. “You shouldn’t be drinking anyway. I’m going to need a ride to my parents after we find a new air compressor.”
I downed his glass and met his stern gaze.
“Right, because whatsoever else would I be doing with my gorgeous, sunny Saturday afternoon?”
I tapped his shoulder. “Playing Solitaire like you do every Saturday.”
He stood up. “Well I’ll have you know that I play it online, and I’ve met some pretty incredible friends on there.”
“How exciting for you.”
“Well, hey, at least I have a social life.”
His honesty stung, even wrapped up in the friendliness of the banter. “I prefer work.”
He pointed his finger at me. “That’s by your choice. Ever since Sasha walked out of your life, you’ve been using work as a tool to fill her void.”
I shrugged. “Work is a trusted partner. What can I say?”
“That’s sad.” He nodded and offered me a knowing smile. “You’re in love with work.”
Work would never hurt me. It would only serve to help me in life. “Enough about me. Let’s get hunting.”
“Let me go to the bathroom, and after I’ll see if I can find an air compressor for dear old dad.”
“I’ll search on my computer too. We’ll compete. First one to find an air compressor gets a week of bagels starting Monday.”
“Deal.” He charged toward the men’s room, and I hung a sharp left to my office.
While Dean was in the bathroom, the phone rang. I let it go to voicemail and began to search EBay for a comparable air compressor. It had to be the same exact one because as far as my father would know, I got it from Ernie that day. Dean flew by my door en route to enter the challenge. Two minutes later, he stood in my door. “You’re never going to guess who left us a message.”
“Us?”
“I forgot the package of terry cloth napkins in her back seat.”
I stopped scrolling. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.” I stood up. “You wanted an excuse for her to call because you wanted another chance to ask her aunt about your allergies.”
He stared me down, and then caved. “She saw your truck getting broken into. The lady’s onto something that we mere mortals are not. I was just being practical.”
“Go call her then. Get your precious terry cloth napkins back from her.”
He turned to go, but then stopped. “You’re not the least bit curious about her?”
“She’s cute, yeah, but she’s always been a wacko to me.” I shooed him. “Now go, call her and get it over with. We’ve got an air compressor to find.”
“I’ll wait until later. I don’t want her to think we’re too anxious. You know?”
“Yeah. We are not anxious at all.”
“You said, we.” He cupped his fist under his chin and released a giggle.
“Just go before I win the competition.”
# #
Thirty minutes after Dean first jumped into air compressor competitive mode, he yelled out. “Found one.”
I ran over to his office. “Great. Where is it?”
He folded his lips in. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Can we pick it up and get to my father’s party in reasonable amount of time?”
“Not unless you’ve got a time machine.” He twisted his mouth. “It’s in Kentucky.”
Five minutes later, air compressor ordered and slated for delivery to my father’s house two days later, Dean zoomed me off to my father’s party empty-handed and heavy-hearted. When he pulled up, I placed my hand on his wrist. “Do you want to come in and enjoy a party with your mean boss and best friend?”
He didn’t answer with words. He simply put the car in reverse and backed into a spot between two trucks that looked an awful lot like mine, then turned off the ignition. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving me from another afternoon of Solitaire.”
“Well, it is the right thing for me to do,” I said on a friendly wink.
Chapter Four
I couldn’t sleep that night after Dean dropped me back off from my father’s party. My mind kept wandering back to the events of the day. My poor truck. Poor Dean with his new worry. And, Willow. Wow, how she had changed.
I imagined a fairy godmother, propping her up on a pedestal and waving a magic wand around to turn her into an exquisite sight. Gone were those thick eyeglasses, that ugly bowl haircut, and that square, straight body. In their place, a prism of beauty shined its spectacular array of visual appeal.
Still, I couldn’t get past that weird side of her I remembered from those campground days. Underneath the polished hair and sparkly blue eyes, that weird girl had to still be alive, peeking up over the edges of her beauty and waiting to pounce out with a prediction when the mood struck her.
She used to freak out Anna, my adopted sister, who even back then would walk around with a set of rosary beads in her pocket. I always got a kick out of how Anna would panic whenever Willow drifted past. She’d say how Willow the Weirdo walked by her with that stealthy look in her eye again, like she honed in on her psychic radar and searched her mind for treasure that didn’t belong to her. She warned me to never stare directly at her because her eyes were like weapons that could pull innocent people into her close range so she could snack on their thoughts.
“Psychics should have to walk around with signs that
warned people within close proximity that their thoughts were not secure,” she had said one night after Willow bumped into her in the refreshments line. “At least people could censor their thoughts.”
I’d always imagined Willow snooping around people’s minds and reading them like a library catalog. How many books did I have in my head, and how much entertainment did they offer her? How many times had she flipped through my brain catalog, and uncovered something so private, even I didn’t want anything to do with it?
My sister used to wear a Red Sox baseball cap to the rec hall just so Willow couldn’t access her brain waves. When Willow would gaze at Anna with her laser sharp focused eyes, Anna would run off back to our campsite and to the comfort of the bonfire and s’mores.
Ah, the good ole days.
I chuckled out loud in my empty room, pulling up my blankets and wrapping them tighter.
I would upset my sister greatly if I opened up that wormhole into the past. If I upset Anna, I’d upset my father too. My father, like most people, adored Anna and trusted her sharp instinct.
I should just nix the offer to consult with Willow the Weirdo to keep the peace. Hopefully Dean hadn’t called her back yet.
I rolled over and stared up at my shadowed ceiling.
Had she read my mind that day? I thumbed through my thoughts of earlier. Air compressor. Strange lady with clown outfit. Dean being a fool paying fifty dollars for a palm reading. How incredible Willow looked when she walked out from behind that black booth curtain and smiled. Damn, gorgeous and sexy didn’t describe her enough. I definitely didn’t expect to find such a surprise at the flea market.
Did she sense the flutters in my stomach when she tossed out that subtle flirt to me on the roadside?
I banked on her weirdness to keep me grounded. My tummy might’ve enjoyed the flutters at that point, but those flutters only lasted as long as the first argument.
Screw that.
I stretched my arms up over my head to work out the kink in my neck. On my exhale, I wondered how one even became a psychic. Was a person born with that knowledge? Did someone teach it to her?