by Wendy Wax
I blush at my own lack of hospitality and at how hard I resisted even the idea of meeting this man.
“It’s unusual to be so firmly adopted. And your sister is quite a good cook.”
“She is,” I admit. “I’m more of a dine-out and order-in person.” I look up and catch my sister watching us. Trying to hide her excitement that we seem to be hitting it off.
“We all have our individual strengths and weaknesses.” His laugh is rich and inclusive. His smile is infectious. How ironic that I might not have agreed to this date if I hadn’t been trying to put Rich Hanson in his place. One day, I’ll have to thank him.
“If you don’t stop all that smiling, Thea will have us picking out wedding china,” I warn even though I’m smiling, too. “She’s very upset that I never married.”
“She loves you and your daughter very much,” he says.
“And we love her right back. Only Thea thinks everyone has to be married in order to be happy.” I shoot a glance at my sister, who is hanging on every word. “The thing is, I have a lot on my plate, and men like Jamal aren’t that easy to find.”
“This is true,” Derrick says, seemingly unoffended.
“Are you talking smack about me?” Jamal asks.
“And if we were?” I reply.
“Just remember that I’ve known you since you were a difficult and somewhat homely child. And I’ve got pictures to prove it.”
“Ha! Derrick here was singing your praises. I told him that’s just because he doesn’t really know you yet.”
There’s laughter, then Derrick deftly changes the subject. “So, what were you doing in Dallas?”
“I have my eye on a running back out there. I went to watch him work out. Everyone thinks he’s too small. But with most teams using a two running back system, I think he could be a great addition for some team. He’s got an incredible work ethic for someone his age.”
Derrick asks intelligent questions. Most men I’m around try to impress me with their sports knowledge and fandom. Derrick admits that while he enjoys watching baseball and football, and originally left Jamaica to play basketball at Vanderbilt, he’d rather be on a beach or out on a lake than inside watching sports on television.
I like that he knows how to show interest without making a big deal of it and has no problem giving a woman the floor. In fact, he asks just enough questions about my work to demonstrate that he’s interested. But he doesn’t overdo that, either.
It’s a comfortable meal, and I realize with some surprise that it’s eased some of my angst at losing Louise. I’m enjoying the evening, if not my sister’s overjoyed expression.
When dessert has been ordered—I never miss a chance at Chef Ian’s bread pudding—my sister stands and gives me a look. “Jazmine. Can you come help me with something?”
“You need me to come with you to the ladies’ room?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. I, um, ripped my hem when we were coming in. I need some help pinning it up.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until . . .”
“Now.” It’s a command and it is accompanied by a steely-eyed gaze that I’ve obeyed since childhood. “Let’s go so we can get back before these two polish off all the dessert.”
Jamal and Derrick pretend not to notice the exchange, but we all know what’s going on here.
“If I just admit that Derrick is far nicer than I was expecting and that I’m glad you forced, er, organized, this outing, can I stay here and drink my coffee?”
Derrick grins.
“She got you there!” Jamal crows to Thea.
“All right. Fine,” Thea huffs. “But I taught her better than that. There’s no need to take all the fun out of being right.”
Fourteen
Sara
Throwing Mitch’s things in the yard (the side, not the front, because—neighbors!) and watching them deteriorate in the slush hasn’t been anywhere near as satisfying as it seems in books and movies. Neither was changing the locks, since he hasn’t been in any hurry to come back to face me or his mother. But I had to do something.
So far Dorothy and I have had no meaningful conversation. We nod. Say good morning, good afternoon, good night. Both of us are still reeling from Mitch’s actions and their consequences.
I know Dorothy would love to reframe her son’s actions in some way that will make them less heinous or at least more palatable, but as difficult as she’s always been, I believe she’s intrinsically honest. Even if she could devise a suitable defense for her son twice impregnating a woman who is not his wife, I doubt she’s going to excuse his robbing her of her home in order to support that secret family.
I have my fury and my job along with a retirement account and credit cards in my own name. My car is old but paid off. He has stolen her largest and most important asset.
Although I have helped to feed and take care of her, we have no experience in comforting each other. We have been two planets orbiting her son while attempting not to collide. Now we are the collateral damage of his appalling lack of character.
I am, of course, dealing with the demise of my marriage the same way I’ve gotten through so many things in my life: by withdrawing as much as humanly possible and escaping into books. Of the six I’ve read over the last three weeks, the one I enjoyed most was Elizabeth Gilbert’s City of Girls. The lone bright spot in my immediate future is that we’ll be discussing it at book club next Tuesday night.
I’m looking for my copy when I walk into the kitchen and find Dorothy at the kitchen table, staring out the window at the bare-branched yard and the empty street beyond. City of Girls sits on the table.
“I wondered where I left that book. I can’t seem to remember anything right now. Or maybe I’m just trying so hard not to think about what happened that I can’t think at all.”
Dorothy’s lips twist, but it’s more grimace than smile. “My brain doesn’t seem to be up to much, either.” The grimace fades. “I can’t understand how the child I gave up so much for and assumed I’d taught right from wrong could have done this.”
“I know. It’s . . .” My voice trails off. I simply cannot find the vocabulary required.
Dorothy’s eyes meet mine. For the first time, hers is not the look of an impatient mother-in-law to an unwelcome and unworthy daughter-in-law but one betrayed woman to another.
I pick up the book. “You’re welcome to read this if you like. I thought it was very good.”
“It is.” An odd, almost timid look steals into her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read it yesterday.”
“You read the entire book in one day?”
“Yes.”
“All four hundred eighty pages?”
She nods. “It’s hard to believe it was written by the same woman who wrote Eat, Pray, Love.”
I blink in surprise. I have never seen Dorothy with a book or e-reader in her hands. She’s never mentioned a title that she loved or hated. Has never commented on the fact that I’m a reading specialist or that I work part-time in a bookstore. She’s never set foot in Between the Covers, never asked for a recommendation. Though now that I think about it, I have sometimes found books I’m reading somewhere I didn’t remember leaving them.
She looks me straight in the eye. “I’ve always been a bit of a closet reader.”
“Why?”
“When I was growing up, my parents believed that anything that wasn’t educational or uplifting was a waste of one’s time.” She raises one eyebrow. “So, I would hide, sometimes in an actual closet with a flashlight.” Regret tinges her voice. So does anger. “My parents have been gone a long time, so I don’t typically resort to closets anymore. Or bathrooms.” She spears me with a look. “But I rarely read in public.”
I have read in many hidey-holes in order to escape real life, but the idea of parents shaming their own child
into reading in a closet may be one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.
“I’ve especially enjoyed the Outlander series,” Dorothy admits quietly. “And anything by Mary Balogh or Maeve Binchy.” Her eyes almost twinkle. “Back in the day, I was an avid fan of Kathleen Woodiwiss.”
“Wow.” My mouth gapes slightly. This is the equivalent of someone who has never been caught listening to anything but Mozart admitting that they’re a Kanye West fan.
I smile at the sheer unexpectedness of it. “I guess there are a few things we don’t know about each other.”
“It would seem so,” she concedes.
It’s enough to make me wonder whether any of the things we think we know about each other are true.
Erin
As of today, I’ve completed six days on my own as Jazmine’s full-time assistant. Following Louise’s advice to the letter, I march into the break room for coffee first thing every morning nodding and smiling at everyone I see. Then I nod and smile my way back to my desk, where I open Jazmine’s calendar on the desktop computer, my iPad, and my iPhone so that I can track her movements and access whatever she might need every minute of every day, under any and all circumstances.
Today begins like all the others. It will end when the “homemade” chocolate chip cookies that she will take to her book club are delivered at six thirty so that they’ll be fresh when she arrives at the bookstore at seven.
I eat the lunch I brought from home at my desk. Getting things done. Nodding to everyone who passes as if I don’t have a worry in the world.
Thanks to Louise, I know who is who, who to be careful of, who to trust, who wanted this job and didn’t get it, and who to never turn my back on. I’m vigilant but no longer waiting for the bogeyman to pop out from around the corner. Or for a call that will require me to do something I have no idea how to do.
Everything’s going so smoothly that at four p.m. I go into the break room and treat myself to an afternoon latte.
When I get back to my desk, there’s a newspaper clipping in the center of it. I set my latte down, lower myself into my chair, and reach for it, assuming someone dropped it off for Jazmine. But there’s no note on the clipping, which looks like it’s been ripped from one of those tabloids you see at the grocery checkout.
The black-and-white photo is of Josh in a bar, surrounded by his teammates. A tall, beautiful brunette is wrapped around him as if she’s a pole dancer and he is the pole. Despite the crappy image quality, I can practically see the hunger in her eyes and smell the sex wafting off her. Josh is grinning like he just pitched a no-hitter.
My eyes blur with the very tears Louise warned me not to shed under any circumstances. I don’t want to look at this picture a second longer—there’s a reason I’ve been avoiding Instagram except to scroll through occasionally to give myself some semblance of normalcy, but this is the moment I’ve been dreading. Ugh. I know I should bunch it up and throw it in the trash where it belongs, only I can’t quite bring myself to touch it or stop myself from memorizing every single pixel.
I sneak a look around. I don’t know who put it here, but the only reason anyone would is to make me feel like shit. It’s working.
I’m screwing up my courage, swallowing back tears, and reaching for the photo when someone clears his voice.
My head snaps up.
“Are you all right?” Rich Hanson asks.
“Of course.”
“Are you sure? Because you look like you’re about to cry.” He pushes the box of Kleenex Louise always kept on her desk toward me.
“I am not crying.” I push the Kleenex back. Rich Hanson is pretty attractive for an old guy—right around six feet, runner trim, blond hair, hazel eyes. But he’s at the top of Jazmine’s “do not turn your back on” list. Which puts him at the top of mine.
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “Really. I only . . .”
“Thank you. But I’m fine.” I sniff and try to look efficient. “How can I help you?”
He looks at me.
“Did you have a message for Jazmine?”
“No. I was just passing by and thought I’d have a word with her. Then I noticed that you looked upset.”
“I am not upset.”
It’s clear he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t call me on it again.
When he doesn’t speak, I stand, palming the photo in one hand and grabbing my phone with the other. “I . . . excuse me. I, um, I have to . . . go.”
Somehow, even with his eyes glued to my back, I manage to walk away without spilling a tear or letting out a single sob. Once I’ve turned the corner, I racewalk to the ladies’ room, where I lock myself in a stall and sit on the toilet seat lid, not allowing a single tear to fall until I’ve made it ten full minutes without hearing a footstep or flush or squeak of a stall door.
I wish I’d known I was capable of that kind of control when I was blubbering in my childhood bed.
Jazmine
When I arrive at the office that afternoon, Erin’s not at her desk. I’m on my way to my own when someone comes up behind me.
“If you’re looking for your assistant, she’s in the ladies’ room,” Rich Hanson says.
“What?” I ask as I turn slowly to face him.
“I was talking to her when she bolted. I’m a little concerned. She’s been in there for a while.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What did you say to her?”
“Me? Nothing.” If you’re not careful, you can be pulled in by the friendly sheep act and forget that there’s a wolf inside. “I’d stopped by to talk to you, and I noticed that she was upset.”
“And she was upset because . . . ?”
“I’m assuming it was because of the photo of Josh in the National Enquirer that hit the shelves today. He was in the company of a former Miss Florida turned reality TV star.”
“And you made it your business to make sure she knew about it,” I say, trying not to think about the fact that this is the very kind of thing Louise warned me about when I chose Erin.
“Why would I do that?” Hanson’s tone is sincere.
“Who knows why you do what you do? Because you didn’t think I should hire her in the first place? Because you like to cause trouble? Because you tortured small animals as a child?”
He shakes his head. “I may have a no-holds-barred approach to my work, but I have never intentionally upset a young, vulnerable girl.”
I continue to meet his gaze.
He sighs. “I came over here to talk to you and found her staring at the photo, trying not to cry.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Crappy.” His voice is surprisingly quiet. “She’s been through some serious stuff, and while I didn’t think hiring her was a good idea, I respect the fact that she’s still standing. I take no pleasure in seeing innocent people suffer. I find it in winning for my clients. In besting competitors. Equals who can hold their own.”
I turn and lead him into my office, letting the compliment pass. “So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about when you got distracted by Erin’s unhappiness?” I ask as I sit behind my desk and motion him into the chair opposite.
“I saw a player—a wide receiver—at a pro day over the weekend that needs better advice than he’s getting. And I thought of you.”
“So now you’re trying to get other people to steal other agents’ players for you?”
“No, not at all. I just feel like he’s being pushed to declare too early. I can’t take him on, but he needs someone to convince him to stay in school and get a degree while he works on his game.”
“So, you thought of me.” I can’t quite figure out his angle, but I’m sure there has to be one.
“Yes. We’ve had our differences, but you’re good at what you do, and I think you have your clients’ best interests
at heart.” He sighs. “Your assistant fled before I could leave a message.”
“Well, seeing as how I’m often tempted to flee your company as quickly as possible, it may have just been her survival instincts kicking in. Or a stomach bug.” I’ve seen Rich Hanson’s killer instinct at work too often to ever completely trust in the earnestness he’s displaying.
He spreads his arms wide. “Believe what you will. I came to offer an olive branch. At some point, we’re going to have to figure out how to work with each other. Or one of us”—his tone infers that the one of us is me—“could get shoved out.”
“Thanks for the warning. And your concern for Erin. But she is a strong, professional woman and doesn’t need it.”
Then I stand. As soon as he’s out of sight, I turn and head for the ladies’ room as if I’m not the least bit worried about what I might find when I get there.
Fifteen
Erin
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in the bathroom when I hear Jazmine’s confident, long-strided click of high heels.
“Erin?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
I’m pretty sure the fact that I’m basically hiding in a stall requires me to say no, but I didn’t cry and I am functional. It’s just that the longer I stayed in here, the harder it got to leave.
“If you’re sick, you should go home.” There’s a pause. “And if you’re hiding here because you’re too upset to work . . .”
“But I am working.” I unlock the stall door and step out with my hands up, like some criminal who has to prove he’s not dangerous. One of those hands clutches my cell phone. “I only came in here because Louise told me I should never let anyone see me cry. And I was kind of afraid that I might.”
Her head tilts at an angle, and her arms cross over her chest. “First of all, I’m not loving the fact that you have been conducting my business from a ladies’ room. Second, if Louise told you not to let anyone see you cry, she actually meant do not cry. Period.”