by Carla Ryan
"He better."
You were really hoping to talk to him before everyone got here, but it'll just have to wait until after.
As the board members stream in, you join them in the conference room, making small talk. Raj is on the phone when she arrives, but she gives you a knowing look before disappearing into your office to finish her call. When the time for the meeting arrives, Wade comes in and sits in the corner to take notes.
"Okay, everyone," you say, "let's call this meeting to order. We have some big --"
You're interrupted by the door opening. Jabir rushes in, making apologies as he takes his seat beside you.
"We have some big news," you repeat. Looking around the room at the six other board members, you take a steadying breath. "The CEO of Won't Waste, Tristao Cassatt, has approached me with an interest in buying Spare."
The group of seasoned entrepreneurs reacts with muted surprise, some nodding, others jotting something down, but remaining overall unfazed. Wade, on the other hand, stares at you slack-jawed and bug-eyed.
"Any details?" Fukuda asks.
"Cassatt doesn't do details," Whitten says. "He probably didn't even put anything in writing yet."
"It's too early to even think about selling," says Ortiz. "We're only now getting some steam."
"We have to at least look into it," Jorgensen says.
"I agree," says Fukuda. "This is too good an opportunity to pass up."
"What do you think?" Raj asks you, silencing the room.
This is it. The moment you've been waiting for. Tristao was right. You are the leader of this company. The board may be the deciding body, but they respect your opinion and are ultimately here to support you. What you say next will shape the future of your company.
"No one is as eager to get our services in homes around the country than I am," you begin, "and joining Won't Waste could be the fastest way to make that happen."
Fukuda and Jorgensen nod in agreement. Jabir stares at the table, his expression blank.
"But fast isn't always best. When I first told Jabir about the idea for this company, my mission was to have a tangible, positive impact on our planet. All of you are here because, for one reason or another, you agree that this mission is a good investment. Cassatt made it clear that Spare would not remain autonomous."
Jabir is watching you now, wearing his trademark dazed, dopey expression that you've missed so much. Hoping he can see the apology in your eyes, you say, "This is an acquisition, not a merger."
His face relaxes with the hint of a smile, and you wish you could give him a great big hug. Unfortunately, hugs aren't generally an appropriate board meeting activity, so you settle for giving him a gentle squeeze on the arm before turning back to the board.
"If we're acquired by Won't Waste and integrated into their ecosystem, not only would we lose our corporate identity, we'd lose all power over how our mission is fulfilled. So, although I'm not rejecting the proposition outright, I do not support selling the company at this time."
The room goes quiet, leaving only the sound of raindrops tapping the windows to accompany your anxious thoughts.
Will they agree? It took you most of the weekend to decide not to support the acquisition, what with how intertwined Tristao is with your personal life. Even now you're not a hundred percent sure everything with your mom and Marigold isn't influencing your decision. But it feels right. Hopefully the board will feel that way too.
"I agree," says Jabir. "We spent too much time perfecting our algorithms to hand them over to the first bidder."
Even though you knew he felt that way, it's still nice to hear him agreeing with you for once.
"But we don't even know what he's offering," says Fukuda. "We should at least get a preliminary offer in writing before we decide."
"It's premature to sell," says Raj, "no matter what the offer. Spare is years away from reaching its potential. We'd be handing it over for pennies on the dollar."
As the group continues to debate, a deep sense of pride fills your heart. All of these people are here because of your idea. You built this family, and you're responsible for taking care of it. No matter what happens, you'll never forget that again.
After nearly an hour of discussion, Ortiz throws up his hands and says, "I move that we vote."
"Second," says Whitten.
Here we go.
Because of the nature of the decision, company by-laws state that this has to be a unanimous vote, or else you'll have to reconvene and vote again within six months. With everybody's packed schedules, no one wants that to happen, but Fukuda doesn't look very happy. Will she be the holdout?
With your heart beating so hard Wade can probably hear it from across the room, you ask, "All in favor of pursuing Tristao Cassatt's offer of acquisition?"
Fukuda glances around the table, ready to raise her hand, but not an arm goes up. She leans back in her seat, sighing in defeat. "Fine," she groans.
"All opposed?" you ask, keeping your smile in check.
Every hand is raised.
"Motion denied."
"Yes!" says Wade.
Fukuda shoots him an angry frown, stripping the smile off his face.
"Sorry," he whispers.
"Let's move on to the next order of business," you say, going on to announce the West Coast expansion project. This comes as more of a shock to the group, since it runs counter to the agreed upon strategy, but once they see the projected numbers for the two huge school districts, as well as the practically non-existent marketing budget required, everyone agrees it's a worthwhile endeavor -- even Raj, who makes a point of asking what the driving motivation for this change is.
"What can I say?" you tell her. "You've been saying for years that we should be out west, and you were right."
This is hardly the end of the conversation -- you can see that in her sharp eyes -- but she accepts your flattery and drops it. For now.
When the meeting is over, you hang back by your seat and catch Jabir's eye. He shakes hands with the last board member to leave and joins you back at the table.
"What made you change your mind?" he asks.
"A lot of things."
When you don't elaborate, he just nods. "Okay."
"I'm sorry I've been such an idiot lately."
"No, you were worse than an idiot," he says, only half-teasing. "More like cretin, or complete fracking jerk-off."
"Alright, alright, we get it," you say, lightly punching his shoulder.
"Do you though?" he asks, his expression serious.
Regret makes your eyes sting. "Yeah, I do."
He gets up and gives you a long hug, which makes it even harder to hold back your tears.
"Took you long enough," he teases, letting go.
You chuckle, wiping your eyes.
"Seriously," he says, following you to the door, "I thought I was going to have to hire a skywriter to spell it out for you at that beach house of yours."
"What would it have said? 'Here lives the best and hottest friend I've ever had'?"
You reach for the door, but he puts a hand on it, keeping it closed and giving you a solemn look that makes you wish you hadn't asked, even if it was just a joke.
"It would have said..." he begins.
You try to cut him off before he makes you cry, setting female CEOs everywhere back fifty years. It's a long way to your office and there aren't any tissues in here! "I didn't really --"
"...here lives a woman," he says, "who has more peanut butter than blood in her veins."
"You are the worst," you say, laughing. You reach for the door again, but Jabir still keeps his hand on the knob.
"What about Marigold?" he asks, serious again.
Sadness sweeps over you. "You're not the only one I need to apologize to." Opening the door, you hold it open for him, adding, "And neither is she."
* * *
As your mom predicted, Tristao is extremely professional when you break the news to him over the phone, especial
ly considering that she probably told him about your less than enthused reaction to their impending semi-matrimony. He even offers you a job, which you respectfully decline, but then proceed to gloat about to Jabir for the rest of the week.
You spend several emotional nights with your mom while you're in town, talking through your painful history. Some evenings end with hugs, others slammed doors. There's still work to be done, but by the time you leave on Saturday you feel closer to her than you have in years.
Marigold doesn't return either of your calls during the week, so when you get back to San Fran you don't bother trying again. Instead, you stay up most of the night writing her a letter. The next morning, you walk two houses down and knock on the door.
"Oh, hi," Ophelia says, her surprise quickly melting into sympathy. "How are you?"
"I'm alright, actually." You notice suitcases behind her. "Oh right, your trip. When do you guys leave?"
"In a few hours."
"You're not feeding Shahk-Tastic," Gus says, running up behind Ophelia and then dashing away again.
Ophelia's cheeks darken. "I was going to ask you, but Willa... she pointed out that you travel a lot."
"I get it," you say, reading between the lines. "I do. It's okay, really."
She glances down at the letter and small box in your hands, but instead of asking about them, she steps out onto the stoop. Closing the door behind her, she says, "You know, I've been meaning to thank you."
"You already thanked me about Willa, and really, I --"
"No, that's not it," she says, "although, yes, that too, but I mean for what you said that morning on the beach, about Gus." She peers into the front picture window. Gus is nowhere to be seen, but she still keeps her voice so soft that even you can hardly hear her.
"Emotions are hard for him. I spent a couple weeks with my brother and his family every year, but they were so good with him that I hardly ever saw Gus's struggles firsthand. Then, when I first got here, there were days that I would see him acting -- from what I could tell -- normal, and I would wonder, 'Why isn't he sad? Can he even be sad?'"
Wiping at a few stray tears, she shakes her head at her former self. "There were a few signs that he was struggling, and all of his teachers and the school counselor told me what to look for, but when you said that about he and I being a team, it finally hit home. He's doing exactly what I'm doing: his best."
She sniffles, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "What, no tissues?" she teases.
"No, but I think I could use one too," you say, near tears yourself.
She ducks back into the house and grabs a couple for each of you. "So," she says, laughing as she collects herself, "I know you didn't come over to see me get all weepy again."
You hold out the letter and box. "I was hoping you could deliver this for me, to Marigold. I know she probably never wants to see me again, but there are some things I have to tell her, and this is too important to mail or leave on her doorstep. You're the only way I can think of to get it to her."
"It's okay," Ophelia says, giving you an understanding smile as she reaches for them. "I'll make sure we bring them over on our way out of town."
"Thank you. It means a lot. Please be careful with the box. It's really important."
You wish them a safe and happy trip and return to your house. Now all you can do is wait.
Chapter Twenty-Four
You spend the next several hours driving all over town, hitting up every florist and garden center you can find. If this doesn't work, at least you've done your part to stimulate the local economy. Then it takes you way longer than you expected to unload and arrange everything, so when 6:30 rolls around, you're hurrying to wolf down a frozen dinner and get dressed. Rather than go for your usual sexy seductress look, you channel your inner Marigold and keep it simple, wearing your favorite maxi dress with no makeup or jewelry. You leave your hair down too, and in less than ten minutes, you're ready.
That may be the fastest you've ever gotten ready for anything. There are some definite perks to this whole low maintenance appearance thing. And you look pretty good to boot.
But will anyone else see how good you look?
Seven o'clock. The moment of truth.
You peer through the front door, searching for signs of movement. Nothing.
Headlights! Nope, that's the neighbor.
Ten minutes pass.
No worries. She was later than this to your first date.
Fifteen minutes. You step away from the door to get a sip of water, but halfway across the room you think you hear footsteps. You dash back to see nothing but the walkway, empty except for the long row of potted marigolds you lined it with — Marigold’s welcome committee. The plan was to be all romantic and have them in the house, surrounding the two of you with flowers, but you had no idea how strong-smelling they are. Whoever named her definitely wasn't a gardener.
Twenty minutes. You're starting to get achy from standing in one position for so long. You bring a kitchen stool over by the door.
Thirty minutes. Forty. You lie down on the couch, defeated.
She's not coming. It's over.
You stay there for another ten minutes, hoping you're wrong, then pour yourself a glass of the wine that's now sitting in a bucket of ice water. After you chug that, you start to fill it up again, then change your mind and take a big gulp straight from the bottle. Blowing out candles as you go, you get into your pajamas and sit on the back deck, watching the beach for signs of lost sea turtles.
About half the bottle is left when you hear someone knock on the door.
No. It couldn't be.
You go inside and check the clock. It's almost nine. She wouldn't come this late, would she? The front light is off, so other than a faint silhouette from the distant street lighting, you can't see anything.
"Who is it?" you call.
"It's me," says a bubbly voice, "Marigold."
She sounds happy. That must mean she's forgiven you!
Paralyzed, you try to decide whether to rush around and attempt to recreate the ambience from two hours ago, or to simply see her as is. If she wants you when you look like this, then you'll know she's in it for real, right?
But pajamas? Really?
"Be right there!" you shout. Dropping the bottle back into the bucket, you run to the bedroom. You've gotten out of dresses in record time before, but this is the fastest you've ever gotten into one. With a quick toss of your hair, you slip your sandals back on and open the door.
Marigold tumbles in, falling against you and bringing you both to the floor. Your elbow hits the tile with a hard smack. Pain shoots up your arm, but Marigold only laughs as she rolls over to face you.
"Perfect!" she says, and before you can say another word, she's kissing you.
Instinct and desire take hold, sending your hands traveling down her back and your tongue sailing into her mouth. But when you taste alcohol on her lips, alarm bells start to go off.
"Wait," you say, sliding out from under her and rubbing your arm. She stays on the floor, rolling onto her back and smiling up at you. "Are you drunk?"
"No! I never drink." Raising her voice, she calls out the still open door, "I am a school teacher and school teachers don't drink!" Bringing her finger to her lips, she adds in a whisper, "Except in the summer summertimes." She starts laughing again. "I mean summertimes -- sometimes!"
Stepping carefully around her, you close the door. "You didn't drive here like this, did you?"
"I'm cat-sitting," she says, tracing your ankle. "These are nice shoes. I should have shoes like these. Are we the same size? Let me try them on." She starts searching your shoe for a buckle.
"They're slip-ons," you say, nearly losing your balance again as you extract your foot from her grasp. "You got drunk at Ophelia's house?" Your brain is rather wine-soaked as well, and you head to the kitchen to pour yourself some water.
"They have a cat," is her only explanation. She starts to get up, but when she's on all fours,
she starts crawling across the room making cat sounds. "I had a cat when I was a kid," she says between meows. "We spent a lot of time together, so I make an excellent cat watcher."
When she stops to rub against the back of the couch, you can't help but laugh. She starts laughing too, then suddenly stops and stands up. No longer bumbling like a house cat in heat, she moves slowly towards you, watching you intently like a lioness stalking prey.
"I love it when you laugh," she says, and grabbing the hem of her dress, she pulls it up over her head.
You're not laughing now. The sight of all that smooth skin, with nothing between you and the most lickable parts except see-through red panties and a matching bra, sets off a volcanic eruption inside you. Molten lava runs through your veins as your half-drunk conscience struggles to remain afloat.
"What, uh..." You try to back up, but somehow your feet bring you closer to this fiery goddess in your kitchen. Without your permission, your hands reach for her, drawing her to you. "Why did you do that?" you ask, running a finger back and forth along the boundary where lace meets skin.
"Because you wanted me to," she says. With a look of pure hunger that makes your heart pound and your core pulse, Marigold slowly slides her hands up from your hips. The heat from her body radiates through your thin linen dress, and when her fists close on your breasts, you're sure you're going to melt into the floor.
"We shouldn't... uh..." Your mouth is so dry even you can barely hear your words, and when Marigold grazes her wet, sweet lips against yours, you're so torn between conscience and desire that you start to shiver.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" she whispers.
Her words break you out of your spell. "No!" you cry, taking a sudden step back. Still light-headed, you grab hold of the counter to steady yourself. Marigold staggers forward a bit as well.
"No?" she snaps. "You can't say no."
"I didn't think I could either," you say, prying your eyes off of her and taking another long drink of water. "What are you doing here?"