by Jo Barrett
“Where is the stuff?” I ask.
“The bike is in my Hummer.”
“You drive a Hummer?” I ask Dick.
He takes a sip of coffee and says, “Only the best for yours truly.”
“What about the watch?”
Dick reaches into his jacket pocket and slides a brown paper deli bag across the table.
I peek inside. Pull the watch out of the bag. Turn it over in my hands. I remember the time when I had tried to surprise Carlton…
Last year, on Carlton’s birthday, I’d taken the watch to a jeweler to have it professionally cleaned. Carlton was furious. “Don’t ever, ever touch my watch,” he’d warned. And I was taken aback by the ferocity in his voice.
“I…I thought you’d like it,” I stammered.
“Why!” he’d nearly shouted.
“The watch was scratched, Carlton, and the jeweler was able to polish it. Doesn’t it look nice?” I’d said.
He’d grabbed the watch from my hand. “That’s not the point, Maddy. I mean, what if you’d lost it?”
“I wouldn’t lose it!” I said.
“Lose it, drop it, accidentally break it. Who knows what could’ve happened. Christ! The jeweler could’ve stolen it.”
“Mr. Richardson has been in business thirty years, Carlton! He was a friend of my mother’s!”
Carlton held his hand up in the air to shut me up. “This watch is worth thirty grand,” he’d said.
So that was it.
Carlton treasured the watch because it was valuable. Not because it was a gift from his father. And not because it was rare. But simply because it was expensive. It was like cash on his wrist. A status symbol. Carlton wore the watch to assert his status. That’s why he always flashed it around. Mentioned it at parties.
“My father gave me this watch. He got it at a Sotheby’s auction,” he’d say, explaining the history of Patek Phillipe watches. How in 1868 Patek Phillipe made the first wristwatch in history. And pocket watches before that. How Albert Einstein owned a Patek Phillipe…. and blah, blah, blah.
I set the watch carefully back down into the bag and pass it over to Dick.
“Do you have anyone who could fence this stuff?” I ask, and I actually use the word “fence.” It’s the only criminal lingo I know.
“I gotta guy. How much you want for it?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Twenty G’s, huh?” Dick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“For the watch and the bike,” I say.
Dick crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know, Jane. This guy don’t really pay top dollar.”
“That’s how much you need to get,” I say. Dick looks doubtful.
“Tell your friend the price is twenty thousand flat—or no deal,” I say. “He can easily get twice this amount if he sells it right.”
“You’re one tough broad,” Dick says, grinning at me. “You sure you don’t know Snoop Santino? Cause you’re exactly the kind uh gal he’d want to hire.”
I hesitate. Should I admit my ignorance to Dick? Or pretend to know more than I do? I opt for ignorance.
“I know Snoop Santino is some drug kingpin you used to work for. The big dog on the block. And I know my brother used to work for him, too.”
“Pretty good, Lady Sherlock.”
“Well, the answer is no. I don’t know Snoop. I’ve never met Snoop. And I’m certainly not interested in working for Snoop.”
Dick shrugs. “Suit yourself. I just thought you might like an introduction.”
“No.”
“Okay, so le’ss say I get you your fifteen G’s. What’re you gonna do, Jane? Go to Disneyworld?” Dick says. And apparently, he thinks this is hugely funny. Because he chuckles so hard his eyes tear up. He grabs his belly and goes, “Disneyworld! Get it?”
“I’m not keeping the money,” I say.
“You wha?”
“I’m giving it away.”
“C’mon, Jane. You ain’t no Mother Theresa.”
“Trust me, Dick. It’s for a good cause.”
Chapter 48
At 7:00 a.m., Carlton sends me an e-mail titled “Urgent!” I open it and read the following missive from my former fiancé.
M:
We need to discuss your exit strategy from Organics 4 Kids, ASAP. I have papers I need you to sign.
C
I type back a single sentence:
I’ll be at the office with a U-haul trailer by nine a.m.
Carlton replies immediately.
What do you need a U-haul for?
I shut my laptop and begin to get dressed. Instead of a business suit, I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. My Saturday clothes. Because today, I’m going to haul my desk down a flight of stairs and into a U-Haul trailer and I know Carlton won’t lift a finger to help me.
I’m stunned by the fact that Carlton instructed a cleaning crew to clear out my office. And that they accidentally threw everything away. Including all of my portfolios. All of my files. Everything I’d done for Organics 4 Kids in the past several years. I’m also stung that Carlton hired a guy to replace me within nine days of our break-up. And before I’d even officially quit.
So I figure the least Carlton can do is give me my office furniture.
During our first few months at Organics 4 Kids, Carlton spent ten thousand dollars of company money to buy himself a mammoth-sized desk. He was a fan of heavy, traditional furniture. Mahogany, walnut, and solid oak. Despite me urging him to take it easy on expenses, he went wild in the furniture store. He then spent another ten thousand on the matching credenza, file drawers, and an executive chair of fine, burgundy-colored leather.
“I’ve got to look like a CEO, because image is everything,” he’d said.
I preferred the sleek, black-and-tan lines of Charles Eames or Le Corbusier. The theme for my office was “minimalism-with warmth.” Since Carlton had spent all the available company funds to outfit his own office suite, I searched the newspaper for “moving sales,” spent several weekends browsing thrift stores, and ended up buying my furniture with an advance on my first paycheck.
So, I figure the furniture belongs to me.
I drive to the office with the trailer bouncing behind my car. I wonder what papers Carlton needs me to sign. What could they possibly be?
I roll into the parking lot and the gravel crunches underneath my tires. I take a deep breath, flip down the visor and regard myself in the mirror.
It’s the eyes that worry me. There’s something missing from my eyes. I mean, sure. They look tired and bloodshot. Like eyes that have spilled a lot of tears and haven’t gotten much sleep. But there’s something else, too. It’s almost as if my eyes are missing a certain brightness. They seem dull. Dead, even.
“C’mon. Buck up, Maddy,” I tell myself. But my words mean nothing. I feel empty as I trudge up the stairs to the office. I can’t bear to face Carlton again.
I pause outside the office door and peer at the Organics 4 Kids logo.
Then I open the office door and step inside.
Nathalie sees me first. She’s bustling toward the copy machine carrying a stack of papers. When she sees me, she stops in her tracks. Stares down at her high heels.
“Hello, Maddy,” she says, in a low voice. As if she’s embarrassed by my appearance.
“Nice to see you, Nathalie,” I say. I smile at her, a friendly smile. I notice she’s wearing a low-cut dress that shows off her enormous, cantaloupe-sized breasts.
“That’s a lovely dress,” I say. “Where did you get it?”
“Saks,” she says. “They were having a sale.”
“I love Saks,” I say, shooting Nathalie a warm, parting smile. I walk toward Carlton’s office. My heart beats rapidly as I stop outside Carlton’s closed door. I take a deep breath and barge right in.
Carlton looks up from his desk. “Have you heard of knocking?” he says, and his voice is biting and sharp.
“The furnitu
re in my office—I paid for it,” I say, my voice trembling. “I didn’t use company money.”
“What? Are we arguing over a chair, now? A rickety desk?” Carlton snaps. “I checked the records. You paid for that stuff with an advance on your paycheck. An advance you never paid back.”
“I guess all those weekends I spent working for nothing, no overtime, don’t count?”
Carlton stares at me from behind his massive desk. He pulls out a sheet of paper and passes it across the desk. “I need you to sign this. My dad’s lawyers drew it up. In exchange, you’ll receive nine months’ severance pay.”
I look down at the contract.
“This is a noncompete agreement,” I say, and I’m feeling numb.
Carlton nods.
“How can I get another job if I sign this?”
“You’re a savvy person, Madeline,” Carlton says. And I’m momentarily shocked. I can’t remember the last time Carlton used my full name. Instead of Maddy, Sweetie, or Babe. I feel a lump in my throat; I’m choking on grief.
“A week ago you were calling me ‘Juliet’ and now I’m Madeline?”
Carlton’s face doesn’t move an inch. He stares at me, a hard stare, as if he’s looking at a bear he just shot.
“You can have the desk,” he says. Then he flicks his finger in the air. “But only the desk.”
Chapter 49
The phone rings and surprise, surprise. It’s Nick.
“Hey there,” he says. “It’s Nick.”
“Nick who?” I ask, because I feel like a tease.
“I’m the really good-looking guy in your tennis class,” he says, in a funny, deep, sexy voice.
My goodness. I like this guy’s sense of humor already.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you,” I say, in my sweetest little-girl voice.
“I was driving a Ferrari,” he continues. “Fire-engine red with black leather interior.”
“It looked an awful lot like a Volvo,” I say.
“So you do remember me,” he says, and we both laugh. (Definitely a good start.)
“I was wondering…” he says. “After tennis tonight, would you like to get a proper dinner? Something a little more filling than a smoothie?”
“You betchya!” I say.
Just kidding. I don’t say this.
I say, “That sounds nice,” in my cool, calm voice.
“Great, I’ll see you on the courts,” Nick says.
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“I’m bringing my A-game. So don’t think I’m going to let you win again.”
“Bring the Ferrari, too,” I say, and Nick laughs.
A few hours later, I’m rushing around my house trying to get ready for the tennis lesson. I pull on my white tennis skirt—the fancy one with little pleats—and a thin, white workout top. I sweep my hair back in a ponytail, paint my fingernails a shade called “candy rose” and put mascara on. I even wear tiny gold stud earrings in my ears. When I’m finished I look at myself in the mirror, and I don’t look half-bad. My skin even looks clean, thanks to my huge vat of Noxzema.
In fact, I look like I’m ready to go lunching with the ladies—instead of playing an hour of vigorous tennis. That’s the problem with “exercise dates.” You’ve got to try to look good after the workout. Which is kind of a pain. I feel like one of those women who put on eye makeup to go to the gym.
I drive out to the courts and see that Nick is already there, warming up. He’s practicing his serve. I watch him. He throws the ball high in the air, arches his body and hits a perfect strong serve over the net.
“Bravo,” I say, clapping.
Nick turns and smiles slightly. “People compare me to Agassi,” he says.
I see he’s wearing black shorts again. And a black Addidas top with a white stripe down the side.
I’m wearing all-white, so we look like the opposite sides in a chess game.
I jog over to my side of the court, stretch a wee bit, crouch down into a tennis stance, and say, “Ready when you are, pretty boy.”
Nick throws up another serve and whacks it into the net.
“You’re making me nervous,” he says. I smile and act cool but that’s exactly how I feel. I’m nervous. My palms are even sweaty. So the Slazenger feels loose in my hands.
Nick looks at me and catches my eye. I feel the electricity again. And I think he feels it, too, because he looks down at his tennis shoes. Yes, the chemistry between us is almost palpable.
“Second serve,” I say.
Nick bounces the ball, throws it up, and whacks it low and hard over the net.
I swing and miss. Which is something I rarely do.
“Nice serve,” I say, smiling at him, because Nick just aced me fair and square.
“It was a fluke,” Nick says, sheepishly. “I never ace anyone.”
I think back to Carlton. If Carlton had just served me an ace, he’d be shouting, “ACE! ACE! Who’s Your Daddy, Now!”
I’m suddenly very glad to be playing tennis with Nick.
Nick and I hit the ball back and forth for a while. And then Deepak and the other members of the class show up. The lesson seems to drag on forever. When it’s finally over, Nick has beaten me. Six games to four. He motions for me to meet him at the net. I walk up and say, “Good game.”
I hold my hand out to shake. Nick takes my hand in his and brings it up to his lips. I hold my breath as he kisses the top of my hand like I’m a princess or something, and says, “Nice game, Madeline.”
I gaze into Nick’s eyes and realize I haven’t felt this good in a long, long time.
We walk out to the parking lot, together. Deepak is loading his tennis gear into the back of a gold Suburban. “My family,” he says, motioning toward the car. “They wait for me.” I see a beautiful, thin, Indian woman behind the wheel. And Deepak’s two smiling daughters waving from the backseat.
Nick and I wave good-bye to Deepak, and then Nick turns to me and whispers, “Quick! Let’s get out of here before we’re invaded by picture-perfect families!”
Gee whiz. I really like this guy.
“Shall I follow you?” I ask, but Nick opens the door to his Volvo and says, “Hop in.”
So I hop in.
“I was thinking of Le Bistro,” Nick says—which happens to be one of my favorite restaurants.
It’s a quaint little French bistro with a casual dining atmosphere and great wines by the glass.
“Excellent choice,” I say.
In the car, on the way to the restaurant, Nick slides a Rolling Stones CD into the player. Mick Jagger crooning, “I Can’t Get No…Satisfactiooon.”
“This was my mother’s favorite album,” I say, absently. I don’t want to bring up my parents, but I can’t help it. This music reminds me of her.
Nick says, “Tell me more.”
“They died in a car accident. Drunk driver,” I say, quickly. “My brother was fifteen. So it affected him the most,” I say.
Nick is unusually quiet. I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing again. Here I am, talking about my dead parents, when I’m two seconds into a first date.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a…” I hesitate to say the word “date.” But Nick rescues me.
“Date?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Nick says. “I imagine a woman like you has tons of guys beating down the door.”
He looks at me and suddenly the electricity between us is positively zinging. I feel my face blush slightly. Nick turns the CD player off, grits his teeth a little, and taps his hands against the steering wheel. I notice that he’s a good driver. Not sloppy. He’s one of those guys who just seems like he’s in command.
“Here we are,” he says, softly.
We pull into the parking lot of Le Bistro. Nick runs around to my side of the car, opens my door for me, and actually takes my hand and leads me ou
t of the car. We’re both still in our tennis clothes, but it doesn’t matter. Nick asks for a table outside and I watch him, closely. He’s poised. In control.
He leans over toward my ear—so close—that his lips brush against my face.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” he says, simply. Just like that.
I feel something stirring inside of me. It’s the weak-knee thing. Sometimes, it just happens and you can’t help it. It’s that gushy feeling.
Within five minutes, Nick has scored a prime table outside on the patio.
There’s a candle flickering in the center of the table. The light bounces off Nick’s face and he looks handsome and rugged. He doesn’t have Carlton’s fine, model-like features, but where Carlton was “pretty,” Nick is truly “handsome.” Nick seems more of a guy’s guy. The type of guy who could fix his own car and who knows the difference between the Fighting Irish and the Crimson Tide.
The waiter swirls around with menus.
I order a glass of Bordeaux. Nick orders a Pellegrino, to my surprise.
“You’re not drinking?” I ask. And I’m wondering if Nick is an AA guy, like my brother.
“I’m on the job,” he says, in a serious tone.
I giggle and cover my mouth, a la Heather.
We both order steak frites, because, after all, this place is French. Nick leans over the table, cups his hands under his chin. I can smell the scent of him, sweet and raw from the tennis game. It’s a good smell. Manly.
He clinks his water glass against my wine. “So tell me more about you, Maddy. You say you have a brother? Does he live around here?”
I nod. “He’s a rehab counselor, so he spends most of his time at work. He’s got an apartment about a mile from here,” I say.
“Do you guys spend time together?”
“Sure,” I say. “We see each other once a week, sometimes twice. Ronnie’s really involved with his work.”
“What line of work is your brother in, Maddy?”
I pause a moment.
“I just told you he was a rehab counselor,” I say, quietly.