by Jo Barrett
Nick chews on his lip and he seems to be thinking about something. I decide to take this moment of silence to blabber on.
“He’s really a saint, my brother.”
Nick raises an eyebrow and says, “Really?” as if he doesn’t believe me.
I nod. “If there’s a heaven,” I say, “Ronnie’s got a front row ticket.”
Nick is quiet. He seems contemplative, like he’s concentrating on something. It’s disconcerting, but I decide not to ask him what’s what.
The waiter brings our plates and I’m careful not to eat too quickly. Nick, I’m pleased to see, likes food as much as I do. He cuts into his steak, stabs a French fry with his fork and pops the whole thing into his mouth.
“This place cooks a mean steak,” he says, grinning at me between bites.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say. “It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Good one, Maddy. Real sexy.
Nick says, “When I saw you at Starbucks with that big guy, I thought you might be dating him. Dick was his name, right?”
Suddenly a red flag goes up in my head. I’m surprised Nick remembers Dick’s name. But then again, it’s not hard. Nick, Dick. I’m probably being paranoid.
I shake my head. “That was business,” I say. “I’m designing a marketing campaign for his company.”
“Interesting,” Nick says. “What business is Dick in?”
Without hesitation, I reply, “He’s an entrepreneur. That’s why he needs a marketing plan.”
I try to be informative and evasive to move beyond the subject.
“How did you two meet?” Nick asks. And I suddenly feel like I’m being probed. I want Nick to drop the subject but he seems really interested in finding out all about moi.
“My brother put us in touch,” I say, quickly.
Nick smiles at me with those killer dimples of his, but I see a slight shadow cross his face. Maybe it’s all in my head. Get a grip, Maddy!
I really need to learn how to start dating.
After dinner, Nick drives me back to my car, and I think he wants to kiss me but he doesn’t. He says, “I’m going out of town for business, but I’ll call you in a few days.”
I say, “Sounds great.”
He leans over a moment and looks straight into my eyes, like he’s searching for something.
I decide to go for it.
I kiss Nick full on the mouth. It’s a long, slow kiss, and he almost seems shocked by it at first.
I’m shocked, too. Because it’s perfect.
Nick pulls away first.
“Uh, sorry. I wasn’t expecting…” he starts in.
I notice him blushing slightly. A man like this, blushing.
“It’s okay,” I say, quietly. I unclip my seatbelt, and step out of the passenger side.
“Have a good business trip,” I say.
“I’ll see you at tennis,” Nick replies.
As I drive away, I realize that I talked about myself the entire dinner. In fact, I know nothing about Nick. I don’t even know his last name.
Chapter 50
I am not a furniture mover. In fact, I suck at moving furniture. And so, after the building maintenance man helped me lug the desk down three flights of stairs and load it into the trailer hitched to the back of my car, I forgot one small detail. To close the trailer door.
I don’t realize there’s a problem until I enter the on ramp of the highway. I hear a huge thump and crack noise. The kind of noise that spells trouble. In my rearview, I see the desk fly out onto the road. Before I can even pull over, an eighteen-wheeler slams into it, and the desk explodes into a million tiny wood chips. The big rig is undamaged and—as they say—just keeps on truckin’. The driver even toots his horn as he passes me by. Toot toot.
I see the desk carcass on the highway, and it’s a mess. I pop open my phone and call the police department to report it.
The guy on the phone goes, “The interstate is not your personal office, ma’am.”
Everyone’s a comedian.
I guess it’s somewhat poetic. The smashing of the desk. But still, the tears come easily. I could flood the place.
I speed over to Michael’s law office. Even with the windows rolled down and the nice, cool breeze hitting my face, I still can’t shake this funk. I’m a sniveling, drooling, wet-eyed funk of a person. A sad-sack. A washed-up has-been. I check my face in the rearview. My mascara is smeared under my eyes. If I were Heather, it would look like heroin chic. On me, it looks like Maddy the Racoon has come crawling back to town.
Waterproof my ass, I think. I wipe my eyes and manage to smear the mascara further down onto my cheek and hand.
Carlton’s noncompete agreement is sitting on the passenger seat next to me. I look down at it and consider tossing it out the window.
Bastard!
I’m so riled up Carlton has me speaking in tongues.
I screech into the parking lot, my tires crunching gravel. Michael’s got his own law practice. “I’m a one-man army,” he likes to say. The office is in an old renovated house. Complete with white shingles and a sign hanging above the door that says, “Michael Wasserstein, Attorney-at-Law.” I grab the offensive contract, and bang into Michael’s office. His receptionist is probably on a lunch break so I march right into Michael’s office.
Michael looks up from his desk. He’s on the phone but he says, “I’ll call you back in fifteen,” and hangs up.
“You look like shee-it,” he says, generously.
I glance down at my wrinkled, day-old clothes. I haven’t washed my hair or brushed my teeth in as long as I can remember. And I’m pretty sure I smell.
“Thanks for noticing,” I say.
“Hard not to,” Michael says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
“Take a seat. You want a tissue or somethin’?” he asks, handing me a box of Kleenex.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I pluck a Kleenex and try to wipe underneath my eyes. The tissue is streaked with black. I ball it up. Michael holds up a trash can.
I shoot and miss, of course. The tissue bounces off the side of the can.
Michael rolls his eyes. “Women,” he says, picking the tissue off the floor.
I look around the room. I’ve never been to Michael’s office before, and I don’t know what I was expecting, but this certainly isn’t it.
Instead of a bookcase filled with hardbound legal books, like you see in the commercials, and heavy, wooden furniture, Michael’s office instead looks quaint. Homey, even. He’s got potted plants, a small leather couch with a few throw pillows, and framed pictures of Heather everywhere. The furniture is all light, blond wood. And behind his desk, instead of diplomas, he’s hung a painting. A framed print of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe.
“I love your office,” I say.
“I like to make my clients feel at home,” he says. He opens a mini fridge next to his desk and says, “Care for a Coke? Or Perrier?”
I notice Michael doesn’t pronounce it the French way, like “Perri-A.” Instead, he does that Southern drawl thing and says it like this: Pear-eee-air.
I lean forward and shove the noncompete agreement across Michael’s desk. “Get a load of this B.S.,” I say.
Michael raises an eyebrow. “I expect a year of free babysittin’ in exchange for any legal advice,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. I lean back in the chair and rest my head. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but for some reason, I feel beat.
Michael regards the contract in front of him. He scrunches his face up, rubs his hand over his head, and chews anxiously on his lower lip.
“What he’s proposing is to pay you nine months’ salary in exchange for a promise not to work for any competing business for a period of three years. Sounds like extortion. But unfortunately, the laws of this great state allow for this kind uh’ crap.” He folds the contract into a neat paper airplane and sends it zinging in my direction. “You didn’t have any other type
of employment contract, right? Like when you first started with the company?”
I drop my head like a scolded dog. “No,” I say, softly. And I suddenly feel like the dumbest woman in the world.
“If you take the money—and you sign this thang—then you’re stuck.”
“So I can’t work for another company in this industry—unless I don’t take the severance pay.”
“Correct,” Michael says. He rests his elbows on the desk, fingers laced, chin on his hands. “How important is the severance? Do you have any savings?”
I think of the rainy day check from Henry.
“Very little. I’m plowing through it.”
“I didn’t even know Carlton had competitors,” Michael says. “I thought this Organics 4 Kids was a one and only. A first in the field.”
“There’s one,” I say. “And it’s not really a competitor. It’s more of a giant. Carlton was hoping to sell out—to cash in his millions. He wanted to sell Organics 4 Kids to Giganto Foods. See, Carlton has a strong regional foothold in the South—Texas, Oklahoma, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi. So, Giganto would rather buy Carlton’s company and roll out Organics 4 Kids across the entire U.S. Often times, a company would rather buy a smaller company that already has a strong market niche rather than develop its own product line. Sometimes it’s easier to buy a smaller company and roll the product line out nationally rather than start from scratch,” I say.
Michael waves his hand breezily and says, “I get it. Go on.”
“The problem is, Giganto Foods was wanting to develop something like this way before Carlton and I ever came on the scene. I think they tabled it because they wanted to see if it would work. So, our company—I mean, Carlton’s company, was like a guinea pig.”
“So now Carlton’s afraid you’ll jump over to Giganto,” Michael says.
“Exactly,” I say. “And with their unlimited budget, Giganto can either buy out Organics 4 Kids, or stomp all over it.”
“I guess you better line up an interview,” Michael says. “Tell Carlton to keep his lousy severance package and stick this noncompete up his very small asshole.”
“Yeah, it’s great in theory. But there’s one small problem.”
“C’mon, Maddy. Giganto Foods will hire you in a heartbeat.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand, Michael. Carlton told the janitors to clean out my desk. They accidentally threw out all of my portfolios. All of my work product. Everything I’d been working on at Organics 4 Kids.”
Michael holds up his hand and says, “Repeat that.”
“The janitors don’t speak English and Carlton told them to box up everything from my desk, but they misunderstood him and trashed everything.”
Michael crosses his arms over his chest and peers down his nose at me. “Sounds like there’s a fox in the henhouse.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, it doesn’t add up, Maddy. You still trust this guy. Even now.”
I stare at Michael.
“Ask yourself this question,” he says. “Who had more incentive to lose your files, other than Carlton?”
Chapter 51
The only thing worse than running into an ex-fiancé is running into an ex-fiancé when he’s on a date. And so, imagine my surprise…
I’m at the Congress Cafe, a trendy Austin hot spot, sitting at the bar with Heather. We’re discussing baby names over a plate of fried calamari. She’s drinking a Diet Coke. I’m having a vodka tonic with no tonic. And that’s when I spot him. His movie star hair is unmistakable and he’s got a prime table by the window, of course. Our old table.
Carlton!
My entire body tenses up. Heather swings around on her barstool, sees Carlton, and says immediately, “Let’s get out of here.”
I say in a solid voice, “We’re not leaving. This is one of my favorite restaurants. Carlton didn’t even know this place existed until I brought him here.”
I lean past Heather and spy on Carlton. He’s sitting at a table, ordering the same bottle of wine we always used to order, the same shrimp appetizer, and lo and behold, guess who’s with him? It’s his new accounting whiz kid. The brilliant Miss Nathalie. Looking absolutely divine in a sheer white dress—a V-shaped, low-cut neckline exposing cleavage that would make Pamela Anderson jealous. Nathalie, with her huge, Double-D cantaloupe knockers. This is no business dinner, I can assure you.
I watch as Carlton pours Nathalie a glass of wine. I don’t know how it happens, but I guess Carlton feels my presence. Because, suddenly, he looks straight at me.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and a world of emotions is exchanged, and then Carlton does the unthinkable. He brushes the side of Nathalie’s cheek with the back of his hand, leans in closely to her face, and probably says something impossibly romantic—and impossibly full of donkey doo doo in her ear.
I throw back the rest of my vodka. And, in the spirit of drinky-land, I decide what the heck? Time to spoil all the fun. I stand abruptly from my barstool.
Heather says, “What are you doing, Maddy? No, don’t!” But my dear, sweet girlfriend is too little, too late.
I march toward Carlton’s table. Arms a swingin’. I storm, really.
Carlton sees me heading his way. He doesn’t stand up, that piece of shit.
“Hello, Madeline,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. Mr. Cool. Speaking to me in that ridiculous formal tone.
“Hi, Romeo,” I snap. “I see you’ve chosen a great bottle of wine. Let me guess. The Brunello?”
Nathalie is staring up at me—her former boss—with her eyes open wide, looking a little scared.
She knows she’s busted, so she stands up quickly and her chair squeaks against the floor. “I…I have to use the Ladies,” she stutters. I watch as she races across the restaurant, nearly knocking over a waiter balancing a full tray of plates.
Graceful, I think.
Carlton says, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is sharp and he’s looking up at me with defiant, angry eyes. He’s still sitting, his arms crossed over his chest, but he’s sliding around in his chair. Like a rattlesnake on a leash.
I look down at Mr. High and Mighty and glance at his wine glass. A part of me wants to dump it on his head. But I resist. No need to cause a big scene. Get the whole restaurant involved.
I point my finger at his chest. “Saving her from you,” I say, pointedly. And with that, I march straight toward the ladies room.
I push open the door. Nathalie is in a stall. I can hear her sniveling and blowing her nose and it sounds like she’s crying.
I tap on the stall door. Gently.
“Nathalie, it’s me,” I say.
“Leave me alone!” she cries out. It’s a little melodramatic but that’s what you get with young women in their twenties. Even if they’ve been around the block, they still haven’t been around the fucking block. Wait ten years, girlfriend. Then see if you’re hiding in a stall, I think to myself. If Nathalie were thirty-something, she’d be in front of the sink, doing what any smart woman would do. Trying to get the skinny about Carlton. A thirty-something girl would use this as an opportunity to bleed me for information. And I’d gladly talk because all’s fair in love and war, right?
“Nathalie, I think you’re a bright woman with a great future ahead of you,” I say. “I also know that you care for Carlton because, on the outside, he’s got a lot of great qualities.”
She surprises me by swinging open the stall door with some force. She’s standing there, clutching a wad of toilet paper in her hand, black mascara tears running down her cheeks. When she speaks, I’m a tad offended by her ferocity.
“You don’t care about Carlton and me! You just care about yourself! You don’t want Carlton to move on and find happiness with someone else!”
I give her a pointed look. “It’s true,” I say. “I’m angry with Carlton for many reasons he probably hasn’t told you.”
“Yeah, like you got dumped and
you can’t handle it!”
Well, now she’s getting personal.
“Nathalie, my parents died in a car accident when I was nineteen. Let me assure you, getting dumped is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. It happens to everyone. It’s…part of the life cycle,” I say, in a calm, counseling tone. I’ve suddenly become my brother.
Nathalie pushes past me and rushes to the mirror. She turns the sink on and wipes frantically under her eyes.
I walk up and hand her a paper towel.
“Look, I shouldn’t have interrupted your romantic dinner, but I think you’ve got great potential to become a female CFO at a major corporation. You’ve chosen a career field that doesn’t have many women. I admire that. And I believe you’ll succeed. Because you’re a good financial analyst.”
Nathalie looks at me in the mirror.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Sometimes, women need to stick up for one another,” I say. I want to tell Nathalie about Abigail Adams but I’m afraid I’ll lose her. Plus I’ve already followed her into a bathroom. If I mention the line about “all men being tyrants if they could,” she might think I’m nuts.
“I’m not here to poison you against Carlton, Nathalie. Because trust me, if he’s not dating you, he’ll be dating someone else. And I can’t go chasing off all his new girlfriends, right?”
“I think he’s already dating someone else,” she sniffles. She swings around and stares at me with her pretty, wide blue eyes. “I counted the condoms in this box he has in his bathroom and two were missing…” she trails off.
I wince. Nathalie realizes she’s cutting close to the bone.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
“It’s okay,” I say, quietly. “I’m glad you’re using condoms because Carlton has genital herpes. And he hates to wear them, but you’re a young woman and you definitely shouldn’t compromise on that point,” I say.
She nods. I’ve got her full attention now.
“At first, I thought Carlton hired you because you’re attractive and fresh out of school. Sometimes it’s easier to have a young employee who’s willing to put in extra overtime. Not some middle-aged woman who won’t take any crap,” I say. “You’re more moldable,” I say.