“Well, maybe I’ll get out of it,” I say, distracted because I’ve pulled the phone away from my ear to check my texts, and I see that I have a new one. I put Carrie on speaker, open my texts, and read, I want to go. I smile again, composing replies in my head.
“But, you know, it’s not like I have a ton of options. I’m pretty sure all the good men are already taken.” I barely even know what I’m saying because three dots in the lower left corner of my screen tell me Todd is typing another message.
“You and Jeremy just broke up,” Carrie says.
“Almost three months ago,” I interject.
“And you guys went out for seven years,” she continues, her voice loud in my quiet house, with a slight metallic ring that pings through the phone’s speaker. “You’ll find the right one eventually.”
“I didn’t think I was looking for the right one,” I murmur, still watching the three dots. It’s taking Todd an awfully long time to compose this text.
“What?” Carrie asks, and then she pauses. “Why do you have me on speaker?”
I click off the speaker function and pull the phone back up to my ear. “I was checking a text,” I answer honestly but don’t elaborate. “Hey, can I call you back in a few?”
“Sure,” she says. “But promise me you’ll think about this Brandon situation. Personally, I don’t think you owe him a thing.”
I shudder at the implications of her statement. “Well, when you put it that way…” My voice trails off.
“Just think about it.”
“I will,” I promise, clicking end call before we even finish saying good-bye. When I see the new message my jaw goes slack and my feet swing forward, almost knocking Simon off the couch.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, reaching down to scratch him behind the ears as he cocks his head at me and settles back down on the sofa.
Todd’s just texted back, I would if I had someone to go with… Don’t suppose you want to see it twice?
* * *
Monday morning, I hit the office earlier than usual because my slate for the day is so full. This afternoon I’m doing the formal presentation with Amanda to Marc Rasmutin on the condo project. I’m creating a full storyboard for this project because as soon as Marc approves our ideas he’s taking them to his investors. In the meantime, I’m wading through the estimates for Brewster’s flooring and cabinetry projects, plus Nestor Santiago has emailed me three times since yesterday asking different versions of the same question about marble tile. That man is turning out to be a real piece of work.
It’s quiet in the office, and I feel the emptiness of Ellie Kate’s desk like a ghostly presence. I’m really going to miss her. Even though I like Quinn and Brice and have warmed up to Carson, Ellie Kate was my only real confidante in this place…ever since Rachael bailed on me, that is.
At this thought I glance over at her. Rachael’s tousled auburn hair and shoulders are hunched over her desk, and her tongue is poking out between her teeth. Clearly she’s concentrating hard on something, but I’m not even sure what she’s working on these days—I just know it isn’t Brewster’s house. I don’t think the two of us have exchanged more than a tense hello in the last six weeks.
I shake my head, saddened by that thought, and then stand to stretch my legs. I can’t believe it’s already after eleven. I got here at 8:05 and have barely moved from my desk.
“You going to lunch?” Quinn asks, and I jump. I didn’t see her walk up behind me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not. I’ve got a two o’clock with Marc Rasmutin and a boatload of work to finish between now and then.” I glance down at the half-finished project board on my desk with dismay. When I look back up, I see that Rachael has her head up now and is watching us. When she sees me looking at her, she quickly looks away.
Puzzled, I turn back to Quinn and shake my head again. “Whatever,” I say under my breath and notice that Quinn’s eyes shift to Rachael and quickly back to me.
“Come on,” she says. “I’m just gonna grab a quick bite at Aldo’s. We can sit outside, so we’ll be seated faster.” When I don’t say anything, my forehead wrinkled in thought—and stress—she adds, “You’ve got to eat.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering why she’s so insistent. Quinn and I don’t often go to lunch together. Maybe she’s feeling the absence of Ellie Kate—who sort of filled the roles of office peacemaker and social chair—as much as I am.
I shrug and push my chair forward before reaching into my desk for my purse. I grab my phone and shove it in the bag and turn to follow Quinn, who already has her purse over her arm and is heading toward the door.
After a couple of steps I hesitate and then turn back toward my desk to gather up my samples from the condo project. I carefully slide items into a canvas bag and carry it and my foam storyboard awkwardly with me toward the exit, avoiding a glance at Rachael, though I can feel her eyes on me.
Once outside, I open my trunk and slide my materials in it before locking the car and rushing to catch up to Quinn, who’s standing at the edge of our small parking lot. Aldo’s is within walking distance, so we’re traveling on foot. She gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask what I’m doing, which I’m grateful for, because I’m not sure I could explain it without sounding weird and paranoid.
I know it’s crazy, but I just had a bad feeling about leaving Rachael alone in the workroom with my project.
* * *
“So, I don’t know what’s going on, but Carson is, like, going all doomsday.” Quinn picks up a huge slice of barbecue chicken pizza and holds it up with one hand on the crust and the other supporting it underneath, then takes a delicate bite from the tip. A strand of mozzarella pulls off with the bite and forms a stringy line down her chin, which she gathers up with her pinky finger and pops into her mouth. She doesn’t look around like I might to see who’s witness to her embarrassment. That’s the thing about Quinn—she just doesn’t give a damn. I wish I could bottle up her confidence and drink it.
“What do you mean? Doomsday how?” I take another bite of my own veggie slice and wash it down with a swig of water. It’s, like, a thousand degrees out here. It’ll be a few more weeks before Memphians are populating restaurant patios again. For the three weeks out of the year we’re able to be outside comfortably, it’s glorious.
Quinn is hunched into the shade of our umbrella, which basically covers only our small round table, since it’s almost straight-up noon.
“She thinks the firm’s about to implode, and we’re all going to lose our jobs.” She says this matter-of-factly, ignoring the fact that my eyes are wide as our plates.
I stare at her, waiting for an explanation, as she takes another tiny bite. I’m not sure Quinn ever actually eats. “What? Why? What did you hear?”
She chews slowly, swallows, then takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “I didn’t actually hear this from Carson,” she says. Then she looks straight at me with narrowed eyes. “This doesn’t get past me and you.” She gestures with her glass between the two of us.
I nod, bewildered.
“Brice said that Carson said that Candace is acting all funny with the books. Like, you know how Carson usually does the accounts-payable stuff? Well, Candace told her she doesn’t need her to do it anymore, that she’s hiring an outside accountant to handle it.”
I nod again and scrunch my forehead in confusion. “Oh…kay,” I say. “But that’s not so weird. Our business has grown a lot in the past two years. Maybe Candace really does want a real accountant to handle the books. Carson has, what? Like, a marketing degree?”
“Yes, but…” Quinn leans in a little closer over the table. “Brice also saw a letter from the IRS on Candace’s desk. And he said that all this happened after Carson asked Candace about some weird withdrawal from the firm’s account.”
I don’t answer, not sure how to process this information. Honestly, I’m so busy right now dealing with my own business that I don’t have time to care how
Candace is handling hers. But of course, the firm’s credibility and viability is all tied up with my own, so I guess I should care. The funny thing is that, at one time, I was the person Candace would have trusted if the business was in trouble. After Caroline left, she and I had several long, after-hours meetings to reconcile the firm’s books and create an action plan to build business in the down market. Sometimes Brice sat in, sometimes he didn’t.
Now Candace has turned away from me, and I’ve turned within myself. I’m almost running an independent business at this point. I’ve barely talked to anyone in the office about my work in weeks. If I had my own tax ID and an assistant, I could even consider going out on my own…
I shudder, terrified at the direction my thoughts are taking. I am not ready to fly solo.
“Hellooo…” Quinn says, waving a hand in front of my face.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. Candace doesn’t tell me anything anymore.” I pause, remembering our last meeting. “Apart from her dumping the Brewster project back in my lap, I haven’t talked to her in, like, a month.”
And then I have a strange thought. “Although…” I drag out the word.
Quinn is holding her pizza up again, about to take another minuscule bite, but she pauses with the slice in midair. “Although?” Her eyes are bright.
“Well, I did get a weird vibe from Brewster’s assistant when I was at his house the week before last,” I say.
“A weird vibe? Like weird how?” Quinn sets her pizza back on her plate. Just then the waitress walks up with a new Diet Coke for Quinn and a pitcher of water. Neither of us speak as she refills my glass.
“Well,” I say. I sit back in my chair and then immediately hunch forward again when the sun hits my skin and raises my personal heat index by fifteen degrees. “Like, you know that Candace and Brewster have been dating, right?”
“Which is weird in and of itself,” Quinn interjects. “I mean, A, what in God’s name does he see in her? And B, where was Dan in all of this?” She pauses when I have no answer. “Like, I know they’re ‘separated’ and all, but she sure moved in awfully damn fast.”
“I know,” I say.
Neither of us says anything else for at least another minute. I chew my pizza thoughtfully while Quinn feeds her liquid diet and avoids her plate.
“So what did Brewster’s assistant say?” she reminds me.
“Oh, yeah.” I swallow the last bite of my crust and wipe my mouth with the white cloth napkin. “She asked me to keep an eye on Candace and see if I thought she was up to anything fishy,” I say, my brows pulling together. “I sort of got the impression she thinks Candace is a gold digger.”
The server returns, and Quinn waves away her plate even though she’s barely eaten a third of her pizza. The waitress deposits two black folders on our table and then hustles away our dishes.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Quinn says once the swinging door closes behind our server, bringing with it a puff of air-conditioned air that’s like a blast from heaven. “Very interesting.”
We busy ourselves with pulling out our credit cards and paying our bills. I glance at the clock on my phone’s screen and feel a flash of panic that my meeting with Rasmutin is less than two hours away, and I still have some fabrics to pull and prices to check, not to mention a board to finish. Plus, thanks to this lunch, I’m going to need a major freshen-up session in the firm’s bathroom before I head out to meet my client.
As we approach our parking lot, Quinn turns to me and says, “Promise you’ll tell me if you hear of anything else going on?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sure.”
Clearly Quinn cares more about keeping her job than she likes to let on. As for me… Well, I’m not sure I know what I really want anymore.
* * *
By the time I leave my meeting with Amanda and Marc this afternoon, I feel as if I’ve run a 5K—my back is damp with sweat, and I’m exhausted. I finished my storyboard by the skin of my teeth and dashed out of the office certain I’d forgotten something, my mental checklist running on repeat in my head. Thankfully, I forgot nothing, and Marc loved both Amanda’s and my presentations. We’ll be needed on-site as soon as sheet rock is up in the model units, which could be as early as next week. But before then, I need to get orders placed for some of the furniture pieces to be sure they’re here in time for the building’s soft opening. Delays are inevitable with made-to-order furnishings, and it can take as long as nine weeks for a simple sofa to come in—sometimes longer.
I’m still pumping with adrenaline from the successful presentation when I get a text that destroys my buzz. 911. Kitchen pipe busted. Floors … mess … help!
“Oh my God,” I say. I’ve just started my car and was about to head back to work, but instead I screech out of my parking space at Marc Rasmutin’s office and prepare to drive to the bakery.
And then—smash!
“Shit!” I yell, my head jerking forward and then back again.
I turn to see that I’ve just backed into an SUV. How I missed it—the thing is the size of a Navy fleet vessel—I’m not sure.
I’m too busy for my own good, that’s how. I’m meeting myself coming and going.
I take a second to assess myself, thankful that neither car was moving fast. The impact wasn’t enough to trigger my airbag, and I doubt it’s done much damage. Still, I’m shaking like a leaf and know I’ll probably be sore tomorrow. I rub the back of my neck with my right hand before opening my car door.
I step slowly out of my car and approach the SUV’s driver’s side window. A woman with glossy dark hair is inside with the window rolled up, glaring daggers at me. I’m standing right beside her car before she finally rolls it down.
“I am so sorry,” I say.
“Are you girls okay?” asks a man who’s jogged over from the sidewalk. “I just called MPD for you.”
Another man walks out the door of a neighboring business and comes over to us.
“Thanks,” I say to both of them. “I’m fine, I think.” I look at the woman, who’s finally opening her car door. She’s alone in the car. Despite the tinted windows, I can see car seats in the backseat of her vehicle, but thankfully they’re empty.
“You’re lucky my kids aren’t in the car,” she says in a haughty voice, echoing my thoughts, and I apologize again.
“Not much damage,” announces the second man, who’s made his way around the front of the SUV and is now rubbing a spot on my rear fender. I glance back and see a football-sized dent in the silver plastic panel.
Great. But it could be worse.
“Yours took the brunt of it,” the man says, gesturing with his head toward me as he walks over to us. I imagine that’s true, since what I’m driving might as well be a golf cart in comparison to her hulking vehicle. I almost giggle when I see it’s a Chevy Armada—my ship analogy wasn’t too far off.
I nod at the man, thankful I have full coverage. Though, looking at the woman, I have a feeling I’m going to pay regardless. She still looks pissed off, and she’s tapping away at her cell phone screen, probably lacing the text with profanities aimed at me. When she looks up, I explain the emergency at the bakery, but it doesn’t seem to help. Meanwhile, our Good Samaritans wander away—I’m the only one who thanks them.
I get back in my car to wait for the police to show up. It takes forever, and in the meantime, I text Chick to let her know what’s happened and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. As I scroll down the screen, I notice the thread of texts from Todd. I never gave him a real answer about going with him to the theater. Even though I’d love to accept, it feels too weird to go on what might or might not be a date with a guy I’m hiring to do work for me—even if my gut tells me he only wants to be friends. I doubt he really considers this a date.
I reread the thread. I ended it by telling him I have plans and can’t go this weekend—which isn’t a lie, though I don’t feel at all good about my plans for Friday night. My s
tomach twists up at the thought of being alone with Brandon again, but at the same time, I know I’m not going to cancel.
At least my Saturday plans are more appealing. It’s not just me who’s been too busy for family time lately—and my mom has decided it’s time to stage a full-on intervention. She sent out a mandate that I and every one of my in-town siblings join her and my dad for dinner on their thirty-seventh anniversary. She even sent an Evite with the title “Cats in the Cradle” Anniversary Dinner. She never has been one for subtlety.
Even though I had legitimate reasons to turn down Todd, I left the door open and only turned him down for this weekend—the show is running for a full month. I was planning to talk to him about it Thursday while we’re hanging art, but now thanks to this leak, the installation might not happen this Thursday. As I realize this, a twinge of disappointment hits me, and I try to ignore the fact that it’s over more than an interruption to my project schedule.
I’m texting with Carrie when MPD finally arrives, and then I get a ticket in addition to an insurance claim.
Fabulous. Just what I need.
One step forward, two steps back. Damn it if that isn’t just the way life works.
* * *
By the time I finally make it to the bakery, the parking lot entrance is almost blocked by a boxy white van with EPD Disaster Recovery painted on the side. “Well, that doesn’t bode well,” I mutter to myself.
This day has had disaster written all over it.
Inside, though, I’ve missed the worst of the panic. The ear-splitting buzz of industrial fans emanates from the kitchen area, and I run through the front room—relieved to see that it seems to be intact—and around the pastry cases to find a different story. The wood floors in the kitchen are still wet in places, and the new finish looks to be almost completely destroyed. A smattering of workers in dark blue coveralls are squatting and kneeling in corners, mopping up remaining pools of water, and so is Chick, whose light blue dress is rumpled and stained and wet in places.
How to Look Happy Page 21