Charlotte drew her lips tight against her teeth. At least she didn’t have to pee anymore. I wonder if he’ll think it’s so hilarious once he realizes I have to go home sitting on that buttery upholstery of his.
Say what she would about Caleb, he would have taken her home. And then he would have waited at least a week before he asked her to laugh about it.
“There is never a dry moment with you around.” Leopold said.
She glared at him. “Dull moment.” God!
“Yes. Never a dull moment. Whether you’re passing out or vomiting water.” Leopold’s voice had one volume. Loud. And when he was excited, it dialed up still higher.
“That’s great. Okay, let’s keep our voices down.”
People were beginning to return to their conversations, but some of women had begun sending shy smiles her direction. She wondered how many people would come in to Fiona’s salon tomorrow and tell her all about it.
“When something like this happens, you do not need to disappear into yourself,” Leopold continued.
Oh goodie. He was going to give her advice. That’s what the situation called for. The Confidence Coach. If this weren’t humiliating enough, she would be treated to an audible life lesson. And, with the way he was going, so would the rest of Arturo’s patrons.
“You can own it. People will respond to you the way you expect them to respond. If you are embarrassed, they are embarrassed. But if you are confident…if you hold your head high, it is better for everyone. You teach people how to treat you.”
Should she teach him a lesson in how to properly administer the Heimlich Maneuver?
Leopold continued. “And now we need to discuss the next segment of your training.”
Here it comes.
“I have registered you for a race.”
“A race? What kind of race.”
“A running race.”
“Yikes.”
“It is the most magnificent way to train. You will learn accountability. Hard work. Determination.”
“So, what, like a marathon?”
He began to laugh again. “No, no, Miss Charlotte. You could not run a marathon. Not yet. I will be running the marathon. You will be running the 10K.”
She looked at him blankly, and he shook his head. “Just over 6 miles.”
“Oh.”
“It will be good for your confidence. Trust me.”
“Did you ever make Fiona run any races? When you were working with her?”
He moved his head back and let out a chortle. “No.”
“Why should I, then?”
“Fiona needed a different kind of confidence than you need.”
“Oh.” Charlotte considered this. “I need the kind you can get from races?”
His bravado and his bossiness were making him infinitely less attractive to her. He really should have let her order a cocktail. He continued on (and on) about all the ways he had been changed by his racing experiences.
When they had finished their meal, which she had to admit was devastatingly delicious considering it was comprised primarily of vegetables, Leopold tipped their busty waitress a clean, crisp one hundred dollar bill. Charlotte really wished he hadn’t, but it was probably the right thing to do, considering what had happened there.
She imagined their waitress stopping by the liquor store on her way home to Caleb, choosing a vintage merlot (even though his favorite was pinot noir, but she probably didn’t even know that), and then relating the story of Charlotte’s humiliation as she and Caleb chortled and sipped, sipped and chortled.
Leopold maneuvered his car from its parking space and, once he was zipping down Second Street, he turned to her, his brow wrinkled.
“I had an amazing time with you this evening, Miss Charlotte.”
“What was the best part for you exactly,” she asked, trying to smile. “Was it the choking?”
He grinned back at her, an expression that was genuine and kind. “No, it is because you are fun. You make me laugh. Also, I think you learned something.” He paused for effect, a little too long, in her opinion. “Something terrible happened to you, and you did not die. You kept on moving. You kept on keeping on.”
She lowered her head.
“Is that the expression? ‘Keep on keeping on?’” His forehead lifted. “Did I get it right?”
“Yes, Leopold. You got that one. That’s how the expression goes.”
“Even though it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Some of them just don’t.”
“Yes. We have some like that in Poland. Like, we say something is ‘a roll with butter’ instead of saying that it is easy, and we say ‘what has gingerbread to do with a windmill?’ when we mean ‘what does that have to do with anything?’”
“Really? I like that. I might steal that one.”
“But, Miss Charlotte. Maybe you can help me with one I never get right. Is it ‘piece of cake’ or is it ‘easy as pie,’ or is it ‘piece of pie’ or is it ‘easy as cake.’”
“It’s ‘easy as pie’ and ‘piece of cake.’”
“What’s so easy about pie and cake?”
“They are easy to bake.”
“Are they?”
Actually, she had always found pies to be extraordinarily difficult to get just right. She shrugged.
“I just want you to see how confusing these…how you say? idiots would be, if you weren’t so familiar with them.”
“I think you mean idioms.”
“Yes, how confusing these idioms would be if you were new in the country. I want you to know that I am trying very hard. People think I don’t like Americanisms, so I am trying really very hard.”
“Of course. I think you are doing great, Leopold.”
“And I ask that you try really very hard at what I ask you to do. Even though it is not always easy and even though you might sound or look foolish while you are learning.”
“I understand. Okay.”
“And Miss Charlotte, you really are doing great, too.”
She nodded and wiggled in her wet pants.
“Now,” he said, turning into Fiona’s driveway, “We need to go back to morning workouts tomorrow. Something is coming up for me in the afternoon. You have the first appointment.”
“As in…just a few hours?”
“Yes. Is that going to be a piece of cake for you?”
Charlotte nodded. “That will be a piece of cake, Leopold.”
Chapter Nine
Leopold was leaning against the reception desk when she arrived the following morning. He kept throwing his arms wide and punching Slicky on the arm. Slicky waggled his eyebrows at Charlotte and grinned, making it fairly clear that Leopold was telling the tale of his now famous Heineken Remover.
Leopold handed Charlotte a paper cup as she approached the desk. White with the familiar green fish-girl logo. Hallelujah and Praise the Lord. Knowing Leopold, there wasn’t likely to be any cream or sugar inside, but she would manage her way through it just the same.
She knocked back a sip. “Oh!” She scowled. “Leopold, what is this?”
“Coffee. Does it not taste like coffee?”
“It’s sort of like coffee. The aftertaste is coffee-ish, but it’s also salty and well, slimy. Like it has clots.”
“What is ‘clots’”?
“Never mind, just…what is this?”
“I add egg yolk to my coffee. So it is healthy for you.”
“Why? Why do you do this?” Of all things to ruin…
“Eggs, they give us everything we need to build a baby bird. All the vitamins and proteins.”
“I get that, but why in your coffee? Why in my coffee?”
“Do you not find it creamy?”
“No. I do not find it creamy.”
“Do you not find it…how you say…like pudding? Like custard?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“I thought, because you like the creamy fatty foods…”
“Ah. I see.”
>
Leopold lowered his eyes. “You said you liked coffee. I thought you might like Leopold’s Coffee. I thought you might like the coffee I make for you.”
“I’m sorry, Leopold, it really was thoughtful.”
He looked at the floor, shrugging slightly. He took another sip from his cup.
“Have you ever gotten, you know, worms, from this kind of special coffee?” Charlotte asked, in what she hoped was a bright and cheery tone.
“Worms?”
“Yeah, you know. Intestinal parasites. From raw eggs. Or Salmonella maybe.”
“No, it’s hot, right? It’s perfect. I do not put worms in it.”
“Okay. Perfect.” Yum. She raised her paper cup and held her breath while she pretended to take another sip.
Leopold plunked his hand on her shoulder. “I had an amazing time last night. I have been smiling all the morning long.”
Charlotte covered his hand with hers and looked for a place to set the paper cup. Was it worth it? The caffeine. Just a quick guzzle? She could just toss it back. No, she decided. It really wasn’t. She bugged her eyes out at Slicky, who smiled and flicked his eyes toward the reception desk. He would take care of it. She set it where his quick glance had indicated and stepped back toward Leopold, who was beaming at her. This was new.
“Okay,” she announced, “we should get started.” So we can get finished, she wanted to say.
Charlotte was having one of her “quiet mornings”; one of those days when she didn’t much feel like saying anything. A shot of caffeine would have helped. But, after last night, she knew that if she didn’t want to talk, all she had to do was ask Leopold a question or two and he’d be off and dominating the conversation anyway.
Today, she knew, they would be working legs and back. Hundreds of squats and lunges. Then her lame attempt at pull-ups. Then running around the track. This day, as she remained relatively silent, Leopold regaled her with stories of the races he had competed in as a young man. The rigorous training he had undertaken as a child, leaving his family at a young age to train on the national team.
Toward the end of the session, their conversation began to lull and she very nearly asked, “When did you decide to have sex with women for money?” And then she thought better of it. In truth, she didn’t really want to know. That was his deal, she had decided, and his deal would never come very near her deal.
“So,” Leopold began, brightly. “Let us talk about this race you are going to be doing.”
She pressed her lips together.
“I know what you are thinking, but trust in me, your Confidence Coach.” He placed a fist on each hip and turned slightly to the side. “There is nothing like a race to motivate you. To push yourself harder, harder.”
“But I really don’t see the point. I like to work out. I am starting to feel my new strength. Already. And I like it. Really. I don’t have anything to prove to anyone.”
“It’s not about proving anything to anyone. It is about having a goal to work toward. It is about having a reason to work hard.”
“I have all kinds of reasons. Already.”
“Yes, yes, but this is the next leg for you. The next segment of your training. You must do it. You must. You have no choice.”
“All I’m saying is that I know myself, and this is going to end badly,” Charlotte said. “Very badly.”
“You are capable of more than you know, Miss Charlotte.” He winked and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I have made for you a special t-shirt to wear. A jersey. For you to wear while you run in your race.”
“Oh, that is sweet. Does it have one of those funny fake sponsors? Like, you know, ‘MuscleBar’ or something? Because I think mine should say ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ or “Body by Kit Kat.’”
“I never know what you are talking about, Miss Charlotte. Especially when you are trying to be funny.”
“Sorry,” she lowered her head. “Can I just see the t-shirt?”
“It’s here.”
It was white as toothpaste. Across the front, in red block letters were the words, “Leopold’s Confidence Brigade.”
“And I wear this when I race?” she asked.
“Yes. And you can wear it all the time if you like. I am trying to brand myself. My marketing coach says I need to do this. It is nice, no?”
“It’s nice, Leopold. It’s nice.”
“It’s the cat’s meow, yes?”
“Yes, Leopold. It’s the cat’s meow.”
***
Twice a week, Charlotte ducked out of work early so she could make her three-thirty painting class, but today the blond boy with the tan skin and chocolate puddles for eyes didn’t want her to leave.
“But you teach art,” he said. “You don’t learn art.” He placed his hand on the glittery macaroni necklace they had fashioned together earlier that day.
“I teach art, and I learn art. There are many things that I do well, but that I would like to learn how to do better. And art is something you can always learn more about. And so that is what I am going to do today.”
She liked the soft tone this boy had when he spoke.
“Could I come with you?”
“Sorry, this class is only for grownups.”
“I wouldn’t make any noise.”
“Oh, I know, Matthew. It’s just that your day is almost done and you’ll get to go home to your mommy and your daddy.”
He kicked at the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I would really like to stay with you.”
“I’ll be with you here tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. And we’ll read the story again. That one with the pirate and the worm.”
His eyes got bigger and rounder and more watery.
“Okay,” he whispered, nodding slowly.
She patted his hand, and then removed her artsy apron and signed herself out for the day, which meant she jotted the nearest hour on a clipboard buried under snack wrappers on Tabitha’s desk. Then she pushed out into the bright sunshine, yanked open the door to the minivan and slid into its soft and smelly embrace. She turned the key in the ignition and popped the gearshift into reverse.
Her brakes had begun to squeak and there was a moaning noise coming from the rear of the van whenever she backed up. She would need to get that looked at, and this thought actually made her brighten. She would be earning a paycheck now, and it would be nice not having to explain to Caleb when she needed money and what she needed it for.
Even though she worked full time for him, she had never drawn a salary for herself. Helping Caleb with his editing and his travel arrangements and his scheduling and his paperwork were just part of what she did to help the family. After all, if she didn’t do it, he would need to pay someone else to do it, and she already knew him so well. She was always there when he needed her because, well, she was always at home, doing something that either Caleb or the girls needed her to do. The arrangement had just made sense.
But now, here, she would have money of her own, which would accumulate, albeit slowly, in her bank account, and since Fiona absolutely refused to let her pay for any food or living expenses, she would be able to keep it all. It was hers. Her money.
And now she was going to painting class, where she was going to see Breadman. She felt a flutter in her chest.
Her cell phone rang then, and she fumbled in her handbag, keeping her eyes mostly on the road. How did some people manage to do this so seamlessly? Talk on the phone. Dial. Think. Answer. Speak. All while driving along. She grasped the phone, finally, and glanced at the display. Caleb. She felt a lift, a tiny leaping, and then she remembered. Funny how sometimes, she could forget, as though it had never happened. She let the call go to voicemail. But then he called again. And then again. Oh, alright.
“Charlotte?” his voice was small and kind and sad. Before they had split, he had never used her actual name, and it sounded strange now. They had dozens of pet names for one another. She remembered where it all started, o
n their honeymoon road trip. They were outstandingly broke, so they had spent some time camping in odd spots across the countryside until their money ran out entirely. Along the way, Caleb had called her “Buttercup,” after a field of flowers they had passed, and Charlotte had remarked that some of the lovey-dovey names people had for one another were so random, that nearly any word would qualify if you said it with enough affection.
They began looking around the car, then, mostly at their selection of snacks. “I love you so my little Corn Nut.’” she had said, and he had said, “Right back at you, Jellybean.” This went on until they got to such names as “Bits-of-Dorito-at-the-Bottom-of-the-Bag-That-Are-Too-Small-to-Eat.” They had called one another random objects for the duration of the trip, eventually settling on a few, which stuck. Up until the very day she walked in on him with that woman, she still called him “Java to Go” and “Cheesy Cracker” from time to time.
But now he was calling her Charlotte, and she would call him Caleb.
“Hi Caleb,” she said, all at once imagining him curled in front of a fire with that busty waitress, laughing about the scene she had made at Arturo’s the night before.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said.
She was silent, but she felt a pull and a lift in the center of her.
“Please,” Caleb continued. “ I have some things I need to talk with you about. Important things. Very. Very important things. Please.”
“I can’t. I have painting class.”
“Till when?”
She thought about lying but then realized he was probably at the college right now. “It goes until five-thirty tonight, I think.”
“Perfect. I’ll make reservations for six. Okay?”
“I really can’t, Caleb. I haven’t seen the girls. In days.”
“This concerns the girls. C’mon. They would want you to have dinner with their dad.”
They probably would. No, they most certainly would. And he was not the type to make reservations. This probably classified as wooing. And it would give her the opportunity to confront him about that waitress at Arturo’s.
“Okay,” she said, finally.
Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) Page 12