“How are you doing?” he said.
“I’m okay, came home from work a little early today because I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Still burning the candle at both ends, huh? You never could slow yourself down.”
“I guess so,” I said. “So what’s going on with you?”
“Well, I have some good news,” he said.
Good news? From my dad?
“Really?” I said. “What is it?”
“I’ve got myself a new job.”
“Really? That’s great, Dad. Where?”
“Here,” he said.
“Here?”
“No, here, not there,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Here, as in at home. I’ll be working from home.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ll be selling vitamins,” he said.
“Vitamins?”
“It’s a great opportunity. If I work hard enough, I should be able to make a couple thousand a week.”
“Vitamins? At home?”
“Yep, I went to a seminar and learned all I need to know. Now I just need to buy the vitamins, and I’ll be able to get started.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “You have to buy the vitamins first?”
“Yes, they want to make sure you’re committed to the process, so they have you buy them upfront. Then it’s all profit after that.”
“C’mon, Dad,” I said.
“C’mon, Dad, what?”
“Dad, that’s a scam. They’re dumping that product on you, so all the risk is on you, not them. Don’t you see that?”
“Waverly, can’t you for once support me on something? This is a good investment opportunity for your old man.”
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. “No.”
“No?” he said.
“Dad, I can’t watch you dig your own grave again. I just can’t. If you want to get a job, I’m all for it. But selling vitamins out of your house doesn’t sound like the best choice.”
“You’ll see,” he said. “I’m really going to make something of this.”
Here we go again, I thought. “Dad, I’m not having this conversation with you again. I love you, but I’m hanging up now.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Dad.” I slowly shut my phone, put it down on the bed, and followed with my head on the pillow.
The next thing I knew my phone was ringing again. This time I looked at the caller ID display, but I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Waverly Bryson?”
“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the voice either.
“Hi, Waverly. My name is Becca Bentley, and I work for Smithers Publishing here in San Francisco.”
Smithers Publishing? My heart stopped. I didn’t remember sending them anything, but my heart stopped anyway.
“Hi,” I said.
“We received the samples of your Honey Notes that you sent to Kara Barnett in our art department.”
“Oh,” I said. Kara Barnett? As in Andie’s cousin? Go Andie!
“And I’m calling to see if you can come in next week to talk about them.”
I tried not to fall off the bed. “Next week? Sure, I can do that.”
“Great. Hold the line so my assistant can schedule an appointment. I look forward to meeting you, Waverly.”
“Um, you too. Thanks for calling … um … thanks for calling.” Oops, I had already forgotten her name.
Three minutes later I had a meeting on the calendar of Smithers Publishing.
I hung up the phone and sat there on my bed.
Holy crap.
That Sunday, McKenna and I went for one of our walks. We had a lot to talk about, so we decided to enjoy the sun and just do it. We met on our usual corner around two o’clock and headed down toward the water. Since we weren’t pressed for time, we planned to walk all the way over the Golden Gate Bridge and back. However, we also brought a small backpack with a change of clothes in case we decided to bail out early and have a drink in the sun.
And that’s exactly what we did.
Twenty minutes later, we were lounging in expensive teak lawn chairs on the deck of the ritzy St. Francis Yacht Club, right on the water of the Marina Green and facing the Golden Gate Bridge. And all for club members only. I loved that McKenna worked in investment banking.
I took a sip of my iced tea and pushed my sunglasses on top of my head. “Okay, let’s get down to business and do a checklist. We’ve got the date, we’ve got your dress, we’ve got the place, we’ve got the band, we’ve got the caterer, we’ve got the maid of honor—who, by the way, is doing a kick-ass job, I must say—and we’ve got the guest list. Am I missing anything?”
She grabbed a nacho and chomped. “We still need to figure out the invitations, flowers, wedding cake, and dresses for you and Andie. Oops, I forgot about the rehearsal dinner. We need to find a place for that.”
“No worries. We’ve planned tons of restaurant parties at K.A. Marketing and have contacts all over the city, so it won’t be hard at all to find the perfect spot. Leave it to me. Just promise me that you won’t move to the suburbs after the honeymoon, okay? Hey, what about the honeymoon anyway? Where are you going?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Hunter is in charge of that, and he won’t tell me anything. He said I won’t know where we’re going until we’re at the airport.”
“Oooh, how romantic. I didn’t know he had it in him. Actually, what am I saying? Anyone who spells out MARRY ME MCKENNA on a Scrabble board wins huge points in the romance category. But you hinted enough to make sure he takes you to a beach, right?”
She sipped her Diet Coke. “I did more than hint. I told him I’m only packing tropical clothes.”
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. “Why anyone would want to do anything but lie on a beach and drink piña coladas after the stress of planning a wedding is beyond me. Sightseeing? Museums? Honey, are you kidding me?”
“Hey, speaking of honey, are you all ready for your big meeting at Smithers?” she said.
I opened my eyes and sat back up. “It’s all I can think about. Well, besides planning your wedding, of course. It’s probably nothing, but still, nothing is something, right?”
“Nothing is definitely something. I’m proud of you, Bryson.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
“My fingers are crossed for you,” she said. “And I expect a very expensive wedding present if you strike it rich.”
“I’ll try to remember that. Maybe I’ll even make a Honey Note for you.”
“Really? What would it be?”
“Let me think.” I took a sip of my drink and closed my eyes.
“I’m waiting …”
“Shhh. I’m concentrating.”
“Still waiting …”
“Shhh … don’t disturb the artist.”
“I’m falling asleep here …”
“Shhh,” I said. “I’m not good under pressure.”
“I’ve got one for you,” she said.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “You do?”
“Yep.”
“Well?”
“The front of the card says: Happy that your best friend’s getting married but afraid of losing her?”
I swallowed. God, she knew me well.
“And when you open it, it says: Honey, don’t worry. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Really?” I said, a lump forming in my throat.
“Really.” She leaned over and gave me a hug. “I need my Waverly.”
Walking by myself back up Fillmore a couple hours later, I nearly strolled right in front of a car as I crossed against the light at Union Street. Oops. The honking horn snapped me out of my daydream, and I hurried across the street to safety and away from the angry glare of the driver. When I got to the sidewalk, I looked back down the hill toward the yacht club and smiled. McKenna was getting married. I was meeting with a re
al publishing company. It was nearly sixty-five degrees outside. Life was definitely looking up.
Speaking of looking up, I turned around and did just that, contemplating the steep trek ahead of me to Pacific Heights.
And then I saw him. Or them.
Aaron and his pregnant wife were walking down Fillmore Street, right toward me.
I froze. It was like I was in the Marina Safeway all over again. Back in my sweatpants, and totally unprepared for the encounter.
I had a choice to make.
I could say hi to them … face the future.
Or I could run … from the past.
I wanted to put on a brave face, I really did. But my legs had other ideas, and I ducked into the Coffee Roastery until they were gone.
The evening before the Smithers Publishing meeting, I went for a short run in the Presidio. My mind was bursting with questions. What would the meeting be like? What would they say? What should I wear? I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t hear anything else. That quickly ended, however, when someone shouted my name from behind.
“Waverly! Waverly!”
I turned around and wished I’d been wearing my headphones when I saw Brad Cantor jogging up the hill. He was wearing a white terry-cloth headband and a green tank top that said KISS ME, I’M IRISH.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to turn around,” he said as he caught up with me. “I’ve been calling your name for a while.”
“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said. I tried not to sound annoyed, but seriously, could he be more ubiquitous?
“Good stuff, I hope?” he said.
“I hope it will be,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m great. Hey, I’m glad to see your leg’s all healed.”
How did he know about my leg? I was pretty sure that the past few months had been Brad Cantor–free.
“My leg?”
“Didn’t you have a cast or something? I saw you on Chestnut Street a few months ago with a cast up to your knee. I yelled your name, but you didn’t hear me.”
Ahhh, yes. I had heard him calling my name that day but had acted like I hadn’t.
“Oh, yeah, I broke my ankle on New Year’s Eve. But I’m okay now. Thanks.”
“Party accident?”
I shook my head. “Nothing that exciting. Jogging accident, actually.”
He continued to run next to me, and I wondered if he was going to follow me all the way home. “Hey, speaking of parties, I’m having one in a couple weeks. It’s an all-black theme. I’m getting black lights to decorate the place, and I bought black food dye for my special punch. Watch for the Evite,” he said.
“Okay, Brad, thanks. Hey, I’m going to finish my jog this way, so I’ll catch you later.” I dashed away on another path before he had a chance to reply. I just couldn’t be bothered with Brad Cantor at that moment.
Black punch? That was one party I would definitely not be attending. Maybe I could clean out my refrigerator that night. Or shoot myself in the head.
The next morning, I woke up early and stood in front of my closet, wondering what to wear to my meeting. A suit was a must, but I normally wore jeans to work, so I didn’t know how to pull it off without looking like I was sneaking out for a job interview or something equally suspicious that Mandy would certainly suspect. I hadn’t mentioned the Honey Notes to anyone at work for the same reason it had taken me so long to let McKenna and Andie read them: fear of being ridiculed (plus the fact that every other publisher in the United States apparently thought they were stupid). But the last thing I wanted to do was start rumors that I was interviewing around, so I was planning to tell Kent and Jess about the cards that morning to avoid any possible misunderstandings.
I finally chose a button-down striped orange, black, and red fitted polyester blouse with a flared collar. Then I grabbed my favorite suit: a fitted black crepe jacket with matching pants that had a slightly flared leg. I thought, or at least I hoped, that the outfit would look hip and trendy, but not too funky. I decided to wear my wire-rimmed glasses with my hair pulled back into my standard low ponytail but with a deeper side part. My goal was to look smart yet not nerdy, stylish yet professional, attractive yet serious.
I looked in the mirror before heading off to work. Could I pull this off?
At twelve thirty, with Jess’s approval and Kent’s congratulations, I left my office and headed in the direction of Smithers Publishing, just six blocks away. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was! I was literally shaking in my boots. Actually, I was shaking in my sling-back heels.
My appointment was at 1 p.m., but I highly doubted they would offer me anything to eat, so I decided to stop into Uncle Ken’s Bagels for a snack. As the cashier was giving me my change, I heard the ring of my cell phone. I dug it out of my purse and looked at the caller ID: Davey. I didn’t have time for a catch-up conversation right then, so I sent him to voicemail. “Bye-bye, Davey,” I said and tossed the phone back into my purse.
I walked out of the store and headed in the direction of Smithers Publishing. I made it about ten feet before something hit me in the back of my head.
“What the …?” I put my hand up to my head in a panic. Was I bleeding? Had I been shot? I felt no pain at all. Had I been crapped on by a pigeon?
Then I looked down and saw what had hit me lying on the sidewalk: a sesame bagel.
“What the …?” I said again.
“You are SO busted, Waverly Bryson!”
I turned around and saw Davey standing in the entrance to Uncle Ken’s Bagels, holding his cell phone up in the air and cracking up.
“Oops, sorry, Davey.” I walked back toward him. “I’m in a hurry and thought I’d just let you leave a message.”
He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “Wow, you look rather stylish this afternoon. Why are you so dressed up?”
“Just a meeting.”
He narrowed his eyes. “A press meeting?”
“Not really.”
“Client meeting?”
I shook my head.
“New business pitch?”
“Not exactly.”
He took a step back. “Wait a minute, you’re not going on an interview are you? Are you ditching me?”
I laughed. “Ditch you? Never in a million years.”
“You promise?” he said.
“I promise. Now I’ve really gotta go, or I’m gonna be late.” I turned and blew him a kiss. Then I was off.
The offices of Smithers Publishing were strikingly creative. The floors were a dark hardwood with a slight reddish hue. The high ceiling boasted an enormous skylight, and each wall was painted a different shade of green or yellow. Framed photos of book and magazine covers were staggered everywhere. Biographies, autobiographies, fiction, nonfiction, science fiction, cookbooks, home-decorating magazines. Was there anything they didn’t publish? I wondered how greeting cards fit into their product mix. I hadn’t been able to find anything about them on the company’s Web site.
I walked up to the front desk. “Hi there, I’m Waverly Bryson. I have a one o’clock?”
The 50-something receptionist with short white hair smiled at me. “Hello, Miss Bryson. Please have a seat. They’ll be out to get you shortly.”
I looked at my watch. It was 12:56 p.m. I wondered if the meeting would start on time. I stood up and asked the receptionist where the restrooms were, and she pointed down the hall to the left. I looked at all the photos lining the walls as I walked, and when I reached the ladies’ room, it was totally empty. The soft background music reminded me of my dentist’s office.
After a quick pee, I flushed the toilet and turned the knob on the stall door. I heard a weird click, and the door didn’t budge.
Uh oh.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Oh Jesus, it was broken.
Holy crap.
The biggest meeting of my life started in two minutes, and I was stuck in a bathroom stall in an e
mpty ladies’ room. Was this a joke?
I didn’t know what to do. I jiggled and jostled and rattled and jiggled the latch some more, but it just wouldn’t move. Then I started yanking, which yielded similar results.
After two minutes of swearing at the latch, I looked at my watch again. I had to get out of there. I tried to yank the door open one last time, but it just wasn’t going anywhere.
Should I scream?
At 1:01, I decided to make a move. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I got down on my back and slithered under the door. Yes, slithered under the door. Yes, on my back. Yes, in my suit. Yes, like a snake.
Ick.
Once I made it to the other side, I stood up, washed my hands, smoothed out my suit, reapplied my lipstick, and fixed my hair. Then I took a step back and looked at myself in the mirror. Had that really just happened?
I turned and headed back out to the lobby. Thank God no one had walked in on me.
When I made it back to the reception area, I sat down, picked up a magazine, and pretended to read. Then I shook my head and chuckled. Sliding under a bathroom stall door on my back? Who does that? Sometimes I wondered if I was being secretly videotaped for some humiliation-related reality show. They could call it Waverly’s Moments.
A couple minutes later, a Clay Aiken look-alike came out and extended his hand. “Hi there, I’m Wyatt Clyndelle, a senior editor here at Smithers. Thanks for coming in.” He looked about my age, or maybe a couple of years older.
“It’s nice to meet you, Wyatt. Thanks for having me.” I stood up and shook his hand, trying not to squeeze it too hard and thus appear too eager, or too soft, and thus appear too wimpy. There are few things in life that bug me more than a limp handshake.
“It’s our pleasure, Waverly. Please, this way.” He motioned for me to follow him down the hall to a glass-walled conference room. Inside were three other people sitting at a long, oval cherry table. The carpet was a plush cream color. They probably had to shampoo it every night to keep it clean, but it certainly presented an image of success.
Wyatt opened the large glass door, and the man and two women who were sitting at the table all looked up.
Perfect on Paper: The (Mis)Adventures of Waverly Bryson Page 21