by Meg Cabot
Still, he seems to really like you. At least he really wants to help you get your job back, which is the same thing, practically. Got a message from him.
Invite me to the wedding?
Miss ya.
Tim
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Mitch
What is going on with Mitch and IT? Tim just said Mitch had been in touch with him. Come on. Spill. You know you can’t keep a secret.
Kate
P.S. On my way to get a paper, I nearly got hit by a cab, and I didn’t even care. Seriously. It was like, Oh, look, this cab is about to hit me. But I wasn’t scared or anything. Because what would it matter if I died? Without my job, I have nothing to contribute to society anyway. I MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD.
I was saved from the brink of death at the last minute by a Chinese food delivery man who pulled me back onto the curb. But still.
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: Mitch
That taxicab story is horrifying, but it is not going to induce me to tell you what Mitch wanted.
He made me promise not to tell.
But I swear to you, Kate, this guy’s only got what’s best for you in mind. He’s the real deal.
You might want to rethink the suicide-by-cab thing. Just FYI.
J
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: He’s the real deal
Sure, that’s what they all say. Excuse me if I take this opportunity to barf some more. Oh, hold on, the doorman is buzzing. Flowers being delivered from Skiboy for Dolly, no doubt.
Hey, do you have to tip flower delivery guys?
Kate
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: Flower Delivery
Yes, you have to tip them. Two or three bucks, at least. Hasn’t anyone ever sent you flowers before?
And how do you know they’re from Skiboy? Maybe they’re from the great Peter Hargrave himself. Call me and describe them, as Craig hasn’t sent me flowers since we got married, and I’ve forgotten what they look like.
East Side Floral Company
“Say it with Flowers”
1125 York Avenue • New York New York, 10028.
To: Kate Mackenzie care of Dolly Vargas. 610 East End Avenue, Penthouse A.
Forgive me?
Mitch
J
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Flower Delivery
Roses. Two dozen of them. Pink ones.
From Mitch.
Like I’m just supposed to forget he got me fired.
Still. It’s sweet of him. Considering I barfed on his shoes and all.
Kate
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: Flower Delivery
So are you going to have dinner with him, or not?
J
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Dinner
Like a few flowers are going to make everything okay? I am so not having dinner with him.
Please.
No way.
Kate
To: Mitchell Hertzog
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Hi
Hi, Mitch. I tried calling your office just now, but your assistant says you’re out. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
Thanks also for helping me last night . . . that is, Jen told me you helped. I don’t actually remember it very well, except the part where I heaved on your shoes. Sorry about that. Every time you come near me you seem to get sprayed with something, don’t you? Like I’m Mount St. Helens or something.
Anyway, if the offer for dinner still stands, I’ll take you up on it.
Kate
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Mitchell Hertzog
Re: Hi
Of course the offer for dinner still stands. Seven okay? Glad you liked the flowers. Don’t worry about the shoes. I didn’t like them much anyway.
Mitch
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Me
I’m going.
WHAT SHOULD I WEAR?????
Kate
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: You
I so knew it.
Wear a skirt.
And remember, though he may be a cute wheelchair-basketball-playing lawyer with barf on his shoes, you still don’t know where he’s been. Don’t forget to use a condom, Miss “I’ve Only Been with One Other Man My Whole Life.”
J
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Kate Mackenzie
Re: Me
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!
Kate
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
What am I doing? I mean, why am I obsessing over what to wear tonight to Mitch’s? I shouldn’t even be GOING to Mitch’s. I have no job, no place to live, I’m on the rebound, relationship-wise. This guy has been nothing but trouble, and besides which, the two of us have nothing in common, except a mutual appreciation for Mrs. Lopez’s brownies and the Travel Channel. I mean, he’s a LAWYER.
Should I wear control-top panties, or not? You know they leave those lines . . . but if I don’t wear them, my belly pooches out.
Oh my God, I can’t even believe I’m obsessing over this.
Do I have time to whip up one of Mrs. Lopez’s recipes? No . . . I can’t make a bundt cake AND blow out my hair. . . . DAMN!!!!!!!!!
D’Agostino Supermarkets #6
1507 York Avenue
New York, NY 10021
Reg 2 Time: 18:02
Cashier 411
Name: Dolores
1 lb. tiger prawn $17.99 2 artichokes $02.99 4 lemons $02.00 1 Irish butter $05.99 1 Fettucine $03.99 1 French bread $01.99 1 El Rey Cho Bar $02.52 1 pd coffee $06.99 1 garlic $00.59 4 pears $02.00 Subtotal $47.05 Tax $03.88 Total $50.93
Charge
Mitchell Hertzog
xxxx-xxx-xxxx-xxxx
Thank you for shopping at D’Agostino
Welcome to CVS
Reg 1 Time: 18:22
1 pk Lady Bic Disp Razors $2.99 1 L’eggs Con. Top $1.49 1 pk Trojan Ribbed $7.99 1 Almay Pressed Powder $7.99 Subtotal $19.49 Tax $1.61 Total $20.09
Charge
Kathleen Mackenzie
xxxx-xxx-xxxx-xxxx
Thank you for shopping
at CVS
To: Stacy Trent
Fr: Margaret Hertzog
Re: Your brother
Stacy, I tried to phone, but no one picked up. Either you are all out, or your au pair is on the phone with her Swedish boyfriend again, and not picking up. I really suggest you get her a separate line. And I do hope you are deducting the cost of these calls she’s constantly making to this boy from her weekly paycheck.
Anyway, I just received an extremely distressing phone call from your brother Stuart. He says you are being most uncooperative regarding the wedding plans. I understand that the week of June 21 is the only time in the foreseeable future the two of them can both be away from their jobs, and that—although Jason promised them use of your yard for an outdoor ceremony on Midsummer’s Day—there seems to be some problem with—and I am finding this hard to
believe, but Stuart swears he heard it directly from you—your coven?
Honestly, Stacy. Do you really expect me to believe that you have joined a coven? That you are some kind of practicing witch? You live in Greenwich, for God’s sake. There are no covens in Greenwich.
Furthermore, I thought the Trents were episcopalian, not Wiccan.
If you are just SAYING you are holding a coven meeting or whatever it is on the summer solstice in order to make Stuart angry . . . well, you’ve succeeded.
What is wrong with you, Stacy? Why can’t you play nicely with your brother? Stuart is, out of all of you, the only one who was born with any common sense. Why must you and Mitch antagonize him so? He’s always been extremely sensitive, as I’m sure you’re aware, particularly about the size of his head. Yet, that never stopped the two of you from calling him Tweety growing up, did it? Oh, you two were just hilarious.
Claiming you belong to a coven is hardly an amusing joke, Stacy. It’s cruel, and it’s insensitive, especially coming from a mother of three. What if the children should hear of it, Stacy? Besides, I want this Amy Jenkins to LIKE us. For God’s sake, she’s hardly had what I’d call a warm welcome into the family, with your father still not returning anyone’s calls from Scottsdale, and Mitch causing this uproar in her office, and you saying you’re a practicing witch, and Janice . . . well, just being Janice. Really, the poor girl is going to think you’re all out to get her, and who could blame her? Finally we have a chance to get some NORMAL blood into the Hertzog family tree, and you’re trying to ruin it for everyone.
Well, I won’t have it. You’re to let your brother have his wedding at your house, like your own husband promised him he could. Do you understand, Stacy?
And while you’re at it, it would be polite if you’d host Amy’s bridal shower. I’m not saying you have to have it at your place. We can have it here. But I think it would be a nice gesture if you and Janice hosted it.
Hopefully all the green will have grown out of her hair by then.
Well, that’s all, call me.
Mother
To: Kate Mackenzie
Fr: Vivica
Re: Dale
Hi. I know you probably haven’t had a chance to look over the quiz I sent you. Dale says you’re a human resources rep, and I know that is a very important and busy job. Not like being a model. I mean, when you are a model, you just, you know, try on clothes and smile and stuff. Although it is quite hard to smile when you feel as if your heart is breaking—which I felt like mine was. Until the other night, when I met Dale. I know he is your ex-boyfriend and all and you probably don’t feel about him the way you did when you were first going out, but you guys are still friends, right? Dale says you are. So I was just hoping you could get back to me, because it’s been a really, really long time since I met a guy as nice as Dale. Most guys, they don’t even remember my name, they just want to hook up so they can go back to the office on Monday and tell everyone they scored with a supermodel.
Dale, he says he’s gonna write a song about me. Just as soon as he can think of a word that rhymes with Vivica.
But no pressure about the quiz. Whenever you get to it. I know you’re probably really busy with helping people and everything. Dale says you used to be a social worker. I think that is so admirable. I mean, people are our best resource. I once rescued a dog from the streets of Mexico City. But that isn’t the same as rescuing a person. And the dog turned out to have heartworms and had to be put to sleep. You can’t put people to sleep, which is too bad, because some of them deserve it, like my ex. But that’s another story.
Well, anyway. Just get that quiz back to me when you get a chance. Thanks.
Bye.
V
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
Okay, breathe, Kate. You’ve got to breathe.
It’s just, I never had a guy go to so much trouble for me. I mean, make a whole dinner for me, and all. Dale made me tea once when I was sick in bed, but that’s about it. Plus he left the tea bag in it when he went to warm it up in the microwave and the staple ignited and the kitchen caught on fire and the fire department had to come put it out, and we had to get all new cabinets, so I’m not even sure that counts.
But Mitch. Mitch made me scampi. Shrimp scampi.
And it was good. The scampi, I mean. Really, really good. He says he went to cooking camp as a kid (Cooking camp! Apparently no one in his family was very thrilled with the idea . . . they wanted him to go to soccer camp with his brother Stuart. But Mitch says he was more interested in scoring pies than goals).
Anyway, he’s in the kitchen now, making dessert. He won’t tell me what it is. I sincerely hope it involves chocolate.
But that’s not why I’m freaking out. The dessert thing, I mean. And the-having-a-guy-cook-for-me thing.
No, it’s the fact that he just told me that he USED TO BE A PUBLIC DEFENDER.
It’s true. He only came to work for his father’s company because his dad had a heart attack, and then bypass surgery, and he begged Mitch to keep an eye on things at the firm while he was recovering.
Apparently, a large part of the recovery process for Mr. Hertzog is playing golf with his buddies in Arizona.
But whatever. The point is, Mitch isn’t really a soulless corporate drone. He has never embraced big business and is in fact looking forward to getting back to work down at the criminal courts.
Where he apparently defends those who can’t afford to pay for their own lawyer.
And the thing is, Mitch could get a job anywhere. He doesn’t HAVE to be a public defender. He does it—well, probably for the same reason I became a social worker . . .
To make a difference.
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP FROM LIKING HIM???? More than liking him, even.
He got mefired. He got me fired because he doesn’t like his brother’s girlfriend.
And Istill totally want to jump his bones. I KNOW! There is something severely wrong with me.
Seriously. Because—oh my God—he’s so perfect. I mean, he COOKS, and he VOLUNTEERS, and he WANTS TO HELP PEOPLE. . . . God, even hisapartment is perfect. I mean, it’s clearly a GUY’s apartment, and it’s a little messy—baseball caps stuffed in amongst the paperback mystery novels on the bookshelves; University of Michigan basketball season schedules lying around on the coffee table; a copy of Playboy peeking out from beneath the couch where he obviously recently shoved it.
But it’s a beautiful apartment, one he inherited from his dead grandfather, two bedrooms (he uses one as an office and a guest room for when his nieces and nephew come to stay, he says) and two bathrooms—1800 square feet with a balcony overlooking the East River. He owns, which is good, because the rent on a place like this would be five grand a month at least. Maybe even more, because there’s a health club in the building. The maintenance alone has to be at least fifteen hundred a month.
And he’s gotthree TVs, one of them at least a 42-incher (for watching the games, he says).
And okay, all the furniture is brown: brown couch, brown armchair, brown place mats on the dining-room table, even brown sheets (I peeked on the way to the bathroom) on his bed.
But I could fix that. I mean, I watchTrading Spaces, I know how a few well-placed slipcovers can brighten up a space. . . .
OH MY GOD, WHAT AM I THINKING?
Professor Wingblade would be appalled. I mean, he always told us we have to develop a relationship based on trust and mutual harmony before we can—
OH MY GOD, HE’S GOT TIVO!!!!!! I just found the remote, wedged in between the sofa cushions. TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who had TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who owned his own TV. I mean, I bought the one Dale and I—
Wait. I need to get a grip. Yes, Mitch seems like he might—in spite of the whole getting me fired thing—be a great guy. And yes, he has a great apartment.
But, even though he used to be a public defender, right now he’s making five hundred
dollars an hour defending corporate giants from the likes of little Mrs. Lopez, who has never hurt anyone (who didn’t deserve it, anyway).
And he’s so cavalier about the whole thing, he got me fired. FIRED!!!!
Besides which, I have a lot of problems right now. I can’t be jumping into a romantic relationship with someone I’ve only just met. I need to find a job, and an apartment, and a sense of purpose to my life. Professor Wingblade said that you can never truly love anyone until you learn to love yourself, and the truth is, I am finding it very hard to love myself since I got fired. Not that I define myself through my work. It’s just that . . . without my work, who AM I? What is my purpose here on earth? I want to make a difference and help people, but no one will seem to LET ME. So if I can’t do what I was put on this earth to do, WHY AM I EVEN HERE????