You Had Me at Good-bye

by Tracey Bateman

  Is that a hint of pride I hear in my dad’s voice? Maybe I can work with that. “Dad, do you honestly want to put this between you and Brandon? Think about it. For all intents and purposes, his mother is abandoning him. And now you’re going to deny him this amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? There must be a way.”

  “I don’t see it, princess. If I did, I’d let him stay. Precollege students don’t live on campus. They have to stay with a parent or guardian and live in the city. Those are the rules. Believe me, I’ve already looked into it. I don’t want to disappoint him either.”

  It amazes me that he doesn’t want to disappoint, yet he always seems to do just that. He didn’t want to disappoint Mother, yet he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stop cheating on her. He didn’t want to disappoint Kale, and yet a plastic-surgeon convention in Hawaii took precedence over Kale’s graduation from medical school. Oh, and he didn’t want to disappoint me either. But never once in all of my growing-up years did he come to a game I cheered at, a pageant I competed in, or any important moment in my life. Mother says he wasn’t even there at my birth. Too busy playing in a very important golf tournament, so she says. I’m guessing “golf” is code for “another woman.”

  Nick’s words come back to my mind. “Any man would be proud to have a daughter like you.”

  A short laugh escapes me, and Dad’s brow creases. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad.” I grab my purse from a wingback chair. “I have to go home. Tomorrow I have to redo my résumé and start sending it out.”

  “You looking for a new job?”

  “Yeah.” For some reason I can’t keep a smile from my lips. “I got fired. Imagine that.”

  “What happened? What did you do?”

  “Not a thing. Blame it on downsizing.” I sling my purse over my shoulder. “Spend some time with Brandon, Dad. He needs you right now. Disappointment is hard to take when you’re a kid.”

  When I step out of his office, I’m greeted by the unmistakable sound of Jack’s British accent. Dread hits me full in the stomach. He’s standing in the foyer, chatting with Kale and Mother.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

  “Dancy!” Mother says, her tone tight with admonishment.

  “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Ames.” He stares at me, not smiling, but watching. Waiting, I suppose, to see if I’m going to make a scene. Which I most certainly am not.

  “Jack has graciously agreed to help Kale move some furniture into storage before the movers bring the furniture from my apartment tomorrow.”

  For a minute I forget about Jack’s betrayal and face my mother. “You’re already turning the apartment over to Brynn and Kale?”

  “Really, darling,” Mother says. “I told you I was going to, so Brynn can decorate to her taste before the wedding.”

  I can feel Jack’s eyes on me, and it’s disconcerting, to say the least. “That’s right, I forgot. Well, I guess I’ll leave you all to your furniture moving.”

  “Shall I call you a cab?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll take the subway.” I give Jack a pointed look. “I’m trying to save money.”

  Jack stares at me, his former stoic look giving way to a frown. “Do you honestly think you should take the Tube alone this time of night?”

  “It’s barely seven. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Really, Dancy. Jack is right. Call a taxi.”

  “Everyone rides the subway, Mother,” Kale says. “She’ll live through it, I’m sure. It’s not even dark.”

  “Thank you, Kale.” I guess I could take a cab. Now I’m just being stubborn. “Mother, Jack, I appreciate your concern. The subway will be fine.” I kiss my mother on the cheek.

  “You’re as stubborn as your father.” She shakes her head but doesn’t dwell on it. “I’ll talk to you in a day or two.” Never one to stay with a single topic for long, she immediately turns to Kale. “Let me show you where to start.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Kale,” Jack says. Instead of following my mother, he follows me to the door. “Dancy, wait. Please.”

  “What?” I say, not very nicely now that Mother has left the room.

  “If you insist upon taking the Tube, at least allow me to escort you to the station.”

  My heart does a little dance inside my chest as he touches my elbow just like a real live gentleman.

  “It’s not necessary, Jack.”

  “Perhaps you could simply humor me, then.”

  I can see he’s going to be stubborn. I give a little wave. “Fine, do whatever you want.”

  “Wonderful.” His chest rings. Well, no. Not his chest, obviously. “Blast,” he mutters, reaching into his jacket pocket. He gives it a quick glance. “I need to take this. Pardon me for just a moment, won’t you?”

  He speaks softly, but I can’t help overhearing. “Sheri. I was just about to call you. I’m afraid something’s come up and I won’t be able to meet you for coffee later after all. You will forgive me, I hope.”

  Sheri? As in my model-beautiful cousin with the legs that won’t quit? My heart drops into my stomach.

  “I changed my mind,” I whisper. “I don’t need an escort. See you, Jack.” I slip through the door, hoping he won’t follow. But of course he does.

  “Wonderful,” he says into the phone. “I’ll be looking forward to it. Good-bye.” He slips his cell back into his pocket. “I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I couldn’t care less.”

  “Listen, Dancy. I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’m so sorry I was forced to be the one to break the news to you. Tell me, how are you getting along today?”

  Hot tears spring to my eyes. “I’m getting along splendidly,” I say in a really poor British accent. There’s no point in pretending the tears aren’t there. He’s seen them, and to deny them would just be idiotic and immature. So I go in a different direction—sarcasm. “I woke up yesterday on vacation”—I put air quotes around “vacation”—“and today I woke up jobless. How else would I be getting along, if not splendidly?”

  He fishes a handkerchief from his pocket (who still does that?) and gently wipes my tears. Something about the gesture makes me want to cry all the more. So I do.

  And suddenly he wraps his arms about me—in a brotherish way, of course. “I do wish things had worked out differently, my dear. I know it was an abominable thing for me to do. But I was simply given no choice. Tony insisted.”

  I jerk back and stare into his face. “What do you expect me to say to that? ‘Oh, I see. It really wasn’t your fault at all’?”

  His gaze darkens, and he stuffs the hanky into my hand. “I don’t expect a thing from you. But you seem so distraught, I thought it might help to know I had no control over the incident.”

  The incident. I can’t believe he has the audacity to minimize the upending of my entire life to something as trivial as an “incident.” I give a short laugh but don’t even bother to address the comment.

  “Why are you walking so fast?” Jack asks, scurrying to keep up.

  Anger tends to kick my steps into high gear, and now is no exception. I’ve picked up the pace so much, I’m practically jogging.

  “I don’t want to miss the top of the hour. No sense waiting an extra ten minutes if I don’t have to.”

  “All right then.”

  I stop at the top of the steps and eye him. “I loved my job, Jack. It was the only real thing in my life besides my two best friends.”

  “Wait, Dancy.”

  I turn back to him, hip out, hand resting there as I stare at him with all the attitude I can muster. “What?”

  His face reddens, and he clears his throat. “It’s just that I hope—well, I was wondering really—when you’ve seen reason and realize—”

  “Look, what’s with the Hugh Grant routine? Just say whatever it is you’re trying to say, will you? I have a train to catch.”

  “I was wondering . . .” He holds my gaze and I�
�m starting to think . . . no! He’s not even thinking . . . “Well, I was hoping really,” he says, “that you might have dinner with me.”

  Is he kidding? “I don’t think so. Bye, Jack,” I toss over my shoulder, just before getting lost in the crowd of commuters. I mean, really. How can he even ask? The last time he took me to dinner, he fired me. I shudder to think what he might come up with for an encore. Dinner! I am so sure!

  I repeat the entire conversation once I get home to my friends. “And then he had the nerve to ask me out!”

  “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve heard in ages,” Laini sympathizes, her voice so sincere that I have to fight to keep from bursting into tears.

  “I hope you told him off,” Tabby says.

  “No. I just sort of ran away.” I drop my face into my palms. “I’m pathetic.”

  “No you aren’t.” Laini gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Have you eaten anything?”

  “Not since breakfast,” I mumble pathetically, in that whiny voice that comes out sometimes when I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself.

  “You must be starving!”

  My stomach reacts to her suggestion with a rumble.

  “You’re right. I’m starving. Did I miss dinner?”

  “I just pulled some bread bowls out of the oven. I’m going to fill them with chili.”

  Chili in the middle of summer? The thought makes me hot all over again.

  “Don’t worry,” Laini says, as though reading my thoughts. “We have the air-conditioning on really cold. I’m testing the recipe for Nick’s fall and winter menu. You and Tabby get to be my guinea pigs.”

  “I can think of worse things to be.”

  “All right,” Tabby says, hopping up from the couch. “Tomorrow we’ll worry about joblessness and Jack Quinn. But tonight, we feast!”

  And feast we do. With the apartment air turned to subzero temperatures, we revel in the winter meal that conjures up images of falling snow and the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center.

  Satiated, I sit back with a smile, feeling good for the first time all day. “Laini, that was amazing.”

  My redheaded friend smiles and crunches her freckled nose. “Think Nick’ll go for it?”

  “He’d be nuts not to.”

  “What about school, Laini?” Tabby asks, her brow puckered into a frown. “Your new semester starts in a week, and you barely passed the summer semester as it was. How are you going to have time for more cooking and keeping up with your schoolwork?”

  Laini shrugs. “I’ll cook during my time off. I’ll only be doing the cinnamon rolls and these bread bowls, if Nick likes them. That won’t take too much time.”

  Who does she think she’s trying to kid? Bread dough takes forever to make, and she’ll be making dough for cinnamon rolls and bread bowls?

  I shake my head. “What is Nick thinking?”

  Her face relaxes into an expression of serenity. “He’s so lovable. I just couldn’t say no when he asked if I could add something to his winter lunch menu.”

  “When did Nick ask you, by the way?” I’m surprised I didn’t get wind of that. And I’m a little insulted to be kept out of the loop.

  Laini beams. “He called me this morning.”

  Tabby’s still wearing the same frown. “But, Laini, what about study time? You can’t go to school, make bread bowls, and cook two dozen cinnamon rolls every day.”

  “Three dozen, starting the Monday after Labor Day. That’s when all the moms with kids going back to school will start meeting for breakfast at Nick’s again.”

  Tabby can’t seem to let it go, and I’m starting to see her point. I can’t help but jump on the bandwagon. “Laini, I know you enjoy baking. But since you’re already struggling with interior design, maybe you shouldn’t bake three dozen cinnamon rolls per day.”

  “Yeah,” Tabby pipes in. “Plus, the bread bowls are going to be a huge hit, and Nick’s going to have you baking more and more. You won’t have time to do all that cooking and keep up with studying, too. You’ll burn out. Not to mention flunk out.”

  Laini turns on us in un-Laini-like fashion. She stands and begins to pace, and I know we’re about to get what for. “You two—just—” Her hands wave in the air as she tries to formulate the proper words to tell us where to hang ourselves. “I can make my own life decisions,” she finally expels. “I mean it! I don’t need you two acting like my mom. So from now on just—”

  “Mind our own business?” I ask, suddenly aware that we’re doing to Laini the thing we both despise in our own mothers: telling her how to live her life.

  “Butt out?” Tabby interjects.

  “Yes,” she squeaks, and wilts back into the chair.

  “We’re sorry, Laini,” Tabby says.

  See, in friendship, it’s all about support. Really. I mean, it’s okay to play devil’s advocate with your sisters or long-lost cousins, but friends—especially best friends—come along so rarely that when you get the opportunity to make your support count, you should. Tough love has its place. But not here.

  Our ready apology takes the thunder from Laini’s eyes, and tears begin to flow. “It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . Mom’s putting on the pressure, and Mr. Ace called.” She gives a shuddering sigh. “He wants me to come back to work for them.”

  I frown. “Come back to where? I thought the accounting firm went bankrupt.”

  A shrug lifts her slender shoulders. “Ian Ace gave the money back—or, well, most of it.”

  Tabby’s eyes widen. “You don’t see that every day.”

  “His mom came up from Florida and laid into him, from what I understand.”

  “Nothing like a mother’s guilt.”

  “You said it.”

  The three of us observe a moment of silence for adult children everywhere who are still controlled by their mothers. Of course, in Ian’s instance, it turned out to be a good thing, but you have to admit that’s rare.

  “I guess I should consider Mr. Ace’s offer,” Laini says, breaking the silence between us. “He even offered me a ten percent raise.”

  I want to say, “Yes, consider it! Go back to what you’re good at.” But I can’t, because I know, in her heart of hearts, that’s not what she wants to hear.

  “Why would you consider going back to a job you didn’t like?” Tabby asks. Tabby is suddenly extremely matter-of-fact, not to mention somewhat uppity about this. And I’m this close to reminding her of her last job before Legacy of Life called her back to her Emmy-nominated role. But I don’t have the chance, because Laini’s feeling just feisty enough to stand up for herself.

  “This from the girl who dressed up in an itchy bunny suit and got into an argument with a child about the gender of Peter Rabbit.”

  It’s true. And Tabby’s red face attests to the fact that she concedes the point. She nods. “True. You’re right. Do what you have to do to get by while you pursue your dream. Can you work for Ace Accounting and still keep up at school?”

  Laini rolls her eyes like she considers the question to be completely rhetorical. Which it probably is, anyway. She’s not keeping up with her classes as it is, and all she’s been doing so far is going to school and baking cinnamon rolls. Poor Laini.

  “What can we do to help?” I ask in a sudden rush of generosity.

  Laini’s mouth lifts into a twinkly grin. “Eat up. I need references for Nick.”

  Tabby opens her mouth like she’s going to say something. I send her a silent but firm shake of my head, and she gets the message to drop it.

  As though we never veered, I slip a bite between my teeth and wander back to the original topic—and yes, I’m speaking with my mouth full, which is gross, but completely okay when you’re with your two best friends, as long as there are no children, men, or mothers around the table. “Nick’s going to love these, Laini. Who knows, you might start making enough money at baking that you don’t need to be an accountant or an interior designer.”

  Laini p
urses her lips into a scowl. It’s not always about making enough money, is it?

  “That’s not the point, Dance,” Tabby says. “She has to do what she loves. Her passion is interior design.”

  Oh blast, here we go again.

  11

  Valerie closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window. She hadn’t been out of the apartment in a week, and her friends were beginning to wonder if she had fallen off the face of the earth. Maybe she was hiding, but what was there to leave the apartment for? All she had ever known was advertising. And working at M&J Advertising had always been her dream. What was a person supposed to do when her dreams were crushed? What more was there to live for?

  —An excerpt from Fifth Avenue Princess

  by Dancy Ames

  I take my laptop and a notebook and head to Nick’s the next morning around nine, leaving Laini to her cooking. It’s cathartic for her, so I figure I have no right to tell her to stop cooking and concentrate on her real career. Besides, she only has a few more days of freedom before the grind of classes begins again.

  When I get to Nick’s, there’s a new guy behind the counter and no Nick. “Hi. I’ll have a green tea,” I say. The guy has jet black hair, brown eyes, and a dark complexion. If I were looking for a man to break my heart, I’d almost bet he could do it—if someone else hadn’t already taken on the role. But I refuse to discuss that. “Where’s Nick?” I ask as he turns to get my tea.

  “In the back.” He swings his gaze around. “You know my uncle Nick?”

  “Oh, you’re family.” Well, that explains the gorgeous Italian looks.

  As if on cue, the kitchen door swings open and Nick appears.

  “’Ey, princess. I was just talking about you.”

  Oh no. Don’t tell me he’s going to try to set me up with his nephew. Not that he’s not great-looking, but I’m not in the market (or the mood) today. I brace myself for what is bound to be an awkward moment.