Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  I put an obstructionist bank teller on hold. “What did you say, Maggie?” Today, I saw that my normally immaculate assistant wore her hair clumped at the back of her head in a sloppy chignon. Stray wisps stuck out, so she looked as though she’d gone crazy with hair gel and an electrical outlet.

  “I don’t know what to give AnnMarie. For example, we ordered fifty grand of this raw silk for men’s sports jackets, but you didn’t like the color, so they ended up as trousers and vests for Comfort Zone. How do I count that?”

  The teller came back on. “One minute please,” I said into the phone. I cupped a hand over the receiver, then told Maggie, “Just print everything out and messenger it over to AnnMarie. She’ll figure out what to send and what to throw away. Write her a note about it.”

  I switched gears. “Yes, a new ATM card with a different number,” I said to the teller. “Why do I have to close the account?” I couldn’t stop my voice rising along with my temper. If I had to open a new account, I’d have to take a taxi over to the bank to sign new signature cards, then come back. Another hour or more stolen from my life while I still struggled to reconstruct the outfits that the vandal destroyed. At the rate things were going, our fall show would be in January.

  Sensing defeat, I sighed. “Okay, I’ll be there in a half-hour. Please have everything ready, Ms...Ms. Donner. Thank you.” I clicked off. “Bitch,” I snarled at the receiver. “Anything else?” I asked Maggie.

  “Nope. See ya later. I’ll be taking an early lunch.”

  “Adam, again?”

  “Yes, Adam and Andrea are taking me to the Modelshop Café.”

  I raised my brows. “Hot stuff! Well, have fun.” As I left for the bank, I contemplated the concept of Maggie Andersen and Adam Covarrubia. Talk about an odd couple! But that was fine, especially since Adam had appeared upset when he’d asked me out and I’d refused. For one thing, I didn’t like him, and also, Natalie didn’t need to see me with a drug-abusing freak from the word go—not the example I wanted to set for my daughter. Then, I’d picked Jimmy Benton for the Fletcher’s Gear ad campaign, a choice Adam couldn’t have liked. If he was getting it on with Maggie, he must be happy with the situation, I reasoned as I hailed a cab. Fine. I didn’t plan to climb the ladder of success while pushing others off of it, unlike a certain wolf I could think of.

  I brooded some more about meeting Fletch at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market. He’d looked great in jeans, dammit. I hadn’t been able to avoid checking out his lower body. He’d amply filled out the crotch; there’d been a distinct, enticing bulge just where it ought to be. And the view when he’d turned to leave... Oh, yeah. Lean, perfect buns. Yep, Fletcher Wolf was one hell of a man, from top to toe. And entirely forbidden.

  I couldn’t completely eliminate the possibility that Fletcher caused all my current hassles, not just the lawsuit. When strung together, each simple crime became part of a series of carefully planned, well-orchestrated events. Perhaps he intended to break down my resistance, leaving me too weak, mentally and financially, to fight the lawsuit. Such a plan showed intelligence and ruthlessness, traits he exhibited to an alarming degree. Most exasperating was the sexy, flirtatious act he put on whenever we met. No doubt he intended to further confuse me. Unfortunately, he was succeeding all too well.

  I shuddered, remembering a psychology experiment I’d read about in high school about operant conditioning. Pigeons, trained to retrieve kernels of corn by pressing a lever, were later subjected to electric shocks whenever one pushed it. Curiously, the birds given random shocks continued to seek the corn for a longer period of time than the animals which were consistently shocked. The poor pigeons were trapped in a cycle of fear and indecision, both attracted and repelled by the alternating stimuli.

  I wanted to convince myself that I didn’t crave the corn. Just as well that the thief had stolen Fletcher’s business card. I didn’t want his phone number. Too tempting.

  My fruitless train of thought continued all the way to the bank, through the transactions, and back again to the atelier. I paid the driver and got out in front of the workshop. Thank God I kept a cash stash at home or I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Now, I was halfway to resurrecting my life.

  Inside the heavy metal door was yet another unpleasant surprise. Detective Briggs and several of New York’s finest crowded my workplace wearing grim expressions along with their dark, badly cut uniforms.

  “Detective, how nice to see you again.” I pasted a gracious smile onto my face and headed toward the detective, right hand outstretched, while wondering, What’s he doing here? He can’t have come out because of a stolen wallet!

  Another officer clicked a handcuff onto my proffered wrist. “Cara Linda Fletcher, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent and not incriminate yourself. Anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to the presence of an attorney before and during any questioning. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you free of charge. Do you understand your rights?”

  Mouth agape, I was now certain I was losing my mental marbles. I sensed them, a jumble of brightly colored glass spheres bouncing around in the toilet bowl of my mind, ready to be flushed down the tailpipe of my rocking, rolling emotions to the sewer where I kept my nightmares.

  I stared at the cuff on my wrist, then at the officers’ somber faces. A tense, silent group of my employees awaited my reaction.

  I lifted my chin. “May I ask what this is all about?” I fought to maintain dignity in the face of a rising tide of disasters which seemed destined to overwhelm me. I wouldn’t be overwhelmed, dammit. I’d...I’d...whelm. Or something.

  “Do you wish to make a statement?” the arresting officer barked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” Pausing, I took a deep breath and drew upon all of the New York grittiness I’d acquired from living in the toughest town in the world for fifteen years. I got right into the officer’s face. My mouth was bare inches from his, and I glared into his eyes. “I hereby state that you are surely the biggest donkey’s ass who ever lived. Now, please tell me why you have engaged in this exceedingly unwarranted action? How dare you come into my shop and treat me like a criminal?”

  My voice rose as I let loose all the bottled-up rage and frustration that I’d developed during the past weeks of torture by the vandal. “Just who the hell do you think you are? Release me immediately or my attorney will turn you into a small greasy spot on the ground. That is, after she takes your job, your home, your savings and your pension!”

  “Okay, lady, that’s enough outta you. Take her away.” He twisted me around to click the other cuff over my free wrist.

  Before the arresting officer could drag me off to the pokey, Briggs laid a restraining hand on his arm. He turned to me. “Ms. Fletcher, Vice busted a motel room last midnight that was being used to sell drugs. Someone rented it using your name. Your driver’s license and other identification were found there. How did that happen?”

  “I have no idea,” I said through a clenched jaw. Hell. If this kept up, I’d have to get caps because my teeth would be worn to stumps. “But if you’d bothered checking your own records, you’d know that I reported the theft of my wallet and I.D. cards last night at about eight o’clock. If you let me go, I’ll show you my temporary license.”

  An “I told you so” look stole over Detective Briggs’ face. “I’ll make the call.” He raised his brows at the arresting officer.

  A bum came into view. How on earth had he gotten in? This one looked like the lowliest street person from one of the city’s grungier alleys. He even smelled of garbage, but when he passed me, smiling, I saw that his teeth shone white, straight and even—a sure tip-off that he wasn’t a tramp at all. He elbowed the arresting officer in the side in a familiar fashion, then whispered in his ear.

  “You don’t say.” The officer’s eyes narrowed as he regarded me.

  “Yep, sure do.” The plainclothed
investigator retreated.

  “What?” I asked.

  The arresting officer slowly withdrew a key from his belt to unlock the cuffs. “You have a friend, Ms. Fletcher. I’m reliably informed that you were in your home by nine p.m. last night. Sorry, ma’am, but this was a big bust. Twelve ounces of crack and five of heroin.”

  “I don’t do drugs.” I rubbed my wrist.

  “Her story checks out.” Detective Briggs returned from making his call. “Keith Collins in the theft unit filed the report at 2300 hours last night.”

  “Can I have my stuff back?”

  “You have a temporary I.D. already,” Briggs said. “You don’t need the D.L. back.”

  “You said ‘other identification,’” I said. “I want everything back. Was there a purple eelskin wallet? Some pictures?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I suggest you find out. I’d like to remind you, gentlemen, that I’m the victim here. I’ve been stalked. This workshop has been vandalized. Someone tried to break into my home. Someone has been harassing me with phone calls. Someone ran up fifty thousand dollars in bills on my credit cards.” Twisted, but I almost enjoyed the self-righteous anger flowing freely through my body. “This has been going on for months. It has cost me a quarter of a million dollars and is driving me and my child nuts. I’m the victim here, and from my perspective, your department is doing a piss-poor job. Now get out of my shop.”

  Applause from my co-workers and employees burst out spontaneously as I showed the officers out and slammed the door shut with a resounding bang. Remembering the mysterious undercover officer, I tore it open again almost immediately. He seemed to be both friend and foe. He’d rescued me from a trip to the slammer, but because he knew where I’d been the previous night, he was keeping me and Nat under surveillance. I didn’t like that. No, I loathed that. Plus, it scared me.

  I looked up and down the street, but it looked deserted except for police piling into unmarked vehicles.

  Who the hell was he? I shuddered. Who the hell else out there was spying on me, hating me, stalking me? I reached for my phone to report this latest trauma to AnnMarie and Shila.

  ~*~

  I didn’t really care about what I was supposed to wear to the deposition at Muckenmyer’s office. To hell with them all, I thought as I pulled on my denim skirt, which today fitted loosely onto my hips. No pantyhose needed since the early August weather was stiflingly hot and humid. I slapped a pair of blue contacts into my eyes and didn’t bother with make-up. After dragging a brush through brown hair, I went to the kitchen.

  Fragrant wheat toast popped out of the toaster with a metallic jangle, and Nat spread it with her favorite peanut butter and jelly. I poured myself French roast from the preset automatic, took two Xanax, and managed light chatter during breakfast. Even if my world was crashing down around my ears, Natalie didn’t need to worry.

  The entire year had been a financial disaster, and I couldn’t figure out why. The reports Maggie churned out reflected ever gloomier news. She had no explanations, leaving me stumped. The clothes sold well—all divisions, all year—so poor sales figures didn’t provide the answer. Sure, marketing had been costly, and the lawsuit and the vandalism hadn’t helped, but there was no good reason that Cara Fletcher Couture had, in just a few months, turned from an up and coming concern into a financial black hole.

  Maybe it was all my fault. Organizations functioned from the top down, and my personal issues, starting with the trauma of the traffic accident, continuing with the hassles with Kenney, the stalking, the attempted break-in, and the thefts, had left me numb. Yeah, I went to work every day and turned out designs which my employees claimed were gorgeous, delicious, inspired even, but I knew I could and should do better. I stood at the top of the hierarchy. Everything came from me. If there was a multi-million dollar deficit, I had to shoulder the blame.

  With breakfast over, I dropped Nat off at computer camp, then allowed myself to slump in the back of the taxi heading for Muckenmyer’s office. Despondency flowed through me like a sluggish, stagnant stream. I’d worked so hard. How could I have screwed up so badly?

  ~*~

  Seated at a conference table in Michael Muckenmyer’s office, I caught sight of myself in a wall mirror and winced. I looked like crap warmed over, especially compared to Fletcher Wolf, natty today in a summery linen suit with a pastel shirt and tie. Crisp, calm, self-assured and totally sexy.

  AnnMarie, imperturbable as usual in a navy suit which set off her platinum hair, started off the meeting on a jarring note. “Mike, I don’t understand what’s going on. This is supposed to be a deposition. Where’s the court reporter?”

  Mike steepled his fingers. “I have canceled the deposition.”

  Great, just great. I stood. “I suppose that means I can leave. Ann, please bill Mr. Wolf and Mr. Muckenmyer for your preparation time. Good day, everyone.”

  Fletcher got to the door before I did and touched my arm. “Please don’t go.”

  Startled by the neediness in his voice, I stopped. What the hell was going on?

  “It’s time we talked turkey about this case,” his lawyer said.

  I sucked in my lips. “It seems to me that you’ve dragged me here under false pretenses, wouldn’t you say? Ann, what do you think?”

  “I would have preferred notification of a change in plans. Mike, you’re aware of the preparation a depo requires. If you have a settlement proposal, we’re willing to listen despite your discourtesy.” Ann turned to her paralegal, who still lugged several notebooks. “Dirk, you can return to the office.”

  Though reluctant, I sat, while Fletcher let out his breath with a whoosh. Relief? I frowned. What did he have planned? I was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. Again, I felt like prey.

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “I didn’t tell Mike until this morning that I wanted to call the depo off and confer instead.” I glared at him, as did Ann. He added quickly, “I really think it’s for the best.” He shot me his stunning smile.

  I frowned in return.

  He didn’t look the least put off. In fact, his smile grew.

  “Fine,” AnnMarie Slye said. “What’s your offer?”

  “Initially, we’d like to review the situation and the evidence,” Mike said. He sat back in his chair and assumed a professorial tone, as though he lectured a classroom full of law students. He had the look, complete with the glasses and the tweedy jacket, down pat. A-hole.

  “First, we learned that Cara Fletcher, without engaging in a trademark or copyright search, began using the Fletcher Gear name approximately one year ago. Fletcher, here, received notification when he viewed a television commercial aired during the football playoffs early this year. Suit was filed less than ninety days later, defeating any contention of delay.”

  “We did do a search. It didn’t reveal that ‘Fletcher’s Gear’ is copyrighted or trademarked, though ‘Fletcher Tool and Gear’ is. We didn’t see a problem, and still don’t. Plus, we haven’t alleged delay,” Slye said, sounding testy. “But now that you’ve mentioned the issue, is there any reason Wolf didn’t contact Cara Fletcher Couture to attempt to settle this issue before filing?”

  “He did phone, as you well know. His efforts to discuss the matter were rebuffed.”

  “He didn’t discuss anything.” I shot Fletch a glare. “He threatened me, so I hung up on him.”

  Muckenmyer raised his brows. “We were persuaded that attempts to settle would be useless. Of course Cara has the right to use her own name, and acquiring proof that the interests of Fletcher Tool and Gear due to the similarity of the names were damaged would take time. Suit was filed within three months of the football commercial, which itself generated immediate problems for Fletcher Tool and Gear. Numerous confused customers called to order T-shirts, pants, and other products.” Mike waved his hand in the air before he reached into a folder and extracted two sheets of paper. “Here’s a compilation, week by week, of inquiries to Fletcher Tool and G
ear for clothing. Mr. Wolf had to add two additional phone operators and lines to handle the load at an estimated annual cost of fifty thousand dollars.”

  I shifted in my chair and glanced at Fletcher. “That’s peanuts to Fletcher Wolf.”

  He didn’t say anything, but Mike lifted his eyebrows. “Fifty thousand dollars may be peanuts to you, Ms. Fletcher, but my client hasn’t built up his company by tossing money away. Believe me when I tell you that you have caused a great deal of disruption to Fletcher Tool and Gear.”

  “Are you saying that fifty thousand dollars will make this case go away?” I asked. That was do-able. That would be nice.

  “Hardly.” Mike smiled, sharklike. “The problem you created is ongoing, and increasingly expensive as you willfully continue to exploit the Fletcher Gear name and expand production.”

  “The judge said I could use my own name!”

  “True,” Mike said. “But he never said you could use the Fletcher’s Gear name, and he reserved a ruling regarding confusion to the public due to the use of similar names. As you know, Ann, we commissioned a poll of past and present customers of Fletcher Tool and Gear.”

  He reached into his folder again and withdrew two bound reports. The name, GALLUP POLL, jumped out at me from the front of the packet. I gulped against a rising tide of bile flooding my throat. I had a feeling that the reports contained very bad news for me. Why else would he provide them? “The poll indicates that over fifty percent of Fletcher Tool and Gear customers believe that Mr. Wolf now manufactures T-shirts and sportswear in addition to gearshifts and precision tools.”

  I glanced at Ann. We had a trick or two up our sleeves, also. “This is an impression no doubt fostered by Mr. Wolf himself. Ann, please show Mr. Muckenmyer the orders from Fletcher Tool and Gear as well as the, um, other materials.”

  She slowly opened her gray leather briefcase, milking the moment. With a dramatic flip of her hand, she tossed several eight-by-ten color glossies onto the polished wood conference table.