Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  Candace doesn’t laugh or crack a smile, and I take a second to once again consider the seriousness of the situation. I’ve got Nixon, a man whom I hardly know, pretending to be madly in love with me. Then there’s Candace and her Stretch Armstrong–like professional reach who can make or break my future. The balance of Jo’s house hinges on the success of Can I See You Again? It’s a wonder that I’m not cowering in the corner like a beaten dog, frightened by the influence Candace has on my future.

  But just like that day outside the bookstore with Jo, I’m not nervous.

  Is it because we’re discussing a topic I’m knowledgeable about? Is it because I’m adamant about making this book a success and ambition is outweighing my nerves? Am I trying to prove a point to myself that I can and will survive without Sean? Or am I comforted by . . . Nixon?

  My eyes drift toward him as he nonchalantly peeks at his watch.

  I’m grateful he’s helping me. And even more thankful that Candace hasn’t asked him any questions. I’ve kept my word. Nixon is a prop.

  “So, Nick, let’s focus on you for a moment.”

  And, so much for that.

  “Me?” He points to himself. “No, I don’t have much to contribute. Let’s keep the attention on Bree.”

  “Let’s not. What do you think of Bree’s profession? Do you ever get jealous knowing she’s surrounded by single men?”

  “Not in the least.” Nixon’s voice is purposeful and convincing. “Bree’s good at what she does. She treats her clients with professionalism and respect. She takes her job seriously.” He leans back and says with a softer tone, “Plus, look at her, she’s a beautiful woman. Only a fool would jeopardize that.”

  I smile at him, appreciating the compliment. Even if it’s for show.

  “Last question. Bree, how are we to know? For those of us who can’t read body language or pick up on subtle nuances that you’ve got this built-in eye for, leave us with one indicator that a new relationship is . . . sustainable, for lack of a better word.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. The first kiss.”

  “How so?”

  “The first kiss reveals everything about a relationship; it’s body language at its finest. It’s the moment energy is mirrored and synchronized. Or at least, that’s the goal. See, if the first kiss is mirrored, then unconscious feelings of affirmation and trust are immediately established. We think, hey, this person likes me, and is like me.”

  “So, what about you two?” Candace asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “Tell me about your first kiss.”

  For the first time during this interview, I grow nervous. My thoughts clam up and I’m unable to think of a clever way to respond. “Um . . . can you repeat the question?”

  “Your first kiss. Clearly it was a good one.”

  “Um . . . right, let’s see . . . it . . . um, it—”

  As if rehearsed a thousand times or an ordinary, everyday gesture, Nixon grasps my hand and turns it over. Cradling my palm within his own, he slowly draws the tips of each of his long fingers across the pale, tender skin of my exposed wrist, triggering sparks up my arm. Then, without releasing his embrace, Nixon leans toward me and says, “Bree tasted like Christmas morning.”

  “She . . . uh . . . wow,” Candace says.

  I know he isn’t serious, but Candace is right . . . uh . . . wow.

  A few seconds pass before I realize he’s released me and I’ve covered my wrist with my other hand as if to . . . what? Solidify the moment in Candace’s eyes? Guarantee my scar isn’t seen? Preserve Nixon’s touch?

  Um . . . anyway.

  “Can’t think of a better way to finish for today.” Candace stands.

  Yes, finish. Good idea.

  “Great stuff, you two. I think the readers are going to respond quite well to this article.” She slips away to answer her cell phone.

  “I’ve gotta run,” Randi says. “This is great material for your blog. I have a damn good feeling about this. You might be the easiest client yet.” She inches toward Nixon. “If things don’t work out with Bree, call me.” She tucks her business card in his shirt pocket.

  “Can I go now?” Nixon asks, turning his phone’s ringer back on.

  “Yes, thanks a million.”

  “My cousin’s wedding. Don’t forget.” He hands me Randi’s card.

  “When is it?”

  “A couple weeks. I’ll text you the exact date.”

  “Okay. Be sweet with Sara tonight. No coffee. Dinner only. And, remember, don’t check that dang thing all night.” I gesture toward his phone. “In fact, leave it at home.”

  “Nick, Bree, one more thing before you go,” Candace calls from across the room with a phone pressed against her ear, “I want a picture of you two.”

  I spin Nixon around and push him away. “Hurry, get out of here. Go, go, go.”

  He scurries out the door.

  Andrew claps his hands as he rushes over. “Awesome job.”

  “I didn’t sound like a braggart?”

  “Not at all. And that stuff with Nixon . . . er . . . Nick . . . totally convincing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two are dating.”

  “Where’d Nick rush off to?” Candace asks.

  “Emergency surgery.”

  “Can he come back later? I’d really like a picture for the paper.”

  “No, sorry. Full schedule today. And tomorrow. And the next day.” Do not scratch your neck, Bree. Do not.

  “Well, shoot. All right, then, Scotty, let’s go.”

  They head toward the door, but Candace spins around and says, “You know, Bree, living in the public eye it’s hard to meet new people, let alone date. So, I sought outside help and met my husband through a service similar to yours. We’ve had eleven great years together and two beautiful children. That’s why this article intrigues me. I have a special place in my heart for people like yourself, helping others find joy in their lives.”

  “Thank you, Candace. That means a lot.”

  “And, if you don’t mind me saying, I see a lot of my husband’s best qualities in Nick. He’s a charming man. I don’t know where you found him, but I wouldn’t let him go.”

  eleven

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mr. Chambers.” I sit across from him in his spacious and well-lit office, flanked with a framed vintage map of Paris on one wall and shelves of casebooks—like I suspected—organized in numerical order on the other. Our view of one another is obstructed by client files and law books littered with Post-it notes (must be a lawyer thing) stacked high on his desk. Plus, my chair sits an inch or so lower than his, enough to position him in the domineering position (probably another lawyer thing).

  When I visited Jo this morning, I didn’t tell her about this meeting. Or Lawrence’s e-mail. She asked about the letter status and I said I hadn’t heard a definitive answer, which is true. Sure, Mr. Chambers’s e-mail threatened an auction, but I’m still holding on to the possibility this is an error. A misdirected computer entry. Maybe the bill was satisfied years ago and this is a simple accounting oversight.

  “My pleasure. You received my e-mail?”

  “I did, but is it possible this whole thing is a misunderstanding? I mean, certainly there’s a chance she doesn’t owe the money. My grandmother pays her taxes.”

  Lawrence’s chair creaks as he leans forward and props his elbows on his desk. A tuft of curly black chest hair peeks above his shirt collar. “I can assure you, Ms. Caxton, she owes the money. Let me explain how this works. Basically the 1058 letter states two things. First is notification that if payment isn’t received, the IRS intends to sell the affected property to pay off the neglected tax lien. And second, you have a legal right to a hearing before said auction. This is your opportunity to plead your case and in some instances, make payment arrangements. Unle
ss you can prove differently, the IRS will move forward with proceedings. They consider tax dodgers—”

  “My grandmother is no criminal.”

  He stiffens at my tone. “You need to hear me out, Ms. Caxton.”

  You need a breath mint, Mr. Chambers.

  Shush, Bree. Focus.

  “Sorry.” I clasp my hands on my lap. “I just don’t understand how they can do this, just up and take her house. Why didn’t they contact her sooner? Why wasn’t there a warning of some kind?”

  “This is not new news. Typically tax liens remain on the books for a near decade before the IRS takes action.”

  “Did you say a decade?”

  “Yes, the IRS is actually quite lenient. They don’t pursue tax liens of this magnitude until they near the ten-year mark. They created the initial tax lien against your grandmother nine years ago. The IRS has sent, and your grandmother received, registered letters the entire time.”

  “Nine years?”

  “Nine years.”

  Jesus. I’d never seen one letter. Jo must’ve thrown them all away. “Well, my grandmother is old and alone. She thought the letters were junk mail or something. Oh, God. Clearly, they won’t hold that against her. They can’t take her house. Tell me they won’t.”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  “I . . . I . . .” I’m choked with panic. Hold it together, Bree. “Okay, then what do we do next? You said something about a hearing.”

  “You have the right to appeal.”

  “Yes, great.” I nod and sit straighter. “Let’s start the paperwork.”

  “Already have. I’ll need you to provide a few additional documents. I’ll e-mail you the requirements.”

  “Okay, thank you. Think it’ll work?”

  “The appeal? Depends on how you look at it. You’re essentially challenging the IRS’s right to levy, which I’ve never seen overturned, so, basically all you’re doing is buying time to find proof for dismissal or come up with the money.” He refers to his computer. “And the liability with penalties and fees is nearly fifty thousand dollars.”

  “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  His nod implies what I fear.

  “So it’s true? My grandmother’s house could be sold to some stranger with a checkbook?”

  “Yes, that is a very likely outcome. But let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. Let’s get through the hearing first, then go from there, shall we?”

  His attempt to sound hopeful falls flat. I know from listening to Sean over the years that the IRS doesn’t often make mistakes. And is even less forgiving.

  “So if the appeal is denied, how much time do I have?”

  “It’s contingent on timing of the ruling, but traditionally, you’ll have about thirty days.”

  Same time as my book release.

  I picture Jo standing on the sidewalk, wrapped in her lilac robe, watching some money-minded investor bulldoze into her home, strip off the apple wallpaper, rip out the carpet, and toss her appliances and her memories into a foul-smelling Dumpster parked on the lawn.

  My fingers ache from my grip on the armrests.

  Andrew’s right; the escalator clause is the only chance I’ve got.

  Can I See You Again? has got to make the list.

  twelve

  A couple of days later, I fumble in the dark of early morning and answer my phone. It’s Andrew.

  “Did you read the article yet?”

  I bolt straight up in bed. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, you fool. What day did you think it was?”

  “I can’t believe I forgot. I fell asleep without setting my alarm.” I don’t mention along with my worries about Jo—trying to decide the best way to break the news to her—that Sean left me another voice mail last night, a long detailed ramble about how much he loves me and how bad he feels, reiterating it’s him, not me. Blah-blah-blah. Nor do I tell Andrew that I listened to Sean’s message thirteen times.

  “Hurry up and get downstairs.”

  With the phone pressed against my ear, I open the front door and see the tri-folded and rubber-band-bound copy of the National Tribune at the foot of my porch steps. Never have I been more excited to see the paper in my life.

  People say print is making a comeback, and the glare of the computer screen is losing its appeal. For me, the charm never left. I love ink-stained fingers, the smell and the feel of the paper in my hands. Same goes for a book, especially those aged with yellowed pages and cracking spines, found in the cramped, sagging shelves of used bookstores that often reek of body odor and hot sauce, wondering where and with whom these stories have been shared.

  I rush toward the steps in my pj’s and reach for the paper. My sprinkler valve kicks on, spraying my feet and ankles with cold water. “Aagh! Damn thing.” I nearly drop the phone. Worse yet, the newspaper.

  “Haven’t you got that fixed yet? I gave you the number of my plumber.”

  “I called him, but he charges $167.50. An hour. That’s insane.” Okay, yes, I charge as much, but Bree Caxton and Associates is totally worth it. I mean, you can’t put a price on love. Just ask my happy couples.

  I head inside and fling off the rubber band, dumping a landfill’s worth of hearing aid and mortgage lender advertisements on the floor until I find the Close-Up circular. “Look at it, Andrew,” I say as if he’s beside me on the couch and not on the phone miles away. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Close-Up is inked in bright red and the cover boasts a full-body picture of Julia Roberts outside her New Mexico ranch. The title of her latest movie is scripted along the bottom edge. On the right side of the page, underneath the wording about avocados and their weight loss benefits, there’s the caption that beats my heart so fast, I swear it’s going to burst through my skin. Fall in love with Bree Caxton, page 4.

  With jittery hands, I flip to the page and find a picture of me—me!—sitting at my desk, laughing at something said in the distance. The article text wraps around my photo.

  “Look, there’s the cover of my book.” In the lower corner, Can I See You Again? is splashed in bold black against a hazy background of a man knocking on a woman’s red front door with a bouquet of roses clutched behind his back. It’s fresh and playful. “Randi must’ve e-mailed it to her.”

  With Andrew still on the phone, I read the article, growing more and more excited—if that’s even possible—with each paragraph.

  Bree Caxton is one of Southern California’s most prolific matchmakers. Over the last six years, her diligence and inherent ability to decipher body language and energy has facilitated hundreds of meaningful relationships for lonely men, bashful women, divorcees, widows, and widowers. With a near-perfect success rate, she’s touted as the go-to gal for love.

  “It’s so strange to read my name in the paper. I’m such a big shot.”

  Both professionally and personally, Bree’s proven herself not to shy away from hard work, a trait evident within her soon-to-be-released book, Can I See You Again? Her self-help debut chronicles a handful of Bree’s most triumphant connections along with tips and suggestions for those of us still looking for a happily-ever-after.

  I laugh and giddiness whirls through my mind as I continue to read. “This is a great piece, don’t you think? Candace touched on the important aspects of my company with a lighthearted spin.”

  Part of me wishes Sean were here, sharing this moment with me. True, he prefers the Los Angeles Times to the Tribune, but all the same, he’s witnessed firsthand how hard I’ve worked to get here. Maybe a quick call?

  “The phone is going to ring off the hook now.” Andrew captures my focus, and I shake off thoughts of reaching out to Sean. God forbid I stifle him any more. “Are you still reading?”

  I’ve known Andrew long enough to recognize the caution in his voice. Maybe Andrew’s actin
g protective because Candace questioned the company’s limited scope, wondering if Bree Caxton and Associates is as successful as claimed, why we haven’t branched into other cities.

  It’s the last paragraph.

  It doesn’t take the eagle eye of a reporter to see that Bree’s found love herself, a walking example of what her clients so desperately seek. Her boyfriend, Nick, spews sex appeal and is the kind of man neighborhood women pray will take his shirt off when mowing the lawn. But more than his stellar looks, the charming man wanted to take a backseat to her moment in my spotlight, let his woman enjoy the bit of fame. Sitting beside her, the compassionate and deliciously handsome Nick hardly took his eyes off Bree as she answered my questions. The electricity between the two could light up the Las Vegas strip. Should I have left the two alone?

  Follow along with me for the next four weeks as I delve deeper into the life of Bree Caxton. We’ll learn a few of her proven techniques for finding love, what keeps her so in tune with hearts and minds, and, perhaps most importantly, find out what Nick’s like in the sack?

  “Oh, God, Andrew.”

  “I told you, you were convincing.”

  “Nixon’s not going to like this.”

  “I bet he’s amazing.”

  “Sorry?”

  “In bed. I bet he’s slow and selfless, methodical and assertive. I bet he’s—”

  “Okay, you’ve painted a clear picture.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh, c’mon. You haven’t once thought what it’d feel like to have his powerful arms and legs wrapped around your naked skin?”

  “Of course not.” Okay, twice.

  “Whatever. Well, congrats on the article.”