Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  "Who knows what would have happened, though, even if you did? I was shut down. But when I saw you just now, you were so strong. I was sure you'd be a mess, bawling and pitiful. You just looked up at me, so beautiful, and I remembered everything all at once. How you are, how smart and cool and amazing you are. Us, how it works. I thought: this woman's worth fighting for. We are. I knew I couldn't leave."

  "I wouldn't have let you."

  "But your father, I can't take-"

  "Don't," Lucie said, feeling tears choking her throat and swallowing them down. "Don't make me choose. He's my father. He's all I have left of my family. And Flo and Erin."

  Ryan clutched the wheel, the muscles in his forearms visibly working. "I'm not asking you to choose between me and them. I'm asking you to choose yourself. Your father will love you even if you don't do exactly what he tells you to do."

  "I just want to make him happy. Let me try."

  "Oh, Lucie. Look what it's doing to you! You can't even walk!"

  "I just fell down a staircase in a bar! What does that have to do with my Dad?"

  "You know you were having trouble before that. He's pushing you too hard. More, more, more. That's all he ever seems to want from you."

  "Please? Let me try? And no, he's not impossible to please. I've seen him happy with me. I can do this. I want to. For Mere, too."

  Ryan looked over at her, shook his head, but then shrugged. "Okay....do what you need to. But don't ever forget that I'm part of this, too."

  And he was. Part of her recovery was his endless support and help. He lifted her up both physically and emotionally, her help-mate and cheerleader. He even backed down about her father, an eye-roll his only comment when her father called and visited. He stopped confronting and prodding Donald Scott, choosing instead to distract himself with his iPhone whenever the conversation started to bother him. Ryan did tell her that at some point he would say it like it was again when her father was around, but that a cease-fire was better for her healing and that was their priority.

  Without the constant challenging from Ryan, her father seemed less powerful, less almighty. Lucie started to question the edicts and pronouncements her father made. The most recent pronouncement, made this last Saturday morning over the phone, had been that he had made an appointment for her at the local cable station to meet with the programming manager and informed her that she would go in and wow him.

  "No, Dad," Lucie said, surprised at the firmness in her own voice. "I mean, I'd love it, but not now. I'm in no shape to 'wow' anyone. Thank you so much, though."

  "You're going, it's already scheduled. This next Friday at ten. I called Adrienne and she told me you'd be off your crutches and even driving by Wednesday, so you can get there without all the hoopla."

  "I may be driving, but I'll still be limping, really badly. Worse than before my fall. All I can say is that I'm glad all these jobs have been cancelled. I wouldn't be able to fulfill them."

  "You're not pushing yourself. When I was in college, I had pneumonia and mono-"

  "And you were on the Dean’s List and you propped your eyes open with your fingers to study. I know. You're made of stronger stuff than I am, Dad."

  "That's not true. You're incredibly strong. And bright. And capable. You have so much going for you! I can't understand your attitude. Flo and I just want the best for you. I know you can do this. You will. Just go. It'll work out."

  "I said no, Dad. Please understand. I will when I'm ready."

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. Her father was not accustomed to hearing no from his daughter. Particularly lately, when she'd been twisting herself into a pretzel trying to please him. But his demand about her meeting at the cable station bothered her. Why hadn't he checked with her first? Was it all the pretzel-making she'd been doing? Yes, she was going to be more mobile this week, but that didn't make her ready for a big presentation at a cable station to pitch her cooking show. She didn't even have a gimmick yet, the French-American idea shot down by her father. What was he thinking? And why was he calling Adrienne when he could ask his daughter directly how she was doing and what she felt capable of? Well, she wasn't going to do this one thing, but she was doing another that would make him happy.

  Lucie broke the stretching silence and said, "By the way, I'm working on the proposal! It's looking really good. It's going to be a great cookbook, really helpful I think."

  Her father paused before replying, "Well, I'm sorry you're not going to the appointment. Carlos will be disappointed. Hell, I'm disappointed...anyway. It's good to hear your proposal's coming along, and that you've got some help from that Chelsea friend of yours. Still, until you've got a book contract, you don't have a book. I know. I only wish I'd gone into books instead of magazines, then I'd set you up. Though, maybe I could. I'll look into it."

  "But Dad, I'll probably get a contract. I told you about that dinner?" Lucie said, and when her father hedged, reminded him of the whole event at Bianca's. He was dubious that it would work, saying editors didn't have that kind of pull, but Lucie still felt it was her best chance. By the time the call ended, her father seemed somewhat cheered while Lucie only felt exhausted, all her rah-rah spent.

  Now, unlocking and pulling open her car door, Lucie was exhausted again. Just crossing the parking lot was a battle. What she'd said on the phone about being glad all her jobs were cancelled was right - to a point. For now, per Adrienne, she would struggle through each day. Next week would be easier, just in time for Bianca's dinner party. Adrienne had assured her that she would be able to do it if she took it slow and didn't take on any other jobs. Lucie wanted to laugh at that. Other jobs? Ha!

  Her phone only rang with personal calls and cancellations these days. Of course, she wasn't out beating the bushes for new clients, so that might have something to do with it. She wished Erin was better at sales. Actually, she wished Erin was better at anything. She stifled the disloyal thought. Erin just needed more hand-holding than most people, proven by the huge fight they'd had the day after Lucie's accident during which Lucie confronted Erin about her bad attitude and then had to reassure her tearful step-sister that everything would be fine. Erin's attitude had improved, but who knew how long it would last? Lucie only wished that Erin would have some kind of success that would help the business; then they could tell Donald and Flo, stop all this skulking around.

  Thinking of skulking naturally led her mind back to Molly. Whenever she answered her cell and an apologetic voice was on the other end of the line saying they would have to cancel, she saw Molly's face, her knowing eyes above a satisfied smirk. Seeing that face again in her mind's eye made Lucie feel even more like a weak rag doll. Then, as if her mind wanted to push her over the edge, she saw poor Kate again, propped up on her elbow on the black marble floor of The Vault in a spreading pool of ruby-bright blood. Lucie fell into her car's driver's seat and sat there, half-in half-out of the car with the door ajar, waiting for the attack of depression and weakness to pass.

  When she felt it lift, fog-like, she turned in her seat, shut the door, breathed in the car's unique pungent scent that was intensified by sitting unaired for so long, and turned the key in the ignition, muscles tensing for the worst. It started, a muttering purr. She breathed again. Next, she would go and get those locks for her rented refrigerator space. If she had energy after that, she'd have some more flyers printed and make a circuit of local bulletin boards again. They had plenty of ads now, thanks to her father's money and Erin's spendthrift ways, but she knew lots of people who enjoyed perusing community boards.

  Lucie sighed, thinking of that delightful word-of-mouth for her business that had come and gone, said her usual protect-me prayer she repeated whenever she got into a car, and backed out of the space. She was halfway to Norwalk, rolling along in the slow lane and feeling particularly vulnerable, as if there was nothing between her and the road and all the cars that roared by, too close, when her phone started ringing.

  "Merde," Lucie sa
id, shaking her head a little. She'd forgotten to turn it off. She never answered the phone while driving, would never take such an idiotic risk. Besides, it was illegal in Connecticut to talk on a handheld device, removing any remaining temptation.

  It went to voicemail. Then it started ringing again. It rang again at the Norwalk exit, making Lucie's shoulders hitch up around her ears as she clung to the steering wheel. Who was it? Was someone hurt? Who would call her like this? Pulling off the exit and into the first parking lot she saw, a small ramshackle strip mall that had seen better days, she parked on the uneven pavement and then snatched up her phone.

  "Petite Soiree at your service! Lucie Scott speaking!"

  "Whoa. I knew it. I caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry, I was just dying to talk to you. And your phone's been off every time I've called lately."

  "Who is this?" Lucie said, and as she did she recognized the wry voice. "Sharon?"

  "At your service. Do you really say that every time you answer the phone? I've never needed to call, texting being the ultimate superhighway of non-communication. Kind of like, yeah, I want to talk to you. No, not like that? What do you think I am, some kind of floozy? Text me and we'll see where this is going."

  Lucie chortled, feeling her tense muscles ease, and said, "Too true. And yes, that's the way my father thinks I should answer the phone. Does it really sound that bad?"

  "It sounds like you've got Asperger's or some other kind of vicious and inherent problem with the human race, but, hell, you're dealing with Fairfield County socialites - maybe they like that stuff. How would I know? Anyway, I'm not calling to critique your phone answering etiquette; I'm calling about something much more important. Seriously, now, I'm not messing."

  "What? What's up?"

  "What would you say if I told you that Molly is setting things up to fire me?"

  "Fire you? You? How is that even possible?"

  "Trust me, it's possible. In fact, it's happening. And I know that she did something to you, too. That you know something about her, but you're too damn decent to say anything. But let me ask you: what's happening with your catering jobs? Are you still losing them? And don't be some kind of heroine and pretend everything's fine if it's not. Please."

  Lucie sagged back into her car seat. Tell her? Sharon was a good friend; that was clear. Not only was she funny and smart, she was kind and giving. She was the first one to volunteer to help Ryan move Lucie's car from Greenwich Avenue to Stamford, the one to drive Lucie to several of her evening appointments with Adrienne when Ryan was working, the one who stopped by daily in the beginning to see how she was, bringing food and humorous gifts, Lucie's favorite being a Chia Pet.

  "Look how beautiful it is! Like a little garden in your house. Cha-cha-cha-Chia!" Sharon had said, displaying the gift with elaborate gestures and wide grin in Lucie's apartment after Lucie had opened it. During that terrible first week, Sharon's visits were the only time when Lucie laughed.

  And the secret, what had really happened - Lucie had kept it to herself all this time, for so long it didn't seem real anymore. She hadn't even told Ryan the details about what happened during those last days at TMB. It was all too...disgusting. But she wasn't getting any new work, even the ads were ineffective. Would a few flyers be able to perform miracles?

  Finally, Lucie said, "No, you're right. It's not fine. I've lost every job I had on the schedule. Except for those first few I got before Molly started her little campaign. I didn't want to tell you. I was sure that if I was only well enough and out promoting my business, then jobs would be pouring in." Lucie stopped then, swallowing and wiping at the tears that had popped into her eyes with her fingertips.

  Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I've been fooling myself; I just didn't want to face it. Molly's done exactly what she promised she'd do. She promised me that I'd never work in the tri-state area again. I guess I won't. I don't know what to do. A cookbook's great, but even if I get it, the advance will be small, nothing to live on. My dad has pie-in-the-sky ideas about my having a cable television show, but, I don't know, it seems unlikely. I don't even have a special angle for the show, and I can't seem to think. My brain must have broken when I fell. I really don't know what to do."

  "Well, I do," Sharon said. "At least I think I do. But I'm going to need you. I need more information, something we can use against Molly. I know you don't want to talk about whatever it was that happened between you two, but you've got to ask yourself: what is the right thing to do? Who are you protecting? Molly? Why? Aren't you willing to fight for your business? And I'm warning you, it probably will be a fight. This could get down and dirty, but it could also mean the end of your problems, and mine, if we can figure something out. Are you in?"

  "We don't have to figure anything out," Lucie said. "I've got plenty of ammo. I just didn't want to use it."

  "So?"

  "So, I'm heading back to my apartment now and you're going to meet me there. Let's talk," Lucie said, smiling at Sharon's whooping response and feeling an electric excitement zip through her, hope following and lifting her up until she was as light as a meringue.

  Vodka Martini

  Sharon marched down the hallway toward the Human Resources department drunk on fear. Her mind screamed at her. She didn't do things like this! This wasn't her bag, baby! Turn around and go back before it's too late!

  She fought down the inner screaming with her new reasoning: where did safety get you, exactly? The answer: nowhere at all. Were you even protected from life's cruel accidents? They happened anyway and to everyone. That horrible night at The Vault had done something to her. Chelsea's obvious depression combined with Lucie's destroyed hip combined with Kate's loss of her baby was too much for her to take.

  And had she really seen that? Had Bianca pushed Kate down those stairs? Or was it her crazy imagination making up more stuff about Bianca? It was only a slight gesture, seen across the length of a room. And Bianca had shouted those words of warning, after all? Sharon turned it over and over in her mind, trying to decide. She wondered if she should broach her feelings about Bianca with the others. Maybe they could shed some light, offer a clue.

  Right now, though, she knew exactly what she was going to do. Having traversed the long hallway, she turned the corner and was confronted with the open-plan area where the HR department's administrative assistant sat, where Lucie used to sit. Now an apple-cheeked blond sat there. Her nameplate read: Courtney Miller.

  Sharon walked up to the desk. "Hi, Courtney. You're new?"

  The girl looked up and sat up straight in her chair looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. "Yes! Just started two weeks ago! Love it!"

  "I'm Sharon. An analyst with Bob Crandall's team? Anyway, I was wondering if Molly was around?"

  From her office nearby, Molly shouted, "Here!"

  Sharon smiled at Courtney, who dimpled back at her. How old was this girl? Just out of college, probably, and perfectly naive and moldable. That would be Molly's preference, of course.

  Sharon turned and crossed the hallway to the doorway of Molly's office. She resisted the urge to make fun of Molly's schoolgirl reply, as if attendance was being taken in homeroom. Instead, she braced herself to be unnaturally saccharine and passive. "Hey Molly."

  "Well, well, well. Look who the cat drug in," Molly said, looking very satisfied, clearly expecting this visit and glorying in it.

  "Do you have a minute?"

  "Maybe....sure. Please, sit down."

  "Thanks," Sharon said, pulling the door shut behind her and sitting down in the guest chair that was crammed in front of Molly's desk. For all the lording about that Molly did, as if she was the Queen of Sheba, her office told the truth: management didn't think that much of her. The office was one of the smallest window offices at TMB's Stamford office.

  Molly's eyebrows were raised as she glanced at the closed door. "Oh? So we're going to be candid now. Interesting. It took you two signed warnings to get you here, and, honestly, I doubted you'd come at all.
Well, what do you want?"

  "You were right."

  "I was what?" Molly said and chuckled without humor, throwing up her hands sarcastically.

  Sharon realized she was clenching her teeth and forced herself to relax her jaw. "You were right. About Lucie. It was a mistake for me to be friends with her."

  Molly's face became avid and almost gleeful. "What happened?"

  "Let's just leave it at that. You were right. She's not to be trusted. Oh, and she's totally fake. What a goody-two-shoes."

  "Huh," Molly said, her eyes narrowing. "What a turnabout. And you won't tell me what happened?"

  Sharon shrugged, "I'm the one who looks like an idiot if I tell you. All I can say is she deserves what's coming to her. You must have been royally screwed by her, too."

  Molly leaned back in her chair and steepled her hands together in front of her mouth, touching her fingers lightly to her lips and regarding Sharon. Sharon fought to keep her face neutral and body relaxed while she endured Molly's inspection.

  After a moment, Molly said, "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were up to something. But no. You're not like that are you?"

  "I'm no bullshit," Sharon said, repeating the words Lucie had told her. "I want to make a deal with you. I can get Lucie's signature on that document. I can find a way to sneak it in. She still thinks we're friends. She won't know what happened until it's over."

  "Why? Why would you do that?"

  "I just told you. She screwed me sideways. And I'm about to lose my job here, so, I figure, I scratch your back, you scratch mine."

  "I don't know. I don't know if I want you to do it now. That offer I made, it was a limited-time kind of thing," Molly said, her steepled hands folding and dropping into her lap.