by Terri Osburn
“We sure as hell do.” He crossed to his desk and dropped his Gucci bag in a bottom drawer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
How could he have possibly heard already?
“Tell you what?” I hedged, not wanting to make any assumptions. I knew how it felt to have this news dropped with the brevity of a weather forecast.
Concern creased his features. “Oh, my God. You don’t know?”
“Do you mean why Amanda isn’t here?”
“I mean that the woman has cancer,” he blurted.
Was there some billboard that I didn’t know about? “How do you know?”
“She emailed me,” he said, eyes wide and brows arched to his hairline. “Who the hell tells you they have cancer via email?”
Oh, Amanda, how could you? “She told you in an email?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I nearly fell over on the bus and dropped my phone.”
On one hand, this spared me from being the bearer of bad news. On the other, I shared Marquette’s outrage.
“What else did she say?”
Marquette crossed his arms and dropped a hip onto the corner of his desk. “Absolutely nothing. Just that she has cancer and that you’d be in charge for the next couple of months.”
In charge? That was new. I’d expected her to still be around, at least part of the time. Amanda had never left me in charge of anything, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility. She should have at least discussed it with me. On a positive note, this did give me the power to increase Marquette’s duties.
“I don’t know anything else either.”
“She didn’t give you the details?” he asked, his voice rising another octave.
Staring at the empty desk across the room, I shook my head. “Nothing. Just that it’s cancer and she’ll be off for treatment.”
Marquette threw his hands in the air. “I don’t expect her to tell me anything, but she owes you more than that. What the hell?”
Did she, though? This lack of sharing was consistent with our established relationship. Sometime during the last eight years, we’d created an unwritten rule to keep things business only. Until now, the lack of personal connection hadn’t bothered me, but this wasn’t the same as not chatting about holidays with the family or some new drama we were enjoying.
This was cancer and possibly life or death. A damn good reason to break the rule. Apparently, Amanda didn’t see it that way.
“If she doesn’t want to tell us, then that’s her prerogative. What we have to figure out now is how to keep this place running while she’s gone.”
“I can work more hours to keep things organized here,” he offered.
Time to test the waters. “Actually, I was thinking more like having you work closer with clients.”
The perfectly sculpted brows arched again. “Are you serious? Will Amanda approve that?”
“She said I’m in charge, right? There’s no way I can handle every single client and event by myself. Even when Amanda is here, there aren’t enough hours in the day. How could she not approve?”
To be fair, I had no idea why she’d objected up to now. Marquette was a bit of a character, but he was professional, knew every detail of every event we planned, and had the perfect personality to engage with clients. Several already loved him just from dealing with him over the phone.
Before Marquette could comment on my plan, Amanda walked through the door and charged to her desk as if this was any other day.
“Morning,” she said, sparing neither of us a glance.
Marquette caught my eye and mouthed What the hell? I didn’t have an answer.
“Good morning,” I responded. Unsure of what else to say, I asked, “How are you?”
She looked at me as if I’d said something odd. “I’m fine. Why?”
“Well… I…” Saying because you have cancer didn’t seem polite. “Just asking,” I finally finished.
“How did the Jankowski meeting go yesterday?”
“Good,” I replied. “They’re happy with the venue and the hall has no problem with us bringing in a large screen to show the old home movies.”
The elderly couple planned to celebrate seventy years of wedded bliss surrounded by one hundred and fifty of their closest friends and family. The visual walks down memory lane had been their only nonnegotiable request.
“Excellent. I’ve gathered and updated all of the folders for events I have coming in the next three months.” She dropped a small file box onto my desk. “They’re in order by event date. Purple means wedding. Blue means corporate. Green means everything else. All of the information is here so there will be no need to go through my desk.” She glanced from me to Marquette and back. “Understand?”
“Yes,” we said in stereo.
“Good.”
As she crossed back to her desk, Marquette nodded aggressively in her direction. I knew what he wanted but maybe this was one of those times when asking for forgiveness instead of permission was the smarter way to go. Unfortunately, our ambitious assistant didn’t get the hint.
“Before you came in, Becca was saying how this is a good time for me to work closer with the clients. Maybe even take over a few projects to help out.”
“No,” Amanda snapped.
Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut?
I cleared my throat. “What I said was that getting through the next couple of months might be easier if Marquette takes on a little more responsibility. This is our busiest time and—”
“Marquette will continue as usual,” Amanda said, cutting me off. “The remaining events this month have all been finalized. The ones in June only need the last-minute confirmations done. Our calendar is lighter in July so that shouldn’t be an issue.”
How was she forgetting the bulk of the work? “I’m still having to meet with clients for events through the rest of the year, plus locking in venues for next year. Then there’s the requests we get weekly for potential new business.”
Amanda tucked her chair under her desk without ever sitting down. “There won’t be any new business. I’m closing to new clients until further notice.”
My entire body went numb. No new clients? That would bring the business to a stand still.
“You’re what?” I said.
Ignoring the question, she pulled her purse onto her shoulder and tossed the beige trench coat over her arm. “I’ll stop by a couple of days next week; otherwise, if you need to contact me, use email.”
She couldn’t just leave after such an announcement. I dashed from my chair and followed her to the door. “Are you planning to close this business?”
Spinning on her heels, which forced me to step back in order to tilt my head far enough to make eye contact, she stared at me for a full five seconds before answering. “My goal is to keep this business going for as long as possible, and I’m making decisions to that end. I trust you to make sure I still have a business when this is over. Can you or can you not do that?”
The smack from the sycamore had been less painful.
“Of course,” I said, my voice small as I tried to fold in on myself.
Without another word, she breezed through the door and silence loomed around me. Loud and heavy and suffocating. Where did I get off demanding answers at a time like this? And asking such a selfish question? Ending up unemployed wouldn’t be nearly as bad as what could happen to her.
“You okay?” Marquette asked, startling me out of my downward spiral.
“I’m fine,” I said, returning to my seat when the alarm on my phone went off. “I have to order the car for my first meeting. I probably won’t make it back in today.”
Pausing with my hands braced on the back of my chair, I filled my lungs and focused on a sticky note stuck to the bottom of my monitor. My therapist had suggested I put it there two years ago and I still relied on the words written across it.
You can breathe your way through anything.
“I’ll take care of things here,�
�� Marquette assured me, his voice that of a teacher soothing a frightened child.
Looking up, I recalled myself saying those same words two days before and uttered the response I wished Amanda had said to me.
“Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
I really did love my job, but one of the downsides to enduring one meeting after the next was the need to constantly smile. My cheeks ached from the effort so the time in between, when I didn’t have to be on, was often my favorite part of the day. I managed to carve out thirty minutes around mid-afternoon to grab a late lunch, and after finding a table at the back of the restaurant patio, I massaged my face with one hand while scrolling through the notifications on my phone with the other.
The phone had been dinging for hours but other than making sure there were no 9-1-1 messages from Marquette, I hadn’t taken the time to read them. The first was a text from Megan letting me know my date was looking forward to meeting me. I wished I could say the same. She included a brief description, which I appreciated, and a few more pertinent details we hadn’t discussed the night before.
In addition to Chad being a writer from the book club at her library, he was a Georgetown grad originally from our area and currently working customer service. More power to him. I tried that one summer during college and quickly learned I was not cut out for that level of abuse. She estimated him to be around five foot seven, so at least I wouldn’t have to crimp my neck all night to maintain eye contact. Short brown hair, hazel eyes, and a kind smile.
The last message read, “Like I said, nothing like the last two,” and included a picture of this perfectly nice-sounding man.
The description fit and some of the anxiety about the night eased since harmless was the first word that came to mind. Though I had to wonder why we were meeting at a sports bar. The Pens were playing the Capitals—our conference rivals—in a playoff game tonight in DC which meant the bar would be packed with rowdy fans. I appreciated getting to watch the game, but Chad didn’t look like the hockey type.
Not that there necessarily was such a thing as a hockey type. The times I’d attended in person I’d been surrounded by fans ranging from five to seventy-five, all passionate about the game and the players they supported. No reason Chad couldn’t be one of them.
The next message was from Mom. Aunt Jeanne, my dad’s youngest sister, was coming to stay for a while and would be moving into my old bedroom. Mom had apparently found a box of my things in the closet and was going to have Joey drop it off at my place. I had no clue what would be inside and was tempted to tell her to toss it, but curiosity won out.
What’s in the box? I text back.
Seconds passed before she replied. I don’t know. I didn’t open it.
I would only a few blocks away so it made sense to swing over after the date. I’ll be at Rigby’s tonight. I’ll stop by and go through it.
See you then, she wrote back.
This visit would offer the added bonus of getting more details about Aunt Jeanne. Two weeks ago I got the message that she was leaving her husband after forty-two years. Either she’d decided not to stay in the house they’d shared for nearly all of those four decades, or the stay with Mom and Dad was temporary while Uncle Reginald moved out. Would he still be my uncle after they divorced? I had no idea how that worked.
Scrolling, next up was a one-line message from Lindsey.
Call me when you get this.
Hopefully, this was good news about the final date. As in, the guy changed his mind and I was off the hook. School let out twenty minutes ago so she should have been free to talk.
Answering on the second ring, she said, “Hey, lady.”
“Hey, yourself. I got your message. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to check in,” she said. “Stay in your lane, dipshit.”
I assumed the second part was not directed at me. Mild-mannered teacher by day, Lindsey turned into a foul-mouthed road-rager behind the wheel. If her students ever heard the language that crossed her lips while driving, they’d never see her in the same light again.
“Check in about what?” Tell me he canceled. Tell me he canceled.
“About the date.” Yes. I was off the hook. “He’s a bit reluctant.”
“I don’t blame him.” The man was obviously smarter than I was and getting out while the getting was good. “It’s fine. You gave it your best shot.”
“I didn’t say the date was off,” she snapped, bursting my balloon. “He’s just taking a little more convincing than I expected.”
Because who didn’t want to go on a date with a guy who took extra convincing to go out with you? “Just tell him to forget it, Linds. If he doesn’t want to go, he shouldn’t have to.”
I heard the tatink, tatink of her blinker seconds before she snapped, “Green means go, asshole. It’s the pedal under your right foot.”
“Have you tried the breathing exercises we talked about?” I asked.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. These people can’t freaking drive.”
“You’ve been saying that since we were sixteen.” Incidentally, riding around with teenage Lindsey had played a large part in my decision not to get a license. “I’m serious about the date. I don’t want to spend the evening with a guy who would rather be anywhere else.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already made the reservation on the Clipper for the six o’clock dinner cruise.”
“A dinner cruise?” She hadn’t mentioned this before. “If this doesn’t go well, I won’t be able to get away from him. What the heck, Linds?”
“You won’t want to get away from him. I told you last night that he’s perfect for you. Look,” she said, “I’ve known you since we were twelve. If I can’t pick out the right guy for you, then no one can.”
My brain flashed back fifteen years to the moment when she’d pointed out a boy from her homeroom class and made the same claim—that he was perfect for me. That boy had been Brian, and she had been right. But just as lightning never struck twice, finding the perfect guy a second time around was not going to happen.
“Just do me a favor and don’t force him, okay?”
Before she could answer, the alarm went off on my phone.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I need to order a car to get to my next meeting.”
“The offer to teach you to drive is always open.” Before I could respond she growled, “Keep riding my ass, jagoff, and you’ll be buying me a new car.”
How did she miss the irony of uttering those two statements back-to-back?
“If common sense prevails and this date backs out,” I said, “let me know. My schedule is crazy right now so having a night to catch up would be helpful.”
“He’ll be there, and you’re going to thank me for making you do this.”
Highly doubtful. “I need to go. Try not to rage your way into an accident, and keep me posted about tomorrow.”
“Will do, sweetie. Good luck with your meetings and have a nice time tonight, but not too nice. Make sure my guy still has a chance.”
No one had a chance and the sooner my friends admitted that, the more peaceful my life would be. With luck, Lindsey’s pick would make the right choice and spare us both the hassle.
Date number three put me back in my old stomping grounds of Carnegie. I got smart this time and brought a pair of jeans to work since we were meeting at Rigby’s Irish Pub, a casual place I knew well, and one where I’d stand out like a Browns fan at a Steelers game if I walked in wearing a business suit.
The popular eatery had a long bar area at the entrance with a vintage metal tile ceiling and the kind of woodwork you didn’t find in anything not built in the last century. What felt like forever ago, Dad used to bring me here to watch Pirate games in the summers when I was out of school. Back then, nobody flinched at a nine-year-old eating peanuts while her dad and his buddies downed Iron City beers and aged Irish whiskey.
The spacious and open covered patio conne
cted to the right side of the Kelly-green building—dubbed Rigby’s Garden—was a newer addition and I could see the giant screen TVs as I waited for Chad near a tree not far from the garden entrance. The pregame was still rolling but the crowd was already rowdy enough for me to hear countless conversations ranging from who would score the first goal to how badly the Pens were going to wipe the ice with the Capitals.
At the table just over the short brick wall, three older men sat beneath a black and gold patio umbrella swapping stories about previous Stanley Cup runs. They talked about the 1992 finals when the Pens routed the Blackhawks in four the way I’d heard women talk about their wedding days. The men could probably rattle off stats from that series much quicker than they could name the bridesmaids in attendance at their own nuptials.
“I’m telling you, ain’t nobody ever going to top Mario,” one declared.
“You don’t think Sid is just as good?” a tablemate asked with an incredulous look on his scruff-covered face.
“He’s good,” the first man replied, hands in the air palms forward. “I ain’t saying nuttin’ against him. But Mario is still my man.”
The last of the threesome lifted a tall mug of beer. “Yinz can keep your fancy-ass favorites. My boy Trottier put ’em all to shame.”
Bryan Trottier was Dad’s favorite player of all time so I had to agree.
Leaning my back against the tree, I checked the time on my phone. Still five minutes before the meet-up time of seven so I did a quick scroll of email and found a message from Amanda.
“I need you to cover the Henderson graduation party tomorrow. The folder is on your desk.”
Damn it. There went my event free weekend. Sending a quick text, I asked what time the event was scheduled to run, and Amanda responded immediately with the brief reply of noon to three. That would leave plenty of time before the last date, or, if the date didn’t happen, I might actually get an entire evening to sit in one place. There would be a computer on my lap, but a night on my couch with Milo purring in my ear sounded heavenly.
“Becca Witherspoon?”