by Vi Keeland
The waiter brought the check. I reached for it, even though I hated to waste a dime these days. It was the absolute least I could do for this kind woman whose wedding I’d crashed.
But Olivia beat me to it. “This lunch is on me. I invited you.”
“I can’t let you do that. I already owe you one meal.”
She waved me off and grabbed her wallet from her purse. Sticking her credit card in the leather check folio, she folded it closed. “Absolutely not. I insist.”
Before I could argue further, she held up her hand and the waiter swooped in and took the bill.
I sighed, feeling like a loser. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
We walked outside together. I was going uptown to run some errands, and she was heading downtown back to work, so we said goodbye. Olivia pulled me in for a hug like we were the old friends I’d said we were at her wedding.
“I’ll have your scents ready next week,” I told her. “I can ship them to you or to each individual person, if you prefer.”
She smiled. “Call me when they’re ready, and we’ll figure something out.”
“Okay. I will.”
***
A week later, I was up to my eyeballs in cardboard.
“That’s the last of it.” Fisher stacked the last carton on top of an already five-foot-high mountain of boxes. He pulled up his T-shirt and used the bottom to wipe sweat from his forehead. “You better be making stuffed manicotti soon for all this lifting you had me do today.”
“I promise I will. I didn’t realize how much I’d accumulated in that storage unit. I can’t believe there were two-hundred boxes in there.” In my ongoing effort to cut costs, I’d enlisted Fisher to help me relocate everything from my pricey self-storage unit to my apartment. Since I no longer had a roommate, I had the space here.
Fisher reached behind him into the waistband of his shorts. “I almost forgot. I picked up our mail on my last trip in. This package you got is falling apart. It looks like the mailman ripped it when he jammed it in your box to make it fit.”
Everything was damp from his back sweat. My nose wrinkled. “Gross. Put it over there for me, please.”
Fisher tossed the pile on the kitchen table, and the envelopes fanned out. The logo on the corner of one caught my eye. The SBA. I picked it up and examined it.
“Oh my God. This is a small envelope. That’s not a good sign.”
“Who’s it from?”
“The Small Business Administration—I was supposed to get a decision on the loan I applied for in two to three weeks. It’s barely been two.”
“That’s great. They probably loved your business so much, they couldn’t wait to approve you.”
I shook my head. “When you apply for something and you get back a thin envelope, it’s never a good sign. It’s like finding a regular-sized white envelope from the college you applied to in your mailbox instead of the big brown one they send with all your welcome stuff inside. If they were approving me, this would be thick.”
Fisher rolled his eyes. “Most things are done online these days. Stop being so negative and open the damn thing. I bet there’s a login and password for you to go online and sign whatever they need you to sign.”
I blew out a deep breath. “I don’t have a good feeling, Fisher. What am I going to do if they decline me? I’ve applied at three banks already. No one is giving an unemployed person a loan. I was an idiot to quit my job and think I could make a go of this business. They already filled my job at Estée Lauder, and most of the decent jobs for perfume chemists are overseas now. What the hell am I going to do? How am I going to pay my rent?”
Fisher put his hands on my shoulders. “Take a deep breath. You don’t even know what’s in the envelope yet. For all we know, it might be a form letter just thanking you for applying or telling you there’s a delay in processing.”
I was too nervous to open it, so I held the envelope out to my friend. “You do it. I can’t.”
Fisher shook his head, but tore open the envelope. I watched, holding my breath as his eyes scanned the first few lines. The frown that formed at the corners of his lips told me everything I needed to know.
I shut my eyes. “Oh, God...”
“I’m sorry, Stella. They said you don’t have enough time in the business or a strong enough positive cash flow. But how the hell are you supposed to have either of those if they don’t give you the loan to help you get the business up and running?”
I sighed. “I know. That’s basically what all the banks said, too.”
“Can you just start really small and get some experience and apply again?”
I wished it were that easy. “I don’t have the packaging and enough of some of the samples I need to put into the boxes people would use to order.”
Fisher raked a hand through his hair. “Shit. I have about nine grand in the bank I was saving for a rainy day. It’s yours. You don’t even have to pay me back.”
“I love you for offering that, Fisher. I really do. But I can’t take your money.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my family, and that’s what families do.”
I didn’t want to insult my friend, but nine-thousand dollars wouldn’t be nearly enough to launch. “I’ll figure something out. But thank you for the generous offer. It means the world to me that you would even consider doing that.”
“You know what this calls for?”
“What?”
“Dom. I’m going to go get one of those expensive bottles of champagne we have left from that wedding.”
“This calls for a celebration? Are we celebrating my loan decline, or the fact that my apartment is now a warehouse?”
Fisher kissed my forehead. “We’re celebrating that this is all going to work out. Remember, if you don’t think positive, positive things won’t happen. I’ll be right back.”
While he disappeared to his apartment next door, I looked around. My living room was a total disaster, which felt appropriate right about now since my life matched it. One year ago, I’d been engaged to be married, had a great job making six figures, savings most twenty-seven-year-olds didn’t accumulate until they were forty, and the dream of an exciting new business venture. Now my ex-fiancé was engaged to someone else, I was unemployed and broke, and my new exciting business felt more like a noose around my neck.
I stared down at the loan-denial letter on the table for a minute, then wadded it up into a ball and pitched it toward the kitchen garbage can. Of course, I missed. In a daze, I shuffled through my mail, which was mostly just advertisements, and then decided to open the ripped package that had come. I assumed it was yet more of the product samples I’d ordered before the bank closed my line of credit—product I’d now never be able to afford. But when I opened the box, it wasn’t perfume-ingredient samples. Instead, it was a diary I’d ordered off eBay. I’d actually forgotten all about it since I’d won the auction almost three full months ago. Shipping from overseas could take forever, and this one had come from Italy.
Normally, when a new diary arrived, I could hardly wait to read the first chapter. But this one was just a reminder of two-hundred-and-forty-seven dollars I’d wasted. I set it down on the coffee table in the living room and decided to go wash up before Fisher returned with the champagne.
Ten minutes later, when I emerged from the bathroom, I found my best friend sprawled out on my couch, drinking bubbly and thumbing through the new diary.
“Uh…you know this woman didn’t write in English, right?” Fisher held out a glass of champagne for me.
I took it and plopped down on the chair across from him. “It’s Italian. And it’s a man’s. Which means I overpaid for it and still need to have it translated.”
Men’s diaries always went for a premium on auction sites because they were so rare. Last time I bought a French one, it cost me three-hundred dollars, plus a hundred-and-fifty bucks for a translator.
I sipped the champagne. “It’ll be collecting
dust for a while. Splurging for a translation isn’t as high on my priority list as eating next month.”
Fisher shook his head and tossed the beat-up, old diary on the coffee table. “I thought you quit reading them after what happened last year when you got too caught up in it.”
I sighed. “I fell off the wagon.”
“You’re a strange bird, my Stella Bella. You know that?”
“This coming from a man who collects the stickers you peel off bananas on the inside of his coat closet door.”
My cell phone started to ring in my pocket, so I slipped it out and read the name flashing on the screen. “Well, this is appropriate. It’s the woman whose champagne we stole.”
“Tell her to send more.”
I laughed and swiped to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, Stella. It’s Olivia.”
“Hey, Olivia. Thanks for calling me back. I wanted to let you know I have the perfumes done for your wedding party.”
“I’m so excited to see them. Or smell them. Or see and smell them. Whatever.”
I smiled. “I hope your friends like them.”
“I told a few people about what you do, and they’re all interested in having scents made. Do you know when your website will be up and running yet?”
I frowned. “Not in the foreseeable future, unfortunately.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“The SBA turned down my loan application. I just received the letter today.”
“Idiots. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about taking on a partner? Someone who comes with a cash infusion in exchange for an interest in the business.”
I’d actually considered that, but no one I knew had much money. “Maybe. I’m going to give it some thought. Tonight I’ll have a few drinks to forget. Tomorrow I’ll start formulating a new game plan.”
“Good. That’s the right attitude.”
“Thank you. So where do you want me to ship your perfumes?”
“I could meet you tomorrow, if you’re free? My maid of honor is leaving in two days to go work in London for a few months. I’m meeting her for dinner tomorrow night. I’d love to give it to her then, if it’s not too much trouble for me to pick them up.”
“No, no problem at all.”
“Okay! I have a meeting in the morning. Is it alright if I text you when that ends to let you know a time? I should be able to come to wherever you are.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Talk to you then.”
After I hung up, Fisher said, “Only you would make friends with the woman whose wedding we crashed.”
I shrugged. “Olivia’s actually really great. I’m going to give her all the perfumes I made for her wedding party as an apology gift, rather than charge her. I figured it’s the least I could do.”
“See if she has any more parties we can crash.” He held up the bottle of champagne before refilling his glass. “We can’t go back to the cheap stuff after this.” He sucked half a glass down and let out an exaggerated aaah. “By the way, I take it you haven’t heard from Prince Charming or you would have said something?”
I frowned. “Nope. When I had lunch with Olivia, she didn’t mention that she knew he’d asked me out. So I didn’t either. Though she did tell me he tended to hold a grudge.”
“His loss.”
I didn’t say so, but it felt like a loss to me, too. Something about Hudson had gotten under my skin, and I’d been excited to go out with him. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d anticipated a call from a man the way I had his. Which was why when he hadn’t followed through, it had weighed on me a bit more than it should have. But, oh well. Ben was…nice.
Over the next two hours, Fisher and I polished off that bottle and a bottle of wine I’d had open in my fridge. At least one thing had gone right this week—I’d managed to get sufficiently loaded as intended. When I yawned, Fisher took the hint.
“Alright, I’ll leave. You don’t have to fake yawn to get rid of me.”
“It wasn’t fake.”
“Sure, it wasn’t.”
He stood and took our glasses and the two empty bottles into the kitchen. When he came back, I was debating sleeping in the comfy chair where I was currently slouched.
Fisher leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I love you. Everything will be better tomorrow.”
Considering I’d probably be waking with a headache, I doubted that. But I hated to be a Debbie Downer. “Thanks again for everything, Fisher. Love you, too.”
He picked up the diary still sitting on the coffee table. “I’m taking this and having it translated for your birthday next month.”
“Uh, I won’t be twenty-eight for a long time. Your birthday is next month. Are you doing what you did last year?”
“Yes, all the treats are for you, because you’re my best gift ever. Plus, making you happy makes me happy, Stella Bella. Just don’t let this diary take over your life.”
CHAPTER 6
Stella
Fifteen years ago
I picked up a brown leather book and brought it to my nose for a sniff. God, I love that smell. It reminded me of Spencer Knox. He carried a football everywhere he went and always tossed it into the air and caught it while talking. Every time the calfskin smacked against his palms, the faint smell of leather wafted and made me smile.
The lady running the garage sale was older and had an orange fanny pack around her midriff. Her frizzy gray hair stuck out in all different directions, making me think she might’ve recently stuck her finger into a socket, instead of the plug of the lamp she was positioning on a folding table.
I walked over to her. “Excuse me. How much is this?”
She glanced down at my hands. “It’s fifty cents. But I paid ten dollars for it fifteen years ago at someone else’s garage sale. That’s what happens when you buy crap you don’t really need. You end up getting rid of it like the person before you did. You write in a diary?”
I hadn’t actually noticed the word Diary embossed on the front cover until she pointed it out. I shook my head. “I’ve never had one before.”
A thin woman wearing a sweater set with her hair slicked back into a neat ponytail walked up the driveway carrying a boxed coffee maker. “I’ll give you five dollars for this.”
The old lady pursed her lips. “Can you not read? The sticker says it’s twenty.”
“I’m only willing to pay five.”
“Well, then you can walk your skinny little ass right back over to the table you got it from and put it back.”
The sweater set woman gasped. “How rude.”
The old lady grumbled something about the woman going back to her country club and returned her attention to me. “So, do you want that diary or not? I need to pay attention to the browsers. Some people don’t think the prices at a garage sale are low enough, so they help themselves to a five-finger discount.”
I’d been thinking I should offer twenty-five cents since she’d started out at fifty. My mom always said we should haggle at these sales. But this woman didn’t seem like the negotiating type. Besides, I had the fifty cents, she’d paid ten dollars, and I was a little afraid of her. So I dug into my pocket and pulled out two quarters. “I’ll take it.”
A few days later, I went to my room after dinner and locked the door before digging out the diary. I didn’t want my sister bursting in and finding out I was writing down the things on my mind. She’d most definitely try to read it when I wasn’t home—especially if she knew the type of stuff on my mind lately.
Two days ago, Spencer had asked me to be his girlfriend. I’d had the biggest crush on him since fifth grade. Of course I’d said yes, even though my parents had told my sister she couldn’t date until high school when she’d asked, and I was only in seventh grade. Before Spencer became my boyfriend, I’d never been nervous around boys. But now I was freaking out whenev
er he and I so much as talked. I knew the reason—he’d gone out with Kelly Reed before me, and they’d made out. I’d never kissed a boy before, and now I worried I might do it wrong when the time came. So I thought it might be a good first entry in my new diary. Maybe it would help me work out how I was going to handle things by putting my fears down on paper.
Lying on my stomach on my bed, I swung my feet in the air behind me as I chewed on the top of my pencil and decided how to start. Do I just write Dear Diary or is that geek city?
“Stella?” My father’s voice and the sound of him attempting to turn my door handle startled me.
I jumped up, and the diary bounced off the bed, landing pages down on the floor. “Uh, who is it?”
“It’s your father. What other man knocks on your bedroom door, and why is it locked?”
“Ummm…because I’m getting changed for bed.”
“Oh. Alright. I was just popping in to say goodnight.”
“’Night, Dad!”
“Goodnight, pipsqueak.”
I listened for his footsteps to fade into the distance before I scooped the diary off the floor. Some of the pages in the middle had wrinkled, so I went to smooth them out. But when I turned the book over, I found words written on the pages. Lots of them. Confused, I read a few lines and then flipped a few pages back. My eyes widened as I read the top of one of the pages.
Dear Diary,
Oh my God!
I flipped back more pages. Two or three were filled with words, but then there was the same start.
Dear Diary,
Pages and pages were filled. How could I have not noticed? I could’ve sworn I’d opened it at the garage sale. But as I flipped to the beginning, I realized why I hadn’t spotted all the blue ink. The first five or six pages of the diary were completely blank.
But whose diary was it? The woman said she’d bought it at a garage sale years ago. So had she not noticed either?
Maybe I should go back and return it.
Or give it to my mom and see what she thought I should do?
Though…
Maybe I could read a little first and see if it gave me any idea who the book belonged to.