You Had Me at Good-bye Page 5

  Like a true friend, Tabby pours the first glass for me. “That’s rotten luck, Dancy. I know how much you love that place.”

  I nod glumly and shove a tasty, soft bite of torte into my mouth. It helps for the couple of seconds it takes to chew and swallow. “Kale never liked growing up there.” I frown and stomp my foot. “He wanted to live in the country and raise chickens. Why should he get the double view?”

  Tabby swigs down some chocolate milk. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” Laini adds.

  “Even Jack knows Kale doesn’t want the apartment, so why didn’t my parents ever pick up on that small detail?”

  Laini gives Tabby a look. “Jack, huh?” Tabby says.

  “Yes.” I frown. “He was a stand-in for Floyd, but then Floyd came anyway. I swear, if I catch his cold, I’m suing. My cousin Sheri showed up without a date and the numbers were even again.”

  “The numbers were even?” Laini’s grinning.

  “You know. You have to have an equal number of men and women at a dinner party; otherwise it’s—”

  “Uneven?” Tabby asks.

  “Very funny,” I say.

  She laughs. “So, what did Kale’s fiancée say about the gift?”

  “What do you think? She was all smiles and happy tears.” And why shouldn’t she be? She’ll be Cinderella, marrying the prince and inheriting the kingdom. “Brynn’s from a farm in Oklahoma. It’s all been uphill for her until now.”

  “Hey, I had a friend from Oklahoma once,” Laini says. “She was nice. I could hardly understand a word she said. You remember her, Tabby? She was in our freshman comp class. Her name was Jodi.”

  Tabby frowns.

  Jodi? Focus, girls. We’re talking about me.

  “Oh, yeah,” Tabby says, completely not picking up on my vibe of discontent with this line of thought. “I remember Jodi. Only she wasn’t from Oklahoma. It was Arkansas.”

  Inside, I’m twisting. I mean, does it really make a difference where Jodi came from?

  “Hmm. I knew it was down south. Remember that accent?”

  A smile taps Tabby’s lips. “Loved it. Didn’t you?”

  Laini laughs and nods. “And smart. Remember how she always made A’s?”

  “Okay,” I say. “But what about my brother getting a condo he doesn’t deserve?”

  They look at each other, and I swear they roll their eyes.

  “Oh, never mind.” I give a little huff, even though I know how ridiculous I am.

  “What are your plans this weekend?” Laini asks.

  I shrug. “I have some editing to do. I’ll probably do that after we get back from Nick’s.”

  “Come to church with David and the twins and me on Sunday,” Tabby says. “You’ll feel better if you go to church.”

  Tabby loves her church. It’s made up of this eclectic group of actors and singers, with a few average people like me thrown in for good measure, so it’s truly laid-back and unusual. But when I start going on a regular basis (and I truly will—eventually), I need something more traditional. Something like Kale’s church.

  “Maybe,” I say, and we both know that means “thanks, but no thanks.”

  Laini clears her throat. “Did Jack mention anything about the office?”

  I give a quick shrug. “He’s better at separating work and personal life than anyone I know. Besides, we didn’t talk that much before Dad clinked the glass and made his announcement. And afterward it was all about the condo. He was pretty nice, actually.”

  I shake my head and flop my arm over the back of the chair I’m slouching in. “If I’d had any idea that my folks were getting back together, or that Kale would get custody of the condo, I’d definitely have missed the dinner tonight.”

  “You would not have,” Tabby says. She’s right. And so is Nick. I am a weenie.

  “So, where do your parents plan to live?” she asks. “The bachelor pad?”

  I picture my mother in that animal-printed monstrosity, and laughter shoots to my lips. “Not in a million years. Actually, they’re selling the love shack and moving to Florida right after Kale’s wedding. I have to start cleaning out my things next Saturday, as a matter of fact.” I dread what is sure to be a long and tedious task. My mother kept every pom-pom, every yearbook, every—well, let’s face it, every memento from my first blankie to my graduation gown. And guess what? I have to be the one to get rid of them. Because Mother was only keeping them “for me.” Personally, I don’t think that’s fair.

  I shove up from the chair and turn to my friends. “Thanks for the food and sympathy. I’m going to run an aromatherapy bath and read Cate Able’s latest book again.” I’ve read it twice already, but my love of this author’s work borders on obsession. I wish she’d write one book a year instead of every eighteen months to two years. I hate waiting so long between novels. But Tony Kramer, my boss, is the only one she’ll communicate with at the publishing house, and he can’t entice her to speed up the process.

  Tabby does a lazy stretch. “I need to go over some lines for Monday. David’s parents are coming in tomorrow, so I’ll be too busy this weekend to do anything but impress the future in-laws.”

  “Which you could do in your sleep,” I say.

  The two of us look at Laini and wait for her to announce her intentions. She pretends not to notice for a second, then scowls. “I have an exam on Monday. And I have to help my mom all weekend with that attic.”

  “Then shouldn’t you have been studying tonight, instead of eating and watching TV?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says dejectedly. “I’m going to flunk.”

  “What?” I can’t believe Little Miss Sunshine is putting negativity into the atmosphere.

  “It’s a color thing. I’m horrible at color schemes. What’s wrong with blue and black together?”

  “Nothing,” Tabby pipes up, “if you’re a bruise.”

  “I know that in my head,” Laini says. “But when it comes to reasonable understanding of why it’s not a good idea, the whole concept escapes me.”

  “Well, you only need to know it cognitively to pass the test.” I hate to be glib, but real learning comes from experience, not books.

  “I know, but I stopped doing accounting because I was tired of being good at something I had no passion for. Now I have passion for something I’m apparently no good at.”

  “No good at?” Tabby’s outrage fills the room. “You’re great. Look at this place.”

  And we do. Blue and black abound, as do brass and wood. My mother’s nightmare. “Look, Laini. A good designer is like a good piano teacher.”

  My friends stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, really. Some teachers have classical flair, some modern, some jazz. It’s all about personal taste. Your taste is . . . different.”

  Her expression drops further and Tabby gives me a “nice job” look. I rush on before either can speak. “No, not different. That’s the wrong word. I meant unique. And there’s probably a whole market out there waiting for your style. I mean, who would have ever thought Crocs would be in fashion?” I look to Tabby for help and she picks up the ball.

  “Yeah, Crocs. Good analogy, Dan.” Tabby clears her throat. Searching . . . searching . . . and her eyes light. Eureka! “Have you ever seen Dancy here in a pair?”

  My mother would die.

  “Her mother would croak.”

  See?

  Tabby continues. “But your mom has a pair in every color, and so do I.”

  Laini’s face remains creased with confusion, but her eyes soften as she reaches forward and gives me and then Tabby a quick squeeze. “Different strokes for different folks. I get it.” She sends us a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, so I know we haven’t done a thing for her. Ah, well. “I’m going to bed. I have a bit of a headache.”

  “Me too,” Tabby says.

  I say good night to my friends and do what I do best . . . sink myself into a bubbly aromatherapy bath. My favorite things in the w
orld—a Cate Able book in my hands and Ella Fitzgerald playing in the background. Why is my mind filled with swirling thoughts?

  Various candles lit, I close my eyes, trying to shut out the disappointing evening. For the record, I’m not jealous of my brother and his wife-to-be. At least, not very jealous. But I do think it’s a little unfair. If my parents were going to get rid of the condo, shouldn’t they have at least given us the opportunity to talk about it, and maybe asked if I might want it, too? I mean, what if I were the one getting married? Would I be the one getting the condo?

  My cell phone is beeping when I get out of the tub and get back to my room. A message from my mother.

  “Darling, you ran out so fast tonight, I didn’t have a chance to invite you for lunch tomorrow. Come around noon if you’re available. But do call and confirm.”

  No, Mother! Not on Saturday! It’s simple. I’ll politely but firmly explain that I need my Saturdays to do laundry and work on editing. I will not under any circumstances be bullied or guilted into accepting this lunch invitation.

  I dial her number.

  “Dancy, what are you doing?” she asks sleepily. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  I’m guessing somewhere around . . . “Ten?”

  “Try midnight.”

  Whoops. “Sorry, Mother. Just returning your call.”

  “My call?” I hear rustling on the other end of the line as though she’s sitting up—probably grabbing her glasses—something she’d rather die than admit. She wears contacts. Too vain to wear her glasses out in public, even if they are fashionable these days. I’m not sure why she doesn’t just get Lasik surgery and be done with it. It’s not as though she’s afraid of surgery above the neck. I don’t suppose I should mention how many procedures she’s had done, but let’s just say it’s more than three, less than twenty.

  I hear her click the lamp switch. “I called earlier for something. . . . Oh dear. What was it? Oh, yes. You ran out so fast tonight, I didn’t have a chance to ask. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  Be strong. You cannot be at her beck and call all weekend. You must get your laundry done, editing accomplished.

  “Really, Dancy. It’s not a trick question. Are you free or aren’t you?”

  Say no, say no, say no. I despise my weakness where this woman is concerned. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll be there.”

  “Come by at noon. I’ll have Amanda whip us up a light lunch. Plan to stay for a few hours.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I mutter again, after the call is disconnected. I throw myself across the top of my covers with a groan and stare into gloomy darkness until my eyes grow heavy and I can’t stare any longer.

  When Laini knocks on my door at six thirty the next morning, I decide to pass on coffee with the girls. I’m wrung out emotionally and need to sleep away my depression. I’ll ply myself with caffeine and sugar after the early morning rush at Nick’s, when I can have the place virtually to myself and continue my third reading of Cate Able’s most recent book.

  That’s my plan.

  But by eight o’clock my phone is ringing off the hook, pulling me from a crazy dream about Jack Quinn. I hate it when I have Jack Quinn dreams. Especially because I always seem to have a British accent, but unlike his, mine sounds like Eliza Doolittle’s.

  “’Ello?” I say in groggy Cockney.

  “Dan!” Tabby hollers against background noise. “Nick needs your help.”

  “What’s wrong? Is he sick?”

  “Sure, Nurse Dancy. He’s sick and needs your medical expertise.”

  Sarcasm isn’t becoming this early in the morning.

  “What, then?” I growl.

  “Nelda is still out of town, and that article in the New York Times hit yesterday morning.”

  “Wait. What article?”

  “The one about Nick’s place, remember? Laini mentioned it yesterday. They said it’s better than Starbucks. The best-kept secret in New York. Ring a bell?”

  “Vaguely. That explains the four-hour line to the door.”

  “Yeah, and it’s looking to be more of the same. We’ve been helping since we got here, but I have to meet David and the kids and Laini’s mom’ll have a cow if she’s not there soon.”

  “So that leaves me. . . .”

  “What do you say?”

  “Tell Nick I’ll be there in twenty minutes, but I have to be at my mother’s by noon, so I can’t stay all day.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell him. Thanks, Dancy.”

  “No problem.”

  Sleep is nice. But helping out a guy like Nick—so much better.

  4

  Valerie stared at the deed to the family condo and then back at her parents. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Honey, you know we’ve always wanted to move to Africa and feed starving children,” Mom said, her eyes misting. “We feel now is the time for us to make that move.”

  Dad laughed to cover his own emotions. “We’re not exactly getting any younger, you know.”

  “I’ll just miss you guys so much.” Valerie’s eyes filled with tears she never meant to show. “Five years seems like forever.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” her mom said, “those years without us will simply fly by. I promise. Now, let’s talk about how you want to decorate. It’s on Daddy and me. A going-away present.”

  “But I’m supposed to give you the going-away gift.”

  “Pumpkin,” her dad said, placing a gentle arm around her shoulders, “knowing you’ll be safe and sound in our family home is all the gift we need.”

  —An excerpt from Fifth Avenue Princess

  by Dancy Ames

  “Ey, princess. You wanna get the lead out already?”

  I swear if that man yells at me one more time . . . “Anyone ever tell you you’re ungrateful, Nick?”

  “I should be grateful you’re so slow?” he hollers from the kitchen.

  “You should be grateful I don’t dump mocha latte all over your head,” I mumble. I poise the pen over the order pad. “What’ll it be?” I ask without looking up.

  “I didn’t realize you were moonlighting.”

  The husky male English accent draws my eyes upward as dread knots my stomach. “Just helping out a friend,” I say into Jack Quinn’s bemused face, “on my day off.”

  He holds up his palms. “I’m not accusing you of anything. You have a perfect right to spend your day off however you choose.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s big of you.” I smile to let him know I’m kidding.

  He winks, and his eyes twinkle beautifully.

  “’Ey! You wanna catch up with your boyfriend on your own time?”

  I’m beginning to realize that Nick can really be a pain in the neck.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Nick. He’s my supervisor, and he never yells at me.”

  “Not that I don’t want to.” Jack offers me a slip of a grin. “Most of the time.”

  Gathering a deep breath, I look him in the eye. “What can I get for you, Jack?”

  The bell bing-bongs as the door opens and the last three people in line head outside and across the street to Starbucks.

  “You’re losing Nick customers. Either order something or—or—” I was going to say, “just leave,” but I can’t bring myself to do it. “Would you please just order?”

  “I do beg your pardon.”

  The twentysomething brunette behind him in line tosses her hair over her shoulder and gives a red, waxy smile. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  Jack flashes her that toothpaste-commercial grin. “Thank you, love.” The girl blushes to the roots of her highlighted hair.

  “All right, fine. Give me your order,” I say.

  He does, and in no time has his coffee. A smirk curls his lips as he pays and leaves a five-dollar tip in the jar on the counter. He only does it to bait me. I know it. And he knows I know it.

  I glare and he walks away with a laugh. The girl behind follows him with her eyes. Good grief.
I slap the counter as irritation shocks through me like a hundred volts. She jumps and swings her attention back to me.

  I give her a fierce frown. Suddenly my charm-school training flies right out the door, just like those disgruntled customers.

  “You want coffee or what, sweetheart?” Nick’s bad influence is undoing all of my upbringing. I’m glad Mother wasn’t here to see that. The girl looks a little scared but meekly gives me her order and off we go.

  Two minutes later, Jack’s standing at the counter again. Off to the side, not in line. He’s lost the jacket and is rolling up his sleeves.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you spill coffee on yourself?”

  And I missed it?

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, no.”

  “What, then?”

  The guy at the counter huffs. I know I’m not up to another confrontation so I give an offhanded wave toward Jack. “Hang on a sec, Jack.”

  I take the man’s order, and when I turn to find Jack again, he’s gone. Oh well, Mr. I Can’t Wait a Sec can just take care of himself. Which I guess he did.

  “What’s that guy think he’s doin’?” Nick asks, coming up behind me and nearly scaring me half to death.

  “What guy?”

  “There.” I follow his finger and nearly drop to my knees at the sight of Jack Quinn busing tables.

  “I have no idea.”

  Jack walks back to us, his Italian leather shoes making a squishing noise on the floor, and I have a feeling he’s stepped in someone’s spilled latte. I grin at the thought, and he thinks I’m smiling at him. He smiles back. My heart can’t take it.

  His arms are filled with dirty latte mugs and pie plates. “Where shall I set these?” he asks Nick.

  “In the sink,” Nick says, and that’s the closest to speechless I’ve ever known him to be.

  Jack nods. “Right, then. Would you be so kind as to point the way?”

  Nick steps aside and motions to the kitchen. “What’s that all about?” he whispers.

  I shrug. I’ve stopped trying to figure out why Jack does anything. But I must say, I’ve never thought of him as the busboy type. When he comes back, he’s wearing an apron. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d slip this on whilst I work.”