You Had Me at Good-bye Page 6

  “You volunteerin’ like the princess here? Or you lookin’ for a job? I can’t pay much.”

  Jack smiles. “I believe I’ll keep my day job. I’m volunteering like the lovely princess. Do you mind?”

  “I’m obliged.”

  He yells at me, and he’s obliged to Jack? Talk about your glass ceiling.

  It takes Nick and me a good two hours to knock out the coffee rush. Thank goodness he only serves muffins and microwave biscuits for breakfast, or there’s really no telling how backed up we might have gotten.

  Sweat is trickling down my back by the time Nick calls the all-clear. Sometime during the madness, Jack quietly folded his apron and hung it over a chair in the sparkling dining room. I’ll admit I’m a little disappointed he didn’t say good-bye. But I suppose he didn’t want the gratitude, of which there would have been a lot, considering how swamped we were.

  In desperate need of some green tea, I pour a fresh pot of water through the machine. Nick comes in from the dining room, carrying a towel. “Where’d your boyfriend go?”

  “First of all, you know full well that Jack is not my boyfriend. He’s my boss. And second of all, I have no idea. I suppose he finished what he was doing and left.”

  “Not your boyfriend, huh?” He purses his lips into a smirk, which quite frankly looks odd. “He seemed to me like he wanted to impress you.”

  Suddenly I’m interested. “You think?”

  “You care?” I see a definite challenge in the way he squares his shoulders and stares at me.

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m no love expert, but I thought I saw sort of a spark when he looked at ya.”

  My optimism plummets a little. A “sort of a spark” could have been the way the light hit him. I’m not getting my hopes up based on that.

  I glance at my watch. “I have to go, Nick. I’m sorry I can’t stay and help clean up. I’d better get my tea to go.”

  “You don’t want something to eat?” Nick looks a little insulted.

  “Another time. My mother’s expecting me for lunch.” I’m going to be late as it is. I snatch my purse from under the counter and slip my raincoat from the rack. By the time I’m buttoned up, my tea is ready to go.

  “You done real good, princess. Worked hard and never got rattled.”

  I laugh out loud. “Never got rattled? Did you see me slap the counter when that airhead was watching Jack instead of ordering?”

  He shrugs. “Nelda woulda given her what for.”

  “Come on, Nick. What’s going on with Nelda? She didn’t leave you, did she?”

  His eyes narrow and he shoves his finger in my face. “Don’t you never say such a thing.”

  My face goes hot and I avert my gaze, unable to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  He nods. “I mind my own business, and I expect others to give me the same respect.”

  I just about choke on my tea, because isn’t he the one who sat with me for thirty minutes yesterday giving me all that unsolicited advice about telling Floyd to “take a long walk off a short pier”?

  That’s when I decide my business association with Nick must come to an end. I rise, sling my Prada bag (for which I do not apologize) over my shoulder, and head for the door.

  “Good-bye, Nick. You’d better hire some help next week.” I mean, it was a nice little change of pace, but, boy, am I ever glad my coffee-making days are behind me. Monday morning, it’s back to the real me. The me I was created to be. An editor working my way up to senior editor, and eventually publisher, at Lane Publishing.

  I walk into Mother’s condo after the customary impersonal exchange with Norman the doorman. I’m a little suspicious, I must say. To invite me over for lunch a mere day after one of her dinner parties is odd, even for my mother.

  “Hello, darling!” she says as I step into the foyer. I find it difficult not to hold my mouth agape at the sight of her. My mother is wearing a derriere-hugging pair of black yoga pants, a body shaper that shows a slight amount of cleavage—which is disturbing on more than one level—and a red button-down shirt with three-quarter sleeves.

  “Interesting outfit,” I murmur. “Is the first lady coming to dinner?” Sarcasm, yes. But you have to understand—my mother wears silk shirts and three-hundred-dollar dress pants, and never leaves her room without control-top panty hose. She does not do yoga, let alone wear yoga pants. This is just weird. I wait for an explanation, but she simply waves away my sarcasm. “We have work to do. What did you expect me to wear for manual labor? Jimmy Choos and Anne Klein?” One eyebrow goes up. Okay, that was low. I never should have told her about yesterday at Nick’s.

  Wait a second. We have work to do? “I thought we were having lunch.”

  “I’ve already eaten.” She glances at her watch. “It’s after twelve thirty. I assumed you had changed your mind. But if you’re hungry . . .” She trails off, just like that, but not before giving me that once-over I know so well. The one that reminds me that she knows good and well these jeans are not the size 2 she expects of me, and thus I’ve disappointed her sorely.

  My stomach responds to my predicament with a loud sympathy growl. But I know without a doubt that I can’t ask for food. “No. I guess I’m not hungry. I had a grande green tea on the way over.”

  She gives me a nod. But I’m afraid I’m unable to bask in the silent approval. I’m too busy kicking myself for passing up Nick’s chicken salad wrap.

  I rub my palms together and take a look around, noting for the first time that there are moving boxes cluttering the floor.

  “Let me guess. The work we’re talking about here involves packing?”

  “Of course. Really, Dancy, we discussed it last night before you left.”

  “I know, but I thought I’d have a couple of days, at least. They’re not getting married until Valentine’s Day.” Which, besides being a little hokey, is six full months away.

  “Yes, but Brynn will want time to decorate to her tastes, so I’m redecorating your father’s hideous apartment and we’ll move in there next month.” She gathers a deep breath while handing me a box. “Therefore, we don’t have much time to move our things out.”

  Okay, fine. I snatch the box from her hand. “You do know how unfair this is, don’t you?”

  Mother’s brow creases as much as her Botoxed skin will allow. “I thought you’d want to pack up your own things, so you can take what you want. But I suppose I can hire movers to do it if you don’t want to.”

  You know that V-8 commercial where everyone gets smacked in the head just as a revelation strikes? I’d love to see a moment like that happen for my mother.

  “Never mind.” I head up the steps. Hungry, dejected, a little bitter.

  Mother’s voice trails after me. “Beemer’s sleeping on your bed. She’s having one of those days, so don’t bother her, okay?”

  When isn’t Beemer having a day?

  The beagle shifts only slightly when I enter my room, and I can see exactly what my mother means. Beemer has depression written all over her. Her head stays resting on my pillow, and I don’t get so much as a tail thump. The dog sighs and closes her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about me, Beemer. I’ll just work around you. Really.” I drop the box on the floor in front of the closet. “Don’t get up on my account.” She moans, sighs, gives a little stretch, and settles back into sleep. Seriously, that dog needs an intervention. She has good days when she’s frisky as a pup. Other days . . . well, quite frankly, a little puppy Prozac might not be a bad idea.

  I begin pulling boxes of memories from the shelves in my walk-in closet. It’s all here. Everything from my kindergarten uniform to my high school pom-poms to my college diploma. Even my baby book, for heaven’s sake! It’s as though my mother is washing her hands of my entire existence. Like she’s planning to move to Florida to begin this new, fabulous life on the beach at Destin and forget she has a daughter.

  As much as I’d like to toss them int
o the garbage—in protest for so many of life’s flaming darts—each article pierces my sentimental heart in a new place, and I slip my childhood piece by piece into keepsake boxes.

  My mother pokes her head in the door about six o’clock, just when I’m knee-deep in my beauty-pageant scrapbooks.

  “Darling, your father and I are going out to dinner. Shall I have Amanda whip something up for you?”

  “No. Give her the night off.” I slip the scrapbook into the box and stretch my arms over my head.

  She steps into the room and looks around, bewilderment replacing her typically stoic expression. “Are you keeping all of this?”

  I shrug. “It’s hard to decide what to toss out.”

  Her gaze sweeps the floor. “That apartment you live in is terribly small. Do you really want to keep it all?”

  “No.” I grab my eighth-grade report card and stuff it into the garbage. “See?” Who cares about old grade cards? Although that was a straight-A year. In seventh grade I got a B—actually a B minus—and about had a nervous breakdown. In eighth grade I buckled down and made sure I didn’t get below an A. I was a straight-A student from then on, but not without effort. Try being a cheerleader, president of student council, captain of the girls’ soccer team, and a member of the drama club, which meant a role in every school play. I’d like to snatch that grade card back and place it in the keepsake box, but Mother is still watching, so I let it go.

  “See? I’ve thrown several things away.”

  Clearly not a bit convinced, she gives me a patronizing nod. She sits on the edge of my bed, lifting the scrapbook from where I just placed it in the box. Then something happens that I haven’t seen in quite some time. There’s actually a crack in that statuelike exterior. “You were always our little princess.” She turns the scrapbook and allows me to take a look. A photo of ten-year-old me, dressed in a clingy, baby blue sequined gown, much too old for me—big brunette hair, shiny lips, and blue eye shadow that makes me look like Barbara Eden from I Dream of Jeannie.

  “Adorable.” As much as I appreciate my mother’s sentimental journey, I’m not impressed with the look back. Little does she know about all of my old diaries filled with preteen disdain for the itchy, uncomfortable fabrics, the fake eyelashes that drove me crazy, the three-inch-high heels that I personally feel are responsible for my frequent visits to the chiropractor. Lecherous male judges that shouldn’t be thinking about how beautiful little girls are. I mean, really. Should they?

  But most of all, I hated the mean girls. Oy. Other contestants. Girls I saw at every pageant for years. I knew them each by name. But we weren’t allowed to be friends. Our mothers hovered over us, making sure we didn’t become distracted from our rivalry by things as silly as girlish giggles and sleepovers.

  Some of us broke out of the chains as we grew into our teenage years and established a sort of honor-among-thieves attitude. But for the most part, I had friendless childhood and high school years. It wasn’t until college, when I joined a summer theater program, that I met Tabby and Laini and finally learned about friendship.

  I take the scrapbook and slip it back into the box. “What time is Dad coming?”

  “Any second.” Her face immediately brightens, and I remember this look. Mother loving Dad. I have to admit I’m just a bit ashamed of my skepticism. Maybe there is hope for love in the twilight years. “I’m glad you two are happy, Mother,” I say in a sudden rush of generosity.

  Rising to her feet, she does the unthinkable. She cups my chin in her palm and bends, pressing a motherly kiss to my cheek. Against my better judgment, I close my eyes and surrender for just a moment to this new Mrs. Cleaver brand of motherhood. She smells of Chanel. I remember that smell up close. I fight back tears at this, the merest of touches. It’s all just too emotional. This little trip down memory lane, my lonely childhood. I don’t know. I guess I’m just a baby.

  “Baby,” Mother says, like she’s reading my mind, “are you going to be okay doing this all by yourself? I can stay and help, if you’d like me to.”

  I pull my chin away—subtly, under the pretense of a sudden and desperate need to check out something in the box—and shrug. “Don’t be silly. You have a good time with Daddy. Actually, it’s sort of fun seeing all of my old stuff again.” Fun like a bikini wax.

  I spend the next two hours alone, sorting, tossing, and keeping memories, all to the sound of Beemer’s snoring. Only the occasional snort and head lift breaks the rhythm. Honestly, the snoring makes me feel better. When she stops, I can’t help being afraid the sleep apnea has finally gotten the best of her and she’s not going to draw another breath. And, after all, she’s all I have left of my granny. Beemer and—oh, wait, where is it? Furiously I begin digging in the boxes I haven’t touched yet. Where? Where is my Bible? My Granny Bible. I inherited her worn, marked-up jewel when she died. I haven’t looked at it since, but it’s mine, and for some reason, I’m hungry for the sight of that worn black book. Hungrier for it than food, even though I haven’t had a morsel all day.

  My heart races like a wannabe marathon runner.

  I spend the better part of thirty minutes searching for that one specific drink of water. Relief, much like a dip in the pool on a hot summer day, floods me as I lie back on my bed next to Beemer, little Bible in hand. I pull my knees up and stretch my arms in front of my eyes as I open the pages.

  Granny took me to church every time she visited from Connecticut, but those times were too few and far between to make anything really stick, especially since my parents usually used Sunday mornings for sleeping it off, and Sundays were typically Nanny’s day off. My spiritual training was sparse at best until last year, when Tabby really got serious about things. I’ve gone to church with her a few times to keep her from agonizing over the state of my soul, mostly to special events like concerts or drama performances. I like it. But if the truth be told, any organized religion sort of makes me cringe. I don’t know, maybe I just don’t like being told how to worship God. I don’t like confinement. It’s fine to attend with a friend. But to become a card-carrying member of any particular church? I’m not sure that’s a good option for me.

  But this . . . let’s see. I’ll just open it for a second. I’m adamant about starting a book on page one and never peeking at the end until I actually get there, so it seems only natural that I start in Genesis.

  “In the beginning, God . . .”

  I’m just getting to Sodom and Gomorrah—and I have to say, the Bible is a pretty interesting book—when Beemer rolls up against me, just like old times. She lifts her front leg to give me access to her highness’s belly—a habit Granny started when Beemer was just a puppy. I laugh and oblige. “Oh, Beemer,” I whisper. “I know how you feel. I miss Granny, too.”

  I don’t know if Beemer’s getting senile or if she really understands my words, but the dog actually sits up, bends her small head—small in proportion to the rest of her—and licks my face, not once, but twice, before settling back down. Something about that show of affection makes my heart absolutely soar. I think we’ve had a moment.

  I give the beagle a pat and pick up a stack of photos from the bed. I’m about to toss the photos into a box to take home and look through later when I notice the one on top. Stopping, I lift it for a closer look. My breath catches. I remember this photo. It was the first Christmas Jack couldn’t make it home to England, so he came to our house. Don’t ask me why, but the guys actually included me, a sixteen-year-old, in their plans that day. Jack, Kale, and I rode the subway to Rockefeller Center for a day of ice-skating and fun. As the photo reveals, I wore a white coat with a rabbit-fur-lined hood.

  The memory of that day returns as though it were yesterday. I kept falling down on the ice. Kale thought it was hilarious and snapped pictures of me on my behind. But Jack skated expertly to where I was sitting, very near tears. He helped me to my feet. The photo shows me in his arms as he looks down at me. I’m looking into his eyes adoringly.

  I pre
ss my hand flat against my chest as my heart races—just like it did that day. Hmm.

  5

  Valerie’s black-spotted Manolo Blahnik stilettos announced her every move as she followed the maître d’ through the dining room at Alfama, a five-star Portuguese restaurant that boasted sardines flown in fresh from Lisbon. She could feel all eyes turn to watch her as she made her way to her seat. This evening she was eating alone, and she truly didn’t mind. No less than three successful, handsome, eligible bachelors had called her this week to ask for her company tonight, but Valerie didn’t need a man to feel complete. Her own skin was quite enough, thank you very much. Tonight she was free to order the clams in white garlic sauce without the worry of that obligatory kiss good night.

  She looked up from her menu as chair legs scraping on the wooden floor demanded her attention. Her heart caught in her throat. Across from her sat John Quest. His dark, Rhett Butler eyes pierced through her.

  “May I join you for dinner?” he asked.

  She tried to form a no, but her traitorous lips smiled instead. “I’d be delighted.”

  —An excerpt from Fifth Avenue Princess

  by Dancy Ames

  After a long weekend, I’m anxious to get to work today. I wake up thirty minutes before the alarm and jump out of bed. I feel like one of those characters at the beginning of The Devil Wears Prada, dressing for work. I can almost hear the happy music filtering through the air.

  I breeze into the kitchen, which is filled with the glorious aroma of whatever Laini is cooking for breakfast. She turns to me. “You look happy.”

  “Of course I am. It’s a workday.”

  “Are you going to confront Mr. Kramer today?”

  A smudge of gray threatens to cloud my joy, but I shrug it off. “The Paris people are coming tomorrow. It wouldn’t be nice of me to blast him with my problems.”

  “Coward!” Tabby calls from somewhere down the hall.

  “Who asked you?” I call back.

  Laini offers a sympathetic smile. She grabs a mug from the cabinet and fills it with coffee. “Here, sit down and drink this while I finish up breakfast.”