by Gigi Blume
“I’m not my dad.”
I know where she’s coming from. My dad’s shady business dealings were all over the internet. The only reason he was never investigated was because he suffered a massive stroke. That’s when I took over the company. I vowed then as I do now, that I’d restore it to what it was when my grandfather started it in the basement of his Brooklyn brownstone all those years ago. Besides. It’s a four-thousand-dollar suit.
She retreats into that far-away place inside herself where I’m not invited. And I thought we were making some headway, here.
“Rosemary, listen to me.”
She hugs the chocolate hummus to her chest and hunches over it, like a monkey who doesn’t want to share. I don’t think she’s listening to me at this point but I have to try.
“It’s true my firm absorbs failing businesses. We try to salvage what we can but many times it’s in their best interest to close down. Sometimes it’s their only shot and keeps them from declaring bankruptcy.”
She pretends not to hear me, scraping the bottom of the tub with her finger. Aaand now is not the time to let that vision rile me up.
Focus, Gram. Focus. Think of a crowded subway. Gum on the sidewalk. Sunday school. Moving on.
“We gather all their assets and do what’s best for them. And we use some of that capital to let each employee walk away with a generous severance package. Usually about six months’ salary.”
Her gaze slides to me. Her look says it’s not enough. I’m still an elitist scumbag.
“Some of the capital? And you pocket the lion’s share.”
“No. We don’t take anything except our fee. Two to three percent.”
She looks me over. “So what are we talking here? What’s your pita bread payday look like?”
She wants transparency. I’ll give it to her.
“When all is said and done? Maybe ten grand.”
She grunts. “That’s two suits for you.”
She can’t be serious. She’s a businesswoman. She should know better.
“I have a staff of professionals on my payroll, each one specialized to get the best rate for a company’s assets. They’re savvy and talented but don’t come cheap. So, truth be told, salvaging a failing business isn’t all that profitable.”
Something shifts on her features, like maybe there’s a sliver deep inside where she wants to believe me.
“If it’s not profitable, then why do it?”
“Because more often than not, the businesses we take on have a fighting chance. Maybe their problem is sloppy accounting or they just need new branding. If that’s the case, we can save them. That’s where the big money is.”
Rosemary scrunches her face at me like I’m such a liar. I know what she’s thinking. Saving small businesses is her thing. Her little ‘consulting firm’ which consists of her and only her operates very differently than my powerful company. I know because I stalked her one-page website. She charges a flat fee. A teeny tiny one. But I admire her gusto. In some ways she reminds me of my grandfather—bootstrapping his fledgling business in that basement.
“Big money, huh? See my face? This is me. Not impressed.”
“I’m not trying to impress you, I just—“
“Yawn.”
“Rose, listen. We act as angel investors.”
She drops her head on the counter and makes annoying snoring noises.
“We have a lot of capital to throw into marketing, new product lines, rebranding…”
Snore.
“The higher the risk, the higher the profit.”
Snore. Snort.
“And we’ve got a slice of dozens of different pies.”
Her snoring settles into a soft cadence.
“Rose?”
Her head shoots up and she stares right at me. There’s distrust behind her eyes—like the way we all felt when Darth Vader told Luke he was his father.
So I bring it home.
“You asked how I managed to get reservations at The Royal Crown. They were our clients.”
Her expression shifts as if to say, ‘No freaking way.’
I nod really big, “Way.”
Her jaw hangs open. I smirk smugly.
“They were stuck in the eighties. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and stuffy waiters in bow ties. The owner fought me tooth and nail with every change we wanted to make. But he was also too proud to close down. I think his family finally talked some sense into him.”
“That flashy new chef they brought in three years ago,” she says. “I remember there was a line around the block just to get on a waiting list. I thought it was kind of ridiculous.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Marketing, baby. And I own twenty percent. Everybody wins.”
She whistles. Maybe she’s impressed. But more likely she likes to whistle. She stares into the distance, furrowing her brows. I can hear the equations spinning around in her head. At length she turns her gaze back to me. I’ll never get used to those soulful eyes.
“Do you think Eugene has a fighting chance? Do you think he could win?”
I scan the carnage of our unorthodox dinner and give her a wink.
“If we work together, I think so, yes.”
And if she’s willing to take a chance on me, I won’t let her regret it for one second.
5
ROSEMARY
Ingram made a futon of sorts out of fifty-pound bags of flour. It’s lumpy and now my butt looks like a casualty of the Columbia drug cartel, but it’s better than sitting on the hard floor. Presently, we’re playing a game to pass the time. We’re tossing pita breads like frisbees into the giant mixing bowls. It’s harder than it sounds because pita breads are floppy and unpredictable. We have an inaccurate tally of how many times we’ve scored a point, but every time one of us misses, he or she has to come up with a clever pita related joke.
I toss a pita and miss.
“That was pita-ful,” says Ingram. I’ve decided he’s born to deliver dad jokes and that makes my tummy twist in a funny way.
“Are you taking my turns now?” I nudge him with my shoulder.
“Only because I pita you.”
“Okay, that’s just fal-awful.”
“And yet you’re laughing.”
Busted. I let down my guard an hour ago and I don’t know if that scares me or excites me. There’s so much history with us. It seems impossible to bury the hatchet in one night, but I see he’s trying and that counts for something.
He tosses and misses.
“I’m not giving you a free pass on that just because you used one of your jokes on my turn,” I say.
“Hmmm... can I re-pita one of my jokes?”
“I’m going to have to ask the judges.” I lift a finger to the imaginary gameshow judges. “Can Ingram re-pita one of his jokes? Ding ding ding. They say no.”
Technically it probably counts but I’m not giving it to him, mostly because I want to see him squirm.
He twists his lips in thought as if they were connected to his brain somehow. I really need to stop staring at them or obsessing over how they might feel pressed to mine. I have the feeling he was about to kiss me when we found the hummus. But we were saved by the bell, so to speak. And why does that send a jolt of disappointment through me?
“Man, this is hard,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “I’m trying to come up with more pita puns but... I falafel short.”
Wow, he’s the king of corn and I figure that alone deserves a break at picking up the pitas off the floor so we can play another round. I get up and feel his eyes on me as I bend over to pick up our mess. I make an effort to keep my skirt from riding up or he’ll get more of a show than he bargained for. I’m pretty sure I’m wearing my granny panties today. I kicked off my shoes a while ago, so I’m relaxed and comfortable. Even the music is blending into background noise. I’d thrown my hair up with the elastic I keep around my wrist and I’m feeling cute until I pass my reflection in the shiny surface of one of the machin
es. It’s still dark in here but I can see myself well enough and OMGOSH, have I looked like this for the last hour and a half?
My cute, playful bun, which is usually quite cooperative, must have a mind of its own today. Instead of the tousled and windswept look I was trying to achieve, there’s more of a sad unicorn vibe going on. My hair is just too thick and decided it was a good idea to stick straight up in a pointy horn at the top of my head. Good grief. I snap the elastic out of my hair and fluff it out one-handed. I’ll bet there’s flour in my hair now.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ingram cracks a grin. “About what?”
I point to where my horn once was. “Hello! I looked like a great-horned rhino. This whole time, Ingram. Not cool.”
Not to mention the dusting of flour all over my rear.
He gets up and I remember there’s flour all over his rear, too. If I could just get him to turn around...
“I don’t think you looked like a rhino,” he says, drawing close enough to notice my pupils dilate. His voice is husky, too, which only makes me hyper-aware of this thing that’s happening between us. “More like a narwhal.”
Oh, he’s going down.
But then he’s so close to me, his pant leg brushes along my leg and I forget my name for a split second. His fingertips caress the length of my arm from the sensitive skin of my elbow down to my wrist. His thumb lingers there, on the inside of my wrist, for a moment, tracing a soft circle, turning me into moon sand. A tremor quakes through me and I wonder what happened to that empowered woman who blazed in here this afternoon? Then his eyes rivet to me with a burning gaze. Oof. Yeah, empowerment is overrated.
His fingers leave a trail of sparks over my Mount of Venus, and... (no need to clutch those pearls. The Mount of Venus is the fatty flesh at the base of the thumb.)
Ahem.
Ingram takes the stack of pitas from my hand and proceeds to collect the rest of them off the floor and the one that made it into the bowl. We return to our places on the flour sack futon but I’m not in the mood to play pita frisbee anymore.
Hmmm... I wonder how we should pass the time.
The air is thick with anticipation (and flour particles) so Ingram clears his throat. “I saw your brother’s show a few weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah? He didn’t mention it to me.” Not that he would. I’m sure Bing noticed some discord at his wedding between Ingram and me. Bing is way too sweet and non-confrontational to say anything about it.
“I don’t think he saw me at the stage door,” he says. “There were too many fans wanting selfies and autographs.”
Wow. My brother, the Broadway star.
“You should have gotten his attention. He would have cut through the crowd to give you a bro-hug.”
Ingram chuckles. “Yeah. He’s a hugger, isn’t he?”
“Sure is.”
His eyes cut to mine. “Are you a hugger?”
Ummm...
“Did you like the show?” I deflect.
“Not gonna answer?”
“Nope.”
“All right. Fair enough. I loved the show. There are no words.” Ingram does the mind blown gesture with his hands. “I liked it better than the movie.”
I agree wholeheartedly. Bing plays the lead in Moulin Rouge at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre and I’ve seen it five times already. It’s like he was born to play that role.
The conversation turns to the good ‘ol days when Bing and Ingram ruled the high school musical scene. Everything felt so important back then. It was like the world didn’t exist outside of the theatre program. Life was so vibrant and magnified. I remember my Freshman year, how I idolized the Seniors—especially Ingram. He’s the only reason I auditioned for the Spring musical, Footloose. But he and Bing were so caught up in all the cool Senior things, they hardly noticed my presence in the chorus.
I kick my feet up on Ingram’s lap and his whole body stiffens. I know my feet can’t smell that bad. He’ll just have to deal with it. Or make another flour sack futon because I need to stretch out.
“How long do you think we’ll be locked in here?” I ask, knowing he’s wondering the same thing. “Do you think someone will come by tomorrow, or will we have to eat hummus all weekend?”
“I don’t know.” He lets his hand rest on my ankle and the warmth of his palm soothes me. “But come morning we’ll have to come up with a plan. Once we’re well rested.”
“Well rested. Riiiight.”
“Speaking of a plan. I’m serious about us working together. Tell me where you’re at on this.”
Part of me wants to keep my ideas close to my chest. But I think we’re beyond that now.
“I’m thinking a whole social media campaign. Instagram, Facebook, Twitter. It has to be punchy and humorous.”
He nods, urging me to continue.
“If there’s a big enough budget, I’d like to do a commercial—Harmon Brothers style. Funny. Memorable. I’m talking five-minute commercials people will share all over social media. The kind with thousands of comments.”
His eyes dance and I see the moment he’s totally with me on this. “I can get the Harmon Brothers.”
He can get the Harmon Brothers? The guys who made the Squatty Potty commercials? He’s all casual about it of course. Like, hey, let me just speed dial my friends the advertising geniuses that make the masses crazy over toilet products.
I play it cool. “Great. Make it so.”
“And we’ll integrate the hummus into a new line,” he says. “Stuff like marinated olives, falafel mix, healthy oils... really dominate the market on the Mediterranean diet.”
We’re on a roll now. “And a whole new rebranding campaign,” I add.
“No doubt. ‘Eugene’s Pita Bread?’ That name’s gotta go.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” I say, winking up at the cameras, just in case. “Sorry, Eugene.”
He leans in toward me, brightened by all this business talk. “Really? What have you come up with so far?” This is his passion. He’s in his element. Also, his hand has traveled a few inches up my calf. Not gonna let that get to me at all.
“I’m thinking something with a Greek god name. Artemis, Orion...”
“Thor?” His voice rumbles to a deep register and even though he’s giving me a smoldering look, I know he’s teasing me big time. I swat his hand which is getting dangerously close to my knee and swing my legs down.
There’s an awkward lull in the conversation and I feel the need to define this new dynamic. Are we like... friendly now? Just this afternoon I was ready to go primal on the guy. I would have done anything to keep his paws off my client’s business. Did he totally smooth talk me out of my fight? Maybe I misjudged him and his company. Or am I being played? I should definitely clear the air and lay the ground rules.
I open my mouth, searching for the right words, when he flies to his feet like his butt’s on fire. I check it out just to be sure. For quality control purposes, of course.
“No way!” he cries, rockin’ out to the beat of the song currently blaring. It’s a peppy drum solo followed by the twang of a single electric guitar. I know this song but can’t quite place it. Ingram’s kicking and snapping, his whole face alive with the music.
“Can you believe this?” He does a spin and goes right into a box-step.
I listen as other instruments join in. “Is this...?”
“YEAAAAH.”
Whoa there, cowboy. Dial it down a notch.
Who woulda thunk Footloose would make the cut onto Eugene’s strange and wonderful playlist? But here’s Ingram, loving every second. It’s kinda weird seeing him pumping his fists and grinding those hips around in Armani slacks and a silk tie. He looks like the ritzy principal who just crashed the school dance—and maybe had too much punch.
“I can’t believe I remember the choreography,” he says with a grin that could split Andreas Fault. There’s definitely an earthquake somewhere in my body.
He waves me
over. “Get up here.”
“Nah, I think I’ll just enjoy the show.”
He laughs. “Shut up and dance, funny face.”
Ugh! The old nickname rears its ugly head. Still... a familiar hum buzzes through me. Funny face. He always winks when he says it—accompanied by a flirty smirk that melts my gooey center. Forrest Gump was onto something. Maybe life is like a box of chocolates. I identify with the cream-filled kind.
I shake my head furiously but he takes that as an invitation, snatching my hand and pulling me up. I stand there like a fool while he does the heel-toe thing.
Heel-toe, toe-heel. Sliiiiide. I get a flashback of high school Ingram playing Ren McCormack in the spring musical, Footloose. I crushed on him big time from my little part in the ensemble. I thought he had all the moves, both on and off stage. Now his moves just make me giggle.
“You’re nuts.”
He wags his brows. “Should I try my backflip?”
“Don’t you dare—“
He catches my hands. “Then dance with me.”
I make a show of rolling my eyes and start to sway lamely. “Only because I don’t care for the sight of blood.”
He pulls me in for a jitterbug move. “You care.”
“No.” I rock into him and step out again, taking my hands with me this time. “I really don’t.”
This is actually a catchy tune. No wonder it’s stood the test of time. Also, the choreography is coming back to me. Sort of. Apparently, Ingram never forgot a step. I wonder if he’s one of those guys that re-lives the glory days by practicing his old dance moves in his boxers when no one’s looking.
Dangit. Why did my mind go there? Now the image is seared in my brain.
“Remember this one?” he says, doing what I used to call the hands-all-over-the-place move. There really is no other way to describe it. Your hands do the knee criss-cross thing, then slap your chest, your hip, and then you swing your foot behind you and hit that, too. Kind of a smash-up of Stomp and the Macarena. It was my favorite move—mostly because I thought it was cool to smack my foot. I was easily amused as a teen.
