“How do you feel about game nights?” he asks.
“Are you kidding me? Like Monopoly?”
“Given our respective business backgrounds, Geo thinks Monopoly isn’t a good call. She’s suggested charades or maybe Pictionary.”
“Geo must really like games,” I guess.
“I think it was Paisley's idea, but yeah. I just bought Geo a house and she wants to throw a party. I know it's last minute, but we thought you might need to get out of your house.”
I think about the night I have planned. Chinese food. Pajamas. Jack Ryan. It sounds so good to me that I know I ought to get out.
“Fine,” I say. “I'll come. Text me the address.”
When I arrive and Trudy answers the door, my jaw drops.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“You'll have to take that up with Trig,” I say. “He didn't actually mention to me that you'd be here.”
Trudy sighs. “If we're going to be thrown together, and it seems we are now that you've found God and a love for air sparring, we may as well reach some kind of truce. Otherwise, I may never talk to any of my friends again.”
I walk through the door and close it behind me. I lean back against it. “I agree. What did you have in mind?”
“I'm, unsurprisingly, still in the same place I was seven days ago. I am not ready to date. Not you or anyone else.”
I nod.
“But that doesn't mean I’m opposed to having a friend who is a guy. Now that you can't order me around, I think we could be pals, as long as you don't press for more. You have to promise me.”
I cross my heart with my fingers. “I swear.”
And I'm off the bench.
19
Trudy
Last year's Trudy never would have believed my situation right now. Last year's Trudy had a husband who never came home, a bank account with twelve dollars in it, and no way to earn more, other than making crafty signs and quiet books for toddlers on Etsy.
Last year's Trudy spent an hour tidying up the crappy apartment, ensuring her makeup was perfect, and trying to cook something halfway decent from whatever food her husband had bought when he went by the store in their one car.
Now I wake up in the morning and help my darling son prepare for the day. After we've eaten, I go to the gym to work out. There's always a stupidly handsome, goofy guy there. He pretends I've knocked him out and falls on the floor. He pretends to hit himself in the chin. He dances like a disco king to the music. He acts like he can't recall the names of any of the women in the class other than me.
The same guy comes to church every Sunday and helps me with Troy. Actually if I'm honest, Troy might prefer him to me during church. He's got a completely silent motorcycle game on his watch, he bounces him on his knees, and he's taken to bringing snacks. Cheese sticks, roasted chickpeas, and beef jerky, all things a diabetic kid can eat without too much drama.
And I usually see him on one of the weekend nights, either at Mary's, Paisley's, or Geo's. He almost never flirts, but he tells me my eyes are prettier than tanzanite. He admires how well I refocus Troy when he spins out. Sincere, heartfelt comments regarding things he appreciates about me. Last weekend, neither of us even bothered asking anyone else to be our partner at the game night Luke set up. When we played team spades, he slid me two cards instead of one, and I didn't miss a beat before sliding two back. We destroyed Mary and Luke, who would never even consider cheating. Paul told everyone it was because I'm such a talented player, but really it's that he gets me.
Basically, he treats me like a queen.
I work at a bank James Fullton's family owns, where I manage three branches worth of computers. I spent the first few weeks frantically scrambling and occasionally calling one of my professors in a panicked state, but I haven't had to call anyone in more than ten days. I'm settling in, and my paycheck is more than I expected to make for several years. I'm paying rent, utilities, and even after my normal expenses, I'm paying Mary a monthly chunk down on the loan she gave me for Troy's medical.
Plus, I have health insurance, the good kind. The kind with a copay that costs less than you'd pay for dinner at Denny's. I know how much that costs, because sometimes I take my son out for dinner now.
I took the day off work today so I could take my finals, my last round of tests ever. I graduate in two days, on Saturday, assuming I pass. I didn't sleep much the last few nights, reviewing my notes and worksheets to prepare. Luckily the exams are a snap. I finish them in half the time I thought it would take, so I pick Troy up early and take him to Chick-fil-A for lunch.
I stop at the mailbox on the way inside the house, since our mailman usually comes early, and grab a stack of letters. One of them is a huge manila envelope addressed very clearly to Ms. Gertrude Jenkins. The return label is a law office. I inhale quickly and my hands shake a bit. What could a law firm want with me? I filed my taxes on time. I don't owe anyone money, or I don't think I do. Could Chris be suing for custody? He hasn’t seen Troy in months.
Surely not.
I usher Troy inside and pull out the boxes of blocks he's been asking for, stacking them absently. Once he's happily playing, I walk into the kitchen. I shove the ominous letter to the back and open the rest of the mail. Bills, mostly, and a birthday card from an old neighbor. She's a week early, but it's still a really sweet gesture.
I stare at the envelope again. I've been waiting for weeks now, or months really. Waiting for something terrible to happen. My life never stays this good for very long, so I knew the other shoe would drop eventually. I was hoping for a few more weeks. A few more days. I set the envelope down. Maybe I can wait to open it for a day or two.
“Mom!” Troy yells, and I look up, startled.
He's opened the door and he's outside. I race out, my heart in my throat. Did he fall? Cut his hand? “Troy?”
I almost run over him. He's standing on the front porch holding the watering can. He looks up at me with wide eyes full of wonder. “Look!”
His zombie plant isn't dead. Five bright green leaves have spread out from the center of the pot, and a tiny shoot pokes up in the middle, clearly the stalk of a small bloom.
“I told you it wasn't dead,” Troy says. “It was just winter.”
My small son is wiser than he knows. Sometimes we think things have died that aren't dead at all. We give up on them. We throw in the towel, sure that investing in them would be a waste of time. But maybe we should be patiently waiting on the spring thaw.
I pick him up and hug him close. “I love your faith, buddy. It warms my heart.”
“Take a picture, Mom. Send it to Aunt Mary. Tell her I kept her plant alive.”
I snap the photo and text it to her with this caption: SPRING IS HERE.
She sends me a row of hearts back.
My brave, trusting, faithful son gives me the strength I need to open the envelope. After all, if he can withstand losing his admittedly lousy dad, moving to a new place, going to stay with a friend every day while I work, and being stuck with needles multiple times each day, I can open an ominous envelope, no matter who it's from.
Dear Gertrude Jenkins:
Enclosed please find a check for your pro rata share of your ownership interest in S.I.T.B. Pursuant to the Articles of Incorporation, the LLC has been dissolved. A copy of the fair market valuation performed by Sailer and Parsons is attached. You have thirty days to contest this valuation should you choose, but 3M recently purchased the sum total assets, so the valuation is fairly straightforward.
As you will see on the attached check, your share was the same as all other standard employees who met the qualifying conditions, 1/8 of one percent. Nancy Jones owned 1/4 of one percent due to the leadership override. The total sales price of the S.I.T.B. assets came to one hundred and fourteen million. Less costs, liabilities and expenses, the net amount was one hundred and ten million, and five hundred thousand. Your fractional share comes to $276,250. This check is valid for ninety da
ys. You will need to consult with a tax professional of your choosing to determine the proper way to report this income, but it was not held for more than a year and will not qualify for long term capital gains.
Should you have any other questions or concerns, do not hesitate to contact us.
Yours truly,
Annabel Shepard, Esq.
I fumble through the rest of the papers, holding the check with trembling fingers. This can't be real. How could I be a qualifying employee? Is this a joke?
I call Luke.
“Hey Trudy. You ready for graduation?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Uh, okay,” Luke says. “Well you're in luck. Because you are talking to me.”
I sound like a bumbling idiot. Get it together, Trudy. “I got a weird letter in the mail today. I'm kind of freaking out.”
“Okay, breathe in and out. It'll be fine. Whatever it is, Mary and I are here, and we’ll help you take care of it. What does Chris want?”
So Luke has no idea what's going on either. “It's not from Chris. It's from Paul.”
Luke swears under his breath. “Send me a screenshot.”
I hang up and send him a photo of the letter.
Two minutes later he calls me back. “Trudy, that's not even from Paul.”
“It's from his company. Same thing.”
“No, this is a corporate formality. He probably doesn't even know the amount of your check. Honestly. It's not just you. It's all the employees who met the requirements.”
“What requirements?” I ask. “I was there two weeks.”
“Paul told me what you did, and what you risked, and he decided to cut you in long before he had any idea who you were. You were simply doing your job as best you could, and you saved him. He appreciated it. You earned that money. Since without your help, Paul would have lost everything, you could argue he's dramatically underpaid you.”
“Come on, Luke. Be serious.”
“I’m dead serious,” he says. “You earned every dime of that money. Your sister will tell you the same.”
After he finally convinces me not to shred the check, I hang up.
Two hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars. I can't even comprehend.
My phone buzzes. It's a text from Mary. YOU NEED TO SET ASIDE A BIG CHUNK OF THAT FOR TAXES. IT'S GOING TO BUMP YOUR BRACKET, FOR ONE. ASSUME THE GOVERNMENT WILL KEEP AT LEAST A HUNDRED K OF IT.
Trust Mary to jump straight to the depressing part. I wish she were here so I could hug her. After Mary, the first person I want to call is Paul. Which is stupid. He's just a friend. It's not like I need to call him and tell him I'm loaded now. And it's not like this is a lot of money to him. It's one eighth of one percent and he got the rest. A hundred million or more, easy. Plus he was loaded before this.
I wait an hour, and my fingers are still itching to text him. YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I JUST GOT IN THE MAIL.
Paul replies right away. TELL ME IT'S FROM VICTORIA SECRET.
Eye roll emoji. YOU PROMISED.
I'M STILL MALE.
I'm not sure whether it's because Paul's flirting, or because of the check, but my fingers and toes are all tingly. I want to jump around and... I don't know, shout and sing, or kiss something.
Or someone.
HELLO?
I'M HERE, I text.
BUT WHAT DID YOU GET IN THE MAIL? OH I KNOW. CHICKENS.
WHO GETS CHICKENS IN THE MAIL? I ask.
IT'S A THING, he insists.
IT ABSOLUTELY IS NOT.
THEN A MAIL ORDER HUSBAND.
ALSO NOT A THING, I text.
FINE. YOU STARTED THIS. SO SPILL ALREADY. I'M OUT OF GOOD IDEAS.
YOU'RE NEVER OUT OF GOOD IDEAS. Why am I flirting?
THAT'S TRUE. OKAY, IT'S A PACKAGE OF TWENTY RAZOR BLADES FOR $5. NOW YOU WANT ME TO TAKE YOU DANCING SO YOU CAN SHOW OFF YOUR RECENTLY SHAVED LEGS.
HA. ALSO WRONG. IT'S A CHECK FOR ALMOST 300K.
I THOUGHT PUBLISHER'S CLEARINGHOUSE FOLDED, Paul texts.
I roll my eyes. YOU KNOW WHO IT'S FROM.
IT'S YOUR SHARE. IT'S NOT A BIG DEAL.
LUKE SAID THAT TOO, I admit.
LUKE'S A SMART MAN. NOT AS SMART AS ME, BUT HE TRIES.
SO YOU'RE SAYING THIS ISN'T SOME GRAND GESTURE.
Dots.
I hate waiting on dots.
Then the dots disappear and that's worse.
I hate texting. Why don't people call anymore? When my ring tone jangles noisily, I nearly drop the phone. I fumble it around in time to see that it's Paul calling, as though he could read my mind. My hearts tries to beat out of my chest. I have to answer. He knows I'm home, because I got my mail. And I've been texting him. Dang it.
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Trudy.”
“Paul.”
“Believe me, if I were to make a grand gesture, you'd know it, and it wouldn't come through a lawyer. Besides, I made you a promise. A Victoria Secret joke may slip though my filter now and again, but in my wildest dreams, I would never try to buy someone's affection with a partial share in a business transaction. Besides, I made the determination to cut you in long ago.”
It sounds utterly absurd when he says it like that. And I sound arrogant, so arrogant. How do I climb out of this hole? Or maybe I just stay here and bury myself. At this point, I need to say anything, even something stupid. Say something, Trudy. Now.
“Trudy? You still there?”
“Yep, I'm here. Sorry, Troy was ...” What could Troy have been doing? “Washing his underwear in the sink.”
“No I'm not, Mom. Gross. Why would I do that?” Troy yells. “Who are you talking to?”
I hold my hand over the phone and shake my head at him.
“I'm not Mom. My underwear is on my body. I'm not even in the bathroom.”
I wonder what the chances are that Paul didn't hear my son yelling at the top of his lungs about what a liar I am. If I had to choose between this conversation and a root canal, I'd drive to the dentist right now.
“I better go,” I say.
“See you tomorrow,” Paul says.
What? Oh, at Lifetime. “Yep. I guess so.”
I spend twenty minutes getting ready for kickboxing on Friday morning. Which is idiotic, since I know I'm going to shower after and wash all that makeup off. Even so, I look pretty good.
I’m annoyed when Paul doesn't show up.
It bothers me more than I want to admit, but I don't mention it to anyone. Not that I could if I wanted to. I haven't told anyone else that Paul comes to church with me. Or kick boxes with me. It doesn't seem like it's any of their business. And I don't care whether he comes or not. He's a friend, nothing more.
I'm in a funk all day at work. My boss asks whether I'm okay, and so does my friend Carol. When I get a call at three p.m., I'm downright cranky.
“This is Trudy,” I answer.
“Trudy,” a familiar voice says. “I've been hearing good things about you.”
“James,” I say. “My boss said you're like her boss' boss' boss' boss. She said no one she even knows reports to you.”
He chuckles. “Nice to hear from you, too.”
“You called me.”
“Indeed I did.” I hear the sound of shuffling papers and then some mutters in the background.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask. “You could call me back another time. I'd offer to call you, but I don't feel comfortable calling the owner of the entire company.”
“I finished a meeting and there were some people who hadn’t cleared out yet, that's all. Look, I'm calling because I have an offer for you. I know your life is in Atlanta, but I could use someone resourceful who I can trust who also speaks computer. Someone young who can stay on top of all the newest trends.”
“You're offering me another job?”
“Would that interest you? The pay would be much, much more than you're making now.”
“How much of this is about tormenting your poor fr
iend Paul?” I ask.
“Are you even still talking to him?” James asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me,” James says. “You and Paul can get married and move out to New York with your seventeen kids for all I care. I'll even throw in a relocation package for your boyfriend, fiancé or husband, should you have one.”
“I don't understand then,” I say.
“How's this for an explanation? You're excellent at your job. Your branches have had one-third the downtime of any of our other branches nationally. And you've only been there for seven weeks. Think what you could do once you've had a little more time under your belt. The reason I'm your boss' boss' boss' whatever is that I have a knack for spotting talent, and I always reward it. Incentives drive the free economy, you know.”
I should be chomping at the bit here. This is my window. My opportunity. Except zero percent of me even contemplates his offer. My family is here. My life is here. I like this new job I have only because it allows me to provide for Troy. I enjoy using my mind and being independent, but none of it matters if I'm not spending my life with the people I love.
“It is a very tempting offer,” I lie. “But I'm afraid I'm not interested in anything that takes me away from my family.”
“I thought you'd say that,” James says. “I wanted to at least try. But since you turned that down, maybe you'd be okay taking some contract work from me on the side now and again. Interpreting things for me, analyzing some stuff. Sometimes I need someone to explain things so that I can look like the rock star I am.”
“I'd be, like, your computer tutor?” I giggle. “Your cheat sheet, as it were?”
“Exactly.”
“I think I could do that,” I say. “Extra money is always nice.”
“I'll send a standard contractor agreement over. You can have your lawyer take a look and assuming it looks fine, get it executed so it's in place when I need work. It would be outside the scope of what you're doing at the branches.”
“Understood.”
After a long day at work, I'm looking forward to dinner at Mary's. Maybe a little more than I should. I don't touch up my makeup or put on anything fancy because twice in one day would be pathetic. Besides, Paul probably won't be there anyway. Just because he has been at Mary's every single other weekend I've been invited since the wedding doesn't mean he'll be there today.
Finding Spring (Almost a Billionaire Book 3) Page 22
