by Jayne Denker
"Relax." I try to make my voice as soothing, and as confident, as possible. In all honesty I kind of wonder if I have lost my mind. This morning I sent Laura back to the Bugle offices to write her feature, her steno notebook bulging with juicy quotes and incredible detail about Your New Best Friend…all of which I made up on the spot. "I've got it all under control," I lie.
"I think it's a great plan, Melanie." Hannah, my most loyal supporter and true friend—take that, Connacht Garvey—blinks furiously at my side, her red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears.
"Thank you."
"It doesn't quite warrant tears of joy," Conn says, studying her with concern.
"Oh, I'm not crying. Not that your plan doesn't deserve happy tears," she rushes to assure me. "I'm just getting used to these."
She dabs at the corners of her eyes, which are now, as I'd always wished for her, turquoise. The contacts completely transform her face and look fabulous—or, rather, they will, once the inflammation dies down and she stops looking like a demon bunny—and I've told her so several times today so she'll keep them in and tough out the adjustment period.
"That right there," Conn snaps. "Your advice, I presume? And look at the poor girl. She can barely see."
"She'll get used to the contacts. Come on. Don't they look amazing?"
"Very zombie chic. No offense," he rushes to qualify, in case Hannah starts crying for real.
"And what does Hannah adjusting to her contacts have to do with it?"
"Everything." He plants his elbows on the bar, clasping his hands, and leans toward us. "Melanie Abbott, you know I love you, but I'm saying this for your own good: sometimes you give lousy advice."
I draw back, shocked. "I beg your pardon! I have impeccable taste and remarkable instincts."
Conn clamps his lips tight, likely to make sure nothing flies out that he'll regret later, then sighs in resignation. "Fine. Have it your way. You always do."
"Yes, I do. And with good reason." Maybe it's the second beer I've nearly finished, but I'm feeling pretty darn good about my plans. "It shouldn't bother you, anyway. All you have to do is make up a Reserved sign—which I've been expecting for years, by the way—and put it on my chair. Keep the food and drink orders filled for my many clients, and everybody wins. If it bugs you that much, I'll even give you a cut of my proceeds. Consider it chair rental."
I'm going to get money into Conn's pockets one way or another. The less he knows, the better, of course, because if he found out I was doing this for his benefit, he'd have my head. If he'd accept a cash gift to help him through whatever financial difficulty he's having, I wouldn't have to jump through these hoops. Damn his pride.
"What can I do?" Hannah pipes up. "I want to help."
"Honey, you can't even see," Conn says, not unkindly.
"I'll get used to them."
"No," I sigh. "I don't think you will. Go on. Take them out, Hannah."
"Oh thank God," she breathes, making a mad dash for the ladies' room.
Conn moves down the bar, serving the usual drafts to the usual local patrons, who now have to share their space with knots of vacationers sucking down mojitos. Conn hates to make those, but he doesn't bat an eyelash—just nods and smiles and reaches for some more mint fresh from the restaurant herb garden out back. I watch him work, the muscles of his forearm flexing as he conducts the dreaded muddling while he laughs with the regulars and makes small talk with the summer people.
He catches me staring and gives me one of his bright smiles. I knew he wouldn't stay mad at me for long. He never does. When he comes back over with a glass of seltzer with a lime wedge (he knows I always take a break after two beers), he says, "You realize I'm going to be keeping an eye on you while you conduct this ridiculous business of yours, right?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way." I take a sip of my drink. "Not that there's anything to protect me from, of course."
"You need protecting from yourself."
I just smirk. Whatever he needs to think.
With another resigned sigh, he says, "Potato skins?"
"You have to ask?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
My feature runs in the Friday edition of the Bugle, and by Saturday I have three appointments set up. By Monday I have twelve. I should have known people in Abbott's Bay were eager for this. And why not? I've got skills, and the residents of Abbott's Bay respect me.
I've already made good on my promise to get more money into Conn's pocket. I always meet every prospective client in Deep Brew C, where I point out to them that if one has a meeting in a food service establishment, one should purchase something, not sit there taking up valuable space like a lump. This should net him a nice little profit because every waking moment I'm not at the Abbott Realty office, I'm at the restaurant, meeting with my new best friends.
It's exciting…and exhausting.
After I see the last of my appointments for the day, I ease onto one of the barstools, prop my head on the heels of my hands, and close my eyes. Conn slides a triple espresso in front of me, but I push it away. I've had way too much coffee today—almost one with each appointment. I make a mental note to switch to water, or I'm never going to get through this with my nerves intact.
"Do I want to ask how it's going?" he murmurs in a low voice, one that practically vibrates in my bones. "What's on tap with all those best friends?"
"Oh, you have no idea." I smile wanly at him.
The requests that came in today alone: throwing a baby shower, helping someone move, being someone else's euchre partner. Nothing massive. Small favors. Friend for hire, that's me. It's not quite what I expected. I thought I'd be doling out advice—helping people improve their wardrobes, directing their love lives, teaching them what all those forks and spoons are for in a fancy place setting. This is all…active. And tiring. I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I find Conn watching me closely.
"What?" I ask suspiciously.
"You sure this is a good idea?"
That's something I've asked myself several times since I started getting calls, but I will not admit defeat so soon, especially not to him. I straighten up and brush my hair back. "Of course it is. I love helping people."
I brace myself, waiting for a snide comment, but he just smiles gently. "Yeah, you do." Then he falls silent.
"That's it?"
"What were you expecting?"
"Oh, some reference to 'hanging out with the peasants,' perhaps?"
He winces. "You know I didn't mean that."
"I know."
We're both silent for a moment. He reaches out and gently straightens a lock of my hair by my cheek. "It seems like a lot of work though."
"Careful—you might be admitting Your New Best Friend is an out-of-the-gate success," I murmur, while Conn smirks.
"Are you going to be able to handle all these requests by yourself?"
"You offering to help?" It comes out on a sigh as I gratefully lean into his hand. His caring touch is a comfort right about now.
"Me?" he says, pulling his hand away abruptly and stepping back, breaking the peaceful little spell between us. "I'm too busy with the restaurant."
He busies himself with things behind the bar and won't look at me. He doesn't really think I expect him to help, does he?
"Don't forget Hannah offered though," he adds.
"Mm." I demur without actually saying no. I can't really picture Hannah doing what I do.
"Think about it. If this is going to take off like you predict, you might need the support."
* * *
Support? Hogwash. I'm fine. I'm better than fine. It's hardly painful to make people happy. Helping Crystal and Floyd Phelps go through all the video footage of their wedding to choose what to include in the final version? Cakewalk. Even if "all the footage" meant eighteen hours' worth. It's what a friend does. And I was very forthright when they asked my opinion, because a friend would tell them they might want to leave out shots of the bride in pin curls, not to
mention the close-up of Cousin Ralph's wide, dimply, alarmingly white backside when he decided to give the happy couple a special (inebriated) salute. Things like that. It was fun. Plus we ate defrosted wedding cake.
And who would mind playing board games with the residents of the sailors' retirement home? It was kind of surreal to be playing checkers with the same old guys Taylor and I might have flashed fifteen years ago, but I wasn't going to bring it up if they weren't. Fortunately no one did.
Going to the movies with Amy Aarons? Hardly a chore. How could I turn down a single mother who'd just watched her last child (of four) leave the nest? The poor woman was going stir-crazy, what with the sudden, overwhelming silence in her house. Of course a friend would take her out. Even if her movie of choice was a very loud, colorful animated flick. One that might have been prone to inducing seizures in the susceptible. (I think Amy was reliving her early days of motherhood or something.)
Choice of movie notwithstanding, I enjoyed getting to know Amy better. In fact, getting to know all my clients has been a high point of this venture. I'm sure they appreciate the chance to become better acquainted with me as well.
Not to say this project hasn't had its drawbacks. I was sort of hoping to get more clients like the first two who started this thing, back on Memorial Day: the summer people. The well-connected. The secretly needy and inherently insecure. The ones with the most important feature: deep pockets. If this thing is going to work, I'm going to need more cash than what the permanent residents of Abbott's Bay can offer. I've been scaling my fees according to everyone's financial situation, but I can't save Deep Brew C if I keep getting paid in sponge cake and lobster bisque.
The latest food payment, in the form of an apple kuchen, came from Jewel Loftus. I certainly couldn't turn her down when she asked me to help her plan a farewell for her beloved Reginald, including the wake, the ceremony, and the buffet lunch reception afterward. It's not appropriate to say it was enjoyable, of course, but I was happy to use my party planning and social skills to take some of the pressure off Jewel.
Now here it is a week later, and she's asked me to pick up Reginald, because he's "ready."
So I do…and before I deliver Reginald to Jewel, I take him to Deep Brew C for a drink. Okay, I'm the one who needs a drink, but it's the thought that counts. I'll put one in front of him as well, and we'll toast Jewel.
"What the hell is that?"
I love it when Conn gets all wild-eyed.
"Glass of pinot grigio please, darling? Oh, and one for my friend, here. It's downright balmy outside, so something chilled would be wonderful right about now."
Conn doesn't get my drink order. He does, however, loom over me, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter until the muscles stand out on his arms. I'm so busy staring at those I almost miss his snarled words, "Get that thing off my bar."
"I thought you were more egalitarian than that, Mr. Garvey."
He looks closer at my companion. "…Reginald?"
"Dear departed Reginald Loftus—yes indeed. He's visiting before settling into his final resting place, most likely Jewel's mantel. Or maybe her grand piano. We're going to try him out in a few different places to see what he prefers."
"Why don't you go do that right now?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Move along. Reginald is scaring off my customers."
I glance around. There are individuals on both sides of me looking askance at my drinking companion, but no one has set their glass down and retreated.
"It's not like he's going to go for their jugular." To emphasize my point I pick up Reginald and bob him toward Conn, adding a little raarr for effect.
Not like ferrets ever say raarr, even when they're alive and not stuffed with sawdust as Reginald, poor thing, is now and forever shall be. Long may his glass eyes glitter as he holds what I can only assume is a typical ferret-y pose, long and lean on his wooden base, one front paw raised yet curled, as though he were about to knock on your door and ask if you happened to have any spare rodents he could snack on.
Conn stares me down, so I sigh and stuff Reginald unceremoniously into my handbag. I leave his little nose sticking out so he can get some fresh air though.
"I think this side business of yours is getting to you," Conn says as he finally pours my glass of wine.
"We've had this conversation already. I told you, I'm fine." Never mind that I contradict my words by grabbing the wine he hands me and chugging it like it's Gatorade.
"You're toting around a taxidermied, recently deceased ferret."
"Shhh. Reginald is very sensitive about his current state. And where's his glass of wine?"
"We don't serve his kind here. If you want two drinks, say so."
"And risk you labeling me as an alcoholic?"
"Not an alcoholic. A self-medicater, maybe."
"Gimme."
"How's your dad's campaign coming along?"
I watch him pour, and I wiggle my fingers, urging him to get that blessed liquid sunshine a little closer to the rim. "Dad's campaign can run itself." At my friend's inevitable skeptical look, I wave my hand dismissively and say, "We talked about it on Sunday when we went for a nice drive and Father's Day dinner. We're good."
"And Hannah?"
I raise my eyebrows. "What about Hannah?"
"Have you seen her lately?"
When was the last time I'd hung out with Hannah? Long enough that I have to stop and think about it.
"You are one of her only friends here," he reminds me.
"I'll call her," I promise. I take one more swig of wine and stand up, only a touch lightheaded, and swing my bag onto my shoulder. Reginald's nose nudges my armpit. "Better get going. I don't want Jewel to think Reginald and I have run off together."
Conn nods and pats the bar in a goodbye gesture on his way to the kitchen.
"You don't have to be anywhere right this minute, do you?" I ask my companion once we're on the sidewalk. Reginald grins up at me, which I assume means he's flexible—well, as flexible as you can be when you're nailed to a board—so I take a little walk to Hannah's place.
The rental looks nice and neat from the outside, with a pot of purple lobelia and hot pink dahlias on the clean stoop. I'm glad my father won't have anything to complain about if he ever stops by to check on things. I think I've scared him off sufficiently enough that he won't be peeking in any windows anytime soon, but with him you never know. I use the brass knocker to rap on the red lacquered front door, but Hannah doesn't open up. She must be out. Maybe she's painting a lovely landscape somewhere.
I don't have time to check the beach or call her to see if she's nearby, because I have to deliver Reginald before it's time to meet another client for dinner. I check my phone and find four missed calls, three voicemails, and seven texts. And Conn thought this was a dumb idea. He still might be right, but it's definitely a popular dumb idea. I add two items to my to-do list: check on Dad and connect with Hannah. Now I have to find the time to squeeze it all in.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Next up on the campaign trail, one of the summer's most important events: an afternoon party at the Abbott's Bay Yacht Club on July 3. The actual Fourth might be all about cookouts and fireworks, but on the third, all that hominess is counterbalanced by a healthy dose of high living.
I arrive to find my dad already making the rounds, chatting up all the residents. He doesn't leave out any of the summer folk either, because he knows most of them from his real estate business, and he's a social kind of guy. There's a good turnout, and the place looks fabulous.
"This sure is the way to picnic." Hannah, sounding awestruck, sticks close to my side.
"See why I vetoed the denim shorts you were going to wear?"
"Well, you said barbecue."
"There's barbecue, and then there's barbecue."
The scene in the country club could be considered ridiculous if it wasn't so impressive. The patriotic decorations are festive yet tasteful. The red an
d white checked tablecloths are cute and as homey as the yacht club gets. The food supposedly pays homage to American summer traditions, but there are no hot dogs or hamburgers here. Servers circulate with trays of small grilled lobster halves on skewers, two different kinds of sliders (lobster roll and pulled pork), short corn on the cob smeared with herb butter and sprinkled with grated cheese, baby back ribs with some kind of heavenly-smelling glaze, and the requisite oysters. More food fills a couple of buffet tables decorated with elaborate ice sculptures and flower arrangements.
While the patio and deck are open, pretty much everyone's in the air-conditioned dining room, because sweating is unacceptable outside the confines of one's gym, especially when one is wearing designer clothing.
These are the people I'm looking for.
"Now remember—this is business," I remind my friend.
Conn's guilt trip worked. I asked Hannah to be my assistant, fielding calls and setting up appointments, and she couldn't have said yes any faster. Although I worry this is taking her away from her "me time" and her painting, she insists she was getting bored and this is far more interesting.
Speaking of friends, Taylor also got in on the New Best Friend action. Out of the blue she texted me some links and demanded I check all of them out immediately. Naturally I suspected she'd found some new sources of porn (let's just say it wouldn't be the first time), but they turned out to be social media accounts she'd set up for me—something she's especially good at—because, she said, if I'm going to do this, I'd better "do it right."
Now I need to pull this all together and get it to work in my favor. The yacht club party is the perfect opportunity to expand my client base. I'm in an enclosed space with a fair number of wealthy folks. I'm going to land some big fish choking with cash for Your New Best Friend or die trying, all for…well, that individual walking through the door, in fact.
