by Remy Rose
So like I once told my BFF Madeline, my job basically equates to lying underneath a hairy fat guy and faking an orgasm from 9 to 5. If I haven’t been clear, I want to get the hell out of my job, and by hell, I mean fuck.
But...there’s the money. It’s pretty good. Also, I have like a ten minute commute, and it’s not as if I’ve seen a lot of other job openings in Ellsworth, Maine. I’ve looked, believe me. So for now, I’m stuck under the hairy fat guy.
What I really want to do? Open my own coffee shop. It’s been a dream of mine to have my own business, and I’ve always loved the idea of having a cozy café for people to get together and relax, forget about their worries. I can picture it all: the smell of coffee brewing (one of the best scents ever) complemented by the aroma of freshly-baked muffins, the colors I’d pick to make the place warm and inviting, the comfy furniture, the music I’d play, the pretty window boxes I’d have outside, filled with purple petunias and baby’s breath...ohh, a girl can dream, right?
I even know which building I want. Corner of Main and School Street, downtown Ellsworth. It’s so cool-looking—Mansard roof, ornate brickwork and huge, arched front windows looking out onto the street. It used to be a dress shop and just went up for sale. Which makes it almost worse, because now I know it’s available and someone is going to buy it and that someone can’t be me, because I don’t have the money. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but since my BFF happens to own a realty company, I asked her if she could show me the building. The place was even better than I expected. Hardwood floors, high tin ceilings with beautiful detail. It had this hush about it...like it was waiting, poised on the edge of a promise. Unfortunately, just not a promise for me. Maddie said she’ll keep me posted on it. She’s offered multiple times to lend me money, but I’ve staunchly refused. Like I told her, I don’t want to take something from someone, even my best friend, when I can’t give back anything in return. I’m almost hoping it goes under contract soon, because that way, I can shove it out of my mind where it belongs, keep saving what little money I can, and continue faking it at work as the DD girl (Dunkin Donuts)...picking up Boston Kremes and extra large black coffees for the Stu and Lou Show, listening to them bitch and moan about the donuts being upside down in the bag and watching Stu rip apart the brown paper and lick the chocolate frosting while sometimes winking at me.
Did I mention that I really hate my job? Annnd now I’m off to Walmart to buy toilet paper.
I’m heading out the door of Precision Machine into the brisk March breeze when I hear my ring tone, muffled in my purse. It’s either a telemarketer or more likely, my mother, who always seems to forget I have a job and calls during the day. Since she and Dad got divorced (thankfully, amicably) a few months ago, she’s totally redefining herself at the age of forty-eight. I affectionately refer to her as a Jack Russell terrier on crack.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. What are you up to?”
“That job thing I do.”
“Oh! That’s right.” A little laugh. “It is Monday, isn’t it? Well, I won’t keep you...just on my way to java therapy.”
“Java...therapy?”
Another laugh. “Starbucks with Cecile. We call it java therapy. She has a small part in a Penobscot Theater production and wants to go over her lines with me. She’s even encouraging me to audition for the next one!”
“I can totally picture you doing that. You should.” I start up my Hyundai Sonata and pull out of the parking lot.
“Thanks, honey bunches. I just might. What are you doing for fun these days?”
“Oh, nothing real exciting...going to bars once in a while, and a girls’ night here and there.”
“How is Madeline doing? Is she still seeing that contractor you told me about?”
“Oh, yes. She’s happier than she’s ever been. She and Jack are like a couple of teenagers in love for the first time.”
“I’m so happy for her. I haven’t seen her since she came to Bangor for that waterfront concert last June. Maybe I’ll get to see her soon, and meet him. Speaking of meeting men...have you?”
Why did I know this was coming?
“No, Mom. Like I’ve told you, I’m pretty soured on men since I’m constantly watching the Stu and Lou show.”
A classic maternal sigh. “Delaney, you know all men aren’t like that. I wish you’d be open to the idea of at least dating someone. You’re much too beautiful and fabulous to be single.” She pauses. “Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Are you a lesbian, Laney?”
Jesus, could this day get any worse? Now my mother’s questioning my sexuality. “No, Mom. I’m not a lesbian.”
“Because it’s absolutely fine if you are. There has never been a better time to be gay, sweetheart. And I’m totally on board if you are.”
“Thank you. But I’m not gay, Mom.”
“That owner of the Italian restaurant I’ve seen you post on Facebook...what’s her name? Amanda? You’d make a great lipstick lesbian for her.”
Answer: Yes, this day can get worse. “Mom. I’m not gay. I’m just not interested in dating men right now. And I have to go.”
“All right, honey. We can talk about this more later. Women have needs, just like men do, and I hope you can find someone to meet those needs. I want you to find someone as special as you are.”
We say our I love you’s and hang up. I take some deep cleansing breaths, because my mother just said I’d be a good lipstick lesbian, and also I’m going into Walmart.
It would be fine if I were gay—maybe it would be even better, because I’ve come to believe that women are kinder and way more sensitive than men. But I’m straight. Straight, celibate and single, and I’m planning to stay that way.
And no one needs to know the real reason why.
Chapter 3 / Damon
Gloria’s sharp eyes dart around the conference room table, leaving no one unscathed. We all meet her gaze dutifully over our bottles of Poland Spring water.
“I called this meeting to discuss a potential new direction for Cavanaugh Yacht. I’ve had Jamie do some research on Bellamy Marine so he might give us more information on the status of their company. Jamie...summarize what you’ve found out.”
My mother nods at our chief financial officer, who takes an audible gulp of air. The poor guy’s worked for us for three years and still gets nervous under pressure. But it’s understandable—Gloria Cavanaugh pushed me into the world twenty-nine years ago, and she still scares the crap out of me.
Jamie clears his throat. “Bellamy Marine used to be a powerhouse. They owned sixty-five percent of pleasure boats sold in the European-Mediterranean market. But recently, they’ve lost considerable market share. Their primary boat designer resigned, and their newest model isn’t doing as well as projected.” He looks over at Helen, our sales assistant, who quickly stands up with a stack of blue pocket folders and passes one to each of us. “You’ll find copies of a financial statement that I put together on their company, as well as a list of the principals of Bellamy Marine as it stands right now.”
I skim through the list of names: Roger Bellamy, CEO. Scott Harwell, President. Kiernan Rollins, Secretary and Treasurer. Portia Bellamy, Advertising and Marketing.
Jamie continues, a bit more emboldened because my mother is nodding her approval. “Roger Bellamy has made it known he’d like to retire in the next couple of years, but he wants to ensure that the family legacy continues, since this is the third generation Bellamy to run the company.”
My mother interrupts. “Thank you, Jamie. Let me share what I gleaned from my phone conversation with Roger yesterday. As you stated, he’s very much concerned about the future of Bellamy Marine. He was quite frank with me about not having a great deal of confidence in his current executive staff and would like to see the company stay with the family as per his grandfather’s wishes, but his son isn’t interested in taking over...his focus is more on being a playboy and spending Daddy�
��s millions.”
She punches her eyes at me. Seriously, Gloria? I guess I’ve earned the playboy label, but I can spend my own millions, thanks.
“Roger does, however, have a daughter.”
“Portia Bellamy,” I find myself saying.
“Yes. The new marketing manager. She doesn’t know much about the business but has expressed interest in learning more.”
Bill Richardson, our vice-president, leans over the table, his big hands clasped and his ruddy face expectant. He always wants to cut to the chase. “So where does Cavanaugh Yacht fit in to all of this?”
“We’re thinking of possibly partnering—” Jamie starts to answer but shuts his mouth abruptly as Gloria silences him with a glare. Poor guy, but he should know better by now than to steal the boss’s thunder.
She’s got an eyebrow lifted so high, it looks it’s getting ready for take-off. “I am in the process of exploring the possibility of working with Bellamy on new designs that would be acceptable for the U.S. and European markets. Everyone at this table will be given an assignment pertinent to his or her role to determine if this is viable. I’ll be sending out an email later this afternoon outlining what I expect from each of you. We’ll reconvene in two weeks.”
She stands up, which means we do, too. I pick up my folder and start to follow Bill out of the room when my mother’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Damon. I’d like a word with you.”
Ah, shit...this is probably about the office antics with the intern yesterday. Poor Eva was so stressed out about getting caught; I assured her I’d take the blame, and I will.
After the last person leaves the conference room, my mother closes the door, sits down and motions for me to do the same.
Really not looking forward to this.
“Look, Mother...I apologize for yesterday. It was totally unprofessional of me.”
“Yesterday?” Her forehead is creased in puzzlement.
“With the new intern. Shouldn’t have put her in that, uh, position, and it won’t happen again. And it was all my idea. I take full responsibility.”
My mother rolls her eyes and frowns, sighing loudly. She waves a jeweled hand at me. “Oh, Damon—I have much bigger fish to fry than worrying about my twenty-nine-year-old son keeping his pants zipped. Although I do have a plan that will require you to be more...selective.”
Plan?
Her face smooths out so she looks almost pleasant. “I didn’t want to divulge this to the group. It has to be handled extremely discreetly, and this needs to stay just between the two of us.” She twirls the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger. “I wouldn’t want to tip our hand.”
She’s seriously starting to piss me off, but that’s how Gloria rolls. Keep everybody a little off-balance so she stays in charge. It was a blast growing up like that. Still is.
I raise my eyebrow. Must be genetic.
She’s amused that I’m irritated. “I’m sure I’ve piqued your interest. I’ll spare you further anticipation. I’m not planning on a partnership with Bellamy.”
“You’re not?” Then what the fuck was this meeting about?
“No. I’m planning on a take-over.” And now my mother is practically glowing. She looks like she’s on the verge of a goddamned orgasm. Don’t want to go there (who would, right?), but this is exactly the kind of thing that gets Gloria Cavanaugh off. Power. Control. The business. Always, the business.
“Roger and I had a lengthy conversation. He shared with me that the only way he thinks he can save the company is to expand into the U.S. So I offered to take his daughter under my wing and show her the ropes—teach her marketing, American style.”
“I guess I don’t really see how helping Daddy’s little girl learn about boat-building over here translates into taking over his company.”
My mother laughs. There’s a gleam in her eye. I’ve seen that gleam before. It’s an I’m moving in for the kill type of gleam, and you’d better hope you’re not the prey. “It’s a guise. Roger thinks I’m doing him a favor. He trusts me. We’ve known each other for years, going all the way back to our days at Yale. On the surface, I’m an old friend helping his daughter.”
“But beneath the surface, you’re stabbing him in the back.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, darling...more like giving fresh horses to a weary cavalry. Bellamy Marine needs Cavanaugh Yacht, and Cavanaugh Yacht wants Bellamy Marine.”
“And exactly how are you planning to accomplish this take-over of a family-owned business, since you can’t buy company stocks, and as far as I know, Bellamy’s not for sale?”
“That’s where you come in, my dear.”
Cue the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.
“Portia, as you know, is a marketing executive. She’s twenty-six. Quite beautiful. And she’s single.”
She opens her blue folder and takes out a sheet of paper. On that sheet of paper is the headshot of an attractive woman, her sleek black hair cut crisply just above her shoulders. She has pale skin, fine features, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes, and she’s giving a slight smile that hints at self-confidence.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
“Don’t look so stunned, Damon. This is a win-win. I’ve thought it all through. You’re approaching thirty...you know I’ve wanted you to find an ideal match—someone suitable for you in every way—and settle down. A marriage to Portia could mean millions for Cavanaugh Yacht, and therefore, millions for you. Portia will be here for four months which should give you enough time to…how shall I put this tastefully? Bed and wed her. Bellamy and Cavanaugh will be a match made in corporate heaven.”
I can’t even think of a response that will adequately capture just how fucking insane this sounds. And how much I fucking loathe my mother at this moment.
“Portia will arrive at the beginning of next month. I’ve already made arrangements for a luxury apartment in Bar Harbor. She’ll love it there, especially after Memorial Day with the entertainment of all the tourists, and the eateries and shopping...you’ll have to introduce her to the night life...”
I open my mouth and close it. Still can’t find the words—can’t fucking focus with all the shock and rage boiling in my blood. Gloria’s going on like she’s totally oblivious to what I might be thinking, her cheeks pink with excitement like this is the best idea in the history of all ideas.
It’s just as well that I’m not responding. I know my mother, and I know that whatever I might say now, she’d shoot it down, get nasty, threaten to cut me off like she’s done before. It’s all about the business with her, and I’ve got to be smart about this. Plus, I don’t have any real reason not to give this a try, because I’m not seeing any—
And just like that, bam, it hits me. I have a possible way out. My mother’s words come back to me: You know I’ve wanted you to find someone and settle down. I need to convince my mother that I am serious about someone. There’s the issue of Gloria knowing I had a thing with Eva, but I’ll find a way around that—after I find what’s most important to my plan.
My new girlfriend.
Chapter 4 / Delaney
We’re in Madeline’s kitchen, capping off an impromptu Monday night dinner while her contractor boyfriend is working late. Her eyes widen as she samples the double chocolate torte I made. “Damn, Lane...this is delicious!”
“Don’t look so surprised, girlfriend. I’ve been practicing. I’m getting like you, baking as a stress reliever.”
“Funny, I haven’t been baking that much.” Maddie winks at me slyly.
“Let me guess...you’re using, um, something else as a stress release. A certain someone’s special tool?”
She blushes and laughs. “Maybe.”
My BFF has always been gorgeous, but looking at her now, so obviously in love...the glow she’s giving off is brightening her face and enhancing her beautiful features. There’s a softness about her, a lightness that wasn’t there before.
“Jesus, Mads—you�
��ve got it bad, don’t you? Your hair even looks shinier, for God’s sake.”
“New shampoo,” she smirks.
“Uh huh.”
“Anyway…to get back to you and your insanely good dessert here.”
“Thank you.”
“This will be a major hit when you get your café.”
“If I get my café.”
“No. When. Your job sucks too much for you to stay there, and having your own business has been your passion. You want it too much for it not to happen.”
“Unfortunately, sometimes wanting something isn’t enough.”
“When there’s a will, there’s a way. My offer of a loan is always open, you know. Remember that.”
“And once again, I will graciously decline, but loving you lots for being so nice.”
Maddie sighs. “Okay, Lane. I just want you to be happy.” She gets up from her kitchen table and brings our dessert plates over to the sink.
“Is that a new faucet?”
“It is. Jack installed it a couple nights ago. You like?”
“I love. The way it arches high, and the spray head that’s also the faucet, and the bronze-y finish. Very cool.”
“Thanks. It’s a Moen—it has a no-touch sensor, too. You could get it for your café.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope. I hope you’re keeping a list of things you want when it happens.”
I tap the side of my head. “It’s all up here. I do think about it. God, sometimes it’s the only way I can stay sane during the Stu and Lou Show.”
“Alcohol helps, too. And I’ve got that. Hang on.” Madeline goes around the corner of the kitchen to the basement door and heads downstairs, her bare feet quick on the steps, and comes back with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. “This will be good after the torte.” She pours us each a glass, and we go into her living room. Sitting down on her pale green sofa, she pulls her legs underneath her, flipping her hair off her shoulders. I take a seat on the other end, sipping at my wine and looking around at the décor with a mixture of admiration and wistfulness, because it’s the type of place you don’t want to leave. It’s done in blues, greens and whites—the room has a very calm, ocean-y feel and an ideal theme for a coastal home like this. My gaze drops to the small stack of gray rocks on the coffee table’s pale blue runner, and I can’t help but smile. Cairns have particular significance to Maddie and Jack. Everything in this living room—the driftwood-framed photo of Bass Harbor lighthouse at sunrise, the jewel-toned blue and green mosaic glass framing the fireplace, the old bottles filled with sea glass on the mantel—it’s all put together perfectly, with everything just where it should be.
