by Karen Grey
I’ve heard enough. “See, that’s the thing. I’m an artist, not a businessman. If I’d wanted to just make money, I’d have chosen a different profession.” Since they work in finance, there’s little chance they’d understand.
Kate cocks her head. “You say businessman like it’s a bad word.” Eyes still on me, she pulls a scrunchie out of her pocket and efficiently sweeps her hair into a ponytail, balancing the shovel’s handle with her elbow.
I thrust my shovel point into the dirt. I do not need to be thinking about what those silky locks would feel like if I ran my hands through them. “No offense, but yeah. I want to do something with my life that I believe in, and that does not include making money at the expense of other people.”
“How is acting in commercials making money at the expense of others?” Jess asks.
My shovel clangs against the wheelbarrow’s side and tips the whole thing over. I bend to clean it up, swearing under my breath before answering her challenge. “Advertising exists to get people to buy crap they don’t need or even want half the time.”
Steve grins. “And that’s the foundation of our amazing economy.”
I right the wheelbarrow. “Exactly. Except it’s not so amazing for some people.”
Steve tosses a shovelful of dirt. “You work hard, you rise to the top.”
I push the wheelbarrow with a little too much force. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one.” He sounds just like my father, making pronouncements that don’t add up. I need to change the trajectory of the conversation. “That’s good for the hole. Let’s lay out the railroad ties.”
Steve doesn’t take the hint, unfortunately. “I’m curious, Will. If you want to succeed in the theater, why not go to New York? Isn’t Broadway the place to be?”
His know-it-all question is frustratingly ignorant, but I rein in my temper. “Yes, it is, if you want to be in musicals. But if you’re into classical theater—Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekhov—Boston is a great place to be.”
I cross to the stack of ties. “Regional theater is where that work happens. If you’re a New York actor, you have to go all over the country to do it. Here, you can live where you work and you can actually support yourself.” Since they know I also work as a bartender, I add, “Once you’re established, that is. Jess, can you help me move this?”
She teeters over the uneven ground. “I’ll try.”
“That’s interesting.” Kate lifts one end of a tie and Steve the other. “I mean, Steve, you could ask the same of us—why aren’t we in New York? I mean, that’s where the big dogs are, right?”
“Well…”
He actually sounds uncomfortable, and there’s a ghost of a smile on Kate’s face.
“Personally, I’m here because I wanted to work at Fidelity, which has really revolutionized investing for the middle class.” She hardly seems out of breath, even though the ties are heavy. “Then I moved to our firm because I needed to broaden my experience. Why are you in Boston, Steve?” Her tone’s neutral, but it seems like she’s doing her best to needle him.
“Honestly? Because my uncle plays golf with one of the Rhodes Wahler partners, okay?” He drops his end of the tie in place, a scowl on his face. “Not everyone graduates with honors from Harvard, Kate. Or is part of a diversification quota.”
“And that’s how our world works. Do I have my job because of my experience and work ethic, or because I’m female and the company needs to check off that box?” Kate asks as she drops hers.
Jessica catches my eye and blows out a breath between pursed lips, clearly picking up on the tension between our volunteer partners. “Anyhoo, not to change the subject or anything, but you guys should come see us at Shakespeare Boston this summer. We have a really great season lined up. We’ll be doing All’s Well That Ends Well and Romeo and Juliet.” She bends over to pick up a tie with me. “Nobody’s making much of a return on their investment, but we do make Shakespeare fun.”
Kate nods as she and Steve pick up the other tie. “Well, that’s a different kind of return.” Her serious tone makes me laugh despite my irritation.
Jessica drops her end with a squeal. “Ow! Ugh.”
“Are you okay?” Steve asks.
She makes a pouty face. “I got a splinter.”
Steve drops their tie, stranding Kate. “We should take care of that. This is treated wood. You don’t want to leave any of it in there.” He takes her hand to examine it. “Let’s go see if they have a first aid station.”
Jess heaves a big sigh. “Oh, I’ll be fine.”
As if on cue, Steve’s gaze drops to her chest. “C’mon. I’ll help you.” Looking back at Kate and me, he steers her toward the building. “We’ll be right back.”
I watch them leave and then turn to Kate. “You up for getting these into place?”
Kate displays her work-glove-covered hands. “I’m a good Girl Scout. Always prepared.”
“I thought that was the Boy Scouts.”
“Girl Scouts can be prepared too,” she shoots back.
I hold up my hands. “Got it.”
She flaps her hands at her sides and winces. “Sorry, I’m just used to guys who think I can’t do anything as well as they can.”
“Obviously, that’s not the case.” I walk over to pick up the tie end Steve abandoned. “Ready?”
Left alone, we actually work together quite smoothly. We finish assembling the garden bed, then Kate goes back to mixing dirt while I move the amended soil.
Eventually, Jessica and Steve emerge from the office, bodies close, laughing. They’re surrounded by a gaggle of kids. “I’m guessing—actually I’m hoping—that you and Steve aren’t a thing. Not that I’m hoping you’re not dating him because I—I mean, because…”
“Because?”
“It—it’s just that Jessica can be, uh… persistent when she wants something, and it seems like she might be interested in Steve. I just wouldn’t want you to get hurt. But that’s… not really my business.”
I bend over the bed, uselessly smoothing the dirt. I’ve never felt so tongue-tied around a woman before.
She slaps her gloves together, and dirt rains down. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” I pick up the final bag of fertilizer and dump it onto the dirt pile.
“So—” we start at the same time.
“You go,” I say.
She cough-laughs. “I was just going to ask if you were wearing eye makeup.” She leans in to peer more closely at my face.
I rub a finger under my eye and note that it’s smudged with black as well as brown from the dirt.
I shake my head. “Yeah, I have to wear eyeliner for the show I’m in. I probably didn’t get it all off last night.” Her lashes are full and dark. She must have mascara on. “Do you have any makeup removal tips?”
“Nah, I avoid wearing makeup.” Her nose wrinkles. “To my mother’s chagrin.”
“I guess you don’t need it. Your eyes are round, spaced far apart. A pretty color of brown.”
“Earning me the nickname Bambi my first three months at my current job.”
“Really? That’s kind of cute.”
Twin spots of red tint her round cheeks. “Yeah, well, it’s very hard to get people to take you seriously when they equate you with an orphaned baby deer.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Steve’s laugh catches my attention. “Why are you even with this guy? I mean, you don’t really seem to like him that much.”
She shrugs. “I like him fine.”
I give her my best I-know-you’re-bullshitting-me look. “Really?”
She stops moving dirt for a moment and throws a quick glance at the man in question. “I like him more than I like any of the other guys I work with.” She shrugs. “He’s still a BSD, but he’s of a lesser variety.”
“BSD?”
“Big Swinging Dick. It’s what all the sales guys and traders aspire to be. Yo
u know, macho, an asshole, better than anybody else at what they do.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re here with him.”
Her mask gives way to irritation. “Because I’m a geek, okay? I can’t talk to people in that schmoozy way—I either choke or I spout facts and figures. Just like I did at you and Jessica.”
She goes back to moving dirt, slicing her shovel into the pile of mixed soil and hurling it into the bed. “And if I want to move up from junior analyst, I have to go on marketing trips. Actually talk to clients—a whole room full of them—face-to-face instead of on the phone. The idea terrifies me. If I had to do what you do, I would die. Well, I wouldn’t die. But it wouldn’t be pretty.” She shudders. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I pick up a wide-toothed metal rake to break up the bigger clumps of dirt. “But what does Steve have to do with that?”
“Well, for a sales guy like Hot Steve—I mean, Steve—”
“Hold up. Hot Steve?”
“That’s what all the women at work call him, so that’s who he is in my head.” She grimaces. “I haven’t called him that to his face. Yet.” She rolls her eyes. “Though he’d probably love it if I did.”
I can’t help laughing at how her mind works. “Okay. So Hot Steve…?”
She makes a face. “For Steve Lowell to go on a marketing trip, he has to go with an analyst, like me because what he’s really selling is my research. Having great analysts who can make recommendations you can trust is what gets investors to trade with us rather than any other firm.”
Kate tosses the last shovel-full of dirt my way and trades her shovel for a rake. “Anyway, if I have to go on a marketing trip and present my research, I want a solid sales guy to go with me. A Steve would do all the glad-handing. Warm up the room for me. Then all I have to do is talk about my stuff—whip out my charts and graphs and dazzle them with my brilliant insights. That part I can do. At least I think I can.”
She never stops moving as she delivers this monologue. I’m super impressed by her endurance. For a slim girl, she’s strong.
“But I know I can’t do it by myself,” she continues. “I’ve been trying to get to know the sales guys. If there’s one I can trust to have my back, then I won’t be so nervous. That’s why I was at your bar that night. Steve was not at the top of my list until he agreed to come and volunteer today, but—”
Suddenly, there’s an insistent buzzing sound, and Kate drops her rake. It’s almost a Pavlovian response. She marches over to pull a small black object from her bag. “Dang it. Do you know if there’s a payphone somewhere?”
“Is everything okay?”
She shrugs her backpack over slumped shoulders. “My boss paged me. No big deal. Happens most weekends.”
I point to the building where the main office is. “I’m sure they’ll let you use the phone in the center.” Her knees are dirty and there are a few smudges on her face. I circle a finger in the air, outlining her. “And the sink in the bathroom.”
To my surprise, she waves the suggestion away as she slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Oh, nobody else will be there.”
As she turns to leave, words tumble out of my mouth. “Hey, would you want to get coffee sometime?”
When she turns back, those Bambi eyes are wide with surprise. “Why?”
Why indeed? She is not someone I ever saw myself spending time with, but my mouth isn’t listening to my brain. “I think I’m asking you on a date.”
“Oh. Sorry. The guys I work with have really got me on the defensive.” The pager goes off again. “I gotta go, but sure. How about tomorrow at nine at the Coffee Connection in Harvard Square? Is that too early?”
“No, that’s great.”
Steve and Jess roll up pulling a wagon with a water cooler. “Sorry to abandon you but Jess got us a new job.”
I give the bed a final sweep with my rake. “No problem. Kate and I did fine on our own.”
Kate holds up her pager and backs away. “And now I’m heading to the office. Can you get a ride home, Steve?”
“Sure.” He glances over at Jess.
A grin of conquest takes over her face. “I’ll give him a ride.”
“Nice to meet y’all,” Kate calls as she jogs away. “I’ll see you at the trade show Monday, Steve.”
Jess hands me a paper cone of water which I guzzle down. As I’m refilling it, Steve pulls a business card from his pocket. “Hey, I told Jess this, but my friend at the casting company’s always looking for new actors.”
“Thanks, but like I said, I really only do stage work.”
Jessica groans. “Will, you’ve got to branch out. I keep telling you, a couple commercials and you wouldn’t have to bartend. And Kate’s right—look at you. You’re so wholesome you could sell anything.” She takes the card from Steve and sticks it in my back pocket.
“I don’t know about that, but thanks, Steve.”
As they pull the wagon toward another group of workers, I head to the volunteer coordinator to see what else needs doing.
All by myself.
Which I’m totally comfortable with.
So, why am I already looking forward to seeing Kate again?
CHAPTER FOUR
BEEP. SUNDAY, 7:37 a.m.
Kate. Roland here. Thank you for getting that report on my desk. Your timely response is always appreciated.
KATE
Stretching my arms toward a robin’s-egg-blue sky, I take in huge lungfuls of the sweet-smelling spring air. A day like this begs to be fully appreciated. Going outside without having to wear twelve layers of clothing, the sun warming my skin—living in Boston has made me truly appreciate the warm months.
I swing a leg over my bike seat and head toward the Charles River. It’s early, so I’m taking the long way to Harvard Square. I’ll get in some extra exercise before my coffee date with Will and hopefully work off some nervous energy. It’s not like I haven’t dated at all since my disastrous breakup with my college boyfriend, but I sure haven’t dated anyone as intriguing as Will. Even an extra-late Saturday night at the office didn’t stop me from getting up early to get ready for it.
Anticipation has me wiggling on my seat, which sets off a series of naughtier thoughts. I’m fully invested in a fantasy starring a naked Will when a loud honk from a car is the only thing that keeps me from blowing through an intersection without looking.
Okay. Not safe to let my imagination run wild while biking. Focus, Kate. The tranquil views along the Charles are always calming to me. Sculls gliding across the river, long-legged birds wading near its banks, sun sparkling on the water and the full sails of a fleet of colorful little boats. Nodding at joggers I recognize from my morning runs, I close the loop by heading toward the Square.
On JFK Street, foot traffic forces me to get off the bike. I’m still early to meet Will, so I lock it up and wander a bit until the path gets clogged by a crowd, probably watching a street performer. Quite a few of the spectators seem to be wearing athletic clothing, even though they aren’t exercising. Track pants, sweatshirts and running shoes surround me. Since this is the primary trade group Roland and I research, I dig a notebook out of my backpack to jot down brands.
When I look up from my notes, I seem to have drifted to within arm’s reach of the performer, who’s dressed kind of like a clown, without the red nose. Unfortunately, he’s looking right at me, saying something about needing an assistant for his next trick. Scanning nearby faces, I spot a cute teenaged girl jumping up and down like she’d love to help. Anybody would be better suited than me, so I point at her. “How about this girl?”
The performer stops. Looks at the girl. I let out the breath I’d been holding, thankful to have escaped sure humiliation. Before I take in the next breath, however, the performer points at me, booming out, “We all know what happens when you volunteer someone.” He raises his hands up and down, causing a few in the audience to join in as he shouts, “You volunteer
yourself!”
Laughing, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto his makeshift stage even though I’m leaning away from him, shaking my head, unsuccessfully attempting to form the word No.
Everyone is staring at me.
I can’t swallow, can’t breathe.
The clown puts his arm around me. “What’s your name, my beautiful new assistant?”
I manage to squeak out, “Kate.”
“Don’t worry, Kate. I don’t bite. And this’ll be easy.” He bows slightly before handing me five juggling pins. “You juggle, right?”
The crowd laughs at what must be a look of horror on my face.
He laughs with them. At me. The jerk. “Just kidding. All you have to do is throw me these pins. Even if you throw like a girl, I’ll catch them.”
Stifling the desire hit him over his sexist head with a pin is better than worrying about making a fool of myself. At least I don’t have to say anything. Throwing isn’t so hard.
The clown mounts a unicycle and rides it in a circle around me. I have to admit that if he can juggle while riding that thing, I’ll be impressed. I launch the first pin, which he has to swerve to catch, causing the crowd to cheer. He dramatically puts his hand on his chest and says something about how I need to throw a little more like a girl. Rolling my eyes, I toss him two more, underhand this time, and he juggles all three while balancing in place.
A ridiculous sense of accomplishment lifts the corners of my mouth. I survived being “onstage” without freaking out. I still have two pins, but I figure they’re extras. Juggling more than three would be crazy.
As I step back toward the rest of the crowd, hoping to fade into it, someone crashes into me from behind, knocking me off balance and sending me stumbling forward. My arms windmill, the pins extending their length, and I flail right into the juggler. After a few long moments of wrestling for control, we both lose the battle with gravity. I hit the ground hard. Laughter surrounds me. And yelling. I peek between crossed elbows. The juggler looms over me, face red and eyes blazing.
