by Carol Snow
At work the next morning, I told Danielle about Lola. I pretended—to both her and myself—that I was trying to protect her, but really, of course, I just wanted to watch her suffer.
Her response? “He was just stepping out on you because you’re such an icy-cold bitch and fucking you was like fucking a table.”
Nice.
Later, she sent an e-mail to Keith:
I feel really bad for Jane because I can tell she’s still so totally in love with you.
Keith wrote back:
She’s kinda pathedic, I feel sorry for her, but I cant help the way I feel.
I considered going to the CEO, telling him about the strip clubs, getting Keith fired. The thing was, my motives would have been so obvious. Plus, I’d known about the strip clubs all along (just not Lola), and I probably should have mentioned them earlier.
So I followed him (which sounds so much nicer than, “I stalked him”). I took my Civic, my camera, and a whole lot of Starbucks coffee, and I watched as Keith went to his gym, to the grocery store, to Danielle’s. Always to Danielle’s. He spent a lot more time at her place than he ever had at mine. And then he went back to the gym.
Being a sales guy, he was on the road a lot, so it’s not like I was doing this every day. It’s not like I was obsessed. Okay, I was obsessed, but not because I loved him. I hated him! That’s better, right? Eventually, he would grow bored with Danielle and head back to the Candy Cane. I’d get a picture of him going inside—maybe even a shot of Lola. And when Danielle saw the photo? I’d win.
I didn’t win. After about a month and a half of this (during which Keith was mostly gone—honestly), the CEO summoned me into his office. Keith and Danielle were there, as was the president and my boss, the HR manager. For a second, I thought management was on my side, that they were going to chastise Keith and Danielle for being so mean to me. But then I saw Danielle smile, and I knew I was screwed.
Stalking is a serious offense, they said.
Keith went to strip clubs, I blurted out. And paid for it with his company credit card. I’d just been watching out for the bottom line, doing my job, protecting company resources.
Fired, they said.
“Me? But what about him?”
I could tell by the CEO’s expression that he’d known about the strip clubs all along. My boss, the HR manager, looked genuinely shocked, which made me almost sort of like her (but not really).
The CEO gave a fake warning to Keith and then mumbled something about him being “one of our top performers” and “what he does in his free time is his own business.” And then he said that Keith was planning to file a restraining order against me.
“I’ll call all of our customers,” I announced (still talking in “we” terms—such a loyal employee). “And I’ll tell them that the company pays for gentleman’s clubs and sex with strippers. What does that say about our ethics, our corporate culture? Who would want to do business with us?” I’m not sure if I really had the balls to do this—and I’m not sure if it would have worked—but at this point, it was my only ammunition.
“I’ve never paid for sex,” Keith said, less defensive than proud.
“Of course you haven’t,” I shot back. “The company reimbursed you.”
“I propose a revision to the employee handbook,” my boss interjected. “To clarify expectations regarding appropriate use of corporate funds.” My boss was such a weenie.
“Your employment is terminated, effective now,” the CEO said to me. “Assuming you stay away from Keith and Danielle, I see no need to file anything with the police.”
“What about a recommendation?” I asked.
“What about it?”
I held his eyes and spoke slowly. “I’m competent, smart, well versed in human resources. I’ve outgrown my current position, but any company would be lucky to have me. Right?”
The CEO stared at me. I stared back. I was twenty-four years old, remember. And sweating quite profusely. When he didn’t respond, I said, “Because I wouldn’t want to upset the customers if it wasn’t necessary.”
The CEO turned to my boss. “Put together a recommendation and I’ll sign it.”
And that was that.
Except now, apparently, it wasn’t.
Chapter 25
So, my past had come back to bite me in the butt. On the plus side—if you can call it that—I was already so miserable that an extra dose of humiliation, no matter how potent, didn’t have that much of an impact. Besides, I got to see a picture of Danielle (she was the one who tipped off the press, naturally), and she’d gotten really fat. There were comments from Keith (“I was frightened for my life”—oh, please) but no recent pictures, which I decided meant that he got fat, as well.
The story finally over, Michael clicked off the TV. “Wow,” he said.
I said something like “urg”; the chef’s knife was still clenched in my sweaty hand, making me look like a major psycho.
“I’m sure it’s all lies,” Michael said.
“Not entirely,” I admitted, my voice squeaking. “I really did follow him. But it wasn’t because I was so in love with him like that bi—” I glared at the TV, which was back to being a painting. “Like Danielle said. He’d treated me really badly, and I was furious. I really wanted to kill him but figured I’d just get him fired instead.”
There was a long, long pause, after which Michael said, “You might not want to use those words when you’re talking to the police.”
I began to shake. “Oh my God.” I dropped the knife on the counter.
“Don’t worry about dinner.” Michael sprang up from his chair. “Why don’t you sit down, have a glass of wine, maybe, and I’ll serve.”
I shook my head. “Not hungry anymore.” I stumbled out of the kitchen and onto the couch.
“At least you have a good job now,” Michael said, trying to make me feel better. “That whole thing that happened—at least it didn’t hurt your career.”
I turned to face him. No. Oh, no.
I’d turned my phone off after talking to my mother. Now, checking my voice-mail messages, I saw that Lena had called just before five o’clock California time, three o’clock here. When had the stalker story hit the wires? Odds were, it popped up on the Internet hours before I saw it.
“Jane? Hi. I hope you’re okay.” Lena sounded nervous on the message. “Sorry. That’s a stupid thing to say because I know you’re not okay, but I just—well, you know what I mean.” She took a deep, noisy breath. “The thing is? There’s something I need to send you. An e-mail.” And then, the truth: “Mr. Wills had me type up a memo.”
After setting up his laptop on the little table in his bedroom, Michael left me to read in privacy. I sat down carefully on the straight-backed chair, my legs so wobbly I feared I might fall over.
Re: Recent Developments
Dear Ms. Shea:
As you are aware, it has been with utmost sympathy that I have followed your travails since last weekend. While I must admit to being anxious about potential associations between the events and Wills Rubber Company, please know that my primary concern has always been for you and your well-being. Over the years I have valued your contributions to the company and had expected you to continue and grow with us for quite some time.
However, it has come to my attention that during your interview process neither you nor your previous employer disclosed certain events that reflect poorly on your character. You, perhaps better than anyone, are aware of our company’s policies regarding employment disclosure as well as sexual harassment. As such, it is with great sadness that I must terminate your employment, effective immediately.
Sincerely,
Robert Wills
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, I felt worse. The place where I worked with Keith and Danielle had had a sheen of sleaziness: padded expenses, questionable tax write-offs, slippery negotiations. Mr. Wills was a big reason I joined the rubber company (most of the other reaso
ns involved being able to afford food and rent). He wasn’t a guy you’d do tequila shots with, but that was the point. He was such a Boy Scout, such a goody-goody. He would never cross a line or tolerate inappropriate behavior.
And now? I was the one who had behaved inappropriately, the one who needed to be banished for the greater good.
Michael appeared in the doorway, a glass of white wine in his hand. “We can watch Tiara’s YouTube video if it’ll cheer you up,” he said.
I shook my head, afraid I’d cry if I said anything.
“Here.” He set the wine down on the table next to me.
I left the glass sitting there. “I just got fired,” I said, my lip quivering, my hair falling in my face.
“Oh, no,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.” He put his hand on my back. I stood up and threw my arms around him. He held me tight and stroked my back while I cried into his black shirt. He smelled like laundry detergent mixed with Coppertone.
“I got your shirt wet,” I said, finally pulling away. I wiped my eyes.
“It’ll dry.” He picked up my wineglass. “C’mon.” He motioned with his head. “Let’s go watch the sunset.”
He had set the table on the deck for two people, lit a candle, and put out the tossed salad and a platter of cut quesadillas. The sun wouldn’t fall behind the horizon for another half hour or so, but the breeze had died down and the water had calmed.
“I’m not really a stalker,” I said, staring at the water even though it hurt my eyes.
“I know,” he said simply, serving me salad.
I looked at him with skepticism.
He put some greens on his own plate and put the serving spoons back in the teak bowl. “Your boyfriend was two-timing you and pretending to be somebody else, and you had no idea. You obviously weren’t stalking him.” He shot me a wry grin. “Though maybe you should have been.”
“I thought about following him,” I admitted. “One night when he said he had to work late, I almost drove down to his office—well, your office—just to see if I could spot him. But I thought about that other . . . experience. How ashamed I’d been. And I decided that surrendering my self-respect is worse than being lied to.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
I thought about it. “Yes. I do.”
I took a small bite of the salad. He’d tossed it with just the right amount of dressing.
“When are you flying out tomorrow?” he asked, reaching for a quesadilla.
“Late. It’s the red-eye.”
“You need a ride to the aiport?”
I was about to say I had a rental car, when I realized that Mary and Albert had already returned it. It was the kind of detail that didn’t usually slip by me, but this wasn’t a usual week.
“I’d love one. If you really don’t mind,” I said.
“It would be my pleasure.” We locked eyes for a moment before turning back to our meal.
Michael seemed different from when I’d first met him: warmer, less distracted. Not only was he not making phone calls every five minutes, he didn’t even seem to have his phone with him. He looked at me differently now, too. It felt like he was seeing the real me—not just the plain Jane who was plastered across the television or the company mom who never forgot a birthday.
He took a long drink of his wine, put the glass back on the table, and blurted, “There’s something I’ve been thinking about since that very first night we spent time together. You know—at the luau.”
My face grew warm. “Yes?”
“I don’t know if it’s the right time to bring this up—I mean, after all that’s happened. It’s just—we’re here. And I don’t want the moment to slip by. Though I completely understand if you’re not . . . ready.”
“I’m probably not.” My heart was pounding. “But . . . it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it.” Katie had gotten her happy ending. Maybe I would, too.
He played with the stem of his wineglass, trying to find the right words. “You’ve been through an awful lot. I know you’ve been hurt.”
I nodded eagerly.
“And if you need some time to yourself—weeks, months, whatever—that’s okay. I’ll wait for you.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. “You won’t have to wait very long,” I promised.
It was like this moment was meant to be—like it was fate, or something. Jimmy, Tiara—this crazy path had led me to Michael James. The real Michael James.
The sun cast a golden glow on his skin. Jimmy had been good-looking, of course, but in a flashy, fleeting kind of way. Michael was so classically handsome, with his sharp cheekbones, straight nose, dark hair, and warm brown eyes. More than that, he was beautiful inside, honest and strong. It had taken me a long time to find him, but the wait had been worth it.
“I probably couldn’t pay you as much as you’ve been getting,” he said. “But we could find a way to make it work.”
“Wait—you’d pay me?” I was still focused on his cheekbones.
“Well, yeah, of course. Plus we could talk about bonus opportunities, maybe even equity. I really think you’d be great.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. “You want to hire me?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “What you said about Ana? How I shouldn’t have my designer answering phones? You were dead-on. I mean, she could add a lot more value by getting involved with production, marketing—stuff directly related to the product.”
“You want me to be your secretary.” My voice quavered.
“Administrator,” he corrected, smiling gently. “Answering the phones is only a very small part of the job. You’d also be responsible for payroll, customer service, accounts payable, and accounts receivable.” He raised his eyebrows to accentuate that last one. I’d open the checks. Woo-hoo.
His phone rang. He had it with him, after all. Of course he did.
“It’s Tiara,” he chirped, checking the display.
“Hey,” Michael said to Tiara. “We’re just eating dinner.” He shot me a fond look. “Oh—already?” He looked at his diver’s watch. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.
“Tiara’s on her way back from the studio,” he told me, standing up. “Asked if we could tape her interview.”
Tiara’s television debut was on a local program, hosted by a skinny, earnest woman named Suzy Lee and a smiley, square-headed guy named Chuck Makuakane. Apparently, it was Suzy’s job to ask the questions and Chuck’s job to stare at Tiara’s breasts.
Tiara was wearing her black halter top with the black skirt. Someone in the news station’s hair department had tamed her country-singer hair so it tumbled sleekly around her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle and flattering. She looked like an L.A. weather girl or entertainment reporter.
When we tuned in (as Michael tried to figure out the VCR and I tried not to cry), Suzy was just finishing with a recap of the story-to-date, which, as far as I could tell, mercifully excluded my stalker incident.
SUZY (brows knitted in concern): Tiara Cardenas. You’ve been through a lot this week.
TIARA (looking at camera): I have. And to everyone who’s been so supportive of me, I can’t thank you enough.
SUZY (touching Tiara on the knee): Some of the things people have posted about you have not been kind. They have focused on certain aspects of your . . .
TIARA (eyes widening): Yes?
CHUCK (looking at Tiara’s face): Sexuality (eyes back to Tiara’s breasts).
TIARA (casting eyes down modestly): Until this week, I thought I was in a loving, monogamous relationship. And our physical expression was just part of it. I’m not ashamed of that.
SUZY: You really loved him, huh?
TIARA (solemnly): I did. (Brightening) Let’s be clear—I don’t mind being called hot! (Cue laughter from cohosts and stagehands.) But what really bothers me? (What would she say next—“the media’s attacks on pretty friend Jane’s appearance”?) . . . Is the implied racial slur in my portrayal.
SUZY: I can
see why that would be upsetting.
TIARA (straightening): I mean, like, saying Luscious Latino? That is so, like, a stereotype. As if, like, just because I’ve got a Spanish last name, I’m some kind of [word beeped out by censors].
SUZY: Last week we did a segment on racial profiling that touched on many of the same concerns. (To camera) Interested viewers can watch the clip on our Web site.
TIARA (continuing): But what’s really crazy? I’m only one-quarter Cuban! And I’m proud of that, I get that from my dad. But—hello? I am also Filipino, Norwegian, and German. I am all of those things, but I’m also none of those things. That’s the new face of America, people, and you better get used to it. You Hawaiians understand, because people here have always mixed. But at home, everyone wants to, like, pigeon-toe you into some category.
“That was masterful,” Michael said, once the segment had finished.
“It’s pigeonhole,” I muttered.
Back outside, I planted my sorry ass back into the teak chair and said, “Jimmy’s death is working out pretty well for Tiara. This afternoon, she seemed genuinely upset. Now she’s fully recovered and ready to launch a career as a, what? Professional victim? Or a spokesperson for multiculturalism?” I took a long drink of my wine.
Michael considered. “Well, Jimmy used her, now she’s using him. You can’t really blame her.”
“There is no way she wrote those words herself,” I said.
“I don’t know. I think Tiara’s a lot smarter than she seems.” He held out the platter. “Quesadilla?”
I put one on my plate but didn’t eat it. “Well, she seems like an idiot. So being smarter isn’t necessarily saying much.” I really shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Especially on a day when my boyfriend has been found dead, my worst secret exposed, and my entire career derailed.
