Doris bit into a sugar-covered scone. “I was really starting to believe she loved him.”
“Sean was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Jackie shrugged. “He’s just a casualty. Cheryl wanted to be married by thirty. It didn’t matter to who.”
They were quiet for a moment, and then Doris snorted. “Remember when she threw out their wedding dishes for those stupid plates?” Doris said. “The ones with the foreign women living in fabulous cities?”
Jackie laughed. “He should have known right then.”
“But we’re on her side?” Doris confirmed, going in for another bite.
“Always,” Jackie said. “Unfortunately, loyalty can’t go both ways.”
To be fair, Cheryl did seem a lot happier the moment the ink on the divorce papers had dried. “I made a mistake,” Cheryl admitted. “But at least I ended it now. Sean’s still got plenty of time to find someone else. Get married. Be happy.”
“What about you?” Doris had asked.
Cheryl shrugged. “I’m married to my work.”
Although Cheryl’s professional life did appear to be wild and glamorous—now that she had landed that big beer account, Cheryl was constantly running to Chicago to coordinate commercial shoots or going to parties with exciting people—Doris couldn’t help but be worried about her friend. The lines under Cheryl’s eyes had deepened. Alcohol was a part of every meal, even brunch. Doris was worried that if Cheryl didn’t slow down and find someone she could love instead of someone she could make a story out of at a cocktail party, she would regret it.
“She’s spent so much time proving she can take over the world,” Jackie once said, “that sometimes, I think she’s forgotten to live in it.”
Not that Doris was perfect. She knew that. But at least she was willing to try.
Pulling the comforter tighter around her, Doris had forced herself to tune into Jackie’s rhythmic rattle and try to fall asleep. She stared blankly at the dark hole of her closet. It seemed to go on forever but she kept her eyes fixed on it, knowing that when the sun rose there would be order waiting there to meet her.
Sure enough, when the sun came up, the answer to her marriage seemed to be hanging there, right next to the row of pastel sweaters. Doug may have seen a movie with another woman, but he was still her husband. Doris should do everything in her power to please him. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was five a.m. Plenty of time to do something that would make Doug happy.
She climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Jackie, and sneaked out to the kitchen to bake snickerdoodles. They were Doug’s favorite. By six, Doris had one batch of the cinnamon-coated cookies already in the oven and several more ready to go.
Pleased, Doris took a look around the kitchen and applauded her handiwork. The cookies were a good start. This afternoon she would order that bigger flat screen Doug had been talking about. Tonight, she would invite him back into their bed. She would turn off the lights, put on that nightgown and the sparkly powder, and throw herself at him.
Now, Doris’s plump hands deftly sliced tomatoes for his salami sandwich. She made two lunches every morning, one for Doug and one for Mandy. Sometimes it seemed ridiculous to wake up when she did just to cook but staying in bed made her feel guilty. It was a luxury, and honestly, she hadn’t done anything to earn it.
At half past six, Mandy walked in, stretching. Eyeliner was smudged in pools under her eyes. “It smells good in here.” Mandy’s voice was thick with sleep. “Are you making pancakes?”
“Cookies.” Doris beamed. She wrapped Doug’s sandwich in foil, then pulled a sheet of cookies out of the oven. They were perfectly formed, tops firm yet puffy with cinnamon coating. Mandy grabbed for one, red hair flying.
“Don’t get burned,” Doris cautioned.
Mandy was sucking in air, trying to cool down the treat already melting in her mouth. “Mmmm . . .”
Doris’s heart swelled with pride. She set the sheet down on the rack on the tile counter, placing another batch in the oven. There were ten batches altogether. Some of them she would freeze.
“Wait . . . Mom,” Mandy said. Putting a hand to her mouth, those blue eyes widened. “Gross,” Mandy cried. She drew back, spitting out the cookie from her mouth and throwing it on the table. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“What?” Doris’s voice was high-pitched. She stared at the blob of chewed-up cookie on the table. “What happened?”
“These are disgusting!” Mandy’s freckled face was twisted into maniacal laughter. Doug laughed like this sometimes. It was so ugly and she hated to see it mirrored in their daughter.
Doris stomped across the cold floor to the steaming tray of cookies. “I have been working on them since five. I’m sure they’re quite fine.”
“Try one.” Mandy smirked.
Doris snatched up a cookie and took a tiny bite. At first, sweet cinnamon filled her mouth, but then her taste buds seemed to cringe and pucker. Startled, Doris grabbed for a napkin and spit the cookie out. Her eyes filled with tears. “I think I used . . .”
“Salt instead of sugar?” Mandy said. “No kidding.”
The rows of cookies looked so perfect, lined up neatly on the cookie sheet. Doris looked at the huge wad of cookie dough waiting to be baked. Such a waste. It would all end up in the garbage disposal.
“Maybe if I added chocolate pieces . . .” Doris tried, glancing at her daughter for approval.
“The dream’s over, Mom,” Mandy said. “But I’ll still let you make me eggs.” She settled in at the kitchen table.
I may as well be a waitress in a diner, Doris thought. Maybe she should start carrying around a tiny notepad and a pen. She stifled a sigh. “How would you like them?”
“Salty.”
“Mandy.” Doris wiped a hand across her sweating forehead. Her patience had run out.
“Egg whites,” Mandy said. “Scrambled hard.”
Lately, Mandy had been obsessed with egg whites drowned in hot sauce. When she was younger, she’d loved poking in the yolks on sunny-side up eggs and watching the yellow liquid ooze out over her toast, just like Doris had taught her. Now, Mandy claimed to hate the smell of the yolk on her lips. Doris had a feeling Mandy’s new favorite had less to do with how the eggs smelled and more to do with what the stars were eating. Mandy studied pop culture like it was her job, gobbling up those Glamour magazines almost faster than they came out, watching reality shows, and mimicking the way the girls talked, loving a brand of clothing one week and dubbing it “so passé” the next. Doris just couldn’t keep up.
Carefully, Doris cracked two eggs into a mixing bowl. A tiny piece of shell fell in and Doris left it there. Mandy deserved a little crunch after making fun of her efforts. Doris finished the eggs, burning them only slightly, then poured a glass of orange juice and set everything in front of her daughter. Mandy drained the juice, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and belched.
“Mandy.” Doris sighed. “That’s really not polite.”
“I can’t believe Jackie’s back,” Mandy said, dousing her eggs in Tabasco and taking ferocious bites. “She’s so cool.”
“She’s going to stay with us for a while,” Doris said proudly. She was happy that Jackie had picked her and not Cheryl.
Mandy leaped to her feet, shrieking and dancing around. “Jackie’s staying with us . . . Jackie’s staying with us . . . I’m going to have her teach me French, how to put on makeup, how to do my hair . . .”
“Hush, Mandy, she’s still sleeping!” Why did her daughter insist on loving everyone more than her?
Doug walked in then, flushed from his shower and trailing the scent of sandalwood aftershave. “Morning, ladies.”
Doris rushed up and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning, honey.”
“Good . . . morning, Doris,” he said, drawing back in surprise.
“Yuck,” Mandy muttered.
“Thank you for letting Jackie sleep in our bed last night,” Doris said, too loud.
“She really needed the sleep.” Doris saw him get the message. She was trying to protect their daughter. “We’ll have our bed back tonight,” she promised in a rush.
“No problem,” Doug said, avoiding her eyes. “Jackie can stay as long as she’d like.”
“Would you like anything to eat?” Doris asked hopefully. Doug usually skipped breakfast but maybe if he would just let her . . .
“I’m good,” Doug said. He rumpled Mandy’s hair, got up, and grabbed his lunch. “You ladies have a good day.”
Doris watched Doug as he left the house. As he shut the kitchen door, his eyes met hers once, briefly. They looked so guilty that Doris felt sick inside. She sank into a chair by the table, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mandy asked.
Doris shook her head. “Hurry up and get ready. You’re going to be late for school.”
CHERYL PEEKED INTO Doris’s room, hoping for a ride from Jackie. Jackie was still fast asleep, those pretty blond curls like a halo around her head. Back in the guest room, Cheryl placed a call for a cab, then sneaked out the front door. She did not want to get stuck driving back to her car with Doris or, God forbid, Doug. That overgrown frat boy had been friends with her ex-husband for years and she knew he was still furious with her for leaving Sean. They had not had a conversation since her divorce and Cheryl was not about to put herself in that position. She did know that Sean and Doug still played golf every Saturday at 6 a.m. Who knew how much “pissed-off” had been covered during the tee off?
When the cab arrived, Cheryl had given one more furtive look around, and then slid inside. Safe in the backseat, her driver loudly singing along with some soundtrack from Bollywood, it dawned on her that catching a ride with Doug might have actually been an amusing experience. She could have said, “So, Doug. Seen a movie with anyone lately?” and as he squirmed, added, “At least with Sean, I was decent enough to call it what it was.”
As the cab pulled into the health club parking lot, Cheryl let out a little cheer. The BMW was still there even though she had half convinced herself it wouldn’t be. Once she paid the fare and got out, she saw why the car was still in the lot. Someone had put a little sign on it that read, “Do Not Tow.” As much as Cheryl hated to admit it, that someone had probably been Andy.
Once behind the wheel, Cheryl raced home. A sense of urgency had once again struck her. Stan still had her BlackBerry. Cheryl wanted to get to it and fast.
In spite of her hurry, she still felt that familiar rush of pleasure as she keyed into her pine-scented home. The sparkle had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her biweekly maid service. Sean had been so messy, throwing his wrinkled shirts wherever he felt like it—chair backs, the stair railing, the floor. It was so nice to come home to a clean house, knowing no one was there to mess it up.
Quickly, Cheryl tossed back two shots of espresso, checked her voice mail, took a two second shower, then threw on a tight black suit and three gold bangle bracelets. Eyeing her reflection, she nodded. Shrug or no shrug from some kid at the office, she looked good. She had to. Today was her yearly presentation with Fitzgibbon Ale.
Cheryl was excited to show up to the meeting fresh and prepared, simply because Stan expected she wouldn’t. He had even left her a voice mail on her home phone, asking her to call him with the details of the presentation. Cheryl had chuckled at the message. Bob Turner was her client. There was no way she was letting him deal with Stan.
The son of old-time bourbon brewers, Bob was the creator of Fitzgibbon Ale, the beer that had changed her life. Cheryl had discovered it in Lexington, Kentucky, four years ago while in town supervising a commercial shoot. The crew had ducked into some dive bar for a bite and Fitzgibbon Ale was on tap. After just one sip, Cheryl wanted to know more.
The handsome bartender told her it outsold the big brands two to one. “Not just because it’s local,” he said. “Because it’s good.”
“It is good,” Cheryl said, surprised. “It’s great. Do you think you could tell me where the owner lives?”
The bartender was happy to help. Within minutes, Cheryl had directions straight to the owner’s front door.
The next morning, she drove out to the country and gasped at the sight of Bob’s estate. Like something out of a movie, the land stretched for miles; green grass waved in the wind and horses grazed in the fields. Historic stone fences lined the property. Suddenly nervous, Cheryl wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her suit and wondered if this was the right approach. Then she remembered the taste and potential of that beer. Cheryl gunned her rental car straight up the drive, climbed the palatial steps, and knocked loudly on the front door.
It took at least five minutes to convince the servant to summon Bob Turner, but she finally succeeded. When Bob came to the door, Cheryl only had to take one look at his face to decide she liked him. He had bright, twinkling eyes that didn’t take any crap and they were already studying her with amusement. After listening to Cheryl’s praise for his product, Bob just laughed and invited her inside. Once in, Cheryl noticed he was dressed in some sort of a hunting ensemble. His high rubber boots squeaked as they walked across the wooden floors.
“So, it sounds like you know how to appreciate a good beer,” Bob said, stopping at a long dining room table toward the back of the entryway. He pulled out a chair and Cheryl took a seat. “But what do you really know about it?”
Cheryl opened her mouth but Bob didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he went into the kitchen and came back out with an assortment of homemade beer. Apparently, Bob didn’t just make ale; he experimented with lagers, stouts, and even cider.
“Let’s have a beer tasting,” Bob said, clapping her on the back. “Sound good?”
“I never knew there was such a thing.”
The servant came out from the kitchen carrying bricks of dark chocolate, cured meats, and sharp cheeses and set them on the table. Bob bit into a piece of meat and poured himself a sip of beer. After tasting it, he passed it to Cheryl. She took a drink and noticed that the salt on the meat complemented the thick yeast of the beer. “Okay,” she said. “I could get used to this.”
Bob grabbed another pint and a piece of cheese, saying, “Good. Try this.”
After each drink, the tastes became more exotic than the ones before. Finally, Cheryl pushed away a mug and got to the point.
“Bob, I like you,” she said. “And I like your product. Let me manage your beer. My company can take Fitzgibbon Ale to the next level.”
Bob didn’t answer. Instead, he popped a piece of dark chocolate into his mouth and chased it with a stout. Cheryl set her lips together and didn’t speak. Bob looked at her. The two stared each other down for at least two minutes.
“You ever been hunting?” he finally said.
Even though it wasn’t always good business to speak her mind, Cheryl found herself doing it anyway. “In my opinion, shooting an innocent creature seems a little barbaric,” she said, “especially when you could just call for takeout.”
Bob had laughed out loud, slapping his knee like something out of a cartoon. “I might like you, too.” He grinned, taking her arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”
As Cheryl ruined her shoes, swatted away mosquitoes, and let her makeup run in the sultry Kentucky sun, Bob cheerfully turned down her offer. He’d seen his family cater to the bourbon industry, mutating their product for market demand.
“I’m doing this for me,” he said. “I want to stay local.”
“But you could make millions,” Cheryl argued.
“Look around you,” Bob said. “Do you think I need any money?”
“But think of the tag lines,” Cheryl insisted. “Fitzgibbon Ale, it’s given me fits, it’s the perfect fit, it keeps me fit . . . Wait,” Cheryl said, stopping suddenly. She looked at Bob. “Your family name is Turner. If this is a family beer, why are you calling it Fitzgibbon Ale?”
Bob squinted into the sun. After a moment, he c
rossed his arms and said, “Rachel Fitzgibbon. She moved to New York, works for the U.N. She’s the one who got away.”
It was Cheryl’s turn to throw back her head and laugh. Bob looked at her, confused.
“It’s just so obvious,” she said. “You’re hanging on to this beer because you couldn’t hang on to Rachel. But that’s so selfish because, Bob, the world needs her.”
“Young lady,” Bob said. “You might just have a point there.”
The leaves on the trees swayed around them like a million little green bills. Six months later, TurnKey had the account. Four years later, Fitzgibbon Ale was a multimillion dollar business, on tap throughout the country. Thanks to countless interviews asking Bob where he’d gotten the name, he had admitted the nature of his muse and won Rachel’s heart. They were married and now lived together in both New York and Lexington.
Everything had worked out perfectly for Bob, Rachel, and TurnKey but not for Cheryl. The power of Bob’s beer could have launched her very own advertising firm. Maybe if she hadn’t been in the middle of a messy divorce, she would have listened to her instincts. Instead, she stayed at TurnKey because she needed some sort of stability during a tumultuous time. Now, instead of being a business owner, she was just another executive with a really great account.
At the memory, Cheryl shook her head and adjusted her suit. Oh well. What was done was done. One of these days, she would get the respect she deserved. It was just a question of when.
Chapter Nine
JACKIE CLICKETY-CLACKED HER WAY INTO GEORGE’S OFFICE, dressed to the nines in a tight black dress and her trusty mink coat. The coat was vintage, a great argument for anyone who cared to comment or ask her if she had ever heard of PETA.
“Inhumane?” Jackie had purred on more than one occasion. “For heaven’s sake, it’s vintage. They didn’t know back then. It would be inhumane to not give the mink the respect it deserves for giving its life—I can’t just hide it in the closet.”
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