Going Wild

by Gretchen Galway

  She relaxed. They’d never been close, but he’d never been directly cruel to her. “There are a lot of reasons,” she said. “But the main one is I realized my heart isn’t in it.”

  “Your heart?” He cleared his throat. “I see.”

  Like him, she didn’t usually think in terms of heart, but it had been a stressful week. She’d explain in terms he was more familiar with. “They’ve passed me over for promotion one too many times. The hours are unpredictable, and I’m sick of traveling so much. I want more stability.”

  “Those are good reasons.”

  Better than the irrational, touchy-feely, heart-not-in-it reason, she thought as she opened the cream cheese foil. “If you have any ideas, any leads, could you email them to me?”

  “Sure. I can do that.”

  “Thanks.” She poked her spoon into the cream cheese, not seriously, just for comfort.

  “Can I call you when I have something?” he asked. “I’m old. I still like the old ways.”

  She smiled. “Sure, Dad. Call me anytime.”

  “I can already think of a couple people who’d be willing to talk to you,” he said. “No guarantees it’ll lead to anything.”

  “Of course not. I’ve got realistic expectations.”

  “Don’t be too realistic, Jane,” he said. “If you want to fly, you’ve got to shoot for the moon.”

  Jane was tempted to point out the logical flaws in his metaphor. Birds and airplanes didn’t shoot for the moon and would be crazy to try. But he meant well, and she appreciated it.

  “Noted,” she said. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll let you go.”

  “Sure, all right,” he said, but seemed to have more to say. “Jane?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t quite being honest with you,” he said.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t usually like talking on the phone,” he said. “But it’s nice to hear my daughter’s voice.”

  Her throat tightened. She faked another cough. “Thanks.” After a pause, she added, “Nice to hear you too.”

  “I’ll call you with a few names,” he said. “Promise.”

  “That would be really helpful. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sweetheart.” He hung up.

  Eyes burning, she put away the cream cheese.

  33

  “Why won’t you do it?” Grant asked.

  Troy picked at the label of his beer bottle. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

  “You can’t tell her it’s me doing the inviting,” Grant said.

  “I’m not going to lie to her.”

  “It’s not a lie. Grandfather wants to apologize to her. He can’t travel easily, so she’ll have to come to him.”

  Troy reached over the table and stole Grant’s uneaten pizza crust. “I’m not going to help you get involved with one of Whitman’s best accountants.”

  “Too late for that,” Grant said. “We’re already involved.”

  “There are legal implications. The more I do, the worse it gets.”

  Grant scoffed. “Legal implications? Come on. Don’t be like that.”

  “I have to be like that. I’m responsible for Whitman. You’re not.”

  “What kind of legal problems could there possibly be in having an employee come visit the elderly founding partner for a light brunch?”

  “You know perfectly well it’s not the elderly Whitman I’m worried about.”

  “I don’t work there. Never have.”

  “But you’re my brother, and I was just about to promote her. If word gets out you’re sleeping together, I’m in a difficult spot. It makes it harder for me to do that.”

  Grant pushed his plate away. He appreciated Troy’s sense of responsibility, but this was more important. “How about you promote her tomorrow and we delay the visit with Grandfather to next week?”

  “Sure, because one week will make all the difference,” Troy said, glancing at the North Beach restaurant’s ceiling.

  “Why do people have to know? How would they?”

  “These things get around. I’d be surprised if it hasn’t already.”

  “I’d be surprised if they really think Jane doesn’t deserve a promotion,” Grant said. “Isn’t she good? She’s been waiting for it too long already.”

  “I agree. Which is why I’m annoyed you’re making it awkward. We just lost a good person last Friday who was upset she hadn’t moved up yet. Others will start quitting if they think Whitman hands out promotions unfairly.”

  Grant couldn’t see how he could force Troy to do something he felt was bad for the company so soon after he’d pressured his brother to take charge.

  “Fine,” Grant said. “I won’t be there. Invite her up just to see Grandfather. There’s nothing bad for the company in that. He fired her in front of everybody, so they won’t doubt he owes her an apology.”

  “And you’ll just happen to come visit Mom at the same—”

  “I will not,” Grant snapped. “If you think my being there makes your job harder, I won’t be there.”

  “Then why do you care if Grandfather apologizes to her in person? He can send a letter. Call. Much easier.”

  “Because it would make her feel better,” Grant said.

  “Really? That’s it?”

  “You know what that place looks like to people when they visit for the first time. It’s intimidating. How would you feel if Grandfather had sent you and Mom away when you showed up after Dad died?”

  “Not quite the same.” Troy took another bite of pizza crust. “But I get your point. It was bad to fire her like that. That’s why I sent you to her house. I regret that now.”

  “I don’t,” Grant said.

  “If she won’t see you again, will you regret it then?”

  “No.”

  Troy regarded him. “Really?”

  “Really. It will have been the highlight of my life.”

  With a snort, Troy picked up his beer. “Right.”

  “Look at me.”

  Troy did, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

  “I want to spend the rest of my life with her,” Grant said.

  Troy lowered his bottle to the table. “You’re serious.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You weren’t listening,” Grant said.

  “Holy shit.” Troy leaned back in his chair. They stared at each other. “OK.”

  “You’ll invite her up to meet with Grandfather?”

  “That’s what I’ll tell her,” Troy said.

  Grant saw a glimmer of hope. He really didn’t want to be like Andrew, lurking around her house for the chance to talk to her. “And…?”

  Troy stood, slapping a few bills on the table. “I’ll let you know if and when she’s coming,” he said. “The rest is up to you.”

  Grant jumped up and hugged him. Bear style.

  Jane woke up Sunday morning with a tattoo. She silenced her phone, shoved it under a pillow, and studied her arm.

  She was going to have to cover the fresh ink when she went to see Mr. Whitman. It was on her forearm, still oozing. And it hurt like hell.

  Why had she begged Sydney to go out with her yesterday? That woman was a bad influence. She’d woken up Saturday, lonely because she still hadn’t claimed her cat from Billie—no, that was the only reason—and had called Sydney, refusing to take no for an answer.

  But Jane had to admit it had helped her feel better. Maybe they could do it again soon. Since Grant had moved out, she sweated less about the small stuff. What did it matter if her skin was permanently marked with a tacky (lovely, magical) mermaid? Life was short. Death came for everyone, tattoo or no tattoo.

  Her phone began vibrating under the pillow, reminding her of the ordeal ahead. When Troy had called her yesterday, she’d almost told him she didn’t need an apology because she was leaving the company soon. That day, however, could be months away, and she coul
dn’t risk losing her job yet. Without a reasonable excuse, she’d agreed to come to brunch that morning at eleven.

  It was already nine.

  As if the air were molasses and she an elephant shod in cast-iron boots, Jane trudged to the bathroom to get ready.

  It was awkward to wash her hair without soaking her fresh tattoo; she had to arch her back and lean sideways, lathering up with one hand. After the shower, she applied the ointments as instructed, chose a blouse with long, loose sleeves, and was on the road to Marin only a little late. Maybe more than a little.

  It was hard to care.

  Her sleeve didn’t have a cuff, so she pushed up the billowy fabric to give the ink air. Even though the skin hadn’t healed yet, she liked how it looked. A lot. In fact, she was already planning her next one. Tats were shockingly expensive though. Maybe she could offer to do the artist’s taxes in exchange for a little complimentary artistry.

  Just because she was having a nervous breakdown didn’t mean she had to be irresponsible about her plans for an early, comfortable retirement.

  This time when she arrived at the Whitman estate, she drove through the gates and up to the circular drive without hitting anything. She parked, unable to stop herself from looking unsuccessfully for a familiar Land Rover, and rang the bell.

  The estate was as beautiful as ever. The grapevines were heavier, the grass more golden with the coming of autumn. The ancient California buckeye in the center of the round driveway had already lost its leaves.

  A woman she didn’t know opened the door, although her features seemed familiar. “Come on in. Grant is waiting for you in the garden.”

  Jane stopped breathing.

  The woman gave her a curious look. “You are Jane, right? Here to see Mr. Whitman?”

  Swallowing in an effort to squeeze her heart back into her chest cavity, Jane nodded. “Yes, thank you. Jane Garcia.”

  “Grant is my father-in-law,” the woman said, inviting her in, “so I stopped calling him Mr. Whitman a long time ago. Sorry if you were confused.”

  “No, it’s fine. Of course.” Jane followed her over the travertine tile to the courtyard and then back patio.

  “He’s a little tired today. Don’t feel bad if he has to cut the visit short,” the woman said.

  Jane didn’t even know her name. How could she not know her name?

  “Thank you, Mrs.…?”

  “Brandi. Like the drink but with an i.”

  “Brandi,” Jane said. She had his eyes. That was disturbing. “Thanks.”

  “He asked for the food on trays. Somebody will be bringing that out in about fifteen minutes. Is that good?”

  “Sure. Whatever Mr. Whitman likes.”

  “That’s what Grant asked for,” Brandi said.

  Jane would never be able to think of Mr. Whitman as a Grant. Never. “Sounds good to me.”

  “There’s iced tea on the table out there. I can get you a soda if you’d rather have that. I keep a case of Diet Coke in my fridge.”

  “Don’t put yourself out. Iced tea is perfect.”

  “That’s Grant’s favorite,” Brandi said, smiled, and walked back into the house.

  The oddest feeling crept over Jane. She saw Mr. Whitman waving at her and went over to him in his blue chair. Next to him was a round teak table set with white napkins and silverware.

  “Good morning, Jane,” he boomed in that low, gravelly voice of his, holding out his hand.

  She took it, flinching when he crushed hers. Plenty of muscle strength left in his fingers, that was for sure. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “You were brave to come.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “It’s an honor.”

  “You had to worry that I was going to fire you again.”

  “Are you?”

  He lifted his winged eyebrows and made a funny face.

  The odd feeling crept over her again, as if she were being played with.

  She didn’t like it. At all. She wasn’t going to put up with his bullying the way she had last time.

  “Do whatever you’re going to do, Mr. Whitman,” she said. “Just do it after we eat. I’m starving.”

  He laughed, which sent him into a coughing fit.

  Warily she handed him a box of tissues from a small cart at his side, in case he needed to spit out anything.

  “I knew you were tough,” he said. “I hope you didn’t lose any sleep over my stupidity.”

  “Maybe a little.” She sipped her iced tea.

  He frowned. “I apologize. I do. I’d offer you a promotion, but I think maybe you have other plans.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Why would you think—”

  “The way you came here today, not giving a shit. I can tell. You’ve moved on.”

  She couldn’t admit he was right because she needed her paycheck until she had something else lined up. “I’m still giving Whitman one hundred percent.”

  “Until you leave.” He nodded. “It’s my own damn fault. Or maybe not. Maybe you would’ve left anyway. If I were younger, I’d knock on some up-and-coming Techno-Whozit’s door with my resume and work my way up to CFO.”

  That was exactly what she’d been imagining. Ever since Sydney had mentioned the dream for herself, Jane hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. “You would?”

  “I would.” His gaze drifted over her head to the house. “You met Brandi.”

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  “What’d you think of her?”

  “She’s very nice,” Jane said.

  “I’m rather fond of her,” he said. “We’re only linked by marriage, of course.”

  Jane remembered the unbearably sad look on Grant’s face the few times he’d mentioned his late father. “Of course.”

  “Only by marriage, but she’s still nice to me. You might think it’s only because of the money,” he said.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good. I don’t think so either. I know it isn’t that. She’s a good person. My son knew what he was doing.”

  She smiled, glad to hear he had obviously warmed to his daughter-in-law after the early estrangement. That had to make Grant’s life easier. Her Grant, not Mr. Whitman.

  She corrected herself. He wasn’t her Grant.

  “Can I refill your glass?” she asked.

  “Don’t bother.” He was looking behind her. “Grant will do it.”

  Was there another one? Pulse racing, she turned.

  34

  He was clean-shaven. It was a shocking change from the face she’d known, but he could never hide the scruffy mountain man from her.

  She got to her feet and pointed at his face. “What did you do to yourself?”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  She’d missed that voice so much. She frowned at his white kitchen smock. “Why are you wearing that?”

  Grant held up a silver tray with covered plates. “Lunch is served, madam.”

  She turned and saw his grandfather grinning. “I knew something was wrong about this,” she said.

  “Has he apologized yet?” Grant asked.

  She sat down—confused, excited, happy, terrified—and crossed her arms over her chest. The motion bumped her raw skin, and she bit down to swallow a curse.

  When the pain subsided, she said, “I’d leave, but your grandfather here would probably fire me again.”

  “I might,” Mr. Whitman said. “Better stay.”

  “That’s the only reason I’m staying,” she said. “To save my job. I don’t like being played with.”

  Mr. Whitman snorted.

  “I admire how important your career is to you,” Grant said.

  She didn’t believe him. He thought she was uptight. The type to scream at teddy bears. “Your skin doesn’t match.”

  He rubbed his jaw. The shaved area was several tones lighter than the rest of his face, like a white beard. If she squinted, he looked like Santa.

  OK, he was much too young and handsome to b
e Santa.

  She much preferred the beard. It was a crime he’d shaved it off.

  “I forgot there would be tan lines,” he said. “I’m meeting with my agent in San Francisco tomorrow. The beard was great for headshots, given the subject matter. My agent’s going to miss it.”

  Jane could relate. “Why did you shave it off?”

  “To impress you,” Mr. Whitman said.

  Jane had forgotten he was there. He was smiling, his curved lips exposing a few gold teeth.

  “Impress me?” Jane asked.

  Grant set the tray down on the table. “Actually, I was trying to buy some time before you recognized me.”

  It was impossible to stop staring at him. Her fingers itched to stroke the hollow of his cheek, the smooth line of his jaw. “How could I not recognize you?”

  He met her gaze. A charge passed between them, and she shivered.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe because your feelings for me were so shallow and fleeting?”

  She looked down at her hands. That’s what she’d wanted him to think, wasn’t it?

  Be careful what you wish for.

  “So true,” she said. “What’s your name again?”

  Mr. Whitman laughed, triggering another coughing fit. He reached for his iced tea and looked at his watch.

  A fortysomething woman in an orange blouse and denim capri pants came striding out of the house. “Mr. Whitman, there’s a call for you.”

  “Thank you, Rachelle.” Mr. Whitman smiled. “On the dot. Love that woman.”

  Jane wasn’t convinced she should be alone with Grant. “You’re going inside?” She stood and went over to the table. “But you haven’t eaten your lunch.”

  Rachelle shared a glance with Grant. “The doctor’s on the phone. We’ve been waiting for his call.”

  “Personal, you know. I’ll have to go inside.” Mr. Whitman held up an elbow, and Rachelle helped him to his feet. “Sorry to cut it short, Jane.”

  “I’ll take over from here,” Grant said.

  “You can try,” Mr. Whitman said. Then to Jane, “And thus concludes my apology.”

  As conspiracies went, it wasn’t very subtle.

  Jane kept her eyes fixed on Rachelle and Mr. Whitman as they slowly made their way up the flagstone path to the house.