Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched

by Kim Barnouin

  This had to be a mistake. Harry Cooper? Embezzler? No fucking way.

  “Everything points to him. Leads back to him. I’ve tried a hundred ways to prove to myself that he’s not guilty, but he is.”

  I shook my head. “Well, you’re wrong. Harry is the most ethical person I know. He’d never steal from you. You’re wrong.”

  A memory flitted through my mind, of Harry, age ten, defending my honor to a bunch of moronic boys from our school who were making fun of the farm and my family for being vegans. He’d told them to shut their stupid yaps, and they’d set upon him, beating the crap out of him. I’d jumped in and had ended up with a black eye and a broken arm. Harry had a matching black eye and a bruised rib. But we’d pummeled those jerks worse and they’d never bothered us again.

  Harry, who stood up for vegan cousins and got his butt kicked, who flew across the country for my cooking school graduation, did not do this.

  “I know you care about Harry. I know you two were very close growing up. But facts are facts. My team is launching an internal investigation to document everything.”

  “Document everything for what?”

  “I’ll have to involve the police, Clem. We’re talking about millions of dollars that have vanished. Which indicates an offshore account.”

  I stepped back. This had to be a mistake. “If Harry is guilty, I’ll eat a bloody steak at the Silver Steer. You’ve got be kidding me, Zach.”

  He turned away. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to combine our families with something this,” Zach said, his voice strained. “This thing with Harry, you can barely tolerate my mother . . . her relationship with Keira is falling apart. Clem”—Zach turned away from me—“I think we should postpone the wedding.”

  The sound you hear? My heart cracking in pieces. “You know what?” I said, my voice breaking. “I think so too. I can’t believe you think he really did something like this.”

  Zach disappeared into the bathroom. Because he had tears in his eyes, no doubt. What the hell had happened? How could any of this be real?

  He came out of the bathroom, holding something. “Oh my God, Clem.”

  “What? What is that?”

  He held out what looked like a pregnancy test. I stepped closer and saw a faint pink line. Holy gobsmackers. Sara was pregnant?

  “I found this on the windowsill. Do you have something to tell me?”

  I stared at him as though he had three heads. Oh, yes, I’m pregnant, but thought I’d keep it to myself and just let you tear us apart anyway. What the hell? “I have a roommate, remember? But it’s your way to jump to conclusions, isn’t it?”

  He looked very, very relieved. “So it’s not yours?”

  I shook my head, wanting him to go, not wanting him to go. Wanting to find Sara.

  “I’m very, very sorry, Clementine. I love you, but I think we’d better take a break.” He held out the stick, then set it on a side table. “I’m not sure we’re ready for any of this.”

  A second later, he was gone.

  Sara wasn’t answering her texts. Or phone. I sat in the living room, staring out the window, wondering what the fuzz had happened to my life. How had everything gotten so messed up? How could I fix things that were so out of my control?

  I sat there, my mind about to explode, and eventually I must have fallen asleep because I woke up on the couch in a sitting position, the sun streaming in through the windows.

  Go find Sara, I told myself. Was she pregnant? Was that why she’d said yes to Joe? The pregnancy test confirmed it? Or had it been negative and now she was thinking of breaking the engagement?

  And why hadn’t she shared any of this with me? We’re best friends.

  Because all you think about is the restaurant and Zach. Because you practically live there. Because you’re so committed to not being distracted that your own best friend didn’t tell you she’s pregnant. Or isn’t.

  I took a quick shower, grabbed my bag, and headed over to Joe’s house in Venice Beach. His house was gated to keep out his rabid fans—and the challengers he’d humiliated in front of all America. I pressed the buzzer.

  “Who goes there?” came Joe’s booming voice.

  “Joe? It’s me, Clementine Cooper.”

  “The skinny vegan?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Is Sara there?”

  The gate swung open. Joe’s house was a lot nicer than I expected. Manicured lawn and all. It was bizarre, of course, tall and white with weird angles and narrow windows.

  Sara opened the front door. “Hey, Clem, what’s up?”

  “Take a walk with me? I have something important to talk to you about.”

  We headed down the stone path and stood by the gate.

  “I found a pregnancy test in the bathroom garbage. Well, Zach did. He thought it was mine.”

  “Oh, shit, did I leave that lying around? I was so freaked out that I must have forgotten about the test.”

  So . . . you are? You’re not?”

  “My period was almost three weeks late. It’s never late. So yesterday, I told Joe I was sure I was pregnant. And you know what? He was thrilled. He spun me around, sent his assistant out for cigars, and wouldn’t let me do a thing for myself. I tried telling him I hadn’t taken the test yet, that I wasn’t sure, but he said he could feel it. We were having a baby and he couldn’t wait for there to be a mini us crawling around.” Sara took a deep breath.

  I waited for her to continue.

  “So then I took the pregnancy test. And it was negative. So I took another one. Negative. And then I got my period. But for an entire day, I thought I was pregnant and Joe was so happy because he hoped I was.”

  “And you told him you weren’t?”

  She nodded, watching two huge Rhodesian ridgebacks walk by. “Those few hours when he thought I was pregnant, when he ordered a special bed for a zillion dollars that you can remote-control so I could raise my feet up, you know what I realized?”

  “What?”

  “That I love the guy. Really, really love him. I was so focused on the fact that he loves me, that he wants to marry me, that I kind of blew off whether or not I loved him.”

  “And you’re sad because you’re not pregnant?”

  “Nah, I’m not really ready to be anyone’s mother. I’m sad because my best friend hates him. Because my mother hates him. Because half of America hates him. I love the guy so danged much, Clem.”

  I smiled. “I don’t hate him. I love that he loves you. You’re my best friend, Sara. All I want is for you to be happy. And I know Joe makes you happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Shut up, you’re gonna make me cry.” She pulled me into a hug.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you thought you were pregnant?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because I know Joe’s not your favorite person, and I was worried that he’d humiliate your soon-to-be stepsister-in-law and lose, and then you’d hate him even more. And, well, you’re kind of busy all the time. It’s not that easy to find you just hanging out these days.”

  “I would drop anything for you, Sara. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just know the restaurant is everything to you and—”

  “Sar, you’re my best friend. You come first.”

  “Hey, so maybe we can have a double wedding.” She laughed. “Can you imagine?”

  For a half hour, I had actually forgot about my messed-up love life. “There’s not going to be a wedding—well, on my end, anyway. Zach thinks my cousin Harry is embezzling from his company. He’s about to involve the police. We got into a huge fight and he said we should postpone the wedding.”

  “Ugh, I’m really sorry, Clem. Have you talked to Harry?”

  “He’s not answering his phone. I don’t know what that means.”

  “Go to his condo. Go.”

  “Going. Harry? Some sharklike embezzler? Zero sense.”

  But a lot made zero sense these days.

  If I
could turn back the clock, go all Superman on time so that Zach hadn’t accused Harry of embezzling, hadn’t “postponed” the wedding, which had turned into “taking a break,” I’d be so flipping grateful I’d happily take back Dominique as wedding planner. Well, maybe.

  Another buzzer. I pressed apartment 3B at Harry’s building. No answer. I pressed again.

  “Clem?” Harry sounded weary. And because I knew him so well—scared.

  He’d clearly been hiding by the window, peering out. He must be freaking out that the cops were going to bust down his door any minute.

  He buzzed me in and I headed up the stairs. I’d barely knocked when the door flew open and he pulled me inside, then locked it up tight again.

  Harry looked like a wreck. He had serious bedhead and looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  His apartment was in even worse shape. He had a nice place, modern and high-tech, but his clothes were strewn all over his bedroom floor, and various sections of the LA Times and the Wall Street Journal were on every surface.

  Under serious pressure right now, Harry had turned into a freaked-out slob.

  “Nadia dumped me when she found out I’m in trouble.” He grabbed his hair with both hands. “She’s not even standing by me.”

  Jocelyn had called that one. “Harry, you’ll get through this. Once Zach and the internal whoevers go through the paper trail or whatever you call it, they’ll find out it’s just a big mistake, some number-crunching error. It’ll be okay.”

  He started pacing, then headed over to the window and looked out. “Clem, I need to get some air, go for a long walk on the beach or something. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  The guy was a wreck. “I’ll come with you.”

  He shook his head. “I just need to think, okay? Figure out where the screwup happened. If I could just retrace my steps in my head . . .”

  “Gotcha. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry so much, okay? You’re innocent and that’s that.”

  He walked me out, slid on his sunglasses, and bolted in the opposite direction I started walking. Not toward the beach, either.

  Not until I was halfway to the restaurant did I realize he’d never said he was innocent. But, duh—of course he was.

  24

  At close to midnight, my buzzer rang. I’d just gotten home from the restaurant and had taken a long hot shower and no longer reeked of garlic and tomato sauce.

  Zach.

  For a second, I felt huge relief. He was probably coming over to tell me he found the real bad guy or a typo or a mathematical error. But my stomach was flip-flopping and my neck was stiff and every muscle in my body was clenching.

  I buzzed him in and heard him taking the stairs two at a time. That had to be a good sign. He wouldn’t rush to give me bad news; he’d walk slowly, like to his death or something.

  I opened the door and waited.

  At the look on his face—pained, regretful, and weary—I took a step back. What the hell?

  He closed his eyes for a second, then reached for my hand, but I wouldn’t take it. “I had to tell you this in person. Harry will be arrested in the morning. His guilt is beyond a shadow of a doubt as far as my investigators are concerned. I’m so sorry, Clem.”

  My stomach dropped and I felt as if I might throw up. I shook my head. This made no sense. “Harry’s not guilty. He’s my cousin Harry. This can’t be right, Zach.”

  I just need to think . . . figure out where the screwup happened. If I could just retrace my steps in my head . . .

  Had he meant the screwup that led to his getting caught?

  Oh, Harry. I flashbacked to memory after memory of Harry and me as kids, as teens. Harry had been my first best friend.

  “I wish he wasn’t guilty, Clem. Because I love you more than anything, and I know what this is doing to you.”

  Half of me wanted to fling myself into his arms and just let him hold me until the shock wore off. The other half wanted him gone. Now.

  “I think you should go.”

  He looked at me, his expression so full of regrets, then nodded and headed back downstairs.

  Between midnight and when I fell asleep on the couch at 3:00 a.m. again, I called Harry’s cell at least twenty times. Went straight to voice mail. I had to see him, had to hear him tell me it wasn’t true. That this was just a big, stupid mistake, that Zach and his investigators were wrong. That some megamind thug had framed him or something.

  When I woke up in the morning, my first thought was that I knew where Harry was. I took a fast shower, grabbed one of my scones and a thermos of strong black tea and hit the road, going as fast as I could without making the cops chase me down.

  Three hours later, I walked into my parents’ barn and climbed the loft stairs and there he was, sitting against the wall, his knees up. He looked worse than he had the day before—his hair was a wreck, he had dark circles under his eyes, the ole five o’clock shadow, and his pants were stained. Next to him was a pretty full bottle of Jack Daniel’s, so at least he wasn’t drunk. Unless this was the second or third bottle he had with him.

  “I’m turning myself in, in a little while,” he said, not looking up.

  Turning himself in? What? “Harry, I—”

  He leaned his head back against the wall. “I really messed things up, Clem.” He seemed about to say more, but then clamped his mouth shut.

  “Harry, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’m in bad trouble.”

  He was guilty. Holy hellzburgers, no.

  I couldn’t get this to compute in my brain. “Why, though? I mean, why’d you do it?”

  He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “I had some gambling debts and then they snowballed. And Nadia—when she was my girlfriend—likes nice things. One thing led to another and another and another.” He dropped his head into his hands.

  “Harry, you could have come to me.”

  “Because you have a half million lying around? Because your fiancé, who happens to be my boss five times removed, would give it to me?”

  “So you stole it from that fiancé instead?”

  He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s but didn’t take a swig. “I didn’t intend to outright steal it. At first, I moved a little money around here and there, and I always planned to pay it back. But then that snowballed too. And I couldn’t stop.”

  Oh, Harry.

  “I’m sorry, Clem. Just know that, okay?”

  That sound you hear again? Heart cracking even more. “Me too.”

  Then he pulled out his cell phone and called the LAPD and said he was turning himself in at noon.

  “I’m opening a second restaurant in here,” I said numbly. “This loft won’t even be here in a few months. That seems weird, doesn’t it? Like this whole conversation couldn’t have happened—none of it could have happened—because the loft will be gone.”

  He looked at me. “Good. Like you need to be reminded every time you walk in here?”

  Like I’d forget anyway.

  I spent the next few hours with my parents, and when my sister arrived to meet with them and Harry’s parents—who were sitting in the living room with ashen faces, wringing hands—I finally drove back home.

  I stalked around my apartment, then dropped down on the window seat, staring out at the stupid hair salon that used to be the space I wanted for my restaurant, the space where I’d met Zach.

  My phone rang: Jocelyn.

  “What’s this I hear about the wedding being postponed? Avery mentioned it to me. She said she didn’t know the details, but that Zach was beside himself.”

  I told Jocelyn the whole crappy story.

  “Clementine, that’s terrible and I’m very sorry. I know it seems like a very, very big deal, and it is, but it’s not the only bad thing—or the worst—that will happen during your relationship with Zach. In sixty-four years with Frederick, we’ve been through incidents and events that would bring you to your knees. That’s what life is.�
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  “Zach thinks we should take a break.”

  “Take a break from what? Don’t you need each other most right now?”

  I did need the jerk. Right now, there wasn’t anyone I wanted more. I wished we could just disappear somewhere together and not even talk, not say a word.

  I thought about Jocelyn’s list. About expectations. Were we going to take breaks every time something crappy happened?

  I loved Zach, and he loved me, and, yeah, this whole thing with Harry sucked, but it wasn’t Zach’s fault for catching him, and it wasn’t mine for asking Zach to hire him.

  I grabbed my phone and texted him, Coming over now.

  He immediately texted back, Okay.

  In Zach’s kitchen, Charlie sat between us, staring from Zach to me. It was as if he knew something was up.

  “I think we should go away together like we’d planned. Now. I’ll leave the restaurant in Alanna and Gunnar’s very capable hands. At first I was thinking we just needed to disappear together. But now I know we need to talk through some stuff.”

  What do you expect married life to really be like? Does it match his expectations?

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  We found a gorgeous inn that looked like a minicastle (where dogs were kindly welcome) in Carmel-by-the-Sea, and almost five hours later we were walking along the pure white beach, Charlie scampering ahead of us.

  “How’s your family doing?” Zach asked, throwing a stick for Charlie. We’d barely spoken on the drive up; just being together seemed to be enough for both of us.

  “Not great. My dad was so upset he almost collapsed. Harry’s his only nephew. And Harry’s parents can’t even process it. It makes no sense to any of us.”

  “Did you talk to Harry before . . .”

  “Before he was arrested? Yeah. I hadn’t been able to get ahold of him and then realized I’d find him in the loft of my parents’ barn. It’s where we always used to meet when something bad happened to one of us and we needed to talk or just think without being bugged by anyone.”