Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3)

by Gretchen Galway

  April stared at her. Her mother never talked like that. “Uh…”

  “You know I’m right,” Trixie said. “That’s why you broke into Fite all those mornings without permission. Because you know you can’t wait forever. Sometimes you can’t wait for life to get out of your way. You have to barge right into it.”

  Goose bumps rose on April’s arms. Not because Trixie knew about Fite, but because of the serious, urgent edge to her voice. “Is everything okay, Mom?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?”

  “If I told you I’d be dead next week, would you invite him to dinner?”

  The goose bumps spread to the rest of her body. “Yes,” April whispered.

  Trixie sighed. “How about a knee injury?”

  “You hurt your knee?”

  “I could.” She moved her hands from the keys to her thighs. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  “But you’re not sick. Right?” April studied her mother, unhappy to notice she didn’t look quite as baby faced and vibrant as the image April nurtured in her mind. Lines from unprotected sun exposure—which Trixie insisted was worth the vitamin D—creased her eyes, cheeks, mouth, and neck. Her hair had been white for a long time, but it looked a little dull and flat. “Right?”

  “I’m not pooping as easily as I’d like,” Trixie said. “And I almost wet myself laughing at a TV show last night. Does that ease your mind?”

  “It depends,” April said, swamped with relief. “So to speak. What was the show?”

  Trixie laughed. “That’s my girl. You’re my lighthearted one, always were. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

  “Except for the peeing-in-your-pants thing.”

  “My grandbaby and I have so much in common,” Trixie said, starting to play again. “Next Thursday is perfect. Do you know if Zack’s a vegetarian?”

  The craziness of the idea was so her. “Great idea, Mom,” April said. “I’ll invite the business consultant I barely know home to meet my mother—on Thanksgiving.”

  “Not just your mother,” Trixie said. “Liam and Bev’s mother, too. His clients. It’s not such a strange request, see? You could pretend it’s for business.”

  Luckily, Zack had told everyone he’d be gone the entire week for the holiday. He didn’t specify where he was going, but she and Rita and Virginia had decided it was New York, his permanent base.

  Gossiping about the dark-haired, serious young consultant had become a widespread hobby at Fite Fitness, and although April tried to abstain, she found herself as curious and full of theories as everyone else.

  “He’s out of town until after Thanksgiving,” she told her mother.

  “Visiting family?”

  “How would I know?” April turned the pages of the sheet music on the stand in front of them—beginner’s music, for a child. Just in time for the two-month-old infant in the other room, who no doubt would be playing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” any day now.

  “Didn’t you ask?” Trixie swatted her hands away from the sheet music. “Never mind, you’re right—a regular day will be more relaxing, less intimidating. You can invite him for a plate of my famous lasagna.”

  “Mom, seriously. I barely know him. And inviting him home to meet my mom—”

  “Forget about me. I’ll go out. There’s a space movie I want to see. Those are always better in theaters, and I can avoid the crowds around the holiday weekend.”

  April looked at the couch next to the piano. It was the same one she’d slept on in Liam’s condo in San Francisco during another one of her homeless periods. “How about you and I go to the movies together?” April asked. “Just you and me.”

  It had been ages since they did anything like that. April tried to remember the last time she’d been out with just her mom—away from the house, away from her brothers.

  “You’d do that?” Trixie asked.

  “Of course I’d do that. I want to do that.”

  “Just us?”

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  “I… I don’t know. Movies are such a date thing with you. Seems like a waste to go with your mom when you have boyfriends falling all over you.”

  That was her polite mother’s way of saying she slept around. “They were all losers, that’s why they kept falling.”

  “But this Zack guy sounds impressive—”

  “Forget that guy. You and I will make a real date of it. We’ll go to the salon beforehand. And dinner. Indian, and not just the lunch buffet. From the menu.”

  Interest glowed in her mother’s eyes. “Do you think Liam and Bev could do without us that long?” She glanced over at the door to the bedroom. “We could try to bring Merry with us. We can practice using that baby carrier.”

  “No baby. Just us. We couldn’t really do it right with her along.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  “Stool has settled in,” April said. “He gets along with the others pretty well.” She glanced at the trio still snoozing in a puppy pile on the sofa.

  “Wouldn’t you rather do that with one of your girlfriends? You’re surrounded by family day and night.” Trixie glanced at April out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve heard some people don’t like that.”

  “Let’s do it. You and me,” April said, thrilled finally to have diverted her from her fixation with Zack. “Saturday. I’ll get us in at that salon on College.”

  Trixie beamed, touching her hair with the tips of her fingers. “I haven’t had a proper cut in ages.”

  “Perfect. Me either.”

  “I’m so excited.” Trixie laughed and stood up. “We’ll both be gorgeous.”

  “Totally gorgeous.”

  Cupping April’s cheek with her hand, her mother added, “And when Zack comes back and sees you, he’ll know you’re interested in dating.”

  * * *

  The Monday after his long Thanksgiving holiday, Zack walked into the Fite building and felt the muscles between his shoulder blades loosen for the first time in eight days.

  Why had he gone back? Meg’s parents loved him—they often told him so—but at this point he’d spent more holidays with them than he ever had with his late wife. The painful absurdity of that weighed on him more every year.

  I have to move on. He’d told them not to expect him at Christmas, which hadn’t gone over well, especially with Meg’s older sister, Sarah. Working in California for several more months was a good excuse, and he’d stuck to it—but what about next year?

  He wished he’d never told them his own family didn’t observe holidays—any holiday, even birthdays. As children, both of his parents had belonged to a church that didn’t approve of holidays, and although they didn’t belong to that particular sect anymore, the habits were there. Even before she died, Meg’s parents saw it as their duty to make up for the first twenty years of his life. Just a couple of years earlier, they’d hired caterers and a band for his thirtieth birthday party.

  Sometimes he felt like they loved him more than Meg ever had. It wasn’t something he’d ever said out loud, to anyone, and he never would. It might sound like he blamed her, when all she’d done was hold on as tightly as she could, afraid of facing the darkness alone. If he’d been the one who’d found out he had cancer just as his first college loan payments were coming due, he might’ve felt his love for his girlfriend deepening, felt a need to hurry and do as much as he could as long as he could, right now, while he still could.

  He didn’t regret marrying her. He’d known he wanted to marry her on the fourth date. He’d proposed two months later.

  But she’d said no. It was only when she’d gotten the diagnosis that she suddenly seemed eager to make it forever…

  It’s not only me who has to move on. But how can I do that to them? Take away another one of their children?

  He greeted Virginia at the front desk as he strode past to his office. Just a quick stop to file a few things in the cabinet before returning to his cubicle in the art room next to April. />
  He would move out of the art room today. He’d decided that several times on the plane. Rita had shown him plenty, proving to him that the art room was more than pulling its weight, even with the expensive software and other equipment. They managed pretty well, actually, with less staff than they needed. Rita had told him about the freelancers she’d had to send home within the last year, assuring him that although April was new and untrained, she could draw and she showed up on time. None of the other freelancers had managed to reach that zenith of achievement.

  The art room was empty when he walked in. Rita would come later, but he’d hoped to see April. Well, of course he’d hoped to see April.

  It was good she wasn’t there.

  He looked at his watch. Why was she late? It was already 8:12 a.m. He’d noticed in the five days they worked together, she always walked into the office at 8:03 a.m., because of her train from Oakland, she’d said.

  With an irritated sigh at himself, he sat down and opened his laptop to go through the morning email before he packed up his things. Nobody would be upstairs yet, anyway, and he’d want to tell Rita personally how much he’d appreciated her time and space.

  “Welcome back,” April said, walking past him to her desk.

  His pulse kicked up. He sat up taller, sucking in his gut.

  Oh, man. Still had a thing for her, it seemed. He’d thought it would’ve faded by now. Unable to resist, he turned to look at her. She wore all black, which was corporate enough, but the pants were tight and stretchy, like a yoga instructor’s, and her shirt was sleeveless. Her hair seemed about four inches shorter, maybe more, yet somehow covered more of her face. It was as if the hair in the back had rotated to the front.

  “Morning,” he said. “Haircut?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Scowling, she plopped down in her chair and hit the power button on her computer. “I look like a stuffed animal.”

  He scanned the email in his inbox for a few seconds, deleting as many as possible and sorting the others into their action categories before asking, “Which one?”

  “What?” She frowned at him from under her bangs. Her lipstick was red today, red and shiny, and it made her lips look full, ripe, and wet.

  The room was too warm. California was too warm. He swallowed. “What kind of animal?”

  “Hell if I know. Something too damn fluffy.” She batted at the brown, bouncy curls on her head.

  He wondered if they were as soft as they looked. Most women seemed to have straight hair these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman their age (he’d enthusiastically accepted they shared the same general one) with short, curly hair.

  Realizing he’d been staring, he said, “You could wear a hat.”

  Her scowl deepened. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Sorry,” he said, turning back to his laptop. He wasn’t trying to seduce her, but he could’ve managed something more tactful. The problem was, he was fighting the urge to say I like it. It makes me want to touch you, which would’ve been all wrong for several reasons. “Speaking of your hair, I’ll be getting out of it today.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You are?”

  Did he imagine the disappointment in her voice? “I figured you’d be glad.”

  “Nope. It’s been a great way for me as the new chick to make friends with people.” She grinned. “They all want to know about you.”

  “Then why do they look so unhappy to see me?”

  “They’re afraid of losing their jobs,” she said.

  “Tell them I’m not a hatchet man. That’s not what I do.”

  She studied him. “Honestly?”

  “The last company I worked for didn’t fire a single person after I made my recommendations.”

  “Yeah, but what were those recommendations?” She said it as if it were a disease.

  He turned back to his laptop. “I didn’t tell them to lay anyone off. Quite the opposite.” Squinting at his screen, he dragged a few emails into his spam folder. “But, as it happens, they didn’t agree with my assessment to cut the boss’s salary and hire more entry-level admin.”

  With a laugh, she brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You said that?”

  “The organization was as top-heavy as a three-scoop ice cream cone.” He’d come up with that metaphor when he’d written the report. They seemed to have enjoyed it less than he had.

  “You don’t think that’s good?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?” He rotated in his chair, tugging both lapels of his jacket. “Is it my fancy suit?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Two hundred bucks,” he said. “Season clearance.”

  “That’s still more than I spend on my outfits,” she said.

  “But I get to wear this almost every day,” he said. “The average woman’s wardrobe has very poor value if you factor in all the costs. I did a report—” He cut himself off. What was he doing? Bragging about how much he enjoyed writing financial reports? That one hadn’t even been for school. He’d done it for fun. Instead of, as a normal guy might do, watching football or having sex with pretty girls.

  Like her.

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway…” His mind blanked. What had they been talking about? His suit. Ice cream. Women. “I should get back to work.”

  “By the way, which department will you be in this week?” she asked. “The assistant designers will ask me at lunch. If I keep feeding them secrets about you, maybe one of them will invite me to her birthday party.”

  The deadpan tone in her voice made him smile. “Do you want them to invite you?”

  “I do love pony rides,” she said with a wink. Then, flushing, she rotated away from him. “You’re not the only one who should get back to work.”

  He stared for a moment at her back, encased in that black tank top. “I’ll be in the Men’s department this week,” he said.

  She nodded but didn’t turn around. The software, which he’d learned was where they inputted their colors for the artwork they needed for different lines, appeared on her screen. “I haven’t met the Men’s designer yet,” she said. “Darrin. I think I saw him last week at the coffee truck, though. He didn’t look as scary as the stories about him.”

  “Scary?” he asked.

  “Is that why you’re doing his department while he’s in New York?” she asked. “To avoid him?”

  His stomach fell. “Darrin is in New York today?”

  “All week.”

  He shifted gears. “Then I’ll go to Women’s. It’s higher profile, and—”

  “The Women’s designers are in New York, too. That’s why the vibe is so relaxed around here today.”

  “Right after Thanksgiving?”

  “I know. I think they’re just expensing their family vacations, but Jennifer and Darrin always get away with murder.” She spun around and pointed at him. “Don’t quote me on that. I’m new. They’re wonderful. Creative geniuses. Quote me on that.”

  He pulled up his calendar on his phone, cursing himself for being so caught up in family—his dead wife’s family—drama, he’d neglected some basic planning legwork. “When will they be back, do you know?”

  “Next Monday.”

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “You could invade the trim office,” she said. “Without zippers, there would be no Fite TrakrJak. That’s the big silhouette this year, I found out. I’m working on the screen print for that sucker right now.” She pointed at her screen. “Really going out on a limb, too. Fite in big letters. I’m a genius.”

  Me, too, he thought. A goddamn genius. “Guess I’ll sit here another week, then.” His voice was grim, but his body warmed at the thought.

  Chapter 7

  WHILE SHE WORKED ON THE third Fite logo color revision of her morning, April felt Zack sitting behind her at his desk, tapping away at his laptop.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Was it possible the consultant had the hots for her? Or was she doing some te
rrible freelancer thing that was going to end up in his report? Something was going on inside that handsome head of his, she wasn’t sure what.

  She transformed the three-inch letter F on her screen to neon green. It would be easier to ignore the tempting idea of repressed sexuality coming at her across the beige commercial carpeting if her work were more interesting. Next week, Rita had promised, she’d start training her on FreePeat, the textile design software, but for now April was stuck with reworking block letters in solid colors.

  Zack sneezed.

  “Bless you,” April said, making the T a lovely shade of blinding yellow.

  He sneezed again. “Sorry,” he said, sniffling.

  She turned. “I hate flying. I always catch something.”

  “No,” he said, looking up and meeting her gaze. “It’s just allergies. This building’s a little dusty.”

  Rita popped her head around the wall. “Oh, please tell them that. Please? I’ve been begging to get an air filter in here.” Rita’s nerves around the consultant had calmed down as soon as he’d assured her, right before the holiday weekend, that the art department’s accomplishments were impressive given its limited resources.

  “To whom do you direct your begging?” he asked.

  “Harry Charron,” Rita said. “The facilities manager.”

  When Zack opened his small leather notebook in his palm and made a note, Rita flashed April a thumbs-up.

  “Say, Zack,” Rita said, smiling. “It’s quiet around here today. What do you say we all go out to lunch together? Since you’re done with us as targ—I mean, subjects—it might be nice for you to, you know, just relax.”

  “Lunch?” he asked. The look he gave April made her flush.

  This was crazy. She was imagining things. He ran that probing look over everything, even the department water dispenser. “I’m sorry,” April said, “but I have to get back to Oakland. I’m only here in the mornings this week.”