Skipping a Beat

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “A drink,” he gasped as he flung open the door one unseasonably hot May afternoon.

  “Get it yourself, caveman,” I said, not even looking up from my computer.

  “No, I mean a drink,” he panted, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. “That’s it. That’s what’s missing. I just went to 7-Eleven to get a drink, and they’ve basically got four choices: soda, Gatorade and iced tea—which are just as sugary as soda—or plain old water. None of it looked good to me. There’s a hole, Julie, right there in the middle of the 7-Eleven case. A giant freaking hole! What if there was flavored water that tastes good? But not as sweet as Gatorade; that stuff tastes as sugary as soda … no artificial dyes, but maybe I’ll add some vitamins. Health food is becoming trendy; it’s not for hippies anymore. I just read an article about it in Newsweek. I’ll use natural sweeteners instead of high-fructose corn syrup, that’s the key …”

  As he spoke, Michael absently shed his clothes and walked into the shower, and I could hear him still talking over the flow of the water. I smiled and turned back to my computer, knowing his methodical brain would have worked through the kinks in his plan, weighing the potential downsides versus the merits, by the time he turned off the water. He’d already considered and discarded the ideas for a dozen companies.

  But within five minutes, he’d called in sick to work and was racing to the grocery store, his hair still dripping wet. He went to three different grocery and health food stores that day, and by the time I went to bed, our kitchen looked like a convention of mad scientists had invaded it. Concoctions filled every pot and pan we owned.

  “Take a sip,” Michael demanded the next morning, thrusting a spoonful of something lemon-smelling in my face as I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.

  “Did you even sleep?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Is it too sweet?” he asked urgently. “My taste buds are shot. I need a fresh palate.”

  “Not too sweet,” I said, licking my upper lip. “But …”

  “Not quite there yet. I know, I know.”

  I looked at the ingredients flooding the kitchen—the brightly colored limes and oranges, the thick, golden honey and agave nectar, the jars of liquid vitamins, the stubby roots of ginger and rolled sticks of cinnamon and bowls of dried fruits. Our coffeepot held a light orange liquid, and every one of our mugs and glasses was full; it looked as if Michael was trying to isolate all the colors of a rainbow. Was that—I squinted and realized that, yes, Michael had uprooted an African violet and was using its pot as another container.

  “How many drinks have you made?” I asked. The competing smells were overwhelming, and I flung open a window.

  “Dozens. Hundreds. I’ve tasted them all. I’m peeing every ten minutes,” he said, grabbing a pot off the stove just as the sea green liquid inside began boiling over.

  “I’ve got to run,” I said, grabbing an orange to eat for breakfast on the road. “I’ll probably be late.”

  “Can I heat brown sugar into a syrup … hmmm? What? Did you say something?” Michael asked, frowning at the little notebook he’d filled with the scribbles that no one but he could decipher.

  “Bar mitzvah for the Rosenbaum brat,” I said, reaching out to tilt up his chin and kiss him and coming away with a sticky residue on my lip that tasted like blueberries.

  When I walked in the door that evening, the kitchen looked even worse, but Michael was smiling. He handed me a glass bottle adorned with a label he’d printed up on our computer.

  “DrinkUp? That’s the name?” I asked. “What’s in it?”

  “About ten cents’ worth of products,” he said, his face bright despite the dark circles under his eyes. “I’m almost there.”

  * * *

  In retrospect, it was a good thing I was so busy at work that month. If I’d known that Michael had stopped going to classes and missed the deadline on an important paper, that he was in the process of dropping out of school, I would’ve been furious. He was so close to earning his degree; why the rush? Wouldn’t his new product seem more legitimate when he had an MBA after his name? And secretly, while I thought the idea for his healthy drinks wasn’t a bad one, it didn’t seem revolutionary. Personally, I counted myself as a satisfied customer of Diet Coke.

  But I was too busy dealing with the Spence stepsisters to keep track of Michael. They were a Cinderella story, but with a twist: Abby, the youngest sister, who was getting married, was homely and awkward. It was as though someone had taken a mold of her father’s face—heavy eyebrows, hooked nose, strong chin—and recycled it for her. Abby’s stepsister was the maid of honor, and she was thin, beautiful, and had just discovered her own fiancé was cheating on her. Which might’ve been a form of social justice, except that the pretty stepsister, Diane, was by far the nicer of the two.

  “Which ones do you think I should wear?” Abby asked as she held up a glittering, teardrop-shaped earring and a simple pearl encircled by gold.

  “I like the pearls,” Diane said. “They’re classic.”

  “But you only get to be a bride once,” Abby said with a huge smile. “Everyone’s going to be looking at me. I think I should go for the sparkle.”

  “Of course,” Diane said, managing a grin. “That makes sense.”

  “Now let’s go over the seating chart again,” Abby said, her voice sympathetic but her eyes bright. “Are you sure you want an uneven number of chairs at your table? We could put someone else there instead of just taking away Rob’s seat.”

  Diane blinked hard, and I quickly interjected a question about the centerpieces. That was one thing I hadn’t expected about my job. Party planning was the official title, but I was equal parts therapist, referee, judge, and troubleshooter. I loved it, though. Maybe because my life seemed like it was just beginning to unfold, and this gave me the chance to glimpse other people’s and imagine which pieces I wanted for myself someday: the lavish anniversary party? No way; I liked quieter celebrations. The first dance to a song that had meaning only for the newlyweds? Yes! The minivan with the gaggle of kids? Someday, maybe …

  Michael was so busy putting together a business plan for his new idea, and studying for exams—or at least that’s what I thought—that our apartment was usually empty when I came home. But later, when I looked back on that time, what I remembered most was the little notes he’d leave for me every day in unexpected places.

  “I’ll be home before your head hits this,” read one on my pillow.

  “Meet you inside here at 10:00 P.M. I promise to wash your back.” This one was taped to the shower curtain.

  And propped up against a single red rose he’d left on our kitchen counter on Valentine’s Day: “You were smiling in your sleep when I left. I wanted to watch you forever.” That note I tucked into my underwear drawer to save.

  A week or so after the Spence wedding (where I’d successfully urged the good-looking but shy drummer for the band to ask Diane for her phone number during a break between sets), I came home to find Michael sitting at our little blue table with four glasses in front of him.

  “You look vaguely familiar,” I said, tossing my briefcase onto the couch. “Remind me of your name again?”

  “I’ll be your server tonight. We’re having a tasting, madam,” he said as he stood up and bowed. He had a dirty old dish towel folded over his forearm; I’d have to withhold his tip. “Please sit down. Tonight we’ll be serving Citrus Fruit, Berrywater, Not-Too-Sweet Lemonade, and PuckerUp Limeade.”

  “Sounds delightful,” I said. “And very filling.”

  “I think you’ll find our tasting menu is deceptively light and refreshing.” He handed me a cup. “Your first course will be Not-Too-Sweet Lemonade.”

  I sipped, and my eyes widened. “Michael, it’s good!”

  “You like it?” He dropped his terrible French accent.

  “It’s tangy and … and so fresh,” I said.

  “Right! That’s it exactly,” he said, the words tumbling
out of him in a torrent. “My professor Raj knows one of the former beverage buyers for Whole Foods. She came in and did a guest lecture at Georgetown a few years ago. He thinks he can get me a meeting with her. Here, try this one.”

  I sipped them all—the lemonade was still my favorite, but Berrywater was a close second—then I started dinner while Michael squeezed into our galley kitchen with me.

  “It’s not just the ex-buyer,” he explained for the tenth time as I swirled spaghetti around in boiling water. “She’s a link in the chain. If she likes my product, she might be able to introduce me to her contacts.”

  “She will,” I said. “She’ll like it.”

  “All I need is two minutes with the right person,” Michael continued as I drained the noodles in a plastic colander in the sink, leaning over the hot rush of steam to get the poor woman’s version of a facial. Later I’d slather half an avocado on my face to complete my beautifying and make Angelina Jolie shake in her shoes with raw, unbridled envy.

  “I told you what Natural Foods Merchandiser reported, right?” Michael asked as I handed him a spoon and pointed him toward the spaghetti sauce simmering in a pan.

  “Tell me again?” I humored him.

  “There’s been a huge increase in natural foods buying during the past three years. It’s poised to explode. I’m going to ride the wave. God, who would’ve thought all those years of reading food labels would pay off? Remember when I used to warn you about those disgusting neon pink cupcakes?”

  “Hey,” I said. “They were good!”

  Michael smacked me on the butt with a dish towel. “People don’t know what they’re putting into their bodies. But they’re going to start caring, and they’re going to get mad. I’ll keep my ingredients list fresh and simple and natural. The timing couldn’t be more perfect!”

  I nodded, even though Michael would’ve kept talking without any encouragement, and he ladled warm marinara sauce on the noodles before setting our plates down on the wobbly table that barely afforded enough room for them.

  “Maybe I should tweak my marketing plan once more,” he said, spinning around and heading for his laptop.

  I looked down at our dinner, then looked over at Michael, whose fingers were already flying across the keyboard. Michael wasn’t eating? That, more than anything, drove home to me how serious he was about this project.

  And two nights later, he was waiting when I came home from work.

  “Ten A.M. next Friday!” he shouted, handing me an icy cold bottle of Bud Light.

  “You got the meeting with the former buyer?” I asked, sinking into the futon—as much as I could sink, given how hard the mattress was—and sliding off my shoes.

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head as he sat down beside me and began rubbing my feet a little too vigorously. “The current buyer! I met the former buyer today, and she already set it up. She loves DrinkUp. Loves it! I found this guy who designs wine labels for a little winery in Maryland. They’re really classy, look”—he sprang up and grabbed a wine bottle and handed it to me—“and he’s going to do some mock-up labels for me. He already came up with one concept, but it isn’t quite right. I don’t care if he has to go through ten drafts. I can’t go in there looking second-rate. This is huge. I feel it, Julia. It’s finally happening!”

  My heart skipped a beat, but not for the right reason. I thought about the costs Michael was incurring—already, before his brand-new company had even made a cent—but I forced myself to swallow my worry. This was Michael’s dream; I couldn’t tarnish it with my old fears.

  I stood up and grabbed his hand.

  “We’re going out,” I said, putting down my beer and pulling him toward the door. There wasn’t any question of where we’d go—the pizza place on the corner was all we could afford, since Michael got an employee discount—but still, we splurged on a bottle of Chianti and toasted our future and leaned close to one another over the red-checked tablecloth, our fingers twining together, talking until they brightened the lights and kicked us out.

  “It’s going to happen,” Michael said, his blue eyes darkening with intensity. “I’ve got a good product, the market needs it, and with Raj’s contacts, I can make it work. The next thing to do is get investors—but if Whole Foods likes me, it’ll be a snap.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed, squeezing his hand. I hate to admit it, but I still wasn’t convinced. Flavored water? That was Michael’s stroke of genius, the culmination of all he’d learned at one of the country’s top business schools? It seemed so … so simple.

  * * *

  Twelve

  * * *

  OUR WEDDING DAY WAS absolutely perfect.

  By then I’d overseen enough receptions to know that it was the little moments people kept as cherished memories, not the splashy, oversize ones. One of the most elaborate weddings I planned was ruined when the groom got so drunk he spent half of the party throwing up in the bathroom while the bride sobbed and her father muttered curses (“I’m not quite sure what shots to get,” the photographer had whispered to me. “A little direction?”).

  Michael and I didn’t have many friends to invite, and we both wanted to keep things simple.

  “Should we ask your parents to come?” he wondered.

  I tried to answer him, but started to cry instead. “I want them here,” I finally said. “But my dad … I mean, I know he’s sick. It’s like alcoholism. But I keep thinking about how he ruined my mom’s life. I mean, they’re still living with my uncle. She’s waitressing, for God’s sakes. My mom is pushing sixty and she’s on her feet all day serving hamburgers.”

  “He stopped, though, right?”

  “For now,” I said. My dad had quit gambling a half dozen times before—always with grand promises—but it never stuck.

  “It’ll hurt them if I don’t invite them,” I said. “And how can I have a wedding without my parents there? I’d feel so strange walking down the aisle alone …”

  “We could elope,” Michael said immediately. “It’ll just be you and me. That’s always been enough for us, hasn’t it?”

  His arms closed around me. “We don’t need anyone else. Let’s do it soon. Right away. We just need to get our license, but it won’t take long. The waiting period’s only a few days.”

  I rested my head against his shoulder. “Just you and me?”

  “Next week,” he said. “I want to marry you before my Whole Foods meeting. Jules, this is the beginning of everything for us. My company, our new life together … let’s start it off right.”

  I looked down at the simple engagement band Michael had given me a few months earlier, when he’d proposed, then I lifted up my face to his and smiled.

  I wore a classic cream-colored sheath dress that was deeply discounted because of a torn hem I’d sewed up in under ten minutes, and carried a bouquet of wildflowers that Michael had picked for me. As we stood in front of a justice of the peace reciting our vows, Michael wiggled his eyebrows when I got to the “obey” part, almost making me laugh out loud. But as we were pronounced man and wife, he stared into my eyes for a long moment, and the look in his took my breath away.

  He cooked me dinner that night, and we shared a bottle of champagne—the first we’d ever tasted. Afterward he reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet. He pressed a button on our battered old CD player, and we swayed together in our tiny apartment as Louis Armstrong sang “What a Wonderful World.”

  “I’ll buy you a diamond soon,” Michael promised as we cuddled in bed. By then we’d both forgotten about the prenup we’d signed that morning. “A huge one. You won’t be allowed to walk down the street because the glare will blind innocent bystanders.”

  “Why are bystanders always presumed to be innocent?” I asked.

  “Good point,” he said. “I’m sure plenty of them are downright evil. They deserve to be blinded. I’m going to give you another five carats so we can take them all out.”

  “But what about you?” I asked, tracing
a lazy finger along his jawline, then down the slope of his shoulder. He was still so skinny, but I loved his body. “Are you going to buy yourself a Lamborghini?”

  “Maybe a boat,” Michael mused.

  “You’d have no idea what to do with a boat.” I laughed. “You’d crash it on the first day.”

  “So the Lamborghini,” Michael decided. “Unless I buy a backup boat. You know, for when the first one is in the shop.”

  “And you’ll need to add ’the Third’ to your name,” I pointed out. “It’s a requirement for stuffy rich guys.”

  “Are stuffy rich guys allowed to ravish their wives twice in one night?” Michael asked, rolling from his back to his side to face me.

  “It’s a requirement,” I whispered in his ear. “Read your stuffy rich guy manual.”

  I wish I could’ve been there the day Michael circled the Whole Foods parking lot in our rusty station wagon and lugged his four thermoses of DrinkUp into the upscale grocery store. What did the beverages buyer think of Michael, dressed in his best black sweater and slacks, his hair carefully gelled for the first time in his life? Did he look into Michael’s eyes and see the intensity burning there, and know that if force of will could guarantee victory, Michael would be a runaway success?

  The buyer drank the samples—“He was like a wine connoisseur, Julia, he sniffed first and everything”—and then, right there on the spot, offered Michael a deal: Whole Foods would test out two pallets, or ten thousand bottles, in a trial run for seventeen stores in the Mid-Atlantic area.

  “My God! That fast?” I said. “When do they want them?”

  “I asked them to give me two months,” Michael said, absently tugging his curls back into wild disarray. “Julia, here’s the thing. They’re not going to pay me for whatever they sell. They’re doing me a favor by testing them out. I have to absorb the cost; that’s traditionally the way these things work.”