Guys and Godmothers

by Candice Gilmer

  Yeah, she was that sad.

  She clicked the “find and replace” button.

  “I think Bruce should become… um… Barney.” She smirked at the name. Sounded really stupid.

  Good.

  Who said writers couldn’t have their own private revenge?

  Saturday Morning

  “Oh wow, Greta, did you run over someone’s dog on the way to work?” Carrie asked.

  Greta jerked at the mention of dog. She had nightmares last night about dogs. One would think she’d be able to deal with it by now, but nope. Not her. She took a breath, reminding herself Carrie didn’t mean anything by it. Carrie tended to be overly dramatic.

  And today, Carrie’s drama sent shivers down her spine. She had to remind herself this was work. Greta worked in a doctor’s office. People didn’t bring dogs in here. It wasn’t done.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Carrie stared like she had boogers crawling out of her nose. Carrie, forty if a day, had a Mae West figure. Even in the uber-unflattering nursing uniform, Carrie filled the scrubs better than most.

  Greta turned away, not wanting her coworker’s penetrating gaze figuring out too much.

  Not that it worked.

  Carrie let out a sigh. “Oh no, your little boyfriend broke up with you.”

  Greta shook her head. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Carrie.”

  Carrie crossed the tiny space Greta had commandeered when she took Dr. Jacobsen’s office manager position, and plopped into one of the two chairs Greta usually used for performance reviews. Rarely did anyone come by to say hello.

  Greta didn’t normally work on Saturdays, but she didn’t get all her paperwork done yesterday, and made herself come in this morning. She’d much rather be working from home, but working from home meant, well…

  Home. And that wasn’t her favorite place either. It wasn’t bad, but rather demeaning—she rented out her parent’s basement.

  Hopefully for not much longer…

  Carrie didn’t take her eyes off her. “Then who are you texting all the time?”

  “Just friends,” Greta replied.

  Carrie raised her eyebrow. “A guy friend, huh?”

  Greta sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend. I mean, I don’t even know the guy. We’ve talked through Facebook.”

  “So why are you so sad?”

  “Because he has a dog,” Greta muttered.

  Carrie rolled her eyes—not the first time she’d ever made such an exasperated expression toward Greta and the dog thing. “Just because you got attacked when you were seven does not mean all dogs are evil.”

  “Carrie!” Susan, another nurse who had been walking by, jumped into the conversation.

  “Well, it’s true.” Carrie crossed her arms. “I read the other day online about a girl who got attacked by a dog and wound up becoming a vet.”

  Greta rolled her eyes, not buying that one at all. “Because they can’t put anything on the Internet that isn’t true…”

  “That’s not the point,” Carrie said. “People go on to be fine with dogs, even if they’ve been mauled. Not all dogs are bad.”

  “Just their trainers,” Greta replied, her lip trembling. She knew better. She did. This wasn’t the first time anyone claimed her fear of dogs was irrational.

  Until they saw her face, anyway.

  Even with plastic surgery, the scars were still there, in a curved, sickening filigree along the left side of her face—and a bonus piece on her shoulder, where the dog had clamped down repeatedly before it had been pulled away.

  Susan smacked Carrie’s arm. “You can be such an ass.” The woman, the opposite of Carrie in every way—tall, thin, legs a mile long, blonde hair, soft eyes. If Susan wasn’t such a sweet person, Greta knew she’d hate her.

  Susan walked around the desk—probably the only person in the office who could walk without twisting to the side to get around it—and patted Greta’s shoulder.

  Greta brushed her hand.

  “I know it’s rough,” Susan said, “and I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you never wanted to be around dogs. But we all have to learn to deal with things. It’s not like you’ll never encounter a dog again.”

  Greta sighed. “I know. I just…if a guy’s a dog lover, I don’t think I could live with it.”

  Susan squeezed her shoulder. “Well, you’ll find the right guy. I mean, have you tried Internet dating sites?”

  Greta snorted. “Not much luck, since I don’t put my picture out there.”

  “Well, let Susan pose for you, she could be you…if, well…” Carrie added.

  “Yeah.” Greta glanced at Susan. Not even in the dark would Susan ever be mistaken for Greta. Where Susan was pale, Greta was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, darker olive complexion, and at least six sizes bigger. And then there’s the whole picture thing.

  Who would even consider attempting to get to know someone as scarred as she?

  Chapter Three

  Saturday Morning

  “Smile, beautiful,” Bruce said to Amy, William’s beautiful bride. “Pretend William is perfect.”

  Amy laughed. “He is.”

  Bingo.

  Click, click, click.

  The breeze rustled through the trees, and Bruce snapped a few more as Amy brushed her veil away.

  So far everything came up great. Bruce thanked her, and Amy ran back inside the bed and breakfast, her bridesmaids trailing after her, carrying the dress’s train so it wasn’t soiled in the grass.

  “Hey Amy,” Bruce called.

  She paused. “Yeah?”

  “You sure you want to do this? You’ll be missing out on a great guy.” He winked.

  Amy laughed. “I think I’m good.”

  “Oh, ouch.” Bruce covered his heart. The bridesmaids laughed as they headed back inside.

  As he followed, he checked out the venue, picking up his camera to snap a few more pre-wedding pictures. Pan. Click. Pan. Click. Pan…

  There was the wedding planner, Stephanie, Roark’s buddy since—what—the crib or something? She had her hand in her ear, talking on her bluetooth. She paused at a table, where Roark helped the flower lady arrange the centerpieces.

  Bruce raised his camera.

  Ahh, blackmail. He’d post this one all over Facebook—Roark Turner, arranging flowers.

  Click. Click. Click.

  But what’s this? Stephanie put her hand on Roark’s arm. Bruce had wondered about their relationship from afar, wondering what was really between them.

  Click. Click. Click.

  He glanced at his display, at one of the shots. Cozy. Stephanie’s hand on his arm, Roark touching her face.

  Interesting.

  As he headed inside, he saw Jason.

  “Hey man.”

  Jason stopped, shifting the weight of the large pot in his arms. “Hey.” The aroma of smoky barbecue poured off the guy.

  “You ready to feed two hundred people?” Bruce asked him.

  “Working on it. Ribs have been smoking for hours.”

  Bruce’s stomach growled. “What kind today?”

  “Award winning.” Jason grinned. “Bourbon.”

  “Dude, you’re making me hungry,” Bruce said with a grin. He loved Jason’s ribs. They truly were to die for. Though Bruce would have to remember to change before eating—couldn’t ruin his good suit.

  “Good.” Jason walked away, toting his pot of sauce that left Bruce wishing he’d had more than a 5-Hour Energy shot this morning.

  Inside the bed and breakfast, Bruce snapped more pictures in case he needed them. Rarely did Bruce not have some camera with him. He never knew when—

  Well, hello there…

  A red-haired beauty walked past him—straight black skirt and mammoth hair falling around her. Angelina
Jolie had nothing on this gal.

  He opened his mouth to speak when his cell phone went off. Immediately, all the attention on the redhead disappeared and he hoped it was Greta.

  He’d texted her to make sure she was okay. He’d had a few last night, but he didn’t think he’d said anything horrible. But never can tell with girls.

  Damn. Not her.

  Instead it was an email from S.S. Gears, the local steampunk community, announcing their latest get-together. Bruce pulled up his calendar on his phone—yep, he’d be there, steampunk mode and camera at the ready. He’d even rigged up an old vintage camera with one of his real ones inside to take pictures.

  Still, he couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t heard from Greta.

  He half wondered if he should be worried. And then again, should he be more concerned that he was worried. Because, face it, he was.

  He talked to her every day. Several times a day. Since they’d started talking, it had moved to a point where going more than twenty-four hours without hearing from her was odd. Even a single line of text would have eased his concerns.

  Something.

  “I must have pissed her off.” Bruce typed another quick text—the last one for the day—to Greta.

  Did I upset you? I’m sorry. Forgive me, okay? I can’t be held accountable for drunk texts. - Bruce

  “Oh no!” Lilly moaned.

  Cupid’s minions.

  “How does he do it?” Lilly muttered as the minions in their cute little cherub diapers and shockingly accurate little archery sets zoomed about the wedding, giggling and grinning.

  Humans, since time began, have mistaken the little minions for Cupid himself—which was far from Cupid’s appearance. Tall, sinewy and coiled—like he could pounce at any second—the God of Love certainly could seduce anyone and everyone he wanted to—and usually did.

  Probably why he had that pompous swagger of his. He let his minions run amuck, their favorite pastime, shooting those horrid, freewill-bending arrows into celebrities.

  K-Stew’s infidelity? Totally Cupid’s doing. A team of godmothers were still working on that one.

  Lilly thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t gotten the assignment.

  Oh wait, where had her charge gone?

  Lilly dashed off to find him, though it didn’t take long—the cherub minions giggled and Lilly zoomed.

  Not her charge!

  “No you don’t.” She blasted the two minions with gold sparkles, and they both disappeared, though not before one stuck his tongue out at her.

  She wasn’t going to be able to leave Bruce alone for a second.

  Chapter Four

  Saturday Afternoon

  “Greta…”

  Greta cringed at the computer. She quickly closed her book-in-progress and pulled up her Facebook page.

  “Mom…” She let herself whine a little more than necessary. “This is my place.”

  “Ppbbtth,” her mother said as she walked through Greta’s living room—okay so it was a basement, and the living room/kitchen combo had been fitted for her grandparents way back when Grandma’s Alzheimer’s first started kicking in fifteen years ago.

  And it still had a great deal of Grandma’s taste on the walls. Wallpaper in fine, minute patterns, and bold borders lining the ceiling all the way around every room.

  Greta kept saying she’d tear it down and paint, but she hadn’t gotten to it yet. She hadn’t gotten to a lot of things yet.

  As her mother crossed the apartment, she picked up Greta’s shoes and put them in the closet.

  Greta sighed. “Mom, you don’t have to clean up my apartment.”

  “It’s still my basement, and I can come down here and clean whenever I want to.” Her mother came over to the computer, and pursed her lips together, as she studied the Facebook page.

  “I don’t know why you don’t get out more. Staring at a computer like this all day, it’s not healthy.”

  Greta ran her hands through her hair. It was her mother’s usual nag.

  “Mom, I’ve been at work all morning, and now I’m home to relax.”

  “You can’t do everything on the computer, Greta, you have to go out and do things.”

  “I go to work every day,” she replied.

  Her mother let out a sigh. “There’s more to life than work. If we learned anything from Grandmother Vandecall, it is life is too short to waste it hiding in a basement.”

  “Grandmother Vandecall had a full life.”

  “She started living when she was a kid. When are you going to start?”

  “I live just fine, thanks,” Greta said.

  Her mother snorted. “You play on the computer. That’s not living. You have to be around other human beings.”

  Her phone chimed. Not once, but twice. “I am.” Greta waved the phone. “I just got two text messages. From friends. Flesh and blood people, Mom.”

  “I don’t see you leaving to have coffee with these friends. It’s Saturday. You should be out shopping, going on dates, getting out of the house. Not inside, fiddling with that Face-thing.”

  “Yeah, because people love to date scarred women.”

  Her mother sighed. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  “You know, what if this is my life? Living in your basement, paying your mortgage—”

  “Greta!” her mother said, her face ashen.

  “I know exactly how much your mortgage is, Mom. I saw the book from the bank. And I know I pay it and a little extra every month for rent. The least you could do is give me some privacy.”

  It was a low blow, Greta knew, but it came out. Her frustrations about Bruce, about Carrie’s comments at work, and now Mom—it all hit her too hard, and the words tumbled out.

  She’d never been bitter about this arrangement with her parents, and a part of her had been happy when she saw how much her rent was and how she helped out her folks. After all, they’d shielded her ever since the accident, even home-schooling her for a year after.

  Which only made her regret for the words stronger.

  “I want you to go out, be around other people.” Her mother shook her head, and headed upstairs, muttering to herself about Greta’s unhealthy habits.

  Greta seriously had to get out of this house. Helping her parents or not, she needed to try, at least, to be on her own.

  The phone, still clenched in her hand, blinked, indicating the new text messages.

  Though she didn’t really have to look and see who they were from—Bruce. Who else would it be?

  She read them, and let out a sigh, staring at his sweet-but-stupid texts—him asking if she was mad at him.

  The temptation to text him back, tell him she wasn’t, and everything was great, overwhelmed her.

  Yet it wouldn’t be a good idea. After all, he had a dog. And she couldn’t get attached to someone who has a dog, because—well, really—how could she be around that?

  Didn’t matter she already horribly missed his friendship and their texts. And it had barely been a day.

  How sad. She crushed on a guy she’d never met in the flesh.

  Maybe her mother had a real point.

  There’s a first time for everything.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday Evening

  Bruce stood behind the limo and snapped half a dozen shots as the happy couple climbed in. The crowd milled about, and he continued snapping shots, smiling, visiting with guests, even handed out a few business cards.

  Though what he really wanted was a beer.

  And to put the camera down for a while.

  He wondered when he’d get to come to a shindig and didn’t have to work. It had been a while. Even the steampunk event would be more fun than work.

  Maybe he could get Greta to go. Then he’d finally get to meet her in
the real world. Find out why she didn’t put up pics—a sacrilege to him. How can one not post pics?

  Especially when she had such pretty toes.

  He came back inside, the guests starting to break up. Stephanie went zipping by.

  “Hey Stephanie,” Bruce called to her.

  She paused. “I just have a sec—”

  “Where’s Roark?”

  “Went home. Wasn’t feeling great.” And off she went.

  Darn, strike one.

  He headed toward the back where Jason had set up his catering and grimaced. Now Jason had a blonde talking to him. Some guys had all the luck.

  “Well, shit.” Bruce wondered if the blonde had a sister, but really, not even that held any appeal. Granted, there were at least a half a dozen eligible women running around the wedding, and if he wanted the company it wouldn’t be hard to find.

  Bruce knew he was attractive, and when women found out he was a photographer, that glamorized, overly romanced stereotype came into play. And like magic, he was in.

  Usually, he was out just as quick.

  Women would get so mad because he did his job—though most met him because of his job. They wanted the “guy photographer” role to be for them, and when he slipped into that persona for work—to talk to other customers with the same sort of “mode,” spewing compliments and telling other women they were beautiful—well, girlfriends didn’t like it.

  Probably another reason he loved talking and flirting with Greta.

  She didn’t see him as a “photographer.”

  She saw him.

  He liked that.

  His phone vibrated.

  Facebook.

  He tapped the screen. Greta had posted a status update.

  Work, work, work…

  Well, now he knew why she hadn’t responded to his text today.

  He answered her update: You should have more fun.

  She responded immediately.

  Not all of us have fun jobs.

  He grimaced. If she only knew. The icon for new email showed four new ones already. Of course, while working, they stacked up. More requested cover art. Well, he knew what he’d been doing tonight. Sometimes he wondered how he had time for anything. He had to be careful what he took on, because he couldn’t be overwhelmed with those while trying to do his photography work.