by Jean Oram
Basically, his franchise was a scam. A well thought out scam she had fallen for like a needy teenager out with her first boyfriend, who wanted only one thing.
Stupid, needy Mandy.
The door to her restaurant creaked open and John hesitantly popped his head around the open door. “Ah, there you are. Mary Alice thought she’d seen you come in but not leave.”
Mandy pushed the weight of all her failures off her chest and reminded herself not to think. Just act like everything was cool.
John continued from his spot at the door, “I heard the news and, as your lawyer, came to chat about your options.”
“I should have stayed happy as a waitress, John. I’d been fine until stupid Oz went and got stupid married and then stupid Gloria opened her big fat stupid yap so I, in turn, opened mine. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Her head collapsed onto the counter and she heard John take a hesitant step closer. She raised her head, along with a hand to ward him off. The last thing she needed was sympathy. She would crumple faster than a brick wall being hit by a bulldozer.
Mandy faced the papered windows again and held her head up by placing her fingertips to her temples. “Why did you let Frankie put his building up as collateral? You had to have known how risky it was.” She blinked back tears. If she’d held strong, she wouldn’t be carrying the burden of knowing she’d tossed his inheritance to the wind.
John shrugged. “He’s an adult.” His shoes clicked closer. “Now, about your options.”
Mandy rubbed her forehead. “John, I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”
“Pro bono,” he said quickly, pulling up a stool next to her.
“John, I really…” Mandy shook her head. “I tried being a big fish and life placed its oversized thumb on me. I stepped out of bounds and reached too far.”
She was just a waitress.
An unemployed waitress, to boot. Now she’d get to live in town as the big business flop who’d tried to trap Oz and made Frankie fall off the tower.
Frankie had probably been right. Her feelings for him were likely just a result of the fact that she was drowning and he had always been her reliable life raft. But if that was true, it didn’t explain why it was so hard to breathe whenever she thought about him. It was like an iron fist had clenched over her heart and refused to let go.
“You okay?” John asked, flipping open a document.
“Yeah,” she wheezed.
“You should read this,” he said, running a finger down the page before tapping on a clause.
Sighing, Mandy took the offered page and skimmed the clause. “So?”
“What does it say?” he prompted.
“A bunch of mumbo-jumbo about how crappy it is when a chain goes under.” Such a ray of sunshine. It was a wonder the man was still married.
“Yes,” John said patiently, turning the page, “but it also says you have the option to buy out your outlet and carry on independently. And here--” he tapped on another clause “--is that clause we added about you being able to buy your outlet for a lower price rather than market value, should there ever be a reason to go independent.” He beamed at Mandy as though he’d just presented her with a new truck. “I thought you understood all of this?”
“I don’t have money, John. It’s all fine and dandy that you thought to put in all of these clauses, but I simply don’t have the money or a way to raise it in time.” She pushed away from the counter, anger fusing her muscles together. “I have to pull out.”
The man had been a well-off lawyer for so long, he didn’t understand that having no money really meant no money. As in nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nothing. As in, what am I going to put in my gas tank when the needle hits E? She had nothing to her name other than a pile of loans that were coming due for a half-finished restaurant that couldn’t be opened. She was one missed rent check away from sleeping on her mother’s sofa and playing the Which-Soap-Star-Had-Botox guessing game each afternoon.
How could she have forgotten that strutting around with rose-colored lenses made you unable to see how life was ninjaing up on you with its butt-kickers?
John sat back, assessing her--probably trying to comprehend how she could be so broke.
“Right,” he said at last. He cast a look about the half-finished place. He stood, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You are a creative problem solver. Always have been. You can pull this out of the hat.”
She let out a snort, then glanced at the letter from the chain’s lawyers again. “There’s no way I can I raise the kind of cash I need in time.” Interest was already piling up on her debts and it would take ages to pay it off with or without a paycheck and all she had to show for it was a cold, hard life lesson.
“You’ll think of something.” John hefted the document, saying, “You know where to find me if you need help.”
She snorted. “Getting help at this point is like asking the coast guard to help the Titanic. About a zillion years too late,” she muttered.
“Mandy,” John said, “where is that hopeful, optimistic woman I know?”
“I think she may have been crushed by that brick wall that fell on her.” She sighed and turned to look at her restaurant. So close. Yet so very, very far.
John exited, saying, “When you get your plan in place, you know where to find me.”
She stuck her tongue out at the closed door and made snippy little comments to herself before sighing and giving herself a shake. She needed to stop moping and take action. Any action. She grabbed her purse and keys and locked the door, taking a walk around town, brainstorming idea after useless idea on how she could raise enough money to save it all--preferably in one week or less.
Mandy bolted upright and flung the covers off her legs. That was it! The timeline was incredibly tight, but if she could manage to write a decent pitch and a miracle occurred, it might work. But she had to move. Fast.
Tucking Portia under her arm, she headed to her laptop. Flipping it open, she rubbed her hands and typed in the URL for Kickstarter. Gran, bless her heart, may have been on to something with her mumbo-jumbo at her quitting party. Everything was a long shot right now, but maybe this could buy her enough time to pull things out of the fire and keep them there until she could get the restaurant going and an income rolling.
Printing off several pages, she began scrawling down ideas and lists of things she needed. Nothing to lose and everything to gain.
She scratched Portia behind the ears and let out a long sigh. If she used Kickstarter, she wouldn’t be able to pay people back, which didn’t seem fair. She’d already pulled Frankie into the mess and there was no way she could live with herself if she widened her net of financial destruction--and using donations wasn’t about her need for independence, as Frankie would assume. It was about being responsible and honest about the fact that she was a shoddy investment. But if she could be more accountable to her backers by being able to pay each and every one of them back whether things worked out, or not, that was her ticket--not handouts.
Oh. My.
That was it. She picked up her phone and tapped in a number from her files.
“Lexi?”
“Wha--?”
Sleep coated Lexi’s voice and Mandy spoke slowly and urgently. “Lexi, it’s Mandy Mattson. I have a plan to save our us all. Can I come over? ‘Cause you’re not going to want to sleep once you hear my plan and I’m not letting you off the phone until I’ve told it to you.”
“Try me,” said Lexi, her voice hard.
Mandy quickly outlined her plan. They were going to take back the night. Okay, maybe not the night, but at least their investments and show Seth a thing or two about women. Namely that you didn’t cross them. Especially when they moved in butt-kicking packs.
“You’re nuts, girl.”
Mandy’s hope waned.
“But I happen to like your brand of nuts. I’ll text you my address and call the rest of the franchisees. Get over here and let’s get this thing
moving.”
16
Mandy shifted from foot to foot beside the table of brownies under the oak tree in Main Street’s square and rubbed her hands down the legs of her jeans. All she had to do was convince everyone she saw today to lend her money. No problem. It wasn’t asking for help. It was… Well, okay. It was asking for help. A lot of help. But she could do it. Asking for help and feeling like you owed someone something was normal, right? Everyone did it. It would be okay. She could do it in the name of Frankie’s inheritance. So really, it was like she was asking them to help Frankie, not her.
And anyway, it was just a micro business loan. Twenty-five dollars or more which she’d pay back with interest when her business was on its feet. That was the hardest part of the cooperative go-independent plan she and the other franchisees had been up all night sorting out--asking for money. Going public with their request so Seth would be humiliated in releasing things not in their contract such as the right to continue using the chain’s trademark and licensing as well as buy out their outlets before the liquidators took it all next week…that all felt surprisingly easy in comparison.
“Hey, is that your entry?” Jen asked, sidling up beside Mandy. “The brownies with the gumdrops?”
Mandy nodded and nervously scanned the table. “I don’t know what I was thinking, changing my recipe.” She swiped her bangs off her sweaty forehead. Today was going to kill her. But she had six days to meet the deadline and save Frankie’s building and nothing but a lonely twenty-five dollar backer for her micro loan thus far. She needed to step out and get things done or she’d be the only one of the franchisees who would be losing her place.
Jen blew a bubble with her gum. “You said the ladies were getting closer to matching your recipe, so this is smart. Even if you lose, it’s not because of your prize-winning ones. It’s because you changed the game on your own terms by taking away their real win--beating your old recipe.”
Mandy took in the table of sweets. She leaned over and whispered to Jen, “There’s also a bit of spiced whiskey in it and the judge has a thing for all things fermented.”
“If you win, I’m totally selling that tip to the highest bidder.”
Mandy gave Jen a mock scowl and a shove.
“Either way,” Jen said wisely, “you are leaving the game before you lose.” She added with a half shrug. “It’s basic self-preservation. I do it all the time.”
Her cheeks flushed as Mandy studied her, but before she could ask more, Jen said, “Everyone on the canoe trip was fighting over the last brownie--did I tell you that? People were talking about signing up for another excursion just to have those at lunch! And it was a horrible paddle in the pouring rain. Your brownies could totally be my best advertising.” She pretended to put Mandy in a headlock. “These brownies are not allowed to become available anywhere else--they have to remain exclusive to my trips. Understood?”
Mandy laughed and pulled away. “You’re crazy.” She smiled, thankful for the way Jen was not only distracting her, but for making her feel as though changing up her entry was a smart move. But she still couldn’t help but wish Frankie was there. This year, he hadn’t even sampled the recipe.
The light pre-fall breeze brought with it a hint of heavenly chocolate and she resisted the urge to throw herself over the table and devour everything in sight. Breathe, girl, breathe. Just don’t inhale near the table.
“So, um,” Mandy began nervously. Precious time was ticking away.
She turned to Jen and took a deep breath.
“Nervous?” Jen asked.
“A bit. But um, I started another web page for my Wrap it Up.”
“Oh.” Jen’s eyes widened and she glanced around, as if looking for an escape route.
“With the other franchisees. There are a couple of us banding together.” Mandy fought the instinct to stop breathing and reminded herself that if she told a few friends around town, the word would spread in no time, helping her gain some support. And if not, well, then, at least she’d know that Blueberry Springs really didn’t want her restaurant.
“Great. Good idea.” Jen cleared her throat. “So, why do they call this a fall fair, anyway? It isn’t even fall yet. It’s more like a big baking contest. Shouldn’t there be pumpkin growing contests or something?”
Mandy sighed at Jen’s change of subject. “The weather is better in August. Usually.” She tried to add a bit of perkiness to her voice as she said, “I’m really pumped about this new idea. We want to go independent. We just need to raise some funding.”
Jen’s attention drifted to a group setting up a screen in the shade of the large oak. “Look at that. They managed to finagle some footage after all.”
“Footage for what?” Mandy asked.
Jen frowned at her GPS watch. “For Frankie’s show. A sneak peek of raw footage or something.”
“But they’re still filming.” He was still in the city with Miss Blowtorch and would be for another two months. Her mind refused to imagine what else the woman might be blowing during their time off. Okay, that was a lie. Her mind was refusing not to think of other things.
“You okay?” Jen asked, resting a hand on Mandy’s back.
Mandy tried for a smile. And failed.
“Aw.” Jen gave Mandy a half hug. “He hasn’t been talking to you, has he?”
Mandy shook her head and blinked rapidly. She would not cry. After all she’d been through in the past few weeks, and as shredded as her soul felt, she would not let herself cry. Not here. Not where everyone could see the tears fall.
The screen lit up and there was Frankie. Grinning. Her knees weakened and her head swam. She quickly wiped her wet cheeks, vowing not to think, not to feel.
The photo was one Ed, from the paper, had taken when Frankie opened his restoration business a few years ago. Frankie looked so happy. So free. So unlike he had been over the past few months. How had she become so consumed in her own messed up world that she hadn’t noticed how unhappy, how unsatisfied, her best friend had become?
Liz took to the stage and began chatting about Frankie, sharing gossip and news about his adventure on the TV show that hadn’t reached Mandy. She found herself moving closer to the screen--so close, it felt as though floppy-haired, kind-eyed Frankie was looking right at her.
Had she ever blown it. What a fool she’d been to take him for granted.
Jen mentioned something about having to go, as she had a canoe lesson in thirty minutes and Mandy nodded absently.
The screen lit up with the show’s opening credits and theme music filled the air. How many times had she watched the show with Frankie, leaning against his arm, bingeing on gumdrops? And now he was on the show and she was in the crowd as some girl he used to know. Her chest clenched and she tipped her chin a little higher.
“We managed to wrangle a few clips from the show as a special sneak peek,” Liz said into the microphone as a clip with a short interview from Frankie started. He looked confident, at ease. A man who was secure and confident in his knowledge of all things cars.
Her Frankie.
She was not going to let some other woman stand in her way. Her mind began spinning plans and she lost track of the show until she felt the heat of a thousand stares. She blinked and processed what was on the screen: her.
Professing her feelings.
Her body felt as though it had been slammed into a wall. She staggered, not sure whether to duck or run.
The camera’s microphone had picked up her whispers when she told Frankie there had only ever been a place for him in her heart.
The camera zoomed in on the pixie-like woman on-screen, the blowtorch in her hands sagging as she stared at on-screen Mandy like she’d just broken some major law of humanity. Mandy the villain; Blowtorch the heroine. It was as though the television producers thought Mandy wanted Frankie now that he was on TV. Superficial. Fake. Not at all like the insecure woman she’d been while standing there, baring her soul to her best friend.
S
he lowered her head in shame, her face feeling as though Frankie’s new girlfriend had turned the torch on her. How was she supposed to know he’d hooked up with someone?
The person beside her wrapped an arm around her shoulder in support and whispered something she couldn’t process.
She’d been shamed on television. Shamed in the town square.
She was the shame of Blueberry Springs.
Again.
The villain. The bad guy. When all she’d ever wanted was love.
Mandy tried ducking out of the square, but every time she got close to the edge of the crowd, someone brought her back into the fold with a gentle tug or a hug. At one point, someone slipped a spiced whiskey in her hand and she’d gladly consumed it, but the drink had done little for her inner turmoil, her abject humiliation. Nobody breathed a word about what had been witnessed on the big screen, just friendly hands gently pressing her from person to person. They were now moving her in the direction of the stage and all she knew was that she didn’t want to go anywhere near front and center unless they were sending her to a secret escape hatch.
Her feet lifted her up the stairs, any attempts at sliding away foiled by the hands directing her. She sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders, even though her heart had been torn into jagged pieces. Her head swam, her vision broken by stars and blackness. The judges, beaming with excitement and pride, handed her a ribbon for first prize.
“Congratulations Mandy! Eighth year in a row and with a new recipe, no less!”
Doubt hit her straight in the gut. Was it a pity win? Or were her new brownies just as good as the old ones?
