“Nope. You kidding? She’s probably nursing a hangover since she’s so bored with Andrew gone.”
She lets out a groan. “When are you getting your car back?”
I shrug. “Beats me.”
I loaned my car to a co-worker at the magazine I work for, Seattle Outdoors & Sports. I figured she, a single mother of three with a car that’s repeatedly in the shop, could give it more use than I could. I really don’t mind at all, really. She can keep it for all I care. The buses are great opportunities for some serious people-watching, and striking up conversations with complete strangers is always a treat. There’s always something you can learn from someone. Or at least there’s always something from which you can glean entertainment. How else did I learn about that ring-gender-predictor trick?
“Would you hate me if I asked you to head down to the market to get some ingredients?” Sophie looks stressed (what else is new?) and is acting like she’s asking me to move mountains to do what? Go down to Pike Place Market? One of the coolest places in town? Breeze about the stalls and sample local specialties? Yeah, a real burden.
“Unless you want to go, Gatz?” Sophie says.
“There’s nothing I’d like more than to make more croissants.” He tosses the dough slicer in his hand.
“Sarcasm this early in the morning?” says Sophie, arms akimbo.
Gatz laughs and begins to masterfully slice the freshly rolled dough. “I’ll go if you’re not up for it, Emily.”
“Puh-lease.” I toss the sponge into the sink and pull off my apron. “I’m always up for this kind of a run.”
“I’ll make a list,” she says. She nearly jogs to the front counter, and I follow. “Take my car, and,” she tosses me her keys, “if you could call Chad for me, tell him I might need his help after all tonight.” She gives me a reproachful look. “I hate to ask him, but he offered if things got crazy-busy and, well…” Her voice falters.
“Sure,” I say, not giving her another second to make excuses for why she’d rather have me call Chad than do it herself.
Chad Harris is Conner’s best friend. Naturally, since our good friend Claire is married to Conner, and since Chad is a pretty cool and laidback kind of guy, Chad’s sort of part of the gang. He has a regular day job downtown with a marketing firm, but in his off time when he’s not painting and trying to make it big on the art scene, he’s here at the café to help out every now and then.
The girls and I can’t help but think it peculiar that Sophie, who is almost repulsed by Chad, can manage having him helping around her café. They’ve got a hot and cold friendship, seeing how they had some fling back in college that neither have seemed to move past. But Chad likes to tease Sophie—and apparently help her out at her café; and Sophie likes to complain about Chad, and apparently doesn’t care enough about their hairy past to impede his lending hand.
Anyway, Sophie had said something the other day at Robin’s about how Chad was a total asshole to her at Claire’s wedding on Saturday. She wouldn’t give us specifics, but that’s typical Sophie—always trying to believe she’s got her p’s and q’s straight. So she hasn’t been too keen on ringing him up and asking for his help around here since.
“Be back shortly,” I say to Sophie. “You want me to tell Chad to call you or…” I try to read her face. Playground antics that happened at the tween years evidently don’t die off as you approach thirty.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” She brushes a hand at me.
“Let the grudges go,” I whisper offhandedly in a groan. I jiggle her keys in one hand and flash a wink. “Seriously. You’ll feel so much better.”
Sophie huffs candidly and says, “You sound like my meditation instructor.” She tears off the piece of paper with my shopping list on it. “Thanks a mil.”
***
“Chad’s coming in to help after he gets off work,” Sophie says later in the afternoon, well after Gatz has headed out and, ironically, right when the post-lunch crowd thickens. “Seven o’clock. We should survive until then.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Em, you sure you don’t mind sticking around a bit longer?”
Sophie looks positively frazzled. She’s got a mark of flour on one cheek, her once-long ponytail is now a sloppy mess of a bun, and she’s been dashing about the kitchen frantically, rotating baking sheets in and out of the oven, one after another, as fast as lightning.
“I really think you might need an extra set of hands around here sooner rather than later,” I say. I put the heavy glass lid on top of the cake stand, my mouth watering ever so slightly at the cream cheese frosting that’s thickly coating the four-layer carrot cake Gatz made before he left for the day.
“And pay them in what?” Sophie asks, beleaguered. “Rainbow sprinkles? Maraschino cherries?” She tosses a batter-coated spoon into the sink. “The café’s going well, but not so well that I can just hire on more help.” She quickly takes a wet rag to the countertops. “You’re already my slave labor, you poor thing. I’ll pay you before I pay another set of hands.”
“No way, no how.” I shake my head strongly. “I’m not here for money. This is fun. Anyhow, Robin’s coming over in a few. With Rose.”
I catch a sparkle in Sophie’s blue eyes. That will certainly take some of the stress and apprehension from her shoulders. “Awesome,” she breathes.
“Which means we need to save Rose one of those strawberry shortcake cupcakes we’ve still got out there.” I pick up the carrot cake and make my way to the front. “Shall I snag it?”
Sophie follows me up front, plates of baked goods in both hands. “Definitely,” she says. “You know, I need to get my name cards updated.”
Sophie has the most darling names for her cupcakes. She’s got a margarita-flavored one with the most scrumptious lime icing that she calls CuppaCancun. She’s got a to-die-for velvet-cake-based one she calls Love It, It’s Velvet. Her carrot cake cupcake was a favorite of her late yoga teacher’s, hence its name, Pamela. She’s been working on a rum raisin and coconut one she’s thinking of calling Pirate Paradise. Something like that—really cute stuff. But her latest name is for her strawberry shortcake cupcake, Rose’s favorite. She’s recently replaced the swirls of white icing on top with a pink piped rose. The cupcake’s name? Exactly!
***
“I just don’t get it,” Sophie says after she takes a timid sip of her hot tea. “Why the hell would he be bugging you again? Now?”
Robin shrugs and lifelessly says, “Beats me.”
“I can’t believe you’re not more infuriated over this!” Sophie now looks flustered, like she’s about to blow.
“When did you hear from him?” I ask Robin, totally gobsmacked. “Super recent, right? I just saw you a couple days ago and everything seemed fine.” I pull on my mineral water. “Now this shit?”
“Like I said, girls.” Robin looks to Sophie, then to me, then over at Rose, who’s complacently sitting in her buggy, gnawing on her melted pink cupcake. “That’s how it’s happened in the past. Out of nowhere I get a letter or, like this time, an email, from Brandon, and I’m back to square one all over again.”
“He has no business trying to wedge himself into your life,” Sophie says. She’s practically seething, arms pulled tightly together over her chest. Thank God for the group of teenage girls who just now walk into the café, schoolbags slung over their shoulders. Sophie scoots her chair from the table.
“God, doesn’t that remind you of us?” I say somewhat randomly, nodding my head at the young group of girls.
“Yeah,” Robin says. She crunches down hard and loudly on her biscotti. “Like a bajillion years ago. Now instead of carrying schoolbooks we’re pushing strollers,” another loud crunch, “and dealing with a-hole men.”
“Ha!” Sophie says with a sneer. “When have we not had to deal with a-hole men?”
“Baaaah!” Rose cheers. “Mama. Mama.” She holds out an icing-coated hand. “Mama. Eat, Mama. Eat.”
“I’ll be back in a jiff,
” Sophie says. “I so want to hear this.” She leaves our table and cheerfully greets the group of girls.
I really can’t believe that Brandon’s at it again. When he heard that he got Robin pregnant, he was out of there faster than, well, faster than the two of them hit the sheets and realized what a disastrous mistake they’d made.
He contacted Robin in the past, when Rose was just a baby-baby. He pestered her about suddenly feeling bad for not sticking around, about wanting to do more than just send monthly child support checks, about wanting to actually meet Rose. I see the merit in his trying and him obviously having a heavy conscience, but leave well enough alone, you know? Robin had moved on and was doing just fine without Brandon in the picture.
“I’m a fool, I guess,” Robin says. “Who am I to think I could really get rid of him for good?”
“Eat, Mama. Eeeeeat!” Rose waves the pink goo at her mom, who leans down to take a fake taste of cupcake.
“You’re not a fool, Robin.” I place my hand on hers and give a weak grin. “He’s just a dick who doesn’t get the hint.”
“Dick! Dick!” Rose repeats. She’s looking right at me, as if saying, “Ah-ah-ah. You taught me a naughty word, and now Mama’s going to get mad at you.”
Sure enough.
“Em-i-ly.” Robin pulls a strained face. “Her brain is like a sponge. She’ll repeat anything!”
“She just repeats the raunchy stuff mostly, right?” I giggle.
“Exactly. Although this isn’t the first time.”
“Mama, Mama,” Rose calls. “Mama.”
“When that email came this morning,” Robin says, absentmindedly rubbing Rose’s head, “from Brandon.”
“Yeah.” I lean in closer over the table.
“I showed Bobby,” she says, adjusting her glasses with a crinkle of her nose. “He read it.” I nod. “Said a few choice words, including the mother of all words.” Robin’s speaking at a whisper.
“The word?” I look at Rose. She’s staring at us, attentively hanging on our whispered conversation.
“That’s right,” Robin says. “The dirtiest of them all. Rose goes and repeats it.” She leans back in her chair, unable to hide a surrendering grin. “Bobby just laughed and—”
“Dick!” Rose says again in a shriek just as Sophie returns.
“Whoa,” Sophie cries. “So Rose has learned Brandon’s nickname, eh?” She sets a notepad and pencil down onto the table.
“Ha, ha,” Robin sounds. “We were just talking about the email Brandon sent this morning.” She pauses. “Nothing new, basically. He said he’s sorry, hates how he treated me, thinks we need a reconciliation. Oh!” She lightly jumps up. “And he wants to meet Rose. Same stupid stuff as before.” She munches on her biscotti. “I so thought I was in the clear the last time I had to deal with him. Now he’s back.” She waves her biscotti in the air, crumbs tumbling down. “Again!”
“Bull—” Sophie says, but Robin quickly holds up a finger to Sophie’s lips before she can finish her remark. She motions down at Rose.
“Precisely! Bull…bleep,” Robin says, giving a mock-severe look. “But whatever. I’ll deal with it eventually. Right now Bobby’s concerned with keeping me calm and my blood pressure low. It’s not healthy for me or the baby—or Rose, for that matter—to blow a freakin’ gasket over something like this.”
“Even if this ‘something’ is ridiculous and bull— well…you know…” Sophie crinkles her nose. “Men, what can you say?”
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em, right?” I say teasingly.
“Hey,” Robin says, taking on a defensive tone, “not all men are rotten. Bobby’s a dream.”
“Of course, Bobby’s a dream.” I take another drink of my water. “I’m just saying there are plenty of jerks out there, and somehow we manage to get tangled up with them.”
“Someone sounds like a cynic,” Robin says.
“No,” I counter. “Not cynical. Realistic, that’s all. I’ve been in and out of enough relationships to know that, unfortunately, there are one too many assholes out there who somehow get caught up in the net and, well,” I hold a hand out to Robin, “they do crap like this.”
“Your man’s out there somewhere, Em,” Robin says with a smile. “And yours too, Sophie.” She gives Sophie the same warm smile.
Sophie laughs and pulls back from the table once again. “I’ve got to get back to work, girls.” Her cell phone suddenly chimes, and she glances at the screen. “Chad.”
“Speaking of the man who’s out there,” I tease.
“I’ve really got to get back to work,” Sophie says, gritting her teeth.
Robin begins to clean Rose’s sticky fingers with a baby wipe and says, “Hey, Em, have you ever thought of getting together with Chad?”
I nearly spit out the mouthful of water. Where did this come from? What planet is Robin living on? I give a guttural laugh. “Never!” I practically shout.
“Just because he had that fling with Sophie?” Robin’s head is cocked sideways in that “Get real with me” kind of way.
“And Jack?” I point out.
“Oh.” She frowns. “Yeah, forgot about that episode…”
“No.” I stifle another hearty laugh. “He’s just not my type. I mean, a sweetheart and all, but…no. No, no, no.”
“Well, you never know.” Robin smiles broadly, biting down flirtatiously on her bottom lip. “You two work together here. Bobby and I worked together, and love sparked there!”
“Bobby’s a mature man,” I say with determination. “You two have everything in common and it just works. Chad and I? Uh-uh. No way. No how.”
“Uh-uh!” Rose repeats. “Uh-uh!”
“Sing it, sister,” I tell her.
Chapter Five
I dig through my patchwork African bag, swearing that I’d picked up a pack of cigarettes the other day. I so rarely smoke, it takes me forever to finish a pack, but I know for a fact I grabbed some when I was out running errands for Sophie at the market.
“Where are they?” I push past the general junk that always winds up stuffed inside oversized bags like these: bus transfer tickets, caramel apple lollipops, my Māori talisman that’s supposed to increase energy, tampons, loose change, my passport, my Greek Kombolói—worry beads that actually work really well as a keychain, a pot of Carmex, my phone, random pieces of jewelry I’ve tossed in but have forgotten to return to their box, Pride and Prejudice (honestly, I’m going to start it, that’s why I’ve got it in my bag), a lighter, matches from some bar in SoHo, more matches from some club back in my hometown of Boston, a map of the London tube, a wrinkled cover of a Paul Theroux paperback, the rest of the Paul Theroux paperback, just as wrinkled…
“Ugh! I know I bought some!” I upend my bag, the eclectic contents spilling all over the slate balcony floor.
Finally I alight on my pack of cigarettes just as Jackie tosses me her pack and says, “Here.”
I light us up and prop my feet on the steel balcony railing. Jackie’s downtown pad is ridiculously ritzy. Her townhouse has breathtaking views of the Sound and Elliott Bay, windows from floor to ceiling, and a roomy, wraparound balcony. Everything’s really high end here, from the imported and ergonomically functional Dutch furniture to the intricate Persian vases and imported Oriental art. Jackie always said she wanted to marry money; Andrew certainly has not fallen short in that department.
“This is the life, isn’t it?” she says before blowing a ring of smoke. “Not a care in the world,” waving her cigarette around, “and just doing whatever we feel like.”
“See?” I take a drag. “It’s not so bad having Andrew away. You seem to be getting on just fine, Jack.”
Earlier, Jackie called me half a dozen times and left twice as many text messages asking me to come hang out with her at her place. Her husband’s always away on business, and Jackie’s not exactly the type to keep herself busy with a job or healthy hobby.
I wanted to head over to Lake Union to photo
graph the houseboats, because in the summer there’s so much life down there to shoot. It’s a ton of fun. But, “Those boats are always there,” as Jackie said. “And I could get hit by a tram tomorrow and die and wouldn’t you feel awful?” she added. I couldn’t really argue with that.
Jackie tosses out an empty and smoky laugh. “Yeah, well, I try to make the most of being by myself alllll the time. Andrew’s gone so much.” She wiggles her cherry-red lacquered toes against the steel balcony bars. “It’s not exactly peach pie when he is home, either.”
“Jack, you’ve got to stop ragging on your marriage.”
This has been a constant battle for Jackie. She hasn’t even been a Mrs. for a solid year yet and she’s been making dangerous statements like, “I think I rushed into marriage.” And, “Things just aren’t the same anymore.” Or, “I miss the old days.”
“It’s a mood thing, probably,” she says vacantly. “One day I’m happy I’m married, the next I wonder why we rushed into it. Things were fine before, right?”
She has a point. Not to mention, Andrew’s the longest relationship she’s ever had. It wouldn’t surprise me if routine has come as a bit of a shock to her. But teaming up in the name of cynicism with your best friend isn’t going to help matters. It won’t make the pain go away, and it sure as hell won’t do either of us a drop of good. And talk about harshing the mellow of a quiet summer night on a million-dollar balcony, enjoying a smoke with your best gal pal.
“Jackie, babe,” I say. I take a quick puff and turn to her, blowing the smoke over my shoulder. “You’re still seeing your shrink, right?” She nods. “And he’s helping, right?”
“I guess.” She puts out her cigarette and swings her small legs around the side of the lounger, tucking them underneath her. “Sometimes I wish I were like you, Em.” By habit she pulls and tries to twist at an inch-sized piece of her short, bleach-blonde hair. “Like how you’re not strapped down.”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 4
