Boss Meets Her Match

by Janet Lee Nye

  She leaned forward, resting her forearms along the table. The moment was so alive in her memory that she could still feel the sting of his palm across her cheek. The shame was still so great that she’d never told anyone except her mother. Not even Sadie.

  Sadie leaned in closer. “Tell me.”

  “I was in love. Head over heels, down the rabbit hole, don’t care about anything anyone says, this is my soulmate in love. Until he slapped me. Because I wasn’t ready to sleep with him.”

  The slap had been completely unexpected. So out of character. It had taken her breath away. That moment and the rapid shift from shock to disbelief to heartbreak may have only lasted a few seconds in real time. But its legacy lived on in her behavior.

  “That’s what it is?” Sadie asked softly. “That’s your trigger?”

  She looked up into Sadie’s eyes. “I think so. I know that was the moment when I realized I couldn’t truly count on anyone except myself. When I got serious about school and college and getting myself and my family out of the constant fear and uncertainty of poverty.”

  “And now that you’ve accomplished that goal, that incident has changed from being an incentive to being a hindrance?”

  Lena brought her hands up and pressed her fingers against her lips. That was it. That single-minded drive that allowed her to ignore naysayers and overcome every obstacle had nothing to do now that she’d reached her goal and was in a place of safety. Sadie’s completely right.

  “How do I change it though?”

  “First step is realizing it,” Sadie replied. “I’m no expert, but I think the next step is recognizing when your feelings are coming from that trigger.”

  “Oh. Easy.” Lena snapped her fingers. “Okay. Done. Next.”

  Sadie took a sip of wine and raised her eyebrows. “See? That? That was the trigger. You realized you have emotional work to do so you went straight to sarcasm and being flippant.”

  She wanted to be angry. It was right there, brimming at the back of her throat but she pushed it down. How did Sadie do it? She was right. Again. She picked up her fork and began pushing grits around on the plate. “I’m tired of this, Sadie. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “You’ve already begun. You’re tired because you’ve just realized the weight of this trigger you’ve been carrying for all these years.”

  “But what’s next?”

  Sadie shrugged. “For me, it was like I saw a truth about myself, and then I couldn’t unsee it. Does that make sense?”

  “No.”

  Sadie pressed her lips together and stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at Lena. “Like when I went to Asheville with Wyatt to meet his sister’s friend, the one who was willing to take Jules if Wyatt couldn’t. She and her family are like a second family to Jules. I was feeling scared and threatened. Before I faced my abandonment issue, I would have done or said something to alienate her, to push her away before she could reject me. Now I know that it was normal and okay to feel nervous about meeting someone new and that they might actually like me.”

  Lena nodded. “I understand that. But I don’t know. Maybe I should cancel my date with the doctor. He might be a nice guy. Maybe I shouldn’t date until I figure all this out.”

  “I think you should keep the date. Like a test run for when you meet a guy you really like.”

  “Test run. How romantic. I don’t know. Just thinking about being set up like this makes me mad.”

  “Raise your right hand,” Sadie ordered.

  “What? No. We are in public.”

  “Levanta tu mano derecho.”

  “Jesucristo, your Spanish sucks. How can you be so bad at it after all these years?”

  “Your hand’s still on the table.”

  She lifted her hand. “Okay. Fine. My hand is in the air.”

  “Repeat after me—I will not be mean on my date with the doctor.”

  “I will not be mean on my date with the doctor.”

  “See? Easy.”

  “Unless he deserves it.”

  * * *

  SATURDAY MORNING, MATT Cruised the bike along Rutledge Avenue, Colonial Lake providing a small breeze across its concrete hemmed water. He stood on the bike pedals, powering across Broad Street to the quiet and shady streets of the promised land of Charleston real estate: South of Broad. Taking a long, lazy left, he slowed as he made his way up Tradd Street, not exactly sure which of the multimillion-dollar, perfectly restored antebellum mansions belonged to Dr. Rutledge. That he’d just pedaled up a street named for the doctor’s family reminded him that while Eliot’s patronage was welcome if only to help the nonprofit become a reality sooner, it placed him squarely in the middle of that upper-class society that he’d run away from before.

  The flash of a white BMW door and a swing of black hair ahead caught his eye. His heart jumped a few more notches and a shiver of pleasure danced along his nerves, twisting his lips into a smile. Well, well, well. Ms. Magdalena Reyes. Had Eliot gotten her involved in the project? He sat up, coasting past the last few lawns, watching her as she smoothed down the brick red skirt she wore. A casual print T-shirt topped the skirt. A thick black belt at her waist accentuated her curves. She leaned in, checking her reflection in the window. A small smile crossed her lips. Why not? She was drop-dead gorgeous and she knew it.

  He made a quick turn up the sidewalk at the neighbor’s driveway and braked on the sidewalk by her car. Pulling off his sunglasses, he smiled at her. “Ms. Reyes. Imagine meeting you here.” He laughed as a scowl replaced her self-satisfied little smile.

  “Is this your doing?” she demanded.

  “No, ma’am. I had no idea Dr. Rutledge invited you.”

  “I take it this is your project?” She walked around the car to stand in front of him as he straddled his bike.

  He unclipped the helmet and hung it from the handle bars. “No. Actually, it’s Dr. Rutledge’s. He approached me about it. How’d you get on board?”

  “I’m the translator.”

  He swung a leg over the bike and pushed it, following her up the sidewalk. “So what do you know about the kids out there?”

  Instead of the businesslike reply he expected, she gave him a long, speculative look. He held her gaze, trying to read her. She was evaluating him. On what, he wasn’t sure, so he just kept his mouth shut and waited.

  She turned away with a flounce of heavy dark hair. “Poor. Usually the kids of Mexican migrant workers. Usually more fluent than their parents.”

  He left the bike parked beside a row of azalea bushes. “So they don’t get to be kids very often?”

  She stopped on the porch step. The appraising look was back. “Exactly.” She took a breath and her lips parted as if she was going to continue, but all he got was her back again.

  He followed up the steps to the large front porch, replete with rocking chairs and hanging baskets. An honest-to-God maid wearing a white dress met them at the door and led them to a leather-furniture-filled and book-lined library.

  Dr. Rutledge rose from the long couch and walked to them, hands out. “Lena,” he said, clasping her hands and kissing her cheeks European-style. One, two, three. “So happy you agreed to help us out.” He turned and held a hand out to Matt. “Matt. Thanks for helping us get this going.”

  “Happy to be here, sir,” he replied. How easily the old manners fell back in place. He smiled and shook hands and flirted properly with the two society matrons, Camille Caulet and Alice Dufay. French Huguenot. That he knew that horrified him a little. He was less formal with the woman from St. Toribio, Sister Agatha.

  Dr. Rutledge waved a hand at a small love seat. Lena sat first, shooting him an annoyed glance as he sat. He raised his eyebrows at her. What?

  “Okay. Now that we’re all here,” Dr. Rutledge said as he
sat back down. “First, thank you all for volunteering for this. As you know, I’m one of many physicians who volunteer at St. Toribio. In the last few months, my granddaughter was diagnosed with leukemia and this brought to my attention amazing people like Matt here.”

  Matt felt a flush cross his cheeks as all eyes turned to him. Sister Agatha pierced him with an appraising look that made Lena’s look like child’s play. The gushy, Junior League, sugar-sweet smiles of the society ladies made him want to run, screaming, from the room. The fakeness of them. It was everything he’d rejected of the life his parents had wanted him to live. A quick glance in Lena’s direction stopped those thoughts in their tracks. She was smiling at him. A real smile. The flush on his cheeks moved further south.

  “It was Matt’s work with Clarissa that sparked this idea. You see, he’s an art therapist. He works with the kids, having them draw or paint and it gives him insight into how the kids are coping. Then he can let the treatment team know and everyone works together to help kids not only get better, but cope emotionally with what they are going through.”

  He paused for the society ladies. Matt had already forgotten which one was which. They murmured proper and polite oohs and aahs and blessed his heart for a moment. Sister Agatha looked slightly less suspicious. He tried his bad-boy grin on her and was rewarded with an unladylike snort laugh and eye roll from the nun. Ow! He rubbed the spot on his thigh where Lena had just popped him with a finger. Popped him hard. He glared at her. She looked at him, her eyes furious. She leaned in.

  “Don’t flirt with the nun. You’ll go to hell for that, Mr. Matthews,” she whispered in his ear.

  He was going to go to hell for what her hot breath on his neck did to him. He treated her to the same grin. She made a face and shook her head. Damn. She was completely immune.

  “Anyway,” Dr. Rutledge said in a tone that clearly let them know he’d seen their shenanigans. “I’ll let Matt talk about that.”

  Crap. Talk about what? He’d completely lost track of the conversation. “Well... Thanks, Eliot,” he stuttered out. He turned to the three women. “I’ve been in touch with some other art therapists. What we’ve talked about is doing some education with the volunteers on what red flags to look for in the kids’ drawings. Then they can bring concerns to the pediatric team. We’ll set up an on-call list where the doctor or nurse-practitioners can call one of us for guidance or help interpreting.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. “I think this will work. First, we want the playroom to be fun. Fun is in short supply for many of these children. But we do want to be able to spot problems and get the proper help.”

  Matt leaned forward, forgetting the society ladies, forgetting Lena beside him. “Exactly. Nothing is gained by telling a kid to draw a picture of what is bothering him or her. Stifles the creativity that is necessary for the subconscious to express itself. Making art, for kids, should be fun and without boundaries.”

  “My women’s group from St. Phillips is very eager to contribute to this,” Society Lady Number One said. “We can either donate with supplies or money, whichever you would think more appropriate.”

  Matt looked to Dr. Rutledge. He wasn’t going to get involved in the money part of it.

  “I think money would be the most appropriate,” Dr. Rutledge said. “Perhaps Matt and his fellow artists can come up with a specific list of supplies. That way the kids will have everything they need.”

  Matt sat back. “I can get that. And, in addition to us sitting down and educating the volunteers, I’m putting together a sort of a manual of things to look for, what certain images might mean. A guidebook to back up the verbal teachings.”

  “In English? Or will Spanish be available?” Sister Agatha asked. “Our volunteers are, for the most part, bilingual. But some don’t read Spanish and some don’t read English.”

  Lena raised her hand. “I guess this is where I come in. I’ll be translating the text into Spanish. Actually, my cousin will help with that.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Rutledge said. “We’ll meet again here next week. Matt, you’ll have a list of supplies and the names of people who’ll do the on-call rotation. Camille and Alice, can you have some figures for the initial setup and perhaps a pledge for a monthly stipend to keep the playroom stocked? And Lena, you can have the manual translated?”

  Everyone agreed. Matt got to his feet with not a small amount of gratitude. The quicker he could get out of here, the better. The atmosphere of old money and high society was suffocating. He wanted nothing more than to be out in the fresh air, riding his bike. Free. Lena beat him to Dr. Rutledge. With a quick kiss to the cheek, she escaped. He was about to follow when Society Lady Number Two touched his elbow.

  “Are you kin to the Matthews family in Chevy Chase?”

  His heart sunk but he kept the polite expression on his face. No sense in lying about it. It’d be found out anyway. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh. I think my husband had business with your father when we were living in Washington, DC.”

  He nodded. “DC?” Polite society laugh. “Probably. My father’s firm practices almost exclusively in the district.”

  “Well, you tell your mother Alice Dufay said hello. I’m sure she’ll remember. We were in the Junior League together there.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  He felt a steady gaze on him and turned to see Sister Agatha. Her face was perfectly neutral but her eyes were like lasers burning into him. Were all nuns like this? She stepped to his side and Society Lady moved on to a higher purpose: sucking up to Dr. Rutledge.

  “Sister,” he said, tipping his head politely.

  “I had my doubts about you,” she said. “Until you spoke about the children. Your light shone bright at that moment. You are going to do a good thing here.”

  Warmth filled his heart. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. That’s all he was trying to do. Something good in this world. If he was going to leave his mark on this world, he wanted it to be something good. Something of his very own.

  When he finally escaped, he was surprised to see Lena’s white BMW still parked at the curb. The engine was running and she was in the driver’s seat. Talking on her phone. He straddled his bike and adjusted the helmet. Wheeling slowly down the driveway, he turned and pulled to a stop outside her car window. After a moment, the window powered down.

  “What?”

  He grinned at her. “Have lunch with me.”

  “No. I have an appointment.”

  “Ditch it.”

  He was beginning to like the venomous scowls she threw at him. “No. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Aren’t you starving? I’m starving. What’s more important than food? I’ll even pay.”

  A river of Spanish flowed from the car. He was pretty sure it wasn’t complimentary. When it ended, he leaned in closer. “Was that a yes?”

  “How do you keep that bike balanced on two wheels with the weight of that ego?”

  “I manage.”

  “Get away from my car or I’ll run over you.”

  “Why are you running away from me?”

  “I. Am. Not. Running. I have an appointment. Go paint something.”

  She slipped on a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses and powered up the window. He grinned as the car pulled smoothly away. Paint something. He’d like to paint her. She was a constantly spinning top of a woman. Hard. Soft. Cold. Warm. Hot.

  His phone buzzed and he fished it out of his shirt pocket. A text from Logan Rutledge. Dinner? Stars? For Clarissa.

  Time? he texted back.

  Six thirty. I can take an hour or so between dinner crowds.

  See you then.

  He stashed the phone and began to pedal down Tradd Street. He’d start getting the manual together this afternoon. By evening, he’d be ready
for dinner under the stars with a new friend.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE SENT A CAR. Lena wasn’t sure how she felt about this. The sleek black Mercedes stopped at the curb and a well-dressed young man leaped from the driver’s seat to open the rear door for her. She hesitated for a moment before slipping into the backseat. She fished her phone out of her purse. “I’m in a black Mercedes. If I don’t text again in ten minutes, call the police,” she texted to Sadie.

  She sat back, running a hand over the rich leather of the seat. It just seemed sort of controlling. She was perfectly capable of getting to the restaurant by herself. Or he could have picked her up. But sending a car? Her phone dinged.

  Be NICE! You promised.

  She sent back a middle finger emoji. She was going to be nice if it killed her. Okay. So let’s reframe this. Sending a car. Courtly? Refined. Old-world manners. She sighed. Wasn’t working. He was trying too hard.

  The car pulled to a stop outside the restaurant. Vincente was waiting on the curb. She tried to open the door and get out but he beat her to it. She had no choice but to take his offered hand and let him help her out. Irritation prickled again but she hid it behind a smile.

  “Lena,” Vincente said, kissing her cheeks. One. Two. Three times. “Qué hermosa eres.”

  Okay. The European cheek thing twice in one day was too much. She widened her smile. “Thank you.”

  Vincente put his arm around her waist as they turned to the restaurant. “I thought we’d start with a drink on the rooftop bar. The sun should be setting soon and it’s a beautiful view.”

  “Sounds lovely,” she said. Her face was going to crack in half with this smile.

  And it was lovely. The view from Star’s Rooftop Bar was unparalleled in the city. The weather was perfect. The service was perfect. The wine was even better. She needed it once she was face-to-face with Vincente across the table. He was cute, she’d give him that. Much better than the last one. But she had no idea what to say. Small talk was not her forte.

  “How is your weekend so far?” he asked.