by Maggie Dana
Three more days and it’ll be over.
I’ll have paid my dues, with interest, which means I’ll never have to deal with Elaine Burke again. To celebrate my freedom, I write a long e-mail to Colin and I’m about to push send when Quentin rings up.
“One of the slides is missing.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “Did you count them?”
“Of course.”
“Please check again.”
There’s an awkward silence, then Quentin says, “Elaine wants you to come right over. With the slide.”
“But it’s not here.”
I hear a click and Elaine’s voice interrupts. “Jillian, where’s that slide?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Of course you do. Where else would it be?”
My self-control slips. “I never lose photographs.”
“You have this time,” Elaine says. “I trust you’ll find it and bring it over without delay.”
Could I have lost that damn slide? Highly unlikely, but I give Elaine the benefit of the doubt and tear my office apart. I move furniture, upend boxes and waste bins, and reach into unknown territory between my desk and the file cabinet. I find several items I didn’t know were missing, but Elaine’s slide isn’t one of them. I’m about to call her back when she beats me to the punch.
“Did you find it?”
“No, Elaine, and I didn’t lose that slide. It has to be—”
“You do realize, don’t you, all the trouble you’ve caused by—” There’s a lengthy pause and I hear Quentin’s voice in the background. A door slams, then Elaine’s back on the line. “Never mind. It’s been found,” she says and rings off.
Just like that.
No apology. Not even a hint of remorse. All this trauma over a fucking slide. Whoever said don’t sweat the small stuff has obviously never worked for Elaine.
The bitch. The sodding awful bitch.
She’s not going to get away with it. Not this time. I snatch my keys from the counter, race for my car, and roar out of the driveway, wheels spitting gravel like buckshot. I stamp on the gas and jackhammer down my dirt road as if the marsh cats had turned into tigers and were chasing me.
Halfway to the village, I cut my speed. No sense risking a ticket. Why the hell do I let Elaine goad me like this? Stumped for an answer, I swerve into the alley behind her building, slam the Volvo into a reserved parking space, and wrench open the door. Stop a minute and think. Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea. Rampaging into Elaine’s office, unannounced and barefoot, isn’t the businesslike image I’d planned to present.
Jill, go home. Right now. Shower. Change.
No.
Revenge. I want full-blooded, face-to-face revenge.
Or, at the very least, an abject apology.
So, wearing grubby shorts and a t-shirt with the words cleverly disguised as a responsible adult across the front, I charge into Elaine’s front office and surprise everyone there by demanding to see the boss. Immediately.
“She’s busy with a deadline.”
“Too bad.” I shoot Quentin an evil grin.
He shrugs and waves me into her office. “It’s your funeral.”
The door whispers shut behind me.
Elaine’s inner sanctum is a cliché of chrome and glass, leather upholstery, and the overpowering smell of money. The whole back wall is a window that overlooks the harbor. Her forty-foot cabin cruiser is tied up below. Wearing a sleeveless black tunic over taupe linen pants, Elaine is holding a slide up to the light, head tilted in such a way that her glossy auburn hair looks as if it’s been painted onto her skull and varnished with polyurethane.
Thick carpet muffles my approach. I halt in front of Elaine’s desk, clear my throat. She turns, drops the slide, and gasps, her mouth a crimson O of surprise.
“What are you doing here?” Eyes like boiled marbles bore into me. She’s wearing colored contacts. Emerald. Last week, they were turquoise.
“Well?” Elaine taps a blood-red talon on her desk.
Never mind, it’s been found.
“You accused me of losing that slide,” I say. “But when it turned up in your office, you didn’t bother to apologize.”
“Don’t be childish,” she snaps. “I’m busy. I don’t have time to—”
“Apologies,” I say, “take no time at all.”
In the outer office, a telephone rings.
“Whatever,” Elaine says, baring teeth that are whiter than teeth need to be. “Is there anything else on your mind?”
Every deadline she’s blown, all the criticism she’s lobbed at me, the all-nighters I’ve pulled, the freebies I’ve never been thanked for, rise to the surface like farts in a bathtub.
And boy, do they stink.
I clench and unclench my fists and step back to fling open the door. “I want everyone to hear this.”
“Jillian. Stop the drama and close the door.”
Two of Elaine’s staff move closer.
“Working for you has been the most disagreeable experience I’ve ever had,” I say, loving every minute of my revenge. “And I’ve put up with your rude and demanding behavior because, quite frankly, I couldn’t afford to do otherwise.” I allow my words to sink in. “Until now.”
Gasps waft in from the other room.
“Close that door.”
“If you want it closed,” I say, folding my arms, “do it yourself.”
Silence.
Behind me, someone snickers. Elaine strides across the floor, slams the door. Her Realtor of the Year Award falls off the wall, bounces twice, and lands upside down on three inches of beige broadloom.
“I don’t know why—?” she begins.
“All you need to know,” I say, loud enough to be heard through the door, “is that I’m terminating our business relationship. We’re finished.” I point toward the slide. “This was our last project.”
“But—”
“Find someone else to kick around, because I’m through being a target for your vindictive temper.” I turn and stalk out of Elaine’s office without looking back.
Someone applauds. Quentin, perhaps?
Chapter 28
Sands Point
July 2011
A week before Colin arrives, three clients back out of projects I’ve been counting on to see me through the summer.
“We need to reconsider our options,” says the Mercedes dealer.
Pompous prat.
“We’ve exceeded our budget for this year.” This from the guy who sells million-dollar boats. Bowling alleys with rudders and lace curtains.
The third one makes me sad. “We can’t afford you any more,” admits the owner of The Contented Figleaf. I had such great plans for promoting that dear little restaurant and they didn’t include naked garden gnomes, either.
Okay, so what’s left? Flyers for Tuttle’s weekly specials, an article for Paws and Claws about feral cats, and the village’s Fall Festival. My presentation is due at the chamber of commerce tomorrow.
I’ll deliver it today, instead.
* * *
Gary Kesselbaum, a portly, fretful man with a mottled face who favors three-piece suits and a pocket watch, even in summer, is reclining in his swivel chair and talking on the phone when I edge through the door, arms loaded with folders. I dump them on a table, help myself to a cup of the chamber’s free but truly horrible coffee, and scan the jokes in last month’s Reader’s Digest.
When Gary hangs up, I smile and place my proposal on his desk. This is the best one yet. Banners wide enough to span Bay Street, pennants and posters to adorn lampposts and shop windows. Maps of the village with discount coupons. An article for the Hartford Courant. Radio announcements and a promise from Channel 8 in New Haven to give us a plug on the six o’clock news.
With a flourish, I open the top folder, but Gary doesn’t even look. His eyes, pale and anxious behind horn-rimmed glasses, slide over mine and come to rest somewhere beyond my left shoulder. I turn, expecti
ng to see someone else but there’s only the two us here.
“I’m sorry, Jill,” he says, “but we won’t be needing you this year.”
I stare at him, too stunned to reply.
“It’s out of my hands.” Gary eases the collar of his shirt with his thumb and reveals an angry-looking heat rash. “I’m no longer in charge of the festival.”
Fumbling for a chair, I sit down with a thump. What the hell is he talking about? This is my festival. I’m the one who suggested it when the chamber was looking for ways to extend the village’s tourist season beyond Labor Day. I’d just struck out on my own and was desperate for clients so I tossed out the concept of a festival like the ones they have farther north during leaf-peeping season.
Hayrides and pumpkins and hot apple cider.
Chrysanthemums and cornstalks. Arts and crafts. Antiques.
A carnival for the kids. Discount shopping for the adults. Jazz concerts in the gazebo, foliage cruises along the shore. The town fathers jumped on the plan, and my graphic arts business was off and running. This was ten years ago. Since then, the festival’s expanded from a one-day sidewalk sale to a week-long extravaganza that attracts tourists from all over New England and I’ve handled all its promotion and publicity. Without a contract. The chamber and I have a handshake agreement.
The hairs on my arm stand to attention. Is it me, or has the air conditioning been cranked up? I shiver. What the fuck is going on?
“So, who is in charge?” I ask.
Gary Kesselbaum clears his throat. “Elaine Burke.”
* * *
“That bloody woman has blackballed me,” I complain to Harriet. It’s Friday and I’ve conned her into wine and pizza on the beach. Anna and Beatrice are down by the water, digging for clams.
“I’m not surprised,” Harriet says. “You charged into her office like a menopausal cowboy.”
“Jilly the Kid with six-guns and a hot flash?”
Harriet laughs. “So, how many clients do you have left?”
None.
“Enough to get by,” I say.
“Are you okay for money?”
I have ten-thousand dollars in my sock drawer.
“I’m fine, absolutely fine.” Colin’s check is going in the bank. I’m through being stubborn. What the hell, I can’t afford to be stubborn any more. My behavior in Elaine’s office has backfired all over the village. Even my bread-and-butter accounts have bailed out, including Tuttle’s Market. I’m still smarting over Jim’s apologetic e-mail that showed up this morning. Elaine owns half the commercial real estate in town, so I guess she put the screws to Jim and the others. Probably threatened to double their rent if they didn’t cut me off at the knees.
Harriet nudges me with her foot. “How’s it going with your book?”
“Archibald?”
“Anna’s hoping for a story.”
“So am I.”
“Then you’d better get busy.” Harriet hands me another slice of pizza. “Who’s that?” she says, looking over my shoulder.
I gather my scattered wits. “Where?”
She points.
Beyond the breakwater, Tom and Molly are pushing a doll stroller. Its wheels keep getting stuck in the sand. Every few yards, Tom bends to free them and I can hear Molly’s laughter from here. She’s wearing a red sundress with white polka dots and a red baseball hat on back-to-front.
“My neighbors,” I say. “Tom Grainger and Molly.”
“Adorable,” Harriet says.
I assume she’s not talking about Tom.
While pretending not to, I watch him help Molly climb the breakwater, and when her foot slips, my heart skips a beat. But Tom grabs her and swings her around and around. Molly screams with delight. Her hat flies off and her curls tumble free, bouncing like corkscrews across her honey-colored shoulders. Tom sets her down, then lifts the stroller over the breakwater and onto our side. What on earth are they doing? Taking Molly’s dolls for a walk?
Anna looks up, abandons her clams, and skips over to meet them. Beatrice trundles after her.
Tom waves at us. “Come on down.”
“Let’s go,” Harriet says. She stands and brushes sand from her legs.
I look up. “Must I?”
“Yes.”
Sighing, I walk down to join them.
Tom reaches into the stroller and pulls out a handful of red and gold fur. It squirms and tries to leap onto his shoulder. “This is Elsa,” he says, sounding proud. “Molly’s new kitten.”
Anna stares in amazement. “It’s a tiny Zachary.”
Tom catches my eye and grins.
And no wonder. Molly’s cat is an Abyssinian.
* * *
At eight the next morning, I wake up with laryngitis. Good thing I don’t need to talk to anyone about work. Colin calls, but can’t understand a word I say. Neither can Harriet when she phones to deliver a pep talk.
She reminds me to get busy with Archibald.
“Do it for Anna,” she says. “Write the story for her.”
For inspiration, I slip in one of Jordan’s CDs. Phantom of the Opera. The music soars, fills me with joy. I open my mouth to accompany Sarah Brightman, but nothing comes out.
Suppose my parrot has laryngitis? What if he can’t sing and—
Nope, that won’t work.
How about this? I’ll introduce Archibald to a diva with laryngitis and pit them against an evil mayor who’s hired the opera singer for his fund-raising concert. But the diva can’t sing, so she persuades the parrot to do it for her, hidden inside her huge, feathery hat, except he gets stagefright and …
It’s a bold story. It needs bold illustrations, so I drag out my acrylics, my pens and ink. I fill my sketch pad with broad brushstrokes and crisp lines, and breathe life into Archibald’s puffed-up chest and my diva’s double chins, polishing my pictures and words until they glow. I cruise the web and visit sites for writers, learn about submissions and the probabilities of success.
Slim to none.
* * *
On Monday, I stuff Colin’s check into my purse and head for the bank. Plastic yellow tape surrounds the parking lot. Police cruisers and fire trucks stand guard. A guy in a hard hat and orange vest waves his arms, keeps the traffic moving. What the hell’s going on? A bank robbery? In our sleepy little town?
Nothing as dramatic, I learn when I stop at the post office. A water main burst and the bank will be closed for several days. Customers who want cash are advised to use the ATM at the supermarket. All other transactions will be handled at the main branch.
Hell, that’s thirty miles from here.
I’ll wait.
* * *
Four days later, Colin flies over and slips back into my life as if he’d never left it. This time, there’s no hint of awkwardness. No doubts. No hesitation. Our lovemaking is slow and sensuous. There’s no need to rush. We have two whole weeks to enjoy ourselves. We walk the beach at sunset, romp in the surf, and spend hours in my room listening to the waves and talking about books we’ve read and the places we want to go. Colin drags my television upstairs and we rent a pile of old movies including From Here to Eternity, and I make love with my pretend Burt Lancaster while watching the real one on the screen.
Later, over dinner and a bottle of wine, Colin asks to see my mother’s letter, her ring. He raises it to his lips, then slides it onto my finger.
Oh, my God.
Is this it? Is he going to ask? I close my eyes and wait for the magic words. Come on, say them. Don’t stop now.
Dear God, I’m worse than a lovesick teen.
But the moment passes and now he’s running his tongue down my neck, fondling my breasts. I grasp his hands to still them and ask about our future. He smiles and kisses my cheek, nibbles my earlobe. Be patient, he whispers. It’ll come, I promise.
When, goddammit, when?
* * *
Colin wants to explore. His enthusiasm for New England is contagious, so I cross my finge
rs and pray the Volvo will go the distance. With gentle coaxing, it shudders up mountains in New Hampshire and slides toward the coastline of Maine where Colin and I stand on the beach in Kennebunkport, holding hands and talking about Cornwall. Someday, we promise one another, we’ll return to Claudia’s cottage.
We drive to Rhode Island and spend the day in Newport, tramping through mansions and admiring boats in the harbor. At sunset, we stop for dinner at a restaurant perched high on a cliff overlooking Narragansett Bay and Colin has his first taste of a New England boiled dinner.
I try not to laugh at his startled expression.
“Where do I begin?” he says, poking at the tangle of shells and legs on his plate.
I hand him the nutcrackers. “Use these and put on a bib.” Then I reach for my camera. “Smile.”
“Wait.” Colin cracks open a claw. “See, I’m getting the hang of this,” he says, waving a piece of lobster as I click the shutter.
We return after dark and I coast into my driveway. I kill the engine and pat the dashboard. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Colin grins at me. “Relief?”
“I wasn’t sure we’d make it.”
“Maybe it’s time for a new one.”
I feel a rush of affection for the Volvo. “I agree, but don’t tell my car.”
Chapter 29
Sands Point
August 2011
Zachary curls around my legs and complains the minute I step inside. I feed him and check for messages in my office. Nothing. No one begging for my services. No word from Lizzie, either. No reaction to my latest olive branch, a postcard of our beach with the words Wish you were here scrawled across it that I hoped was corny enough to make her smile. I walk back to the kitchen and find Colin spreading cream cheese and strawberry jam on a bagel.
“Dessert,” he says, licking his fingers.
“On top of all that lobster we ate?”
“Why not?” He leans forward and smears jam on my cheeks, my nose, my mouth. I lick my lips. He kisses me. “You taste like that cream tea we had in Cornwall,” he says, kissing me again.
