Two For the Show

by Rhonda Bowen

  “I expected more from you, Carrie.” My back is to him, but I can hear the disappointment in his voice. “I’ve watched so many women chase after money and do whatever they can to get it, but I never imagined that you would be one of them. That you would be willing to separate a family over it, especially knowing what divorce does to children of families.”

  Don’t say anything, Carrie. Just walk away.

  But I can’t.

  “You don’t know everything, Dutch,” I say without turning around. “So maybe you shouldn’t make judgments so easily. And for the record, Sebastien has been separated from his wife for over a year and divorce proceedings have started.”

  “It’s still a broken family.”

  I whirl around. “But not one that I broke.”

  I search his face, looking for the man I have come to admire. But he seems lost behind a curtain of judgment. If this is how he reacts to me dating Sebastien, I can’t imagine how he would react if he knew the truth of what I did.

  “You know, if anyone here should be disappointed, it should be me,” I say finally. “I thought you knew me enough to know I would never break up a family. I thought that even if no one else did, you would give me the benefit of the doubt. I thought your faith made you different. But you’re not. You talk a good talk and act like you know God, but you are just like everyone else.”

  I shake my head before leaving the office. Men. They are all the same. Always a disappointment.

  Chapter 12

  To say I am in a foul mood by the time I arrive for the office Christmas party would be an understatement. Twenty-four hours have passed since I walked into Dutch’s office, and if our relationship had been cool before that, it is downright frosty now. Thank goodness the year is rounding out soon. I can use the Christmas break. I just have to get through this party.

  “Oh my God, what’s wrong?”

  I should have just stayed home sick.

  I sigh and walk across the room to the bathroom with Morgan tight on my heels. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Yeah right,” Morgan says. “That’s why you look like someone just ran over your dog.”

  “I would never have a dog.” I push open the door to the ladies’ room. “You know I got bit when I was younger.”

  Morgan follows me inside without hesitation. “You know what I mean. Besides, your eyes look puffy. Were you crying?”

  “What?” I race to the mirror. “I know I covered that with concealer.”

  “You did, but you never go that heavy on the eye makeup unless you’re trying to cover something up.”

  I fold my arms. “So now you’re saying I look like a hooker?”

  Morgan rolls her eyes. She checks that all the stalls are empty then locks the main washroom door. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on?”

  I open my purse to take out my compact. “I told you. Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”

  “It has to do with you confronting Dutch yesterday, doesn’t it?”

  I dab at my nose with a little powder and say nothing.

  “I knew it!” Morgan slaps her thigh. “It must have been epic. Janice said he’s been in a nasty mood the last two days and hasn’t cracked a smile even once.”

  I roll my eyes. “How does Janice even know this? She works on the other side of the floor. And when do you find time to talk to Janice? You work at the office like once a week?”

  “Janice goes to Derek’s church, so I see her whenever babe and I go there. Plus, her desk is near the elevators that Dutch uses,” Morgan hoists herself onto the edge of the counter. “And she always chit chats with him every morning and evening when he passes. But the past couple mornings, he’s been silent.”

  “Wow,” I say dryly, digging for lip gloss. “When you put it that way...”

  “Be as sarcastic as you want, Carrie Bishop,” Morgan wags a finger at me. “But I know a scoop when I smell one, so let’s have it.”

  There was a bang on the door. “Anyone in here?”

  “Yes.” Morgan and I answer at the same time.

  “Excuse me,” the voice calls back.

  Morgan turns back to me unconcerned. “Look, we can only hold this washroom hostage for so long, so let’s skip through me whining and wheedling and get to the part where you tell me what’s going on.”

  I sigh and return my makeup to my purse. “Okay fine. It is Dutch. We kind of had an argument.”

  I tell Morgan about Dutch seeing me at the meeting with Sebastien and his reaction after.

  “Wow, you two really know how to take that employer-employee relationship to a new level of intensity.”

  I shake my head. “I think you were right. Things with me and Dutch are becoming way too personal. It’s time for me to put some distance between us or think about moving on.”

  Even as I say the words out loud, I feel an ache deep inside my chest. As much as I am mad at him now, the thought of not working with Dutch is not a comfortable one. And that discomfort is the reason why I have been delaying rescheduling my interview with HR.

  Morgan nods her head. “Maybe this is for the best. Boundaries in the workplace are essential.”

  I bite my lip. “I just...”

  Morgan tilts her head to the side. “What?”

  “I guess I never thought of Dutch as just a boss,” I admit. “He always seemed like more than that to me you know? He hired me before I even finished university. He came to my graduation. He helped me fight my landlord when they wouldn’t fix the plumbing in my building. He has looked out for me in so many ways. But then with this…I don’t know, I’ve never seen him react like this before.”

  Morgan smiles and shakes her head. “Oh, Carrie.”

  I look at her confused. “What?”

  Morgan slips off the counter and straightens her dress. “You know for a girl who goes out on so many dates, you sure are clueless about men sometimes.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” Morgan palms her purse. “We should probably get out of this bathroom before someone gets security. We got enough drama on our hands for tonight.”

  I nod. “I know that’s right.”

  Morgan unlocks the door and we start to head out, but I grab her arm.

  “Wait.” I point to my face. “Do I really look like I’m trying to cover something up?”

  She pulls me into a quick hug. “Only to those who love you. To everyone else, you look amazing.”

  I look down at my plum colored Isaac Mizrahi dress and admit she is right. I might feel terrible on the inside, but no one was going to know if I could help it.

  By the time we get back outside, things are in full swing. The room is full, and it seems like all three hundred plus staff and board members have turned out for the Christmas party. Since budget cuts eliminated the plus-one aspect of the evening, it is just staff, and everyone seems to mingle fairly well. With the beautiful tree, the sound of Christmas carols and the great food, I have almost forgotten how bad I am feeling.

  Almost.

  Avoiding Dutch is the only thing that keeps my mind connected to our argument. Thankfully, staying out of range of him isn’t proving to be too difficult. As long as I don’t sit and keep moving around the room, I seem to be safe.

  “Merry Christmas, Lucy. Merry Christmas, Carrie.”

  I look up from pictures of Lucy’s four-year-old twins to find him standing in front of me.

  Darn it.

  “Merry Christmas, boss,” Lucy beams. “I was just showing Carrie the pictures of Luke and Liam.”

  “Ahh, yes, I saw those,” Dutch smiles. “They’re gorgeous, aren’t they, Carrie?”

  “They certainly are.” I turn to Lucy. “Well, I hope you, Jerry and the boys have a wonderful Christmas. If you both will excuse me.”

  I turn and make a dash for it, but I am not fast enough.

  “You seem to be in a hurry.” Dutch strides easily beside me even as I try to move swiftly away.

  “Well, you
know, we only see everyone together like this once or twice a year,” I say without looking at him. “Lots of catching up to do.”

  “You’re avoiding me, Carrie.”

  “What would make you think that?”

  His hand on my elbow is gentle but firm as it slows me down.

  “Carrie.”

  I stop, because it’s the only thing I can do without making a scene.

  “Carrie, look at me.”

  I don’t at first. But when I realize he is not going anywhere, I take a deep breath and look up. His beautiful eyes are pools of concern, and I almost can’t take it. His gaze sweeps over my face before he frowns.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  I am going to kill Morgan. She told me no one could tell.

  I pull out of his grasp and begin heading towards the doors. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I burst through the doors of the ballroom and head to the front doors of the hotel. I need some air.

  “Carrie.”

  I lift my skirt as I try to hurry down the steps without breaking my neck.

  “Carrie, stop!”

  I want to keep walking. I really do. But I can’t walk away from him. Never could.

  He catches up with me on the sidewalk. And then he is looking at me. I fold my arms and stare back.

  “You’re still mad about yesterday.”

  “Of course I am still mad,” I respond. “You called me a homewrecker, Dutch, and made me feel like...”

  Like Cordelia usually makes me feel.

  “Carrie, it wasn’t personal. It was about our clients—”

  “It was personal, Dutch,” I almost yell, cutting him off. “You criticized me about my choices for my life outside of Prism. How is that not personal?”

  He tugs at his collar. “I don’t want to argue about this, Carrie.”

  “Then we won’t.” I turn and begin walking again. So much for staying unemotional. Forget a walk. I was going home. The party was almost over anyway.

  “Carrie, you’re going to...” Dutch coughs, “talk to me…sooner or later.”

  I ignore him. Sure, I had to talk to him eventually. But it didn’t have to be tonight. Dutch is saying something else, but his words sound warbled. I glance back. Panic slams into me.

  “Dutch!”

  Chapter 13

  “Dutch!”

  He is bent over in the middle of the sidewalk, holding his throat with both hands. I race back.

  “Dutch! What’s going on, talk to me!”

  He grabs my shoulder, his fingers tightening in panic as he stares at me.

  “…can’t...breathe…” He rasps between each hard fought word. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead as he stumbles away, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

  “Where is your EpiPen?” I shove my hands into his jacket searching the pockets and then checking his pants. I look into his eyes questioningly, but he shakes his head at me.

  I could kill him.

  “Oh, God, we need an ambulance. Someone please call 911!” I am screaming, but no one seems to be stopping. Sometimes I hate New York. Millions of people twenty-four hours a day, but no one to stop and help you when you need it.

  “Carrie…”

  The desperation in his voice twists my insides. He is leaning hard against me. But Dutch was no less than 200 pounds and my 120 pounds can’t manage that.

  “Someone, please help!” I ease him down to the sidewalk, my dress getting soaked in the slush as I go down with him. I somehow manage to find my cell phone and dial 911 even as Dutch holds on to me.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance. My boss has collapsed. He can’t seem to breathe. We’re in front of the Westin Grand Central, 212 East 42nd Street. Please hurry.”

  She is asking me questions, but I cannot talk to her anymore as Dutch gasps for breath in my arms.

  “It’s okay.” I loosen the bow tie at his collar and unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt so he can breathe better. “The ambulance is on its way. You’re going to be okay.”

  Word must have gotten back to the party because suddenly there are people nearby.

  “Oh my God, Dutch. Carrie, what’s going on?”

  “He just collapsed.” I wish I could give more information, but I barely know what is going on myself. I glance up at the voice, but my vision is blurry. I swipe at my eyes and realize they are wet from crying.

  There is a lot of talking, but I don’t hear anything except Dutch’s noisy breathing. He is not doing well. His face is puffing up, and he is sweating. A slight rash has broken out around his neck, and he has gone pale. His eyes are closed and the only reason I know he is still slightly aware is his grip on my hand, but even that is weakening. It seems like an allergic reaction, but as far as I know, Dutch is only allergic to shellfish and there was none of that at the event. I had made sure of it.

  Someone arrives with a first aid kit and gives him an adrenaline shot from an EpiPen. It doesn’t seem to do much. We are in the middle of New York City. Where is the ambulance?

  Eventually the sound of sirens reaches my ears. When they get there, they load Dutch onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance.

  “Ma’am, you can come with your husband in the ambulance. Anyone else can follow behind.”

  I hike my skirts up and climb in the back in time to see them put a mask over Dutch’s face.

  “Sir, you have to lie back.”

  He is struggling against the stretcher, turning his head from side to side.

  “Sir, please.”

  I move forward and grab his hand. “Dutch, you have to relax. Let them help you, please.”

  He squeezes my hand hard and stops struggling. They start an IV, and soon I feel his grip loosen on my hand.

  “Has he ever had a reaction like this before?”

  I shake my head. “No, not that I know. He hasn’t had a reaction since he was a teenager, but he’s pretty careful to stay away from shellfish.”

  “Is he allergic to anything else?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak as the tears start flowing again. He looks so weak and helpless lying there. What if I hadn’t stopped? What if I had gotten into a cab before he started coughing? He would have been out there all alone. What if we were already too late? What if he had been having trouble breathing for too long? I knew that lack of oxygen could cause brain damage, but I didn’t know how long it would take for that to happen.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I finally ask.

  The EMT looks at me then looks away. “We won’t know until they look at him at the hospital. This was a really severe reaction.”

  Those are the words that stay in my head as I pace the waiting room at the hospital. I should call someone. Dutch’s parents are in Connecticut. But his sister lives on Long Island. It takes me three tries to remember her number and even then, she isn’t there. So I leave a message. After that there is only one other person I can think of.

  I take a deep breath before dialing her number. It rings three times.

  “Hey, this is Gina. I can’t come to the phone but leave me a message and I’ll get right back to you.” Beep.

  “Hey, Gina, this is Carrie. I’m at the hospital with Dutch. He collapsed this evening at the Christmas party and we brought him here in an ambulance. I don’t know how long he’ll be here so you can call me back if you need an update.”

  I leave the details for the hospital and the ward before ending the call. Then I restart my pacing. What if things take a turn for the worse? I will have to call his parents. What would I say to them?

  “Carrie? Carrie Bishop?”

  I look around and find a tired woman in a white coat standing in the hallway near the waiting room.

  “Yes, I’m Carrie.” I walk across the room to where the woman stood. “How is Dutch? Is he okay?”

  “He’s doing pretty well,” she says with a small smile. “We’ve put him on heavy
antihistamines to help decrease the severity of the reaction, and he already seems to be responding. We had him on an oxygen mask, but he’s breathing fine on his own now. We’ll observe him for a couple hours, but he should be good to go home soon.”

  Relief rushes into me with the deep breath I take. “Thank you.”

  “You can thank me by making sure I never see him again,” the doctor says seriously. “Make sure he has his EpiPen with him - all the time.”

  “Oh, trust me. I will definitely make sure of that. Can I see him?”

  “Sure.”

  I follow her down the hallway and thank her again before entering Dutch’s room. He is propped up on pillows dozing. It his strange to see him like this. He is usually so in control of everything, and here he lies looking weak, vulnerable. My heart aches in a place I didn’t know it could.

  “Dutch.”

  He stirs before slowly opening his eyes. When his heavy lids finally focus on me, he smiles. “Carrrrre.”

  I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sorrrrrre...like...the day after...my…firrrrrrst day back...at the gymmmm.” His words are slow and slurred, but not in a painful way. More like a half asleep, half high-on-medications way.

  “You’re lucky that’s all you feel. Do you know what could have happened to you out there?”

  “I bet…yourrrr...gonna tell...me,” he slurs.

  “You could have fallen and hit your head on the concrete, stumbled into the traffic and gotten hit by a car, stopped breathing and suffered brain damage...”

  “Shhhhhh…” He lifts a hand lazily, placing a finger on my lips. “It’ssss okay. I know you love me. But I’ll...be okay.”

  “Excuse me? This has nothing to do with me,” I snap back. “You need to have your EpiPen with you at all times, Dutch.”

  “Yessss…ma’am.” He grins at me, his eyes only half open, and I know I am wasting my breath.

  I stare at him, then lean over and grab a tissue, dabbing at the side of his mouth where he is drooling a little.