"No. And to hell with them both." Mattie tried focusing on the draft of her column before mumbling, "I can fix this up later."
Eager for a change of subject, she continued, "Hey, how are the kids? Sorry I missed trick-or-treating with them. Their costumes looked great, though. That picture was a big hit with my readers."
"They're fine. You're the one I'm worried about."
Mattie waved her off.
"I just want you to be happy."
"I'm fine."
"Right. Let's see. You live alone, if you ask me, you drink too much and the only vegetables you ever eat are on the top of a pizza. Yet, at work, you're passing yourself off as this successful career woman who is happily married with kids. This isn't healthy. You're hiding behind the column. And that ring." She pointed to Mattie's hand in disgust.
"I'm happy. I am. Deliriously. I love my job, where I live…"
Claudia ignored her. "It's been almost two years, Mat. It's time to move on. You're still young. You've got to start living your own life on your terms. There's plenty of fish in the sea."
Considering her sister's uncanny ability to channel their deceased mother, Mattie almost expected her to add, "Why a pretty girl like you, you could have any man you wanted if you just slimmed down a bit."
In response, Mattie shut her laptop with a little more force than she intended. Unfazed, Claudia continued with her rant.
"Besides, what do you think is going to happen if the paper gets wind of the fact that their latest 'Plate Spinner' is just a fabrication? I'm not sure, but I think what you've been doing for the past couple of years here, Mat, is fraud."
Mattie waved her off. "You worry too much. No one's going to find out that I'm not married, and that I don't have kids. Dianne's got my back at work. I've got all my bases covered. She promised to find a replacement, and, when she does, I'll get my own column and that will be that.
She neglected to tell Claudia that her desk was cluttered with pictures of her husband, Tom Bragassi, a paramedic, and all of the little Bragassis, ranging in age from six years to six months.
Picking up a pile of bills, Claudia started rifling through them. "And what about these?" Maybe it's about time you sold that rock and took care of your debts."
Mattie snatched them away before Claudia saw the envelope from First Midwestern Bank that contained yet another overdraft notice.
"No way. I have to wear it at work. Besides, it helps me ward off the wrong sort."
Claudia pounced. "Yes, but it wards off all sorts, Mat—even the good kind."
Softening her tone she added, "You know you always have a home with us, right?"
"Thanks, sis. I appreciate it, but I've got everything under control."
Skepticism oozed from Claudia's expression.
Mattie stood and pulled what used to be an oversized sweatshirt down over her hips. "I do, really. As a matter of fact, I have a meeting first thing Monday morning with the publisher, and I'm going to demand a raise."
And, I know just what to wear. If it still fits.
* * *
What Mattie knew of Lester Crenshaw she did not like. A middle-aged man, he rose quickly through the ranks at the Gazette. Once he became publisher, rumor had it, he ditched his wife, a long-time lifestyle columnist at the paper, then had the gall to fire her before marrying a young blond hotshot from accounting.
Talk about a schmuck.
She had thought long and hard about her plan of attack and decided to stoop to his level. It was the only reason she found herself standing outside of his office, in full view of the media company's executive assistant staff, wearing a skin-tight, fire engine red, long-sleeved, high-necked sweater dress and punishing four inch heels.
Nearly immobilized by the amount of spandex that was keeping her curves in check, she leaned back against the wall and checked her watch. It was seven fifty-nine in the morning. Despite their eight o'clock appointment, his office was empty, and the lights were off.
"He should be here any minute," his assistant, Natalie Foster, offered.
After waiting for twenty minutes, Mattie hobbled her way back to her desk and initiated a computer search on how to file for bankruptcy.
By noon, she had resigned herself to the idea of throwing in the towel and moving in with her sister and her family. The bag of potato chips she had for lunch offered little in the way of consolation. By 1:00, she had abandoned her shoes and was finishing a brief, albeit succinct reply to a reader in search of a healthy holiday-coping strategy.
"Dear Wiped, I find the best way to keep my energy high throughout the busy holiday season is to consume copious amounts of caffeine and refined sugar."
"Now I know you're kidding. You are kidding, aren't you?" The gravely edge to Dianne's voice was unmistakable. She peered at Mattie over her reading glasses, waiting for a response.
Mattie stuck out her index finger and pressed the backspace key on her keyboard until it was gone. "Of course."
She made no effort to sound anything other than defeated.
"Well if it means that much to you, leave it in. Go ahead. I can handle the sugar cops at the American Diabetic Association."
Mattie let out a chuckle and turned around. Her eyes were bloodshot and she assumed what was left of her mascara was smudged underneath her lower eyelashes like the paw prints of tiny puppies that had been running through the mud.
Dianne hoisted herself onto her usual perch on the desk and whispered, "Oh, this can't be good. How did the meeting with Les go?"
"I waited for twenty minutes. He blew me off."
"Oh, sweetie. He's a busy man." Dianne handed her a tissue.
Mattie pressed it to her eyes. "Yes, and I'm an insecure mess with major rejection issues. First Dad, then Eddie, now Les."
Dianne twirled Mattie's chair around so she was facing her. "Stop it. You're better than this. You're the Plate Spinner, for Pete's sake. You should be angry. You had an appointment with him, and he didn't even have the courtesy of letting you know he couldn't make it? You know what I'd do to him if it were me?"
Mattie shook her head.
"I'd called him on it, and I wouldn't drop it until he apologized. Now clean yourself up, march right up to his office, and demand that raise."
"You're right." Taking a deep breath, Mattie stood up, and fluffed her hair. Twirling her ring with her right hand, she nodded at Dianne and said, "I'm not coming back until I have that raise."
Dianne looked skeptical. "Nice try, doll. Now say it like you mean it."
Narrowing her eyes, Mattie clenched her jaw, and tried seething, "I am not coming back until I have that raise."
She poked Dianne in the shoulder for good measure.
"Ow. Better, but don't poke."
"Really?"
As Mattie plopped back into her chair to put her shoes back on, a grin started to spread across her face. She clenched her fists in front of her as she broke into a sad attempt at a moonwalk from the comfort of her ergonomically correct office chair.
"Hello, solvency."
"Focus," Dianne scolded. "Demand first. Dance later."
CHAPTER TWO
"If you wish to make an apple pie truly from scratch, you must first invent the universe."
– Carl Sagan
Nick, wearing khakis and a tie instead of sweats and a stopwatch, was finding it hard to breathe in the opulent office overlooking Michigan Avenue. A desk big enough to land a plane on. Expensive leather chairs. Built-in book shelves. Dark paneling. The last time he was in an office this stuffy it was to meet with the judge and an official from the Securities and Exchange Commission to defend himself against accusations that he willfully participated in Eddie's pyramid scheme.
The metallic clink of the handcuffs the uniformed police officer clasped behind his back echoed in his ears as he stood at the window, watching city workers string holiday lights on the building facades of Chicago's Magnificent Mile. He shook his head as he remembered being in the emergency room aft
er Mattie knocked him out. The doctor had just finished stitching up his chin when the police arrived. His mother never was able to get the bloodstains out of the tuxedo shirt. It cost him fifty bucks to replace it.
I got a bad feeling about this.
After spending the last two weeks contacting old teammates and trainers, trying to sniff out openings for a coaching position at another school, all Nick had to show for it were a lot of empty promises to follow up with him if they heard of anything. Lester's wager seemed like the only game in town.
He sat down on the edge of a chair, knee bouncing, and checked his watch one more time before deciding to make a break for it.
Just as he was about to leave, Lester burst through the door with his hand extended.
"Hey there, Coach. Sorry I'm late. Budget meeting."
Shaking Lester's hand Nick smiled and said, "That's all right. And, as of two weeks ago, it's just Nick."
Lester sat down and clasped his hands behind his head, smiling. "So. Are you in? I'd like to kick this off as a big New Year's Resolution feature right after Christmas." He waved toward his door and added, "We've got a whole media campaign planned."
Nick pulled his chair closer to the desk and let out a short cough. "Um, yeah, but can we go over a few of the details first? I'd like to get this all down on paper so nothing comes back to bite me." He lowered his eyes and added, "I'm sure you understand."
"Sure, sure. Absolutely."
Nick hesitated. This was too easy. "Um, I brought a couple of forms." He handed Lester two sheets of paper. "One's the physical examination form," he explained, "and the other is the waiver we used at the school. I'm sure you've seen them before. The guys have to fill these out before they join the team, so you should have whomever you've picked fill out something like that too, releasing me and the paper from liability should anything happen." He ran his hand through his overgrown wavy hair. "And I think we should draw up a contract."
Lester beamed. "I'm a step ahead of you. I just got this from Legal." He handed a document to Nick with a pen and kept talking while he skimmed it. "You'll be paid the standard consultant rate for the duration. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to keep your head above water. Then, after the marathon, I'll get you that bonus we talked about."
Looking up, Nick replied, "Bonus. Great." He bent his head again to scan the document before signing it.
He handed it back to Lester who winked and said, "I'll have them mail a copy for your files. If you can come back tomorrow, I'll have Finance send up the rest of the forms you'll need to complete."
Nick settled back in his chair. "Sure, I can come back. So, all we need now is a victim. Who'd you have in mind?"
Lester squirmed in his chair. "I've got a few folks in mind."
"Sounds good." At that, Nick stood up and said, "Remember, the clock's ticking. It's almost December. That only gives me about ten months to get somebody marathon ready. That's cutting it close even for a healthy person."
"No worries. I'll have someone for you in a day or two."
Slipping his jacket on, Nick reached over and shook Lester's hand. As he held it, he said, "There's just one more thing."
"Sure. What is it?"
"What if I fail? What if the person you pick out doesn't win? We never talked about that part of the wager."
A warm smile spread over Lester's face. "I never said anything about winning." He pointed his finger at Nick and in a sterner tone added, "But they have to finish."
Feeling as if a weight had been lifted, Nick agreed to return the next day to sign the rest of the paperwork and left feeling much better about the arrangement than when he had arrived.
When he reached the elevators, he pushed the down button and stood with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his weathered bomber jacket. He caught his reflection in the mirrored door, barely recognizing the face that grinned back at him. He hadn't seen that guy in a long, long time. Maybe Lester was right. Maybe he was in the final stretch of his comeback. Maybe the win he so desperately wanted was in sight after all.
The elevator dinged, and he bounced right in front of the doors, waiting for them to open. His mind was filled with the possibilities that lay before him. He had heard of accomplished runners becoming celebrity coaches, holding clinics for wannabe athletes, and making a mint in the process.
Just as he was envisioning a book signing at a running shoe store jammed with fans and potential clients, the elevator doors began to part. He lifted his foot to step in, but before it had the chance to make landfall, a woman burst out and laid his six–foot two-inch frame flat on the carpeted floor, knocking the wind out of him.
For a nanosecond, Nick took in the not unpleasant feel of a woman's warm body pressed against his and the flowery scent of her hair that tickled the spot just under his chin. As she tried to push off of him, he instinctively lifted his knees and attempted to sit up but couldn't move.
"Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry," he heard her gasp. "I seem to be stuck to your zipper."
Nick looked down and saw that the clasp of his zipper had indeed attached itself to the most prominent point of her red sweater dress.
Speaking to the top of her head, he sighed, "That's all right."
At the sound of his voice, the woman's head snapped up, and he found himself face-to-face with, of all people, Mattie Ross.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she gasped.
Nick couldn't help but notice her distress. "Relax."
He let his head drop back against the floor and added, "I'm not my brother. You tagged me yourself, remember?" He pointed to his chin and let his hand drop to his side.
Mattie glanced at the scar that cut a jagged path through the dark stubble.
"Sorry."
What her apology lacked in sincerity it made up for in brevity.
Pinned to the spot, Nick placed his hands under his head and stared at the ceiling as Mattie mounted a furious attempt to extract herself from his jacket with one hand, while propping herself up with the other. When that proved unsuccessful, she tried switching hands, wiggling on top of him, and growing exceedingly frustrated.
It wasn't long before Nick's body began reacting to the onslaught of perfume and pressure, much against his will.
Worse, Mattie noticed.
"What is that?" she huffed. Her voice was thick with disgust.
Mortified, Nick grabbed both of her wrists. With her full weight pressed against him, he grunted her name with all of the breath he could muster. "Mattie."
She whipped her head up, her face just a few inches from his. "What?"
"Calm down. I got it."
He released her wrists and, pressing one hand against her lower back and the other behind her neck, rolled with all his might until he was straddled on top of her. With a quick flick of his fingers, he extracted the latch of his jacket from the intertwined yarn of her dress, leaned back on his heels, and pulled himself up.
Mattie, in the meantime, rolled to her side, propped her four-inch heels in position, and stood while Nick looked on. As she righted herself, his eyes fixed on a strand of yarn dangling haplessly next to the gaping nickel-size hole where his zipper had just been. It provided a generous peek at her ample cleavage, and it was everything he could do not to reach over and tug it.
Following his stare, she let out a small groan before snarling, "Nice. You tore my dress. Thanks a lot."
"You should be more careful getting out of elevators," he advised as he gave his chin a quick rub with the back of his hand. When he turned his back to her to press the down button, he heard her emit a quick growl before stomping off.
On his way down to the lobby, Nick inspected his zipper. The flowery scent that lingered on his coat collar infiltrated his nose. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered to no one in particular, "What the hell are you doing here?"
* * *
The restrooms at the Gazette with their art deco design, dark marble floors, soft lighting, and private stalls still bore the
luxurious touches of the newspaper's golden days. Ducking into one situated down the hall from the elevators, Mattie yanked open a stall door, stepped inside, locked it, and took in several deep breaths. Resting her forehead against the cool chrome, she grasped the coat hook affixed to the door just above her head and whispered, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Beads of sweat moistened her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, and she felt hives beginning to break out under the wool blend material stretched tightly across her skin. The urge to peel it off and splash herself with cool water was overwhelming.
The calm she longed for was not coming without a fight. The too-close-for-comfort encounter with her former fiancé's body double threatened to stir up a hornet's nest of emotions.
Nick DeRosa.
She tried taking several deep breaths but just felt more light-headed than she already was.
"Well, at least no one else saw it happen," she thought to herself. The last thing she needed was another public humiliation.
When her breathing finally returned to normal, she forced the image of Nick from her mind and unlocked the door. After checking to make sure she was alone, she stepped in front of the mirror.
Holy crap.
Her hair, which she had spent over an hour that morning trying to smooth, was coiling back into ringlets before her very eyes. After combing through it with her fingers, she dabbed cold water on her face, cleared the mascara from under her eyelashes, and inspected the hole in her dress before tucking the errant thread back into it.
Looking long and hard at her reflection, she announced with as much determination as she could muster, "I am not coming back without a raise."
* * *
For the second time that day, Mattie took the long walk down the hall leading to the office of the Gazette's publisher. She knocked as loudly as she dared on his door and from within, heard his voice boom, "Yes?"
Pushing it open, she stepped in, doing her best not to be intimidated by the man or his office. When she noticed his eyes zero in on the hole in her dress, she folded her arms high across her chest and said, "Mr. Crenshaw, I believe we had a meeting," and braced herself for his reply.
False Start Page 3
