Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue)

by Andrea Randall

  ***

  I shot out of bed with my alarm on Monday; I had dreamt of Adrian, and woke up feeling flustered. Monica had talked about Adrian Saturday night. My feelings for Bo were mixed with my relationship with Adrian, and it led to a weird mash-up of Finnegan’s, Princeton, and Adrian Turner inside my subconscious.

  I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Adrian. In the four years since I had graduated college (five since I broke up with Adrian), I’d gone on dates and had sex, but never committed myself to anyone. There were never any strings attached. My parents would be so proud, which is funny, because they actually would be. They’re all about “free love”, despite the fact that they’ve been together since their freshman year of college. I suspect they have a rather open relationship but I’ve never asked.

  The Monday morning routine came with its usual lackluster appeal. I loved my job, but I was beginning to think I loved hanging out at Finnegan’s with Bo even more. One week of distracted thinking couldn’t hurt. I headed into the office, grateful that it was Monica’s turn to pick up our lattes. Part of her job included speaking at fancy parties, with fancy people, to help garner donations for our non-profit. As a grant writer, I was in charge of securing large sums of money from private organizations, rich people, and the government. We were thrilled that, when we were seeking out new donors or partners, our work intersected.

  Such was the case today. We were meeting with a representative from a New Hampshire-based drug prevention/ education group called DROP. The group’s name is “Drug Resistance Opportunity Program,” and seeks to empower children and adults facing drug abuse and addiction issues. While this was also a non-profit, and we wouldn’t actually be receiving donations from them, the purpose of the meeting today was to see if we could develop them as an alliance. The long-term goal was a community center that could serve the interests of both organizations.

  Further, we wanted The Hope Foundation to set up offices up and down the New England seaboard; DROP had the same objective. An alliance would mean a larger resource base, both intellectual and financial - something no non-profit can afford to turn down.

  Monica didn’t actually tell me about this meeting until Friday because I had been slammed all week with a new secured funding initiative, meaning I felt uncharacteristically unprepared to speak in public. She said all she knew was that DROP was two years old, they didn’t have a website (meaning our established internet presence would be a huge benefit for them), but they had at least two multi-million dollar backers (enter the main reason they’d be a huge asset to us). Our meeting today was intended for each side to present their strengths. It was meant to be casual, not competitive, and the goal was to see if our organizations would make a good fit for collaboration.

  “Hey Mon.” I poked my head into her office, knowing she’d be there early to prepare for her presentation. Luckily, when I was working on the secured funding initiative last week, I had refreshed all the information I would need for today. My public speaking nerves were fully charged, however.

  “Morning, Ember. Here’s your latte, Lady!” The perfect community educator, she’s incessantly bubbly and wonderful.

  “You’re the best. By the way, asshole, thanks for talking about Adrian on Saturday. I dreamt about him last night.”

  Monica’s skeptical eyebrow forced more explanation from me. “Nothing happened, he was just- there.” I flipped her the middle finger as I sipped my latte. “Anyway, what’s the name of the woman from DROP we’re meeting today?”

  “Actually, it’s a man. We were supposed to meet with a David Bryson, but I had a message waiting for me this A-M that one of his partners, Spencer Cavanaugh, will be joining us. He’s one of the founders, so I’m officially freaking out. He’s going to come in for a meet-and-greet before the official meeting. And, yes, I know his last name must have you all hot and bothered, but keep your head on, will ya?” I’d smiled at the last name - she knew me too well.

  I sat in the chair across from Monica’s desk just as she picked up her ringing phone.

  “K, send him in.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “Spencer’s on his way down.”

  “I’ll say hi, introduce myself, and then let you two discuss whatever you need to before the meeting.” I started to stand.

  There was a polite knock on Monica’s door frame. Before I turned to greet Spencer, I saw Monica’s eyes widen in a mix of confusion and shock. I turned around hastily, and was immediately face-to-face with Bo Cavanaugh.

  “Bo?” I managed.

  Inexplicably, I was standing in front of Bo Cavanaugh. Hair gel manicured the tousled look that had graced Finnegan’s stage - and my fingers - all weekend. Gray suit pants, a pale yellow button down shirt, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes stood in place of the jeans and sleeveless ensemble that walked out of my apartment two nights before. His eyes were a deeper blue than I observed at night; they were the most beautiful color of ocean blue I’d ever seen. My smile faded as his eyes fell from me to the floor, then to the wall, and back to the floor.

  “N-ember? Uhh.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable and his fair skin seemed to pale even further.

  “Ooooooo-kaaaayy . . .” Monica uncomfortably attempted to organize the papers on her desk.

  I just stood there while a thousand thoughts scattered to the floor of my brain. In the split second before Monica spoke again, I reasoned maybe his brother’s name was Spencer and Bo was standing in - even though he didn’t mention a brother the other night - or this must be some sort of mistake. Judging by his complexion, and his inability to say my name without stuttering, I gathered it was neither of these reasons.

  Monica swept papers off her desk with little regard to their order. “So, I’ll let you two talk. Anything I have to say can wait ‘till the meeting.” She said this with such professionalism that anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed the five-ton elephant in the room.

  “Excuse me.” Monica slid past Bo (or Spencer), forcing him in to the room a little ways and placing us in a close proximity. Not more than 48 hours ago, being this close to him had tantalized me. Right now, it made my muscles twitch with anxiety. Monica shut the door.

  I walked around my chair and stood behind Monica’s desk, deliberately distancing myself from “Bo” so I could think clearly. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d seen him in the daylight, rather than under the stage glow at Finnegan’s. He was slightly less fair-skinned than I’d previously assessed, but just as dreamy. Dreamy, November? Figure out what he’s doing here. I cleared my throat and stared directly at him, handcuffing his eyes to mine.

  “November, you work here?” He looked as if he was really trying to work it out in his head.

  Seriously? That’s the statement you’re opening with?

  “Yeeees.” There was a slight inquisition in my voice, imploring him to feed the elephant in the room.

  “Spencer, is it?”

  “November, it’s my first name. It was my father’s name. My full name is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. David Bryson was supposed to handle the meeting here today, but he had a personal emergency, so he called me this morning to ask me to come here. The only information I was given was to come to The Hope Foundation and ask for Monica. What are the odds?” He spoke faster than normal - faster than necessary. I assumed he was anticipating any follow up questions I might have, which is why he offered up so much right away.

  “Wait a minute, Monica said that Spencer Cavanaugh is one of the founders of DROP. You never told me you founded a non-profit agency.” I felt an annoying itch of betrayal.

  Bo chuckled, “I’ll counter your wait-a-minute with my own. You never told me you were the grant writer for a very successful and stable non-profit.” My inner academic cheered a bit at his accentuation of “the” as if I was a prize to be sought. Damn straight.

  Then, I was forced to address the issue of his ever changing name.

  “So, Bo, that’s just for music?” I was no stranger
to people using stage names, I just felt pissed about this one for reasons beyond my in-the-moment analysis.

  For the first time since Monica shut the door, Bo took a step toward me. He sat in the chair I previously occupied. He rested his elbows on the desk, peering at me from his smoldering ocean blue eyes.

  “Bowan, or Bo, is typically all the time, except for at the foundation - they call me Spencer. I use it there as homage to my father. I’ve been “Bo” my whole life. My parents were working on developing this organization when they died. Two years after their death, I gathered enough strength to continue what they started.” His tone was littered with something just slight of irritation as he sat back in the chair and finally met my stare.

  “I’m sorry, Bo I was just taken by surprise.” My relieved exhale was louder than I’d intended, “I guess we didn’t really squeeze in time to discuss our jobs.” I grinned at the memory of all the things we did have time for. “Shit. The meeting. So, double agent, I’ll call you Spencer for the meeting?” I raised an eyebrow and he smiled.

  “Knock knock!” Monica exaggerated as she carefully opened the door. Bo and I rose to greet her. “All set in here…or whatever?” Professional Monica was replaced by nosy Monica.

  “Monica, this is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. Non-profit founder by day, musician by night.”

  “Nice to meet you, Monica.” Bo stuck out his hand and Monica rolled her eyes.

  “Shut up. I’ll get the details later. Right now we have a room full of people that need to meet you . . . Mr. Cavanaugh.” Her to-the-point humor made fast friends with my cynicism early in our friendship. It came in handy in times like these.

  As we headed to the meeting room, I was eager to hear what he had to present. How had a man, like Bo, decided to pick up the pieces of his deceased parents’ dream? As soon as he started speaking, I was fighting tears.

  “My little sister, Rachel, was in a drug rehab facility by the time she was fifteen.” Bo didn’t make eye contact with me, which my glistening tear ducts appreciated. “She had been doing drugs for about six months when she nearly overdosed on cocaine and alcohol. She was in the ICU for a week before she was sent to rehab. My parents’ eyes were opened to the rampant drug and alcohol use among her friends and in our community. The issue crossed class lines, it didn’t discriminate. Pills, alcohol, and cocaine seemed to be the easiest thing for my sister and her friends to come by; it nearly killed her.” He inhaled deeply and continued.

  “Rachel was in the rehab facility for almost six months. She was very depressed, and expressed several times that she wasn’t ready to go home for fear of using again, but she was home in time to start her junior year of high school. I had already been out of college for a year, so I was able to help Rachel stay out of trouble by spending a lot of time with both her and her friends. The summer before Rachel’s senior year, my parents started working on DROP. Their vision was a community action organization which provided realistic opportunities for young people to engage in, alternatives to drug use, and a place to seek help when needed. At the end of the first year my parents - Spencer and Vivian - were busy lining up donors and spaces, when they were killed in a car accident.” His voice clipped at the memory.

  “Two years after their death I was ready, and able, to reignite DROP. I’ve spent the past two years securing financial backing, and developing a solid program with David Bryson. In our hometown, DROP has been fully operational for a year, and has successfully set up both a community center and a mentoring program. Now, we’re ready to expand. The problem isn’t just in our hometown - it’s everywhere. We’d like to align with an organization that focuses on domestic violence, as we’ve seen drug use in our teens is often paired with violence at home or violence in their relationships. Thank you for letting me share our story.”

  I blinked for what felt like the first time since he started speaking, thankful my tears had burrowed back into their hole. I caught Monica’s eye, and she seemed to be thinking the same thing. Wow.

  Monica rose and shared The Hope Foundation’s mission statement, and her work with community education. She noted that while our foundation didn’t have its own centers outside of offices, we did work in conjunction with domestic violence shelters. She concluded that, from her standpoint, being able to have our own center(s) would ultimately work in the favor of the community by providing a non-threatening place for young people or families to spend time, and not just seek us when they’re in crisis. All through Monica’s speech, Bo listened attentively. He continually shot me side glances and always caught me staring at him - I blushed every time.

  Whatever hotness level I thought he attained in Finnegan’s was blown to smithereens when I saw him in business attire. I spent my whole life balancing the free lifestyle I grew up in, with the structured life I craved. Sitting across from me seemed to be another human being balancing conflicting lifestyles. And, I happened to know what his tongue could do outside of the boardroom.

  When it was my turn to speak, I presented a resume-style list of the grants I was able to secure during the past four years. I lauded myself on my ability to maintain consistent and respectful contacts with people in both the public and private sector. Most of our success had come from outstanding government grant programs, but I’d spent the last year researching private funding options due to the financial mess of the government.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh, Monica tells me that DROP has two, multi-million dollar backers. While we wouldn’t want to piggy-back off of those donors, would your grant writer be willing to teach me a little bit more about securing large funds from the private sector? My specialty is in public money, which is tight these days.”

  “Yes, Ms. Harris. In fact, I know at least one of our backers would be open to financially supporting whichever organization DROP teams up with.” A boyish grin crossed his face.

  “Oh? Do you mind sharing which one, so I can research them a bit?”

  “Me, Ms. Harris. My parents were wealthy business people. When their estate was settled, I decided to use most of their money to fund their dream. My sister also puts her inheritance into the organization. I can’t speak for her, but I know I would be interested.”

  Oh, so he and his sister are the two multi-million dollar backers. Neat. I kept my game face on while our boss, Carrie, called the meeting to end.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh. Ember, I’d like it if you and Monica could set up some more meetings with Mr. Cavanaugh, his community educator, and financial person to see if this is a collaboration that would work on the nuts and bolts level. It all seems very promising, so I’m leaving this project to the two of you.” She left, followed by her secretary, and Don, our IT guy. Monica, Bo, and I were left in the empty meeting room to discuss a time for our “next meeting.”

  When the door shut, Monica spoke, “Bo, what the hell?”

  “Monica,” I interrupted, “did any of us talk about our jobs over the last two days?” I knew what she was thinking.

  “Well, no. But this is weird . . . and great!”

  Bo cleared his throat, “This is weird. We’ll figure it out, I’m sure. For now, though, do you all want to go for lunch?” The question wasn’t directed toward Monica.

  “I can’t,” she retorted, “I have to go pester your community educator via email. You two have fun.” Reason number two why we’re best friends; the girl knows when to make an exit.

  Over lunch, Bo and I managed to discuss the business that my boss intended us to talk about. I told him about my work at Hope, and that I was really pleased with the role I’ve had in the growth of the organization. He admitted that while he found my list of accomplishments impressive on a business level, he also found it very attractive.

  “Well, I have to tell you that you look mighty fine in your day job couture, Mr. Cavanaugh.” I reached out across the table and grabbed his hand. It was the first physical contact we’d had since Saturday night, and just as electrifying.

  “Ms. Harris, I don’t know
if this is appropriate,” he joked. He pulled his hand away when he saw my smile vanish. “What?”

  “This isn’t appropriate. Shit.” My pulse raced as I ran through the list of implications.

  “November, it’s fine.” Nervousness colored his eyes.

  “It’s actually not so fine. The grant writer for one NPO and the millionaire founder and backer for another . . .”

  This sounds worse by the minute.

  “Listen, just relax. We’ll just play it safe until we know what sort of collaboration, if any, our organizations will have. Then we’ll sort it out from there.

  “Damn, does this mean our plans for Friday night will have to wait?” I wanted to slam my fists on the table in protest.

  “I don’t think so, but I’d like to get together for dinner tonight, if you’re free.” He did little to mask the undercurrent of urgency in his voice.

  “That sounds good. Let’s do it at my place - I’ll cook.” I wanted to soak up as much time with him as possible before it might be shortened due to ethical obligations.

  “Sounds great,” he said as he claimed my hand in his, “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He kissed my hand, paid for our lunch, and we went back to The Hope Foundation. He spoke with my boss, and I didn’t say one word about tonight’s dinner plans to Monica - and she didn’t ask.

  Chapter Six

  I finished chopping the vegetables just as I heard a knock on my door. The butterflies that hibernated in my stomach all day flew to life. I opened the door and found Bo standing there in light khakis and a grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest.

  “Hey,” I breathed out, barely above a whisper.

  “Hey.”

  He walked in, shut the door, and pulled me in to a hard, exploding kiss. “God, I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he said when he finally pulled away from me.

  “Good, me too,” I admitted as I staggered back to the kitchen.