by Cat Kelly
"So you're a bookworm from Maple syrup country, huh?" He cringed inwardly at this strange gauche opening. That was what happened, of course, when one was out of circulation for so many years. Should have got some tips from Charlie, he thought glumly.
She paused her rummaging and looked up. Surprise flicked across her face, but it didn't take many seconds for her to reply. "So you're the boss who likes springing things on his employees."
He hadn't expected her to come back at him with an accusation, but clearly she wasn't awestruck by the big boss showing her some attention. Jack stared at her pert lips. "Springing?"
"Showing up unexpectedly and walking into a staff meeting unannounced."
Well, she wasn't shy with her opinions, Jack mused, and apparently she was cross about something. Again. So irate that she forgot to be polite to her boss. Of course his, "showing up unexpectedly" at work must have startled her in more ways than one. He smiled. "It keeps people on their toes."
"And making the new girl from the sticks head-up a party planning committee. Out of the blue. With a few weeks to make a Centennial party happen."
"Hey, if you can't handle it, I'll find—"
Oh, that just made more bristles stand to attention. "I didn't say that."
"Ok, then—"
"But I don't appreciate you inferring that because I'm from Vermont I might not be sophisticated enough to plan a party."
Had he, in his rustiness, accidentally inferred that? He thought she was the one doubting her abilities, not him? Oh yeah, he forgot. Women liked to spin things around and it was often better to just go with it and apologize, even when it wasn't his fault. Jack scratched his head, but before he could reply she added a terse, "Vermont produces more than maple syrup, you know."
"Right. Of course, it does." Shit, he'd forgotten how conversation with a woman could occasionally make him feel as if they were on two different planes of consciousness.
Her shoulders relaxed as she finally found her purse inside that enormous shoulder bag. "So don't assume you know about me."
All this was because of his stupid opening line? Christ, he was out of practice. Or she was just incredibly jumpy. Was she like that with all men, or just him? He tipped his head to one side. "And maybe you shouldn't assume you know about me."
She shrugged and handed her money over the counter. "I'm fairly perceptive and that's something men often lack."
He was amused. At her age, what did she know about men? "Oh, really?"
"Yep. I already know that you like upsetting the apple cart. It's your management style. Clearly you're of the prefers to be feared rather than liked variety. It makes you feel good to waltz into the office with everyone on the back foot. And by making an appearance so rarely, no one expects you to actually do anything while you're here. They're all accustomed to managing without you, but you get to look important for a few hours and you have them fooled into believing the hype." She dropped some coins on the counter and they spun all over the place, some falling to the floor. Then he realized she was nervous and flustered; that was why she talked so fast.
"I guess you got me." Jack crouched to help her retrieve the coins before they rolled out of sight. "I don't know many people brave enough to give their boss such a brutal performance evaluation. Especially this early in the relationship. But then a girl who tells the President how to do his job probably thinks she knows how I should do mine too."
"This early in the relationship?" The green flecks in her eyes seemed very bright as the winter's sun shone through the storefront window and lit her face from the side. "What relationship?" she demanded, snatching two quarters out of his hand. "I've never met you before."
Oh, right. He wasn't supposed to recognize her. Rules of The Club. "Maybe we should get to know one another then." What the fuck? Why did he say that?
Apparently her reaction was similar. Her eyes widened and a dash of pink colored her face. "For what?"
He hesitated. "You're new in the city. I could show you around." This was not supposed to be happening. He didn't want any deeper involvement with this girl. She was barely out of her teens for pity's sake.
"I don't need a tour guide."
"Take you to dinner then." His tongue was working rogue, ignoring his mind completely.
"No, thank you. I don't date my employers."
Jack stared at her lips. "You're all prickles, Ms Miller. What's your problem?"
"My problem is people telling me I have a problem, when I merely want to get through my work day without getting hurt."
"Hurt?" What could she possibly know about hurt?
"People who don't think the rules apply to them generally end up causing hurt for those with the misfortune to stand too close. I follow rules Mr. Marchetti."
Was she referring to The Club rules of no contact outside the place? Or simply of her own rules about dating and work? She spoke very determinedly, warning him off. As if he was a young man sixteen years her junior, instead of the other way around.
"Rules are made to be broken," he said.
"See, that annoys the heck out of me. Rules are made to be followed. If they were made to be broken there would be no point in making them. It's illogical."
He laughed, digging his hands into his pockets. "Are you kidding me?" Didn't she know he had women lining up to catch the eye of New York's most eligible widower? She couldn't be serious about sticking to The Club rules of no contact in the outside world. He was the one who had something to lose. She could only benefit from his attention.
"Why would I kid you?" she asked gravely. "I have plans for my future career and right now I'm too busy for a private life." After pondering his face for a moment, she gave a terse sigh, flung her bag strap over her shoulder and picked up the little cardboard tray with her bagel and coffee. "So we can stand here talking about the possibility of a doomed, brief relationship that will end in betrayal, tears, possibly broken furniture and definitely my career in a shambles. Or, alternately, I could just get back to work and you can get back to...whatever it is you do with your day. Mr. Marchetti. You see, rules are there for a purpose. To keep order."
"Maybe I'll fire you." He was only joking of course, but she didn't laugh.
"And your cause would be?"
"Being a smart mouth to your boss."
"Nothing to do with me turning the boss down?"
"Oh, that? Good God, no." He grinned and scratched his chin. "I'd forgotten about that already. Plenty more fish in the sea."
"Mind you don't find one with poison spines, Mr. Marchetti." She walked to the door of the shop, coffee and tray tilting precariously.
Jack gave up his place in line to dodge around her and open the door. She muttered her thanks and he watched her go. He was an old-fashioned man at heart. Loved a woman in a pencil skirt. Especially if she wore stockings and suspenders underneath, and he had the distinct impression that Marianne Miller did.
Well, he ought to be relieved. He'd found out what he needed to know and she definitely wasn't planning on running to any tabloids. She'd made her feelings plain. Clearly she joined The Club because she wasn't looking for a more meaningful relationship. She was all about the sex. So was he.
But he caught his reflection in the glass door and saw he was frowning. From her reaction anyone would think dating him might ruin her reputation. Yeah, she was a brat alright. Despite the fact that they had so little in common and she confused the hell out of him, Ms. Miller's spunkiness was a pleasant surprise, no denying it. He hadn't felt this energized in years.
"You want your usual, Mr. Marchetti?" the store manager called out from behind the counter.
No. He didn't want his usual. He was ready for something new, different and exciting.
And even if Marianne kept her distance, he knew where to find "Claudia" again.
Or so he thought.
Chapter Six
Mr. Woody Gets a Set Down
That evening he went to The Club, but she wasn't there and no o
ther woman present caught his eye. No one else came close to what he wanted, so he stopped in the restaurant and had his usual steak.
Where was she tonight?
On the way home he took a detour to check out her apartment building. He'd gotten the address from Mrs. B, of course. Driving slowly by the place he felt like a stalker again, but he had to know where she was, if she was home, who she was with. It was worrying that she thought she could handle herself. She seemed to think she had everything sewn up.
Of course he thought he knew everything too when he was her age.
So what did the prim Ms. Miller do with her evenings? Why she hadn't come back for more at The Club? Like he didn't make her happy? Maybe he was out of practice.
And just like that, questions about this unsuitable, difficult young woman had begun to monopolize his thoughts.
* * * *
"You need to get out on a date," her brother had exclaimed merrily over beer and pizza in his kitchenette one night. "You ain't gettin' any younger, sis. The biological clock must be tickin'."
"The biological clock? I'm twenty three."
"Twenty four soon."
"Big deal."
"You still gotta find someone to get serious with and marry first. These things take time...and effort... and you just sit home waiting for James Bond to come knockin' at the door."
"James Bond?" She'd laughed. After three beers her brother always had a tendency to pluck the weirdest things out of the air and start getting all "concerned" about her future. "I'll settle for Inspector Gadget."
But they both knew she wouldn't settle. She was picky.
"Do you even know what sort of man you want?" he'd said to her. "All I ever hear from you is what you don't want."
It was true, she supposed. Marianne knew a lot about what she didn't want. Not so much about what she wanted. She'd met too many "metro-sexuals" in New York— men who were used to being trampled by women in Jimmy Choos. On the other end of the spectrum there were self-absorbed, Wall Street suits she wouldn't trust to water her plants while she was away for the weekend. There were moronic, sweaty, middle-managers like Bob Rawlings, grasping out for anything they could get to play around with while the unsuspecting wife was out of town. Somewhere in all that there were a few, normal guys like her brothers—good, steady, hard-working men who were kind, honest and faithful. Problem was they always overlooked her because one of two things happened: either she struggled to stay silent so as not to scare them off with her opinions, and then faded away in the crowd; or she got nervous, opened her mouth and said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Men were funny about women with intelligence and she wasn't a natural flirt who could work her way around that. Her brothers' friends saw her only as "Mikey's" and "Benny's" little sister and therefore considered her out of bounds. Around them she was more likely to get her nose pinched than her ass.
With a sigh, she explained to her brother, "I guess I want a man who likes the fact that I have a brain and isn't afraid of it. A man that still finds me attractive at five in the morning and doesn't spend our time together looking over my head at other women. A man who'll still find me sexy when my ass spreads. A man I can be a woman around—who makes me feel good, safe, loved." Afraid she was starting to sound like a sap, she added hastily, "And, of course, he looks good in a tux."
"See," Mike had laughed at her. "You're waiting for James Bond."
Eventually Marianne laughed too.
Suddenly he pointed the neck of his beer bottle at her and slurred, "I've got just the man for you."
Consequently, just a few weeks after that conversation in Mike's kitchen, here she was on a blind date with a man selected by her brother as "perfect".
Perfectly awful, she thought.
He ordered for her from the menu, sent the first bottle of wine back because he insisted it was "corked", and droned on for an hour about himself. She tried not to let it bother her. Maybe, like her, he was a nervous talker.
But her mind kept wandering. Directly into Jack Marchetti's arms.
Her boss had followed her into a coffee shop and tried to ask her out on a date. She was still reeling from that. Of course she had to turn him down, because the situation was impossible. She wasn't the type of woman to have her head turned by an expensive suit and she would prefer to be noticed at work for reasons other than sleeping with the boss, thank you very much.
So what if he was hot, funny, and had looked at her in that coffee shop as if he didn't know anyone else was alive? Falling for Mr. Marchetti would be deadly for her career. Besides she'd heard he never stayed in one place for long and he would probably be off again in the New Year. She wanted a man willing to set down roots and...ugh, what was she saying? To even consider Jack Marchetti and her future in the same thought span was ridiculous. What was he...forty? He traveled the globe in first class comfort; she rode the subway every day and tried to avoid the seat with the suspicious damp patch. He wore custom-made suits and shoes hand made in Italy. She shopped for her clothes in places with Barn and Warehouse in the title.
Their only connection was work. And sex at The Club.
Marianne dug her fork into her sea bass and tried to concentrate on her date, but half way through the entree her companion answered his cell phone and, despite the dirty looks of other diners and a few passing waiters, he proceeded to shout loudly into it until the last bite of pasta was shoveled between his lips. Since she'd been so distracted thinking about her boss, she supposed it would be hypocritical to blame him for putting present company on the back burner too, but by the time he blew his nose on the edge of the white tablecloth Marianne was ready to leap, fully clothed, into the East River. While he was quizzing the luckless waiter over every item on the bill, she excused herself to the ladies' room and walked out of the restaurant unnoticed. The hostess didn't even try to stop her, just shot her a sympathetic look.
Her brother, she concluded, had a sick sense of humor. Or else he was still paying her back for the time she flushed his baseball card collection down the toilet when they were kids.
She took a cab home to her apartment. After paying the fare, she turned to hurry up the front stoop and suddenly felt a chill rippling over her skin, reaching under her clothes. She shivered, imagining her mother's voice telling her she should have buttoned up her coat in this weather. But it was a different sort of cold that touched her. As the cab pulled away, she looked over her shoulder and saw a sleek, black sedan moving off slowly from the other curb. The windows were dark and it made no more than a low, contented purr as it disappeared slowly down the street.
Frowning, she dashed up the steps into the building. Weird. Rare to see a car like that one in this area.
Safely in her apartment, Marianne kicked off her shoes, hung up her coat and made some hot chocolate. For a long time she sat on her couch, watching the weather channel, patently aware of the fact that weather forecasts didn't matter to most people her age because they were out on the town Friday nights, enjoying themselves whether it rained, or snowed or was 90 degrees outside. Letting their hair down, flirting and meeting people. But life, for her, was like a photo album full of other people's pictures.
She wondered if her dinner date had even noticed she was gone yet. He could still be complaining to the waiter.
When she went to bed she lay staring into the dark and thought of The Club again.
That was what she needed—a place where control was ostensibly taken out of her hands, a safe environment where she did not have to be herself. Instead she was someone exotic. At The Club, with the beautiful, strong, domineering Sir, she'd been completely free of all her usual anxieties for the first time since she turned twelve and walked in on her mother giving Uncle Stan a blow job in the woodshed.
Yeah, Mom, thanks for that. No way anything good could be made out of that little nugget of experience.
Except, maybe, at least it wasn't dad servicing Uncle Stan. No, poor dad was in his study with his beloved books, lost in the pages
while he waited for his daughter to come back and finish playing chess. Marianne always won, placing his vanquished pieces in a neat line beside the board, claiming them one by one until he conceded defeat with a weary shake of his head and a befuddled frown.
What she saw that day in the woodshed opened her eyes, but shut down her curiosity about sex. When her mother belatedly tried to tell her the facts of life, Marianne had stopped her with, "I've studied biology, Veronica. I'm sure that will be sufficient to get me through the ordeal." She'd called her mother by her first name from the moment she knew what it was. Somehow "mother" never really suited Veronica Shelton. Yes, she went by her maiden name, using the excuse that she was a known artist before she married—heavily inferring that those were the best years of her life. So the term "wife" didn't really suit Veronica either.
No way could she explain all this to her brothers. Wouldn't want to try. Mike and Ben knew nothing about their mother and Uncle Stan in the woodshed. Good for them. Ben, the eldest, idolized their mother and would never believe a bad word about her. Ben looked at their childhood through glasses with a distinctly rosy tint and Marianne sometimes wondered if they'd been raised in the same household. As for Mike, he danced merrily through his life as if he had nothing to trouble him. He was the warm, friendly guy who always fit in and everybody loved. Life and sex, for Mike, was simple. He met a woman he liked, they dated, they had sex. Comfortable in his skin, her brother never had too many questions demanding answers in his mind. Things followed for him in a natural progression. One day he'd marry and have a kid, but he was in no hurry because he had no fear that it might never happen for him. Her brothers weren't teasing when they said Marianne got all the brains in the family, and they were relieved about it. Why wouldn't they be? They were never troubled with deep thoughts and even deeper anxieties. They were men. Her brothers had it easy.
