Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  “Because they have high tables, right? And people are more attentive when seated at a high table.”

  “My little boy is growing up.”

  “Told you I’m more than a pretty face. Now remember, we’ve got three dates scheduled for tonight. I’ll follow up with them tomorrow morning. And this month’s meet-and-greet is at the Marston House, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Am I including Nixon on this list?”

  Sara’s charming smile comes to mind. “Nah, he’ll be off the market soon.”

  An hour later, I’m buried in another client’s file when Andrew places a manila envelope on my desk. “This just came for you.”

  “Thanks.” I tear open the package and dump out a thick stack of papers filled with “tiny, fancy words,” as Jo’s sweet, albeit frantic voice had said.

  “What are those?”

  “Forms for Sean and me to sign. We met with a financial advisor last week and decided to pool our savings accounts to obtain stronger financial holdings, solid margins, and more advantageous yields.”

  “Sorry, I fell asleep while you were talking. What did you say?”

  “Ha. Ha.” I skim through the paperwork, noting the spots for our signatures. Okay, a blue chip mutual fund might not be the sexiest thing in the world, but it’s what I love about Sean, his sturdy footing. Just like with the flowers. In all our years together, he’s sent no other color but white. Some people crave surprises in a relationship, the mystery of the unknown. Not me. I cherish Sean’s consistency. His dependability. His control.

  I return the documents into the envelope and type Sean a quick text, hoping to catch him before court. He’s arguing a lucrative case against a real estate developer facing tax evasion charges. He’s worked on the case for months and every night this past week. Poor guy, he’s so stressed and busy I’ve hardly seen him since we met with the advisor.

  Got the docs. Joint account . . . we’re such grown-ups. :)

  I’m about to call Jo and check on her when my office door flings open and Randi, my publicist, blows into the room with the force of a jet turbine. She marches toward me in ankle-strapped stilettos and a cheetah print dress stretched taut across her ample chest and hips. A black leather purse, which appears the same diameter as the front tire of her Lexus IS C, is slung over her shoulder and a cell phone is pressed against her ear. She settles into my guest chair, rolls her eyes, and says to the caller, “When I schedule a goddamn lunch appointment, you show up on time. You are not the Queen of Sheba. And I wouldn’t wait twenty minutes for her fat ass any more than I’ll wait for yours. Uh-huh. Okay, fine. Love you, too, Mom.”

  Mom? I bet Randi’s ringtone is an air horn.

  I peek at my day calendar but find nothing written about an appointment with Randi. “Sorry, I don’t recall a meeting today.”

  “Oh, honey, we don’t have one. But have I got news. Have. I. Got. News. First, I crunched some numbers on your projected sales.”

  “Did you?” My fingertips drain to white as I brace my hands on the edge of my desk for support. Stay calm, Bree. This is the moment you’ve waited for. You’ve written a good book. A helpful book. Randi wouldn’t come in person if the expectations were bad. Right? I try to hide the rising pitch in my voice but end up squeaking like a pubescent boy. “And, so the numbers . . . ?”

  “Yes, the early response is promising.”

  “Really?” I relax my pose and my heart starts beating again. “That’s great news.”

  “If you’re happy with mediocrity.”

  “Well, no, I—”

  “Promising numbers aren’t enough. We want mind-blowing numbers. And that means we have a shitload of work to do.”

  “In that case, I’ll pull on my boots.”

  She doesn’t laugh.

  C’mon . . . that’s funny.

  “Now, remember, when you hired me, you hired the best. In the nineteen years I’ve been in this business, only a handful of my clients haven’t reached the list.”

  “What list? Wait . . . you mean . . . the bestseller list?”

  “No, my grocery list. Of course, the bestseller list. Isn’t this why you hired me?”

  “I hired you for recognition, sure, but I never . . . I never thought I’d have a shot.”

  “Every book has a shot.” She taps her glossy red acrylic nail on my desk. “You’re familiar with the escalator clause in your contract, aren’t you? A twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus if you reach the bestseller ranking.”

  “Yes, but honestly, I glossed over that section, never thinking I . . . I . . . really?” Stop trembling, Bree.

  “Honey, I made a bestseller out of a French Provincial cabinetry poem book. So, if you follow my advice, I mean follow everything that I suggest to the letter, then, Bree Caxton, Can I See You Again? may very well land on the top twenty.”

  “Oh my God.” This is wild. I picture Jo clutching my book against her chest with one arm and hugging me tight with the other. Andrew and me dancing like idiots, waving my book in the air. A line of eager readers waiting for my autograph. Slow down, Bree. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Way ahead of yourself. Then all the variables and could-go-wrongs zip back and forth through my mind like a Fast and Furious movie car chase. Worry spreads through my veins like a virus. “You’re not pulling me along, right? Please don’t say I’ll make the list if it isn’t true.”

  “I never joke about money. The book’s quite good, you know.”

  “You read it? I didn’t think you’d—”

  “My assistant said it didn’t suck. Remember now, I stand to gain from your success. So, no, I’m not stroking you.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “That’s my girl.” She winks. “This brings me to part two. Guess who landed you a five-week installment profile in the National Tribune?”

  “Seriously?” Oh, for Pete’s sake, I can’t hide it. Now I’m really trembling. “No, way? That’s a national newspaper.”

  “The newspaper’s equivalent to People magazine with damn near the same reach. You’ll be featured in the Close-Up section of Sunday’s edition as well as, and maybe most importantly in today’s digital media age, the online version, which has an enormous following and receives something ridiculous like thirty-five million hits a month.” She crosses her legs and straightens her hem. “You can thank me now.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” This is incredible. I resist the urge to climb on top of my desk and pound my chest. “How’d you do this? That newspaper saves those weekend profiles for celebrities, famous chefs, people like that. I’m a newbie, a nobody. How’d you secure this?”

  “Gave the editor a blow job.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  She laughs. “I’m kidding.”

  I fear she’s not, but I shake the thought—and image—from my head and focus on the opportunity at hand. “Wow, Randi. This is fantastic.”

  “Listen up. Lucy Hanover of KMRQ, you know, the radio host?”

  “Of course. She’s the Oprah of morning talk shows.”

  “KMRQ is an affiliate of the Tribune and Lucy reads the paper religiously. The Close-Up section is her favorite. She can make or break a new author by mere mention of their name on her show. She falls in love with you during this segment and you’re golden.”

  I stand and pace behind my chair, rubbing my forearm with my opposite hand. “Randi, this is unbelievable, but I must admit, five weeks? What’s the story? What do I talk about?” Aside from the fact that I can recite the Budweiser beer slogan, I’m not that exciting. Oh, wait . . . I do know a couple of card tricks.

  “You and your life. They want to know the ins and outs of Bree Caxton and Associates. What makes this business tick. What makes you tick. How you find love so well for the desolate.”

  “I wouldn’t call them desolate.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you call them.” She pulls out a contract from her bag and flips to the signature page.

  I quickly skim through the document and sign.

  “You need to be on point for the next five weeks,” she says. “Be at my beck and call.”

  “I can do that.”

  “This article, along with a blog that my office will initiate and manage, Lucy’s influence, and a few appearances that I’ll arrange will get you noticed by those who matter.”

  This is amazing. I’ve worked so hard. So hard. Wait until I tell Jo.

  “Okay, gotta go.” Randi gathers the contract. “I’ve made myself clear, right? For the next five weeks, I’m your center of influence.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right, then. Go out tonight and celebrate because for the next five weeks, you’ll be a busy girl.”

  “Will do. I already have plans, actually. I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”

  “Make sure your workspace is in order.”

  “Sorry?”

  She forms a triangle with her thumb and index fingers, dancing it over her lap. “Your workspace. Your playground. Your—”

  “Um, yes, got it, thanks.” I flinch at such intimate references. What am I saying? I flinch at all of Randi’s references.

  “I’ll be in touch with more details in the morning. Clear your schedule; the first interview is the day after tomorrow. And don’t wear that outfit. You look like a Banana Republic mannequin.”

  And like the silence of a departed jet plane, the whirlwind of Randi is gone.

  Andrew drums his hands on my desk. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. Your forecast said something to this effect just the other day. Or maybe it was Jo’s . . . I can’t remember. Anyway, you’re gonna be famous.”

  “I don’t know about famous, but can you believe this? The bestseller list. Never in a million years did I think that possible. And twenty-five thousand dollars? God, what I could do with the money. Buy a new copier for the office. Ramp up my advertising campaign. Pay off my credit cards.” Successful business aside, the lease on my ocean-view commercial space is a killer. “If I am dreaming, please don’t wake me.”

  “You’re not dreaming. This is happening. You’ve earned this. My boss and best friend, a bestselling author—”

  “Potential bestselling author.”

  “Shush.” He swats the air with his hand. “I’m super happy for you.”

  “Thanks. I am, too. Phew! What a day.” I slide open the top drawer of my cabinet and search for a client’s file.

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you going to run a hot lap around the office, scream and flail your arms? Buy yourself that new Vuitton clutch? Anything?”

  “Let’s not get too excited. You heard Randi, there’s a lot to do.” I pause, then close the drawer. “Okay, just for a second.”

  We laugh, hopping up and down around my office like a couple of bunny rabbits.

  “You landing that interview, among all the other candidates, is karma. Good things happen to good people.” Andrew slides a stray hair away from my face, then taps my chest. “And you, Bree Caxton, are good people.”

  “Remember, I’m not alone in this. Congrats to you as well. You’ve been right by my side the past few years.”

  “So, you’re buying me the Vuitton clutch?”

  “Nice try.”

  “Well, then, how about I get off early this afternoon?”

  The clock reads four p.m. “Big plans?”

  “Two-for-one special today at Sun-Gun Salon. Thinking of inviting my dad, too, just to hear the terror in his voice. ‘Spray tan? Men don’t get spray tans,’” Andrew says, mocking his father’s throaty timbre. “‘Come spend the day at one of my job sites, swing a hammer or dig a trench. Hard work, that gets you tan.’”

  “It’s not a bad idea, you know.” I fiddle with the cuff of my blazer. How’d Randi know I got this at Banana Republic, anyway? “Your dad’s got a big crew of guys. Cute, strong guys, I’d imagine.”

  “Well, all the more reason for an even tan.”

  “All right, go ahead, get out of here.”

  “Thanks. Oh, I almost forgot. Sara called when you were talking with Randi. She’s working at her new gallery and can’t get away. She asked if you could stop by after work. She’s only two blocks away.”

  “Shoot, that doesn’t leave me much time before dinner,” I mutter to myself. Along with the chocolate cake, I want to pick up a copy of Fallen for Jo before stopping by. I check the clock again, deciding that I’ll feel a heck of a lot better if Sara and I talk face-to-face, making sure she doesn’t hold any ill will toward me or my company. “Call her back and tell her I’ll be there within half an hour.”

  “Will do.” He returns a minute later with Sara’s address. “Here you go. She’s expecting you. The gallery’s on the corner of Grand and Claremont, next to Einstein’s Bagels.”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  “Okay, I’m leaving.” He slides his leather satchel onto his shoulder. “Have a fun night. Take care of you.”

  “Take care of you.” I repeat our favorite line from Pretty Woman, the movie we watched instead of me studying for spring finals, senior year.

  Twenty minutes later I stroll along the boutique-lined sidewalk toward Sara’s gallery. Sean hasn’t responded to my text and court should be over by now, so I make a quick call.

  “Sean Thomas.” He answers on the first ring. I hear the courthouse door swing open and the sound of city traffic fill his background, much like my own.

  “Hi, babe, done with court?”

  “Just finished.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “We won.”

  “Congratulations.” This is a big case for Sean, a cash cow in billable hours, and with this verdict, he’s established himself as a landmark on the map of the litigation world. So why does he sound so distracted? Almost irritated.

  “I’m heading to the office. I’ve got a few things to tie up.”

  “Sure, of course. But real quick, did you get my text about the documents?”

  “I did.”

  “Great, so I’ll bring the forms to dinner. We can toast to our new adventure with a glass of Champagne.” I laugh into dead air. “Sean?”

  “I gotta run.”

  “Okay, see you at Antonio’s.”

  We click off before I tell him about the interview. No worries, we can chat about our day over entrées.

  I reach the floor-to-ceiling double glass doors of Sara’s gallery and stride into the sparse space with its trendy exposed piping, deep plum–painted ceiling, and snow-white walls. Only a few sculptures decorate the floor and a half dozen paintings, blanketed under opaque tarps, lean against wood pallets. The smell of lacquer thinner lingers in the air.

  “Bree, thanks for coming by.” Sara’s footsteps echo against the floor as she walks toward me in a Chanel cream pant suit, bright red ballet flats, and long dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Laden with class—twenty bucks says she has a Norah Jones ringtone—she’s perfect for Nixon. Why didn’t I think of her sooner?

  “Sara, it’s nice to see you.”

  “You as well. Though you wouldn’t know by the mess, we’re only a couple days away from opening. Can I get you something to drink? I have a bottle of Cristal that I’m dying to uncork.”

  “Sounds delicious, but no, thank you.” Cognizant that not all my clients want the world to know they’ve employed a matchmaker, I survey the room and once confident no one is within earshot, I say, “Sara, I want to apologize once more for the atrocious date you had.”

  “Certainly one of my more interesting evenings, I’ll give you that.” Her eyes veer to the left and I fear she’s still upset. Then she shrugs
and says with a hint of her southern background in her voice, “But I learned there are no outstanding warrants for my arrest and they didn’t make me change into one of those god-awful orange jumpsuits, so that’s the takeaway, I suppose.”

  We share a laugh and relief spreads a smile across my face. “A silver lining for sure. All the same, I’m here to make it up to you. I wanted to tell you in person that a very attractive, self-made, and felony-free man, with kind eyes and a snarky sense of wit, will be calling you soon. He’s one of those silent-but-deadly guys.” I plagiarize Andrew.

  “Ooh . . . quiet but sexy. I love that type.”

  “Yes, apparently it’s a popular characteristic. Anyway, his name is Nixon Voss.”

  Her cheeks cast a rosy glow, matching her shoes. “He sounds wonderful.”

  “I think you’ll find him to be a great match, and I’m eager to see what you think of him.” I clap my hands together and say, “So, we’re good? No hard feelings?”

  “My goodness, no. All is forgiven.”

  “Great. I’ll be in touch.” I glance around the room. “This is a lovely space. You’ll do well here.”

  “Thank you. You’ll have to come by when we’re finished.”

  “I’d love to. Let me know what you think of Nixon.”

  The heavy glass door closes behind me and I wave good-bye to Sara before stepping away.

  She waves back with an eagerness inspired by the promise of possibility.

  With a smile as wide as the Pacific Ocean, I think about how grateful I am for the people in my life. Sean and his family, my friends, my clients, Andrew and Jo. Even crazy Randi. And, with a little more hard work, something the success of my business proves I’ve never shied away from, I might find myself with a bestseller on my hands.

  Maybe Andrew’s right. Maybe good things do happen to good people.

  three

  Two hours later, the warm fall breeze tickles my calves as I climb into the backseat of a hired Uber town car. I’m bathed, wrapped in cream lace La Perla lingerie and a burgundy sheath dress, and have readied my workspace. Jo’s book and a boxed slice of cake rests beside me.