She knew I stole the book. But without saying a word, she drove me to the library and I deposited the novel in the drop box. We never spoke of it again.
Now, with Jo in mind, a surge of motivation pushes through me.
I will convince Candace, with the same adamancy as Jo, that this interview is about me. No one else. I’m an expert in this field and I don’t need a man to validate my worth. I am Bree Caxton, a proven puppet master pulling the strings of love.
And I hope Sean gets chlamydia.
Problem is, my self-assuredness lasts for about twenty seconds, long enough for me to notice Candace scowl at Randi and say, “I don’t have time for this.”
“I, too, was under the impression we were ready to go.” By the look on Randi’s face, she’d like to dig her celery stalk out of the trash and bitch-slap me with it.
“It’s clearly stated, Bree,” Candace scolds. “This interview is about you and your life. Including your love life.”
“I understand.” A bead of sweat slides down my spine like a raindrop following a pane of glass. C’mon, little brain . . . think. “He’s, um . . . running a bit late. The surgery ran long . . . um, the blood and the scrotum . . .”
Scotty’s face draws pale. “Jesus.”
Andrew buries his head in his hands.
“Listen, I have a full schedule with no room for excuses. I carved an opening in my schedule to accommodate this story. We’re going to press in two days and if you can’t meet the terms of our arrangement, then we have no arrangement.” She stands to leave.
“No, don’t go. I . . . um . . .” I could stand quickly, tell them I’m sick, came down with a bit of the flu. Maybe sneeze for good measure. But that only delays my predicament. Buck up, Bree. Where’s the backbone of a moment ago? Just tell the truth. “Okay, truth is, I don’t—”
“Oh, pardon me,” a man’s smooth familiar voice says, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Nixon stands behind Candace in the doorway, dressed in a suit the color of ash and a crisp shirt matching the whiteness of his eyes. I smell the amber scent in his aftershave. My library card rests in his palm.
Candace doesn’t acknowledge him. She plants her hands on her hips and says, “I’ll ask you one more time, Bree Caxton. Where is your boyfriend?”
Looking back and forth between her and Randi, Andrew, and Scotty. I think of Lawrence Chambers’s e-mail.
Auction.
Lose her house.
Without realizing what I’m doing, I feel for my scar. The toughened and raised pink flesh tingles as I follow the mark, seeing the hint of my mom’s narrow hands and slender fingers in my own. I’d never noticed the similarities until the night I sat rigid in the backseat of Dad’s Jeep Cherokee with arms folded across my chest in an adolescent act of defiance. Illuminated by the dashboard lights, Mom’s thumb massaged Dad’s vein, bulging above his temple, soothing his anger as he drove us toward home.
I think about the screams and shattered glass, the hissing fluids, the smell of fuel, the sirens, the twisted steel. I think about Jo falling to her knees in the hospital waiting room when the doctor told us that Dad and Mom, Jo’s only daughter, died. I think about the deafening silence between us two as we packed away their plates, linens, and clothes, removed the pictures from the walls and closed their front door. I think about the mistake I made and how our lives have never been—and never will be—the same. I think about how it’d feel to no longer be burdened by shame.
Auction.
Lose her house.
Right here. Right now is my chance to prevent it.
A tiny white lie.
“All right, Scotty, let’s go.” Candace turns to gather her things. “We’ll run that piece on wild horses in New Mexico.”
“No, please, don’t go.”
She stops. “What is it, Bree?”
I know it’s wrong.
I know I haven’t much time.
I know I’ve taken Jo’s daughter and son-in-law from her, and I can’t—I won’t—let the house disappear, too.
I march past Candace and curl my hands around Nixon’s arm. “Here he is. This is my boyfriend.”
ten
“He’s your boyfriend?” Candace asks.
“He is,” I confirm.
“I am?” Nixon’s bicep flexes. He starts to pull away.
I squeeze tighter. “Listen to him joke. He’s so funny. One of the many reasons I love him so, so much.” My neck itches. Tiny spikes of heat prickle my skin, right underneath my chin, and I clench my teeth, fighting like hell not to scratch it.
“My, my, aren’t you the cat’s ass?” Randi says, moistening her lips.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nixon’s facial expression. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, like he made a wrong turn into a seedy neighborhood. I don’t dare look at Andrew, whose gasp almost blew my cover.
“Well, I’m glad you finally made it,” Candace says. “We were beginning to wonder if she had a boyfriend at all.”
“Oh, that’s funny.” I laugh louder than I should. “Candace, can we have a minute? Nixon needs to um . . . wash his hands or something. Surgery and all.”
“Real quick,” Candace says. “We’re behind schedule as it is.”
I escort Nixon into the break room.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I know it’s ridiculous and I’m very sorry, but please, do me this one favor.”
“Pose as your boyfriend? Are you kidding me?”
Heat creeps along my throat, spreading to the other side. “I’m not kidding.”
“Why is your neck so red?”
I claw my skin like a raccoon tearing at a bag of trash. “I break out in hives when I lie. My friends think it’s cute.”
“Puppies are cute. Mottled skin is not cute.”
“Well, I can’t help that I’m so transparent.”
“Listen, I’ve got a lot of work to get done today.” He checks his watch. “And a conference call in an hour.”
“This won’t take long. I promise.” Another lie. I have no idea how long this will take. The stinging spreads behind my neck, underneath my hairline.
“Why would I do this?”
I explain my book, the interview, the contract requirement.
“So . . . again, why would I do this? You have a boyfriend. Sean, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.” I stare at my shoes. “He broke up with me a couple nights ago. Apparently, I stifled him. And you know the really sad part of it? I thought we were forever.”
He flicks the library card against his other palm. “Nothing is forever.”
I’m held by his look, which is tough but tender, like a lion with a thorn stuck in his paw. What’s made Nixon so cynical?
The matter at hand redirects my thoughts. “Sean screwed up my personal life, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to wreck my professional life, too. I’ve sunk my teeth into this book. Now comes along this interview, which will expose my efforts and potentially catapult me to a bestseller ranking. And I know you said the bestseller ranking isn’t the only threshold of success, but right now, for me, it is. I need that ranking. I need the money that comes along with it.”
“Why, what’s the money going to do?”
“My grandmother owes back taxes and her house is at risk. I can’t let that house go. I can’t. The house means everything to her and she means everything to me. And more than protecting the roof over her head, it’s my chance to maybe . . . just maybe . . . erase a little bit of my guilt.” My voice dwindles to a whisper. I shake my head and wipe the tears forming in my eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. I know this isn’t your concern. It’s just, I’m in a terrible spot and I need a boyfriend now. If I blow this, I blow everything.”
Nixon’s phone chimes with yet another message. H
e scans the text and types a reply before saying to me, “My nephew scored the highest ever on his test yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
He slips the phone into his pocket. “And you prevented a meltdown.”
“Kid Town is serious business.”
He hands me my library card, casting a long glance at Candace, then back at me. “My grandmother, Noni, loves to cook. She makes these fried apple slices dusted with powdered sugar. Ever had them?”
I shake my head.
“They’re awful. Greasy on the outside, squishy on the inside, taste like cardboard, no flavor whatsoever. But every year on New Year’s Day, rain or shine, she makes them for me, has for as long as I can remember. She’s a tiny thing, only about four feet tall, needs a step stool to reach the upper cabinets. She scoots that damn stool from one side of the kitchen to the other, spending the whole day frying and dusting apples. Sugar gets all over the floor.” He tugs his ear and says with a half grin, “I love my Noni. I don’t like fried apples, but I love my Noni.”
Almost got him. “Please,” I beg.
“It’s that important to you?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“One interview?”
“One and done. They won’t even ask you more than a question or two. You’re here to confirm my credibility. You’re just a prop.”
“Boy, you know how to pump up a guy.”
“Obviously you’re more than a prop, but you know what I mean. The other interviews will focus on my work and stuff. Today is just an intro to me and my life. Will you do it?”
“Under one condition.”
I press my fist to my lips, trying not to smile. “Name it.”
“You come to my cousin’s wedding.”
“Me?” I’m taken back. I thought he’d say a month of free dates, a car wash coupon, or an actual Bree Caxton and Associates bumper sticker. Pose as his girlfriend? I didn’t see that coming. “Why me? Why not Sara?”
“Because I might like Sara. And, aside from the fact that my mom will corner Sara and cram the benefits of prenatal care and breast-feeding down her throat, the wedding is on a Friday, as if people don’t have jobs to consider. Something about it being the same day they met. I don’t know.” He frowns. “Anyway, it’s lousy timing because I have two deals scheduled to close that day. It’d be a hell of a lot easier not having to worry about a budding relationship.”
“So you want me to come, but you’re going to blow me off once we’re there? Sneak off and work?”
“More or less.”
“Boy, you know how to pump up a girl.”
“It’s the terms of my agreement.”
“But if they think I’m your girlfriend—”
“You’re only there to prove my credibility. You’ll just be a prop.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Help me get my mom off my back for the time being. If Sara and I work out, then I can say you and I broke up and bring her into the mix down the line.”
“I don’t want to trick your family.”
“Why not? You’re proposing to trick the country.”
“Touché.”
“Bree, let’s get started.” Randi waves me over.
“And no pictures of me in the paper,” he says.
“You said one condition.”
“The last thing I need is my face plastered in this article.”
“I can’t guarantee that.”
“Then I’m out.”
“Fine, fine . . . I don’t know how I’ll do it, but no pictures. Do we have a deal?”
We shake and I can’t resist sliding my arms around his neck for a quick hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Settle down. And put some cream on your neck.”
“You ready?” I ask.
“What type of doctor am I, anyway?”
“Urologist.”
“Of course I am. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Me either.
I can almost see the nervous sparks bouncing off my body as we join Candace and the others. This may very well be the most asinine thing I’ve ever done, even dumber than the time Andrew and I drank half a bottle of Fireball and he dared me to lick a lightbulb to see if it was hot.
It was.
“Ah, finally,” Candace says. “Do we have another chair for . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
Nixon hesitates. He won’t want his real name in the papers any more than his face.
“Nick,” I interject. “His name is Nick.”
“Nice to meet you. Have a seat.” Candace plants herself across from us in my desk chair.
While Candace sifts through a few notes, I lean toward Nixon and whisper, “Don’t sit like that.”
He faces straight with one leg crossed over the other in a figure-four position. “What are you taking about?”
“It looks like you’re mad.”
“I am mad.”
“No, you’re not. This’ll be fun.”
“Fun is snowboarding in Taos with a twelve-inch layer of virgin powder. This here, is not fun.”
“Uncross your legs and turn toward me. Especially your feet. Feet are a dead giveaway.”
“My feet?”
“We need to give Candace the best impression. Trust me, I know this stuff.”
“And what about you? You’re sitting straighter than a ventriloquist’s dummy.”
My knees, calves, and ankles are pressed together. My hands are folded in my lap. And, yes, my back is straight. “This is called good posture, thank you very much. A nonthreatening pose. C’mon.” I smack his knee.
“I’m comfortable. I’m not changing my position.”
“Fine. But right now your feet are telling Scotty you’re into him.”
Nixon uncrosses his legs and turns toward me.
I giggle.
“Ah, look at you two, laughing. What a handsome couple.” She turns on her recorder again. “Okay, everyone ready?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“What we’d like to do today is highlight both your professional and personal life. Get to know Bree, both in and out of the office. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
“So, Bree, why matchmaking?”
“That’s easy, love.”
“Love?”
“Yeah, I’m a sucker for it.”
“Everyone loves love.”
“I suppose. But not everyone gets to facilitate it. Not everyone gets to watch the journey of two people and witness a connection of spirits. I mean, the smiles, the banter, the first touch, the bright eyes, all of it. I witness the beginnings of a potential family. What’s better than that? What’s more powerful than love?”
“How’d you get started in matchmaking? Childhood dream? Family business? Is there some sort of school that trains for this type of profession?”
“None of the above. I went to college with a journalism degree in mind, but my sophomore year I took a psychology class that focused on kinesics, you know, nonverbal communication, and it hooked me. I switched my major and started utilizing what I’d learned, setting up friends and classmates for fun. Word spread and before I knew it, people offered to pay me to find them a date. One thing led to another and here I am.”
“Fascinating.” Candace jots a few notes. “So, tell me, what are some of these nonverbal communications that you take notice of?”
“Well, for starters there are six universal facial expressions.” I count them off on my fingers. “Happiness, sadness, fear, disgust, surprise, and anger. And at any given time, we indicate, whether consciously or not, one of these expressions.”
“Really? This is quite interesting. What else?”
“Eighty percent of communication is nonverbal, so you can i
magine there are a ton of clues. For example, a woman might flick her hair or lift her chin when walking by an attractive man.”
“Or suck in her stomach.” Candace pats her own with a short laugh.
“Exactly. Whereas a man might puff up his chest and walk with an erect back. We all do it, in one form or another. Nonverbal communication speaks louder than words.”
“Okay, so how do we know if someone rolls their eyes because they’re annoyed or simply trying to get a stubborn eyelash out?”
“Good question. It’s a given that a long gaze from a woman indicates she’s interested, but we shouldn’t make a sweeping conclusion based on one signal. Clusters of—”
Randi fake-coughs and catches my attention. “Bree, don’t show the kitty.”
Right. “Let me assure you, Candace, there’s much more to matchmaking and enabling a lasting connection than body language. I employ several factors when matching two people. I discuss this and other influences in greater detail in my book, Can I See You Again?”
Randi offers a thumbs-up.
Score one for a shameless plug.
“Say I were a client of yours. What services am I provided? I mean, with all the online dating sites available, why you?”
“There are a lot of choices online, that’s for sure. But often these come with risks. Whether it’s physical, financial, or psychological, safety is an element of concern. Along with background checks, I offer another layer of service. I meet personally with each one of my clients. We talk at length about favorite restaurants, books, movies, how the price of cable has shot through the roof, which teams will or won’t make the playoffs. But I’m not relying one hundred percent on their answers for my assessment. I’m reading them. I’m determining what counter-type personality will best suit them. These are innate truths that a computer program can’t recognize, let alone decipher. With this insight, I can pair up two people with extreme confidence.”
“So you’re saying you have some sort of inherent ability?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, then what? The pair meets for a date?”
“That’s the goal. But not everyone is comfortable with a blind date of sorts, so, as an alternative, I host a reception once a month geared to like-minded clients at a venue compatible with their common interests. For example, a couple of months ago I pooled my more adventurous, outgoing clients and kayaked the seven caves of La Jolla, then met for a barbecue on the beach. And, later this week actually, my more conservative, educated clients are meeting at the historic Marston House Gardens. Now, I’m not saying online dating is bad, I’m saying I’m better.”
Can I See You Again? Page 8
