by Holly Rayner
Not all of the sting, though.
After telling Stella happy birthday, and then joining a parade of kids (Christy has three, all under the age of seven) and dogs (two giant, slobbering dogs, also under the age of seven) to the kitchen, I give Christy a hug and then start to vent.
“You won’t believe this,” I say as she pours me a glass of sparkling water. “You know how I had a job interview downtown a few days ago?”
“You mentioned it,” Christy says. She hands me the seltzer and then starts rummaging around in the fridge. “What was it this time… the head of a marketing department or something?”
“Marketing Specialist for a big bank,” I say. “My interview went terribly. I mean, I crashed and burned… hard. But then, I met this guy.”
“Oh! A guy! This sounds promising. You never talk about guys,” Christy says, as she places celery and a bunch of parsley out on the counter.
I sip my drink while walking over to the cupboards where I know the cutting boards are kept. “I know. That’s because I don’t usually go out with them,” I say. “I’m too busy.”
“Oh, please.” Christy rolls her eyes. “You’re not too busy really. You just think you’re too busy. You need to divorce that career you’re married to and actually hit the singles scene. If I wasn’t married with kids, I swear…” She pokes her head out of the fridge and looks toward the kitchen door to make sure none of the kids are around to eavesdrop on our adult conversation. “The new delivery guy, Steve, is smokin’ hot. If I was single…” She shakes her head, showing that Steve would be in trouble.
I laugh at my friend’s antics. “What happened to the old delivery guy?” I ask. “The one who always brought the dogs treats?”
“He retired,” Christy says.
I bring the celery to the sink, rinse it off, and then place it on the cutting board.
“Now we have Steve,” Christy says as I start to chop. “And mm-mmm, he is fine. Hey! I should set the two of you up. What are you doing next Saturday?”
“I’m not coming over here to have an awkward dinner with your delivery guy,” I say. “No matter how hot he is.”
“You haven’t even seen him,” Christy protests.
I laugh again and then say, “Can I just finish my story?”
“Oh! Right,” Christy says, rinsing cherry tomatoes. “So you had the interview, it bombed hard, and then you met a guy…”
“You want to talk about hot,” I say. “This guy is tall, blond, with these intense blue eyes, and a kind of rugged appearance. You would never guess he works for a bank, just by looking for him.”
“He’s a banker?” she asks.
“I think he does lots of things,” I say. “He owns several companies, and one of them is the bank he founded—which is the same bank I applied to. We hit it off right away and had this amazing night together.”
She looks across the kitchen at me and raises her brows. “Like, dinner and a kiss?”
“Dinner, drinks, dancing, and a lot of kisses,” I say. “And more than that, too. I ended up spending the night at his house.”
“Get out of here!” Christy says happily as she waves a dishcloth in my direction.
I want to share her happiness, but instead I frown. “It was great… or I thought it was great, but…”
“But what?” she asks. Before I can answer she says, “Should I preheat the oven now, for the cake?”
I nod. “Three-fifty. We’ll get it in right after we prep the salad fixings. The party starts at two, right?”
I’ve been helping Christy cook food for her kids’ birthday parties ever since she had her first, Joshua, six years ago. Now it’s become a bit of a ritual—me arriving a few hours early, and the two of us spending time in the kitchen together. We function like a well-oiled machine. Each of us knows the duties we have to do to put the menu together, which makes chatting easier.
After preheating the oven, Christy returns to the tomatoes and says, “He didn’t call? Is that it?”
I shake my head and stop chopping. I lean against the counter with one hand and wave my knife around with the other as I say, “Not only that. He’s a founder of GFC Bank, and he made it sound like I was a shoo-in for the position I applied for. He said they’d be lucky to have me. And yet, I just got a call from the bank saying that they gave the job to someone else.”
Christy’s eyes get wide. “You applied for a position at GFC Bank?”
I nod. “I actually think I would have been great at it, too, just while I get my feet back on the ground with Karla’s Kitchen. That failed advertising campaign hit me hard, and getting my website ready to take orders cost a pretty penny, too.”
Christy is still staring at me. “I am so glad you didn’t get that job,” she says.
“Christy!” I say, offended. “How can you say that? I need the money.”
She shakes her head. “You’re better off, Karla, I’m telling you. That bank is evil. Do you know that’s the bank that loaned me and Ian money for this house? Ever since Ian was laid off, we’ve had trouble with the payments, and the bank is threatening to take the house away.”
Now it’s her turn to frown and lean against the counter. She looks suddenly tired and defeated.
I hate seeing her like that. I walk up to her and give her a hug. “I didn’t know that,” I say as I squeeze her tight. “I knew things were tight, but I didn’t know they were that tight.”
When we part, Christy picks up her knife again. She starts chopping as she says, “They just need to give us some time, that’s all. We’ve had two meetings with them already, explaining the situation, but they just won’t listen to us. Like I said, they’re evil. It’s a heartless corporation. They don’t care about the people they lend money to. They just care about the money.”
“It’s a business,” I say. I know immediately that I’ve said the wrong thing. Christy shoots me an annoyed look, and I try to soften my statement. “I mean, I’m sure that GFC Bank doesn’t have anything against you and Ian personally. The people you met with were just doing their jobs.”
“I get that,” she says. “But they could at least have some compassion. That’s the problem with these big businesses. There’s no soul left. No compassion. I mean, the kids love this neighborhood. They’d be devastated to leave. There’s no way we could find a place that would house all of us, and the dogs, with a yard and everything… Ian has a few leads on jobs, and if they’d just give us a few more months to get back on our feet, everything would be fine.”
I feel sorry for my friend, but I can’t think of anything to say. If I had money to lend her, I would.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
“Thanks,” Christy says. “I hope so. I keep telling myself that they can’t just kick us to the curb, but each letter sounds more and more threatening and urgent.”
She lifts her chin. “Enough about that already, hm? I don’t want to think about it today. Today is a happy day, for celebrating Stella. But you see why I’m glad you didn’t get the job, right?”
I nod. “I guess so,” I say.
“There will be other positions out there for you,” Christy says. “Honestly, if this guy you met is a founder of that evil bank, I’m glad he didn’t call you back. You deserve a nice guy, with a huge heart, Karla—not some power-hungry, greedy, self-centered—”
A beep from the oven, alerting us that the temperature within has reached 350 degrees, cuts off her rant.
“Let’s get that cake batter ready,” I say, reaching for a bag of flour that’s already out on the counter. “I’ll mix together the dry ingredients if you do the wet ones.”
We start chatting about the cake, and I can tell that my friend is happy to get her mind off of the impending foreclosure. As I mix together flour, sugar, baking soda and a pinch of salt, I think over her words. Maybe I will be better off working for a smaller company rather than the big, imposing bank. Smaller companies do have “more heart,” like Christy said. Maybe I’m be
tter off without Garrett in my life, too.
He didn’t seem heartless on the night we spent together, but how well do I really know him? We only had one night together. He could be power-hungry, greedy, and selfish, just like Christy said. I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to contact me, and I didn’t get the job at his bank, so it looks like I’m not going to find out.
I have to accept that.
It’s time for me to move on.
Chapter 5
Garrett
I arrive in my office at six a.m. sharp, an hour earlier than usual. I was in New York longer than expected, and I have plenty of work to catch up on. The extra hour should set me up well for a day filled with meetings.
Justin, my assistant, enters just as I settle in behind my desk. I look up and greet him with a nod. “I see you got my text,” I say as he sets a steaming cup of coffee before me. “Thanks for coming in early.”
“Not a problem,” he tells me. He sets a manila folder in front of me. “I sorted through your emails and printed the most important ones,” he says. “The most urgent messages are on the top, of course.”
“Any word from the manufacturing company in Singapore? I’m expecting an offer on Trade Express today.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t see anything, but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from them.” He pulls out his phone and briefs me on my meetings for the day. Then he heads out, leaving me with the coffee and a stack of printed emails.
I begin leafing through them, handing the most urgent issues first. It’s eight by the time I reach the last paper in the folder. It’s a company newsletter from GFC Bank. I scan it quickly, and an article at the bottom of the page catches my eye: Finalists Chosen for Marketing Specialist Position, Downtown Branch.
Marketing Specialist… isn’t that the job that Karla applied for?
It’s been a week since we spent the night together. I left for New York immediately after, and was there for four days, instead of the one that I expected. I returned to a pile of work, and I’ve had my nose to the grindstone ever since.
I haven’t called her.
I haven’t texted.
I don’t even have her number.
Did she get the job? Is she going to work here, in the same building where I have my office?
I set down my coffee, and my heart beats faster as I scan the list.
Felicity Peralta
Imani Keita
Troy Sampson
And that’s it. No Karla. Karla… what is her last name?
My mind drifts to memories of the night we spent together. I lean back in my chair as I think of her, as I often have over the past week. We talked about so many things that night, but I don’t think I ever got her last name.
Ah yes! I remember now. Mrs. Romano mentioned it when I first met Karla during my lunch hour. Morelli, was it? Or… Moretti? Yes, that’s it, Moretti.
Why didn’t she get the job?
She was qualified, if I remember correctly. She graduated at the top of her class in business school, and even better, she’s working on starting her own business. GFC Bank needs employees like her: driven, motivated, and courageous.
I pick up my cell and dial the HR department. I’m going to ask them to call her and offer her the position. It’s not too late to ask them to add her to the list of finalists.
The phone rings once, twice, three times.
By the third ring, I’m second-guessing my plan.
What if Karla doesn’t want the job? She interviewed a week ago. She was so sharp—that was one of the things I liked best about her. A smart woman like her probably has several companies fighting over her at this point. She might not want to be interested in the Marketing Specialist job anymore.
I’d better call her myself and ask her, rather than having the HR department contact her.
It will be a good excuse to talk to her, too. It’s been too long. I should have called earlier. I’ve just been so swamped.
By the time the HR department picks up, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to call Karla directly.
I get her number from the recruiter, hang up, and then take a moment to compose myself. I sip my coffee, take a few deep breaths, and then dial.
The call goes to voicemail. “Karla, hi… this is Garrett. Garrett Green.” I pause and clear my throat. I want to keep this message brief—I hate rambling voice messages. I tap my pencil against the desk a few times as I continue. “Listen—I should have called earlier. I’ve been busy. I’m calling because I want to know if you’re still interested in the Marketing Specialist position. Call me back if you get this. It will be… it will be nice to talk about the position. I’m curious if you still want it.”
I want to say more. I want to say that I’ve been thinking of her.
I don’t know if that would be appropriate, over the phone, so I just stop there.
I enjoyed my evening with Karla. I want to get to know her better, but I’m not sure if she feels the same way. For all I know, the night meant little to her.
I set the phone down but continue tapping my pencil against the desk. An anxious, unsettled feeling courses through me. I try to push it away by making a few calls that need to be completed before my meetings begin.
The feeling doesn’t go away. Instead, it gets worse, and I find myself checking my phone again and again for missed calls from Karla Moretti.
My nine o’clock meeting takes my mind off of her for a few hours, but by noon I’m right back to checking my calls. Karla hasn’t called me back.
Maybe she’s busy.
Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me.
Maybe she screens her calls.
That’s it. She probably didn’t even listen to my message. I place another call to the HR department, get Karla’s email, and then open my laptop and begin composing a message to her. I keep it short and sweet, basically just repeating what I said in the voicemail. There. That ought to do it. She runs her own business; she probably checks her email several times a day like I do.
She’ll get my message and respond within the next few hours.
The end of the day arrives, still with no response from Karla, and I finally hear from the CEO of a manufacturing company in Singapore, who informs me that he’d like to make an offer on one of my export businesses, Trade Express.
We set up a virtual meeting, and it carries on well past dark. It’s half-past eight by the time I arrive home, and I’m worn out, tired, and hungry.
I’m dying for dinner and a beer, but before heading to the kitchen to see what my chef prepared, I veer right and make my way up the stairs, two at a time. I left for work before Colt was up, and now might be my only chance to talk to him today. If I wait until after dinner, he’ll already be asleep.
I see his bedroom door, down the hallway, is ajar. A faint light emanates from within the room, casting a sliver of light out into the wide, carpeted hallway. I approach the door, push it open gently, and peek my head inside.
I see Colt, lying on the bed. A book is flat on his chest, his eyes are closed, and his bedside light is still on. He must have fallen asleep while reading.
I can’t believe I missed another day without seeing him.
Guilt fills me as I walk softly across the room and pull the book gently from his hands. It’s a graphic novel about a zombie apocalypse, and I remember how when Colt first brought it home from the book fair at school, he asked if we could read it together. I told him yes, of course, but by the looks of things he’s more than half-way through with it already, and I haven’t read a single page with him.
I click off the light, lean down and kiss his forehead, and then backtrack out of the room.
When I reach the kitchen, Colt’s nanny, Cinda, is waiting for me, along with a dish of food, covered and ready to be microwaved.
Cinda is sitting on one of the barstools that surround the marble countertop, sipping tea and flipping through a magazine. As I enter the room, she stands.
“Welcome hom
e, Mr. Green,” she says. “How was your day?”
“Busy,” I say. “The usual. How were things here?” I cross the room, making a beeline for the fridge. I pull out a bottle of beer and twist off the cap as I wait for Cinda to respond.
She closes the magazine and reaches for a pink piece of paper, also sitting on the table.
“Our day was… okay,” she says in a hesitant tone. Clearly, there’s more to the story, and she doesn’t know how to tell me.
I nod in the direction of the paper. “What happened?” I ask.
She pushes the paper toward me. “I had to pick Colt up early from lacrosse. He got into a fight with another one of the boys. It’s the second time this week. They’re suspending him from the team.”
I reach for the paper. “The second time this week?” I say. “I didn’t know about this. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, sir,” Cinda says. “You asked for daily email updates, and I included it in Tuesday’s report.”
I scan the paper and then sigh heavily. “That’s right. I think I do remember something about that.” I set my beer down and run my hand through my hair, pushing it back with frustration.
Cinda shakes her head. “It’s not good… this fighting. It’s a sign he’s unhappy. I saw his teacher when I picked him up early from practice. Mr. Davis says Colt has been very uncooperative in class—always reading under his desk, not participating, and getting into arguments with the other kids.”
I blow out another exhale and mutter an expletive. Then I sip my beer.
“He misses you,” Cinda says. “He needs to have you around more.”
My nanny doesn’t have to tell me this. She’s merely stating a fact that I’ve known for years.
Colt was only one when his mother died. Processing her sudden loss was difficult, and having an infant to care for made it a million times more challenging. I did the only thing I could think of—I delegated. I gave away the task of caring for my child, and I told myself it was a temporary solution. I would hire help, and once I was right in the head again, I would take over as his primary caregiver.
