Love Handles (A Romantic Comedy)

by Gretchen Galway

  Kimberly laughed. “No kidding.”

  Liam had wanted her to be amused, but he himself wasn’t in the slightest. “Aren’t you curious to meet such a woman?”

  “I am, actually,” she said, and Liam felt hopeful, but she added, “but I can’t. Zack would bust my ass. You, an old friend, the gold medal and all that, he’d forgive. Ed Roche’s granddaughter—no.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “We’ve busted our asses for you, Kimberley.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Just one hour. Give her an hour. You might have something strong enough to pass on to Zack.”

  “What do you care? You quit.”

  He didn’t want to care, but he couldn’t just let Bev go under like this. No guilt could land on his head. “On principle,” he said. “Most of the designs are mine. I like to know they’re put to use.”

  “Funny, you never seemed to get too attached to your ideas when we worked together. That was your strength. You never got personal.”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Well. People change.”

  “Apparently. You really like this girl.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You really, really like her.”

  “Everyone does, whether they want to or not. Even George hand-delivers her packages.”

  She paused. “No.”

  “Really.”

  “What a nightmare.” She laughed softly. “Good thing I’m not at Fite anymore. I would probably hate her.”

  “You’d want to, but then she’d bring you a Meyer lemon tart from Gerard’s and you’d be her bitch forever.”

  “Oh,” she moaned. “I love those.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. She’d know,” he said. “In fact I’m surprised she hasn’t sent you any yet. Like, Fed Ex or something.”

  “If she promised to bring me—” she stopped herself. “No, damn it, no. I called you because I had some weird old guilt, but I’m over it. If you’re ever in the frozen north, give me a ring. Hey, you looking for a job? Because—”

  “No.” But he wondered. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. And getting thousands of miles away from Bev had its appeal. “At least, not yet. I’m taking a little time off.”

  “Don’t wait too long. People will forget about you.”

  Liam had the sick feeling one of the people forgetting him might be Bev. He dropped the phone on his unmade bed, went over to the window and stared out at the Bay Bridge, over the monochromatic grays of water and steel and fog, towards Oakland.

  Not now, she wouldn’t. Not if Fite went under because of him.

  He scowled at his face reflected back at him in the glass, noticing the streak of paint in his hair. He touched it, trying to wipe it off, and his fingers came away sticky and red.

  Not my problem. He turned away from the window and walked across the room to find a clean rag and finish what he’d started.

  To Bev’s surprise, Rachel didn’t show for their five o’clock meeting Tuesday evening.

  “Nasty UTI,” Rachel said when she called at six, just as Bev was giving up on her. “Sorry I couldn’t call, but it was a bitch. I will totally be there first thing in the morning. The antibiotics should kick in by then.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bev said. “You need your rest.”

  But Bev wasn’t happy about Rachel’s defection. She had spent all day trying to resurrect the Target presentation, printing sketches off the design database and mocking up miniature boards out of new, compact foam core, using new swatches she pasted up herself, imitating as best she could. But it didn’t look nearly as good.

  They could only do their best, but hers might not be good enough.

  Once the building had emptied out, she dragged her cat and her laptop and a stack of financial records upstairs with her, jogging up the stairwell so any stragglers didn’t see her get off the elevator on her grandfather’s old floor.

  Locked up in her suite, she settled Ball next to her on the sofa, wrapped both of them up in the thick purple fleece she’d lifted from the sample yardage room and lost herself in the last two year’s financial documents she’d printed out from the databases. Back at UCLA, to satisfy her father, she’d taken a series of business classes. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for but kept turning pages, eventually catching on to Richard’s accounting style.

  Being in the Fite building after hours, pouring over sell-through numbers and fluctuating profits and enjoying it, Bev decided she wasn’t angry at Hilda anymore. If she hadn’t been so impossible, Bev would be there instead of here—and as crazy as Fite was, with its dysfunction and gossip, its unpredictable schedules and unreliable profitability and temperamental employees, she had to admit that she rather, sort of, kind of, totally loved it.

  Or could have. She missed Liam. Fite wasn’t the same without him.

  I could have loved him.

  She was an idiot. She already loved him. He’d wanted her and she’d chosen Fite and now she’d have neither.

  Ball rose up in a stretch and padded up into her lap, a gesture of affection that had Bev fighting tears.

  You’re just tired. She hadn’t slept well in weeks. Exhausted and lonely, of course she would start doubting herself, getting emotional, wanting the impossible.

  She would never, ever let Liam have the chance to come and work at Fite again because he had given up and run.

  Maybe you’ll apply for a job when I’m gone, my ass, she thought, falling asleep where she lay with Ball in her arms, purple fleece between them and the cold night.

  Just as the sun was coming up through the haze of fog Wednesday morning, her cell phone chirped and vibrated under the couch cushion, waking her from a fitful dream about dancing clothes—like Fantasia with supermodels. Ball meowed and resettled herself facing the other direction, tail under Bev’s nose.

  Bev wriggled to a sitting position, unearthed her phone, squinted at the unfamiliar area code before answering with a yawn, “This is Bev.”

  “Oh, shoot—I woke you,” a woman said. “I swore I’d never do that when I moved back east, but I didn’t get a chance to call you yesterday and didn’t want to put it off any longer.”

  Something about the woman’s voice cut through Bev’s sleep-dulled brain. She sat up straighter. “Who is this?”

  The woman sighed. “I’m Kimberly Jaeger, from Target. I’m afraid I have to cancel the little meeting Liam may have mentioned.”

  Bev’s throat went dry. “What?”

  “It was never an official thing anyway, but as a courtesy I wanted to inform you and your staff of the changes needed due to the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

  “The circumstances—”

  “With Liam no longer an employee.”

  “But—the designs are the same—you have to—”

  “It would be a waste of our mutual resources,” Kimberly said.

  “Hey, don’t worry about my end. They’re already wasted. Might as well—”

  “No. But I hope we get the chance to meet some day.” She sounded like she meant it. “Best of luck to you.”

  “Just a few minutes—”

  The phone clicked, decapitating her hope.

  Her hand sunk down to her lap, thumb over the power button on her phone. She wasn’t sleepy anymore.

  Could Liam have called his old girlfriend out of spite—

  No, she couldn’t believe he would do that. Not without telling Bev first, to rub her nose in it and teach her a lesson.

  No, not even then.

  Ball was still sleeping on the edge of the sofa. Bev ran her hand down her back, savoring her warmth, grateful she wasn’t entirely alone. “Go ahead and sleep in, lazy butt.” Bev tucked the fleece sample yardage around her. “I’ve got to take a shower and have a nervous breakdown.”

  She went out for a bagel before facing the tragedy in her office. She didn’t know what was worse—that she’d recreated the best designs and somehow managed to display
them on foam core in a semi-professional way and it was all for nothing, or that she was relieved she didn’t have to show her efforts to anyone else. For all her work and pride at how far she had come, it probably wasn’t good enough to land a big deal.

  And now she didn’t have to tell Rachel that the original presentation was sabotaged. She’d just hide it all away in a closet and tell her the meeting was canceled, and they’d find another source of capital—from somewhere—until the standard accounts signed their orders and money was flowing again.

  Everything will be fine.

  After leaving Rachel a message on her voice mail, she made her way across town to her car in the discount lot and drove west until Geary Street ended at the Pacific and the sky was a blinding white panorama of fog.

  Parked in front of the Cliff House, squinting at the sea lions and the gulls squatting on the rocks, Bev sucked in an enormous breath and dialed her father’s number.

  “I was wondering if you’d call,” he said.

  “Hi, Dad. How are you?”

  “Save your breath. What do you need?”

  That got her. She pushed open the car door and stepped outside into the cold, gasping as the hard wind blew her hair sideways across her face. “A little emotional support, first of all. Is that too much to ask?”

  “I hear your mother’s up there. Pushed all your buttons again, didn’t she?”

  She squeezed the phone in her hand, tempted to throw it over the concrete retaining wall to the rocky shore below. “I need to ask you a favor.”

  He chuckled. “Here we go. Lay it on me, sweetheart.”

  “Fite is having a short-term cash-flow problem—”

  “Oh, Bev.”

  “Don’t say it!” She picked up a pebble from the wall along the sidewalk and hurled it as hard as she could into the ocean. It was too small to see where it landed, if it even reached the water. “I’m hanging by a thread here. I’m so close. The last thing I need is another person who claims to love me putting me down and doubting my abilities.”

  “I was just going to say—”

  “I know, I know. You told me not to try and I ignored you, and here I am crawling back to you for help. But I’m almost there, Dad. I’m working my ass off and I’m good at it. All I need is one little thing from you and I refuse to listen to all the reasons you think I’m going to fail.” She sucked in a deep breath and bent over to the cracked sidewalk to find a bigger stone to throw.

  He paused. “Your mother must have really done a number on you.”

  “Not just her. Kate. Ellen. You and Andy. Each one of you tells me what I can’t do, why I’m not good enough, tough enough, whatever. Just because I’m not like you.” She threw another rock, grunting with the effort and feeling a strain her shoulder. “I’m sick of it! Just help me out, all right?”

  A gust of wind kicked up and whistled across the mouthpiece of her phone, deafening the line. If her father said anything she couldn’t hear it. Feeling drained, she brushed the hair out of her eyes, sucking in another breath of ocean air, and got back in the car.

  The phone was quiet. She pulled it away from her ear to read the display, see if he’d hung up. He hadn’t.

  She heard him clear his throat. “First of all, let me apologize,” he said finally.

  Closing her eyes, she sank back into her seat and rubbed her shoulder. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have lost my temper—”

  “Hold on. You’ve had your say. Let me have mine.”

  She swallowed. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “First of all, I apologize for my bad taste in choosing your mother. I bear primary responsibility for that. She’s never been the nurturing type and since I’m not either, you’ve been left holding the shit end of the stick.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish.”

  She bit her lip. “Sorry.”

  “However,” he continued, “as much as I hate to admit it, you wouldn’t be the terrific person you are without her DNA. And since there’s nothing we can do about changing the past anyway, you’ll just have to accept my condolences for your unlucky break in the mother department and move on.”

  Terrific person?

  “Now, about this crazy idea you have that I think you’re going to fail.”

  “It’s not crazy. You practically said just that when we had lunch that day. Andy too.”

  “You misunderstood us. You’d never worked in a struggling corporation, people depending on you, lacking the resources to make it work. We were afraid you didn’t realize what you were getting into. That you’d be unhappy.” He paused. “Like us.”

  Her breath caught. She’d never thought he was unhappy with his work—just life in general. “You’re unhappy?”

  “Not always. But often. I see Andy falling into the same trap and it would kill me to watch you make the same mistake. No family, working a hundred hours a week, pissing your life away. And for what? I’ve made a mess of a couple marriages, but one thing I’ll never regret is having you and Andy. The best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Bev wiped her eyes. “Oh, Dad.”

  “And it kills me that you think I’d want to rub your nose in your mistakes. If I’ve ever done that before, I’m sorry. My own father was like that and I never forgave him. Dead almost thirty years and I’m still shouting at him in my sleep.”

  She didn’t know what to say. He’d never spoken about his father, never hinted at any unresolved pain. Her tears threatened to wash away her contacts; she dug into her purse for a tissue. “I always wondered about him.”

  “He wasn’t easy but he provided for us. That was a man’s job back then,” he said roughly. “Can’t live in the past, but I don’t want to repeat it either. You’ve got to know I love you.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “And that I’m proud of you. Always have been. If I criticized your job it’s just because I thought you deserved better. You do deserve better,” he said. “This company of your grandfather’s—they’re lucky to have you.”

  She closed her eyes and felt the tears escape down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That means so much.”

  “And whatever I can do to help you out, I’m honored to do it. I wish I hadn’t screwed up, driving you to wait this long to ask for my assistance,” he said. “Andy feels the same way. He’s chomping at the bit to fly up there and support you, but I told him we had to wait for an invitation. Out of respect.”

  She had to put the phone down to blow her nose. After she could speak, she lifted it back to her face. “Thank you, Dad.”

  He didn’t respond right away. “I love you, sweetheart.” He cleared his throat roughly. “So, now that that little Oprah moment is out of the way, what can I do for you?”

  She watched a sea lion, balancing on the edge of a large rock in the surf, roll onto its back and wave its flippers like a child making a snow angel.

  Then she looked at herself in the rearview mirror, into her bright, red-rimmed eyes, and felt a surge of power, love, and hope.

  “I need Annabelle Tucker’s direct phone number,” she said, and smiled.

  Chapter 23

  When Bev walked into Richard's office, he was combing his hair and staring off into space. She had to tap on the door frame to get his attention. “Morning.”

  Clutching the comb in his palm, he glanced down at his desk, slapped a book shut, and frowned up at her. “You’re early.”

  “I had to move up another meeting.” She smiled and took a seat across from him, pretending not to stare at the Tom Clancy hardcover he had under his elbows. Nice to know somebody had a little extra time. “I got your message.” First the Target call, then her dad, now Richard. Bad day to use the telephone.

  “You need to make a decision today,” he said. “Payroll’s next Friday.”

  She looked into his droopy face. At first she had felt sorry for him getting fired and rehired and having so little respect among
the other management, if Liam was any judge. But now she knew better. “I’m not going to lay off two dozen people just because you say so.”

  He frowned down at his desk “You got rid of everyone else who knew anything.”

  “I didn’t get rid of anyone.”

  “Ellen would disagree.”

  “You don’t work for her anymore.” She looked down at the stack of spreadsheets in her lap, flipped through them until she found the worst one. “I have a question about some of your numbers.”

  His eyes darted up to her face. He didn’t take the paper she held out to him. “Oh?”

  “In fact, I have a question about one number in particular. One kind of big number. From June.”

  Richard’s lower lip, shiny with spit, began to quiver. He closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

  His confession wasn’t as heartfelt as she’d wanted, but it would do. “You could have told me,” she said. “I know how . . . forceful . . . my aunt can be.”

  “It was my idea,” he said. “All these years, and then he left it to a stranger. It just didn’t seem right.”

  “She wasn't the owner. You had no authority.”

  “One little bonus. She would pay you off, then come back. Full circle. I saw it as a Fite-related business expense.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But then you didn’t take it, and, well . . . ”

  “She fired you. That must have been a shock.”

  “And she kept the money. Your grandfather had already taken out quite a bit of cash earlier this year.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Fite just doesn’t have the legs to pull through.”

  Bev took out another stack of spreadsheets, barely controlling the urge to shake him. “It might if you stop paying executives who don’t work here anymore. Can you give me one good reason why you keep sending checks—very large checks—to Ellen’s home address?”

  “It’s her salary.”

  “She quit!”

  He glanced away. “Nobody filled out the paperwork.”

  Inside her, Bev felt the last strands of patience snap. She slammed her hands on the desk and leaned over it into Richard’s face. “Drop the bullshit, Richard. I’m your boss. Me. Not her.”