Shine Your Love on Me

by Jean C. Joachim

  “What?” Brooke rose up off the sofa and began to pace.

  “Remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Who’s saying this?”

  “The HR person has let it slip to one or two of the biggest gossips in the industry. They took care of the rest.”

  “Damn. I should sue. That’s slander, defamation.”

  “You can’t say you heard it from me.”

  “I won’t. Thanks for being honest with me.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Wait, Cookie! Do you have any suggestions about finding a job?”

  “Switch to a new profession. Gotta go.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brooke closed her cell and leaned on the windowsill, staring out at the courtyard. Fresh air brought in the smell of spring flowers from a nearby window box. She frowned at the unfairness of Mother Nature, being so cheerful when she was on the verge of losing her livelihood. Panic tightened in her chest. How am I going to pay the rent?

  * * * *

  She dialed her grandmother, but Nan was on her way out the door, going to dinner and the theater with a group from the senior center. She’s got her own life. I have to figure this out for myself. After a walk around the block, she was no better. A few quick calls and she managed to rally the Dinner Club to meet, even though it was a Friday night.

  Everyone was already at Bess’s house when Brooke arrived.

  She gulped half a glass of wine then launched into her story. The women were shocked.

  “There must be something you can do,” Bess said.

  “Call a lawyer,” Miranda offered.

  “My cousin’s a lawyer.”

  “Call him,” Rory said, putting her arm around Brooke.

  That one touch did it. Brooke dissolved into tears the moment Rory squeezed her shoulders. Frustration, loneliness, and fear overwhelmed her. Bess set out a platter of shrimp salad, potato salad, sliced avocado, and fresh veggies. Miranda refilled wine glasses.

  “Don’t let that bastard win!” Miranda said.

  “Show him he can’t mess with you,” Rory piped up.

  Brooke grabbed a handful of tissues and cleaned up her eyes and nose. “You’re right. I’ll call my cousin tomorrow. But I don’t know what he can do.”

  “He can threaten that son-of-a-bitch,” Rory said.

  “Right!”

  “But how can you take back a rumor?” Brooke chewed on a nail.

  “Come, eat. You can’t think on an empty stomach.” Bess made a plate for Brooke and set it on the table. Rory walked her over. Miranda pulled out a chair.

  “If I can’t work in advertising, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t do anything else.”

  “That can’t be true,” Miranda said between bites of succulent, cold shrimp.

  “My mother could do everything—cook, sew, garden. I haven’t inherited any of her skills.”

  “You haven’t tried. It’ll come to you. Maybe you can be an assistant on my show…just until you find something better,” Bess said.

  Brooke turned grateful eyes on her. “Thanks, Bess. We’ll see.” She didn’t want to take advantage of her friends. I’m not their problem or responsibility.

  “We could turn our pugs loose on that bastard,” Miranda said.

  “Yeah, make sure he doesn’t have the balls to do that again,” Rory snickered.

  The women made jokes about what they’d like to do to Pete Walters. They threw in a few for Lloyd as well. Brooke laughed along with them.

  “You need a new man,” Bess said.

  “What about that guy that’s always hanging around your grandma’s place?” Rory asked.

  “You mean Pres?”

  “Yeah, Pres,” Miranda said.

  “I’m going out with him tomorrow night.”

  At this news, everyone talked at once. The women delved deep into what Brooke should wear, what she should say, whether or not she should sleep with him. They wanted a detailed report. Brooke blushed as she talked about his body. The ladies oohed and aahed in all the right places.

  “We’re only friends. I don’t think he’s going to proposition me,” Brooke said.

  “Hah! That’s what they all say,” Miranda sniffed. “I’d put money on the fact he’s going to make a pass. They all do. If they strike out, hell, nothing lost. But if they don’t—hey! Home run!”

  “Absolutely! The secure ones aren’t afraid to get turned down. They get the benefit of succeeding versus the risk of the turndown,” Rory said, licking homemade mocha pudding off her spoon.

  “You can have more, Rory. Really,” Bess said. Then to Brooke, “You’re vulnerable right now. If he does make a pass, it’s gonna be hard to say ‘no’.”

  “Who says she wants to say ‘no’? Getting laid might be the best thing for her right now.”

  “Miranda’s right. Nothing like sex with a great partner to help heal,” Rory said.

  “Who says he’s a great partner?” Brooke asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Hell, the way you described him, you’re already hot for him. That’s half the game.”

  Brooke looked at Rory and laughed. “You know me too well.”

  After killing another bottle of wine, the women decided to form an a cappella group. They tried to harmonize, but ended up laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

  “Maybe we can do River Dancing instead,” Miranda said, holding her side.

  “Maybe sex instruction?” Rory offered.

  That set them off. Lewd comments and jokes, interspersed with laughter, had the women struggling to suck in air. They were all cross-legged on the floor, giggling, when Whitfield Bass, Bess’s man, returned to the apartment.

  He stopped at the entryway. “Am I in the right place?”

  “A man! Good. Let’s ask him,” Brooke said.

  “Ask me what?” Whit entered cautiously.

  “No, no. Don’t. Go, Whit,” Bess said, making shooing gestures.

  “Now, now. When a woman says she wants to ask me a question, it would be rude to simply leave the room.”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to answer this question,” Miranda said, shaking her head and attempting to appear serious.

  “Come on. We all want to know!” Brooke tried to push to her feet, but ended up falling on the sofa on her tush.

  Whit bowed. “What can I do to satisfy your curiosity?”

  All four women screamed with laughter. They were almost rolling on the floor. Even Bess couldn’t catch her breath.

  “What did I say?”

  “Satisfy,” Bess breathed out, holding her stomach. When she uttered the word, the hysterical laughter was refueled.

  Whit got the message. He blushed and bowed again, backing out of the room. “I think I’ll leave you ladies to your…your…party.” He was gone before they could force him to answer anything.

  Once he left, the women quieted down. Brooke, drunk with wine and laughter, smiled. The warmth of friendship flowed through her. The support from her friends put her plight into perspective. I’ll find something. I’ll get that rat. Frank’ll sue the pants off that cheating liar. “I’m gonna do it.” Brooke pushed up and grabbed the table to steady herself.

  The others looked at her.

  “I’m gonna find something else, and I’m gonna have my cousin, Frank, sue that bastard. I’m gonna make him pay.”

  “Way to go!” Rory raised a fist in the air.

  “I’m gonna make him wish he was dickless,” Brooke continued.

  “Hell, he is dickless,” Miranda said.

  “Bring down the dickless wonder!” Bess shouted.

  The women pulled themselves together then called their dogs. The pugs rose reluctantly from their comfortable spots. Bess passed out treats. Everyone except Brooke was all right to travel home alone.

  Bess called to Whit. “I’ll take Dumpling and walk Brooke home.”

  “I’m going with you,” he said.

  After hugs all around, the party broke
up. Brooke could barely see straight. She leaned on Whit, who guided her and Bess down the street. She left them at her door as she climbed the stairs, focusing intently on each step.

  Inside her apartment, she stripped off her clothes, wrapped herself in one of Rory’s afghans, and fell asleep on the sofa.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday morning, the sun poked Brooke in the eye at seven. She pulled the blanket over her head, but that didn’t stop the pounding.

  “Shit. Hangover,” she muttered, forcing herself up to go to the bathroom. She winced at the image she saw in the mirror. Brown circles under her bloodshot eyes. Her complexion was sallow, and her hair a greasy mess.

  “I have a date tonight. Great,” she groaned. All she wanted to do was crawl back in bed. And stay there for two or three years. After medicating herself with coffee and a few ibuprofen, she did go back to sleep, waking up at one in the afternoon.

  She remembered the conversation about suing her former boss. Brooke called her cousin, Frank, and explained.

  “You know I love you, Brooke, but you want me to handle another case with no pay.”

  “Frank, how can I pay you? I’m out of work.” Her head began to pound.

  “A contingent case. Terrific. And these kind are the hardest to prove. You have no evidence, and you want me to drop everything and do this? I’m sorry, but I can’t. I feel for you. This rotten bastard deserves the worst. But I can’t do it. I can hardly keep up with my workload now. I’ve got Melanie and the kids, Brooke. You’ve only got you. Find someplace else to work. Another profession, job, something.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I get it.” She closed her cell. “Thanks for nothing, Frank,” she said to no one.

  Trying to remember what had been discussed the night before about her wardrobe, she opened the closet and fished around until she spied a swatch of her favorite color stuffed away in the back. Melon, peach, that perfect blend of pink and orange. There it was.

  She pulled out everything in the way until she could close her fingers around the snippet. Then, she tugged, and it slipped out from behind an old coat.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she said, brushing off the vintage dress, one of her favorites from her mom. It was wrinkled, but hadn’t faded much. The color was still soft and pretty. One sniff told her it was too musty to wear. She pulled down the iron and put a towel on her tiny table, before she washed the garment in the sink. Though her head no longer throbbed, she kept music off, simply humming to herself a few songs by The Mamas and the Papas as she scrubbed.

  After hanging it in front of the window fan, Brooke ate some yogurt. It was warm out, and the sundress would be perfect for her date. Another cup of coffee and more yogurt improved her outlook. Best for me to be out with Pres instead of home moping. No pity party tonight.

  She ironed the dress dry, using spray starch to make the full skirt crisp. There was a narrow band on the bottom and across the bodice with tiny, white and green flowers. She played Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” on her computer. The composition soothed her as she fished out white sandals and white lace underwear.

  A lengthy shower followed, reviving her. She fluffed her long, mahogany hair with a towel before glancing at the clock. Only two hours before Pres arrives. Picking through the hair accessories in her bureau drawer, she plucked out a narrow, bright, grass-green ribbon. Perfect! If Mr. Preston Carpenter likes old-fashioned women, he’s getting one tonight.

  Giving herself a manicure and pedicure while she watched TV finished her preparations. She slipped on the dress and brushed her locks back from her face, capturing the sides and pulling them up. She twisted them together for a moment while she wound the green ribbon around and tied it in a bow. Her hair trailed down her back, falling in loose curls. Hair ribbon. 1950’s. Retro. He’ll love it.

  She chuckled as she dabbed lilac perfume behind her ears and in the cleft between her breasts. Do I want to sleep with Pres? Probably not. Not tonight, anyway.

  She jumped when the buzzer sounded promptly at six. She pressed the button, fluffed her gentle waves, smoothed her eyebrows, and licked her lips. Good makeup job. I don’t look hung over. The knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it and looked up.

  There he stood, tall and gorgeous. He wore a light blue, button-down shirt, open at the neck just enough for a few strands of chest hair to peek out, khaki pants, perfectly pressed, and a navy blue sports jacket. The shirt and jacket intensified the blue of his eyes. His hair was combed and he was clean-shaven. A pleasant, spicy scent of aftershave caressed her nose. Nice.

  “Wow! You look…fantastic.” His gaze roamed over her body, creating warmth where it touched, like a caress from his hand.

  “You smell good,” she said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Oh, of course, of course. Sorry.” She opened the door wider for him.

  He moved in and looked around. “Nice,” he said, nodding.

  “Glad you approve.” He dwarfed the apartment with his broad-shouldered, six-foot, two-inch frame. Brooke’s gaze roved over him. She noted the good quality of his clothes and the slight pull of the blazer’s fabric between his shoulder blades. Shoulders just a hair too wide. A tingle went up her spine as she envisioned what he’d look like stripped to the waist.

  “Shall we go?” She plucked a white shawl off the back of the sofa.

  Pres took it from her and draped it over her shoulders. “I don’t see many dresses like that. It’s beautiful.”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “Wow. Is that considered antique?”

  “It’s called vintage. Very chic. But when I was younger, it was just plain old.” She chuckled.

  “It’s stunning on you. Fits you like a glove.”

  She noticed his gaze resting on the swell of her breasts, visible above the neckline. Typical guy. She smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” She descended slowly in her high heels.

  “What did I do?”

  “Stared at my chest. Men. They all have breast fetishes.”

  “Pardon me. When I see something beautiful, I stare.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and looked at him. “That’s some line.”

  “Hell, I’m a writer. If I can’t come up with a good line, who can? But, it’s true.”

  “Sure, sure.” She nodded, waiting as he opened the door. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

  “I have a reservation for dinner at The Boathouse. Then, maybe a walk through the park, look at the stars. Grab a drink or two at an outdoor place on Columbus?”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She threaded her arm through his and leaned, resting her hand on his forearm. Pres slid his hand over hers. She sighed. Quiet evening. Perfect. Not up to more. “I wanted to get to know you.”

  “I’m there.”

  The warm, summer air caressed Brooke, relaxing her. The scent of roses grew stronger as Pres guided them into the park. It was still light as they walked along the bridal path north. He steered them into the ramble where there were a few people on benches, but mostly it was deserted.

  “I love this part of the park. You can almost forget you’re in New York City,” she said.

  “It’s nice to get away sometimes.” He laced his fingers with hers. She looked up to see a moon almost full. “There are a few stars out.”

  “Yes. I’m wishing on one now.” She pulled away from him and sat on a bench. The realization that she might not be able to get hired again in advertising weighed heavily. She couldn’t get out from under the impending collapse of her carefully constructed life. Worry floated around inside her like a black vapor. She chewed a nail.

  He joined her. “What’s up?”

  “What? Me? Oh. Nothing.” She fiddled with the ends of her shawl, braiding and unbraiding them.

  “Not nothing.” His glanced at her hands and then up.

  “What do you mean?” She looked into his eyes.

  “You’re quiet, almo
st sullen. I can see you’re worried about something. Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “It’s lovely out here, so peaceful. I don’t want to wreck the mood.”

  “You’ve already wrecked it, so tell me.”

  She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a downer.”

  “So, what’s up?” He bent over, peering into her face.

  Before she could stop herself, the whole story poured out. Pres listened, never looking away. Rapid blinking kept her tears at bay.

  “My entire career may be gone, washed away by this man’s lies.”

  “Why that fucking bastard! I’d like to smash his face.” His cheeks reddened. “I’m so sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “I called my cousin, Frank. He’s a lawyer. But he’s too busy to help me.”

  “What kind of work are you going to look for?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t do anything else.”

  “You don’t deserve this. I’d like to teach him a lesson.” He pounded his fist into this palm.

  “I don’t. I’ve always worked hard, put in one-hundred and fifty percent.”

  “If I can help, just ask. You’re strong. You’ll make it through.” After glancing at his watch, he pushed to his feet.

  Brooke followed. “I’ve been on my own and found my way before.”

  “Didn’t you move in with Ruth and Carl after you lost your parents?”

  “I did. I was ten. Nan was destroyed when my mom died. She was depressed for months. She did what she could. Grandpa Carl? He never wanted me there. Was always grumbling about how his parenting days were over. I tried to stay out of his way.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Grandpa Carl? About eight years now. He keeled over with a heart attack in his office.”

  “You’re very independent,” he said, taking her hand. They strolled toward the restaurant.

  “I’ve had to be. Don’t think I wouldn’t have welcomed a strong shoulder to lean on.”