When, exactly, did we stop doing the crossword puzzles together? Sharing the same pillow, we’d work the puzzle and sip our coffee. And every now and then, when I provided an especially hard answer, Andrew would kiss the top of my forehead and tell me he loved my brain.
I turn to leave, but stop midway to the staircase. “Andrew?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you be there for me, if I need you?”
Finally, he raises his head. “Come here.” He pats the spot beside him on the sofa. I make my way to him and he drapes an arm around my shoulder.
“You still upset I missed the funeral luncheon?”
“No. I understand. That trial was important.”
He tosses the pencil onto the coffee table and grins, exposing the adorable dimple in his left cheek. “I have to admit, when you say it like that, it sounds lame, even to me.” With his eyes locked on mine, he turns serious. “But to answer your question, of course I’ll be there for you. You never have to worry about that.” He grazes his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, but you’ll make one helluva CEO, with or without my guidance.”
My heart speeds. When Andrew came home last night toting a bottle of Perrier-Jouët champagne to celebrate, I didn’t have the heart—or the guts—to tell him I was not, and never will be, president of Bohlinger Cosmetics. The man who rarely gives compliments was practically gushing. Is it too much to want one more day to bask in his approval? Tonight, when I can soften the blow by telling him I’m the new vice president, I’ll come clean.
He smooths my hair. “Tell me, boss lady, what’s on the agenda today? Looking to hire any attorneys in the near future?”
What? He can’t possibly think I’d go against my mother’s wishes. I play it off as a joke, forcing a chuckle from my parched throat. “I don’t think so. Actually, I’m meeting with Catherine this morning,” I say, letting him think it was me who called the meeting. “We have some issues to discuss.”
He nods. “Good move. Remember, she’s working for you now. Let her know you’re calling the shots.”
I feel blood rush to my cheeks and pull myself from the sofa. “I better shower.”
“I’m proud of you, Madame President.”
I know I should tell him it’s Catherine who deserves his pride, that it’s Catherine he should be calling Madame President. And I will. I absolutely will.
Tonight.
Despite the clicking of my heels against the marble foyer, I manage to scurry across the lobby of the Chase Tower without being noticed. I ride the elevator to the forty-ninth floor and enter the posh headquarters of Bohlinger Cosmetics. Pushing through the double glass doors, I head straight for Catherine’s office with my eyes downcast.
I poke my head into the corner office that was once my mother’s and see Catherine behind the desk, perfectly groomed as always. She’s on the phone but waves me in, lifting an index finger to let me know she’ll be with me shortly. As she wraps up her call, I wander around the once familiar space, wondering what she’s done with the paintings and sculptures Mother adored. In their place she’s positioned her bookcase and several framed awards. All that remains of Mother’s once sacrosanct office is the breathtaking cityscape and her nameplate. But upon closer inspection I see that it’s not my mother’s nameplate, after all. It’s Catherine’s! The same font and brass and marble now reads CATHERINE HUMPHRIES-BOHLINGER, PRESIDENT.
I seethe! Just how long had she known she was Mother’s heir apparent?
“Okay, great. Get me the numbers when you have them. Yes. Supashi-bo, Yoshi. Adiosu.” She hangs up the phone and turns her attention to me. “Tokyo,” she says, shaking her head. “The fourteen-hour time difference is a bitch. I have to be here before dawn to catch them. Lucky for me, they work late.” She points across the desk to a pair of Louis Quinze chairs. “Have a seat.”
I sink into the chair and run a hand over the cobalt-blue silk, trying to remember whether Catherine had these chairs in her old office. “Looks like you’re all moved in,” I say, unable to resist my inner snark. “You even managed to get your nameplate in … what? Twenty hours? Who knew it could be made so quickly.”
She rises and comes around to my side of her desk, positioning the matching chair so that she’s facing me. “Brett, this is a hard time for all of us.”
“A hard time for all of us?” My vision blurs. “Are you serious? I just lost a mother and a business. You just inherited an absolute fortune and my family’s company. And you, you set me up. You told me I’d be CEO. I worked my ass off, trying to learn the ropes!”
Looking as composed as if I’d just told her I liked her dress, she waits. My nostrils flare and I want to say more, but I don’t dare. She’s my sister-in-law after all—and my damn boss.
She leans in, her pale hands folded on her crossed leg. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I truly am. I was as shocked as you were yesterday. I made an assumption last summer—a colossal mistake, to be sure. I fully expected you to receive your mother’s shares, and took it upon myself to groom you, without first consulting Elizabeth. I didn’t want her to think we’d given up on her.” She covers my hand with hers. “Believe me, I had every intention of working for you for the rest of my career. And you know what? I would have been proud to do so.” She squeezes my hand. “I respect you so much, Brett. I think you could have made it as CEO. I really do.”
Could have? I scowl, unsure whether this is a compliment or an insult. “But that nameplate,” I say. “If you had no idea, how come you already have the nameplate?”
She smiles. “Elizabeth. She’d ordered it for me before she died. She had it delivered and on my desk when I walked in yesterday.”
I drop my head in shame. “That would be Mother.”
“She was remarkable,” Catherine says, her eyes glistening. “I’ll never fill her shoes. I’ll consider it a success if I can simply squeeze my toes in.”
My heart softens. Obviously she, too, grieves the loss of Elizabeth Bohlinger. She and Mother formed a perfect partnership, Mother being the elegant face of the enterprise, and Catherine her tireless, behind-the-scenes assistant. And looking at her now in her cashmere dress and Ferragamo pumps, her smooth ivory skin and sleek chignon knotted at the nape of her neck, I can almost understand my mother’s choice. Catherine looks every inch a CEO, a natural to be her successor. But still it hurts. Couldn’t Mom see that with time, I could have developed into a Catherine?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. It’s not your fault that Mom didn’t see me fit to run BC. You’re going to be a huge success.”
“Thanks,” she whispers, rising from her chair. She squeezes my shoulder as she passes behind me to close the door. When she returns to her seat, she fixes her gaze on me, her eyes alarmingly intense.
“What I’m about to say is very difficult for me.” She bites her bottom lip and her face flushes. “I want you to prepare yourself, Brett. This will be shocking.”
I laugh nervously. “My God, Catherine, your hands are shaking! I’ve never seen you so anxious. What’s going on?”
“I have one order from Elizabeth. She left a pink envelope in my desk drawer. There was a note inside. I can get it if you’d like to see it.” She starts to rise but I grab her arm.
“No. The last thing I need is another note from Mom. Just tell me.” My heart is galloping now.
“Your mother instructed me to … she wants me to …”
“What?” I nearly scream.
“You’re fired, Brett.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I have no memory of driving home. I only remember staggering into the loft, stumbling up the stairs, and falling into bed. For the next two days I repeat a cycle of sleeping, waking, and crying. By Friday morning, Andrew’s compassion is waning. He sits on the edge of our bed, impeccable in his charcoal suit and crisp white shirt, and smooths my snarled hair.
“You’ve got to snap out of this, babe. You’re overwhelmed with this promotion,
so naturally you’re avoiding it.” I start to protest, but he silences me with an index finger. “I’m not saying you’re incapable, I’m saying you’re intimidated. But, hon, you can’t afford to be away for days at a time. This isn’t your old advertising job, where you could slack off from time to time.”
“Slack off?” I feel my hackles rise. He thinks my old position as director of marketing was insignificant! And what’s worse, I couldn’t even keep that job. “You can’t imagine what I’m going through. I think I deserve a couple of days to grieve.”
“Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just trying to get you back in the game.”
I rub my temples. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just not myself these days.” He rises but I grab hold of his coat sleeve. I need to tell Andrew the truth! My plan to come clean Wednesday night was thwarted when my mother fired me, and since then, I’ve been mustering the courage to explain.
“Stay home with me today. Please. We could—”
“Sorry, babe, I can’t. My client load is insane.” He wriggles from my grip and smooths his coat sleeve. “I’ll try to get home early.”
Tell him. Now.
“Wait!”
He stops midway to the door and looks at me over his shoulder.
My heart thrums in my chest. “I need to tell you something.”
He turns and squints at me, as if his normally transparent girlfriend is suddenly out of focus. Finally, he returns to the edge of the bed and kisses the top of my head like I’m a featherbrained five-year-old. “Stop this nonsense. What you need is to get your gorgeous ass out of bed. You’ve got a company to run.” He pats my cheek, and before I know it he’s disappeared from the room.
I hear the door click shut and bury my face in my pillow. What the hell am I going to do? I’m not the CEO of Bohlinger Cosmetics. I’m not even a menial advertising exec. I’m an unemployed failure, and I’m terrified of what my status-conscious boyfriend will think of me when he finds out.
I wasn’t surprised when Andrew told me he was from the wealthy Boston suburb of Duxbury. He had all the trappings of someone from old money—Italian shoes, Swiss watch, German car. But he was always evasive when I asked him about his childhood. He had one older sister. His father owned a small business. It frustrated me that he offered nothing more.
Three months and two bottles of wine later, Andrew finally spat out the truth. Red-faced and angry that I’d pressed him, he told me that his father was a mediocre cabinetmaker whose aspirations far exceeded his accomplishments. His mother worked behind the deli counter at the Duxbury Safeway.
Andrew wasn’t a rich kid. But he was desperate to be perceived as one.
I felt a surge of warmth and respect for Andrew I hadn’t felt before. He wasn’t an entitled child. He was a self-made man who’d had to struggle and work for his success. I kissed his cheek and told him I was proud of him, that his working-class roots made me love him more. Instead of smiling, he shot me a look of contempt. I knew then that Andrew found nothing admirable about his modest beginnings, and that growing up among the affluent had left a scar.
At once, a wave of panic grips me.
The rich-little-poor-kid has spent his entire adult life accumulating markers of success, hoping to compensate for his humble roots. And I wonder, now, if I’m just one of them.
From the driveway, I stare up at Jay and Shelley’s picture-perfect Cape Cod. Manicured shrubs line the brick sidewalk, and orange and yellow mums spill from white concrete urns. An uncharacteristic wave of jealousy comes over me. The proverbial bed they’ve chosen to lie in is sumptuous and cozy, while mine is lumpy and teeming with bedbugs.
Through the brick walkway, I gaze into their lush backyard and catch sight of my nephew running with a rubber ball. He looks up when my car door slams.
“Auntie Bwett!” he calls to me.
I rush to the backyard and scoop up Trevor, and we twirl until I can’t see straight. For the first time in three days, I can feel a genuine smile light my face.
“Who’s the boy who makes me happy?” I ask, tickling his belly.
Before he can answer, Shelley steps from the brick patio, her hair heaped atop her head in an accidental ponytail. She’s wearing what I suspect are a pair of Jay’s jeans, rolled up at the ankles.
“Hey, sis,” she calls. We were friends and college roommates before she married my brother, and we still get a silly kick out of calling each other sister.
“Hey, you’re home today.”
She traipses over to me in ragg wool slippers. “I quit my job.”
I stare at her. “No you didn’t.”
She bends down to pull a weed. “Jay and I decided it’d be best for the kids if one of us stayed home. With your mother’s inheritance we don’t need the extra money.”
Trevor wriggles from my grip and I lower him to his feet. “But you love your job. What about Jay? Why doesn’t he quit?”
She stands up, holding a dead dandelion in her hand. “I’m the mommy. Makes more sense.”
“So you’re done. Just like that?”
“Yup. Lucky for me, the woman who filled in during my maternity leave was still available.” She plucks dried fronds from the dandelion and tosses them at her feet. “They interviewed her yesterday and she started today. I didn’t even need to train her. It all worked out perfectly.”
I hear the catch in her voice, and I know it’s not as perfect as she wants me to think it is. Shelley was a speech pathologist at Saint Francis Hospital. She worked in their rehab unit, teaching adults with traumatic brain injuries not only how to talk again, but how to reason and negotiate and socialize. She used to boast that it wasn’t a job, it was her calling.
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t picture you as a stay-at-home mom.”
“It’ll be great. Almost all the women in this neighborhood are stay-at-home moms. They gather every morning at the park, have playdates, take Mommy–toddler yoga classes. You wouldn’t believe all the social stuff my kids missed out on when they were in day care.” Her eyes find Trevor, running in circles with his arms outstretched like an airplane. “Maybe this speech pathologist can finally teach her own kid how to talk.” She chuckles, but it hits the wrong chord. “Trevor still can’t say his—” She stops midthought and looks at her watch. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Nope. Catherine fired me.”
“Oh, my God! I’ll call the sitter.”
Lucky for us, Megan Weatherby, the hypotenuse of our friendship triangle, has a hobby job as a realtor, with little ambition to actually sell houses. And lucky for Megan, she’s practically engaged to Jimmy Northrup, Chicago Bears defensive end, rendering real estate commission optional. So when Shelley and I call her on our way to The Bourgeois Pig Café, she’s already there, as if she’d anticipated this little crisis.
We’ve declared The Bourgeois Pig, in Lincoln Park, our favorite non-alcohol spot. It’s cozy and funky, filled with books and antiques and threadbare rugs. And best of all, there’s just enough background chatter to make us feel immune from eavesdroppers. Today the warm September sun beckons us outside, where Megan sits at a wrought-iron table wearing black leggings and a low-cut sweater that clings to the perfect mounds she insists are her real boobs. Her pale blue eyes are smudged with smoky gray shadow, and I’m guessing at least three coats of mascara. But with her blond hair captured in a silver barrette and a hint of pink blush on her ivory skin, she manages to maintain a smidgen of innocence, making her appear half call girl, half sorority girl—a look men seem to find irresistible.
Engrossed in her iPad, she doesn’t notice us as we near her table. I grab Shelley’s elbow and pull her to a stop.
“We can’t interrupt her. Look, she’s actually working.”
Shelley shakes her head. “She’s a poser.” She pulls me nearer and nods at the computer screen. “Check it out. PerezHilton.com.”
“Hey, y’all,” Megan says, grabbing her sunglasses from the chair just before Shelley sits on
them. “Listen to this.” As we settle in beside her with our muffins and lattes, Megan launches into a riff about Angelina and Brad’s latest scuffle and Suri’s outlandish birthday party. Then she starts in on Jimmy. “Red Lobster. Seriously. I’m wearing an Hervé Léger bandage dress cut up to my ass, and he wants to take me to Red-fucking-Lobster!”
I believe everyone deserves that one outrageously bold friend who simultaneously mortifies and electrifies, the friend whose crude comments send us into fits of hysteria while we look over our shoulders to make sure nobody’s listening. Megan is that friend.
We met Meg two years ago through Shelley’s younger sister, Patti. Patti and Megan were roommates in Dallas, training to be flight attendants with American Airlines. But in the final week of training, Megan wasn’t able to reach a bag wedged in the back of an overhead bin. Her arms were decidedly too short for the job, an imperceptible flaw Megan is now obsessed with. Mortified, she fled to Chicago to become a realtor, and met Jimmy during her first sale.
“I can’t lie, I love those Red Lobster biscuits, but come on!”
Finally, Shelley interrupts. “Megan, I told you, Brett needs our help.”
Megan taps her iPad into submission and folds her hands on the table. “Okay, I’m all yours. What’s the problem, chica?”
When it’s not all about her, Megan can be an excellent listener. And judging by her folded hands and fixed gaze, today she’s giving me the floor. Taking full advantage, I spill every detail of my mother’s ploy to destroy my life.
“So that’s the deal. No income, no job. Just ten asinine goals I’m expected to complete in the next year.”
“That’s bullshit,” Megan says. “Tell the attorney to go fuck himself.” She plucks the list from my hand. “HAVE A KID. GET A DOG. GET A HORSE.” She lifts her Chanel sunglasses and gazes at me. “What the hell was your mother thinking? You’d up and marry Old MacDonald?”
I can’t help but smile. Megan can be self-centered, but at times like this when I need a laugh, I wouldn’t trade her for a dozen Mother Teresas.
The Life List Page 4
