by Jane Porter
“Not yet, but I’m going to this year.”
He says nothing. I picture him tapping a pencil on his desk. He wants off the phone. I don’t blame him. “I’ve got to drop some artwork by your building later today,” I lie.
“I was hoping you’d have ten minutes free for coffee.”
“I’m sorry...” He pauses, searches; he doesn’t remember my name. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. We’re hiring a new editor; I’m covering for someone else—”
“Five minutes.”
I hear his sigh. I feel his irritation. He doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t have the energy to waste, but Olivia’s right, he’s not quite rude enough just to hang up on me.
Poor guy. He’s a nice guy.
“I know what you want,” he says, “but I can’t give you the editorial space. And we already have something about the event in the Calendar section.”
“Why wouldn’t you go to the ball?”
“What?”
“You’ve lived here how long?”
“Ten years, give or take a few.”
“In ten years, why didn’t you ever go to the Leather and Lace Ball?”
“Not my thing.”
“You don’t like costumes?”
“Don’t like costumes, don’t like yuppies, don’t like forking out a couple hundred bucks to be with a bunch of people I don’t know and won’t like.” “You’ve made some good points.” “Good. And, um...” He’s searching for my name, again. “I wish there was more I could do, but the economy’s hurting, people are being selective in how they spend their money, and frankly, I couldn’t endorse the ball if I tried—” “Not even though it helps hundreds of people who are dying?.
He splutters. Laughs. He must have been drinking something. “It’s not about dying.”
“It is. The ball benefits the Hospice Foundation.” “Very little goes to the foundation. We ran an article a couple years ago, and the majority of black-tie fundraisers spend a dollar for every dollar they earn.”
“Eighty-two percent of every ticket sold to the ball goes straight to the Hospice Foundation—”
“That’s impossible.”
“David Burkheimer underwrites the ball.” Brian Fadden isn’t saying anything, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I keep going. “I don’t think people know what the ball is for anymore. I think the event has been around long enough that people have lost sight of the need, of the suffering. AIDS isn’t gone. It’s still an epidemic, and it’s still taking the lives of young people—men, women; destroying families.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe the ball isn’t new and exciting, but it practically funds the foundation every year; and maybe the foundation will need to find alternative sources of funding, but they don’t have it yet, and they need the ball. San Francisco needs the ball. It’s not an event that should be dismissed.”
“Okay.”
“Nobody should have to be alone or in an institution at the end. People should be allowed to die with dignity—”
“Okay. Got it. Enough.” He’s finally silenced me. “Coffee. Ten minutes. But today’s no good. How about tomorrow?”
I’m grinning. I feel as if I had just won the Tour de France. I practically pump the air. He said coffee. And he said ten minutes. Not five. Ten. “Wonderful.”
“How’s three?”
“Great.”
“Have the front desk let me know you’ve arrived. I’ll warn them that I’m expecting you.” He pauses. “And who did you say you were?”
“Holly Bishop.” And I’m still smiling.
At home that night I have a message from Tom and a message from Paul Petersen. I delete Tom’s message and call Paul back.
He’s called to see if I’ve got time for dinner on Saturday night, and the words “dinner” and “Saturday night” are enough to make my blood run cold.
I like Paul. But I don’t want to date him, and I also don’t want to hurt him, because I don’t yet have enough friends to start alienating more than one a week. “How about Thursday?” I propose. Thursday night isn’t a date night, and it’s near enough the end of the week to sound better than a Tuesday night dinner, which always sounds rather like Shrove Tuesday regardless of the time of year.
He counters with Friday night. I counter with Wednesday. We settle on Thursday, and then we chat a while about a book he’s reading that was heralded as brilliant and groundbreaking but is really just crap. When I finally hang up, I see I was on the phone for nearly a half hour.
If we can talk for a half hour on the phone about nothing, dinner shouldn’t be a problem.
Morning arrives too soon, and with my venti Starbucks nonfat white chocolate mocha sans whipped cream in hand, I settle at my desk and get to work. I’m so immersed in what I’m doing that I forget to take lunch (which was meant to be spent at the gym), and am only roused by the ringing of the phone.’
It’s Brian Fadden. He’s called to cancel our meeting. “Okay,” I say, and I must sound very small and sad and pathetic, because he suddenly sighs.
“How about on Thursday? I’ll be in your vicinity late tomorrow morning. I could do a quick coffee then.”
Thursday, two days from now. Thursday, which is getting quite busy with my two engagements in one day—Brian Fadden in the morning, and dinner with Paul Petersen at night. “Sure.”
“Mr. J’s?” he suggests.
“Perfect.” It’s a funky coffeehouse not far from the office.
Before I know it, it’s Thursday, and I still haven’t been to the gym or produced the numbers Olivia needs for the Oracle proposal, but I’m at Mr. J’s, trying not to look anxious, trying not to look as though I’m looking for someone, although of course I’m looking, since I have no idea who Brian is or what to expect.
“Holly?”
I turn abruptly, look up. It’s a long look up. He’s tall, easily six three, possibly six four. “Brian?”
“You sound surprised.”
I do, because I am. Brian Fadden is the name of a short, wide writer, not a guy who looks as if he could have played basketball at Cal. Brian’s not handsome, but he’s also not at all unattractive. In fact, with that little smile he’s smiling now, he’s quite attractive. Wavy brown hair, light blue eyes, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a face that looks smart, literate, competent.
So he’s handsome.
I rise, stick out my hand, shake his. “Thanks for meeting me.”
His mouth quirks. “You don’t look like Olivia’s usual girl Friday.”
I didn’t know Olivia had girls Friday. “What’s the usual?”
“Hard, tight, I’m-going-to-nail-your-ass-to-the-wall.”
“So I do need to get back to the gym.”
He grins a broad, crooked grin, and his light brown hair kind of flops across his brow, and he’s, looking more literate by the moment. “Coffee?”
I reach for my wallet. “My treat.”
“Not necessary—”
“Brian, if I thought a cup of java would buy you, I’d be sending coffee to your desk. I’m just being polite.”
His eyebrows lift, and we both order. I pay. He’s a cheap date. Seven dollars and fifty-eight cents total, and that includes tax.
We sit down with our coffees, and Brian leans back in his rattan chair, stretches his long legs out. He’s wearing jeans and a funky tweedy blazer over a T-shirt. He could be a college professor on a campus somewhere.
“Where did you go to school?” I ask, intrigued by his glasses, his height, the way he fills out the blazer. He doesn’t look muscular big, but his shoulders are wide and there’s no obvious gut.
“Yale.”
“Yale?”
“It’s on the East Coast, New Haven, Conn—”
“I know where Yale is,” I interrupt, thinking I like the way he speaks. It’s his delivery, his expressions. He has a dry, wry wit, and it’s been a long time since I talked with someone who made me feel like smiling. It’s been s
ince...
Jean-Marc.
I don’t feel like smiling quite so much anymore.
“So you’re new in the city?” Brian asks.
I nod. “Been here three and a half months.”
“You’re still counting in terms of weeks, I see.”
“It’s been an adjustment.”
“Where are you from?”
“You’ll make fun of it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“People like you always do.”
He pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Now, that’s just offensive. You don’t even know me. You can’t categorize me yet.”
I hold my cup in two hands, blow on the steam. “I’ve moved up from Fresno.”
His lips twitch. He takes off his glasses, makes a show of polishing the lenses. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs. Slides his glasses back on. “That’s terrible language, Miss Bishop—” He breaks off, looks at me. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Ms.”
“Never been married?”
I look down at the table. “Going through a divorce.”
“How long were you married?”
“A little over a year.”
“I made it to ten. My divorce was final last week.”
I look up at him, see if he’s smiling but he’s not. His eyes are sober behind the wire-rimmed glasses, and he’s looking at me intently, as if trying to see whatever it is I won’t let him see. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” And I can still see my wedding dress so clearly, see the pale ivory silk, the crystal beading, the snug skirt with the bustle at the back. It was like a turn-of-the-century evening gown, all Wharton-James style, so elegant, so foreign, so dreamy me.
What a mistake.
I can never pass that wedding gown on to a daughter, can’t ever do anything with it, can’t try it on again, remember it, love it.
It’s a dress I wore to nowhere, and stupid me, my eyes are burning.
I wish I’d never been a bride if it meant there’d be no marriage.
I wish I’d just shacked up with Jean-Marc and not worried what my family would think.
I wish... I wish... and looking up, I meet Brian Fadden’s gaze, and his expression is strangely compassionate. But this isn’t a social visit; this is business, and I have to pull myself together.
“I used to be the features editor at the Fresno Bee,” he says, as if this is a peace offering.
I’m not sure, but I could have sworn he said the Fresno Bee, as in Fresno’s morning newspaper, as in Fresno’s only newspaper. “The Bee?”
“For nearly a year.”
“When?”
“A couple years ago.”
“How did that happen?”
We’re both kind of smiling, and he shrugs. “I’d been working at the Chronicle for a couple years as a staff writer, got a call from someone down in Fresno, did some interviews, was offered the job, took it.”
“And then realized you were trapped in a one-horse town?” But I mean this in the best sort of way because I was raised in one-horse towns, and I understand them, but then, I didn’t go to Yale, and I didn’t live in New Haven, and I’m not a senior editor at the Chronicle, either.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“So why, then, did you only last a year?”
“Eleven months and one week. But that’s because the Chronicle brought me back. Lured me with a promotion.”
“I can’t imagine it took much luring.”
“Fresno was a little slow for my tastes.”
“I bet.”
His cell phone rings; he checks the number, apologizes to me, and takes the call. He’s only on the phone a moment, but when he hangs up, he looks ready to go.
“Problems?” I ask.
“Always.” He grimaces, and I think I really like his face. It’s a comfortable face, a good face, and I was right about him on the phone. He’s a nice guy.
“If you can bring me something new,” he says now, putting away his phone, “give me something to work with, I’ll see if I can’t get someone to do a little write-up, but there’s no way I can advocate editorial space if it’s not newsworthy.”
“Understood.” We both stand, and I extend my hand again. “Thanks so much for taking time to meet me.”
“My pleasure.”
I think he’s reaching for his keys, but instead it’s his business card. He hands it to me. It’s got his direct line on it, along with his e-mail address. “Stay in touch,” he says.
I quickly dig out a card of my own and give it to him. “I will. You, too.”
And we leave Mr. J’s. Brian turns right; I turn left, and as I walk the couple of blocks back to the office, I study his business card.
Brian Fadden.
Brian Fadden.
It’d be great if he called, invited me out sometime. But knowing how things work in my world, he probably won’t.
Chapter Eight
I’m still studying Brian Fadden’s card when I step off the elevator and into our second-floor loft office. So engrossed in Brian’s name and number am I, that I walk through the office reception without looking up.
“Holly.” Josh’s voice stops me as I head for my cubicle.
I look up, not entirely pleased to be pulled from my wishful thinking. Fantasies are so much more pleasurable than real life, and I can guarantee a happy ending. “What?”
“Olivia’s been looking for you,” he says, and although the words are innocuous enough, his tone conveys a warning. Something’s not right.
My stomach free-falls, and I quickly drop Brian’s card into my purse. “Do you know what she wants?”
“The Oracle info.”
Right. And of course it’s not together. “I don’t have it yet.”
“So she discovered.” He pauses. “When she went through your files.” Another uncomfortable pause. “You are careful with your files, aren’t you?”
I know what he’s saying, what he’s asking, and I manage a sickly smile. “Definitely.” Not. And I start for my desk, tugging off my coat. “Is she here right now?”
“No. She had a meeting with the Beckett board, but she should be back soon.”
“I’ll get on the Oracle stuff now. Maybe I can have it done by the time she returns.”
“It’s a nice thought.” And Josh clears his throat. “Um, Holly, one more thing.”
I look up at him, trying to hide my panic because I’m freaked, freaked that Olivia went through my files, freaked that she might have seen something she shouldn’t have seen. Like the notes all over the inside of a folder, regarding staff writers contacted at the various papers. “What?”
His expression is downright apologetic. “Your mom is here.”
He might as well be speaking Greek. “What?”
“Your mom arrived just after you left to meet Fadden. She’s in David’s office.”
He’s got to have it wrong. He’s thinking of someone else. My mother doesn’t leave the San Joaquin Valley. Those foothills and mountain ranges keep her from getting lost. “My mom?”
He points toward David’s office. David’s been gone all week on a trip back east, but the light is on in his office, and, brow furrowing, I stare into the office. And yes, Josh is right. A lady sits in there, hands folded in her lap, studying the wall of awards and blown-up press clippings, the clippings now huge, colorful posters, mounted, laminated, hung up for all to see.
She’s medium height. Medium build. With medium graying brown hair. In a glaring pink and turquoise dress.
Mom.
For a second I feel as if someone had hit me over the head with a two-by-four. Seeing her here, sitting in one of David’s mammoth leather chairs, makes absolutely no sense.
And then she looks up, and her expression lightens, and Mom’s on her feet, arms outstretched, waving madly. But the wave isn’t e
nough. Her fingers—all ten of them—are wiggling delightedly. “Holly!”
The wiggling fingers have stilled, and her arms flap now. She’s guiding traffic or trying to take off in flight—I’m really not sure which—and I dart a quick glance in Josh’s direction and am relieved to see that his expression is courteously blank.
I can’t help wondering if Josh’s Beckett School alum father married a woman like my mom, and somehow I doubt it. People with serious money dress with serious intent: understated, sophisticated wardrobe pieces, expensive understated footwear, shimmering yet unassuming makeup and hair color. I love my mother, but she’s far from understated. She’s like that girl in high school who tries too hard—and is still trying too hard nearly forty years later.
But maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with trying so hard. Maybe it’s just survival. We couldn’t afford a cushy house or car, clothes that didn’t come from Target, JC Penney, or Mervyn’s. There were no trips to posh hair salons or weekly appearances from cleaning people, yard people, child-care people. Mom did everything.
And now Mom is in David’s doorway, and she’s still waving, but it’s become a big two-arm wave, like the guys at the airport on the tarmac directing pilots arid their planes. Come this way, right this way, easy, that’s nice, slow, slow, okay, almost there, yes! Engines off...
I drop my coat and purse on my desk, tucking a loose bit of hair behind my ear before I head toward David’s office. “Mom.”
Josh discreetly fades into the background, and my mother throws her arms around me. “Holly.” She squeezes me hard. “Holly. Holly. Hol—”
“Hi, Mom.” I give her a quick, panicked squeeze back before letting go. Mom’s voice is loud enough that I’m certain everyone can hear her maternal proclamations of love, and I appreciate the love—we all need love—but in my four-plus months working at City Events I’ve never seen another parent put in an appearance.
“Holly, this is quite an office,” Mom says, adjusting the strap of her purse on her arm. “Very, very impressive.”
I look up and around. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Look at all these awards,” she adds, gesturing to the wall of awards and blown-up news clippings. “Obviously a successful company.”
I’m pleased she thinks so, and I beam. “Yes.”
