Auctioned to Him 6: Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  “Yes, I’m sure. I took like a million tests!” she explodes. Wrong move. Mascara is running down her face along with the tears. She rubs her eyes and makes the mess even worse.

  “Oh shit, it’s getting into my eyes.” Sadie takes out her compact and wipes it away. Then she takes a deep breath and returns to me.

  “What are you going to do about this?” she asks.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Are you planning on being a father?” Sadie’s no longer sad. Somehow, her disappointment and fear morphed into anger at me.

  “Well, frankly, I don’t know,” I say as honestly as possible. “I hadn’t really considered a baby until this very moment. Not sure how it’s going to fit into my schedule.”

  Bad move. Awful. The worst part is that I knew that it was the wrong thing to say as I was saying it, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Not fit into your schedule! Are you insane? You don’t do anything. You just live off your billions. And you’re unemployed,” Sadie yells. Couples at tables near us turn to look at us.

  “Keep your voice down,” I say quietly. “I’m not unemployed. I just sold my business.”

  “And what do you do now?” she asks.

  “I’m in between things,” I say. That’s the best way I can explain it. She doesn’t know the truth, no one does. So to her, I don’t do anything. That’s the way it’s going to have to be.

  The rest of the dinner proceeds as expected. Sadie vacillates between being upset with herself, me, and at being pregnant, and yelling at me for not wanting to be a father. She’s not wrong about that. I don’t want to be a father. I definitely don’t want to be a father to my ex-girlfriend’s baby, an ex who I wasn’t very keen on seeing again at all, but there’s something else to all this. What Sadie doesn’t want to admit is that she doesn’t really want to be a mother either. Finally, after close to an hour, dinner finally ends. I get the check and we say our brief goodbyes while waiting for the valet.

  Chapter 4 - Avery

  Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!

  I’m not going to get these done in time! I look at my phone. I have an hour left before Roberto, the driver, has to pack the centerpieces up and drive them to the wedding venue in Malibu. I’m working as fast as I can, but the flowers are still not cooperating. The design is simple enough: opaque ivory white vases with a band of thick yellow ribbon around the bottom. The splash of yellow is the perfect complement to the yellow and white flowers inside the vase and acts to extend the crisp color scheme of the wedding decor.

  When I went over this design with the bride and groom three weeks ago, I thought that it would be a walk in the park, since the vases aren’t see-through. That means there’s no need to worry about the arrangement of stems. Those can be such a hassle! The bride wanted something simple and yellow and this was supposed to be a breeze.

  I like to have my centerpieces done completely the night before, but unfortunately there was some sort of tulip emergency, and they didn’t get here until this morning! We’re lucky they came at all.

  “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay,” Cynthia mutters under her breath. Cynthia is my assistant and oldest friend. She’s usually the one that’s freaking out all the time, but this time she’s the one staying calm. Not a good sign.

  I cut the stems in the sink and carefully arrange the jonquils, sweet peas, ranunculus and finally the tulips in the second to last centerpiece. Cynthia has already laid them out for me and made the first ten centerpieces. I look at my phone again. We only have five more minutes before Roberto shows up. We need at least ten minutes to look over each centerpiece and make sure that it’s perfect.

  My mind and hands have never worked so well together. I’m cutting, arranging, coiffing, and adjusting at record speed. Even though Cynthia is the type to talk endlessly when she’s nervous or anxious, she knows better than to disturb me now. A few minutes later, Roberto arrives and everything is almost ready. There’s only one more centerpiece left to check.

  “Wow, I can’t believe you got it all done,” Cynthia says.

  I take a step back from the table. My light turquoise long sleeve shirt is drenched in sweat. The apron I’m wearing is barely covering it and, even though I’ve known Cynthia for many years, I hope she doesn’t notice.

  Cynthia and I help Roberto load up the van.

  “Why don’t I just go to the venue myself?” she asks. “You can stay here and relax.”

  I’ve never not gone and set up the centerpieces myself, but this has been a very stressful job and I’m leaning toward letting go of some control.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course!” She has a surprised look on her face, like she can’t believe that I’m actually going to let her do this.

  “I’m going to make it perfect,” she adds.

  I know she will. She’s even more of a perfectionist than I am.

  Cynthia and I have known each other since we were 13. Her parents are like my second parents, and I practically lived with them after the accident. My parents died in a car accident, the summer after we graduated from University of Southern California. I had a job lined up at a boutique investment bank in downtown LA, but after the accident, I couldn’t take it. I didn’t do anything for a whole year, and Cynthia and her family took me in and cared for me. I was 22, way beyond the legal age, but after their death, I became a lost teenager again. It took me close to two years to finally feel normal again. Or as normal as I could.

  After Cynthia and Roberto leave, I decide to make myself sangria. I don’t drink often, but I’m in the mood right now. I cut up apples and oranges into squares and toss them into a pitcher and add three tablespoons of organic brown sugar. After muddling everything with a wood spoon, I add a cup of orange juice and a third of a cup of brandy for taste and muddle it again. Then I dump a bottle of Albero Spanish Red, a dry Spanish red wine, and taste it. It needs something else. I add a splash more of brandy and a little more brown sugar to sweeten the mixture. After adding ice and garnishing the rim of the pitcher with orange segments, I pour myself a glass and go out onto the porch.

  This account is the biggest one I’ve had to date. The bride’s parents are spending more than $500,000 on the wedding. When I showed them around my shop and showed them my proposal for the centerpiece designs, I was certain that there was no way that they were going to go with me. I have excellent designs, don’t get me wrong, but I also have a little shop in Topanga Canyon, not some fancy storefront in Malibu or Beverly Hills.

  Topanga Canyon is a rural canyon nestled between the northern suburbs of Calabasas and Woodland Hills and the lavish ocean front homes of Malibu. It’s not a cheap area by any stretch of the imagination – you can hardly buy a house here for less than $800,000. The reason people live here and love it is because of its unique culture. Rural chic, Cynthia likes to call it. There are no developments, and there are a lot of old ranch homes. The new houses that pop up are architecturally interesting and unique. Lots of people have horses and chickens and shop for all of their food in organic farmer’s markets.

  After my parents’ untimely death, I got $200,000 from their life insurance and decided to do what I always dreamed of doing: open my own floral shop. I found a small space on South Topanga Canyon Boulevard, in a little shopping center with its own unique flair. My floral shop, The Flower Patch, is sandwiched between Hidden Treasures, a vintage clothing store, and Quilts!, a quilt supply store. I got a great deal (for this area) when I signed a five-year lease for both the commercial space downstairs for The Flower Patch and the small studio apartment above. The studio apartment is technically not zoned for residential living, but the 88-year-old owner of the shopping center was kind enough to rent it to me for only $1000 a month, which is a steal. And this way, I don’t have to commute or pay much more in rent somewhere in Calabasas or Malibu.

  When I first opened The Flower Patch, I thought that I would have to run it in the red for at least 6 months,
but much to my surprise, lots of locals started to come in for their weekly flowers and the two nice women who ran Hidden Treasures and Quilts! also spread the word to their customers. Before I knew it, I was making a nice little profit and had time and money to think about expanding into weddings. For the floral industry, weddings are where it’s at. Flowers for weddings are typically marked up 35 to 55 percent, and that may or may not include a 20 percent mark-up for the design.

  When I first ventured into weddings, a few months ago, all I did was charge a little bit less than my competitors in Malibu and Calabasas, and I started to have a lot of referrals and walk-ins. Twelve months later, the problem was keeping up with all the demand rather than drumming up business. That’s when I finally started paying Cynthia (she was a thankless volunteer and a cheerleader before then) and hired Roberto, and my two part-time assistants, Peyton and Brie. I could probably use a few more assistants, but the space won’t allow it. It’s crammed as it is when just Cynthia and I are in the room.

  Cynthia thinks it’s time to expand – maybe look for another location – but I have a three-year lease, and the rent here is unbeatable. If I move, then I probably won’t be able to charge the same prices. Or worse, I might end up being just another run-of-the-mill flower shop. Here, I’m embedded in the local culture. I know my weekly customers, and they’re the ones sending me my wedding business. No matter how good expansion sounds, I’ve decided not to consider it until closer to the end of my lease.

  A few hours later, Cynthia comes back. I pour her a glass of sangria, and she joins me on the porch. She hands me her phone and shows me the pictures of the centerpieces from the reception hall.

  “The bride was ecstatic,” Cynthia says. Unlike most people in Southern California, she doesn’t use superlatives very often, so I know she’s not exaggerating. “And the mother-in-law. You should’ve seen her face.”

  “I’m glad,” I nod.

  She hands me the check. They already paid the down payment, and this is the rest of what they owe me. The sum brings a smile to my face. I take out my phone, scan it and deposit it immediately. A few months ago, one of my customer’s checks bounced, because I waited until Monday to deposit it instead of taking care of it that Friday. It took two months to finally get the money from her, but in that time, I have learned a very important lesson. Now, I deposit all checks as soon as I get them.

  Chapter 5 - Avery

  “This is the best sangria I’ve ever had,” Cynthia says, finishing her glass and pouring herself another. We are sitting on the little porch in front of my apartment. It’s not so much a porch as a walkway leading to the stairs downstairs, but I’m the only one up here so I’ve decorated it like it’s my porch. I bought a pair of natural wood Adirondack chairs and painted them myself. I’m sitting in the bright yellow one, and Cynthia’s occupying the bright blue one. The pitcher of sangria stands between us on a small side table. I had purchased from the thrift store downstairs. I like it, because it’s from another world altogether. The legs are sleek, like midcentury modern, and the top is made up of tiny little pieces of Mexican tile. It is as if someone had broken a colorful piece of pottery and then glued all the pieces on top of the table.

  “It is quite good,” I nod. Sangria is one of my specialties. I’m not actually a big fan of wine, but wine with fruit, brandy and brown sugar is hard to pass up.

  “So…” Cynthia says, turning to me. Her eyes sparkle mischievously.

  “So?” I ask. “So what?”

  “Happy birthday!!” she yells.

  “Oh that,” I mumble.

  “Oh, c’mon. It’s your 25th birthday! We have to celebrate.”

  I sigh. 25 years already. I should be more excited, but for some reason I’m not. Frankly, I was hoping that she would forget all about it.

  “I’m too tired to celebrate,” I say. It’s not a lie. I am exhausted. Working on those centerpieces and taking care of all the customers who have been coming in for the last couple of days have really taken it all out of me.

  “No, absolutely not,” Cynthia shakes her head. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. I have reservations, tonight. Well, actually in an hour,” she says looking at the time on phone. “At that place in Malibu that you like.”

  “The one with the ocean view?” I ask. That doesn’t really narrow it down. Almost all restaurants in Malibu have an ocean view, but Cynthia and I know each other very well.

  She nods. “The one with the blue shutters.”

  “Well, if it’s the one with the blue shutters,” I say with a shrug. “How can I say no?”

  “And before we do that, I have something else for you.”

  “We said no presents,” I remind her.

  “That was before your business was doing so well that you actually gave me a job! You’re getting this present. And I’m certainly expecting a present from you in a couple of months.”

  I smile. Cynthia reaches into her large Louis Vuitton purse and rustles through it, looking for something. I do not pay Cynthia enough for her to be able to afford a Louis Vuitton – their bags start at as much as I pay for a month of rent for my apartment – and this one is about double in size, so it must cost at least double if not triple that. Cynthia has always enjoyed the finer things in life and even before she started working for me, she spent all of her money from bar-tending on purses and shoes. It also helps that her parents don’t mind helping her out a bit, or a lot, to cover the necessities like her car and her apartment.

  Cynthia finally emerges from her bag with an envelope. She holds it up above her head.

  “Okay. But before I give this to you, I want to tell you that this was nearly impossible to get. I know that this isn’t your style or anything, but I want you to give this a chance. This woman is very good at what she does.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod anyway. She hands me the envelope. Inside, I find a beautiful white card with elegant script that reads ‘Happy Birthday.’ I open the card. A small postcard falls out onto my lap. The front of it says, Dolly Monroe, billionaire matchmaker. The back reads Good for one free consultation.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  The inside of the card also has a few kind words from Cynthia in her elegant handwriting, but I can’t focus on that right now.

  “Well, I was thinking about what to get you for this very important birthday. I was sort of reflecting on your life, and I was thinking that despite what happened a few years ago with your parents, you have a lot to be thankful for. Your business is very busy, much busier than you ever thought it would be, you have amazing friends, mainly me, and there’s really only one thing missing.”

  I wait for her to finish her thought.

  “A man! And not just some guy, a real man.”

  “So you got me a consultation with a matchmaker?” I ask. “Can’t I just go online to get a date?”

  “Yes, you can. But I don’t want you to just find some guy. I want to help you find the one. And a little birdie told me that this woman, Dolly Monroe, well, she’s the best!”

  I look at the card again. It is very thick stock and a rich color of ivory. As someone who recently spent a little money on designing and ordering business cards, I know that this one cost a pretty penny.

  “Does she have a website?” I ask. I want to look her up right away.

  “No,” Cynthia says with a coy smile. “That’s the thing about her. She’s very exclusive. She doesn’t advertise to the public. It’s all word of mouth.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “I don’t know either. But there’s a phone number on the card. You have to call it and make an appointment. Then she’ll tell you her address. A friend of mine used it.”

  “Did she find someone?”

  “She found her husband,” Cynthia says.

  “Oh, you mean Isabel?” I ask. Cynthia nods. I don’t know Isabel personally. She’s a friend of Cynthia’s from this place in Belize where her parents ha
ve a vacation condo. Isabel is from Texas, and her claim to fame is that she married a very rich rancher in West Texas. And they are apparently insanely happy.

  “I didn’t know this then, but Dolly apparently set them up. It’s part of the contract that the couple isn’t supposed to talk about her until after some time passes. Not sure why.”

  “So this Dolly, she’s a matchmaker? And that’s all she does?” I ask.

  “Yes. But not just some matchmaker. A billionaire matchmaker.”

  “But I don’t want to meet a billionaire,” I say.

  “You don’t want to meet a billionaire? Are you crazy?”

  “No, I don’t really want to meet anyone right now. Let alone, some rich prick with a Hollywood attitude who thinks he is God’s gift to women.”

  Cynthia shakes her head.

  “This is your gift from me. I want you to at least give it a chance. Just meet with her. Will you do that?”

  I sigh. I don’t want to. Cynthia should know better. The thing is that my resistance doesn’t even have anything to do with Dolly or the men she would match me with. It’s all me.

  “I don’t think I’m ready,” I say.

  “You’re ready. I know you are.”

  I don’t have to tell Cynthia what I’m thinking. She knows it all too well. Cal, my ex, and I broke up almost five months ago, but he still won’t leave me alone. I met him through Cynthia – they work at the same restaurant. We dated for three months, and then things got too intense for me. He always wanted to know what I was doing and where I was going. He went as far as putting a tracker on my phone to check up on my whereabouts. Real stalker. When I finally decided that enough was enough, he choked me until I passed out and just left me there. I could’ve died. I would’ve if my neighbor didn’t invite herself over without knocking and ask to borrow some eggs. It was she who found me and called an ambulance.

  It was over for us after that. Or so I had thought. I took out a restraining order. The judge ordered him to stay away from me. So far he has, but I still get the sneaking suspicion that, though I haven’t actually seen him, he’s around and watching me.