A Previous Engagement (9 page)

Marty’s door was open and he was waiting for me. “Marty!” I was breathless from my one-woman comedy act. “Sorry I’m late… your note… just got it now.”

My heart was racing, somewhere inside my throat, and I suddenly felt like heaving up my lunch. Mental note: never eat a grilled veggie panini and then run around like a circus performer.

When I finally caught my breath, I found Marty smiling calmly at me. Smiling in a way that meant either I was being fired or a donut sugar-high was at play. Donuts, please donuts. The Hostess wrapper peaking up from the wastebasket soothed my nerves.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk—a first. He’d never been this polite to me, even keeping his eyes focused on my own instead of on my breasts.

“Monroe,” he said thoughtfully, invoking a chorus of squeaks as he leaned back in his big chair. “As you know, we’ve been pleased with your work here. So pleased, in fact, that we’ve made you the youngest assistant vice president Prime has ever had.” And the first female. “I wasn’t in favor of that decision. At first. But after just this short time working with you, I think I can see what the Powers That Be see in you. Yes, I’ve been quite pleased.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bensen.” His creepy ear-to-ear grin made my skin crawl.

As he shifted his weight forward, the chair creaked again, Marty pushed a huge three-ring binder across his shiny desk. I lifted it gingerly onto my lap, as though any sudden movements would trigger a self-destruct mode.

“Take a look,” he nodded. I flipped through the papers inside, my eyes glazing over at the sight of all those facts, figures, and demographical reports. “We’ve been considering a leap like this for years and I think we’re finally ready to go for it. This could really shake things up around here.”

I tried to read the words on the pages, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. The sheer volume of the binder overwhelmed my brain. The major problem with paperwork is how difficult it is to distinguish it from other paperwork. On a desk like mine, this would just blend in with its surroundings.

“What is it?” I had to ask, or spend the next three hours reading through it all right here in Marty’s office. No thanks, I’ll take the shortest route to the exit, if you don’t mind.

“We feel that our current marketing outreach is missing a key demographic: Young people in their twenties and thirties, just building their investment portfolios. We’ve been kicking around this idea to reach the next generation of investors. That right there is all the information on a brand new publication,” Marty leaned forward in his desk chair—squeak!—for dramatic emphasis, his elbows spread far apart to support his weight tipped off balance. The comb-over flopped. “That
you
are going to spearhead.”

If I hadn’t spit out that piece of gum earlier, I’d have choked on it and died right there on the floor. A brand new publication. Not only would I lead the project, but I was going to bridge the marketing and public relations departments at Prime Investing to “launch this initiative.”

This,
this
, was something I could finally sink my teeth into. It wasn’t just mindless copy writing and graphics approval, or finding photographers to take pictures of people looking pensive over their retirement packages. This was real stuff, stuff that could make a difference in someone else’s life—someone my age. Investing
was
a great opportunity, one many young people didn’t understand. This new publication could be the open door to my special niche in the investments marketing universe. The next generation of financial investments might be resting squarely on my shoulders. All those business-y terms gave me goose bumps.

Marty and those “Powers That Be” had chosen me—
me
—to do this important task for them. An entire quarterly publication solely dedicated to the young investors of tomorrow. I would control the content, the design, everything from start to finish, and I had a team of people working for me. Not
with
me,
for
me
.

I could just break down into tears at any moment.

Instead, I passed the afternoon in a whirlwind of planning activities, pulling together my team of designers, writers, and assorted underlings to start off strong. I tapped Savannah as my right-hand lady, excited to offer a leg-up to one of Prime’s other strong female leaders. I gathered a team of interns, including a very lucky Jake Tisdale, to brainstorm articles and columns. My designers were given a clear visual: clean lines, crisp photos, and a fun twist on the classic formats our mature investors read in their publication.

Savannah turned out to be a fountain of ideas as she paced my office with me and brainstormed that afternoon. By the end of the day, we have at least three solid working titles, a strategy for selling our ad space, and about fifteen great article topics.

“Teal,” she said proudly, stopping mid-stride and turning to me. I was hunched over my desk, jotting down my own rapid-fire thoughts.

“Teal?”

“It’s the ‘business blue’ of the new generation. We can’t use that old, tired blue everywhere, Tess. We need something that stands out, makes a statement.”

“Teal,” I nodded, mulling it over. “I like it. Tell the design team.”

Just like that, I found a unique rhythm with Savannah. All the years working close by and I had no idea we’d have such chemistry. What a great addition she’d be to our group, if only she could find such a strong connection with Christian. In a lot of ways, it was like I was working with Christian, they were so similar. I smiled, thinking about him.

Really, there was only one place I wanted to celebrate, but Christian wasn’t home. I paced in front of his apartment building, too stubborn to give up, and finally decided to let myself in with my spare key and leave a note. Marty’s words echoed in my head: “This is your chance to make a big difference here at Prime.” This was it, my big chance, and I couldn’t even find the person who would be just as excited as I was.

The light was on when I opened his front door. Strange, but not unheard of, since Christian was always leaving all the lights on everywhere he went. I took it as a sign that he’d just popped out for a few minutes and decided to wait and surprise him with my news. I tossed my jacket over the arm of the couch, left my shoes by the door, and padded into the kitchen for a drink. The fridge was well-stocked with orange juice, bottles of water, a few stray cans of beer, and a bottle of champagne shoved all the way into the back. Ah, the perfect way to celebrate.

I practically climbed into the fridge to reach it. Balanced precariously over the veggie crisper, I had only a split-second to panic when my stocking feet slipped on the linoleum floor. I came down hard, bashing my elbow on a six pack of beer, and sending a cascade of fresh grapes across the kitchen.

“Christian?” That familiar, grating voice stood my hair on end. I froze, halfway inside the refrigerator, my arm wedged between the orange juice and half a watermelon. “Christian? Is that you?” The voice spoke again, coming from his bedroom.

Still, I couldn’t answer. Even when her footsteps marched toward me, I kept motionless and silent. This is what a deer feels like just before it gets hit by a semi, I knew. Before long, Marcy came around the corner, dressed in a flowing negligee and kitten heel slippers like some 1920s Hollywood starlet.

“Oh. What are
you
doing here?” She sneered at me, quickly assessing the disaster I’d just created in the kitchen. “You’re going to clean that up, right?”

Collecting whatever dignity remained, I stood up and brushed off my skirt. My elbow hurt something fierce, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my pain. “I suppose I could ask what you’re doing here, Marcy.”

She raised one perfectly penciled eyebrow at me.

“So… what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like, idiot?” She gestured down the length of her purple silk robe, which wasn’t very long at all, ending about halfway up her thighs. “He’s mine, Tess, so just back off and get out.”

“He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?” I slammed the fridge door shut.

Marcy threw her head back and laughed, overly theatrical as usual. “He doesn’t want you, Tess. He wants me. I’m the love of his life and you know it.”

“Marcy, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but I’m not here to date Christian. I just came by to—”

“Save it, bitch. I’ve seen how you look at him, how you drool over him.” She shook her head with pity. With her faced pinched together like that, her angular features were witch-like. Though I suspected she always had the potential, I’d never seen her so crazed. If only Christian could see her now. “It’s sad, really. All these years and you never got it together with him. Too late now. You should just get out of here before he comes back and finds you snooping around. That’ll be embarrassing for you, won’t it?”

I kicked the grapes at her and marched out of the kitchen. I grabbed my shoes and purse and flung open the door. Marcy was on my heels, eyes burning a hole through my back. Halfway out the door, I spun on her with my own fiery look. “When he kicks you out, I hope he makes you walk home like that.”

She smirked at me, loading new ammunition, but I slammed the door in her face before she got the last word. I drove home to my apartment fuming, sure that I was right about Marcy intruding. Christian would surely kick her out, kitten heels and all. Wouldn’t he?

In the following days, I tried to keep my mind on my project and not on Marcy’s stupid negligee. My calls and texts to Christian went unreturned, my emails unopened. I didn’t tell Kendra what happened that night, I just couldn’t. Because, as every day passed, I grew more and more sure that I’d been wrong.

By Wednesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. Thankfully, I knew I’d see him and get the confrontation we so desperately required. I had so many questions; I didn’t know where I would start. The walk to Tosca’s was brisk, but I didn’t feel the cold with all that adrenaline coursing through my system. I burst through the door, ready to zero in on him and get some answers, but he wasn’t there.

Mr. Antonio caught my searching eyes and shrugged. He poured me a cup of coffee and I sat at the counter, waiting. Neither one of us had missed a Coffee Wednesday in more than eight years. I even showed up with the flu once—which resulted in Christian also contracting the disease, but my point remains—we were dedicated to our ritual, and to spending time together. He would show. I knew he would show. After a few moments, Mr. Antonio put his hand over mine.

“Don’t tap-a the fingers, please.”

“Sorry.”

It was fifteen more minutes before I pulled out my day planner and my phone to stay occupied. I scheduled a few meetings for next week, checked over my agenda for the afternoon meeting, and even played a game of Angry Birds. Every so often, I lifted up my head to check the door. Nothing. Mr. Antonio hovered nearby, cleaning a coffee maker. Mrs. Antonio was singing in the kitchen, out of sight. The other Wednesday regulars typed away on their laptops, laughed about the latest office gossip, or flipped the pages of their romance novels. My heart sank, the coffee tasted bitter in my mouth. Everything was as it should be, but without Christian, none of it felt right.

CHAPTER SEVEN

My usual panicked dreams about being naked in a boardroom or losing all the files on my laptop gave way to a different kind of dream in the following nights. A memory I hadn’t revisited in a long, long time.

I swam across the in-ground pool at the Douglas’s house long after sunset. The day had been a scorcher and the water still retained the sun’s heat. On that mid-July evening, stranded between sophomore and junior year of college with no internship and no job, I just enjoyed my reunion with the water. As the night air chilled, the warm depths of the water softly rippled with every stroke of my arms. I missed my days on the high school swim team, replaced now by work-study jobs and hours spent studying for my college courses. If I closed my eyes, I could still hear the echoing of the other girls inside the pool house as we trained for our next meet. The smell of chlorine burned my nose, the taste of it invaded my mouth, the familiar sensations I loved to revisit. The water lapping at my shoulders was a warm embrace, a welcoming after so much time away.

“Hey, Tessie.”

He was home, finally, and standing just feet away from me. His voice carried over the water but I pretended not to hear him, overpowering my urge to jump out of the water and tackle him with a hug. One more lap, that’s all. Just one more. I dug deep, pushing hard to wind my way around and shoot back in the other direction. My knees bent, my feet pressed against the rough stucco wall, and I pushed off, exhilarated. Alive again after so many hours spent cooped up with my books and my numbers and my business jargon.

“Tessie?”

I couldn’t make him wait any longer. Here I was, swimming in his family’s pool and ignoring him. Time together over the summer was precious and fleeting. There would be other days for swimming. I slowed my last few strokes, lifting my head above the water, and stopped at the cement edge of the pool.