Champagne Life (8 page)

He snatched back his hand. “You're very attractive, Mrs. Herja—Jen, but I can't do this. I'm married and so are you.”

“I'll be frank. A woman like me can give you so much. I would even pay you, if that's what you want.”

“What?” DeShaun couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“I enjoy bestowing gifts on people who are my friends. I want you to be my friend, DeShaun. I want you to be my
very special
friend.”

The kitchen door swung open. They both quickly parted.

“Thank you for showing me where the glasses are.” She rushed back out to the party.

M.J. walked up to DeShaun and raised his brow. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Thanks, man.” DeShaun grabbed a towel and headed out the door back to the party.

“For what?”

“Trust me. You don't wanna know.”

“W
hat were you doing with my wife in here?” Mr. Herjavec bellowed behind them. “I hope not anything inappropriate.” Tiny creases were gathered between Mr. Herjavec's bushy brows. Slowly, the creases disappeared and the corners of his mouth turned upward. “Relax, my good man. I'm joking. Now stop being so serious and join us for a drink.” He picked up a glass of champagne and offered it to DeShaun. “Did the lovely Missus happen to tell you why we are celebrating?”

DeShaun took the stem of the glass and followed him out to the crowd gathered on the marbled stone patio. He was tempted to take a long, slow swig from the flute but decided against it. It wasn't like he didn't down a glass or two at these parties, it was just that tonight, he didn't feel much like drinking.

Mr. Herjavec headed out to the center of the crowd. He grabbed a fork from the buffet table and clinked it against the champagne glass in his hand. The crowd quieted down. When he had everyone's full attention, he held up his glass. “I would like to say a special congratulations to my stepson, Kyle,” he announced. “He recently graduated from Harvard University.”

Cheers and whistles sounded from the crowd.

“I'd also like to give a special thanks to my beautiful wife, Jenn, who helped make this night possible.”

The crowd oohed and aahed at the special toast.

“For if she didn't cut down on the Botox and her collection of overly priced designer shoes,” he continued, “we never would have been able to make the tuition payment.”

The crowd laughed.

The look of disappointment and shock washed over Mrs. Herjavec's face, but only for a second. She quickly recovered and stepped into the center of the crowd, joining her husband.

“Well, dear,” Mrs. Herjavec said. “It's better than spending it on hair replacement sessions and Viagra, from which I never seem to benefit from.” Mrs. Herjavec raised her glass. “I will drink to that.” She took a sip. “Lord knows, I deserve it.”

Sounding more like a comedy roast than a special toast, the entire crowd roared with laughter. Even Mr. Herjavec chuckled a bit.

As the crowd dispersed and resumed their conversations, DeShaun turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Excuse me.” Mrs. Herjavec walked up to DeShaun. He could smell the scent of her floral perfume before she even reached him. “Could you please get more hors d'oeuvres from the kitchen?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She grabbed his arm, leaned in and softly whispered, “I'll tell you what else you can get me—a man that knows how to please a woman.”

DeShaun pulled away, but that didn't stop him from becoming excited. “I'll get those hors d'oeuvres right away.”

Mrs. Herjavec's thick, crimson lips turned up at the corners as she said, “What I need has nothing to do with food.” She reached down and grabbed him—right in the balls. Her grip was aggressive, not painful. “Wow, nice,
real
nice.” She grinned.

Politely, DeShaun grabbed Mrs. Herjavec's hand and removed it from his privates. “I'm married.”

“As am I. That only means we need to be discreet.”

“What about your husband?”

“What about him?” Mrs. Herjavec squeezed in closer, so close, he felt her warm, breath on his neck. It smelled like fresh mint, which was surprising considering all the liquor she downed this evening.

“I'll let you in on a little secret about Mr. Herjavec. If you're not a young black boy with a tight body, he has no interest.” She looked DeShaun up and down. “You'd better watch out.”

DeShaun quickly walked away. He turned around as he headed back to the kitchen. Mrs. Herjavec was watching him.

When he pushed open the kitchen door, he ran right into M.J., who was rinsing champagne glasses in the sink. “What's up with that look on your face? Lemme guess, Mrs. H. asked you to pet her dog, Fido,” M.J. said, laughing.

DeShaun shook his head. “It was more like her kitty cat that needed petting.”

T
oday was One. Tiring. Day.
That was the only thing on my mind the entire bus ride home from work. This morning, my car would not start and, of course, DeShaun had picked this day to run early morning errands. When I hopped into the car and turned the ignition, my heart sank to my stomach when all I heard was a
click
instead of the sound of a smooth-running engine. I had to take the bus to work.

When I finally got to the bank, an hour and forty minutes late, the power went off. We still needed to continue with work as usual, while dealing with irate customers, as well as the rush of sweltering heat that made its way inside the doors every time someone entered. Then, later in the day, one of the branch managers pulled me aside to tell me my attitude needed adjusting. Apparently, I was not representative of the excellent customer service that the bank had to offer.

What wasn't representative of the excellent customer service was getting your lights turned out because your corporate office forgot to pay the light bill. That was some straight ghetto mess, right there. I could not figure out how in the world a bank, of all places, forgot to make an electrical bill payment.

I had no idea how long I would be able to put up with that place. The stress of the bank was beginning to get to me, so chances were, a forced smile on my face wasn't an option, which was rule
number one in the Customer Service Guide Book.
Make customers feel appreciated with a friendly word and a smile on your face.

Oh, please.

It wasn't that I couldn't excel in this position, it was more like I had no incentive to shine. For the past several months, I felt like I was wasting my time doing something I loathed—but wasn't everybody? The economy didn't allow for picking and choosing anymore. If you had a job, you kept that job. Unfortunately, bills were beginning to surpass our earnings. Every evening, I came home to at least one overdue notice jammed inside the mailbox.

At the end of the long day, I barely caught the bus and ending up sitting in one of the last seats available, which happened to be next to a woman with allergies.

Aaaaaachooooooooo!
The woman sitting next to me sneezed.

“Excuse me, please.” I stood up and carefully eased by her to sit somewhere else. I plopped down into an empty seat near the door, as far away from Sneezy as possible. As soon as I sat down, my purse slipped from my shoulder and landed on the dirty bus floor. It hit the ground and the contents spewed out and all over the place. At that exact moment, the bus stopped and let off passengers

I scrambled beneath dirty shoes to gather my belongings.
Of course.

On days like this, it felt like I was holding rocks on my shoulder. While I could lift the weight for awhile, it would eventually wear me down. There was never a break. There was never a moment to breathe. The worst part was, DeShaun and I had our first real fight in months. He never mentioned it but even now, I was still feeling guilty about the doggy bag comment. Sure, we fought about dirty laundry and undone dishes, but our last argument—that was one for the books.

As soon as I walked through the front door, I spotted a pile of
mail on the hall table. Against my better judgment, I picked it up and sifted through it. Every single envelope contained a tiny clear window in the middle, which only meant one thing— a bill. The one exception was a pale green envelope from a solicitor, asking me to donate funds to a Fireman's charity ball.

Some of the bills were yellow, some were white. A least two of them were pink. My spirits lifted a bit when I picked up one lone envelope with no window, no color, nothing— just a plain, white envelope.

The outside of the envelope read
McIntyre, Roth and Associates
. My heart skipped because I immediately recognized the name. I had forgotten all about the law firm that I interviewed with some time ago. About three weeks back, in one of my positive life moments, I had decided that I should go back to school. I thought about practicing law, but due to financial reasons, realized that was out of the question. That same day, I was leafing through the newspaper when I saw the ad for an administrator for McIntyre, Roth and Associates. I spent my entire lunch break, getting together a detailed resume to fax. I didn't have much experience and what experience I did have, I embellished a bit. The one thing I had going for me was my degree in Marketing from Hampton University, but since I was applying for a job in the legal field, I didn't know how much that would help. Two hours later, I snuck away from my counter and to the back room to fax off my resume.

Thirty minutes after that, I received a message on my phone that McIntyre and Roth wanted an interview with me.

I had done some research on the firm and found out that they reimbursed up to seventy percent of tuition for employees that qualified. This had to be a sign.
Think positive.
The firm had to be contacting me to give me the job, right?. This would change our lives. This job would finally give me something fulfilling to do
with my life other than dealing with old women and their pennies. This could be the beginning of a brand new lifestyle. Screw late bills, overdue notices and definitely screw having only $46 in the account.

My fingers fumbled with the envelope as I ripped open the letter. I couldn't read it fast enough.

Dear Ms. Knowles,

Thank you for your application. We have reviewed your qualifications and feel as though you may be a suitable fit for our administration position. We would like to schedule a second interview with you at your earliest convenience.

Thank you and have a great day.

Jim McIntyre, Esq.

/lw

McIntyre, Roth and Associates

Philadelphia, PA 19120

While it wasn't an offer letter, it was still good news. They wanted to schedule a second interview. I took a deep breath and one of those burden-ridden rocks fell off my shoulder and clunked to the ground.

One down, three hundred and seventy-six more to go.

I heard the lock at the front door. I raced to tell DeShaun my semi-good news but stopped in my tracks when I saw his expression.

“What happened?”

He clanked his car keys onto the hall table.

“What is it?” I asked again.

“You wouldn't believe it.”

“Believe what?” I was getting impatient.

“I was fired today.”

A part of me was relieved that the news wasn't a death. The other part of me wanted to double over and puke out a lung. It felt like I was kicked in the gut—and in a sense, I had been. Life circumstances were rearing its ugly head once again. A grain of happiness was apparently too much.

“What happened? I thought your manager was about to give you a raise. You were a guarantee for that managerial position. What the hell happened between last week and today? How could you have possibly screwed that up?”

“He's a jerk,” DeShaun said. “And he can kiss my ass for all I care. If that bastard thinks I need that job, then he can kiss my black ass twice. I don't need him or anyone else.”

“Are you serious? Of course, you need that job. We can barely make ends meet now. In case you haven't done the math yet, less money in our pockets means less money to pay the bills.”

“I know that!” He was getting angry and I didn't care. I was getting angry that he even had the nerve to be angry for something he did.
Who the hell got fired from a service job? My husband, that's who!

I threw my hands in the air. “Now what are we supposed to do? Do you think I can deal with this right now?”

“Stop being so dramatic. I'm the one that got fired.”

His constant reminders of the obvious burned me up. “Yes, you did,” I said through clenched teeth. “And what did you get fired for anyway?” I tried to keep my expression calm, but on the inside, I felt the flames searing right through me.

His angry expression softened. He shook his head and let his gaze drop to the floor.

What did that mean?
What was he so ashamed of…aside from the obvious?

“Why did you get fired?” I asked again.

He shook his head. “It was stupid. It wasn't my fault. Stiles had it in for me ever since Mr. Herjavec wanted to cut him out of the planning of some big party.”

“I didn't ask if it was your fault. I asked why you got fired. It's not a difficult question.”

He shot me a warning look.

“Did you finally snap and hit that pig bastard? What?”

He shook his head again.

What the hell was that look?

I was beginning to reach my boiling point. “What then?”

“I was fired for stealing,” he finally mumbled, but quickly added, “It wasn't my fault, though.”

“Please tell me you are joking. For stealing? Really? I would have more respect for you if you had told me you clocked him.”