Every Other Saturday (34 page)

I always think this section is the closest I will ever come to giving an Academy Awards acceptance speech. Even though at this moment, it’s far more likely that I am in yoga pants covered in dog hair than a designer gown, there are still many people to thank, so don’t play the music just yet!

First of all, to my readers near and far—for taking a chance on my books, for reviewing and sharing them with friends, and for stopping by Facebook or Twitter to laugh at whatever nonsense I’ve posted that day. You’re the best. Really. Keep stopping by to say hello, and I’ll do my best not to let you down.

To my Erratica critique partners—Becky Albertalli, Emily Carpenter, and Chris Negron—thank you for holding me accountable, inspiring me to be a better writer every day, and never judging when I eat half a basket of tortilla chips by myself. Your viewpoints are invaluable, your friendship even more so.

Thanks to my many beta readers, for your candor, insight and mad trivia skills: Carla Birnbaum, Tracy Cembor, Sarah Cutler, Amanda Davis, Jenna Denisar, Joel Fuernsinn, Kristal Goelz, Cynthia Landrum, Anna Needle, Michelle Needle, Jeff Picken, Karen Saul, Stacey Schuler-Cannon, Brenda Turetsky, Ryan Van Meter, and Rob Wade. It’s true that you can’t write a novel by committee, but this book is much better for your eagle eyes and honest reactions. Thank you for sharing your time and opinions. Also, to my agent Beth Phelan of The Bent Agency for generously giving of her time, opinions, and support no matter where my writing leads me.

Special thanks to the staff at the Marcus Jewish Community Center of Atlanta and the MJCCA Sunshine School, for providing a loving, educational Jewish home for our family and countless others (with far less drama than occurs in these pages). Also to Jennifer Brooke, Hilary Delman, Stefanie Gordon and Lisa Stahlman for allowing me to mine your personal experiences for insight and inspiration. Being friends with a writer is a dangerous proposition, and you’ve weathered it with grace.

Finally, I want to thank my supernaturally supportive husband Sam Turetsky and our two children for enduring many nights of pizza on paper plates, days of getting dressed straight from the dryer, and all the other dicey situations that arise from living with a writer. You’re the reason for all I do, and I choose you every day.

MANDA (M.J.) PULLEN, former therapist and marketer, is the author of complex, funny contemporary romances. She was raised in the suburbs of Atlanta by a physicist and a flower child, who taught her that life is tragic and funny, and real love is anything but simple. She studied English Literature and Business at the University of Georgia, and Professional Counseling at Georgia State University.

Manda has a weakness for sappy movies, juicy gossip, craft beer and boys who talk baseball. After traveling around Europe and living in cities like Austin and Portland, she returned to Atlanta where she lives with her family.

Website: www.mjpullen.com

Facebook:
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Twitter: @MJPullen

Blog: http://mjpullen.com/blog/

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The Marriage Pact

November 2015 – St. Martin’s Press

(Excerpt begins on next page)

Regrets Only

March 2016 – St. Martin’s Press

Baggage Check

July 2016 – St. Martin’s Press

Marci Thompson marked the occasion of her thirtieth birthday by leaving her 480 square foot apartment early and going to the dentist. Dr. Kim, the only dentist in Austin who had 7:00 a.m. appointments at the last minute, sang an off-key “Happy Birthday” while he poked and prodded in her mouth with bitter-tasting latex gloves. It was a pathetic start to a new decade.

Even though her dentist father was four states away in Georgia, and even though she was thirty years old today, she still could not disappoint him by missing the traditional birthday deadline for her annual appointment.  Since she had put it off until last minute, the cleaning meant missing her own private tradition of hot coffee and birthday pancakes with gobs of blueberry syrup. She longed to be at a window booth at Kerbey Lane Café instead of at a sterile office with a mouth full of instruments. But this was the only thing her dad still asked of his adult daughters, and Marci preferred it by far to her mother’s frequent hints about grandchildren.

She escaped Dr. Kim’s office and ran to catch the 8:13 bus. When she unearthed her phone from the mess in her purse, there were three messages waiting. Her sister Nicole, who lived in Washington, D.C., with her fiancé, Ravi, wished Marci a happy birthday and announced that she’d just e-mailed pictures of several wedding cakes on which she wanted Marci’s prompt and honest opinion. Nicole, in contrast to her older sister, always had her dental appointment done and report submitted a month in advance.

In the second message, her mother sang, a little better than Dr. Kim. In the background, her dad chimed in and yelled that he’d be calling later to ask about her teeth. “Oh, Arthur!” her mother scolded. “She’s turning thirty today. I think she can handle taking care of her own teeth!” Then, in a quiet undertone, she murmured into the phone, “Please do get your checkup, sweetheart. You know how your father is about it...”

The final message was the soft drawl of her best friend, Suzanne, who still lived in Atlanta but called from a hotel room in Chicago, where she was helping to put on a large party for one of her corporate clients. “Enjoy your big three-oh, darling! Love you much!” The message was genuine, but the tone artificially perky. Marci knew Suzanne was not a morning person but sometimes pretended for the sake of her profession. And birthdays.

Marci hung up the phone and stared out the bus window. She felt loved and lonely at the same time. The messages were all three sweet and thoughtful, and all long-distance. With one possible exception, they were the most personal birthday wishes she would receive all day. She was so lost in this reflection that she almost missed the stop for her temp job.

The lobby of the high-rise that housed TDL & S Advertising (named for its founders Teague, Dodgen, Lane & Stanton) was decorated in a style that could only be described as “cowboy formal.” Deeply polished mahogany walls and exquisite marble floors were accented with cowhide rugs, leather furniture, and wrought iron shaped into Texas’s signature five-pointed stars. Between the elevators, native wildflowers were gathered in a crystal vase shaped like a boot.

 Marci could not resist the temptation to examine her distorted reflection in the polished brass doors as she waited for them to open. Her frizzy brown curls were their usual untamed mess, hazel eyes oddly gold-looking in the imperfect light. Not skinny to begin with, she had put on at least ten pounds since January, and her black polyester pencil skirt strained across her ass, which she hoped looked broader in the reflection than in real life.

Behind her, she heard the confident clack of tiny heels as Candice from human resources strode toward the elevator in a flowing pastel skirt and peasant blouse, with a wispy tan scarf that did not match, but mysteriously worked.

“Hi, Marci. How’s it going?”

“Great, thanks.” Marci tried to sound chipper. Candice, who had been her first contact at TDL & S when she came from the temp agency, still signed her timesheets. So in a certain light Candice was technically a sort of supervisor, though Marci rarely saw her.

“Wonderful,” Candice said. “Victoria tells me you’re quite an asset over there in accounting.”

“Thanks, I’m . . .” She looked for words that were both positive and truthful. “I’m glad to be useful.”

With a perfunctory smile, Candice returned her gaze to the shiny doors. Marci fidgeted with her knit blouse, trying to stretch it down to cover more of the bulge around her waistline without exposing too much of her ample, lightly freckled cleavage.

As they stood side by side in the warped brass reflection, Marci tried to refrain from comparing herself to the tiny human resources manager. She refused to notice, for example, that the girl was five years younger and looked more polished and put-together than Marci did on her best day. Kind of sickeningly petite and adorable, too. And there was no point in observing that, at twenty-five, Candice had an actual, grown-up job with an office and a nameplate on her desk. Or musing that she probably had a boyfriend who would acknowledge their relationship on Facebook. Not that Marci was comparing.

She’d heard on a talk show recently that when women make comparisons between themselves, it undermines their self-esteem and feminist solidarity or something. She didn’t want to undermine her self-esteem and her sisterly relationships on her birthday, for heaven’s sake. So she waited, not wondering about Candice’s online relationship status or envying her tiny waist at all.

  They had just entered the elevator when Candice reached out to keep the doors from closing. “Hurry up, Doug!” she called.

Marci felt a tremor of excitement run through her. The insecurities that had been piling up just seconds before were erased entirely as a familiar brown loafer stepped onto the carpeted elevator floor. He was wearing pressed khaki chinos, a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and sunglasses on top of his head. He smelled amazing.

“Hey Candice, what’s up?” he said, smiling at the HR manager, and then tossed Marci a quick wink and said, “Good morning, Megan.” She nodded and suppressed a shy grin, her cheeks burning. Originally a mistake, “Megan” had become their little inside joke. Sometimes people corrected him when he said it at the office, but today Candice did not seem to notice.

“Are you coming to the happy hour today?” Candice asked him.

“Not sure yet,” Doug said. “Somebody has to keep this place running.” 

“You should come; it’s going to be fun,” she implored. Then Candice seemed to remember that they were not alone in the elevator, because she hurriedly added to Marci, “Of course, you’re welcome to come, too. It’s 5:30 at Maudie’s.”

She thanked Candice and the elevator doors opened. In a flash the chambray shirt was on its way to the corner office near the production area (“the creatives,” they were called), while Marci and Candice disembarked toward the administrative end of the office. A long day of filing and data entry awaited, and she felt disappointed that she and Doug hadn’t been able to exchange anything but glances.

At noon, she stalled with a stack of files in the copy room to avoid an invitation to lunch with the rest of the accounting department. She liked her coworkers, despite the oppressive dullness of the work. Her supervisor, Victoria, was the kind of woman who in her late thirties seemed married to her career and religious about her daily routines. But as long as Marci did her work carefully and on time, she was a reasonable boss and always cordial.

Two other chatty women in the department kept a running tab on all the office gossip, never expressing any interest in Marci herself. Finally, there was Jeremy. Hired just a year earlier, he was around her age and bent over backward to include Marci in all department lunches and conversations. She was never sure whether his efforts were just friendly or if there was more to it. Whatever the case, it was her birthday and she didn’t want to make small talk over salads today.

When she heard Victoria and Jeremy’s voices drift safely toward the elevators, she finished her copies and returned to her desk to wait. She had not been able to talk to Doug privately in a couple of days. But about once every two weeks, they managed to get away together during the lunch hour, almost always for the short drive back to her place, and she now realized she not only hoped this would happen today, she’d counted on it.

Marci shuffled the files a few times, sorted her in-box unnecessarily, and straightened the supplies in her desk. She tried to do some data entry, but found she could not concentrate and kept having to go back and erase the invoice numbers she had put in the system and start over. All the while, she kept glancing over her cubicle, hoping to see Doug’s smile emerge any second.

By 12:40, she was restless and hungry. Cell phone reception was notoriously bad in this part of the building, but she decided to check her e-mail anyway. She glanced around the department to make sure she was alone. Personal e-mail was strongly discouraged at the advertising firm and absolutely forbidden by the temp agency, so she rarely risked it. Even though she had only ever checked it briefly while on a break, she was plagued by fear of being called to a meeting with some IT person, who would have a stack of documentation of her errant ways.

She had thirty-two new messages. At least half were automated e-mails from online retailers wishing her a happy birthday with 10 percent off and free shipping. Along with the note from Nicole, there were a few e-cards from friends, which she decided to open later. A couple of notifications from writing discussion lists of which she was a member but never made time to read. A forward chain e-mail from Suzanne’s grandmother, alerting her that her UPS delivery driver might be a member of Al Qaeda. A sale on her favorite jeans at the plus-size outlet store. Happy birthday from her chiropractor.

As she neared the bottom of the highlighted portion of her inbox, she saw the first new message had been sent at 12:01 a.m. from Jake Stillwell, one of her best friends from college. Nothing was in the subject line, but she saw there was an attachment. After a split second’s hesitation, curiosity beat out the scary IT guy. She clicked to open it, read the two short sentences Jake had included, and sat back while the image loaded on the screen.
No. It couldn’t be. Had he really kept it?

The consternation must still have been visible on her face a few moments later, when Doug’s head appeared around the side of her cubicle, because he stopped his momentum to ask, “Everything okay?” despite his obvious hurry. Startled, she lunged forward and clicked the windows closed, even though Doug certainly would not care that she was checking her e-mail from the office.

“It’s fine. I’m . . . fine,” she said.

“Okay, good. Listen, babe,” he began, and Marci looked around wide-eyed to make sure no one was around to hear the familiar term. He laughed at her panic, as usual. “I already checked—we’re alone, kiddo.”

Kiddo
.

“I just came by to say I can’t go to lunch today. There’s a meeting at Motorola this afternoon—a big project we might be doing for them. I have to be there. Frank’s been really riding my ass about bringing in new clients lately . . . Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” He looked genuinely concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, pasting on a smile. “Just a weird e-mail from home.”

“Oh.”

Marci remained silent. She couldn’t really explain it to Doug.

“Anyway, sweetheart, I’m sorry that I can’t go to lunch with you on your birthday. I promise I will make it up to you tonight. Cathy’s, um . . .”   He hesitated, flustered, and then finished in a rush. Usually he avoided saying his wife’s name to Marci. “Well, I’m free for a while tonight.”

Without warning, he leaned down and kissed her. He had never so much as touched her hand in the office before, and her body tingled with the danger and excitement in response. Afterward, he kept his face close to hers. She smelled his clean skin and resisted the temptation to put her palm flat against the crisp white undershirt beneath the blue chambray.

His voice in her ear was husky. “I really
did
want to take you to lunch.” His tone suggested eating lunch had probably
not
been on the agenda. Her heart pounded and she looked around wildly, expecting to see someone come around the corner at any second and find them in this pose, for which there was no feasible professional explanation. “I’ll find you later.” She closed her eyes, inhaling his scent. When she opened them, he was gone.

Two seconds later, Jeremy appeared at her desk. He tossed a small styrofoam box on her keyboard. “Where were you? We went to Guero’s.”

His obvious disappointment that she had missed lunch was flattering. She smiled at him. “I got caught here, making copies.”

“Well, here you go. Happy birthday.”

“Oh, how did you . . . ?”

“I overheard you mention it on the phone yesterday. Sorry if that was eavesdropping. I’m not a creep—I promise.” His tone was eager and solicitous, as always. Marci opened the box and found a rich-looking chocolate layer cake with some sort of raspberry sauce drizzled over the top. “I know how much you love chocolate,” he said proudly.

Jeremy reminded Marci of a golden retriever who had just dropped a treasured chew toy at her feet and wanted a pat on the head. She thanked him for the cake and gave him a quick hug. She really was grateful, because Victoria had just come back to the office with the rest of the team, and Marci’s stomach growled menacingly.