My Very Best Friend (35 page)

Darren slunk down in his seat.

“Xavier, you don’t have the brain capacity of a ten-year-old science student, and everyone knows it.” This was a true statement. “You hide your lack of intellect behind your condescending and patronizing attitude. Vaginas should not be used as an excuse to hold anyone back. I know what I’m doing, and you know I know what I’m doing. I am not going to take this. If you promote him over me, simply because he has a penis, I’m done.”

Xavier blustered, flustered. He was embarrassed and backed into a wall with nipping wolves all around. Xavier wasn’t popular. He used fear and anger to hide that he was a semi-functioning monkey.

He squiggled, he wiggled, he flushed and blushed and said, “Then you’re out, Charlotte.”

“Come on, Xavier,” Bryan Yeung said, standing up. “That’s not right.”

“She can’t leave.” Vil Tourno stood with Bryan.

Others joined in. “She’s the head of our team . . . she deserved the promotion, she’s deserved it for a long time . . . you can’t promote Darren over Charlotte. . . .” Men stood up for me, proving that not all men are against women. Maureen announced, “I am not going to take this sexist, scrotum-loving discrimination anymore. She leaves”—Maureen jabbed a finger at me—“I call my attorney.”

Yet Xavier was going to throw his weight and ego around. He was
the boss.
No one could challenge him. Especially not a
woman
. “Thank you for your work, Charlotte. I’m sorry we have had a misunderstanding.”

“That’s what people and companies say to someone when they know they’re guilty, culpable, and trying to defend themselves against a lawsuit. It’s said to get people to shut up. It’s paternalistic. It makes me sick. So do you, by the way. Will I be promoted or not?”

The silence deafened us all.

Xavier was shaking with anger, but he was scared, too, of the nipping wolves. He hesitated. But wait! No one was allowed to challenge his authority! “You will not be promoted. Darren has—”

Those words were buried in other people’s objections.

I turned and left, went back to my desk, leaving the chaos. I walked out with my research. I was told that everyone else left the lab and did not return for a week in protest.

The university was furious with Xavier, especially when my attorney called. No one wanted to work for Xavier. Xavier was let go by the university. Xavier didn’t work again at the same level, all because he wouldn’t give a woman a chance. It was that lack of a deserved promotion—and a top hat and lacy parasol—that finally had me writing my time travel romance novels full speed. Overt sexism, one could say, was the last impetus that launched my career.

McKenzie Rae Dean evolved for me instantly; she’d been in the back of my mind playing, spying, dancing, time traveling, and falling in love with various men (all Toran) for years.

I worked on the book nonstop, McKenzie Rae talking in my head. I hardly went anywhere. My attorney sent a check from the university.

It took six months. I edited it eight times. I sent it to five agents at once. I didn’t hear from one agent because, I heard later, he had left his agency after a nervous breakdown and went to Nepal. Three agents rejected it.

I heard from Maybelle Courten last. I signed on with her. She took my time travel romance, showed a whole bunch of publishers at once, and almost all declined. Only one took it. A small house. Small advance.

I was elated.

I dedicated it to my mother and late father, but at the end of the book, in the acknowledgments, I wrote, “To Xavier, who refused to promote a woman in his department, me, because I have female plumbing. That caveman-like, discriminatory, ignorant attitude helped launch this book. I hear you work at a deli now.”

When
Scottish Legends, Bagpipes, and Kilts, A Romantic Time Travel Adventure
, Book Number One, came out, it went nowhere the first few weeks, and my publishing house was disappointed and antsy. I kept writing. I loved writing. Writing was an escape for me. I could escape into McKenzie Rae. Three months later it was on the best-seller lists.

What tossed me onto the list? A national talk show host. Leah Hagen was smart-alecky, blunt, and funny. She said her daughter gave it to her and she liked the “titillating sex scenes. We should all have shuddering orgasms, like McKenzie Rae Dean!”

That was it. The “titillating sex scenes” and “shuddering orgasms” comment. Which was amusing because I felt the book was more about romance and history, with scientific leanings about time travel, parallel time, black holes, worm holes, the speed of light, etc., than titillating sex.

I went from a laboratory at a university to an international bestseller. It about blew the synapses out of my cranium. (From a neurological perspective, to be clear, this can’t happen.)

I’m told that the agents and publishing houses that declined the book have been in mourning ever since.

Gee whiz. Too bad for them.

Toran walked in my door that night, work boots on, and stopped.

My legs were shaking. I had chosen the red negligee with lace and garters, and the heels with the fluffy furry thing. I knew I would hardly be able to walk with those suckers on, so I stood still.

“Hello, Toran.”

He didn’t speak for a second, but he did slam the door behind him. His eyes traveled all over, up and down and to the side. I stuck a hip out and put my hand on it. I think I stuck it out too far, as my back briefly cramped.

“This is a surprise,” he said, eyes wide. “The best surprise. You are . . .” He waved a hand. “You are . . .” He shook his head, his voice rough, low. “Charlotte . . .”

I was still shaking as he strode up like one of the chivalrous men in my books, wrapped those long arms around me, and pulled me to that muscled chest. He bent his head and kissed me, and that kiss was a long one. The long one went into another long one, and a longer one after that, and we ended up on my couch, limbs all entangled and panting.

He knew how to get that piece of red silk off me.

Damn, I thought later, laughing to myself. He was quick.

Afterward, Scottish Warrior grabbed a blanket to put over us, kissed me, and we took a nap.

I am a fan of naps. Catnaps. Even Silver Cat was napping.

I woke up from my catnap on top of Toran and gave him a kiss on his cheek. The cheek on his face, not the cheek on his buttocks.

“You have beautiful eyes that follow me around every day, Char. I can hardly concentrate on my work at all anymore.”

“I couldn’t concentrate on my work before I came back to Scotland, and now I can’t concentrate at all.” I thought about that. “I think concentrating is overrated.”

He laughed. “Ah, me too.” He kissed me slow and easy, then ran his hands up, and down, and up, and down, all over my body. “I liked the lacy stuff. It was . . .” He made a groaning, happy sound.

“It was?”

“Sexy. Like you, Charlotte. The second I saw you, when you arrived from the States, I thought, ‘That is one sexy woman.’”

“You’re joking.” I thought of my hair, my broken glasses, and my clothes.

His brows came together. “No. Why would I joke about that?”

“I wasn’t sexy.”

“Oh yes, honey. You have always been sexy. Put that red . . . whatever you call it . . . back on. I want to see you.”

“That contraption is rather tricky.” He helped me. I tried to walk in the heels. That went poorly. Toran caught me on the way down.

It was Japanese night, so I made hibachi steak, shrimp, and fried rice in the red lingerie and my cheetah flats, to feel animalistic. No need to break an ankle.

We didn’t make it to dessert immediately, which was peppermint creams dipped in chocolate. We ate them in bed later. He ate two creams off my breasts. I ate one off his missile. The missile took off again.

“Magic Four Power, begin!” King Toran, Queen Bridget, King Pherson, and I, Queen Charlotte, put our fists in a circle, then spun around. When we were done spinning we were new and improved children, superhero royalty!

Our goal: rescue three children who had been captured by a towering, English-speaking scorpion who ate children for dinner. We ran down to the ocean and threw rocks at him, then sprinted up the beach and into the hills, where we fought him with swinging tree branches and our mighty fists.

King Toran and I climbed a tree. He pulled me up with one hand and made sure I wouldn’t fall off while he yelled, “Victory to us all!”

I thought he was so cool. So handsome.

“Victory to us all!” I shouted back. When I wavered on my branch in the tree, Toran stabilized me again and said, “Now, don’t fall off, Queen Charlotte.”

“Okay, King Toran. I won’t.”

And I didn’t fall off. But that’s because his hand was there, making sure that I didn’t.

Dear Charlotte,

It was delightful to see you in the village on Thursday. Thank you for offering to bring me one of your butterfly bushes. It will be a complementary foil to my pink valerian and my cuckoo flowers.

Sincerely yours,

Chief Constable Ben Harris

A friend of your parents, may the bagpipes of heaven surround the soul of your father, my friend.

PS Gitanjali and I had a splendid dinner at my house, in the garden, two nights ago. We sat under the clematis vine, next to a new barrel of petunias I planted, pinks and magentas. I bought ravioli, spaghetti, lasagna, and manicotti from Luigi’s. She said she might like Italian food, so I wanted to give her a sampling. I do believe she liked it.

She was thrilled with the elephant tea set, and I received a kiss on the cheek.

She has consented to have another dinner with me. She did insist on making it. I don’t want to trouble her, but I must say I am delighted.

Thank you, Charlotte, for putting in a good word for me.

Toran and I talked about Bridget. We worried about her. When Toran had first told me he didn’t know where she was, I had paid a Swiss detective for three weeks to search in Europe. He couldn’t find her. He was apologetic, offered to give half the money back. I declined. I had gotten his report and I knew he’d tried. He even worked four days longer than I’d paid him.

“She may be living under another name or under a bridge. I was able to trace a few trails, even found that she’d been in and out of two hospitals, one in London, one in Paris, but nothing came of it. . . .”

I knew Bridget was never far from Toran’s mind. He himself made a trip for three days, in the midst of so much work on his farm, the apples needing shipping and delivering, and found no trace of her.

“God in heaven, Charlotte, I hope that Bridget is not dead.”

I hugged him. I hoped she wasn’t, either.

Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,

We continue to talk and talk and talk until my head splits about what to do for this blasted fund-raiser, and we have not even decided on who, or what, should get the money yet, not that we’ve had impressive financial results in the past, anyhow.

But I think the answer is simple: we should sell marijuana plants.

We can do it in my barn next to the pigs with grow lights, or we can use my greenhouse. We’ll make a fortune.

Olive Oliver

Remember, sign your name to this letter, then pass it around to the rest of the ladies. Rowena, try not to spill so much wine this time.

To the ladies of Garden Gobbling Groupies,

I agree with Olive. We should sell marijuana plants.

How illegal is it really, when one gets down to it?

I would like a joint. The Arse told the children that I had broken up our marriage because I was grumpy. He neglected to mention that he was bedding The Slut for a year before I knew anything. The Slut dropped by yesterday with one of the kid’s coats and told me I needed to “give it a go and get over it,” and “quit being vindictive,” and “let them (The Arse and The Slut) be happy in their newfound love,” and I was a “bitter and unhappy witch.”

I threw a ceramic toad at her. It broke. Missed its target. So fun to watch her run with those fake boobs, so I threw a second toad at her.

I do think a joint would help me calm down, and I will be our first customer.

I sold ten of my Scottish rock necklaces to Kacie’s boutique. They all sold. She has ordered twenty-five more. I am in business.

Rowena

To Garden Gabbling Gob Women,