Olive Oil and White Bread (4 page)

“Hey, baby,” Shay answered. “This is my good friend, Jillian Clark. Jill, this is Laura Schaeffer.”

The two shook hands, both squinting at each other, each trying to place the other as Jillian scooted back to make room for Laura to sit between them.

“Have we met?” Laura asked.

“I think so, but I‘ve been struggling to remember where,” Jillian replied.

They laughed and tried hard to figure out their connection, as Shay ordered drinks and watched them quiz each other.

“Wait,” Jillian said finally. “Do you play softball?”

“I used to until I blew out my knee,” Laura replied. “But I watch a lot. Go to the games. I bet I've seen you play.”

They decided that that was as close as they were going to get to a definitive answer and they settled back, still chuckling and now more familiar with one another.

Jillian sipped her beer and enjoyed the show, realizing that she'd never
really seen Shay so enamored with anybody. Her hand was constantly touching Laura; whether on her arm, her shoulder, or her thigh, contact was unremitting. When Laura spoke to Jillian, Shay watched her face as if looking at a masterpiece, something awe-inspiring and breathtaking. It would have been ridiculous if it wasn't so damn sweet. Jillian was happy for her dear friend.

Well, mostly happy. There was a tiny part of her that was envious. Jealous, even. Aware that she was seeing something she missed terribly.

Yes, she knew that she was still young, that there was plenty of time to find permanence. But more than anything, she knew what she wanted, what would make her happy—and it didn't matter that she wasn't even twenty-three yet. She wanted somebody to look at her the way Shay was looking at Laura. She knew that. With every fiber of her being, she knew it.

It seemed like a simple enough request.

She'd felt that way about Linda, her college girlfriend; at least she'd thought she had. Totally, completely, utterly in love. She knew that the look on her face when she'd looked at Linda was an exact replica of the look on Shay's face right now. Jillian had had that, and she'd loved it. She'd like to have it again. What she
hadn't
had was reciprocation. Linda looking back at her the same way, the way Laura gazed back at Shay, that same adoration in her eyes, she hadn't had that. But she wanted it. And what was even more, she wanted to be
worthy
of that look.

Jillian sighed, watched her friends as they laughed at some inside joke, and the warmth in her heart grew.

Yup. I want that
.

1989

When I See You Smile

Three

“Good afternoon, Logo Promo, this is Angie. May I help you?” Angie listened, then nodded. “Sure. Hang on while I transfer you.”

The small office bustled, and Angie loved it. The ringing phone, the conversations coming from various offices, the copier and fax humming. It was like a machine, the smells of new carpet and freshly brewed coffee taking the place of motor oil and gasoline, and Angie was proud to be a part of it, even if she was overqualified to be the receptionist.

When she'd called Mr. Guelli last fall, she didn't have the first clue what an advertising specialties company was. Some kind of advertising had been her one and only (and lame) guess. She was half right. Logo Promo was a new business that did exactly what its name implied: It promoted companies' logos. A business opening a new location might want to give something out with their name on it, a pen or key chain or calendar. If a company had a crew that did business off-site, landscaping or house painting maybe, it might want imprinted shirts, or something that showed passersby exactly who was doing the work. If an office sponsored an event, it was good publicity to advertise by giving away a mug or a water bottle or decorating with imprinted balloons. Logo Promo had connections around the country with suppliers who specialized in making all those items. LP's salespeople acted as middlemen and placed orders with the suppliers for the products that would then ship to their clients. A pretty simple system, but a surprisingly successful one. Angie was astonished by how many companies used advertising specialties—“trinkets and trash” as they called it.

The gentle
ping
of the door alarm sounded, and Angie looked up to see Gary, the mailman.

“Morning, Angie,” he said in his always cheerful tone. He placed a rubber-banded stack on her desk.

“Thank you, Gary.”

“Beautiful day out there.”

“You'd say that if it was a blizzard,” Angie chuckled at him.

“You're right. I think being alive is better than the alternative, so I'm going to enjoy every single day, rain or shine.” Two knocks on her desk and then a wave. “See you tomorrow.” He smiled a greeting to a tiny woman he passed in the doorway, and was gone.

“I think he's a robot,” Hope Maynard commented to Angie on her way past the front desk. “Nobody is
that
cheerful
all
the time.” Hope was the only woman on the sales staff at Logo Promo. At just over five feet tall, she probably weighed in at a hundred pounds, soaking wet. She worked hard and played harder, and she and Angie had become instant friends.

Forty-five minutes filled with phone calls and copies went by before Angie had a chance to get to the stack of mail. Half of it consisted of supplier catalogs and she separated those out for sorting later. The rest would be invoices and—hopefully—checks. With her letter opener (emblazoned with the blue-and-white Logo Promo logo), she zipped open the mail piece by piece and divided it into piles. The last envelope in the stack was a little bit thicker than the average invoice, and once Angie opened it, her mind began to race. She spread the textured parchment paper out on her desk and read through the cover letter a second, a third time.

It was attached to a resume.

More than that, it was attached to a résumé from a person she knew, Chris Avanti, a boy from her high school, somebody who'd been just a year behind her.

In any normal situation, she'd feel bad for opening mail that wasn't addressed to her. But in cases here at work, unless something was marked
Personal and Confidential
, she opened all of it. That was part of her job; it was
literally
in her job description. This résumé had been addressed to Mr. Guelli, yet here it sat, on her desk, making her rethink her position at the company.

When she'd started at Logo Promo almost six months ago, it was
going to be temporary. Of course, she'd never said as much to the person hiring her, but that was her plan.
Take this receptionist post and make a little money. When something better—something more in tune with my degree—comes along, I'll take it
. A genuine interest in the business wasn't something she'd expected. A tiny desire to manage a business began to form, something she'd never entertained before in her life, and
that
had been unexpected.

And now this. This résumé.

She looked at it again. The cover letter mentioned that Chris had heard Mr. Guelli was looking to hire another salesperson, and though he had no sales experience, he thought he could do a good job, that he'd be an asset to the company.

“
I
am an asset to the company,” Angie whispered. Before she could stop to think, she was on her feet and walking down the short hallway to Mr. Guelli's office. His door was open, his head bent over the papers on his desk, a small clock radio blaring a baseball game too loudly. He looked up when she knocked on the doorjamb.

Vincent Guelli looked about ten years older than he was, thanks to the salt-and-pepper donut of hair that circled his head and the extra pounds of paunch that stretched his belt. He smiled at her.

“Angelina.”

“Can I talk to you?”

He turned the radio down and gestured to the two chairs angled toward each other in front of his desk. “Of course.”

Wordlessly, she handed him Chris's résumé and cover letter.

Mr. Guelli donned his half-glasses—another item that did nothing to promote his real age—and read. When he finished, he looked up at her. “Okay. And?”

Angie wet her lips and fleetingly thought,
Here goes nothing
. “If you hire him for the sales position, I'll be really upset.”

Mr. Guelli removed his glasses and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“I have the same degree as he does. Communications. And he has no sales experience. Neither do I, but I do have experience
here
. I've learned a lot about this company and this business in the short time I've been here. I think that gives me a legup on him.” She cleared her
throat, hardly able to believe what she was saying. “Let me give the sales position a shot. Please. I can do a good job. I can make you money.”

That was the clincher. She could see it in his eyes, even when he told her to let him think about it, and that he'd get back to her later in the day. When all was said and done, he was in this business for no other reason than to make money. She knew that, and she had used it. She knew the job was hers. Her parents would be proud.

She was finally moving up in the world.

“‘The Dimpled Pickle'? Really?” Hope shook her head as she handed Angie a beer. “What did it used to be?”

“AJ's,” Angie replied. “And as far as I'm concerned, that's what I will continue to call it.”

“‘The Dimpled Pickle'. What the hell were they smoking when they came up with that name?”

“I'm not sure I want to know.”

“I'm embarrassed for your people.”

Angie laughed. “Me, too.”

Hope held up her beer bottle. “Here's to you, babe, and having another chick in the sales department. Thank god! Now I can talk about my period, and I won't be met only by blank stares or uncomfortable squirming.”

They clinked glass and drank. It was Friday night. Hope would begin training Angie in sales on Monday. Since Angie had no existing accounts of her own, Mr. Guelli had hired her on at a small salary—very small—and a commission that was a percentage of the sales she brought in. Plus, he'd given her a handful of small leads. She knew her arrangement was different than the other salespeople, who were mostly on straight commission and with a percentage much larger than hers, but she was thankful for the chance. If she worked at it, she should be able to bring herself in some decent cash, enough to tide her over until she figured out what she wanted to do with her life. She was certain selling “trinkets and trash” wasn't it, but it would do for now.

“Does our usual bet stand tonight?” Hope asked, winking. She settled her diminutive form on her barstool with her back against the bar, while Angie sat forward propped on her forearms.

“No,” Angie said firmly. “No way. This is my night for celebrating, not watching while my straight friend gets hit on at the lesbian bar a dozen times more often than I do.
Yet again
. My ego is happy tonight. It does not need to be shot down.”

“Fair enough,” Hope said with a nod. “You do know it's because you intimidate these poor women, right?”

Angie snorted. “Yeah, that's me all right. I'm so intimidating.” She punctuated her words with an eye roll.

Hope leaned in closer. “Most beautiful women are.”

Angie felt herself flush and took a pull from her beer.

“I, of course, am special and therefore undeterred by your stunning good looks,” Hope went on in her best theatrical tone while Angie grinned. “And if you had that one thing I require of my lovers, I would swoop in and ruin you for all other women.”

“Hair on my chest?”

“The other thing.”

“Oh yeah. That. I could get one, you know.”

“I prefer the real thing, my dear.”

“Damn my luck.”

They sat looking at each other with twin expressions of joy in their friendship, which was still new but definitely a keeper.

“I've got to hit the little girls' room,” Hope said. “Order me another?”

Angie ordered another round and spun on her stool so she could look around the bar. It wasn't busy. Honestly, she wasn't sure it looked any busier—or much different—than when the previous owners had managed it. A small group of older women played pool. A young couple stood in front of the jukebox with their hips touching, bouncing to the Paula Abdul song it broadcast. A burst of laughter emanated from the group at the corner table. Angie squinted at them, wondering if she knew any of them. There were five women, and they seemed to be around her age, or not far from it. Two were an obvious couple, hanging all over each other. The brunette looked vaguely familiar, but Angie couldn't place her. The lighter brunette didn't ring a bell at all. The blonde . . .