The Icing on the Cake (33 page)

“Okay,” Gilbert said. “I need to get my keys.”

Gilbert led the way back to the custodial closet. He reached for a ring of keys that were hanging on a peg on the supply cart. “So what door do you need me to unlock? The copy room? The kitchen?”

“Actually, I need you to open George Kent’s office.”

Gilbert frowned. “Sorry. No can do.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean I can’t open that office for you.”

“I just need to put something in there,” I explained. “It will only take a second. You can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t mess with anything.”

Gilbert made a face that said he was considering my words. But in the end he turned me down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could lose my job.”

Gilbert placed the key ring on the cart and picked up the rag and sanitizer. He left the closet and whistled what sounded an awful lot like a Madonna song as he walked away.

Away from the key ring.

I looked over at the shiny keys. Why had Gilbert left them there? Didn’t he realize how much of a temptation it would be for me to take them? But then, maybe he wanted me to take them. Maybe he was trying to tell me that he couldn’t “give” them to me, but if I just happened to take them, well that was that. I decided that had to be it, and grabbed the keys.

I was tiptoeing out of the custodial closet when I saw a pair of beady little eyes staring at me from a nearby shelf. It only took a moment for me to realize that the beady eyes belonged to a small, grey mouse. I tried to be calm, tried not to be one of those crazy females who screams and jumps on a chair or table at the sight of a mouse. I mean, come on, a mouse versus a human, who’s going to win?

The mouse, that’s who!

My scream was accompanied by the sound of the keys crashing on the concrete floor. And with a swiftness I didn’t know I had in me, I somehow hopped on top of the table with the knobs and gizmos on it, keeping a keen eye on the mouse’s every move. I clutched my bag close to me as if I thought that maybe the mouse would climb in it. Or maybe steal it.

My teeth began chattering as I watched the mouse slink around. He was just so creepy, all small and rodenty. Sure, all those Disney movies make mice seem cute and friendly, with their little outfits and their cute little songs, but I’m telling you, this guy was not in a little outfit, nor was he singing. I had to get out of that closet.

So, with my eyes tightly closed and a scream coming from my lungs, I hopped off the table and dashed out the door. I slammed the door closed and let out another squeal. Quickly, I ran away from the closet.

That’s what you get for trying to steal that old man’s keys,
my brain scolded.

Oh be quiet,
I said to my brain.

Far, far away from the janitorial closet, I tried to come up with another solution to my predicament. I decided to try to call George again. I dialed his home number, and on the second ring a woman answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, is George there?”

“No, sorry, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

“Is this his wife?” I asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied slowly. “Who is this?”

“My name is Annabelle Pleasanton. I work with George at the magazine.”

“Ah yes, I believe we met at the Christmas party. Aren’t you the one who showed up with that lovely Portuguese cake?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I said with a sigh. “So, um, would you happen to know how I could get a hold of George? It’s important.”

“He’s at his weekly poker game. Even
I
can’t get a hold of him.” Mrs. Kent laughed a strained laugh.

“Oh, okay. Thank you very much.” I hung up the phone and suddenly a thought came to my mind: I knew someone who had a key to George’s office.

I found Arvin’s number in my cell phone directory and dialed it, my heart pounding.

“Hello?” It was Arvin’s roommate Clay, who is also in the singles ward.

“Hey, is Arvin there?”

“Nope. Who is this?”

“Annabelle. I really need to reach him. Does he have a cell number?” The last I heard, Arvin thought a cell phone cramped his surfer lifestyle.

“No,” Clay answered. “But he’s at the Pine Hills golf club for the singles activity. He left with six girls and a dude about twenty minutes ago. Didn’t you plan the activity with him?”

“No, I didn’t.” I had been so busy with everything else in my life that I had been slacking on my activities committee duties. “How long do you think they’ll be there?” I asked.

“A couple of hours,” Clay answered.

“Great. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I hung up the phone and tapped my toe on the floor. The Pine Hills golf club was only about a mile away. I could just drive over there, find Arvin, get the key, and switch the drives without George knowing a thing. It was the perfect plan.

Or so I thought.

I was about two feet away from an exit door when I felt something brush against my shoulder. I was absolutely positive it was the mouse, come to get me back for locking him in the closet.

“Eee!” I screamed, brushing my shoulder and jumping around like a madwoman.

“Annabelle?”

I screamed even louder. Now the mouse was talking to me.

“Annabelle, it’s me,” the mouse said.

Okay, okay. At this point it began to register that it wasn’t the mouse talking to me, but a human. And guess which human. I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with Misaac.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I panted, my teeth chattering wildly.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. The green light of the nearby exit sign illuminated him. And of course, even in green exit light he was gorgeous.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.

Isaac held up a black portfolio. “Working. I’m basically living here for the next week. What about you?”

“I left something here by mistake,” I answered. “But speaking of work, I’ve decided to go with my original article. That is . . . I think I am.”

Isaac furrowed his brow. “So the focus changed back?”

“Well . . . I’m not sure yet,” I said, sounding like a complete ditz. “I’ll email you. Is your email working?”

Isaac nodded.

“Then I’ll email you if I go with the original article.”

“But as of now you’re gong with the article you gave me? Because that’s the article I submitted photos for today.” Isaac scratched his head, which made his hair get all messy and adorable. I quickly turned my attention to a weird yellow spot on the wall behind him.

“Yeah, I guess I’m going with the one I gave you for now,” I said, still staring at the yellow spot. I tightened my jacket around me and turned to walk away. “Well, I’ve really gotta go.”

“Wait, Annabelle,” Isaac called out, reaching for me.

“Why should I wait?” My voice was much more biting than I had intended.

“Because I don’t want it to be like this between us,” Isaac said.

I cocked my head to one side. “And how do you want it to be between us?” I asked, my voice still full of bite.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Isaac replied.

“Well, I don’t have time for
I don’t know
right now,” I said. I put my hand on the exit door.

“What if I told you I think I made a mistake?” Isaac said.

I turned and looked at him. “Do you think that?”

“Well, I think that maybe I was wrong to refuse to forgive you.”

“Excuse me? Forgive me? Aside from trying to keep you out of my condo so you wouldn’t get angry, I didn’t do anything wrong. How many times do I have to tell you that? Because frankly, it’s getting exhausting!” I pushed the exit door open furiously, and stepped out into the cool evening.

Isaac followed me out the door. “Come on, Annabelle. I saw how that creep acted around you, and you never said a thing. Then the guy is in your house, and I’m supposed to believe that nothing is going on?”

I got in Isaac’s face. “Do you want to know what was going on?” I shouted. “Okay, I’ll tell you what was going on. Yes, I never said anything to Patrique about the way he acted around me, but only because Jean-Pierre made it very clear that the future of my article depended on me being nice to him. And yes, he was at my condo, but only because, like I told you before, he’s crazy. And yes, I didn’t want you to know he was there, but only because I was terrified of losing you. Because for the first time in my life I felt like someone really saw me. I’ve spent so many years of my life trying to show people the parts of me I thought would please them. But not with you. I couldn’t do that with you for some reason. You saw me, all of me, and still you stuck around. And when that happened, I wasn’t so afraid to be me anymore. I was stronger.

“And that night, after you left, and I wasn’t even sure I would ever see you again, I put everything on the line and stood up to Patrique. Because of you. Not only because of how I feel about you. But because of how you made me feel about myself.”

A gentle look came into Isaac’s eyes, and he moved very close to me. Time seemed suspended, as if it were waiting for us to make something of the moment.

But just then, a man in a heavily wrinkled suit bounded out of the office building, talking loudly on a cell phone, and the moment was gone.

“Well, I better go,” I said in a voice that sounded nothing like me.

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Isaac said.

We exchanged quick good-byes, and headed in opposite directions.

As I walked to my car, I saw the man in the wrinkled suit getting into a car in the distance. And I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what might have happened if he had come out of that exit door just a few moments later.

I
am very sorry, but we have a dress code. Slacks and a collared shirt are required.” This blond-haired kid, who looked about fifteen, was refusing to let me onto the golf course because I wasn’t dressed properly. I looked down at my pink Barbie pajamas: I didn’t see the problem.

“Listen, I’m not going to golf,” I said. “I’m just looking for someone.”

“I cannot let you onto the course unless you are dressed properly.”

“Okay then, do you rent clothes here?” I asked.

The teen looked at me like I had just asked if he would share a piece of chewing gum with me. “No, we do not rent clothes. However, you are welcome to purchase clothing in our Pro Shop.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I made my way to the clubhouse and stepped into the Pro Shop in search of something “proper” to wear. But as is usually the case with shops like this—ones that exist for the ridiculously inflated purchases of items that people should have gotten at a normal store—everything was in two styles: 1) Who in their right mind would wear this? 2) Who in
any
state of mind would wear this?

I was thumbing through a rack of ladies’ plaid pants when I saw a woman walk by wearing an outfit that was dress-code appropriate, yet was actually something I might wear again.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman.

“Yes,” she replied with a stiff smile that revealed the straightest, whitest teeth imaginable.

“Where did you get your outfit?” I asked. Maybe it was within driving distance.

The woman made this little pouting face like she was trying hard to remember where she got her outfit. “In London. At the most darling little boutique not too far from Cambridge.”

“Oh,” I responded, nodding my head. For a split second, I tried to calculate how long it would take me to get to England. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” The woman walked away with the poise of a runway model.

I moved from the plaid-pants rack to a rack of shirts. I was seriously considering a bright purple polo shirt with a sick-looking seagull embroidered on it when I decided to forget the clothing search. Like the place had golf cops that would come and cuff me for not observing the dress code.

I walked down onto the golf course, which was illuminated by tall, wooden-posted lights. I looked out at the course and was overwhelmed. All I saw was a sea of green grass for what seemed like miles. I had no idea how I would ever find Arvin in the green sea.

Luckily, I spotted a map nearby. After consulting the map, I decided to start searching for Arvin at the first hole and make my way to the eighteenth. Personally, I think golf is a little silly that way. Why waste time and energy walking all over a course? Why not just use the same hole eighteen times?

I was walking toward the third hole, when I was approached by another blond teenager, this one with a set of eyebrows that were sculpted into a perfect arch that I could only dream of.

“Excuse me, Miss. Can I help you find something?” the teenager asked.

Good
, I thought,
someone who is helpful rather than obsessed with the dress code.

“Yes, I’m actually looking for someone.”

“Did you miss your tee time?”