You Dropped a Blonde on Me (3 page)
There was a long pause before he spoke. Clearly, he sought to measure his response to her impassioned request. “Ms. Cambridge, can I ask you something? I mean, if it’s not too personal.”
She automatically looked down at her perky breasts, floating just beneath her open-collared silk shirt. “You want to know if these are real, don’t you?” Everybody did, and she’d answer if it meant a job.
He cleared his throat, giving a stern shake of his head, looking anywhere but at her frisky décolletage. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I would never . . . I’m just curious about your—well, why someone like you needs a job here? Aren’t you the lady who used to do the commercials for Cambridge Automobiles? You know, ‘Put your seat—’”
“ ‘In something sweet,’ ” Maxine finished. Her face flushed a hundred shades of deep red. Why, why, why had she jumped straight to the boob question? “Yeah, that was me.” And now it wasn’t. Because she wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and her husband didn’t want her anymore, and she’d been traded in.
“And you drive a fancy car, and you wear fancy clothes . . .”
It was always like this when she showed up in Connor’s car or someone recognized her. Max plucked at her white suit jacket. “I’m dressed like this because I just left my lawyer’s office—which, FYI, was a complete waste of gas money I didn’t have, and the car’s my kid’s. I borrowed it from him so I could go see my 1-800-dial-divorce lawyer for him to tell me I’m defining broke in a whole new way, then swing by here so you could tell me you won’t hire me. My son’s car’s one of the few things my soon-to-be ex didn’t take from us, but don’t hold your breath for me, because I’m sure he’ll want that back, too.” She finished by clamping her mouth shut. Truly, it was the only way to stop the train wreck her big mouth had become.
Yet for a mere moment, Maxine found the sympathy she’d hoped to tap into written on his chubby, moon-shaped face. He was waffling. Perfect. “Ah, messy divorce?”
Messy had levels. Her divorce was at DEFCON 5. “You’re understating it. That’s very kind. I don’t want to get too personal and scare you off by divulging too much so you’ll only end up uncomfortable, but here’s where I’m at. You in?” If she could just make one person understand how close she was to welfare by telling them how she’d been bamboozled, then pride could go eff itself.
Mr. Herrera nodded his reluctant consent. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you hope to leave here unscarred.” Maxine clutched his arm again, pushing her back into the glass exit door for leverage.
He scanned the top of the dining area over the top of her head. “Then of course. Do divulge.” He sighed.
So she did. “Okay, so in a nutshell, this is the skinny, and I’m telling you this because I want you to really understand why I harass you every day. It’s a lot. Sure you’re up to it?”
His feet shuffled.
Shit, she’d given him an out.
“Forget I asked. Just listen. I
am
going through a divorce. It’s been hell. No, it’s worse than hell—it’s hell times eight gotrillion. I was married to a very wealthy man who’s redefined the phrase ‘ironclad prenuptial.’ I had no idea anything was wrong with my marriage until I found out, quite by accident and by some jackass’s mistake in the society pages, that I was soon going to be anything but Mrs. Finley Cambridge. Okay, that’s not one hundred percent true. There were indiscretions . . . But I thought we were back on track. Wait, maybe I did have a suspicion or two—make that ten, but that wasn’t really clear until I had some distance and hindsight. Oh, if I could only tell you the kind of hindsight I’ve been blessed with.” Maxine paused, sucking in some chicken-fried air and clenching her jaw so she wouldn’t burst out into big, fat, girlie tears.
am
going through a divorce. It’s been hell. No, it’s worse than hell—it’s hell times eight gotrillion. I was married to a very wealthy man who’s redefined the phrase ‘ironclad prenuptial.’ I had no idea anything was wrong with my marriage until I found out, quite by accident and by some jackass’s mistake in the society pages, that I was soon going to be anything but Mrs. Finley Cambridge. Okay, that’s not one hundred percent true. There were indiscretions . . . But I thought we were back on track. Wait, maybe I did have a suspicion or two—make that ten, but that wasn’t really clear until I had some distance and hindsight. Oh, if I could only tell you the kind of hindsight I’ve been blessed with.” Maxine paused, sucking in some chicken-fried air and clenching her jaw so she wouldn’t burst out into big, fat, girlie tears.
“Anyway, I have no money. None. Nothing. I know you’re probably thinking, nothing? Yeah, sure. A major player like Finley Cambridge left his wife of twenty years with nothing. C’mon. You must have
something
. Like a severance package for time served. Hush money, maybe? That’s exactly what you’re thinking, right?”
something
. Like a severance package for time served. Hush money, maybe? That’s exactly what you’re thinking, right?”
Mr. Herrera winced his agreement with a slow nod.
Maxine clucked her tongue. “Yeah, that’s what everyone thinks. But I swear to you, Mr. Herrera, I have squat. When I found out about my husband’s wandering wanker, I left. I just didn’t know I’d left-left.
Everything
. I also didn’t know when I left that I’d never see my house, my car, my personal Pilates instructor again, forever. Those ridiculous luxuries aside, I thought we’d get a normal divorce. The one where you and your kid have a place to live and food on the table, because your pending ex is rich and owns half of New York, New Jersey, and parts of Connecticut. So he has cash to spare, and even if it meant downsizing our lifestyle, and me going back to school to get a decent job because I’m no slacker, I still believed he’d do the right thing. I was, according to my dial-a-lawyer, delusional. If you were me, wouldn’t you have made the same crazy assumption?”
Everything
. I also didn’t know when I left that I’d never see my house, my car, my personal Pilates instructor again, forever. Those ridiculous luxuries aside, I thought we’d get a normal divorce. The one where you and your kid have a place to live and food on the table, because your pending ex is rich and owns half of New York, New Jersey, and parts of Connecticut. So he has cash to spare, and even if it meant downsizing our lifestyle, and me going back to school to get a decent job because I’m no slacker, I still believed he’d do the right thing. I was, according to my dial-a-lawyer, delusional. If you were me, wouldn’t you have made the same crazy assumption?”
Mr. Herrera’s brow furrowed. “Assumptions can be troublesome.”
“If you only knew the half of it. So since this nightmare began eight months, four days, and thirty-six hours ago, I’ve been trying to get on my feet. I’ve applied for forty-two and a half jobs. I say half because I’ll do almost anything to earn a living, but there’ll be no mechanically separating chickens for this girl. I left that interview halfway through it in defense of chickens everywhere. I’ve been turned down for every single position I’ve applied for in the town of Riverbend—which, if you were wondering, doesn’t have a whole lot in the way of industry. So here I am. Penniless. Jobless. Pride-less. And that’s why I come in here every day, Mr. Herrera, because I need a job. I need just one person to give me a chance. Kids come and go in these places when a taste for a change and a position at Hot Topic comes along. I can promise you that’s not me. I’m reliable, honest, and hardworking. I’ll work whatever hours you have—I’ll work the graveyard shift. There were two positions available last week. Gabriella got one. That means one’s still up for grabs. I just need you to please reconsider hiring me.
Please
.”
Please
.”
The manager’s face changed, and her rising anxiety gave way to the tiniest bit of hope. If she could just get her foot in the door . . .
But hope, much like her dye job, was fleeting.
A loud bang on the door behind her made them both jump, thus freeing Mr. Herrera from her WrestleMania-like grip.
Maxine gasped when she caught a familiar face pressed against the glass door with a head that wore the prized Cluck-Cluck Palace’s beak hat. “You hired
him
? He’s who got my job, isn’t he?” she accused, her eyes flashing in the manager’s direction.
him
? He’s who got my job, isn’t he?” she accused, her eyes flashing in the manager’s direction.
Be it frustration, exhaustion, or maybe utter and complete loss of all rationale, her nut officially flipped. It’d been a long time coming, filled with endless hours of poring over the want ads, being rejected time after time for jobs even her own kid wouldn’t apply for. The sheer terror she felt each and every time she realized that she and Connor had far less than a pot to piss in.
The anxiety-riddled nights spent sleeping upright in her mother’s armchair while she hatched and re-hatched ways to find work. The moments of startling clarity when she was constantly walloped over the head with her stupidity and the fact that she was nothing more than a dried-up ex-beauty queen who’d gone almost directly from high school and the Miss Riverbend Auto and Glass pageant to marriage and a man who was twenty years older than her.
For sure, she was long overdue for a breakdown. That it was a beaked hat and a gingham-checked apron that sent her into the abyss would surely be cause for some major regret.
Later.
Maxine gripped the door’s handle and stuck her tongue out at Phillip—the other kid who’d filled out an application with her and Gabriella, daring him to fight his way into the store
she
should be working in.
she
should be working in.
Phillip yanked back, his freckled face confused and red from the cloying heat.
“Mrs. Cambridge! You can’t keep a customer from entering the store. If you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call the authorities!” Mr. Herrera whisper-yelled, trying to pry her fingers from the handle.
Oh, no, brotha. No way was this kid—this child who needed a job like he needed an eyelift—getting her job. Goddamn it, he didn’t need a job. But by all that was holy, she did. Mental flashes of her and Connor staple-gunning boxes together on the side of the road to create living space sent her panic into four-wheel drive.
Gritting her teeth, Max flapped one hand at Mr. Herrera and flattened herself against the door. “He’s not a customer. He’s an employee! An employee who has
my
job!” Swatting at his large hands, Maxine clung to the handle while Phillip yanked harder. She dug her heels in, wild-eyed and panting. “Nooooooooooooooo!”
my
job!” Swatting at his large hands, Maxine clung to the handle while Phillip yanked harder. She dug her heels in, wild-eyed and panting. “Nooooooooooooooo!”
But as a tag team, Mr. Herrera and Phillip were a force she couldn’t reckon with. The door buckled, ripping from her sweaty fingers as Phillip gave one last tug, rocketing her out onto the manicured grass by the sidewalk, and him right where he wanted to be. Inside the Cluck-Cluck Palace. Her nylons caught on a neatly trimmed boxwood hedge, tearing a long line from her ankle to her thigh.
Both Phillip and Mr. Herrera burst out behind her, grunting and panting.
The humidity was thick, clinging to her stupid suit and plastering her silk shirt to her clammy skin. The blazing sun beat down on the top of her head, leaving her dizzy and almost breathless. Almost. She wasn’t done. Not yet. “
You
,” she pointed a shaking finger at Phillip. “You stole my job and my damned hat. You Cluck-Cluck Palace—”
You
,” she pointed a shaking finger at Phillip. “You stole my job and my damned hat. You Cluck-Cluck Palace—”
“Max? Max Henderson?”
The air from her seething bubble of anger deflated with a metaphorical hiss. She’d been made.
Oh, Jesus. Please, please, please, God, if you’re good, and gracious enough to forgive my complete lack of socially acceptable behavior, when I turn around, don’t let it be an associate of Finley’s. Or worse a parent of one of Connor’s classmates.
But hold on. Maybe there was salvation. No one from her once elite lifestyle called her Max . . .
Oh, Jesus. Please, please, please, God, if you’re good, and gracious enough to forgive my complete lack of socially acceptable behavior, when I turn around, don’t let it be an associate of Finley’s. Or worse a parent of one of Connor’s classmates.
But hold on. Maybe there was salvation. No one from her once elite lifestyle called her Max . . .
Maxine swung around and squinted into the glare of the mid-afternoon sun. She cocked her head in the direction of a tall man wearing low-slung jeans and an exceptionally white T-shirt.
“Campbell. Campbell Barker. Remember? We graduated together. Class of 1987.”
She teetered on her heels, gathering her purse tight to her chest as he moved closer. Campbell . . . She couldn’t recall a Campbell.
Mr. Herrera tapped her on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave the Cluck-Cluck Palace’s premises now, Mrs. Cambridge, and please, do us all a favor. Stay. Away. Or I’ll be forced to call the authorities after today.” The irony of him asking a
Cambridge
to leave the premises might have had her in a fit of slaphappy giggles, if not for the fact that a hunky man in sun-washed jeans that molded to hard thighs was upon her.
Cambridge
to leave the premises might have had her in a fit of slaphappy giggles, if not for the fact that a hunky man in sun-washed jeans that molded to hard thighs was upon her.
Campbell’s tall, bulky frame covered the distance between them in two strides, and he looked to Mr. Herrera and that wee suck-up Phillip with a question in his blue eyes. “Everything okay?”
Catching sight of him up close, Maxine swooned a little. Not only was he blessedly blocking the sun from frying her eyeballs but the scent of his freshly laundered T-shirt invaded her nostrils, so comforting and clean it brought hot tears to her tired eyes.
His eyes, deep blue and thickly fringed with short lashes, were laced with concern and caught hers. “Max? Is everything all right?”
Weary from battle, Maxine finally found her voice. “Everything’s . . . it’s fine. I’m sorry, Mr. Herrera—for my behavior.” And she was, but not so contrite that she didn’t have a little fight left in her. Especially considering the fact that she was leaving yet another fast food restaurant sans employment. “But I’m telling you, you’ll regret hiring him.” She narrowed her eyes in the skinny, undeserving Phillip’s direction. “And not me.”
“Now, Mrs. Cambridge—”
But Campbell cut him off with a raised eyebrow. “Are you telling me he wouldn’t hire you?
You
? Max Henderson—prom queen, voted most popular, and head cheerleader of the Riverbend Rams?”
You
? Max Henderson—prom queen, voted most popular, and head cheerleader of the Riverbend Rams?”
Well, when it was put like that . . . But she got the playful irony in his husky tone and decided to go along. Giving Campbell her best sad face, she nodded. “Yeah. I’m too
old
for the Cluck-Cluck Palace.”
old
for the Cluck-Cluck Palace.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Mr. Herrera’s face, dotted with sweat, puffed out in indignation.
“No, that’s true,” Maxine defended him. “Not in so many words, but it was implied when you hired him and not me.”
So, huh on you.
So, huh on you.
Campbell rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, casting Mr. Herrera a disappointed expression. The lines on either side of his full mouth deepening when he pursed his lips. “Wow. That sucks. I was so up for a Cluck-Cluck chicken patty melt with curly fries, too. Love those fries. But seeing as you discriminate against the elderly here, I think I’ll take my business to, say, The Beef Barn. C’mon, Max. There’s a cattle combo with my name on it. Bet they’d hire an old lady like you there.” He nodded to Mr. Herrera and Phillip. “You two have a good day, you senior-citizen haters.”
She couldn’t help it. Her head fell back on her shoulders with a long snort of laughter as she let Campbell lead her down the stretch of sidewalk toward the parking lot and away from, by far, the most humiliating display of disgruntled, unemployed ex-trophy wife ever.
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