Can I See You Again? (7 page)

“For the love of God, why are we having this conversation again?” Randi says, at ten minutes to eight o'clock the following morning.

Is that smoke billowing from her ears?

“Don't you hear me?”

Yes, because you're yelling at me.

“The paper has a very specific vision. And, as we discussed already, the contract is binding. If your boyfriend doesn't show, then this interview is off and so is your chance at a bestseller.” She stirs her Bloody Mary with a celery stalk.

I wrestled in bed all night long, tossing and turning (that makes two nights in a row), uncertain what to do. But once the sun crested and light spilled into my bedroom, I decided not to lie. I won't lie. I will tell the truth. Yes, I want my book to do well, but not at the expense of deception.

“This isn't hard to understand,” she snaps.

“I'm sorry to be difficult, but there's no way—”

“Bree, can I talk to you for a moment?” Andrew interrupts.

“In a minute,” I tell him. “I know the contract says—”

“It'll just take a second.” Andrew steps closer.

Andrew and I have an agreement that the other one is to step in if a client or salesperson overstays their welcome and we need rescuing. But surely Andrew can appreciate the difference here?

“Please, Bree,” he says, a bit more agitated.

What is his problem?
“Sorry, Randi, I apologize for the—”

“I need to speak with you now!” Andrew nearly shrieks, waving his hands in the air as if trying to scare away a bat dive-bombing his head.

Good Lord.
“Excuse me, Randi.” I join Andrew in the break room. “Are you kidding me right now? What is so important? And don't you dare say you called me over just to tell me Netflix released another season of
Supernatural
.”

“You can't tell the truth.”

“Yes, I can. Don't worry, I'll still be at Randi's beck and call and I'll convince the paper to continue with the interviews. I just don't need a boyfriend beside me to validate my expertise.” I start to step away, but Andrew grabs my arm.

What the heck?

“
Can I See You Again?
has got to become a bestseller. Think of Jo.”

“What's with you?” I peel his fingers off my arm. “Is this about her letter? I appreciate your concern, but we don't even know if the letter is legit.”

“We do now. Your attorney just e-mailed. The letter is the real deal.”

“It is? Damn. I feared this would happen. Okay, well—”

“And he can't stop the auction.”

“Auction? What auction? He said, ‘auction'?”

“He did. If you don't come up with the money, Jo loses her house.”

“Oh my God.” I press my hands against my forehead and
pace back and forth in front of the sink. “Her house? They can't take her house. Can they take her house? Are you sure he said ‘auction'?”

“I'm afraid so. I checked the business account. You can spare maybe ten grand.”

And, thanks to my investment deposit and the lawyer's retainer, same goes for my savings account.

Wish I hadn't blown my $10,000 book advance on ten days in Wailea with Sean, especially since the sex on the beach was hardly worth the sand in inappropriate places. Stupid, stupid, selfish Bree.

But, Jesus, my G-pa built that house. Their handprints are cemented in the sidewalk. My mom's growth chart is penciled on the wall behind the laundry room door. “I promised Jo, Andrew. I promised that she'd never have to leave that house. I've taken so much from her . . . and now her house . . . what am I going to do?”

“I have fifteen hundred in a CD,” Andrew says in a voice so tender it nearly splits my heart in pieces. “She's my grandmother, too, you know.”

And he means it. He really does. Given the arm's-length distance at which his parents keep him, Jo's the only family he really has.

I reach out and stroke his hand. “Thanks, love, but I can't take your money.”

“They're here.” Randi steps into the break room. She swallows the last of her drink and tosses the empty cup into the trash. “Do not make me look like a goddamn fool. Your guy has exactly thirty seconds to walk through that door.” She storms out.

Auction. Auction. Auction.

“There's a way to come up with the rest of the money, you know,” he says.

“How? Sell my body on the street corner?”

“The escalator clause.”

He's right. If I pool together my available funds and Andrew's sweet contribution, the bonus will put us at the mark. It'd be enough.

“That means my book has to make the list.”

“It does.”

“And I have to find a boyfriend.”

“That, too.”

“And I have to lie.”

“It's the only way you can save Jo's house.”

“Bree, let's go,” Randi orders.

“What are you going to do?” Andrew asks.

I have no idea.

“Hello, welcome,” Randi says, greeting a woman hidden behind a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses. Her hair is platinum and straight and angled sharp below bronzed cheekbones. She's a sauntering blend of sophistication and edginess, dressed in black leggings, a taupe cashmere tunic, and sleek nude stilettos.

“It's good to see you, Randi.” A chunky ivory bracelet slips toward her elbow as the woman slides her glasses on top of her head.

“No way. It's Candace Porter,” I whisper to Andrew, who stepped close. “I recognize her from past articles in the
Close-Up
section. She won the Excellence in Feature Writing award the last three years. God, Andrew, Candace Porter is one of the most well-known journalists in Southern California. She was the first to interview that transgender football player, remember?”

Not to mention, she's married to a Los Angeles Kings hockey player and the pair is often spotted at trendy bars, hotels, and restaurants. Not only does she write for the paper, but photos of her frequent the
Who's Who
section.

She's the kind of person that you love to hate until you get to know her and find out she donates her time at soup kitchens and Red Cross fund-raisers. Then you just hate yourself for not doing the same.

The impact of the situation hits me. This is a bigger deal than I thought. Only a chosen few are spotlighted in
Close-Up
and even fewer are interviewed by Candace Porter. And she's here for me.
Holy crap!
Her platform and its reach . . .
Andrew's right, I can't screw this up.
I wish I'd taken Randi up on the offer of a Bloody Mary.

Following Candace inside is a rail-thin, surfs-before-work-looking young man decked out in a Metallica T-shirt and Volcom pants with tattered hems. He carries a duffel bag over his right shoulder.

“Who's that?” Andrew asks.

“Don't know.”

“Wonder if he needs my help,” Andrew jokes. “Or my phone number.”

Candace scrutinizes my office, then points to my saddle chairs in the lobby and says to the guy, “Scotty, angle those forty-five degrees for better symmetry. Bring in the plant and rust-colored rug from my trunk. We'll start here.”

“I'm on it.” He disappears outside.

Most people may not appreciate Candace's presumption of sauntering into my office and rearranging my furniture like she owns the place. Not me. I'm impressed by her foresight. Look at her, positioning chairs. A classic move to create a comfortable setting.
Well done, Candace.

“Okay,” she says, “where's the woman of the hour?”

“Right here.” Randi sweeps her hand in my direction. “This is Bree Caxton. Owner and operator of Bree Caxton and Associates.”

“So you're the puppet master, pulling the heartstrings until
they're tangled with love.” Before I have the chance to answer, she raises her index finger, then jots onto a notepad she pulled from her pocket. “Until they're tangled with love. Love that line.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, pumping our handshake. “And, now that I see it's you, I'm a bit nervous.”

“Don't be. This won't hurt a bit.”

How I wish this were true. I know it's a matter of time before Randi or Candace asks where the other half of my equation is.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” A red pen to strike out page six of the contract?

“No, thank you. Give me a couple minutes and then we'll get started.”

Scotty returns with a tall vase of artificial peonies and a rolled-up rug.

“Right here, on the table.” Candace points, then repositions a few of the branches as Scotty unrolls the carpet. She slides my watercolor waterfall picture a few inches to the left and fluffs up the chair's cushions. “Okay, I think we are all set. Ready, Bree?” She motions me toward the seat on the right.

“Yes. Ready.” I pop in an Altoid and force a smile.
He's terribly sorry, but my boyfriend couldn't make it today. Those are exquisite earrings. Turquoise? First question, please.

Scotty unpacks his camera with its massive lens, then kneels beside me. Stubble from a missed morning shave dots his chin, and his breath is heavy with stale coffee. “May I?”

“Um, sure?”

Scotty picks at my bangs.

“I told her to do something with those,” Randi says, shooting daggers at me while pointing at her watch. “Where is he?” she mouths.

Before I have the chance to drown myself in the toilet, Scotty poses his camera inches from my face and snaps a few test shots.

I'm totally nervous now. I don't know what to do with my trembling hands. I tuck them underneath my thighs, but consider the weak impression I'm giving off and fold my hands, resting them on my lap, trying not to squeeze them tight.
Really sorry, he can't make it. But let's get going, shall we? Time is money.

But as Candace places a voice recorder on the table between us and flips over a few pages of her notebook, my nerves settle. Maybe Candace won't ask about my boyfriend. Maybe my relationship status isn't that big a deal. The contract doesn't specifically say,
Must have a boyfriend
. Perhaps Randi's playing hardball with me. Acting safe. After all, she's looking out for sales and the more bases covered, the better.

The more I consider her perspective, the more I convince myself that I've gotten all worked up for nothing. This article is about me. Not Sean. Maybe the subject of my love life won't even come up.

I take a deep breath, exhaling my apprehension. Candace is right, this interview won't hurt a bit. After all, we'll discuss familiar territory, and I love talking about love. Facilitating relationships is what I do best. I almost laugh out loud at my foolish anxiety of moments ago. I mean, honestly, I can't imagine one single question thrown by Candace that'll rattle me.

She clicks off her recorder. “Where's your boyfriend?”

Except that one.

Jo's birthday is November second, two days after mine. On the day between my twelfth and her sixty-first birthday, a Saturday, nineteen years ago, we went to Chili's for lunch, then visited Barnes & Noble at the Southcoast Plaza Mall. We wandered the afternoon through the romance, humor, and young adult sections, skimming the back covers, critiquing the author photos, reading the first few pages of each book.

Jo sneaked off to the restroom and as I turned the corner into the women's fiction aisle, I spotted our favorite author—well, mine because Jo liked her—signing copies of her latest novel. Jo hadn't seen her. The circular table beside me fanned piles of her book, a World War II love story about a nurse and high-ranking officer who crosses enemy lines to be with her. I picked up a copy. $24.95. Mom had given me twenty dollars for the day and I'd already spent eleven bucks on a necklace from American Eagle.

But I couldn't pass up this opportunity. An autographed book would be such a great birthday gift.

But how?

Waltz up to the author, an older woman with stark chin-length hair and houndstooth blazer, and ask for a free book? Signed, no less.
Yeah, right.
But at the same time, I grew heavy with disappointment, fearing I'd have to walk away without a copy of something Jo would cherish.

A woman in a beige sport jacket stood first in the long line. After thanking the author, she stepped toward the cookbook section a couple of aisles over. She set her book on the shelf's edge and dug through her purse for her ringing phone.

I knew it was wrong.

I knew Jo would step from the bathroom at any moment.

I knew I hadn't much time.

With the slyness of a coyote, I snatched the book, tucked it underneath my sweatshirt, and sprinted outside to a nearby bench. Fueled by the rush of defiance, I didn't stop to think that Jo would question how I got the signed novel.

I crouched low, peeking every few seconds for my grandmother, certain that after she searched the store, she'd come look for me out here. I'd tell her I felt hot and needed a breath of fresh air, then surprise her with the book. Looking back, it didn't make sense, but I wasn't worried at the time.

But a minute later, Jo wasn't the person standing by the bench.

A large man with buttons threatening to burst from his overstretched white shirt, a loosely tied tie, and a crooked name tag that read
Manager
loomed over me. His menacing shadow nearly reached the escalator.

“Miss, I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you.”

The book's owner stood a few paces away with her fist wrapped tight around her purse strap.

“I . . . I don't know what you mean.” My voice quivered.

“The book.”

“What book?” Jo asked, approaching us.

“She with you?” the manager asked.

“Yes. What's going on?”

“She stole my book,” the lady said. “It's under her sweatshirt.”

Jo studied my face, no doubt seeing the desperation and regret churning wild through my eyes. She spun around and asked the lady, “Did you see her take it?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but I saw her standing there and I took my eyes off the book for one second and next thing I knew it disappeared. And your girl ran out of the store.”

“Hand it over. Now!” The manager tugged at my sweatshirt, dragging me off the bench.

I kept my hand pressed tight against my stomach.

“Don't touch her.” Jo smacked his arm and moved between us, lifting me up. “We're done here.”

“I don't think we are,” he said.

“Fine. Call the police,” Jo snarled at the man. “I'd love to explain how you harassed a young girl based on speculation. I'll be damned if you lay another finger on my granddaughter.”

He stepped back.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry you lost your book,” Jo said. “Let's go, Bree.”

Now that I think about it, maybe that moment first taught me the power of body language. For Jo's five-foot-three-inch frame stood tall, rooted like an oak tree, against the towering manager. She spoke with a backbone and a certainty I didn't have. Jo taught me to be strong.

No doubt I deserved to get punished. Jo should've ratted me out and let me suffer the consequences, scare me straight so I'd never steal again. Funny thing is, at that moment, I wasn't frightened. Not even when the manager yanked me off the bench and the book slipped, nearly plopping on the ground, or
when he threatened to call the police. Jo stood by my side. She defended me. She loved me. I needed nothing else.

The two of us walked away a united front. And, as we did, I marveled in her confidence.

She knew I stole the book. But without saying a word, she drove me to the library and I deposited the novel in the drop box. We never spoke of it again.

Now, with Jo in mind, a surge of motivation pushes through me.

I will convince Candace, with the same adamancy as Jo, that this interview is about me. No one else. I'm an expert in this field and I don't need a man to validate my worth. I am Bree Caxton, a proven puppet master pulling the strings of love.

And I hope Sean gets chlamydia.

Problem is, my self-assuredness lasts for about twenty seconds, long enough for me to notice Candace scowl at Randi and say, “I don't have time for this.”

“I, too, was under the impression we were ready to go.” By the look on Randi's face, she'd like to dig her celery stalk out of the trash and bitch-slap me with it.

“It's clearly stated, Bree,” Candace scolds. “This interview is about you and your life. Including your love life.”

“I understand.” A bead of sweat slides down my spine like a raindrop following a pane of glass.
C'mon, little brain . . . think.
“He's, um . . . running a bit late. The surgery ran long . . . um, the blood and the scrotum . . .”

Scotty's face draws pale. “Jesus.”

Andrew buries his head in his hands.

“Listen, I have a full schedule with no room for excuses. I carved an opening in my schedule to accommodate this story. We're going to press in two days and if you can't meet the terms of our arrangement, then we have no arrangement.” She stands to leave.

“No, don't go. I . . . um . . .” I could stand quickly, tell them I'm sick, came down with a bit of the flu. Maybe sneeze for good measure. But that only delays my predicament.
Buck up, Bree. Where's the backbone of a moment ago? Just tell the truth.
“Okay, truth is, I don't—”

“Oh, pardon me,” a man's smooth familiar voice says, “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

Nixon stands behind Candace in the doorway, dressed in a suit the color of ash and a crisp shirt matching the whiteness of his eyes. I smell the amber scent in his aftershave. My library card rests in his palm.

Candace doesn't acknowledge him. She plants her hands on her hips and says, “I'll ask you one more time, Bree Caxton. Where is your boyfriend?”

Looking back and forth between her and Randi, Andrew, and Scotty. I think of Lawrence Chambers's e-mail.

Auction.

Lose her house.

Without realizing what I'm doing, I feel for my scar. The toughened and raised pink flesh tingles as I follow the mark, seeing the hint of my mom's narrow hands and slender fingers in my own. I'd never noticed the similarities until the night I sat rigid in the backseat of Dad's Jeep Cherokee with arms folded across my chest in an adolescent act of defiance. Illuminated by the dashboard lights, Mom's thumb massaged Dad's vein, bulging above his temple, soothing his anger as he drove us toward home.

I think about the screams and shattered glass, the hissing fluids, the smell of fuel, the sirens, the twisted steel. I think about Jo falling to her knees in the hospital waiting room when the doctor told us that Dad and Mom, Jo's only daughter, died. I think about the deafening silence between us two as we packed away their plates, linens, and clothes, removed
the pictures from the walls and closed their front door. I think about the mistake I made and how our lives have never been—
and never will be
—the same. I think about how it'd feel to no longer be burdened by shame.

Auction.

Lose her house.

Right here. Right now is my chance to prevent it.

A tiny white lie.

“All right, Scotty, let's go.” Candace turns to gather her things. “We'll run that piece on wild horses in New Mexico.”

“No, please, don't go.”

She stops. “What is it, Bree?”

I know it's wrong.

I know I haven't much time.

I know I've taken Jo's daughter and son-in-law from her, and I can't—
I won't
—let the house disappear, too.

I march past Candace and curl my hands around Nixon's arm. “Here he is. This is my boyfriend.”