Pink Slips and Glass Slippers (12 page)

“I’m thinking Santiago’s.”

“Oh my God, perfect. I could so use a lemon-drop about now.”

With Melissa’s enthusiasm propelling her, the rest of Brooke’s day felt magical. She missed Chase, but thought of him each time she sipped her Starbucks.

Brooke drove back to Chapel Hill and met Melissa for happy hour at Santiago’s Tapas & Martini Bar. Opened a few years ago, the place was quite the hotspot. A lively atmosphere and entertaining staff made Santiago’s a perfect place for the two college friends to unwind. And, nothing like their famous lemon-drop martini’s to jumpstart the night. Never much for the bar scene, Brooke enjoyed Melissa’s company. They reminisced about the college days with jovial conversation which matched the festive ambiance.

Melissa’s cell buzzed. “Oh, it’s Eddie. I better take this.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Brooke pulled her cell out of her purse and noticed Shane had called, but didn’t leave a voicemail. He was the type who counted a missed call as a voicemail—something that bugged Brooke. With Melissa hunkering on her cell, she decided to call him back, even though she guessed he wouldn’t still be working.

After five rings, voicemail, “Hi Shane…it’s me, Brooke. I saw you called. You’ll be proud of me. I musta had rose-colored glasses today. I had an awesome day…filled almost all my openings—and all by myself—I had a great dream…not a nightmare—a dream…my mother and Tanner visited me but it wasn’t bad—it was a nice dream…even though it kept me up all night, I went running and then went to Starbucks to see Chase and had the coffee Chase drinks and kinda liked it, then I…” Oops, Brooke pressed #, realizing in her happy-hour-happiness she rambled about Chase. She listened, hoping for a prompt to re-record. Nothing.
Dammit—why do they call these smart phones?

As she set her cell down, Melissa stared at her with that famous look of girlish amusement. Later at dinner, in the middle of lemon-drop concoction number three, Brooke told Melissa all about Chase.

***

Chase realized that he had to pull himself together, but the harder he tried, the worse he felt—and looked. He couldn’t remember the last time he vomited; his mouth tasted like raw sewage. Staring into the mirror, he realized the water he splashed on his face didn’t help. His eyes resembled red fire balls—the kind he used to eat as a kid. His stomach flared like a brick oven. How could I possibly have anything else to puke? Just then, he hurled into the sink.

I have to get back in there. Chase rubbed his face with a paper towel that felt like sandpaper. “Are you okay?” Chase snapped his head to the right, unaware that Henry Stoddard, Chairman of the Board, had even entered.

“Uh, yes sir. I think I have a touch of the stomach flu.”

“You don’t look good, son. Why don’t you head home and rest? It’s probably only a twenty-four hour thing. I can fill you in on the meeting tomorrow.”

Chase realized he had no choice but to follow his mentor’s advice. He couldn’t tell him the truth. He wanted to sneak back in the room and grab his copy of “The Butcher’s” report, but knew he couldn’t. Besides, he’d already seen enough.

Driving home, the wind running through his hair usually invigorated him. Today, it irritated him. Oblivious to the inviting blue sky, he didn’t even consider golf. The lingering acidic aftertaste—that even toothpaste couldn’t remove—had him queasy about his next cup of coffee. Though the lunch hour had passed, he didn’t have any appetite. Driving past eateries that usually made him hungry, made him cringe. He contemplated stopping, but decided to speed home. I hope I don’t hurl all over my leather interior.

Pulling into his driveway provided relief, but his stomach still churned. Inside the three car garage, Oksana opened the door with wide eyes.

“You’re home early, sir.”

“I think I have some sort of flu. I feel lousy. Act like I’m not even here—I don’t want to make you sick too.”

Duke sidestepped Oksana, practically knocking her over, and bolted to Chase, tail wagging, and mouth huffing. “Not now, Duke. Heel. Heel Duke.” Reluctantly, Duke plopped down, but his eyes begged for a petting. “Not now, Duke. Sorry.”

As Chase slogged through the door, Oksana covered her mouth and backpedaled into the kitchen, bumping into the granite island. Rubbing her back, she said, “You don’t look so good. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I think I’m just going to crawl into a hole and die.”

“Don’t die!”

Chase realized that even though Oksana was fluent in English, she still missed some of the nuances. Usually, it was funny, and he would explain the concept of slang. Now, with patience waning, he said, “It was a joke.”

“Oh,” Oksana released a nervous laugh, “I can get you some ginger ale—I hear that helps.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I don’t think I can stomach anything right now. I just need to sleep. If I’m not out in twenty-four hours, call an ambulance.” Oksana’s eyes widened again and before she could say anything, Chase said, “Another joke.” As he plodded away, he said to himself, “Sort of.” And, he wasn’t joking.

Chase trudged the winding stairs to his master bedroom and closed the wooden double doors behind him. He eyed his guitar, but decided to listen to music instead. He plopped down on his Tempurpedic bed and sighed as his muscles relaxed. After the cushioning settled, he breathed deeply, then reached for his iPod and Bose headphones. He clicked on his “Relaxation” folder. The recordings of his own original guitar playing always soothed him. Though it required several minutes, he finally closed his eyes and let his mind drift.

His eyes fluttered as the nightmare intensified…I can’t reach the control panel. How can I maneuver this plane? A luminous cloud swirled—where did that come from? I can’t see anything. Where’s the damned hurricane anyway? Why aren’t there any warnings on my radio? I’m frozen but I can still see. I’ve got to find Parker. Son, I hear you—where are you? Dammit, why can’t he hear me? Brooke, is that you? Have you been here the whole time? Grab Parker for me. Hurry, before we hit the storm. Oh shit, the plane’s going down, down, down. We’re gonna crash—brace yourself—and help me pull Parker inside. A clearing in the clouds…oh no, we’re heading freefall into the heart of a storm. Why can’t I scream? Brooke, help…I’ve got to pull Parker inside…help…Brooke? Heather! What did you do to Brooke? Brooke…Brooke…Brooke!

“Daddy…daddy…daddy—”

“Huh, what.” Chase’s eyes popped open, revealing terror.

“Wake up, silly, it’s Parker.”

The sweet chirpy voice pulled Chase back to reality faster than his eyes, which still maintained a glassy stare. “Oh, thank you. I was having a nightmare.”

“Oksana told me to wake you up. You’re too old to take naps.”

“Is that what she said?”

“No, but wake up before it’s too dark to go fishing.”

Fishing?
As the word registered to his still groggy mind, he felt a sinking sensation. “Oh son, I’m sorry. I don’t feel good.”

“Do your ears hurt?” Parker was still taking medicine for another ear infection.

“No, bud, but my tummy hurts. A lot.”

“Are you gonna throw up?”

“I did before, but I’m okay now.”

“So, we’re not going fishing?”

Chase squinted at his bedside digital clock—6:07 p.m.—and realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. His stomach still ached, mouth and lips parched. “Parker, I can’t take you fishing now. I just don’t feel good, okay? But, I’ll make it up to you this weekend.”

“Can we go shark fishing?” Parker’s eyes sparkled instant enthusiasm.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out, mister.”

“Goodie! I get to go shark fishing.” Parker bolted for the door, yelling, “Oksana, I get to go catch some sharks with my daddy!” As Parker’s voice trailed off, he felt grateful for Oksana. She’d obviously stayed late once again, sacrificing her own personal time, for him. Parker adored her. Though grateful for Oksana, a part of him envied the time she spent with his son, who seemed to change each time he saw him. Going fishing was a great idea and he considered the perfect surprise for Parker. But, given his nightmare, he wouldn’t book it right now.

Chase remained in bed and slept well, but awakened earlier than his six o’clock alarm with Duke lying on the floor. That’s odd, he usually sleeps with Parker. As Chase slowly stepped over Duke, his dog shot up—out of his own doggy dream—and caused his master to stumble. “Dammit Duke. What are you doing in here anyway?” Duke cocked his head to the side and then stretched out on the floor, releasing a sigh through his wet nose. Chase shook his head and lurched into the bathroom. After relieving himself, he turned and almost fell into Duke, who was now wide awake, wagging his tail. Chase knew that look.

“Duke, I don’t feel like running today.” Duke’s head bowed slightly in a pose, while his tail thumped against the tile. He stared back at his dog, and, standing there in his underwear and T-shirt, he had a change of heart. Chase said, “Okay, we’ll compromise. Let’s go for a quick walk.”

Duke’s ears shot straight up and his posture followed. “Sure, you know the word
walk
, but
no
doesn’t seem to be in your vocabulary.” Duke jumped up and pressed his paws against Chase. As Duke slobbered on Chase’s face, Chase burst out laughing. “Okay, you win. I know. I know. Let’s go…but no running. And quick! I gotta eat something soon or I’ll miss work today.”
Work.
The word hovered in the air and stung like a hornet.

After a surprise pancake breakfast with Parker, Oksana, and even Duke who coaxed more than leftovers with his eyes, Chase checked voicemail—realizing he’d gone twenty-four hours without it. Of the five messages, Ruth left one informing him of a lunch meeting with Henry Stoddard. Good, just the man I wanted to see. Craving caffeine even though his stomach still churned, he decided on Starbucks. The pancakes had sounded good and tasted even better, but never felt the same one hour later. He hoped the 175 degree espresso—only one today—would agree with him and dilute the buttermilk glue inside. He needed his A-game with Henry.

Henry Stoddard mentored Chase Allman into the corner office. He lured him away from a competitor with promises of upward mobility, and promoted him up each rung until convincing the stodgy board to elect his young prodigy Chief Executive Officer. Chase understood the board preferred an outsider with CEO experience, but Henry Stoddard could be convincing. Henry was Chase’s guardian angel and as long as the aging chairman perched atop Pharmical’s board, Chase Allman could do no wrong. Henry had been more supportive of Chase than Chase’s own father, Nathan Allman.

As Chase drove to Hope Valley Country Club, he wondered how his dad was doing. He hadn’t seen him since he remarried and escaped to Mexico with his senorita. After his wife’s death, his dad washed away his grief with premium tequila. Henry and Nathan both graduated from Duke, possessed similar mannerisms, and were both lousy golfers who used more mulligans than tees. They differed now, in their golden years. Henry remained golden and Nathan turned to liquid gold—with the worm.

Nathan always thought he’d die first. Then Barbara—“Babs” to everyone, but “mom” to Chase, died after a short bout with lung cancer; Nathan fell into a perpetual pity party. Since childhood, Chase suffered from asthma due to a severe allergy to cigarette smoke, which doctors linked to a smoke-infected womb. Babs thumbed her nose at the Surgeon General and dissenting doctors during her first pregnancy, then blasted the medical community when she delivered a ten pound boy—while puffing away.

Growing up with constant headaches, Chase winced each time his parents lit up. Even when Babs found out she had lung cancer, she scoffed, and refused to relinquish her lifelong habit. Nathan stopped cold turkey the day of Babs’s diagnosis, hoping his wife would follow suit. She didn’t and died six months later with a cigarette smoldering in hand. It hit Nathan hard. Chase felt depressed his mother chose cancer sticks over life. The day she died, Chase took up running; Nathan ran the opposite direction. Chase begged him to seek professional help, but instead, his stubborn father started smoking again and began self medicating. First with whiskey, then gin, now tequila—or, as Chase called it,
to-kill-ya
. The visit to Mexico still stung and Chase wondered if it would be his last. He couldn’t imagine flying all the way down there to pick his old man off the floor each day. He wasn’t sure what was worse: Heather killing herself with illegal drugs or his dad doing it legally.

Chase pressed the end button until he was certain his cell phone turned off. Beyond punctuality, Henry’s leading pet peeves: “People gabbing away in a restaurant,” or “pushing on those damn buttons while you’re trying to eat with them.” He owned an outdated cell phone—the number a secret—and Chase had never received a call from Henry’s cell. Verizon must love him.

Henry refused to use Outlook; instead, the Luddite kept a bulky Day-Timer—the paper kind. He hated his company email—delegating “all that e-junk” to his personal secretary. In Henry’s world, technology was a burden, a distraction to interaction. In some weird way, it worked for Henry. He was that rare breed who could compute without a spreadsheet; his mind’s microchip churned out brilliant results—even though he typed with his forefingers. Henry could grasp the big picture, then fill in the blanks—without technology.

Henry arrived ten minutes early as usual—“Henry time.” Chase also admired punctuality, viewing it as respect for the other person. After exchanging pleasantries including the obligatory “are you feeling better?” question, Henry glanced at the maître d', who said, “Afternoon Hank, I have your table ready.”

“Very well, Jean-Claude, we’re ready.”

Following his gray-haired, distinguished mentor, veteran of countless power lunches, Chase thought, I’ve never heard him called
Hank
before. He didn’t look like a Hank—he was always Henry. To him, calling Henry “Hank” was like calling his dad “Nate.” Jean-Claude led them to a private table in the corner.

Henry, not one for small talk, dove right in, asking, “Have you read Marvin’s report?”