The Night I Got Lucky (5 page)

“C’mere.” He pul ed me by the hand, back to our bed, its gray-green sheets twisted and rumpled.

“We’l get the bed al wet,” I said.

“Who cares?”

“Not me.” I hopped into bed and threw off the towel. Chris and I nestled into the stil warm sheets, and, nose to nose, started talking like we hadn’t in years.

“What’s going on at work?” Chris said. “What’s the status of getting you into a VP office?”

The reminder of my failure to be promoted should have disheartened me, but I was too content and snug with my husband to be affected. I happily fil ed Chris in on al the work gossip and on Alexa’s condescending attitude.

“That little bitch,” Chris murmured, and I snuggled closer, pleased to have someone on my side.

“And did you and Evan get that press release done?” Chris asked.

I paused a moment. Chris had no idea about my crush on Evan, at least I didn’t think so, but the mention of Evan’s name from my husband’s lips startled me.

“Um, yeah. We did.”

“How is Evan?”

“He’s fine. Good.” I searched my mind for another topic, but finding none, I elaborated about Evan. “He’s got his promotion, and he’s bringing in business, so Roslyn loves him.”

“And is Roslyn stil tough as nails?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Not like you, Treetop. You’re soft and sweet.” Treetop was Chris’s nickname for me, based on my maiden name, Tremont. I hadn’t heard him use it in a long time.

I shifted closer to him, and Chris kissed the tip of my nose. It was an intimate gesture, in some ways more intimate than what had gone on in the shower, and the sweetness of it nearly made me cry.

He grinned at me, real y looking at me like he used to, and I smiled back.

“So enough about me,” I said. “What’s going on at the firm? Any news?”

“Wel , you know that health care merger?”

I nodded. I didn’t remind him that when I asked about it last night he hadn’t seemed wil ing to talk about it.

“It’s a complete mess,” Chris said. “I’ve got to go to court this morning.” He lifted himself up and glanced over me to my alarm clock. “But I’ve got time.”

This made me flip around. The angry red lights of my clock said 9:04 a.m. And that damned frog—somehow it was turned around and facing me again. No matter, I was late.
Really
late.

“Shit, Chris,” I said, leaping out of bed. “I’ve got to go.”

He groaned. “Another ten minutes.”

“No!” I laughed. “You’ve got to be in court, and you know how Roslyn is about me being on time.” I’d been reprimanded more than once about my inability to get in before nine.

I tore open the closet doors and rifled through my pants. I threw on a pair of wide-legged chocolate-brown trousers, trusty old favorites. I grabbed an ivory silk blouse and buttoned it up as fast as possible. I added a chunky silver necklace and grabbed my makeup bag and my purse.

“Okay,” I said to Chris, who was stil lazing in bed, “I’m out of here.”

“Give me a kiss.”

I halted my frantic scrambling. “Of course.” I leaned over the bed. Chris sat up and stroked my face with his hand. Then slowly, slowly, he kissed me.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” I asked.

He laughed. “I don’t know. Something good.”

I had to agree.

“Sorry,” I muttered to anyone who might be listening as I hustled out of the elevator and down the beige-carpeted hal to my beige-wal ed cube. A look at my watch told me it was 9:39.

Not good.

“Hi there, Bil y,” the receptionist said as I sped past her.

“Hi, Carolyn.”

“Bil y, I have messages for you!” she yel ed after me.

That stopped me. Carolyn took messages for no one but the VPs and the higher-ups. The rest of us had to make do with voice mail. The only reason Carolyn might have a message for me is if Roslyn wanted to talk to me. Roslyn, who no doubt wanted to kick my ass, or my career, for being late again.

I took a few tentative steps toward her and held out my hand. There were three slips, which couldn’t be good. Possibly the owner also wanted to fire me.

“There you go,” Carolyn said. “Have a nice day.”

Was she mocking me?

I flipped through the messages as I retreated from her desk. Two were from clients. It was curious that she’d taken those. Maybe there was some kind of emergency. The last one was from Roslyn.

Please see me,
was al it said.

I felt something quake inside me. Not at al good.

But what real y made my stomach rattle was the sight of my cubicle. It was empty. Completely empty.

The photo of me with my mom and my sisters was gone. Odette’s cookbook, my haphazard stacks of press releases, a stage bil from a musical Chris and I saw during our first year together—al gone. I cleared my throat. I tried to think of a logical reason why this might be happening. Had I missed a memo about a move? I looked around. No, the other cubicles were stil ful of people and their possessions. There could be no other reason other than the obvious one—I’d been fired.

I considered simply going home. Roslyn had made her message pretty clear. Why should I now sit in her office so she could run down the list of reasons that Harper Frankwel was letting me go? But the more I stood there, gazing at the empty beige wal s, the more incensed I became.

I marched up the hal way toward her office. I was clomping my feet so hard my toes began to cry for mercy in my stylishly pointed shoes; I almost welcomed the pain.

“Hey, Bil y,” Alexa said, passing me, wearing another black cashmere top. Obviously she hadn’t heard the news of my firing yet, because she walked by quickly, not even bothering to gloat.

I didn’t say anything in return. I kept my focus on Roslyn’s office at the end of the hal . Then something distracted me.

I stopped and turned slightly to my left toward one of the VP offices—one of the better ones—which had been empty for a few months. I stepped closer and peered inside. Obviously someone had been promoted; the place was occupied now. Two broad windows faced Michigan Avenue, so it was warm and white with the morning sun. There was a pine credenza, left behind by the previous occupant, one with fleurs-de-lis and scrol s carved deep in its sides.

And atop the credenza sat the photo of my mom and sisters, right next to Odette’s cookbook.

I opened and closed my eyes a few times, stil trying to focus on the credenza. Was this some kind of freak joke? I glanced at the desk and saw my Northwestern Wildcats cup fil ed with my pens. There was my orange notebook, the square leather box where I kept my CDs, the yel ow mug I bought years ago at Old Town Art Fair.

Startled, I stepped back outside the office. And there, on the wal next to the door, was a gold nameplate that read
Billy Rendall, Vice President.

“Oh, my…” I said, my breath coming fast. It had happened! That was why Roslyn wanted to see me—she’d final y given me the job!

“Bil y.” It was Roslyn’s voice. I turned to see her head sticking out of her office. “Can I see you?”

“Absolutely!” I trotted down the hal , beaming at everyone I passed. This was the validation I’d been waiting for—the official proclamation of my worth. And how sweet of Roslyn to move al my things!

When I reached her office, she was seated and signing letters, her assistant standing near her desk. I beamed some more, ready to hear rounds of congratulations. But Roslyn barely looked up.

“Bil y,” she said, sounding distracted. “Are you free for lunch with Lydia?”

“Lydia Frankwel ?” I had never been invited to break bread with the firm’s owner.

“Of course.”

“Any special occasion?” Aha, I thought, they were going to official y announce my vice presidency at lunch. Again, such a thoughtful gesture!

“No, no. We just need to go over a few things, mostly the budget for the Teaken Furniture account. We’l have salads brought to the conference room.”

“Oh…okay.” Should I raise the fact that I’d seemingly been promoted overnight?

Roslyn’s assistant gave me a benign, fleeting smile that seemed to say,
Morning. Nothing new here.

“Lydia is flying in from Manhattan, so we’l do a late lunch,” Roslyn said. “I’l see you at 1:30, al right? I’ve got to get these letters out. You know how it is.”

“Sure, okay.”

My walk down the hal way was slower this time. I expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any minute and yel , “Surprise! Congrats!” but everyone was going about their work as if this were any other day. As if I had always been a vice president.

The leather chair behind my new desk was the color of red wine. I sank into it, but it was too low, too cushy. I spent ten minutes trying to adjust the damn thing, but even when I’d raised it, I felt like a little kid in a big La-Z-Boy. It was too deep, my feet barely touched the floor. I found a Chicago Yel ow Pages, the shape and weight of an anvil, and put that under my feet. I took my camel sweater off the hook behind the door and bal ed it up behind my back. Now what?

I turned on my computer. Everything looked the same there. I clicked on my e-mail account, scanning a note from an old col ege friend who was coming to town. There was also an e-mail from Odette suggesting new ideas for how to promote her book. I made notes on a pad of paper, reading Odette’s e-mail slowly. The last line said,
If you don’t have time to call,
don’t worry, just have your assistant, Lizbeth, give me a buzz.

I put my pen down and sat back in my big chair. Who the hel was Lizbeth?

I looked at the phone—a sleek black model with typed speed-dial names. One of them said “Lizbeth.” I stared at that a second, then slowly lifted my index finger and brought it down on the button.

“Hiya, Bil y!” A chipper voice shot through my phone. “What do you need?”

“Uh…” I considered my possible responses. A lobotomy. A
clue.
“Lizbeth?” I said, the word alien on my tongue.

“Yeah?”

“You’re my assistant, right?”

A peal of girlish laughter. “Of course.”

I sat back in my chair.

“Bil y?” I heard through the phone.

“Yes. Uh…Lizbeth, what day is it?”

“May 5th.”

That sounded right to me. “And it’s Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah. Is something wrong?”

What could be wrong? I’d had fabulous sex with my husband that morning, and I’d been promoted overnight. The only problem was I didn’t seem to know anything about that promotion.

Then I got an idea. I knew who could help me.

“No, everything is fine,” I said. “Have you seen Evan today?”

Evan looked up from his desk, his green eyes sparkling, his dimples crinkling. “Hey there! I’m glad to see you.”

He came around the desk and hugged me tight.

“Whoa,” I said, pushing him back a little. Evan and I might hug when we saw each other out at night (me being the one holding him a tad too closely) but we never embraced at work. It wasn’t that kind of office.

“God, it’s weird, but I missed you,” he said.

“You missed me since yesterday?” Wasn’t it yesterday that I’d gone to the team meeting, that I’d been humiliated by Roslyn, that he’d mentioned the Hel o Dave show?

“Yeah.” His hand, stil on my arm, felt almost like a caress.

“I’ve got to ask you something.” I slipped away and closed the door.

“Sure.” He gestured to one of the chairs that faced his desk and went back to his own.

“What’s going on around here?” I said, taking a seat.

“You look sexy today,” he said.

“Do I?” I took a quick look at my brown pants, my ivory blouse. I’d worn the outfit to work no less than fifty times.

“You do.” His eyes dragged down my body, then back up again. “God, what is it about you today?”

“I don’t know.”
Maybe it’s the fact that I just got steamed an hour ago?
“Look, Ev, focus for me, okay? What in the hel is happening around here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do I have a VP office?”

He laughed. “Because you’re a VP, baby. Get used to it.”

“Why did it happen so quick?”

“What do you mean? You deserved it for a long time.”

“I know,” I said, irritated. “But why did they just move me in there overnight?”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been VP for a while.”

“A while? How long?”

He ran a hand through his blond hair—the kind of gesture that normal y made me sigh with desire. “I can’t remember.” He scratched his head. “Huh. That’s strange. Wel , anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you tense?”

“What?”

“You seem like you’re tense. Let me give you a neck rub.” In a flash, he was around his desk and behind me, his hands massaging my neck.

My eyes drifted shut for a moment, then snapped open. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you work out the kinks.” His voice was low, thick, the kind of voice I was sure he used with his girlfriends in bed.

“Okay, okay.” I stood up and spun around. “Is this a joke? Seriously, this is unbelievably cruel if it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My VP office! And—” I pointed at him, unable to find the words “—
you,
acting like
this.
”

“Sorry.” A confused expression. “That was inappropriate, wasn’t it?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Geez, what is with me?” He shook his head. “Are you al right? Is it tension in your lower back? Here, let me work on that.” He moved forward, his muscled arm slipping around my hips.

“Al right, I’m out of here,” I said. With a nervous laugh I headed for the door.

“Want to get lunch?” Evan said, looking like a child left behind on the playground.

“I’ve got plans.” Odd. It was the response he usual y gave me.

Back in my office, I climbed into the chair, and with my feet on the phone book, let my eyes sweep the room. Al my stuff was there—no doubt about it—and everyone seemed to think I was a vice president. But it felt surreal, having it just happen like that. I wanted a party, maybe a cake with
Congrats Billy!
on it in pink frosting. I wanted someone to say, “You deserve it.”

I needed my mom. She would ramble and rave; she would make me believe this was real and I had earned it. I slid the phone closer and perused the speed dial buttons. There it was.