You Knew Me When (3 page)

“J
esus fucking Christ.” Katherine shook her head. “Brooke!” she called out from behind her barren glass desk.

“I'm here.” Katherine's assistant materialized in the doorway, taking short tentative steps forward.

A crisp cream backdrop with pops of color—jewel tones. No clutter and nothing gaudy
was how Katherine had described her vision for her office to the company's interior decorator. And, in typical fashion, her wish had been granted. The carpet was an unspoiled cream, as were the walls, which were adorned with two large Miró originals—Katherine's personal donation to the space. Three purple leather club chairs faced her desk, and a round glass table surrounded by six more leather chairs in a rich asparagus green sat in the corner, reserved for private meetings. There wasn't a family photo or trinket in sight, much less a stray piece of paper. The only accoutrement was a tall black hand-blown glass vase bursting with white calla lilies, placed in the center of the table. Katherine had been upgraded to a larger office five years ago, with the expectation of even longer hours. She'd figured as long as she was going to live at work, she might as well feel at home.

“I'm sorry, but how hard is it to get an egg-
white
omelet with tomato and onion and
without
cheese?” She strummed her glossy red nails on the desktop. Despite Blend's closet full of vibrant colors, free to employees, she wore Zoya's “Katherine” polish exclusively, because it never chipped and because she couldn't help but feel like it'd been created expressly for her. Katherine had neither the time nor the patience for constant touch-ups. And nothing was tackier, in her opinion, than a messy manicure.

“I'm so sorry. That's what I ordered.” Brooke scuttled over to Katherine's desk to remove the takeout container.

“Of course you did.” Katherine nodded. “It's not
your
fault they're idiots.”

“I'll get them to bring another one immediately. The right way.” Brooke was a plain-looking girl—tall, a little scrawny, and certainly no older than twenty-four, with long, straggly blond hair and forgettable brown eyes. When she'd first started working at Blend, Katherine had treated her to a haircut and highlights at New York's swanky Frédéric Fekkai Salon, at least a week's salary for Brooke. She'd also sent her home with bags of cosmetics, explaining—in the least offensive way—that Blend employees were expected to maintain a certain appearance. Brooke had taken the hint in stride and her presentation had improved over time, but there was only so much Katherine could do. In the end, what mattered most was that she was consistently prompt, organized, and ambitious enough to follow Katherine's neurotic way of doing things. To the letter. And so far she'd proven herself in spades.

“Don't worry about ordering another one. I have a meeting with sales in fifteen minutes.” She knew what Brooke was thinking, even though she'd never say it. Why couldn't Katherine just eat a regular omelet with a little cheese? Would it kill her to consume a few extra calories? Probably not. But that wasn't really the point. Was it? She wanted things the way she wanted them. And it was impossible for her to wrap her mind around the fact that people were incapable of filling very simple orders and following even simpler directions. Surely the line cook who'd made her omelet didn't appreciate the hours she spent on the treadmill. Or understand that in order to maintain her lean figure, given her crawling metabolism, stringent dietary restrictions were her only option. Katherine had never been the pretty girl growing up, and for that very reason, she'd spent years manipulating the best out of her looks. She was always tweezed, waxed, highlighted, tanned, and smoothed every which way possible. Botox injections came every six months, though it was looking like four-month intervals were in her near future.

“Do you want me to take that?” Katherine closed the lid to the omelet and handed it to Brooke.

“Tell them if they fuck up once more, no one from Blend is ordering from there again.” She refocused on her laptop. “That reminds me. I need to see Tom Birnbaum.”

“Absolutely. I'll go call him.” Brooke turned on her two-inch heel—a marked improvement, Katherine observed, from the shabby ballet flats she used to wear.

“Thanks. Tell him to hurry. He's already fucked up royally.” Katherine typed as she spoke. Multitasking was like breathing.

“Will do.” Brooke swiveled back to face Katherine. Sometimes it was hard to tell when the conversation was over.

“Obviously, omit that last part.”

“Right.”

“Sorry. I know you're not stupid.” Katherine smiled sheepishly at Brooke. “I'm just irritated about the omelet.”

“Of course.” Brooke nodded. “You know Tom's wife is eight months pregnant.” This got Katherine's attention. Was Brooke implying that she should overlook Tom's apparent gaffe because he was about to become a daddy? If so, she had a lot to learn. Pregnancy and children were considered unacceptable, even humiliating excuses when offered by female executives. But, then, if you were a woman without kids in your mid-thirties, like Katherine, you were considered frigid and unforgiving, unable to relate to the bottomless pit of warmth, devotion, and empathy reserved only for mothers.

“Well, I don't think his impending child has anything to do with his egregious error. Plus, I know his wife, Judy. She'd sooner give birth on the conference-room table at Goldman Sachs than miss a meeting.” Katherine regarded Brooke's confused expression.

“Oh no, I wasn't suggesting her pregnancy had anything to do with his mistake. I only mentioned it because I thought you'd like to send them a gift.”

“Yes, of course. A gift. You're always one step ahead.” Katherine quelled her embarrassment. “See if you can find out the sex. And get Tom in here, okay?” She smiled again. “Thanks.”

•   •   •

Katherine
scribbled manically with her red pen, wondering how many people's eyes had perused and approved the new marketing campaign in her hands. How many presumably competent people had overlooked the nine misspelled words she'd already flagged and the fact that the “d” in Blend was obstructed by the tip of their latest red lipstick?

Today had been one of those days wrought with complications at every turn. Back-to-back meetings in which the buck had been passed like a hot potato around the room. Irate messages from heads of three different departments. And those little annoying glitches that seemed to procreate as the hours flew by—spilling water on her brand-new Chloé
silk blouse, the notable absence of red peppers at the salad bar, her iPhone freezing at the worst possible moments, and so on. Finally, back in her office at six o'clock, Katherine had been welcomed by a pile of marketing materials that needed her sign-off and a list of urgent calls that had to be returned immediately, and she still hadn't seen Tom Birnbaum, who was—according to Brooke—on his way upstairs. She rested her elbows on her desk and bent her head forward, massaging her eyelids with the tips of her fingers. Managing people was not a part of her job she relished. The creativity, yes. The negotiating, absolutely. The power, undoubtedly. But definitely not the boss-employee discourse. It always became personal. And Katherine didn't do personal, at least not well.

“Katherine?” Brooke knocked cautiously and cracked the door to her office. “Tom is here to see you.”

“Thanks. Send him in.” She straightened up instinctively and tucked her hair behind her ears, smoothing it down with the palms of her hands. One of the first things Jane Sachs, the founder of Blend, had taught her was that perfect posture was everything.
No one likes a slouch.
Those words had stuck with Katherine through the years, along with Jane's overall philosophy that the way you looked and carried yourself was the way people perceived you.
I always wear my most flattering outfit on my shittiest day
, Jane had once told her, swearing up and down that this tactic was the key to her success.

“Hi, Katherine.” Tom walked toward her desk, looking more disheveled than she'd ever seen him. Typically, his metrosexual tendencies resulted in fashion-forward Prada suits and accessories one could only assume had been selected and laid out by a woman, but not in Tom's case. If anything, Judy could stand to benefit from her husband's style sensibilities.

“Tom, what—” she started.

“Listen. Before you say anything, I know. I totally fucked up with Stan's ad stuff, and then I was late this morning.” He sat down in one of Katherine's purple leather chairs and hunched his body forward.
Posture
. She resisted saying it, though Jane would have. “There's no excuse. It will never happen again.”

“This is so unlike you.” Katherine was relieved not to have to run through his shortcomings. It was one thing she particularly liked about Tom. He rarely screwed up, and when he did, he owned it. No hot-potato buck tossing by Tom.

“I know.” He sighed, raking his fingers through his thick brown hair. “Honestly, this pregnancy is killing me.”

Katherine laughed. “Well, you look great. It shouldn't be too difficult to lose the baby weight.”

He managed a smile, pained as it was. “It's ridiculous, right? I'm not even carrying the damn child.”
Damn child.
Didn't seem like an auspicious start, but who was Katherine, frigid woman in her mid-thirties, to judge?

“What's going on?” She felt like she had to ask, even though the two hundred e-mails in her in-box were beckoning her.

“Yesterday the doctor told Judy that she has to be on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy.”

Katherine snorted.

“Right. You know Judy. That didn't exactly fly.”

“Well, isn't that the sort of thing you have to listen to?” Katherine didn't know much about bed rest or babies, but she'd heard enough from colleagues.

“In theory, yes. In Judy Land, no.” He sighed again. “So, I know this is no excuse, but I was a little distracted yesterday, what with Judy completely ignoring the doctor's orders, and then this morning I actually had to wait at home until her mom got there so she didn't try to sneak out.”

“That's tough.” She nodded, though it was hard for her not to empathize with Judy. Katherine would jump off the roof of her building if faced with lying in bed all day long. “Look, Tom. I'm not going to waste my time telling you personal issues can't impact your work.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. Stan's pissed, but I'll handle him.”

“Thank you, Katherine. You have no idea . . .”

“This time, Tom. I'll handle him this time.”

•   •   •

Katherine
glanced at the clock. Nine. Jesus. There was barely time to catch the tail end of one of the four cocktail parties on her social calendar. She leaned against the back of her chair, resigning herself to an air kiss–less evening. Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten anything all day but a small salad, minus the red peppers. She'd pick up sashimi on the way home, but not before making a dent in the pile of mail Brooke had placed on her desk. Reluctantly, she sifted through the stack, tossing the junk and setting aside anything of remote importance. A thin FedEx envelope, addressed to Ms. Kitty Hill, caught her eye immediately. She stared at the label, her heart suddenly throbbing against her chest.

Kitty Hill lived in Vermont and wore no makeup. She dressed in bulky corduroys and shiny snow boots. Kitty Hill was insecure and reserved. Thicker and hairier. Kitty Hill was another person, a nobody. Katherine tore at the cardboard to find a smaller white envelope with a single sheet of paper tucked inside.

Richard P. Newman, J.D.
16 Hitchcock Road
Manchester, Vermont 05255

November 9, 2011

Dear Ms. Hill,

This letter is to inform you that you've been named in the last will and testament of Mrs. Luella Hancock.

The reading will take place at the following address on November 17, 2011, at two p.m. If you are receiving this letter, you're required to appear in person on the aforementioned date.

If you have any questions, please feel free to call my office: 802-362-4315.

Regards,
Richard P. Newman

Katherine read the letter again. Not Luella. Not the woman who had loved her so purely and with every morsel of her being. It must be a mistake. It had to be a mistake. Unexpectedly, tears began tumbling down Katherine's cheeks, falling hard and fast and catching her off guard. And then she knew. She'd have to go home. After twelve years, she'd finally have to go home and face her past.

Only a four-hour drive, but still a lifetime away.

“Y
es, Tina. I do understand the way you want the appointment book organized, and so does Annie.” Laney rolled her eyes and smiled at Annie, their new receptionist, who did not respond well to criticism. In the three weeks she'd been working there, Annie had already cried seven times. Laney felt sorry for her, but she didn't mind the crying because it really unnerved Tina. Like most bullies, Tina didn't actually view herself as a bully.
What in the
world
is she so upset about?
Tina had asked all seven times, flapping her emaciated arms in the air.
You'd think I was
abusing
her
.
She'd pursed her thin lips.
Well, yes,
Laney had thought. But she'd kept her mouth shut, as always.

Laney was not someone who typically did well with keeping her mouth shut.
Spirited
was how she'd been described as a young girl, which had given way to
spunky
, and later
fiery
during her teen years, much the same way she'd characterize Gemma. When it came to Tina, though, she didn't have much of a choice. She doubted Tina would ever fire her, and if she did, she'd have a hell of a time running Oasis. Still, a boss was a boss. A job was a job. Sure, they could make ends meet on Rick's salary alone, especially when he was having a good year. That was just it, though: Rick's annual income was always something of a question mark. And, God knows, someone had to keep Gemma in clothing and makeup.

“Well, then, why is this waxing appointment in
red
when it's supposed to be in blue?” Tina questioned, exposing a triumphant expression. There was nothing Tina savored more than catching a mistake. The only thing Laney could guess was that it made her feel involved. Like the ship would sink without her clever color coordination.

“Because she's getting two treatments,” Annie chimed in, wearing an equally triumphant expression. She'd yet to learn that Tina was right, even when she was wrong.

“Was I
talking
to you?” Tina snapped, and Annie looked as though she were about to cry. Again.

“Because Mrs. Kane is getting two treatments,” Laney echoed. “Even though she's coming in for a bikini wax, she's having a facial after. We do multicategory treatments in red.”

“Well, that seems stupid.”
You were the one who came up with it.
“But who am I to argue?” She tittered. “Just the boss.”

“We can change it if you'd like.” Laney's shoulders stiffened. It seemed like she and Tina had these conversations every few weeks. Micromanagement at its finest.
Why do we fold the towels in three? Why is the wax so hot? Why don't we have green nail polish? Why don't we offer Japanese hair straightening? Why is the sky blue?
BECAUSE YOU WANTED IT THAT WAY!

“No, no, no. You do it
your
way.” Tina slithered into her expensive-looking leather jacket and reached directly across Annie for her Louis Vuitton purse, completely oblivious to her physical presence. Annie dodged the swinging bag. “I'm off to yoga. Don't burn the place down,” she crowed on her way out the door. It was her signature departing line.

Laney turned to Annie. “Please kill me before I kill her.”

•   •   •

Much
to everyone's delight, Tina never returned after yoga, which had led to a string of jokes about her being stuck in Downward Dog or Bent-over Bitch. The latter had been their hair colorist, Pierre's, contribution. His heavy French accent had made it all the more amusing. “Bent-over
Beetch
.” Laney knew it was unprofessional to poke fun at Tina with her staff, but she couldn't help herself, and it seemed to improve morale. There'd been a startling amount of employee turnover since Bob and Francine had sold the spa. At first it had been like a mass exodus, including multiple middle fingers wagging at Tina.

Laney kept praying she'd take the hint and start treating people more respectfully, but no such luck. In the past three years they'd flipped the entire Oasis staff seven times.
Seven times
. But Laney had held on, impervious to Tina's tyrannical behavior, at least initially. Lately, it was getting to her more and more. She was going home irritable at the end of the day, which wasn't fair to Rick or Gemma. Sometimes she'd snap at them for nothing in particular, desperate to relinquish the ugliness, for fear it would consume her.

Laney had never expected to still be living in Manchester into her mid-thirties. On the contrary, she'd always sworn she'd get out of the small town where she grew up, convinced that she was destined for greatness or at least glamour. Not that there was anything wrong with Manchester; she just wanted more. Something better, bigger, glossier. Deep down, she probably felt entitled to it. As a teenager, Laney had delighted in scouring the village for hours, especially during ski season, when the wealthy Manhattanites descended on the outlet stores, waving their mint green American Express cards this way and that. Oh, what she would have given for a mint green American Express card. Laney hadn't been content to simply rub elbows with the beautiful people, as she'd called them. She yearned to
be
one of the beautiful people.
I'm going to live the glamorous life in New York City,
she'd told anyone who would listen. Given her fiery personality, no one had doubted it for a second.

Except life didn't always work out exactly how you planned. Did it? And here she was, twelve years later, one of Tina's minions. At least she could still dream about an alternate existence while lying in bed at night.

•   •   •

Laney
stumbled through the door at seven thirty, balancing four bags of groceries on either side, the plastic handles digging into the crooks of her arms. The sweet aroma of Rick's homemade tomato sauce permeated her senses and drew her toward the kitchen like a malnourished zombie.

“Taste this.” Rick held out a wooden spoon smothered in sauce, cradling the underside with his free hand.

“That's heaven.” Laney licked the spoon clean. “When I die, bury me in a vat of that.” She kissed Rick on the lips and heaved the groceries onto the counter.

“I feel like I'll be too sad to cook that much, what with you dead and all.” He turned back to the pot, stirring the sauce as gently as he'd handle a newborn baby. “Though if we have a little advance warning, I could stockpile it in the freezer.”

“Absolutely. I'll do what I can to die a slow death.” Laney smirked. “All in the name of the sauce, of course.”

“Of course.” Rick hovered over a large boiling pot of penne and cracked open the oven to check on a thick, bubbling loaf of garlic bread.

“That's all for me, right?” Laney eyed the bread like it was the last morsel of food on Earth. Thank God for good genes.

“Every crumb.” Rick switched the burner to simmer, added a sprinkle of sea salt to the pasta, and started unpacking groceries alongside his wife.

“Where's Gem?” The house was way too quiet. Despite the fact that Gemma could mainly be found in her room, plugged into her iPod and mesmerized by her Droid, somehow her presence, or lack thereof, was palpable.

“She's eating at Casey's house tonight.” Rick put up a hand. “I know what you're going to say.” He drained the pasta in a colander and dumped it back into the pot, giving his sauce another tender stir.

“I'm sorry, but I don't like that girl.” Laney hoisted herself onto the counter, her legs dangling over the edge.

“You're kidding.” Rick poured the sauce over the pasta and folded it in.

“She's got an attitude problem. And she's spoiled.” Laney pulled two bowls from the cabinet and handed them to Rick. “Don't be shy. I didn't eat lunch.”

“I'm pretty sure Gem can handle herself.”

“I'm not worried about Gemma. I mean, I am. I don't know. I just don't like her. Okay?” Casey was, simply put, a mean girl, unless you were her friend, in which case she seemed like the greatest thing since Uggs. Gorgeous, clever, popular, and occasionally devious. She lived in a ridiculously large house on the other side of Manchester Village that had a pond for skating in the winter, a tennis court, an Olympic-sized outdoor swimming pool, and an indoor lap pool. For obvious reasons, Gemma preferred chilling there rather than at her own house, which was, by traditional standards, perfectly suitable. There was no pond or tennis court or swimming pool—indoors or out—but there was a finished basement with Ping-Pong and pool tables, not to mention a spectacular eat-in kitchen with a huge marble island as the centerpiece. Rick had built it himself with great care and attention to detail, considering what Laney and Gemma would love above all else.

“Fine by me.” He lifted her down from the counter and hugged her to his chest. “I forgot to mention a FedEx came for you today.”

“Ooh!” Laney's mood elevated instantly. Mail meant someone was thinking of her, even if it was the electric company. And packages? Well, even better. “I hope it's something good,” she commented as she sashayed into the foyer.

“I doubt it. It's just a flat envelope.”

“Never know. It could be a check from Ed McMahon,” she called from the other room.

“Not likely,” he called back.

“You're such a pessimist.” She returned to the kitchen, shaking her head of tangled blond curls, and yanked on the cardboard strip to open the envelope.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but Ed McMahon's been dead for a few years.”

“No way!”

“Yes way.”

“Well, maybe it's from whoever took his place.” Laney retrieved a smaller white envelope from inside the FedEx envelope. “Here's my big fat check. Better be nice, or I won't buy you anything.” She opened it and found, much to her chagrin, only a single sheet of paper. Minus any dollar signs.

Richard P. Newman, J.D.
16 Hitchcock Road
Manchester, Vermont 05255

November 9, 2011

Dear Mrs. Marten,

This letter is to inform you that you've been named in the last will and testament of Mrs. Luella Hancock.

The reading will take place at the following address on November 17, 2011, at two p.m. If you are receiving this letter, you're required to appear in person on the aforementioned date.

If you have any questions, please feel free to call my office: 802-362-4315.

Regards,
Richard P. Newman

“No check?” Rick looked over at Laney, who was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the piece of paper. “Everything okay?”

“Luella Hancock died.”

“Oh, wow. That's really sad.” He came over and put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“I can't believe my mom didn't tell me.”

“They didn't keep in touch much, did they?”

“No. I mean, not for years. And I haven't seen Luella in ages, not even at the supermarket.”

“Maybe your mom doesn't know.”

“I guess not. I'll have to call her.” Laney's eyes were still transfixed on the letter. “She always loved Luella. We all did.”

“I'm sorry, sweetie. I know she was important to you.”

“It appears I was important to her too.” Laney handed Rick the sheet of paper. “Luella named
me
in her will.”