A Previous Engagement (8 page)

He stuttered his way through a list of lame excuses, promised to rewrite it, and swore it would never happen again. I liked Jake, an intern only a few years younger than myself, stuck on a rung of the corporate ladder I knew all too well. He was bright, he was good at his job, but he was bored.

“Listen, Jake, I really want to help you move up and out, but if your work isn’t good, I can’t make
you
look good. Got it?” He nodded. Someone knocked on my office door, but I kept going, seconds from dismissing Jake. “This has to stop. If you ever want to write another word, you won’t let this kind of bullshit hit Marty’s desk again. Everything comes straight to me until I deem it worthy to move up the chain.”

“Wow, buddy,” said Christian, letting himself in. “If I were you, I’d listen to her.”

Jake looked up, surprised, and nodded vigorously at Christian. “Yes, sir.” Poor kid. He’s only twenty or so, just out of college, and here I am reaming him out for something that probably just needed a few edits. But you know what they say: Shit rolls downhill. I was just moving the capitalist machine forward, since that’s what I get paid to do. I liked to think of these sessions as my civic duty.

I dismissed Jake with a curt nod and waved for Christian to shut the door behind him.

“God, you’re sexy when you crush the souls of your young underlings. Hey—remember when
you
were an intern?”

“Shut up. I really hate doing that. I feel just like Marty.” I crossed to my mini fridge—yes, I had one of those—and extracted two bottles of water. I tossed one to Christian, who curled up comfortably in the same wingchair where Jake may or may not have just wet himself. I opened the second bottle for myself and took a long swig.

“But you’re good at it,” he said, stretching his legs over one arm. “I was totally scared. Of course, the big-time outfit only adds to your authority.”

My nicest skirt-suit and my long, neat pony tail was a look Christian never failed to comment on. “I have client meetings this afternoon.”

“So you need to look like a movie star?”

“It certainly helps.” I swatted his feet down. “If Marty finds you in here sitting like that—”

“What?” he said daringly. “He’ll smite me? Imprison me in corporate servitude?”

“Don’t you have some pictures to take?” I gestured to the only wall in my office not decorated with an original Christian Douglas print. “That wall looks awfully naked, Mr. Fancy-Pants Photographer.”

“Hey, don’t be jealous that I haven’t been suckered into capitalist America’s lies and pointless drudgery like you have.” I knew he was only kidding, but the words stung. I hadn’t told him how I’d been feeling about things—my life, really—lately.

“You know, you’re a pain in the ass. I’m big and important, and you are wasting my time.”

“No, this is wasting your time.” He crossed towards me, setting our water bottles on my desk. “May I have this dance, Anne Hathaway?” Christian wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing our bodies together, and led me in a slow waltz across my office. He swayed expertly back and forth, sweeping me around several pieces of furniture and then into a deep dip. With his face just inches from mine, I could see the perfect crystal blue of his eyes and smell his cologne—a sweet citrus with spicy undertones, a scent as familiar to my senses as air. He held me bent backwards like that for a moment, then grinned and said, in his mock sexy voice: “Go to lunch with me.”

“Oh! Oh, my God,” said a third voice. “I’m sorry, Tess. I thought we were meeting—”

“For lunch,” I said pointedly, righting my posture and subtly pushing Christian’s hands away. “Christian, Savannah. Savannah, this is Christian.”

I was embarrassed for sure, but having Christian and Savannah face to face was too good to be true. I hadn’t planned for it to happen like this, but it suddenly seemed perfect. Even with the dancing, Savannah knew all about my friendship with Christian. I hoped she wouldn’t get the wrong idea like all the other girls before her. She couldn’t be jealous if she knew the deal going into it, right?

I stood back and watched them, waiting to catch that first spark fly between them. Instead, Christian rocked back on his heels and Savannah fidgeted with a hangnail.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Christian said, turning to me. He hadn’t even looked at her, not really. “We’ll rain check for some other time. I’ll just get going. Okay, Tessie?”

He squeezed my hand and headed for the door. Well, this wasn’t right at all. Christian would never see how perfect Savannah was for him if he didn’t get to know her. A hello and a handshake couldn’t show him her potential, not like….

“Christian, wait! Come to lunch with us.”

CHAPTER SIX

When we were kids, my sister and I often collaborated on these big one-thousand piece puzzles on the dining room table. Once in a while, one of us would get stuck on two pieces that looked like they should fit together perfectly. We’d spin one around, then the other, flip them upside down, twist them, and finally just try to force one piece to fit into the other. If my sister Lucy was at the helm, she’d quickly realize the right piece sat off to the side and make the correction. I, on the other hand, pushed and pushed until, eventually, I broke one of the pieces.

In any case, my first lunch with Christian and Savannah felt a lot like that. Of course, I
knew
they were a match, and a good one, so I progressed quickly to the forcing stage.

Using photography as their common ground, I jumped in head first. Why test the water if you’re going swimming anyway? After all, Savannah admired Christian for starting his own photography business and Christian needed an assistant for a wedding—a suitably romantic celebration of
couple hood
.

“So Savannah,” I said. “If you’re free, why don’t you tag along with Christian? It might be a great way to get motivated for a return to photography.”

She hesitated, looking from Christian to me and back. “Are you sure that’s all right? I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

Christian smiled politely, but I couldn’t read anything in it. “I’m sure it will be fine. If you have experience, it will all come back to you.” He suddenly became absorbed in a speck on the side of his fork. “I need an extra pair of hands anyway. Might as well be someone who cares,” he sighed. “About photography.”

The abrupt change in his mood was not lost on me. The playful, fun Christian in my office now looked stilted and maybe bored. Possibly he was just nervous and I was reading too much into it. That’s usually what happened to him when two girls were chattering away like this. He sighed again and I decided something else was going on.

When we finished eating, I put the tab on my purchasing card, claiming Christian as a business-related expense—one of the perks of my new position. Savannah grabbed her coat and bounced up before I could even put my wallet away.

“Thanks for lunch, Tess,” she said, digging deep into her coat pocket. She pulled out her cell phone, checked the screen, and made a face of surprise. “I gotta get back. Nice to meet you, Christian.” She shook his hand, lingering just a bit too long, and then bounded out of the restaurant.

I cursed at myself, knowing she was rushing back for a deadline I gave her. Had I known how today would end up, or that she’d
linger
in a handshake, I would have pushed her assignment back. I mean, for people like Savannah and Christian work was just work, not a life, not like it was for me. This meeting could be the start of their new life—together.

On the plus side, without Savannah, I could enjoy a nice stroll alone with Christian. If the breakup with Marcy was bothering him, I’d get to the bottom of it before he could unwrap that stick of gum.

“Ooh, can I have one?” I snatched a second piece from the package, popped it in my mouth, and planned my strategy. Carefully, I wound my arm through his as we exited the restaurant, then leaned my head gently against his shoulder. “So, how are you holding up there, Mr. Moody?”

“Moody?” he stopped and turned to me. “I came by to see
you,
Tessie. I don’t know what that was all about over there but it wasn’t the way I wanted to spend lunch time with you.”

“Sorry,” I said weakly, struck by the pointed edge of his tone. “I didn’t realize…”

He started walking again and I followed alongside, mostly because he still had possession of my arm. “I thought we could talk. But now, I just want to get back to work, ok?” His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his voice chilled me.

“Why are you being weird?” Maybe not my best tactic, but I usually had a short fuse when it came to Christian’s stubbornness. “I’m here now, so let’s talk.”

We marched in silence for several blocks, my gaze fixed on his stiffened jaw. He was frustrated with me and, clearly, couldn’t put it into words. After twenty-five years of disagreements with him, I’d broken the code of his body language, reading each posture and movement like the stanzas of childhood poems. That day, my skills only took me so far. I couldn’t see what the issue was when something about him was new, different…foreign. So I let him walk on, patiently waiting until we either reached my office building or he put his thoughts into coherent sentences—whatever came first.

As we closed in on Prime’s glass entranceway, his mouth opened and shut a few times—a lot like Finn, actually. He sighed heavily, letting go of my arm. I stood looking up at him, torn between giving up and going back to work or beating it out of him with a nearby parking meter.

“Listen,” I said commandingly, deciding on a strategy halfway between the extremes. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? If you need someone to listen to you about whatever it is…” I trailed off, hoping he’d pick up the baton. Instead, he just stared at me, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, completely unprepared for baton wielding. “We can talk about Marcy—”

“It’s not about Marcy, for crying out loud. Can you stop saying that?”

Well, at least it was something, even if it was denial. “So tell me what it is, then.”

He dropped his eyes to the ground, kicking a few pebbles into the street. “It’s something she said, Tessie. Something—” He stopped abruptly, looking back at me. His posture loosened a bit and the corners of his mouth leveled out, no longer pulled toward his chin. Not quite a smile, but at least it wasn’t a frown. “This isn’t the place, or the time. Just go back to work and clean up that disaster area you call a desk. Don’t worry about me, okay? We’ll talk later, I think.”

As I begrudgingly said goodbye, I couldn’t help thinking I’d hit the nail on the head calling him Mr. Moody. Years of experience told me not to let it bother me. Christian was always a bit touchy after a breakup and this time couldn’t be any easier, with his thirtieth birthday on the horizon.

Some people get worked up about their thirtieth because it’s the end of their twenties, or because they fear getting old. In Christian’s case, it was more personal. Thirty was his benchmark for so many things he wanted to accomplish: a thriving business, a wife, a family, owning his first home. At last count, there were still a few unchecked items on the list, something that had to be bothering him. I wondered how much that factored into his decision to propose to Marcy.

I left the elevator and turned right, heading back to my office and an inevitable pile of new work to review. As I walked by, I waved to Nina Watkins, the only other woman who worked in this wing. She was in her sixties, one of the many life-timers at Prime to reach the glass ceiling at the Executive Assistant level. Ah, sexism. I was trying to break down those barriers myself, but often felt lonely without other women to commiserate with. One thing you never expect about defying sexism is how much it affects your opportunities for office gossip.

The pile of work was waiting, as expected, with Jake’s rewritten copy on top, but something out of the ordinary caught my eye. Two things, actually, both sitting gingerly atop my keyboard. On the left was an envelope addressed to me as ‘Tessie’ in Christian’s handwriting. On the right, a folded piece of paper addressed to me as ‘Monroe’ in Marty Bensen’s handwriting. Decisions, decisions. I picked up both letters and weighed my options in this classic good news/bad news scenario. After a few seconds, I tucked Christian’s envelope into the inside pocket of my blazer to save for later and tore open Marty’s, which I reasoned to be far more urgent. Its message was clear.

I mean, there aren’t that many ways to interpret, “Monroe. My office. 2 pm.” That’s a clear message. I was doomed. And, as I learned from my wrist watch, I was also late.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I scrambled around, grabbing my portfolio and Jake’s improved copy just in case, and ran out the door. Halfway down the hall, I remembered that I didn’t have a pen. I spun on my heel, booked it back to my office, dug a pen from the drawer, left said drawer wide open, and turned back to bolt out the door again.

BAM! I took the drawer mid-thigh, launching office supplies hither and thither, covering my area rug with a layer of paperclips. Late, irritated, and now injured, I ran down the hallway, trying to hide my new limp as much as possible.