Funeral with a View (14 page)

Cat jogged to the kitchen
as I dragged luggage into the foyer.

“I’m going to check the
messages, Ricky.”

I was beat from the
honeymoon and traveling home. The flight hadn’t helped any. I’ve never been the
best flyer, but the return trip from Jamaica was another story. A massive storm
blanketed the island on the day we were due to leave, and we hit bone-jarring
turbulence after no more than ten minutes in the air. One moment we were
ascending without a care in the world, and the next it felt as if the hand of
God grabbed the plane and dribbled it like a basketball. The tips of my fingers
throbbed for the remainder of the flight.

Harrowing journey home
aside, our honeymoon was wonderful. The adults-only resort sported twenty-four
hour room service, gambling, Jacuzzi tub, and four star dining. A favorite was
the swim-up bar. Our suite opened up poolside and it was only a matter of
swimming ten feet to obtain all the all-inclusive alcohol we could handle. The accoutrements
were nice, but the best times were had in the room itself … if you get my
drift.

Despite being in a
tropical paradise, one thing grabbed hold of Cat and wouldn’t let go.

Jude’s impending delivery.

I did my best to assure
her we’d be contacted at the resort if anything bad happened. We were sure to
give our families the number just in case there was spotty cellular service. We
never received a call and, as we idled the days away, she became less anxious
about it.

But, first thing she
wanted to do when we pulled into the driveway was check the answering machine.

Luggage safely inside the
house and door shut behind me, I looked forward to a hot shower and a nap. I
had one foot on the stairs when Catherine squealed.

I ran through the living
room and into the kitchen, nearly colliding with my new, tanned bride on her
way out.

“Cat? What is it? What
happened?”

“It’s Jude.” She bounced
with excitement. “She had the twins while we were in the air.”

~~~

“Hey Aunt Cat and Uncle
Ricky.”

Jude lay in the hospital
bed, wrecked from the delivery, but smiling. She held a tiny bundle to her
chest. In the guest chair next to the bed, Rob held a similar one.

“Oh my God. They’re so
tiny, Jude,” Cat said. “But I thought you weren’t due for at least another
week?”

“She wasn’t.” Rob smiled
proudly. It was comical watching him try to hold an infant and adjust his
glasses at the same time. “But these two little trouble makers had different
plans. Would you like to hold them? Both of you?”

Nodding, we relieved the couple
of their swaddled new additions. Small as they were, they were even lighter
than they looked, and I couldn’t tell what weighed more; the baby, or its blanket.
A mop of dark black hair sprouted from the blanket, and the baby’s face was
pink and scrunchy. So cute.

“So, who am I holding
here?” I counted ten tiny fingers and toes.

“That would be, Samantha.
Sam for short.” Rob nodded to the baby in Cat’s arms. “And that would be—”

“Jeffrey,” Jude said. She
was drained and exhausted, but beamed with pride.

Cat touched a small fist
as she rocked Jeffrey back and forth. “Samantha and Jeffrey,” she whispered.

Jude propped herself up
and stretched. “So how was the honeymoon, guys?”

“Great,” I said, touching
the tip of Sam’s pink nose. “But something tells me it wasn’t as eventful as
your past few days.”

~~~

“I can’t get over how
tiny they are, Ricky. My sister. A mother. Unreal.”

The sun dipped behind the
tree line in our backyard. Leaves danced and limbs swayed in the warm, steady
breeze. Light broke through the oaks and sparkled like a kaleidoscope as we sat
on the deck, drinking from a bottle of red; the perfect vantage point for
watching a sunset, one we’d discovered soon after moving in.

I swirled my wineglass
and took a sip. “I was afraid I’d break Samantha. Can you believe that was the
first time I’d ever held a baby?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Cat grinned. “You took to
it like a pro.”

“Thank you, thank you
verra much. It’s amazing though, isn’t it? That this microscopic thing grows
and grows until nine months later you have a living, breathing mini-person.”

“I think you’d be good at
it.”

“You’ll have to be more
specific, Cat. I’m good at a great many things.”

“Fatherhood. You would
make an amazing dad.” Cat’s expression turned contemplative. She lifted the
wine to her mouth, but placed it down without taking a sip. “Rick?”

“What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”

“Let’s have one.” Her
eyes were intense, yet uncertain.

Catherine wanted a kid. A
baby of her own.
Our
own. To conceive, carry, bring into the world,
raise, and care for. The subject of kids had come up on more than one occasion,
but never seriously. They were passing, fleeting remarks:
I’d like kids one
day. Me, too
. So on and so forth. We shared the desire for children, but
after the initial pregnancy and resultant miscarriage Cat had gone on the pill,
not wanting another surprise to send us into a tailspin. Seeing her fawn over
the newborns at the hospital earlier in the day, her comment didn’t surprise
me.

Resting my elbows on the
table, I thought it through. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. In fact, I’ve
never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Not even when you said
you’d marry me?”

Her smile returned. “You
know what I mean, dick.”

“My dick would certainly
have to be involved. Unless you’ve been considering the mailman as the
potential sire to your progeny? Sure, he’s short and has more hair than a
bearskin rug, but his calves are huge. Excellent musculature.”

“I’m being serious. I
want to start a family.”

I knew it, and she knew I
knew it. But me being who I am, I couldn’t help having a little fun at her
expense. I’m a penis like that.

I held up a hand,
blocking out the last of the sunlight, and pointedly looked in all directions. “Here?
Now? Right on the deck?”

Straddling my lap, she
laced her fingers behind my neck and sucked on my lower lip. “Here, inside … I
don’t care. Think you’re up for some practice, stud?”

“I think I could be
coerced,” I said, tasting the wine on her lips.”

Her hand worked its way
into my shorts. “How’s this for starters?”

“Houston, we have
liftoff.”

A pair of Catherine’s high
school friends finish offering their condolences and gesture to the remembrance
board. In what’s becoming habit now, I float upward as they approach, having to
tear myself away from the photos of Cat and I holding our twin niece and nephew
the day they came home from the hospital.

Floating aimlessly
now, I see her.

Sandy Colbert. My ex-boss

She walks into the
funeral parlor as confident as ever and sweeps her gaze across the assembled
gathering. Her eyes lock on Catherine. Zeroed in, she moves with purpose to the
front of the room. Shoulder-length black hair sways as her athletic legs propel
her forward; a black so deep it sometimes looks purple when caught in the
light. A form-fitting navy blue dress cut just below the knee brings out the
intensity in her eyes and compliments her makeup.

Leaning down, Sandy
presses full lips to Catherine’s cheek. Cat’s jaw tightens. “Hello, Catherine,”
Sandy says in her husky voice. “This turnout is amazing.”

“Good morning, Sandy,”
Catherine says evenly. “Thank you for coming. Ricky would have appreciated it.
You remember everyone from the viewing?”

“Yes, of course. Hello.” Sandy
nods to my family, smiling faintly. “I don’t want to intrude. If you’ll excuse
me, I’ll go say a prayer for Rick and find a seat. Again, I’m deeply sorry for
your loss.”

Sandy kneels in front of
my casket and bows her head to rest on steepled fingers.

I turn back to Catherine.

Her head is facing the
opposite direction.

“Ms. Colbert would like
to see you now.”

“Right. I’ll be there in
a sec.” I thanked the secretary and locked up my PC.

Office grapevines are
viral, organic things. My honeymoon now a memory only weeks old, rumors of a
new Managing Director assailed me upon my return to work. Scuttlebutt whispered
it was to be the daughter of the elder Colbert brother, one half of the
octogenarian duo who made my biweekly king’s ransom possible. Anybody who’s
ever worked in an office knows how unreliable the gossip usually is.

My motto?

Don’t buy it until you
see it in writing.

The official announcement
came via email several days after my return. Sandra Colbert was indeed our new Managing
Director.

Tales—from the mundane to
the outlandish to the downright mean—made their way from lip to ear to lip to
ear like links in a chain: Sandra’s an utter bitch; Sandra’s a man-hating
lesbian known only to promote those who support her feminist agenda; Sandra is
a know nothing idiot who’s advanced through nepotism. And those were some of
the nicer rumors making their way around the office.

I did my best to ignore
the baseless vitriol, determined to meet her for the first time with an open
mind.

Having taken one last bite
of a previous healthy fingernail, I knocked on her door.

“Come in.” The voice was
deep and smoky.

I entered.

Despite my best efforts I
did have an image of Sandra Colbert in my mind. I’d conjured up visions of a
short, squat, wart-covered hag that would sooner be living in a swamp lying in
wait to lure unsuspecting Germanic children to their early demise rather than
what I now saw sitting behind the large desk. In my defense, I’ve never claimed
to be perfect, and it turned out that my twisted imaginings couldn’t have been
any farther from the truth.

Long jet-black hair was
tied in a perfect bun. Understated makeup, enough to show she went to the
trouble to apply it, complimented an angular, yet decidedly beautiful facial
structure. A black button-down shirt under a well-cut gray suit did nothing to
hide her generous cleavage. Lithe fingers with freshly manicured nails flipped
through a file with an economy of motion. On first inspection, Sandra Colbert
seemed no more than thirty-five, but she exuded the cool confidence and
sultriness of someone much more experienced.

I cleared my throat, and
she looked up at me with hypnotic blue eyes framed by a pair of retro
black-framed glasses. She closed the file and stood.

“Please, come in.” She
approached, hand outstretched. “Sandra Colbert. My friends call me Sandy.”

Her fingers were soft and
cool, but not clammy, her grip firm, but not uncomfortably so. “Rick
Franchitti,” I said, trying not to gawk. No easy task considering her skirt’s
mid-thigh hemline exposed the firm, tanned legs of an active runner. “Nice to
meet you, Sandy.”

“I said my friends call
me Sandy, Rick. Are you and I friends?” I stiffened under her intense stare. An
apology was on the tip of my tongue when her lips curled in an intriguing smile
best described as borderline playful. “Gotcha. Please have a seat.”

I sat as ordered.

“I’ve been going through
your file, Rick,” she said as she straightened her skirt and sat. “I have to
say I’m impressed. Your annual reviews are consistently off the charts, and
your work,” she patted the file, “speaks for itself. If I only had ten more of
you.”

“Oh. Thank you very much.
I appreciate the kind words.”

Sandy set her glasses on
the desk. “Nobody told you what this meeting was about.” She shook her head.
“Typical. You may as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.” She produced a
crystal pitcher. “Water?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” My
throat was a tube of sandpaper, but I felt accepting the water would have been
a sign of weakness. As she poured herself a glass, I noticed a college degree
from Harvard Business School hung on the wall behind her. That squashed the
rumor of her idiocy.

“First off, let me tell
you why I’m here. Your previous Managing Director was competent enough, but during
this transition I’ve realized he didn’t seem to have an issue with letting
things stagnate. My job is to give this place a solid kick in the ass and to make
sure Colbert & Colbert
is
and continues to
be
profitable.
That means making some changes. Bringing in more new clients than we have been,
making existing ones even happier than they already are, shuffling around
personnel and putting them in the best possible position to make a difference
around here.” Two sapphire eyes bored holes into me. “That’s where you come
in.”

“Not to sound stupid, but
what exactly do you mean?”

“What would you think
about heading your own team?”

I shifted in my seat. “Is
this an interview?”

“If you want it to be.” Her
face broke into that intriguing smile again. “By all accounts, you’re a good
man, Rick. Your file proves it and so does the praise I’ve gotten from existing
management. When discussion of who would be offered this title first started,
your name came up repeatedly.” I felt my brow furrow. “What? Surprised I’ve
been checking up on you?”

My throat made a dry
clicking noise. “Not at all. I would have done the same in your shoes.”

“I vet my employees
thoroughly. One of a few things I’m very good at.”

I’ll just bet.

“This is our first
meeting, but I’ve been lurking around the office for quite a while now,
watching and getting the lay of the land. You can get a great feel for how
people work when they don’t know they’re being observed. And I hope you don’t
feel blindsided by having this sprung on you at the last second, but I also like
to see how people interview when they haven’t had a chance to prepare. Let’s me
see how they think on their feet. Anybody can study and give a canned response
filled with useless buzzwords. That’s not always the best indicator if a
person’s right for the job or not.

“Here’s some of what the
job entails,” she continued. “You’d still have hands-on creative control and be
able to get into the nuts and bolts of things as you see fit, but you’d be the
big picture person overseeing a small group of designers working exclusively
for you.” Sandy leaned back and laced her fingers together over her flat
stomach, then gave me more details about what would be expected of me. “Now for
the downside. There always is one. You’ll need to work longer hours on
occasion. I’m not saying we’d force eighty hours a week on you, but you would
have to be prepared for last minute meetings, conferences, et cetera. Any
expenses for travel will be on us of course.”

“I’d expect no less,” I
said, trying on a grin. So help me, but I was flirting with her.

“Aren’t you the least bit
curious about the salary?”

“Absolutely, but I
thought it’d be rude to ask.”

“Hardly. With great
responsibility comes a great paycheck.” She nonchalantly mentioned a number that
made my heart skip a beat. I noticed her eyes flick to my wedding band. “And
who can’t use more money, right?”

“Right.”

Sandy studied me for a
few silent moments. She leaned her elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under
her chin. “So tell me, Rick. Is this an interview or not?”

“Would it be out of line
if I said hell yes?”

Perfect teeth gleamed in
the bright office. “Hell no.”