How to Look Happy (25 page)

“Yes, but…” Quinn leans in a little closer over the table. “Brice also saw a letter from the IRS on Candace’s desk. And he said that all this happened after Carson asked Candace about some weird withdrawal from the firm’s account.”

I don’t answer, not sure how to process this information. Honestly, I’m so busy right now dealing with my own business that I don’t have time to care how Candace is handling hers. But of course, the firm’s credibility and viability is all tied up with my own, so I guess I
should
care. The funny thing is that, at one time,
I
was the person Candace would have trusted if the business was in trouble. After Caroline left, she and I had several long, after-hours meetings to reconcile the firm’s books and create an action plan to build business in the down market. Sometimes Brice sat in, sometimes he didn’t.

Now Candace has turned away from me, and I’ve turned within myself. I’m almost running an independent business at this point. I’ve barely talked to anyone in the office about my work in weeks. If I had my own tax ID and an assistant, I could even consider going out on my own…

I shudder, terrified at the direction my thoughts are taking. I am
not
ready to fly solo.

“Hellooo…” Quinn says, waving a hand in front of my face.

I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. Candace doesn’t tell me anything anymore.” I pause, remembering our last meeting. “Apart from her dumping the Brewster project back in my lap, I haven’t talked to her in, like, a month.”

And then I have a strange thought. “Although…” I drag out the word.

Quinn is holding her pizza up again, about to take another minuscule bite, but she pauses with the slice in midair. “Although?” Her eyes are bright.

“Well, I did get a weird vibe from Brewster’s assistant when I was at his house the week before last,” I say.

“A weird vibe? Like weird how?” Quinn sets her pizza back on her plate. Just then the waitress walks up with a new Diet Coke for Quinn and a pitcher of water. Neither of us speak as she refills my glass.

“Well,” I say. I sit back in my chair and then immediately hunch forward again when the sun hits my skin and raises my personal heat index by fifteen degrees. “Like, you know that Candace and Brewster have been dating, right?”

“Which is weird in and of itself,” Quinn interjects. “I mean, A, what in God’s name does he see in her? And B, where was Dan in all of this?” She pauses when I have no answer. “Like, I know they’re ‘separated’ and all, but she sure moved in awfully damn fast.”

“I know,” I say.

Neither of us says anything else for at least another minute. I chew my pizza thoughtfully while Quinn feeds her liquid diet and avoids her plate.

“So what did Brewster’s assistant say?” she reminds me.

“Oh, yeah.” I swallow the last bite of my crust and wipe my mouth with the white cloth napkin. “She asked me to keep an eye on Candace and see if I thought she was up to anything fishy,” I say, my brows pulling together. “I sort of got the impression she thinks Candace is a gold digger.”

The server returns, and Quinn waves away her plate even though she’s barely eaten a third of her pizza. The waitress deposits two black folders on our table and then hustles away our dishes.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Quinn says once the swinging door closes behind our server, bringing with it a puff of air-conditioned air that’s like a blast from heaven. “Very interesting.”

We busy ourselves with pulling out our credit cards and paying our bills. I glance at the clock on my phone’s screen and feel a flash of panic that my meeting with Rasmutin is less than two hours away, and I still have some fabrics to pull and prices to check, not to mention a board to finish. Plus, thanks to this lunch, I’m going to need a major freshen-up session in the firm’s bathroom before I head out to meet my client.

As we approach our parking lot, Quinn turns to me and says, “Promise you’ll tell me if you hear of anything else going on?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

Clearly Quinn cares more about keeping her job than she likes to let on. As for me… Well, I’m not sure I know
what
I really want anymore.

*  *  *

By the time I leave my meeting with Amanda and Marc this afternoon, I feel as if I’ve run a 5K—my back is damp with sweat, and I’m exhausted. I finished my storyboard by the skin of my teeth and dashed out of the office certain I’d forgotten something, my mental checklist running on repeat in my head. Thankfully, I forgot nothing, and Marc loved both Amanda’s and my presentations. We’ll be needed on-site as soon as sheet rock is up in the model units, which could be as early as next week. But before then, I need to get orders placed for some of the furniture pieces to be sure they’re here in time for the building’s soft opening. Delays are inevitable with made-to-order furnishings, and it can take as long as nine weeks for a simple sofa to come in—sometimes longer.

I’m still pumping with adrenaline from the successful presentation when I get a text that destroys my buzz.
911. Kitchen pipe busted. Floors … mess … help!

“Oh my God,” I say. I’ve just started my car and was about to head back to work, but instead I screech out of my parking space at Marc Rasmutin’s office and prepare to drive to the bakery.

And then—
smash
!

“Shit!” I yell, my head jerking forward and then back again.

I turn to see that I’ve just backed into an SUV. How I missed it—the thing is the size of a Navy fleet vessel—I’m not sure.

I’m too busy for my own good, that’s how. I’m meeting myself coming and going.

I take a second to assess myself, thankful that neither car was moving fast. The impact wasn’t enough to trigger my airbag, and I doubt it’s done much damage. Still, I’m shaking like a leaf and know I’ll probably be sore tomorrow. I rub the back of my neck with my right hand before opening my car door.

I step slowly out of my car and approach the SUV’s driver’s side window. A woman with glossy dark hair is inside with the window rolled up, glaring daggers at me. I’m standing right beside her car before she finally rolls it down.

“I am
so
sorry,” I say.

“Are you girls okay?” asks a man who’s jogged over from the sidewalk. “I just called MPD for you.”

Another man walks out the door of a neighboring business and comes over to us.

“Thanks,” I say to both of them. “I’m fine, I think.” I look at the woman, who’s finally opening her car door. She’s alone in the car. Despite the tinted windows, I can see car seats in the backseat of her vehicle, but thankfully they’re empty.

“You’re lucky my kids aren’t in the car,” she says in a haughty voice, echoing my thoughts, and I apologize again.

“Not much damage,” announces the second man, who’s made his way around the front of the SUV and is now rubbing a spot on my rear fender. I glance back and see a football-sized dent in the silver plastic panel.

Great.
But it could be worse.

“Yours took the brunt of it,” the man says, gesturing with his head toward me as he walks over to us. I imagine that’s true, since what I’m driving might as well be a golf cart in comparison to her hulking vehicle. I almost giggle when I see it’s a Chevy Armada—my ship analogy wasn’t too far off.

I nod at the man, thankful I have full coverage. Though, looking at the woman, I have a feeling I’m going to pay regardless. She still looks pissed off, and she’s tapping away at her cell phone screen, probably lacing the text with profanities aimed at me. When she looks up, I explain the emergency at the bakery, but it doesn’t seem to help. Meanwhile, our Good Samaritans wander away—I’m the only one who thanks them.

I get back in my car to wait for the police to show up. It takes forever, and in the meantime, I text Chick to let her know what’s happened and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. As I scroll down the screen, I notice the thread of texts from Todd. I never gave him a real answer about going with him to the theater. Even though I’d love to accept, it feels too weird to go on what might or might not be a date with a guy I’m hiring to do work for me—even if my gut tells me he only wants
to be friends. I doubt he really considers this a date.

I reread the thread. I ended it by telling him I have plans and can’t go this weekend—which isn’t a lie, though I don’t feel at all good about my plans for Friday night. My stomach twists up at the thought of being alone with Brandon again, but at the same time, I know I’m not going to cancel.

At least my Saturday plans are more appealing. It’s not just me who’s been too busy for family time lately—and my mom has decided it’s time to stage a full-on intervention. She sent out a mandate that I and every one of my in-town siblings join her and my dad for dinner on their thirty-seventh anniversary. She even sent an Evite with the title “Cats in the Cradle” Anniversary Dinner. She never has been one for subtlety.

Even though I had legitimate reasons to turn down Todd, I left the door open and only turned him down
for this weekend
—the show is running for a full month. I was planning to talk to him about it Thursday while we’re hanging art, but now thanks to this leak, the installation might not happen this Thursday. As I realize this, a twinge of disappointment hits me, and I try to ignore the fact that it’s over more than an interruption to my project schedule.

I’m texting with Carrie when MPD finally arrives, and then I get a ticket in addition to an insurance claim.

Fabulous. Just what I need.

One step forward, two steps back. Damn it if that isn’t just the way life works.

*  *  *

By the time I finally make it to the bakery, the parking lot entrance is almost blocked by a boxy white van with EPD Disaster Recovery painted on the side. “Well, that doesn’t bode well,” I mutter to myself.

This day has had disaster written all over it.

Inside, though, I’ve missed the worst of the panic. The ear-splitting buzz of industrial fans emanates from the kitchen area, and I run through the front room—relieved to see that it seems to be intact—and around the pastry cases to find a different story. The wood floors in the kitchen are still wet in places, and the new finish looks to be almost completely destroyed. A smattering of workers in dark blue coveralls are squatting and kneeling in corners, mopping up remaining pools of water, and so is Chick, whose light blue dress is rumpled and stained and wet in places.

When she sees me she stands, shaking her head and wiping the back of one gloved hand across the bridge of her nose. Her hair—bleached white-blonde this week, with streaks of fuchsia—is matted against her forehead.

“Damn,” I yell over the noise of the fans, glancing around.

“Don’t you know it,” she yells back.

She walks around me through the kitchen area and gestures for me to follow. At the doorway to the customer portion of the store, she slips out of her soaking-wet Converse sneakers and leads me barefoot to one of the shop’s brand new tables, installed just last week.

“What have they told you about the cleanup?” I ask.

“At least four days to fully dry out and at least ten before we even think about refinishing the wood,” she says.

“What caused the leak?”

She shrugs. “Old pipes. It happened behind the prep sink on that back wall. They’ve patched it up and cut the water, but it will be Wednesday before I can get my plumber in here to replace the pipe.”

Chick pulls off her gloves and places them on the round tabletop, reaching up to scratch the side of her nose and push her sweat-damp bangs out of her eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, glancing toward the kitchen, where a worker just emerged carrying black plastic garbage bags in both hands. He takes them out the front door, letting it swing open behind him.

Chick is shaking her head. “Nah. Thanks, but I’m about to get out of their way. The worst of it is over.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“Oh, no. No worries,” she says. “You couldn’t exactly help getting in a car wreck! Are you okay, by the way?” She leans around the table and looks me up and down.

“I’m fine. My car is mostly fine, just a dent.” I shrug it off. I’m forming the question I most want to ask when she interrupts me.

“This isn’t going to affect the opening,” she says, and I feel my eyes grow wide.

“How so?” The bakery’s soft opening is supposed to take place a week from next Friday, and the grand opening fund-raiser is set for the Saturday after that. “We won’t even have the floors refinished by the time customers start coming in.”

She’s shaking her head again. “I know, I know. But I’ve already sent out email blasts and put up flyers everywhere, and the Art League has started advertising for the opening night party.” She gestures with her head toward the back of the house, where the man with the garbage bags just returned, shutting the door and lowering the decibel level in the room considerably. “Besides, all the damage is in the kitchen, and we can just shut the kitchen off for the opening.”