Missed Connections (3 page)

“Guess who has news?” Jack asks Pete.

“What? Who? Spill!”

I laugh. “I have a job! Soon, you’ll have your couch back.”

“Thank God,” he exclaims with relief.

I narrow my eyes. “You could sound a little less excited to spare my feelings.”

“Honey.” He smooths an eyebrow with the tip of his ring finger, managing to look long-suffering with that small action. “I love you, but if I had to see one more thong hanging over my towel rack, I was going to lose it.”

“Pete!” My cheeks flame, and I look at Jack.

“Please. My little brother’s seen more panties than you have.”

Jack smirks. “You’re only three minutes older.”

I notice he doesn’t deny the part about the panties.

Pete grabs me in a hug. “Sweetie, I’m so proud of you!” He pulls back. “Where is this fabulous new job? Will they be paying you meeellions of dollars?”

“I doubt it. I’ll be doing reception.”

“It may seem like a step down with your degree, but it’s a jungle out there. That you got hired right now just shows how great you are.”

I raise my brows. “Reception at a New Age spa.”

“Competition?” He rears back in mock outrage.

“No. Inner Space. They do massages and acupuncture and some crystal stuff. Yoga therapy. Nothing that makes anyone prettier. It’s the spa Naomi told us about.” Naomi was one of his client-turned-friends. She works at Inner Space and told him they were hiring, and he passed that news to me.

He smirks. “No one makes anyone prettier than me.”

“You’re the best.” Jack humors Pete like a parent humors a child, then looks at me. “So you’ll be moving soon?”

“As soon as I find a place.” My happiness is tempered by something in his eyes I can’t define.

“Let me know when you need help.”

“I will, thanks. What did you want to do for supper, P?”

He rubs his hands together. “I was going to do spag bol instead of ordering in, but this calls for celebration! I heard about a new Thai fusion place in Williamsburg. Shall we go judge for ourselves?”

Pete’s spag bol puts Del Posto’s to shame. “Nothing’s better than your pasta—please, let’s do that instead. You won’t get to cook for me much longer,” I wheedle. “I’ll even do all the dishes.”

“I
should
try to fatten you up some before you go. Lord knows what things you’ll be putting into your body while unsupervised.”

I try and fail to keep my gaze off Jack. “Lord knows,” I agree and move back to Pete’s laptop. “Guess I should start looking for a place.”

Plugging in my earbuds, I click on iTunes and hit Shuffle to give the boys a little privacy.

Privacy.
I’ll be in my own apartment again, with my own computer, in my own space. What a glorious concept.

Back to Craigslist. It’s still open to the home page, and just a click takes me to the apartments for rent.

The past six weeks have been so stressful that I hadn’t realized how much they’ve weighed on me until now. Laughter brews at the tip of my tongue, waiting to be released at the slightest nudge. The rich aroma of garlic and onions browning in the pan seasons the air. Pete’s meat sauces need time to develop flavors, and though it will be a few hours until we eat, I feel hungry for the first time in ages, my stomach no longer in knots.

Fern emailed me with salary details. It’s way below what I made at the firm, but enough that I can manage. I find and reply to a few brokers representing affordable apartments and see one that looks perfect. Tiny, overpriced, and way out in the ass end of Brooklyn, but it’ll be a place I can call my own. It’s all finally coming together. Soon, I’ll have a job to go to and money to spend. No more scrounging and hoarding and denying myself delicious gourmet coffees and treats when I’m out and about. No more reading the magazines at the bodega and never buying them, feeling like a junkie seeking a free fix while the store clerk looks at me with judgmental eyes.

I’ve had my envious eyes on about seventeen new, hip restaurants that have opened since I got laid off. Soon I’ll be able to actually go to them. My mouth waters.

I am not a failure. My old boss was wrong about me.

It’s like I take my first real breath in nearly two months. Life couldn’t get better.

Inbox (1)

A reply already?

My heart stops when I see the @. It’s from some woman I don’t know, but the @ is the law firm’s name. Why would they email me? Is this like tantric karma—life saw I was happy and is now bending me over to creatively screw me because I wasn’t depressed for a whole ten minutes?

It’s from Brenda to [email protected]—and Sonya has accidentally forwarded it to me. I used to use my personal email when working from home, and people grew accustomed to contacting me via both. Apparently, they haven’t removed me from the contact list. I shouldn’t read it, but it’s like creeping an evil ex on Facebook; I can’t look away.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Pest situation

Sonya,

We have a pest situation. Droppings are appearing around the office, particularly the lunchroom. As you can guess, Bob isn’t pleased. Call the exterminator and get them in here ASAP.

Brenda

My ecstatic bark of laughter draws Pete’s and Jack’s attention, and I feel like doing a small dance. Hell, I’m so freaking happy I could twerk. “Jack, are you spinning anywhere this week?”

“I’m at Combined on Friday. Why?”

I motion for them to read the email, loving the way their faces light up. They’re as happy as I am, having seen the way those bastards fired me like I was nothing. “Because suddenly, I feel like dancing.”

My life couldn’t get any better than it is right now.

Chapter 3

Once again, I’ve made a tactical error by dressing in a black skirt, heels, and black cami/sweater combination. While perfect for the law firm and less formal than my interview clothes, the outfit makes me stick out like a sore thumb, blackened beneath the hammer of poor judgment.

Fern resembles a dull flower in an oatmeal-colored kaftan and green leggings. Her gaze starts at my tight chignon and wanders down to my four-inch heels. “I’m for expression in all its forms, Sarah, including through fashion choices, but we’re really trying to go with a relaxed vibe here. We want the clients to feel welcomed, at home. People will come in for massages dressed in sweats and no makeup, seeking respite from the trappings of vanity.”

“So you want me to dress in something less formal?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to, I don’t know, casual it up a bit. Just to blend with the rest of us. We’re all about harmony. What you’re in is very discordant.”

“I’ll be sure to dress more casually tomorrow.”

She waves her hand. “Wear whatever you want.”

Just not business attire. What if this is what I want to wear? “So, are jeans okay?”

“Just read the energy and flow with it.”

Riiight.

She straightens a pile of papers on the desk. “Anyway, we figured we’d show you the booking and billing system while Ziggy’s in with a client.”

I glance around to be sure we’re the only two in the reception area. No one else is in sight, so I have no idea why she keeps saying “we.” “Sounds good.”

“You’re used to computers, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, just play around with it. I’ve got to run to a meeting.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” I’ve been here for exactly twenty-three minutes, and she’s leaving me on my own?

“I’ll be back at eleven thirty, and Ziggy will be done with his client at eleven. Plenty of time for you to get to know the booking system.” She smiles and grabs my shoulders. “You’re smart. I have every faith in your ability to do this.” She disappears out the front door in a cloud of sandalwood and lemon verbena.

My gaze bounces from the Himalayan rock salt lamp on the wooden table to the large amethyst geode by the front door. A small stack of organic living magazines is nestled beside a pile of affirmation flip cards with finger labyrinths printed on the back. Apparently, they’re soothing.

I could use a few cups of soothing right about now. What the hell am I supposed to do if someone phones or comes in or… No. I sit in the chair behind the computer and wiggle the mouse to take it out of sleep mode. Fern left because she thinks I’m capable and intelligent. Maybe it’s a test, maybe it’s an opportunity—either way, this is my chance to shine. This is nothing compared to the tasks the partners had me do.

The certainty in Fern’s voice, the
trust
, is humbling and helps stave off the panic that I’ll do something wrong. I can do this. It’s just a piece of software, and I have a secret weapon: the Internet. I Google the name of the program and read the FAQs twice. There’s a forum that discusses some common bugs and shortcuts.

By ten forty-five, I’m practicing scheduling fake appointments, shifting them to different days and times, and deleting them like a pro. As long as I stick to the basics and no one wants to get fancy, I’m functional.

Ziggy zooms out of a therapy room at eleven on the dot and speeds by me, a sky-blue blur. “Bathroom.”

Oh.

“Hey.” A fifty-something woman in capris and a peasant blouse steps up to the counter. There’s no automatic bell to alert me when someone enters or exits Inner Space. I’ll have to remember that when I leave the desk. “I have an appointment with Ziggy at eleven fifteen?”

I pull up Ziggy’s day and hope she’s in the schedule so I don’t look like a dumbass. “What’s your last name?”

“Tina.”

“That’s your last name?”

“No.” She blinks at me a few times.

I so haven’t had enough coffee to be dealing with this. “What’s your last name?”

“Tina. Graham?”

Ziggy’s schedule does show Tina in at eleven fifteen. Allowing myself a small breath of relief, I smile at her. “He’s just finishing up with someone. Would you like to have a seat?” I motion to the row of sage-green pleather chairs.

“Sure.” She wanders over to the cooler, where packets of herbal tea and real cups are set up—disposable cups were
not
an option, Fern informed me. Tina pulls up on the red handle, then jiggles it. “There’s no hot water.”

“You’ve got to sort of push it straight back before pressing it down.”

She jiggles it harder. “It’s not working. I think it’s broken.”

“No, you have to pinch it, not jiggle it.” I use a new word, hoping she understands this time, and mime the motion, but she’s not listening or looking. When she starts twisting the handle around, I decide to get up to help her before she breaks the handle off. “Here, let me help.” I take her cup and demonstrate what I’d told her to do.

“Ah, I get it.” She fills her mug with steaming water. “You should have just said to pinch it.”

I move back behind my desk for a little space and focus on the soft music, but I need stimulants, not the soothing tones of a pan flute. I wish I’d known the only beverages here are decaffeinated.

Ziggy’s previous client emerges from the treatment room just as he returns from the bathroom, and he preps his room while I deal with his client.

The billing software is one I’ve used before, so the payment goes smoothly and the client says she’ll phone to rebook when she knows her schedule. Ziggy appears as the last part of the transaction wraps up, and he greets Tina with a smile. “So get undressed,” he says, leading her to the room, “and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

The door closes behind him, and he pads into reception, grabs a cup, and fills it with water. Curiously, I peek at Naomi’s schedule for the day, checking to see when she has a break so we can have a chat. She’s booked back-to-back from eight in the morning until four. Eight full hours of massages? Ziggy’s are spaced with fifteen minutes in between each client and an hour break for lunch, but he’s the boss, and his schedule could be more lax because of that. I’m not an expert, but Naomi’s schedule seems like a long time to be massaging people without taking lunch or even a fifteen-minute breather. And amazing stamina or not, she’s going to need a pee break in there at some point.

“Ziggy? Why is Naomi booked so solidly?”

He swirls his water around in his cup. “She was concerned about not having enough clients to pay her bills. So we fixed that for her. Now she has all the clients she can handle.”

That seems a little spiteful, but I say nothing. If it hadn’t been for Naomi, I never would have heard of this job. She’s how I got in, and I’m grateful to her, but I barely know her. Gratitude or not, I know which people need to be agreed with.

The ones signing my paychecks.

“The transaction went really well, Sarah. Good for you. Fern’s doing a great job teaching you the ropes.”

If giving me a quick tour, having me sign a contract, and then abandoning me is “teaching me the ropes,” then yes. “Yes, she is.”

“Where is she?”

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to leave. Should I be honest about the fact that she left, or would that be ratting her out? Since she took off without telling him, I think Fern’s the one I need to keep happy. “I think she was talking with a client. I’m not sure. I was really in the zone going over the scheduling software she showed me.”

He smiles proudly. “She’s a fabulous teacher. She does workshops, you know. We do them together, but I’m really just her helper.”

Fern’s definitely the alpha hippie. “No, I didn’t know you guys did workshops. What does she teach?”

He looks at the clock. “Oh, I’ve got to get in there with Tina.” He leans over and grabs a flyer from a stack on the shelf that holds other flyers and business cards of people in his and Fern’s network. He sets the glossy, rectangular slip on the desk and slides it toward me. “Check it out. You should come sometime.” He fixes his watery blue eyes on me, walks back to the room Tina’s in, and disappears behind the door.

A beautiful sapphire lotus flower covers the left side of the brochure, with Fern’s and Ziggy’s names printed in yellow across the center. The words
Passion, Fulfillment, Connection, Liberation
border the bottom in small, yellow script. The right side is the main message. Fern and Ziggy’s course is called
Sex, Evolution, and You
.