Olive Oil and White Bread (26 page)

“Keith is the only one with that kind of clout.”

Angie studied Hope's face. “Hopie, you bring in a nice chunk of sales. Don't sell yourself short. So to speak.”

“I know. But I'm expendable. Aside from Keith, most of us are.”

Angie wanted to argue, but knew Hope was right. They were all good salespeople, but Keith was the only one bringing in over seven figures in sales. Any of the rest of them could be let go, their clients divvied up among those that remained. Before she could offer any kind of defense, Hope shocked her.

“I'm thinking I may go before the noncompete is introduced.”

“What?” Angie stared at her. “You're quitting?”

“I haven't told a soul, so I'm swearing you to secrecy.”

Angie continued to stare.

“I'm serious, Angie. You can't say anything.”

“You're going to leave me?” Angie's voice was small, almost childlike.

Hope held up a hand, palm out, as if stopping traffic. “Okay, cut that out. That is not something you're allowed to do.
That
, I cannot take.”

“I can't believe it.” Angie ran a hand through her hair. “I mean, I get it. But I can't believe you're thinking of leaving.” It was true; she
did
get it. She totally got it. But the idea of being left at Logo Promo without her closest ally was a tough one to swallow. She drained her beer and signaled for another, making a face at the
music, which suddenly seemed way too loud. “God, I hate this house shit,” she muttered.

Hope's eyes were on her; she could feel the weight of them. Forcing herself to not be selfish, she asked Hope, “Where are you thinking of looking? Will you stay in ad specialties?”

With a grimace, Hope replied, “I've been doing this for more than twenty years. I don't know anything else.” She ordered a refill and told Angie, “Steve over at Star Promotions offered me a job there. Higher commission cut. No noncompete.”

Angie studied her for a moment before saying, “So, you're not
thinking
of leaving. You're leaving.”

Hope nodded, looked away.

“Fuck, Hope. When?”

“I'll tell Jeremy at the end of the week.”

“He'll want you to go immediately, you know. No time to collect any ‘company secrets.'” Angie made air quotes. The idea of the ad specialty business having company secrets was ludicrous. Anything anybody wanted to know about their products or clients was readily available on the Internet or in the phone book.

“I know. I'm taking a week off. I'll start with Star in two weeks.”

“God, this is moving fast.” The bartender set an upside-down shot glass in front of Angie. “What's this?”

“From the woman at the end of the bar. Dark hair. Leather jacket.” She left to attend to another customer.

“Somebody just bought me a drink. How cool is that?” Angie lifted her glass in salute to the woman and mouthed a thank you.

“How the hell does she know you're not with me?” Hope asked with annoyance. “That was ballsy. I'm insulted.”

“Apparently, you're not taking very good care of me,” Angie said, feeling just a bit lighter than before. Despite the facts that the woman was not at all her type, and also, crossing that bold of a line was not something she'd ever be capable of doing, it was nice to have somebody look at her with interest and a twinkle in her eye rather than irritation and disappointment.

“Well, Casanova,” Hope teased. “I suggest you drink that up and get your ass home because your phone's been lighting up like a
Christmas tree the whole time we've been here. I can see it through your pocket when you lean forward.”

Angie sighed, realizing with dismay that she did not want to go home.

Twenty-Four

The house was dark and quiet when Angie arrived home. Weirdly so. Maybe Jillian had gone somewhere and that's why she'd called so many times. Though she never left a message. Confusion clouded Angie's mind as she set her keys and bag down.

“Jill?” Her voice didn't echo, but it might as well have, the house felt so empty. Furrowing her brow, Angie moved through the house, glanced up the stairs and saw no lights. Maybe Jillian was working in her studio. When she took the first step, she caught something out of the corner of her eye in the living room, and changed direction.

Jillian was sitting on the floor in the dark, her back against the wall, Boo's head in her lap, the rest of her covered with an afghan. Angie squinted, but couldn't make sense of it all, so she bent to the lamp, clicked it on.

And she knew.

“Oh, god.” Angie dropped to her knees.

Jillian's face was blotchy. Her eyes were red and swollen. Boo's eyes were lifeless, cloudy and glazed, her tongue protruding slightly.

“Jillian? Baby? Are you okay?” Angie touched Jillian's face, pushed her hair behind her ear. When Jillian finally turned her gaze to Angie, it was flat. Expressionless.

“Where were you?” Barely a whisper.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Why didn't you answer my calls?”

“I—” A million excuses zipped through Angie's head. A million
lies.
My battery died. My phone was in my car. I had the ringer off
. I was in a meeting. Instead, all she could say was “I'm so sorry.”

Jillian looked away, a fresh tear tracking down her cheek.

“I'll call Shay.” Angie stood.

“I already did. I'm bringing her body in first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, Boo.” Angie felt her own eyes well, pressed her lips together, and bit down on them as she laid a hand on their dog. Silence hung in the air. Finally, Jillian spoke.

“Go on up. I'll be there in a bit.” She didn't look at Angie.

Angie was torn. Part of her knew she should stay, but if there'd been an icy force field surrounding Jillian, it wouldn't have been much colder. It was painfully clear Jillian didn't want her around right now. Not that she could blame her. With a quiet sigh, she turned to the stairs.

It wasn't until she'd gone through her nightly routine—undressed, washed her face, brushed her teeth, ironed her clothes for the next day—and crawled beneath the covers that she allowed herself to grieve the loss of their dog. Flashes of Boo's entire life whizzed through her mind. That first day home, her too-big head and enormous feet making her look all out of proportion. That first night in the crate. The first day they took her swimming, only to discover that being in the water was the absolute last place she wanted to be. The time she was sprayed by a skunk, Angie and Jillian both in the tub with her, dousing her with tomato juice, laughing even as the smell made their eyes water. And always,
always
, Boo was by Jillian's side, her sweet brown eyes looking up at Jillian with such love and adoration. Angie had wanted to get Jillian a companion, a dog that would stick to her like glue. She'd succeeded. Boo had loved Jillian with perfect, unending intensity.

Jillian had to be devastated.

Alone in their bed, Angie cried as much for Jillian's loss as her own. Maybe more.

When the clock radio clicked on, Kelly Clarkson was singing “Since U Been Gone.”

“Shut up, Kelly,” Angie muttered as she slapped at the snooze button.

She felt it before she looked, but a quick glance confirmed that Jillian had never come to bed. Rolling onto her back, Angie stared at the ceiling as memories of last night flooded her mind. She'd fucked up. In a big way. And she had no idea how she was going to make up for it. She had her reasons, and they were legitimate. She knew that. But Jillian had needed her last night, and Angie had made herself unavailable.

And Boo was gone.

She felt the dog's absence almost as keenly as she felt Jillian's. Tears welled and threatened to spill over. Crying first thing in the morning was not a favorite activity of Angie's, and she did her best to fight it off. The thought of going downstairs to the look of disappointment she knew would be on Jillian's face filled a pit of dread in her stomach, but she tossed off the covers and got herself out of bed.

Jillian looked terrible as she stood in the kitchen, her back against the counter, sipping her coffee.

“Hi,” Angie said quietly as she pulled a mug from the cupboard and poured her own coffee.

“Hi.” Jillian's voice was rough. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them swollen. One side of her hair was matted against her head, and she wore the same clothes she had on the night before, now a wrinkled mess.

“Did you sleep down here all night?” Angie asked, though she knew the answer.

Jillian turned her gaze to the window. “I didn't want to leave her,” she explained, in barely a whisper.

Angie set her coffee down and wrapped her arms around Jillian, who stiffened at first, but gave in and let herself be held. It took only a few moments before she succumbed to her emotions and began to quietly sob against Angie's shoulder. Angie started to cry then, and the two women stood for a long while, just holding each other and grieving their lost pet.

“I think there was part of me that really thought she'd live forever.” Jillian's voice was muffled against Angie's shirt.

“I know. Me too.”

“She's barely been gone a day and I miss her like crazy already. My heart hurts.”

Angie squeezed her tighter, held her closer. She wanted to apologize again for last night, but was afraid of stopping Jillian's release. It seemed they had had so few close times like this lately, she didn't want to cut it short too quickly.

“I need to take her to Shay's clinic,” Jillian explained, pulling back slightly and wiping her face. “They'll take care of the cremation.”

“I'll go with you.”

Jillian blinked at her. “You will?”

“Of course.”

After studying her face, Jillian said, “Okay. Thank you.” She stepped back, picked up her mug. “We can pick up her ashes in about a week.” She cleared her throat, and Angie knew she was doing her best to keep her emotions in check.

“She was a good dog,” Angie said, hoping to keep things positive.

Jillian gave a wan smile. “She was a great dog.” Turning watery eyes to Angie, she added, “Best present I ever got.”

After they'd showered and changed, they stood together in the living room. Boo's body was still on her round bed. Jillian had covered her with her favorite blanket, tucked it around her. Angie handed Jillian the keys to the car.

“Here. You go open the car and clear off the back seat. I'll bring her out.”

“'kay.”

Angie squatted next to the dog, slipped the blanket off her head, and just looked. “You were the best dog around,” she whispered. “Thanks for being so good to us.” She bent and kissed the white head one last time, the skin and short hair now startlingly cold against her lips. “We'll miss you, sweetie.” With that, she replaced the blanket, scooped up the body, bed and all, and carried the whole load out to the car.

Jillian sat in the back with Boo.

Shay met them at the door, tears in her eyes, and she hugged each of them tightly. Jillian cried in her arms. “I'm so sorry.” Her
eyes met Angie's over Jillian's head, the feisty glare not lost on Angie. Shay must have known Jillian couldn't reach her last night. The guilt settled in once again, and Angie didn't try to fight it; she deserved it.

“Let me get one of my techs to help bring her in,” Shay began.

“No, it's okay,” Jillian interrupted. “We can do it.” She looked to Angie, who nodded, and together they slid Boo's body out of the car and carried her through the back door of the clinic into an exam room.

The vet tech that met them was young, with green eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. She helped them settle Boo and her bed on the exam table. “Take as much time as you need,” she said, her voice quiet and gentle. “I'll get the necessary paperwork. You can take her things with you—her collar and such—or we can get anything you leave back to you. Whatever is easiest for you.” With a kind smile, she left them.