Plan C (41 page)

“Oh god, here it comes,” says Clive to Ben.

“I need to reinvent myself,” says Kitty. “And that requires a special kind of client.” Kitty snaps a business card from her desk and hands it to me. I read the embossed black letters:

“Katrina…Pschitt?” I say, unsure how to pronounce it.

“She’s the sole heiress to her family’s vast fortune,” says Kitty.

I look confused. “The shit fortune?”

Kitty stares at me for a moment, seemingly speechless. Then, with a brisk little sigh, she pivots and pulls open the closet door. It’s filled from top to bottom with glass soda cases.

“I have an announcement to make,” says Kitty.

“Let me guess…you’re thirsty,” I say looking at the soda cases.

Ignoring me, she begins removing glass bottles from the cases. It’s clear her recently acquired waitress skills have paid off. Stepping back effortlessly, she pops the metal caps off each with a bottle opener. Soon we all have an opened soda bottle in hand. We look at the label. Some sort of European soda…

“You hold in your hand the basics of Katrina’s family fortune,” says Kitty.

Ben and I take a sip from our bottles and nod. “Lemon,” says Ben. “Pretty good.”

“Everybody in France loves Pschitt!” says Kitty.

Ben tries not to choke on his sip, but I’ve just sprayed mine through my teeth.

“You’re repping a woman named Kat Pschitt?” I ask.

“Kat likes to be called ‘Katrina,’ just as I like to be called Kitty.”

“I thought you wanted to be called ‘Kat,’” I say. “Now I’m really confused.”

“Oh, Kitty, I’m so glad you’re back to your beautiful name,” says Bebe, taking the now empty soda bottle from Tamara who has polished hers off in one big gulp.

“Although I have to confess,” says Kitty. “I hadn’t considered the sound of Katrina Pschitt’s last name since everyone over there pronounces it with a French accent. It falls differently on the tongue. But yes, sure,” says Kitty, bursting into giggles, “I guess my new client’s name is Kat Shit.”

Now all of us are laughing, and Kitty’s wiping at her happy tears. I sigh and sit back against the window sill. The scaffolding outside Kitty’s office is moving, and a window washer has just pulled into view. Sensing a presence, I turn around and smile through the window at him. But he’s already smiling at me.

“We can all laugh,” says Kitty, “But clients are flocking to Kat Pschitt’s paintings like seagulls to a trash heap.”

“Don’t say it Kitty,” I say. “Don’t you say it…”

But she says it anyway: “This is going to be
huge!”

“I’m behind you, love,” says Clive, kissing Kitty’s forehead.

“Don’t you see?” says Kitty. “Katrina’s so rich she’s not very motivated to paint. So she rarely does. That drives up the price. Everybody wants one of her pieces.”

“A piece of Pschitt?” I say. Everyone roars.

“You don’t believe me?” says Kitty. “Google her!”

“Kitty, please,” I say, looking around at the group of us all gathered. “Do yourself a favor.”

“What’s that?” says Kitty.

“
Quit
your day job.”

“Yes, love,” says Clive. “Stay home and make babies.”

The window washer taps on the glass. I turn and find him at eye level. If this one falls, it’s a disaster, since he’s three stories above the pavement. But as he stands there staring, something impels me to open the window. The window washer steps back on his scaffolding, startled.

“Don’t worry,” I say to him, sticking my head out. “I just thought maybe you’d be thirsty.”

I hand him a bottle of soda and he seems genuinely touched. He takes it, reads the label, and in broken English says, “You give – a Pschitt?”

“Yes,” I say, turning to gaze at Ben and my friends. “And I always did.”

*

Once upon a time
in New York City, there lived a woman named Libby Beal Crockett. She had a wonderful fiancé named Ben, two grown daughters, two step-sons, two best friends named Kitty and Bebe, and one male cat, named Brad.

Life would always mean weathering a lot of storms, but Libby had a Plan C… just in case. Although oddly enough, she never had to use it. For Libby Beal Crockett had the most important thing that any woman could ask for…

Libby had love. And she planned to keep it.

In the end, that was the only plan that really, truly ever mattered.

The End

For Marie, my mother and guardian angel in heaven, and for Caroline, my agent, friend, and guardian angel on earth. Different plans, different women.

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

Copyright © Lois Cahall 2012

The moral right of author has been asserted

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
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publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

eISBN: 9781448208210

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