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Authors: Jo Barrett

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #Contemporary Fiction, #Humor

This Is How It Happened (7 page)

BOOK: This Is How It Happened
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In preparation for the big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, I arrange a meeting with my own boss, Henry Wrona. Henry is Polish and like a father to me. And for these two reasons, but especially the Polish-ness, I decide to tell him what’s what.

Henry says Polaks don’t like surprises. He’s big into what he calls the whole “respect” thing. So he’d be offended if he thought I was holding out on him.

Fair is fair. And I don’t want to leave Henry in the lurch. Plus, I’ve worked for him for fourteen years. His company, Capitol Marketing, is one of the most prestigious public relations firms in town. It’s a boutique firm, a small but venerable powerhouse, owned and operated by a firecracker of a man who’s “been in the biz forever,” as they say. Henry Wrona is a walking, talking institution.

And the best boss I could ever imagine.

But if Carlton and I get the seed money for Organics 4 Kids, I’ll have to quit. Which is unfortunate because I’m a rare breed of employee. I love my job.

I started working for Henry as an intern when I was still in high school. Then all through college and grad school. Part-time during the school year, and full-time in summer.

As corny as it sounds, business and marketing is in my blood. I love it.

Henry was a friend of my father back in the day. A long time ago. Before the car accident.

“Your father was a prince of a man,” Henry used to say, before I told him I didn’t like to be reminded of my dad.

Sometimes, especially in cases of extreme trauma, a person needs to shelve certain emotions. Tuck them away in a drawer. It’s a good way to get through the day. Because reminiscing, sentimentalizing, all that crap, leads to alcohol and pills and other bad stuff. Stuff to make you forget, anyway.

It’s not like I want to forget my parents; it’s just that it’s easier not to remember all the details. Like the way my mother used to sing and brush her hair. Upside down. Her head almost touching the floor. Bobbing as she sang along to Mick Jagger. “I’m a honkey tonk woo-man!” she’d sing.

That kind of memory. It kills me.

 

I walk over to Henry’s office. Peek inside. He’s at his computer. Typing like a madman. He’s got a shock of white hair on his head, twinkling blue eyes, and an ornery smirk.

I tap on the door even though it’s open.

Henry is one of those bosses with an open-door policy. “My door is always open,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. He’s like Santa Claus, without the beard.

He really is.

“Madeline!” he roars, looking up from the screen. “Come in, come in. How’s my FAVE-rite gal?”

I walk into the office, a big smile on my face. “I’m fine, Henry. Great, actually.”

“Good to hear, good to hear. Sit, sit,” he says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.

I sit.

He swivels around and faces me. “You, my dear, are a genius,” he starts in, pointing a stubby finger at me. “The marketing plan you came up with for the Meyers Group—pure gold, kiddo.”

The Meyers account was the largest account Henry had ever entrusted me with. When the call came in, from Mr. Meyers himself, Henry informed him that I was in charge. He was putting his full faith in me.

“Aren’t you going to be involved at all?” I’d asked.

“I need a fresh mind on this one. Not my crusty ol’ ideas, kiddo. And I know you won’t disappoint me,” he’d added.

So, I met with the client. Mr. Meyers and twelve of his staff. I was the youngest person in the room by twenty years. And the only woman.

“She may look young, but she’s my top gun,” Henry had said, in the introductory meeting.

I spent several sleepless weeks devising a campaign. They needed something lightning-fast. And Henry promised them I would deliver.

Mr. Meyers was the CEO of an investment bank—J.P. Meyers and Company. He’d founded J.P. Meyers in 1964 but had recently suffered a massive heart attack. And since the stock price had fallen on the news, the company was trying to do split-second damage control.

My tag line for the marketing campaign I developed was:
IF YOU THINK YOU’VE GOT TO TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS—THINK AGAIN.
Pictures of Mr. Meyers came on the screen, first as a young man, and then growing older as the company grew into one of the most revered firms on Wall Street, along with statistics of his accomplishments. We did a commercial and a glossy brochure for the company’s quarterly report to shareholders.

The bottom of the brochure read:
J.P. Meyers and Company—Our Captain has weathered the Ship for the Past 40 Years. How long has yours been at the helm
?

“I’m glad you liked it, Henry,” I say. “I worked hard on that.”

“Like it? I LOVED it, Maddy! And so did the client. Mr. Meyers actually clapped when he saw the commercial.” Henry drums his knuckles against the desk. “Rest assured, my dear. As soon as they pay their bill, you’re in for a very significant raise. Soon you’ll be making more money than yours truly,” Henry teases, his blue eyes moist from his morning hot toddy. I know he’s splashed some Irish whiskey into his coffee. I can smell it on his breath.

“Drinking before 10:00 a.m.?” I ask. “On a Monday?”

“Medicine, my dear,” Henry shrugs, with his smiling eyes. He’s got bright, shiny, mischievous eyes. The type of eyes that seem to know everything. And so even when I put on my game-face, he knows immediately something is up.

“But you’re not here to talk about Mr. Jack Daniels, I can see that,” Henry says. He folds his hands underneath his chin.

I take a deep breath. “Carlton and I have a new business idea. Organics 4 Kids. It’s a healthy school lunch program. He’s gotten his father and a bunch of investors together. They’re planning to invest three million dollars in start-up money. The meeting is next week. I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly, Henry. So, things are already off the ground and running.”

Henry whistles through his teeth. “Woo-wee. Must be some phenomenal business plan,” he says. “If they’re making that kind of financial commitment.”

I hold up my thick black binder. “I thought you might like to see it,” I say, plopping it down on his desk.

He adjusts his bifocals and peers down the end of his nose. I wait as he flips through the pages, slowly. Sopping up each word. Taking it all in. The clock ticks away. Fifteen minutes go by. Then twenty.

Finally, Henry looks at me over the top of his glasses. “You’re a piece of work, Madeline Piatro,” he says, shaking his head.

“Thanks Henry. That means a lot.”

He bites his bottom lip and I can see his mind whirling. He’s devising something. “Are you sure you want to give this away to Carlton’s dad and all his cronies? I mean, once they invest their money, Maddy, you won’t be in control. You’ll just be a hired gun. Like a consultant. And the company will belong to them.”

“Carlton and I talked about that. We’re both going to protect our interests.”

“Well of course Carlton will be protected. Daddy Warbucks will make sure of that. But what about you?”

I twirl the Juliet ring on my finger. Look down at it. Remember the engraving. “Forever, my Juliet,” it reads.

I look up at Henry and smile. “Carlton and I are in this together,” I say. “And plus, a lot of this was his idea.”

Henry shoots me a look. A real zinger. “Sure,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can use that line on other folks, but I know My Madeline.” He slaps my notebook down on his desk. “And this has her name written all over it. Christ, it’s brilliant, kiddo! Why don’t you let me set up a few meetings on my end? I know some angel investors who may step up to the plate. I mean, it probably won’t be three million dollars, but it’ll be something.”

“That’s a great backup plan, Henry. If this meeting doesn’t work out. You know, Carlton’s dad and his investors could always say no.”

“They’re not gonna say no to this,” Henry says. “By the way, who is Carlton’s old man? He must be a man of consequence if he can arrange this kind of cash.”

“Forest Connors. Heard of him?”

Henry smacks his palms on the desk. Whap!

I jump in my chair.

“Heard of him? Jeez Louise, Maddy! What do you think? I was born yesterday?”

I watch Henry as his face reddens from exertion. He’s really getting riled up.

“I can’t believe you never told me Carlton’s father was Forest Connors!”

“I didn’t think—”

“Forest Connors would steal from his own mother if it helped his bottom line,” Henry informs me, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wow, Henry. So you have no strong feelings whatsoever,” I say.

Henry is a little dramatic sometimes. And stubborn as a bull. He doesn’t like a lot of people. “I’m not a people person, Maddy,” he always says. To which I reply, “That’s odd considering you own
a p.r. firm
.” Which gets him every time.

So this doesn’t surprise me.

“What did Forest Connors ever do to you, Henry?” I ask.

Henry’s face is red and blustery now.

Uh-oh. Here comes the rant.

“Listen up, Maddy. Forest Connors was a client of mine. A long, long time ago. We were both young bucks. Bull-headed back then. I was running my own one-man show and I was happy for the business. So I gave him a great deal on my usual hourly rate. In the end, he ditched on my bill. Got some vampire lawyer involved. Calling and threatening to sue me for breach of contract and all this nonsense. Cause I was two days late with his marketing plan.

I decided it wasn’t worth the headache to fight him, Maddy. Come to find out later, he used my entire marketing plan. Word for word. Every inch of it. Didn’t pay me a dime.”

I sit back in my chair. “Wow,” I say. “I barely know Mr. Connors. I’ve only met him a few times.”

Henry pokes his finger in the air. “An old Polish proverb is ‘forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.’ I’ll never forget Forest Connors. Granted it was twenty-five years ago,” he says. “But I hear he’s still a ball buster, plain and simple.”

Henry sighs and leans back in his chair, hands behind his head like an executive. “I wouldn’t trust him with my dry cleaning, kiddo.”

“What should I do?”

“Cancel the meeting. You don’t want to get in bed with these guys, Maddy. They’re in the big leagues. And they play dirty.”

“Carlton set up the meeting. I can’t cancel it. And what about the company? You said it yourself. It’s almost impossible to get that kind of start-up money.”

Henry put his hand in the air, like a stop sign. “Don’t say it,” he said. “Don’t tell me I’m about to lose the best marketing and P.R. person I’ve ever had to Forest Connors. Look, kiddo. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay as much as this shop can afford.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. But Carlton needs me. And this company is my baby. You always told me if I had the opportunity to go in my own direction, I should take it.”

Henry sighs, puts his hands to his forehead and rubs his temples. “Well I don’t want to stop you. But beware of the Connors clan. Apples don’t fall far from the tree, my dear.”

“Oh come on, Henry. It was twenty-five years ago. Don’t you think Forest Connors has changed? I mean, everyone makes mistakes.”

He gives me a pointed look. “If you think you can teach an old dog new tricks—think again.”

“Clever,” I say.

I stand and walk toward his door. Then pivot on my heel. “I guess Polaks aren’t as dumb as they look,” I say.

Henry pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels from his drawer and pours a small shot into his coffee mug. “How do you sink a Polish navy ship?” he asks, flashing me his trademark smirk.

“Put it in water,” I reply. Because I’ve heard them all before.

Some poisons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. But cyanide. Cyanide really does the trick.

You think I would’ve learned my lesson from the brownies. I mean, really. But here I am. On a cyanide research binge. Clicking away at Web page after Web page. Cyanide this, cyanide that. I’m becoming an expert in the stuff. Here are a few fun facts about cyanide: number one, it’s deadly. Like deadlier than arsenic and strychnine and a new song by Britney Spears.

Number two, it’s been around a long time. The Russians tried to kill Rasputin in 1916 by feeding him cyanide-laced wine. In World War II, Hermann Goering, Heinrich Himmler, and Adolph Hitler were reputed to have used cyanide pills to commit suicide. Even U.S. spies were issued cyanide pills to be ingested if they were captured.

Number three, you can’t buy the “poison pill” on E-bay. Which is a shame, because I’m sure there are lots of women out there, lots of frustrated wives and girlfriends, who’d put up a highly competitive auction. Let the bidding begin, ladies.

 

I stand from my desk and shuffle into the kitchen to make a pot of breakfast tea. It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning and I’m already antsy. How will I fill my day? With cyanide Web pages?

I know I should feel liberated and free as a bird. But unfortunately, the silence, my dear friends, is deafening. I’m alone. Alone with a capital “A.” Alone in my kitchen. I grab my phone and clutch it against my chest. I swear if I don’t reach out and touch somebody, I’m going to lose it.

I dial Heather’s number.

“Pick up, pick up—” I say, hopping up and down. Doing a rain dance as the phone rings and rings. Heather always answers on the first ring so I’m worried she’s not home.

“Hey Maddy!” she chirps into the phone. She sounds out of breath. “Sorry. I was painting the second bedroom. It’s going to be the cutest little nursery when I get finished!”

“When can I see it?”

“Maybe a week,” she says. “So what’s up?”

“You’ve been studying the Talmud. What does it say about murder? Is there ever any justification?” I ask.

“No,” Heather says, flatly.

“You sure? I thought the Jews were big into the whole ‘eye for an eye’ thing.”

“Hang on a sec,” Heather says. I can hear her rummaging through a book, flipping pages. “Here. It says something right here,” she says.

“What does it say?”

“It says—Get
Over
It, Maddy.”

“Okay. I just want you to think about all the murder throughout history that was considered justified. Like Clint Eastwood in
The Unforgiven
.”

“That’s a movie,” Heather says. “Not history.”

“So you’re saying the military can bomb villages and kill hundreds of innocent women and children, but I can’t OFF one lousy ex-fiancé?”

“He wasn’t technically your fiancé, Maddy.”

Oh. So we’re back to this again. Heather, by the way, is big on technicalities.

“What was the Juliet ring? And the ‘I intend to marry you?’ What was that all about?” I ask, and my voice sounds whiney. I’m even starting to annoy myself.

“It was a promise,” Heather says. “But it didn’t work out. You can’t hold it against him for changing his mind.”

I want to tell Heather about the worst thing Carlton did to me. I want to bolster my argument. Lay out my case. But I can’t. I’m too ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Repulsed.

“Forever, my Juliet. Yeah, right,” I grumble. “Forever sure isn’t what it used to be.”

“He’s a bad seed, Maddy. But at least you found out before anything worse could happen.”

Something worse did happen
, I think.

Heather starts talking quickly now. She’s on a roll.

“Imagine if you did marry Carlton and have his children, Maddy. Then what? Then you find out he’s a schmuck, but you’re stuck with a mortgage and a bunch of rug rats.”

“Good point,” I say. I’m resigned to accepting her advice. I know it will make her feel good. As if she’s accomplished something.

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, magnanimously.

I grip the phone and stare up at the ceiling. Thinking of ways to poison Carlton without poisoning the other employees.

I look around the kitchen. At the refrigerator. The freezer.

The freezer! Carlton always kept a vodka bottle in the freezer and took a nip after work. Maybe I could start with that. Cyanide meets Grey Goose.

A-ha!

Perfecto
, I think.

“What do you know about cyanide?” I ask, swinging my toe in an arc across the tile floor.

“Oy Vay,” Heather sighs into the phone. My friend, the sorority girl from South Carolina.

“You think I can buy cyanide on the black market?” I ask. I’m really nutty this morning.

“Where is the black market?” Heather says.

“I don’t know. We could Mapquest it.”

“You could get a heat-seeking missile launcher,” Heather pipes up. “You know, since Carlton’s so hot.”

I giggle. God bless my friend Heather.

“Cyanide smells like almonds,” I say.

Heather ignores me. “Come over,” she says. “I’m making a traditional Israeli breakfast.”

“Ooh. Sounds de-lish,” I say. “I’ll be there in a jiffy. Want me to bring anything?”

“Just your appetite,” she says.

Heather loves to cook and I love to eat so, in a way, our friendship revolves a lot around food.

I jump in the shower, wash my hair for the first time in three days, and shave my legs because I don’t want Michael to say I’m “going native.”

Throwing on a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt, I hop in my car. I zip over to Starbucks and buy a pound of Kenyan roast. A gift for Heather. And a little baby Starbucks mug. It’s an eensy-beensy little toy coffee cup for kids. She’ll get a kick out of it.

 

I arrive at the Wasserstein residence. A quaint one-story “fixer upper” Michael bought when he was still in law school. The house used to be crumbling around the edges, a bachelor pad that smelled faintly of spoiled milk; but after he and Heather got married, she turned the place into a little jewel. She’s got a knack for homey stuff—potted plants, frilly curtains, tassel pillows, the whole nine yards.

I buzz through the screen door and see that Heather’s outdone herself in the kitchen. On the table are heaping plates of food. She’s got olive bread drizzled with honey, and a platter of creamy, white cheeses. I also spot a salad of cucumbers, fresh mint, and vine-ripened tomatoes. And for Michael, sausage and biscuits, of course.

Michael is sitting at the table, pounding his fork and knife down.

“Food, food,” he chants in a booming voice. “The King requires food.”

“Hey Maddy!” Heather says, rushing over to give me a hug. She smells good, my friend. Like peaches. And her face is rosy and healthy looking. Even pregnant, my girlfriend could be in a Pond’s cold cream commercial.

I notice she’s wearing a Star of David around her neck.

“That’s beautiful,” I say, peering closely at it, and turning it over in my hands.

“A gift from my adorable husband,” she says.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t need an occasion to tell my wife how darned beautiful she is,” Michael says, in his Texas twang.

I give Heather a meaningful look.

“I know, I know,” she says. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

“Hell, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world if I get to eat!” Michael booms.

“The necklace suits you,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

Heather sets a plate in front of Michael, wipes her hands against her shirt and goes, “Ta-Da! Breakfast is served.”

“It’s Tel Aviv with a dash of South Carolina mixed in!” Michael says, pouring thick white gravy over his biscuits, and licking his fingers.

Heather spoons a small dab of hummus onto a slice of bread and takes a tiny bite. The problem with my pregnant, size 2 girlfriend is she eats like a ballerina.

Meanwhile, Michael and I shovel—I mean, literally shovel—food down our throats. We clean our plates. Michael scrapes gravy and licks his fork, before Heather even sits down with her small portion of cucumbers and yogurt.

He leans back in his chair and pats his belly. “Ahh, that was real terrific, honey,” he says, in his Southern drawl.

Heather beams at him in that way that makes my stomach twist. If only I could have that, I think, as the Perfect Relationship kisses each other and smiles at me from across the breakfast table.

“So when do you officially become Jewish?” I ask Heather. “Does it happen before the baby is born?”

Heather looks at me and I can tell she’s nervous because she twists her napkin in her hand.

Michael rubs her on the back. “The conversion exam with the Rabbi is next week. She doesn’t think she’s ready,” he says.

“I’m not ready,” Heather repeats.

“Of course you’re ready,” I say, pointing to the stack of books on the kitchen counter. “Look at all these books you’ve read—
How to Become a Jew; So You Want to Convert; The Book of Jewish Customs—”

“It’s not sticking,” Heather says. She bites her lip and stares down at her empty breakfast plate. “Becoming a Jew—is so hard,” she says, in a quiet voice.

“Come on, Heather. You graduated from the University of South Carolina with flying colors,” I say. “So what’s the process? What is it? A written test?”

“Oral,” Heather says. “I have an oral exam with the Rabbi.”

Michael pipes up, “Then she’ll go through the rituals of conversion. She’ll be immersed in a Mikveh—which is the ritual bath used to purify the spirit. And she’ll be given a Hebrew name.”

Heather drops her head in her hands. “But I haven’t turned our home into a real Jewish home yet!” she says, exasperated. She stands up, suddenly, and bolts to the front door. She swings the door open with a flourish. “Look at this! We don’t even have a Jewish Bazooka outside the doorway!”

Michael shoots me a look. “Mezuzah, hon. It’s called a Mezuzah. And what’s the reason that Jews hang a Mezuzah outside the doorpost?”

He’s quizzing her. For her oral exam with the Rabbi.

Heather stands up straight. Like she’s been called on by the teacher.

“Jews hang a Bezooza to remind us of God’s presence and our duty to fulfill God’s commandments,” Heather says. I can tell she’s memorized this. “The Bezooza contains two portions of the Torah in a small, protective case.”

“Very good,” Michael says. “But remember. It’s Mezuzah. With an ‘M’, hon.”

“Mezuzah,” Heather says, twitching nervously.

“You’re going to do fine,” I say.

Heather pats her stomach. “Oops, duty calls,” she says. She shuts the door and hurries toward the bathroom. “When you’re pregnant, you’ve always gotta go,” she says, glancing at us from over her shoulder.

Michael shoos her away with his hand. “Too much information, hon,” he says.

Michael turns to me at the table.

“Women are crazy,” he says, matter-of-fact.

We push our plates away, and Michael pats his stomach. “That hit the spot.”

I take a sip of coffee, pause, put my coffee cup delicately on the table. “So tell me about this eye-for-an-eye thing? Does Jewish law allow for revenge?”

“Aw, c’mon, Maddy. Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on ol’ Carlton,” Michael says. For a moment, when he was teaching Heather, his Southern drawl disappeared. But now Mr. Texas Twang is back.

“I’m not hung up. I’m obsessed,” I say.

Michael grins. “The passage goes like this:
Life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.
It’s in Deuteronomy. And it means a punishment in which the offender suffers the exact punishment as the victim suffered. Exact retribution.”

He sits back in his chair and puts his feet up. “But don’t get your hopes up. Jewish law doesn’t justify revenge, Maddy. In fact, the Torah strictly warns against taking revenge.” He looks down his nose at me. Like a professor.


Don’t take vengeance and don’t bear a grudge against the members of your nation,
” he says. “
Love your neighbor as yourself.
That’s in Leviticus.”

“What happened to the eye-for-an-eye thing?”

“It’s outdated. Civilization has progressed so that we no longer punish rape with rape, murder with murder. And besides, Carlton didn’t kill anyone.”

“He killed my spirit,” I say, in a glum tone.

“Ah,” Michael says. “Ain’t that a bitch.”

I throw a napkin at him. And he laughs. “I’ve seen enough snakes in the courtroom to know a snake when I see one. And Carlton is a snake, Maddy. No matter how goddamned good his hair looks. But I hate to say it—”

I shoot my arm in the air. “Don’t say it.”

Heather walks back into the kitchen and crosses her arms over her chest. “We told you so,” she says. “Michael and I both told you so.”

I look at them and shake my head.

“Jews,” I say.

And they both laugh.

BOOK: This Is How It Happened
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