Turnabout's Fair Play (41 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, because as far as I know, we’ve never had a fight.” He got out and went around to open her door and offer her his hand in assistance. She popped out of the car as if she’d gotten a full night of sleep last night and a nap this afternoon—instead of only about four hours total.

“Um…let’s see. The thing with the shoes Tuesday night before we went to Chae and Danny’s.”

Jamie puckered his lips and made a raspberry sound. He tucked Flannery’s hand in the crook of his elbow and escorted her toward the front of the gallery building. “That wasn’t a fight. That was a discussion. Princess, you’ll know when we have a fight. But I don’t see that happening.”

“If you call me
princess
in public, it will.” She squeezed his arm, but a smile accompanied the threat.

“Yes, my lady.” He flourished his hand in front of him.

She laughed. And he relaxed and forgot about the itchy collar and tight tie and constricting suit coat.

Once they entered the gallery, Jamie immediately flashed back to social gatherings with clients and sponsors. He ran his finger under his collar, reminding himself he wasn’t here to sell anything or try to impress anyone tonight—except for impressing Flannery’s friends.

“Sorry the directions were confusing.” Caylor came forward, a glass of what looked like fruit tea in each hand. Flannery took one, and Caylor handed the other to Jamie. Wearing a purple dress made out of some kind of sparkly fabric that set off her red hair and blue-green eyes to perfection, Caylor drew more attention than the artwork—at least from many of the men milling around the room. Jamie recognized several people, owners of large companies and corporations in the area. If Dylan drew this kind of clientele, he must be making pretty good money with his art.

Even though Jamie’d seen him in a tuxedo not that long ago, Dylan seemed quite out of his element dressed in an expensive, well-tailored suit as he hobnobbed with guests.

“He hates this part of getting a showing.” Caylor sighed. “But he’s so concerned about having gone without full-time income for so long that he’s willing to do just about anything for the prospect of earning a little money. Even put on his suit.”

“He’s just not a suit-and-tie kind of guy.” Flannery sipped her tea. “Besides, most artists—and I include writers in that—are introverts. If half of my authors could do as well as he’s doing right now with walking around and talking to people at book signings, those events would be four times as successful.”

Jamie left Flannery and Caylor to talk about one of their favorite subjects—the publishing and book world—and wandered around to look at Dylan’s art. He’d been forced to take an art appreciation class in college for his fine arts credit, but he didn’t really remember much. If all of it had looked like Dylan’s art, he might have paid more attention. Each piece told a story, complete with characters and background and mood. Castles and medieval costumes seemed to be a theme in his paintings, though there were some with different imagery of interior spaces or more obviously American architecture—like three paintings featuring his requisite cast of characters in a tableau in front of Old South plantation houses.

“He’s quite the talent, isn’t he?”

The hairs on the back of Jamie’s neck tingled at the husky female voice. And this was the other thing he hadn’t missed in the two months since he’d gotten laid off. “Yes, he’s quite good.” He turned and acknowledged the woman—probably in her fifties, but well preserved, most likely through plastic surgery.

“Are you an art connoisseur, Mr…?”

“O’Connor. And no, not really. I’m a f–friend of the artist.” His unease increased when the woman moved close enough that her arm touched his. The cloying sweetness of her perfume ran circles in his sinuses and made him dizzy.

“I like friends of artists.” She pulled a card out of her purse. “I’m Mandelisa. Call me sometime, and we can talk about what it’s like to be friends of artists.” She ran a taloned finger along his jaw and then turned and moved on.

He needed another shower.

“I see you met my wife.”

Jamie almost dropped his glass at the familiar voice from behind him. He spun and found himself face-to-face with the last person in the world he’d ever wanted to see again. “Mr. Gregg.”

“Oh, please, it’s Armando. I never made you call me Mr. Gregg when you worked for me.” He shook Jamie’s hand vigorously.

Had Armando always come across as this fake? Jamie used to think him one of the most genuine people he’d ever met.

“How are things, Jamie? Where are you working these days?” Armando sipped what smelled like hard liquor.

“I’m working as a freelance publicist and marketing specialist for Lindsley House Publishing.” Jamie flagged a server and divested himself of his glass before he dropped it…or worse.

Armando downed the rest of his drink and set his glass on the tray then waved the server away. “Freelance, huh? I’m surprised. Any marketing firm or ad agency in town would be lucky to have you.”

“Except yours.” The words popped out before Jamie could filter them.

Armando inclined his head. “Touché. But that’s why I’m glad I ran into you tonight. You see, I’ve been meaning to call you this week.” Armando ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Once we got everything settled and I was able to assess the skills of those who replaced everyone I had to lay off, I realized that some of them were nowhere near as talented as those I let go. The other partners have agreed we need at least two sports marketing reps here in Nashville. I offered one of the positions to Mitch, but he’s already accepted a job at a firm in Milwaukee. One of the two positions is yours, and then you can bring on anyone from your former team you want to work with you.”

Jamie’s pulse throbbed against his tight collar. He could get the old team back together. Make sure everyone had jobs—and the numbers would work, since Ainslee had just accepted a coaching job in Chattanooga. “What about graphic designers?”

Armando shook his head. “Just two account executives. You’d have to share the administrative assistant and graphic designers from the Major Accounts Department.”

“Then I know exactly who the two people you need to hire are. Darrell Keesey and Wade Vaughn. They’re the best sports marketing guys you’re going to find in Nashville.” The graphic designers had probably already found other jobs, anyway.

Armando rested his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “No, you’re the best sports marketing guy in Nashville. This offer is for you. I’ll be setting up a nationwide recruitment plan if you turn it down.”

“Jamie?”

He turned, dislodging Armando’s hand from his shoulder. Flannery’s brow knit with questions that reflected in her eyes. He slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “Flannery, I’d like you to meet Armando Gregg. Armando, this is my girlfriend, Flannery.”

Recognition of the name flickered in Flannery’s face. She shook hands with the smarmy, insincere snake.

“Mr. Gregg just offered me my job back.”

Flannery showed no external reaction other than a slight catch in her breath. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. And you arrived just in time to hear me give my answer.” He looked at Armando again. “Thank you for the offer, Armando. But my answer is no. I’m going back to school in September to become a nurse, so I’ll be completely leaving the world of marketing, book publishing or otherwise, in another few years.”

Armando threw back his head and laughed. “A nurse? You? Come on.”

Jamie kept his cool—but it had been a really good idea to get rid of that glass of tea. “Yes. A nurse. Just like my grandmother and my best friend.”

Realizing Jamie wasn’t joking, Armando’s mirth ceased abruptly. “And to think that when I realized you were getting ready to try to steal business from us your last week on the job, I believed you were the kind of guy I could groom into being my junior executive when I take over the corporation.” He snorted. “What a waste.”

He started to walk away.

“Oh, Armando?” Jamie pulled away from Flannery and closed the gap between him and the man he wanted to be absolutely nothing like.

“What?”

He held a card out toward him. “You can give this back to your wife. Tell her I
won’t
be calling her to talk about being friends with artists or any other kind of friends.” Without waiting for a response, Jamie returned to Flannery, kissed her, and then took her by the hand and led her to the back of the gallery, where Bobby and Zarah stood with Dylan’s grandparents and Caylor’s grandmother.

He sent up a quick prayer of gratitude for God intervening and getting him out of that business before he did end up like Armando Gregg.

They spent the rest of the evening at the event—Jamie turning into a front man for Dylan once he learned enough about the paintings and Dylan to answer questions with confidence. Not that anyone asked him to do it. He just couldn’t help it.

After the last client left, the gallery owner asked Jamie how much he would charge to come in and do that at all their show openings—he’d booked more sales in one night than he usually did in an entire showing.

Before he thought better of it, Jamie gave him a business card—one he’d had made with his personal contact information—and invited him to call so they could talk about it.

“Y’all hungry?” Dylan handed his coat and tie to Caylor, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled it off, leaving only his white T-shirt. Under the sleeve, the bottom of an elaborate, full-shoulder tattoo showed, and another—three faces with some writing below them—decorated the inside of his other arm near the elbow. Jamie had thought of getting a tattoo before. Maybe he should have Dylan design one for him.

“Starving.” Bobby worked his tie loose.

“It’s late—there won’t be much open.” Caylor handed Dylan’s clothes back to him, then used his shoulder for stability as she put her high-heeled, strappy sandals back on.

“I know I’m the new guy, but this is one of those discussions that could go on all night.” Jamie’s stomach growled loudly, and he joined in the laughter. “So let’s just all meet over at the Waffle House on 96 near the interstate.” Jamie raised his brows and pressed his lips together, hoping he hadn’t just overstepped his bounds with this group.

“Perfect. I’ve been craving some greasy-spoon recently.” Bobby wrapped his arms around Zarah from behind. “Because someone insists on making us eat healthy stuff most of the time.”

“Hey…you’re the one who was complaining about gaining weight with all the eating out we were doing before the wedding. I’m just trying to help you meet your goal.” Zarah tilted her head to look up at her husband.

“Thanks, dear.” He kissed her forehead and released her.

Jamie took Flannery’s hand in his. “Shall we?”

She covered her yawn and nodded her head. “Yes. Take me to coffee.”

In the privacy of the car, Flannery let out a jaw-popping yawn.

“Better?”

“Am now. What was that about—back with Armando Gregg?”

Jamie told her everything Armando—and his wife—said to him. “What an arrogant, condescending jerk.”

“Gee…where have I heard those words before? Oh yeah, I said them about someone in this very car.” She reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I was never
that
bad.”

“Maybe not as bad as he was tonight…but, sweetie, you were headed that direction. If God hadn’t intervened …”

He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Believe me, I will say a prayer of gratitude every day that He got me out of a world that wasn’t good for me, drew me closer to Him, and showed me what He really wanted me doing.”

“Just like I’ll thank Him every day that through that process you became the man you were always meant to be—humble and caring and considerate.” She returned the favor and kissed the back of his hand.

“Careful, now, or you might start inflating that ego again.”

“Oh, don’t worry—I carry a concealed ego meter. I’ll know when it’s about to pop, and I’ll deflate it back down to a manageable size.”

They were the first to arrive at the restaurant and grabbed the big round table in the corner, sliding into the middle.

Zarah and Bobby arrived, then Caylor and Dylan—who’d managed to change into jeans and sneakers between the gallery and restaurant.

“Wouldn’t you know he’s the only one who thought of bringing a change of clothes?” Caylor rolled her eyes and slid into the booth next to Jamie. “At least Flan was smart and wore comfortable shoes.”

“These are my go-to pair for conferences and trade shows—I know I can stand in them for hours on concrete floors and not end up throwing my back out of whack.”

“Hey, guys, while you’re both here—I want to invite you both over to my grandparents’ house Friday night. I’m not going to have a real bachelor party, but my brothers and I are into some pretty cutthroat video-gaming, and I thought maybe you two might like to come over and join us for pizza and hang out with us for a while.”

“You know I’m there.” Bobby reached his fist across the table, and Dylan bumped it.

Jamie did the same. “I’m there, too. Just tell me when and where.”

Three months ago, he’d wondered why Bobby Patterson had asked him, someone he barely knew except through casual acquaintance and because their grandmothers were close friends, to be an usher at his wedding. Now, with Flannery at his side and surrounded by these new friends, he still didn’t know why—except to rejoice that God knew what He was doing all along.

Chapter 29