Vanity Fare (8 page)

A Raisin in the Bun

It’s the quintessential American conundrum: what to do when unexpected riches arise. Here, super-succulent whiskey-soaked raisins are embedded within the framework of a traditional sticky bun, a gastronomic largesse that surprises and delights. Cinnamon, brown sugar, honey, pecans, and butter. And raisins. Amazing.

8

WHAT WAS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE THING I’D EVER DONE
, anyway? It was hard to think of anything. Did that make me a good person, or just unbelievably boring?

I sorta thought it might be the latter. But this was my moment, right? I mean, if not now, when? I wouldn’t do anything dangerous, nothing that would risk my self-esteem—the amount I’d managed to build back up since Hugh left. That meant getting crazy-drunk and tearing down the street naked wasn’t an option. Not that it sounded appealing anyway—I was likely to be cold and worry what parts were jiggling too much.

But inappropriate could be exploring things I’d been too scared of, not to mention too
married,
to do before. Maybe I could—and should—flirt back with Simon. I mean, it wasn’t like he was permanent material or anything; even I could tell his suave persona was just one aspect of his general arrogance.

Of course, if I had his looks and his baking ability, I’d be pretty damned arrogant, too.

But I could, perhaps, bask in that arrogance, have fun with it. With him. It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.

I was wrapping my head around possible other inappropriate measures when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Molly. It’s John.”

“John, what the hell is going on? What happened to Natalie?”

There was a brief pause, and I thought I heard him exhale. “Just what I wanted to talk to you about. Can you come in today?”

I checked my watch. “Just barely. I’m not likely to meet anyone there, am I? I don’t have time to change.”

He chuckled. “No, just me. As long as you’re not wearing pajamas, you should be okay.”

Good thing I’d changed. “See you in forty-five minutes.”

I grabbed my purse and threw
Wuthering Heights
into a side pocket. That, I knew, at least had a romance, albeit a twisted one.

The subway came blessedly quickly, and within moments I was engrossed in Emily Brontë’s obsessively bleak story. Dr. Lowell would have a field day with her.

“Hey, John.” I poked my head into his office. He was on the phone but gestured for me to come in. I sat in the chair Simon had been in before. It gave me a prepubescent kind of thrill to park my ass in the same spot his had occupied. That was inappropriate, for sure.

“Right. Wednesday morning. We’ll be there. I’ll make sure Molly is free.”

He looked at me and nodded, as if to confirm the appointment. I nodded back.

“Okay. See you then. Bye.”

He hung up the phone, then rose and walked to the front of the desk, perching on it with one ultracasual leg swinging back and forth. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Molly.”

I laughed. Probably more ruefully than I liked. “It’s not like I had a lot of other things to do. I’m all done sticking pins in my Hugh voodoo doll.”

John gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Right. Well. You’ve spoken to Simon? And Nick?”

“Yes, both of them. What happened?”

He waved his hand. “Something between Natalie and Simon. The good news is, he’s agreed to keep his account here.”

I knew that already, I wanted to say, but I wasn’t sure how John would feel about me meeting Simon off the clock, so to speak. “And Natalie?” I had to ask. I wanted to know what happened, just in case she reappeared in all her Prada glory.

He cleared his throat. “She’s setting up her own firm. It’ll probably take her a month or so to get going, and Simon just didn’t have the time to wait—not that he wanted to wait for her anyway.”

“Were they an item or something?” I knew they were, Natalie had said as much, I just wanted John’s confirmation. Why, I couldn’t answer.

“Mm. Which never mixes,” he said, almost dashing my hopes of boinking my new boss. Almost.

“Men always leave, don’t they?” I asked John with a wry grin. Hey, I
was
recovering if I could joke about it. Wait’ll I tell Dr. Lowell!

“I never thought you and Hugh were a good couple, actually. I always thought you were too good for him. Too smart. And I was right.”

I had a hard time meeting his eyes. Compliments always threw me, made me feel as though I was undeserving, or afraid. “Thanks for the nice words, and all, but remember, he left me. It’s not like he up and left because he suddenly realized he was stupider than I was.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’ve met Sylvia, his . . . well, you know”—he gave a helpless gesture—“and she can’t hold a candle to you.”

Part of my brain wanted to pump him for information about her: Was she nice? Was she funny? What kind of shoes did she wear?

And part of me wanted to clasp my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear anything about her.

And the other part of me—how many parts did that make, anyway?—wanted to ask John why he was telling me this in the first place.

All my parts united to keep my mouth shut. “Thank you,” I said, folding my hands and placing them in my lap.
Could we please make that the end of the discussion?

“Anyway,” he said, hoisting himself off the desk and sitting in the chair next to mine, “I was just on the phone with Simon, and he wanted to make sure we were ready to go for next Wednesday. Do you think you’ll have a presentation by then?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve come up with the most am—”

He held up his hand. “Save it for Wednesday. That’s not why I asked you to come in today. I’ve got some more work for you, if you’re interested.”

“Sure.” All thoughts of Simon, and Natalie, and Hugh, and his Better Model vanished from my head. This was
money
. “That’s great. More copywriting, or copyediting?”

He leaned forward and picked up a stack of rubber band– bound papers on his desk. “Copyediting. It’s a new client, and I wanted to turn this around quickly, and my usual guy is up to his eyeballs in work, so—”

I reached for the papers.

He kept talking. “And, this might sound weird, and all, but I really need a date for Friday night.”

“I don’t think I know anyone, John.”

He did one of those eye rolls I’d seen far too much of from Aidan. “Not a friend, Molly, you. I want to take you. I know you can’t tell me now, until you’ve got babysitting lined up, but there’s this cocktail party for Yale business school alums, and I really need someone to go with me.”

My face must have registered my confusion. He exhaled in an exasperated sigh. “It’s not a date, Molly. We’re going as friends, okay? I just would really like to have someone there I’m comfortable with.”

I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. That would have really been inappropriate, and not in a good way. Being friends with the opposite sex did have its potential pitfalls. “Okay, I’ll give you a call later today. Sound good?”

“Great,” he replied, sliding the papers into my hand. “Thanks for doing this. It pays the usual rate. And if you could turn it around by Monday morning, that’d be even greater.”

I could see why
he
wasn’t doing the copywriting.
Great and greater
.

“You’re going out . . . with John?”
Lissa’s tone was, if possible, even more disbelieving than Keisha’s had been. She stared at me over Aidan’s head as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Man, he had fallen hard.

“Um, yeah.” I was modeling my outfit for her, a sleek black cocktail dress that miraculously looked like it was still in fashion. “It’s not a real date,” I said, parroting his earlier words. “He said he wanted someone there he felt okay with. It’s kinda sweet, actually.”

“Yale business school? That sounds fancy.”

I shrugged, poking one of my dress-up earrings through the hole in my ear. “I’m guessing it’ll be people my age sitting around drinking white wine spritzers and talking about their 401(k)s.” I looked up and grinned at Lissa. “I should fit right in.”

“You will.” Her tone was reassuring. “Just walk in wearing that dress and open your mouth to drop one of those fancy words you use. Maybe mention an obscure eighteenth-century novel or something. Just don’t talk about romance novels, Pokémon, or how”—her voice dropped into a whisper—“husbands suck.”

Aidan raised his head at the mention of Pokémon. She smiled and tapped him on the nose.

“Got it. By the way, are you liking
Ethan Frome
?”

“I’m loving it,” she exclaimed, sounding surprised. “It’s such a great story, and I almost missed my stop the other day ’cause I was just where it seemed like he might say something . . . but he didn’t.” Her face fell.

“Get used to that feeling. Literary fiction has a lot of those near-miss moments.”

“What time will you be back?” she asked, helping me to adjust my coat just so.

“Not too late. Bye, honey.” I waved at Aidan, who immediately went and latched onto Lissa’s leg.

“Lissa, what are Captain America’s superpowers?” I heard him ask as I locked the front door.

It was already crowded
by the time we got there. A sea of blond hair bobbed and floated through the genteel cacophony. Most of the other women had opted for wearing black also, although I spied a few brave floral souls brightening the crowd.

The room was decorated in a pre–Valentine’s Day theme, red velvet hearts hanging from the ceiling, darker red velvet curtains swagged back from the windows. There was a three-piece orchestra playing in the far corner of the room, their music a delicately rich undertone to the general hubbub of conversation. The decoration underscored what the perfectly coiffed blondes and well-tailored suits were already making crystal clear: This place was meant for people who had money, who were comfortable with money, and who planned to make a lot more of it in the future.

In other words, not meant for the likes of me. I envied them as much as I had ever envied anyone, even Mary Cobb in the fifth grade, who got breasts a lot earlier than the rest of us girls.

John placed his hand at the small of my back and began to steer me through the crowd toward the bar. I was glad he was there to help me navigate the Room of Intimidation.

As we reached the bar, John removed his hand and came to stand beside me. “A Manhattan, please, and the lady would like . . . ?”

“A white wine spritzer.”

“Hey, buddy!” A masculine voice boomed over the crowd. John whipped his head around so fast I had to swivel my neck so he didn’t hit me.

“Mikey!” John shouted, lifting his glass in a mock toast. The man barreled through the crowd to reach us, a huge grin on his already wide face. He was tall, too, taller than almost every blond head in there. And, of course, he was blond. I noticed he was wearing a double-breasted David Letterman suit with an exceedingly ugly tie. He looked loaded with largesse, both physical and financial.

John gestured to me. “Molly, I’d like you to meet Michael, my partner-in-crime for most of business school.”

The man stuck out his large hand and enfolded mine within. “Nice to meet you, Molly. John, haven’t seen you since Vegas.” He winked broadly.

John turned a little pink. “Yeah, Vegas.”

The man gave a knowing grin. “C’mon, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m sure your friend here”—he emphasized the word
friend
with a knowing leer—“knows what you’re capable of.”

There was an awkward silence as I pondered what John might have been up to in Vegas, and Michael kept watching my expression. What, did he think I was going to demand John tell me right there? No wonder John wanted a friend if this was the type of conversation he could expect to have.

Michael seemed to figure out he wasn’t going to get a rise out of me, so he took another attack, planting his elbow on the bar next to me. “So how’s business, John?” There was an under-current of aggression in Michael’s tone. Ah, the ego of the MBA.

“Fine. Great, actually. We just signed a deal with a Fortune 500 company to do all their marketing and promotion.”

“Very impressive.”

“And you? Still working for your father?”

The man squirmed a little bit. He pushed his arms forward and twitched his shirtsleeves back a little so his watch was showing. It practically reeked of a five-figure price tag.

“Yes, well, the old man’s not doing as well as he had been—”

“Sorry to hear that.” John took a long pull on his drink.

“And I’ve been taking on some of his responsibilities—”

“Good for you, helping your father out like that.” I noticed every time John said “your father” he imbued it with a sharp edge. His face bore a somewhat aloof expression, also, which made me wonder, since it was so unlike John’s normal openness. Plus I’d never even heard of this Michael guy before.

“Yes, well, the company’s doing about thirty million annual sales,” Michael finished, gulping the dark brown liquid in his glass as if it were water.

John did the same, upending the glass until it was empty. “Pretty good.”

God, I felt as if I were in some financial western: “Draw your accounts receivable, pardner.” Or maybe a Dirty Harry movie: “So, do you feel wealthy, punk? Huh, do you?”

“Another drink, Molly?” Michael asked, taking my empty glass from me and setting it on the bar.

“Uh, no thanks. Maybe in a little bit.” I spied a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and tried to make some “I’m peckish” eye contact with him. He made a beeline for me, probably because my dark brown hair made a good target in the sea of blond.

“What are these?” I asked, pointing at a little dumpling thing.

“Portobello mushroom, crab, and brie pot stickers.” He held the tray aloft just under my nose, which caught and savored the aroma of rich, aged cheese.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, grabbing one and popping it in my mouth. It was almost too big to fit, and I felt my cheeks bulge out.

And then I saw him. And her.

Which meant, basically,
them
.

Just as my mouth was stuffed with snooty mushrooms and runny cheese.

This was not how I had pictured our first meeting.

“Molly?” Hugh walked toward me, a surprised expression on his face. She, because it had to be
her,
walked slightly behind him. I held his eyes for just a beat longer than I really wanted to, mostly because I didn’t want to have to look at her.