Your Big Break (31 page)

Craig keeps talking, but I don't hear any of it. I should be paying attention; he's probably answering some of my questions. I zone back in.

“. . . I hope you're willing to learn Flash.”

For the life of me, I can't figure out how that sentence fits into this conversation.

“I'm sorry, Craig,” I apologize. “I missed what you were saying.”

“Which part?”

All of it.
“About the Flash . . . why are you asking if I want to learn it?”

“So we can move you over to maintaining our website.”

What?
“You want me to run our website?”

“Truthfully, it's something I've been thinking about for a while. You have terrific written communication skills, Dani. That flier copy you wrote? It was excellent. And your Dear John letters are the best on staff. But you're too much of a people person. You can't separate business from personal.”

I stare down at my hands, afraid to look at him.

“So, therefore, if you're interested, I'd like you to take on the technical, behind-the-scenes duties: website design, copywriting. You'll also be in charge of queries that come in via our website. With all of the publicity we've been receiving lately, we've started getting a number of out-of-town clients. Most of them want us to break up with their partners via a letter. It's a quick twenty-five bucks. You'll draft the letters.”

I nod.

“After some time, we can reevaluate where things stand and see if you're ready to begin working directly with clients again. How does that sound?”

My relief is palpable. “It sounds very fair. Thanks, Craig.”

“I'll need you and Amanda to cross-train each other,” he exclaims. “She's ready to branch off on her own. But I want you to assist her with taking over the clients. And she'll instruct you on the technical aspects of Web design.”

“Amanda has time for all this?” I ask. “Isn't she busy with school?”

“She'll be graduating in a month.”

“Thanks.” I shake Craig's hand. “You're an incredible man. Most bosses probably would have fired me.”

“True dat,” he says, giving me a high-five. “But I'm not most bosses.”

I grin.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Craig says.

 
 
When I get home from work that night, I call my father.

“Dani, hi!” He sounds surprised to hear from me. It's been a while. Even though my mother and I have made a comfortable peace, my father and I haven't spoken much since the Fourth of July.

“I just called to ask if you know anything about repairing ceiling fans,” I say, rushing on before he can bring up marrying Gretchen or divorcing Mom or anything else unpleasant.

“I could probably figure it out. Why?”

“My stupid ceiling fan's not working, and I don't want to call a repair guy for something so tiny. But, you know, I could use the fresh air flow. . . .”

“You shouldn't have to go without a fan,” he says. “I'll stop by tomorrow.”

35

 
 
 
It's about ten o'clock the following night when Dad gets here. He brings Chinese take-out, but neither of us feels like eating. We leave the unopened cartons on my kitchen counter and go into the bedroom. He tinkers with the ceiling fan, tightening a few screws, and suddenly it works again. It takes him all of ten minutes.

It's weird having him in my apartment. Even though Cambridge is only a short drive from Boston, my parents rarely come to visit me. “I was wondering if we could talk for a minute,” Dad says. He sets down the screwdriver on the floor.

“We could do that.” I plop on the bed and stare out the window, avoiding his gaze.

“So, great news about Sean!” Dad says enthusiastically.

My brother has decided to follow Sophie's lead and go back to school. He's going to study forensic psychiatry. All that
CSI
watching finally paid off.

“He said it was all your influence. Yours, and his new girlfriend, Sophie's. Thanks for helping him with that.”

“I didn't help him with anything,” I say. “Sean makes his own decisions.”

“But you encouraged him,” Dad counters. “That means something. You two have gotten so close over these last few months. It's been wonderful to watch.”

I don't say anything.

“Now that you know everything . . . I was wondering what you think of me?” Dad asks, leaning back against the wall. “I want you to be honest.”

Honest
. Something I haven't always been good at. “Okay.”

He clears his throat. “Tell me what you felt when you first learned about Gretchen.”

I draw in a deep breath and let it out. “I was mad,” I admit. “I hated you.”

“I can understand that.” Dad comes over and sits down next to me on the bed. He pats my hand. “I never meant for you to find out the way you did,” he says. “It must have been awful.”

“It was. I went a little crazy for a while there.”

“You were having a normal response.”

“I'm not sure normal's the right word.” I pull the photo album of our trip to France off the shelf and pass it to him. “See for yourself.”

Dad takes it and begins flipping through it, surveying my handiwork. Page after page of sliced-and-diced photos appear before him. “Did you cut me out of
all
of them?” He shakes his head, looking sad. “You put a lot of work into this.”

“You were in so many pictures. . . .” My voice trails off.

“You know why that is, don't you?” He sets the album down on the bed.

“You're a camera hog.”

Dad chuckles. “Your mother hates having her picture taken.”

In my zest to massacre his image, I'd forgotten how camera-shy Mom is.

“These were all taken with
your
camera,” he continues, tapping the album. “I've got a photo album back at the house with nothing but pictures of you.”

Suddenly, I feel truly, desperately sad. I hang my head in my hands.

Dad puts an arm around my shoulder. “I did a lot of things I'm not proud of,” he says. “I—
we
—should have been honest with you from the start. Your mom and I rationalized, told ourselves we were protecting you and Sean. But, really, we were lying.”

“I've been lying to you, too, for almost a year.”

“Yes, that.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Why didn't you just tell us the truth about your job in the first place? We wouldn't have cared.”

It's a difficult question to answer. I shrug. “I was embarrassed.” I look at my hands, pick at my cuticles.

“You shouldn't have been.”

“I know. It's not just that.”
How do I say this?
“I think after Garrett left me, I sort of closed a part of myself off. I felt so inadequate, like such a failure.”

“Dani, you were never a failure! What Garrett did to you . . .” He looks angry for a second, then reels it back in. “He was a horrible human being, and he had no right to hurt you the way he did. But you have to remember: The way someone treats you says more about that person than it does about you. Only a complete and utter bastard would behave that way.”

I smile weakly. “I know. But I felt so low. And I was worried about disappointing you.” I shrug. “So I lied.”

“Dani, you've never disappointed us.
Never,
” Dad says emphatically. “The concept of Your Big Break Inc. is kind of unusual, but it's not shameful.”

I fiddle with my watch, gathering up my nerve. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

“Gretchen? Your mother and I aren't even legally separated yet.”

“But have you talked about it?”

“We have.” Dad takes a deep breath. “That's the direction I'm moving in, yes.”

I thought hearing that news would make me feel worse, but it somehow makes things better. At least there are no more surprises now. I can
let go
. Move on.

We sit there in silence for a long time. But it's not awkward—it's comfortable.

“This is better,” Dad finally says, “having everything out in the open.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agree.

Dad nods. “And the truth shall set you free.”

But I haven't told the whole truth.

There's still one person who I need to talk to.

 
 
Later that night, I phone Brady's apartment and leave him what must be the hundredth message. But, unlike before, I keep this one impersonal.

“Hi Brady, it's Danielle. I wanted to inform you that your ex-girlfriend, Erin Foster-Ellis, would like to get back together with you. She's invited you to a new play called
Mélange
. I can mail the ticket to you if you want. Let me know either way.”

He doesn't call back.

 
 
With Amanda's diligent instruction, I'm getting a handle on this website design thing. I've also thrown myself into updating Your Big Break Inc.'s filing system, getting everything logged in to the computer. Our client flow has become overwhelming. Our administrative assistant, Beverly, has been struggling to keep up.

I'm working late when Craig comes in. “I've got a message for you, Big D,” he says, popping his head into my office.

I'm sitting on the floor, going through our filing cabinet. “Can you leave it on my desk?” I ask, trying to balance the growing mountain of paperwork on my lap.

“You need to take care of this right away.”

I sigh. I pile the papers onto the floor and stand up. “All right, who's it from?” I can't imagine what could be so urgent, considering I'm no longer seeing any clients.

“Nuh-uh, I promised I'd keep this on the down-low.”

“Excuse me?” I smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt.

“Just go.”

“Go where?” I ask.

Craig chuckles. “Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. You've got a six-o'clock appointment at two hundred Boylston Street.”

“Two hundred Boylston? Isn't that the—”

“The Four Seasons.”

“What am I supposed to do at the Four Seasons?” I ask.

“You'll be having dinner at the hotel's restaurant, Aujourd'hui.”

I stare at him, utterly confused.

“You've got a reservation, so you'd better hurry.”

I don't budge an inch. There's only one Your Big Break Inc. client who would arrange something so extravagant as dinner at a pricey French restaurant.

Evan Hirschbaum.

36

Personally Involved

It's strange; I've walked past the Four Seasons dozens of times, but I've never once ventured inside. The lobby is grand, as fancy and lavish as you might expect: chandeliers and marble floors, waitstaff decked out in flawlessly pressed suits. I take a deep breath and try to keep my composure. It's easy to get intimidated in a place like this.

“Excuse me?” I ask the hostess. “I'm Dani Myers. I'm here to meet—”

She nods. “This way, please.”

I follow the hostess through a sea of elegantly outfitted diners. As we make our way to the corner of the restaurant, I catch sight of Brady, sitting at a table by himself. I stop in my tracks, nearly toppling over a waiter who is carrying a tray of desserts.

What is Brady doing here?
My heart starts racing. He's wearing a jacket and tie and looks, unmistakably, like a high-priced attorney.
Is Erin on her way to meet him? Are they already back together?

I regain control of my legs and continue walking forward, looking for Evan.

The hostess stops at Brady's table.

“I hope you didn't mind coming here,” Brady says, smiling. “I thought the Four Seasons, the scene of the infamous Magnus run-in, was fitting.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the window. “Plus, we've got this beautiful view of the Public Garden.”

Stunned, I sit down.

Brady orders us champagne cocktails. He's acting friendly. It's as though our falling out never happened. Our champagne cocktails arrive.

“I haven't gone overboard, have I?” Brady asks, looking concerned. “I feel so bad about everything—the unreturned messages, the trip out of town. I wanted to make it up to you.”

I take a sip of champagne. “So you really did go out of town?” I ask.

He nods. “I thought everything was settled with my father's will, but a few complications arose. I had to fly back to Scottsdale to take care of them.” He lowers his gaze. “I
was
avoiding you, though.” A waiter comes over and sets down a lobster appetizer. “Erin made up a ridiculous lie. She said you'd been conspiring to break us up all along.” He sips his champagne.

I start to reply, but he stops me.

“She really thought I would believe her no matter what she said, and that I'd wind up hating you. She wanted to embarrass you. She didn't count on me learning the truth.”

“The truth?”

“I learned the truth, learned that you weren't messing with me or playing a joke.”

I think for a minute. “How did you find out?”

“Craig McAllister told me.”

I blink in surprise. “
Craig
told you?”