Your Big Break (7 page)

“I'm sorry, Craig, I totally dropped the ball.”

Craig sighs. “Actually, that's not my concern. I looked through your computer files and, well, I'm just gonna come right out and ask. Dani, did you promise Jason Dutwiler you'd find him a date for his sister's wedding?”

I take a swig of Scotch, trying to stall. “Kind of. I promised I'd try to convince his ex-girlfriend to go with him.”

He draws in a deep breath. “I was afraid of that. Dani, have you forgotten about rule number five?” He pauses and then recites it: “Do
not
get personally involved. This is the cardinal rule and must be followed above all others!”

“I know better than to get personally involved,” I mumble.

“And yet that is exactly what you've done with Jason Dutwiler!”

“It's no big deal. I can handle it.”

“There shouldn't be anything
to
handle! You dumped the guy; that ought to be the end of it. We're not running a matchmaking service, for God's sake!”

“I'm not matchmaking,” I assure him. “I'm just helping out with the healing process.”

“The healing process!” Craig explodes. “You're not a guru, Dani.”

“I know that,” I say, defensively.

“Apparently, you do not. First, you tried to reunite that couple from Jamaica Plain—”

“And that worked,” I jump in. “Last I heard, they were engaged.”

He ignores this. “Then you gave that computer science student from Tufts a makeover—on company time, I might add.”

“Craig, the guy had a ten-inch ponytail! That wasn't a makeover; it was an intervention. If you'd seen him, you'd understand why I took him for a haircut—”

“And to Banana Republic for clothes. Don't forget that part.”

“He'd just been dumped by his Internet girlfriend! He needed a confidence booster. There's nothing in the rules about taking a client out for a haircut and makeover.”

Craig continues, “And last month, you went to end one of Mr. Hirschbaum's relationships, and five hours later, you came back raving about the latest Keanu Reeves film!”

“Okay, well, see, that . . .” I struggle to think of a way to explain it. My head is starting to spin from the alcohol. Krista slowly scoots my half-finished Scotch across the table, replacing it with a water. I yank it back.

“Dani, if you keep this up,” Craig is saying, “I'm going to have no choice but to—”

“But to what?” I demand. “Fire me?” I'm usually not this bold; it's the Scotch talking.

“No.” His tone softens. “Nothing that drastic. But suffice it to say, I'm going to be keeping a close eye on you. And you're going to have to learn to abide by my rules. They're not here to torture you; they're here to make the business run smoothly. Understand?”

“Yeah, I get it.” I roll my eyes at Krista. I know I have no right to get snippy with Craig, but I can't help myself.

I think I'm about to get off easy, but then he adds, “Now, you wanna tell me the real reason why you left in the middle of a client consultation?”

My mood crashes as thoughts of my father come flooding back. My lower lip starts quivering, and I feel as though I'm on the verge of tears again. “Craig, my life is so messed up right now. You have no idea.”

“
Give
me an idea, then.”

“It's my father.”

Craig gasps. “Is he sick? Dying?”

Well,
I think wryly,
he's dead to me.
“No, he's alive and well. But the situation's personal.”

“Are you coming back to the office today or not?”

I glance at my watch. It's almost 4 p.m., and I'm in no state to work.

“Can I take a half day or something?” I beg. “I'll stay late tomorrow, I promise.”

He pauses for a moment. “Oh, all right,” he says, giving in.

“Thanks, Craig.”

“If that Dutwiler dude calls again, I'll tell him you had to leave early,” he says briskly. “But I want you to straighten out this mess first thing tomorrow.”

“Sure, Craig. No problem.”

We quickly say our good-byes and hang up.

“You get away with murder at that place,” Krista says. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “So, do you . . . do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I just keep going over it in my mind, trying to understand. No matter how hard I think about it, it doesn't seem real.”

“It's pretty shocking,” she agrees.

“How could my father
do
this?” I ask in disbelief. “Yesterday, we were great friends; now I feel like I don't even know him anymore.”

“Are you going to confront him?”

“I have to.” Hands shaking, I pick up my cell phone and start punching in his work number.

“You're going to do it
now
?” Krista exclaims, stopping me mid-dial.

“It's now or never!” I say, a little louder than I intended.

“Maybe you should take a few days to, uh, sober up. You know, figure out what you want to say. And besides, don't you want to do this in person?”

“I don't
want
to do this at all.”

Krista smiles sympathetically. “I know you don't, sweetie. And I'm here for you, whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” I swallow hard, struggling to keep my composure. As long as I can keep it together, everything will be fine.

“Maybe you shouldn't deal with this yourself,” Krista suggests. “It might be better if your mom confronts him.” She stops, thinking it over. “Yeah, you should probably go to your family first.”

My family.
I think of my mother and brother and how devastated they're going to be and the bottom drops out from under me. The nervous breakdown I've fought off suddenly hits and I can't move or speak. I feel paralyzed, rooted to my chair.

“Dani?” Krista says, and her voice sounds very far off.

I cradle the cell phone in my hands and burst into tears.

7

GirlS' Night In

I wake up the next morning feeling a thousand times better.

I've realized something: Gretchen is a liar.

It's so glaring, so obvious that I can't believe I didn't see it immediately. So what if she
claims
to be sleeping with a financial analyst named Paul Myers? That doesn't make it a
fact.
What proof do I have, other than her word? So she knows my father's name and where he works.
Big deal.
His bio is in the Merriwether Payne information booklet that the company gives out to potential investors. It's also posted on their website. She's obviously a stalker or something.

I'm in such a good mood, I go into the office early. The first order of business is Jason Dutwiler. I try his house and don't find him there, so I leave a message. I'm about to phone his ex-girlfriend, Lucy, when Craig comes bustling in.

“Word up, Dani!” he calls out, sailing into my office.

“I think you mean ‘what's up?'”

“Close enough. It's good to see you're up and running.”

“Good to see you, too,” I say brightly. Even my throbbing headache—the result of yesterday's Glenlivet indulgence—can't drag me down.

“I booked you an appointment for tomorrow afternoon,” he informs me. “Erin Foster-somebody-or-other.” He digs into his briefcase and pulls out a memo. “Meant to leave this on your desk,” he says, passing it to me.

I look down at his scratchy handwriting.

 
“Beacon Hill. Impressive.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Craig gives me a sly smile. “Hit her up for our most expensive package. Make sure she feels nice and guilty so she'll send this poor dude some expensive ‘parting gifts.'”

“I'll do my best,” I promise. Sometimes I wonder how I make it in this business. As soon as Craig leaves, I get back to work. I'm in the middle of checking my e-mail when the phone rings. I don't recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi Dani, Evan Hirschbaum here.”

“Hi, Evan,” I say. “You got another job for us?”

“No, I'm calling about Sophie Kennison—the job you've yet to finish.”

“As soon as she comes back from Connecticut, I'll pay her a visit,” I say. “She won't bother you again.”

“She's been bothering me for the last week,” he gripes.

“I thought she was out of town,” I say nervously. I hope I haven't gotten the dates screwed up.

“She is. But she's been e-mailing me every hour on the hour since she left!”

“‘Dear Evan, Why don't you love me anymore?'” he begins reading in a singsong voice. “‘Tell me what I've done to drive you away. Am I too fat? I'll lose weight. Bad in bed? I can be kinky, try anything you want . . . '”

“‘Am I boring? Not smart enough? I can read the same books you do. I'll learn to cook your favorite foods, cheer on your favorite sports teams . . . '” He reverts to his normal voice. “It goes on for two pages. And I've got another twenty just like this one!”

“Forward them to me,” I instruct him. “I want a copy for our records.”

“Screw your records!” he shouts down the phone. “Just get her to stop.”

“I'll speak with Sophie ASAP. Do you have her parents' phone number in Connecticut?” I ask, picking up a pen and preparing to write. “If not, I'll call her cell.”

“No, I don't have the number,” he barks. “Why would I?”

“Right, I understand.” I'm starting to get worried. Evan is our most important client, and I am screwing everything up.

“This Sophie situation is out of control,” he continues. “Up to this point, I've been ignoring her. But if she writes me again, I'm going to tell her to fuck off. Now, I'm going to Chicago for a few days, but by the time I get back, I hope you'll have this mess sorted out.”

“Absolutely, sir. And don't worry about Sophie. I'll straighten her out. Count on it.”

Evan chuckles. “Again with the ‘sir' business. You're making me feel old.”

He clicks off the line before I have time to respond. I'm flustered, but I feel relieved that he didn't fire me—or ask me out to lunch again.

I pull up Blackbaud on my computer and locate Sophie's cell number. I dial it, hoping she'll answer, but instead I get voicemail. I leave a brief message: “Hi, Sophie! This is Danielle from Your Big Break Inc. I understand you've been e-mailing Evan Hirschbaum, and I'm going to have to ask you to stop. I realize you're feeling upset and a bit lonely, but, unfortunately, you're going to have to let Evan go. He isn't interested in pursuing a relationship with you. I hope you're doing well. Let's meet for coffee when you get back in Boston.”

For the life of me, I hope that tides her over.

 
 
The Gretchen-as-stalker theory takes me through the first part of the morning, but by mid-afternoon, I'm starting to get worried again. What if I dismissed the whole thing too easily? What if—
what if
—Gretchen is actually telling the truth? I'm ninety-nine percent sure she's a pathological liar, but there's that little one percent of me that's still questioning it.

Actually, it's more like five percent.

I start by calling Dad's office. His assistant, Lorne, picks up.

“Hey, Lorne, this is Dani. Is my dad around?”

“Hang on, let me check.”

He puts me on hold. I listen to elevator music and contemplate what I'll say when Dad picks up. Maybe I should just come clean about why I'm calling. Of course, I'll have to confess that I don't really work on websites for a living. Knowing Dad, he won't be too upset, just bewildered. And when I inform him about psycho-stalker Gretchen, he'll be worried, or quite possibly confused. But he'll get to the bottom of the situation and he'll fix it, the way he always fixed things when I was young. Whenever I had a problem—whether it was a loose tooth or a rickety bike wheel or a sadistic algebra teacher—Dad always knew how to solve it. All I had to do was talk to him, tell him what was bothering me. Then he'd work his magic and everything would be normal and happy and safe.

“Nope, he's not back yet,” Lorne says.

“Back from where?” I ask, twirling the phone cord around my fingers.

“He had a breakfast meeting today.”

“
Breakfast
meeting!” I burst out.
“It's one o'clock in the afternoon!”

“I guess it ran long.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Hmm . . . let me check.” I'm back on hold again. “The meeting started at 10 a.m.”

“Do breakfast meetings typically last three hours, Lorne?”

“Not typically. It might have turned into lunch.”

The part of me that doubts Dad has jumped from five percent to fifty in one fell swoop. “Do you have a number where I can reach him?”

“Just his cell. He didn't leave the name of the restaurant.”

“Thanks, Lorne.”

“You want me to have him call you?”

“No, don't worry about it.” I hang up and quickly dial Dad's cell phone. It goes straight through to voicemail. “Hi, you've reached Paul Myers with Merriwether Payne Investments. I'm not able to take your call at the moment, but please leave a message . . .”