Page 81 of The Frog Prince
I don’t think so.
The elevator opens at the sixteenth floor, again at the nineteenth, and for a moment it’s just the guy who looked at me, and then the elevator stops at the twenty-first floor, and as I get off, the guy suddenly speaks.
“Have a good one,” he says.
And I turn, look at him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered in his dark suit, and he has a strong face with a hint of a cleft in his chin. I smile gratefully. “Thanks. You, too.”
The doors close.
I stand there for a moment, feeling a wave of regret. The bittersweet sense that I lost something somewhere. What was it? Opportunity? Hope? A dream?
Then I reach for the door of Bloomberg, Bloomberg and Silverman and exhale hard, fiercely, growing my thicker skin. It’s going to be okay. Everything will be just fine. And now it’s time to sell. Not just City Events, but myself. Because after all, that’s what clients are buying.
*
The clients bought.City Events, with me coordinating, will plan their holiday office party, a dignified supper party at a dignified restaurant, and yet with style and flare, because Bloomberg, Bloomberg and Silverman is a law firm for today’s generation, and today’s generation wants more than sound legal advice—they want sensitive sophistication and compassion.
Leaving the law firm, I’m just about to hail a cab when my cell phone rings. I answer without checking the number.
It’s Brian. “Where are you?” he asks.
“Financial district.” It’s easy to inject warmth into my voice. I’m glad to hear from him. I had this horrible feeling he was just going to cut me out of his life. “Just about to cab it back to the office.”
“Cab it to Market instead. Meet me for a late lunch.”
I glance at my watch, knowing that Olivia will be pacing, waiting for an update on my meeting with the law firm. “I don’t think I’ve time.”
“Of course you do. You haven’t taken a lunch today, and you deserve a lunch if you’re out pounding the pavement.”
He’s right, and yet I hesitate.
Brian sighs. “Olivia takes lunch every day.”
“She’s my boss. She can do what she wants.”
He makes a rough sound. “Ain’t that the truth.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, and I give in. “Okay: Where?”
He names the restaurant, and I tell him I’ll need a few minutes. I get there in less time than I think, and yet he’s got a table at the window, and I see him as I enter the restaurant. His long legs define the space; his big upper body takes up even more room. Jean-Marc was fairly tall, but not like this. Not big and broad like this.
We order lunch. I want the chicken salad, and Brian does the soup-and-salad combo. We both reach for the sourdough rolls between us. I tear mine open, and Brian slathers his with butter. I’d like to slather my dry bits of bread with butter, too, but I’m supposed to be focusing on my goals. You know, the weight and attitude goals, where I put myself first, and take care of me, but giving up butter is a serious sacrifice.
I grew up close to Hanford and Tulare, capitals of California’s dairy industry. Remembering the dairies reminds me that it’s been ages since I was last home. I miss the valley. I miss the orchards and the fields and the farmers visiting town wearing their green John Deere baseball caps and their snug Wranglers and their weathered boots.
My favorite farmer of all was my friend Paige’s father, Paul. Paul was the kindest man you could hope to meet, and he had the bluest eyes. When he looked at his wife and daughters, you knew he loved them, knew he’d do anything for them. And he did. He was rock solid, rooted to the soil, and if I could have been his daughter, I would have.
“So how’s it going?” Brian says, leaning forward, expression frankly curious.
“Good.”
“Really?”
I do a quick inner scan, and I’m warm inside. Relaxed. “Really.”
“I’m glad,” he answers, and I believe him.
*