The Virgin Society Collection

48. The Counter Offer

48

THE COUNTER OFFER

Layla

I ask my mother to meet me at Neon Diner that weekend. I like it better than the club. I have a feeling she does too. No one whispers things about that Layla Mayweather or about Anna .

Only this isn’t a typical mother-daughter outing. And I sincerely hope I’m not about to wallop my mother with a one-two punch. But a businesswoman has to do what a businesswoman has to do.

With the confidence of someone who finally knows what she wants, I yank open the door to my favorite diner. A Monkees tune blares overhead and servers scurry by in mint-green uniforms.

I smooth a hand down my shirt. It’s new. I went shopping yesterday and Jules and Harlow helped me pick it out. “It’ll be perfect for your first day on the job,” Harlow had said.

That made me a little giddy, thinking about my first day at work. But today feels like my first day on the job, so I’m wearing it now. The top is a light blue peasant blouse from Champagne Taste, and I paired it with a short black skirt that Jules picked out for me.

It’s not my mother’s pink pantsuit, thank you very much.

When I find Mom at the table, she’s dictating an email on her phone. She’s like Jules.

Only Jules isn’t always on. She turns it off. Maybe my mom needs someone to help her turn it off.

After we say hi and order, I begin. No deep breaths. No preamble. I’m direct and clear as I tell her about Mia’s offer. “And it sounds like an incredible opportunity,” I finish.

She’s quiet and honestly a little terrifying as she sits so tall, so poised. So very Anna “Take No Prisoners” Mayweather.

“Interesting,” she says at last, cool and professional. But then she’s silent again.

I gulp, but I don’t say anything. I don’t try to fill the quiet by backpedaling or reassuring her.

“And are you going to take it?” she asks after a pause.

I hold my ground. “I am. It’s what I want. And I want to thank you for offering me a job at Beautique. But this, it turns out, is my dream.”

She purses her lips, and I brace myself for a retort like “ Is this what your father would have wanted? ”

But it doesn’t come. Instead, she stares intensely at me with cool blue eyes. Hers are lighter than mine. Some would say icier. But I’ve seen her other sides. I know she can be warm and loving, motherly, and kind.

“I can see this matters to you,” she says, and my shoulders lose some of the tension I didn’t realize I was holding.

She’s understanding me more than I expected her to.

“Truly, I can,” she adds with a resigned smile. That’s a good sign. “But I’d be a terrible businesswoman if I didn’t make a counteroffer.”

I blink. “What?” Is this for real?

“I’ll pay double to integrate The Makeover into Beautique. And to have you run it inside my company.”

My jaw nearly drops from the shock, except…I don’t let it. She’s never offered to buy my app before. She’s known all along we wanted to sell it. Why now? Why double it? Because someone else wants The Makeover?

No. It’s because someone else wants me, I think.

“It could be a wonderful partnership,” she says. “Getting to see each other at the office. Brainstorm ideas and new lines. Grab lunch while we discuss makeup and business.”

And all at once, everything is illuminated. Why she wants me to work with her. Why she’s clung to the idea of it.

She doesn’t need me to work at her company. She needs to spend more time with me. She’s lonely.

I fight back tears as the server arrives with our food. When she’s gone, I say to my mom, “Let’s eat and then I’ll show you something.”

Since I also know what to do next.

After lunch, I take her to Central Park. “We’re almost there,” I say as we near the bench.

Twenty feet away, she stops, so I do too. She turns to me, understanding in her eyes, shining along with her tears. “You got a bench.”

“I did,” I say.

“Your father loved these so,” she says, her voice wistful and full of love.

“He did.”

“You never told me.” She doesn’t sound upset. She sounds amazed.

“I needed it to be a secret for a long time,” I say. But now I don’t have to keep it to myself.

I take her hand. “I had a plaque made too,” I add. I take her to the bench so she can read it. This is the real Herculean task—fighting off the waterworks. A whisper is all I can manage as I gesture to the plaque. “They’re my last words to him.”

She covers her mouth, tears streaking down her face as she gazes at the silver metal and the four words etched onto them.

I love you too .

We sit and talk and reminisce—about the places we liked to go with him, the way he’d laugh, and the things he’d said—as the afternoon wanes. It’s time to leave, and I walk her across the park to Fifth Avenue, stopping when we reach the museum.

“Mom,” I say, as cars and cabs and buses trudge down the avenue. “If you really mean your counteroffer, I have to take it to Geeta. But if you made it to spend more time with me, then I’d like to make you a counter-proposal.”

That seems to surprise her. “Oh. Okay. Sure.”

I’ve caught her off-guard, perhaps for the first time. I think she’ll admire that about me. I hope she’ll like my idea. “I could really use a mentor. Maybe a strong, passionate woman who’s dealt with all sorts of challenges and opportunities in business.” She smiles, unbidden, as I say more: “Do you happen to know anyone?”

She taps her chin, playful in a way she rarely is. “I believe I do.”

“Then maybe this mentor and I could get together and talk shop every week. Say, at the Neon Diner?”

“Consider it scheduled,” she says.

We say goodbye, and she heads to her side of the city, and I go to mine. But we’re not so far apart anymore.