9. Will
Chapter nine
Will
I took my time driving to Coleman Creek, traveling on some back roads through King and Snohomish County before finally joining Highway 2. Going slower and not having to deal with freeway traffic helped calm my nerves, which were still slightly frayed from almost clipping that cyclist in front of my building.
My determination to set things right with Maureen was another story. There was no getting relaxed about that. I’d just have to jump in and give it my best shot.
Two hours into my trip, I pulled off the road to grab lunch. A diner off the highway had an enormous sign advertising the “World’s Best Pancakes.” Sounded good to me.
The restaurant looked like something out of a movie. Vinyl booths lined a wall of windows painted with Santa in his sleigh being pulled by eight reindeer. A paper chain made of cut-up children’s menus circled a giant tree in the corner. Glass enclosures perched on the countertop showcased desserts, and an old-fashioned reader board behind the counter listed twenty varieties of pancakes. After ordering a five-pancake sampler of chocolate chip, banana, blueberry, maple walnut, and pineapple coconut, I tucked into a booth.
Thankfully, even though this place looked vintage, the Wi-Fi was solid. As I waited for my food, I popped in my earbuds and pulled out my phone.
Watching Maureen’s videos strengthened my resolve to find a better status quo with her. I’d watched everything at least twice. From the moment James had inadvertently mentioned her channel last spring, I’d become a little addicted. How could I resist? Seeing her on my computer or phone screen as Francesca was like getting a window into the woman I’d met at Musicbox.
I found her oldest clips most interesting. Besides the fact Maureen’s hair was still the golden-brown color she’d had when we met, her on-screen personality was so much the Mo I remembered—a total badass with a great sense of humor. I couldn’t help but catch my breath at how she sometimes stammered and mishandled the camera, giving the screen a wink and a self-deprecating smile once she’d righted things. It reminded me that the icy, elegant woman who’d stared me down last Christmas wasn’t all of who she was.
I watched a video from four-and-a-half years ago when Maureen commented on the practicality of rain boots and another where she interviewed a man speaking about his extensive sneaker collection. In one from three years ago—hair dyed auburn—she’d covered a pop-up fashion show at a local college and provided great commentary on why it was important to have body diversity among the models.
“Body diversity” was a phrase I’d only learned since combing through her channel, along with things like “capsule wardrobe,” “ready-to-wear,” and “boho.” I’d also learned I had a few suits in my wardrobe that were “bespoke,” and I should appreciate what a privilege that was. Duly noted, Francesca .
I’d never cared much about clothes. As an artist, I could appreciate style aesthetics, but my regard ended there. Yet Francesca seemed determined to find something for everyone to enjoy on her channel, including those indifferent to fashion, by never taking herself too seriously. Even in the more straightforward videos discussing trends and offering advice, there was always an undertone of being in on the joke , of reminding viewers never to take getting dressed so seriously that it made them feel like they had to be or think a certain way. Her channel had a definite agenda—positivity for every style.
Whether it was a video where she and women on the street dissected the wearability of peplum styles—“peplum” being another word I’d never heard prior to Francesca—or one where she made styling suggestions for the fall line at Old Navy, none of her channel was tailored for folks interested in high-end fashion. I guessed she got enough of that in her day job.
This woman laughing on my screen was fascinating.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I’d spent the past five years untangling myself from the life I fell into after my accident. Maureen had spent it working, making these videos, probably dating around—although I knew from some stealthy conversing with Marley that she was single and currently between jobs.
We were both different people now. And I wanted more of Maureen. More smiles. More laughter. More of the warm person hiding behind the hard woman I’d encountered a year ago. With every video I watched, every nugget of information I gleaned from Marley or James, I wanted to keep peeling back the layers.
I only hoped she’d be willing.
I’d just gotten up to leave the diner when a call came through on my phone. Rosalyn’s name flashed on my screen. I wondered what she wanted. She worked for my parents, so we still had the occasional run-in at Wallingford, although our contact had grown less frequent since I left the company.
But I had enough on my mind right now without adding my former fiancée to the mix. She could leave a voicemail.
The phone buzzed again as I reached my car. A text this time.
ROZ: PICK UP!
Three seconds later, the phone rang again. She’d never been this insistent before, so I figured it must be important.
I hit the green button. “Hey, Roz.”
“You need to call Wicklein! Talk him down!” I held the phone away from my ear as Rosalyn’s biting tone came through the line.
“Hello to you too.”
“Don’t patronize me, William.” I could practically hear her gnashing her teeth. “We don’t need to bother with chatty small talk. I didn’t call to make nice. I need you to call Wicklein and make sure he’s okay. He hasn’t returned my calls in a month.”
I heaved a sigh, knowing it galled her to ask me for anything. Even though I’d helped her out with more than a few business matters since we’d split, I didn’t want to make our situation more acrimonious.
“What’s going on?”
“Same as this summer. He likes you. Only you. I’ve explained to him you’re not at Wallingford anymore, but he refuses to acknowledge it, keeps saying you must be available to help since it’s your parents’ company. I’ve tried to make him understand. Your mother and father have tried. He keeps insisting you handle his account.”
Bryan Wicklein was one of my first clients. Over the years, even when I’d transferred from asset management to capital investments, I’d maintained my position as his point of contact. His account was a priority. It had seemed prudent for me to stick with him.
By the time I left Wallingford almost two years ago, I’d been down to a handful of long-standing clients—all of whom I’d transferred to Rosalyn. Everyone else wished me well, but Wicklein had been threatening to take his business elsewhere ever since.
“He won’t admit it, but he doesn’t want a woman handling his account,” Roz said with disdain.
I frowned. “He doesn’t need to admit it. We all know that’s the reason. Even if he never says the quiet part out loud.” I tugged at my hair. “Can you transfer him over to Benjamin, if he’s going to be a problem?”
“I mean I can .” Rosalyn stretched out the last word. “But I don’t want to. I want to show your parents how valuable I am to the team.”
“They know how valuable you are, Roz. Everyone does.”
She exhaled audibly. “Do they really, William?” Her voice tightened, and I knew she was shaking her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. I’d seen her do it a thousand times. “Do they? Or do they just feel sorry for me because I’m the woman their son dumped—”
“Roz—”
“No, save it. I know we’ve been over it a hundred times.” She cleared her throat. “But you don’t realize what it’s like, William. With our old coworkers. Do they really know? That I’m here because I’m valuable? And not for some other reason? You left. You’re not here to worry about what they say behind their cubicles or at happy hour.”
I sucked in a breath. She was correct. We’d rehashed our split ad nauseam. When I’d finally broken it off for good, just over a year after meeting Maureen, Rosalyn had been incredulous. The first few weeks, she assumed I would “come to my senses,” and when that didn’t happen, she spent the next four months alternating between yelling, accusing me of leading her on, with entreaties to give us another chance. I felt certain her motivation was fear of falling out of favor with my parents, not undying love for me.
We just didn’t fit, no matter how much my mother and father liked her. She didn’t care about my art, or my wish to find creative investments for the company, didn’t enjoy going to the concerts and festivals I thrived on. We never conversed about anything other than work. She never laughed. But for months, I’d allowed her to rail at me. Because I’d earned it. Because Rosalyn hadn’t been wrong when she’d accused me of going through the motions in our relationship. One night with Maureen had shown me what I’d been missing.
I’d questioned initially why Rosalyn stayed at Wallingford Capital, but ultimately, I agreed that her career shouldn’t have to suffer because we broke up. She was a senior VP, on track to lead the company one day. The situation was awkward, but my parents wouldn’t have kept on any employee out of guilt. She was there because she was extremely competent. I also knew her coworkers respected the hell out of her.
Still, I understood her concerns about office gossip. Our breakup had been a huge blow to her ego, and she’d never conceded that our lives would have been a million times worse if we’d actually gotten married. She would have gone through with it and started a whole life with me just to save face.
“Look, Rosalyn. I don’t think you realize how much people admire you, especially my parents. I’m sure everyone at Wallingford feels the same, and I doubt they’re talking about our breakup since it’s old new—”
“William, just stop. Christ. I didn’t call for a pep talk. You don’t need to pretend to care anymore. I know it’s bullshit.”
Damn. We’d had our share of arguments, but I hated it had come to this.
“Roz, I’m really sorry—”
“Can you just call Wicklein? Please. Tell him I know what I’m doing, that my pretty little female head can still process all those big, scary number wumbers.”
I stared down at my phone. “Yeah, I’ll call him on Monday.”
She hung up without a goodbye, and I put a reminder in my phone to make the call Monday morning. I thought the company could withstand the financial blow if Wicklein walked, but I sympathized with Roz’s need to have a win. It must have killed her to call me, and I’d honor that.
On Monday. This weekend I had a party to go to.