7. Easton
7
EASTON
“ L ike her?” I force a laugh.
I’m going to kill Elizabeth.
I don’t think they can take my business away for murdering someone. I can hire someone to run it while I’m in prison, surely. Right? I can’t believe she’s bringing up her stupid friend Andie from high school.
“I mean, it doesn’t matter whether I do or not,” I say. “Because when I asked her out, she turned me down.”
Elizabeth’s laugh is a little unhinged. “Holy Kibbles and Bits.”
I don’t know another adult in the world who uses mock swears that revolve around dog food and cat treats, but that’s Elizabeth. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shove kibble into your big mouth.”
“I better get going,” Bea says. “I should practice for Tuesday.” She ducks out of the door so fast that I’m worried she might get whiplash.
“I think my sister might like you too,” Emerson says. “I’ve never seen her act quite so startled.”
“You must be kidding. She turned me down. ”
He shrugs. “That’s just Bea. She turns down everyone. That’s why she never goes out on any dates.”
“Wait, you need to explain,” Elizabeth says.
“When we were like seventeen, my friend Holden asked her out,” Emerson says. “She said no, and he was pretty upset. When I asked her about it, she said he was clearly kidding.”
Elizabeth frowns. “But he wasn’t?”
Emerson shakes his head. “I told her he was serious, and she said she could tell he wasn’t really serious. Not really.”
My sister frowns. “Does she have low self-esteem?”
“What do you think?” Emerson asks. “Her mom ignored her half her life, and then her grandfather criticized everything she did, including being quiet.”
“So she never dates?” I hate myself for asking, but I can’t help it. “And she’s not dating anyone right now?” It did occur to me that she might have turned me down because she’s already got a boyfriend. The idea makes me feel vaguely ill, but I’d rather know.
It’s always better to know, right?
“No way.” Emerson shakes his head. “She’s a really great person, but I don’t think she’s ever really dated anyone. I mean, she’s had a few dates here and there, but no guy ever took her out more than a handful of times, and almost all of those were setups.”
“How is that possible?” I can’t believe that’s really true. She looks like a goddess.
“Honestly, I blame Jake. He’s not big on sharing, and he’s a little off-putting. Add that to her propensity to think no one really likes her, and you have someone who’s impossible to take out.”
“Is he in love with her?” Elizabeth asks. “Because he’s really weird around her. ”
“Jake hasn’t had much in his life, and he thinks Bea is his.” Emerson shrugs. “She’s the only person he even listens to, and I think it’s more like a dog protecting his only beloved toy.”
“That’s not a no,” Elizabeth says.
“I’ve wondered myself whether he might love her,” Emerson says. “But if Jake Priest wants something, he takes it.” He sighs. “I think if Jake is in love with Bea, he doesn’t know it himself.”
“Wait, do you really like her, Easton?” Elizabeth says. “Because part of me was wondering if maybe you were gay.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s so dumb that if a guy doesn’t have time to date or an active interest in someone in particular, every straight person they know assumes they’re secretly gay.”
“I mean, it’s not a big deal now,” Emerson says. “Most people who are out, they’re just out. Right?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “But that’s not why I haven’t dated much. I’m definitely not interested in guys, unless Bea’s secretly a guy.”
“This is so weird,” Elizabeth says. “Nine million girls out there and the only one you’ve ever liked is my sister-in-law? Is this a prank? Because if so, it’s a good one.”
I grab the door handle. “Thanks for the support,” I grumble. “I thought you’d be happy for me, but whatever.”
Elizabeth runs up and throws her arms around me. “I’m sorry.” She presses her head against my chest. “I am happy for you, E, I swear.”
I sigh slowly.
“Bea really is stunning, so I can see why you’d like her. I was just surprised.”
“And if it goes badly. . . ”
“It would be a little weird for me, sure,” she says. “But it’s not like you two will fight at our baby shower, for instance. Right?”
I look down at her. “What are you saying?”
“I thought we weren’t telling people,” Emerson says. “I didn’t say a word to Bea, even though I was dying to when she started talking about those puppies.”
Elizabeth spins around and immediately starts wheedling. She’s got this down to an art. “I’m so sorry. It’s just, I was kind of moody with him just now, and I didn’t want him to leave mad.”
“You’re already using the baby to get out of sticky situations? Really?” Emerson asks.
“Do we know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” I ask.
“Girl,” Elizabeth says.
“Boy,” Emerson says.
I frown. “Are you having twins?”
“We don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl yet,” Elizabeth says. “We decided to wait and be surprised, so we just have hunches.”
“That’s dumb,” I say. “It’s a surprise no matter when you find out.”
“You’re dumb,” Elizabeth says. “It’s disrespectful to say whatever you think.”
She’s so snarky, always. I imagine it’ll only get worse once she has a baby to protect. “Just for that,” I say. “I hope it’s a boy.”
“Rude,” she hisses. “You know how much I love watching babies trying to crawl in floofy little dresses.”
“It’s going to be a boy ,” I shout as I head out the front door.
Mom’s going to crap a brick.
The Richmond heir, being birthed by one of her children. I swear, I need to stay away for at least two weeks after they tell her. Mom’s annoying enough without hounding me about having a child. When I’m not stuck working over the next day and a half, I’m looking for funny parenting reels and memes and sending them to Elizabeth.
What on earth is Instagram for if not this?
But really, I’m trying not to think too much about Tuesday—the lunch I’m dragging the board to so that I can see her again—and the fact that I have heard exactly nothing about attending her competition finals. I really can’t think of many things I’d rather do than go and see Bea perform a song she wrote.
Finally, on Tuesday morning, the idea hits me. I shouldn’t just sit around and hope she invites me. I should be proactive. I didn’t build my business into what it is by hoping people would call and offer me opportunities. I created the opportunities by badgering, cajoling, tricking, and forcing people into giving me a chance.
About twenty minutes of searching yields the information that there is a final performance for the Jello Jingle Competition, and the finals are open to the public. I text a screenshot to Emerson, and he responds with, IT’S A DATE. He’s a pretty decent brother-in-law. I mean, that’s funny. He knows I want to date his sister, and he’s making a date with me to go cheer for her. Irony and a pun.
I do wonder, briefly, whether it might be a mistake to go without an invite, and I decide to feel her out at the lunch.
Which, thanks to the distraction of my research, it’s time for.
When I walk in, the host walks me, along with the three board members who arrived at nearly the same time, into a side room. “We’re excited to welcome you to our facility,” the thin man says. “Right this way.”
Several other board members are already there. “This menu’s great,” Mr. Dressel says, already poring over the items listed. “I’m thinking we should order a handful of appetizers, and then by the time everyone’s here?—”
“Actually,” I say, “our waitress today has an amazing gift. If you answer a few questions, she can pick the very thing from the menu that you’ll like the most.”
Mr. Dressel arches one eyebrow. “That sounds. . .unlikely. How could anyone else know what I want better than I do?”
“For one, she might know the menu better than you.” Mrs. Yaltzinger sits. “I think it sounds interesting.”
“Me too,” Mr. Jimenez says. “I’m not sure about you, Frank, but I always seem to pick the wrong thing. The person next to me usually has something better than what I chose.”
“That’s because I make better decisions than you,” Mr. Dressel says. “It’s nice that you’re finally admitting it.”
“You certainly don’t have to let me choose for you.” Bea’s standing in the doorway. “But if you’re not sure what to order, I’m happy to help.” Her half smile is perfect. As the last few board members wander in, she explains to them that if they’ll answer a few basic questions, she can select their meal. Or they’re welcome to order for themselves.
Fifteen minutes later, everyone’s orders have either been placed or prepared, and a brawny guy in all black is helping her unload appetizers from large trays.
“For you.” She’s smiling when she sets scallops down in front of me. They look different than the ones I ordered for dinner over the weekend .
“I didn’t see those on the menu,” Mr. Dressel says.
Bea shrugs. “Sometimes the item someone would like most isn’t on the menu. I’m close enough to the chef that he’ll often make things that have been specials in the past for me.” She shrugs. “But the menu items are also all wonderful.” She sets his Wagyu beef tartare in front of him. “You chose one that I never pick for anyone, since it’s not one of my personal favorites.”
“See?” Mr. Dressel shakes his head. “That’s a flaw. What if the only thing I’d like would be the beef tartare?”
“In my experience,” Bea says, “that type of person never asks me to choose for them, so they always get just what they want anyway.”
Mrs. Yaltzinger laughs. “She’s got you there, Frank.”
“Well, now that we all have our food,” Mr. Dressel says, frowning, “we should get started.”
“But we need to see whether she was right,” Mr. Jimenez says. “This dangling bacon tower is weird. I’m surprised she chose it for me.”
“Yes, I was definitely not expecting oysters,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “I’ve never been brave enough to try them.”
“It’s the apple cucumber mignonette that makes these special,” Beatrice says. “Well, that and the fact that you’re going to try three east coast oysters, and three west coast oysters. I think you’ll quickly discover which you prefer.”
I go ahead and slice a scallop in half and pop it in my mouth. Unlike the buttery, seared scallops from the menu, these are light, almost sweet. I’m quite sure I can taste citrus, as well. While I’m chewing, I watch as everyone else tries their appetizers. I’m not the only one sighing with delight .
“Fine,” Mr. Dressel surprises us all by saying. “Scratch my order for the entree. Surprise me with something you’d choose.”
Bea nods slowly. “Alright.” When she starts to back out, Mr. Dressel objects.
“Don’t you need me to answer your questions?”
“You said you had no allergies,” she says.
“But what about the others? My favorite and worst meal?”
Bea’s smile is smug. “I’ve been able to observe you long enough that I think I can do without the answers.”
A moment later, she slips out, but that doesn’t keep us from talking about her.
“Not gonna lie,” Mr. Jimenez says. “When you said we were doing our board meeting over lunch, and then you named the place we’d sent you for that failed setup, I thought maybe you had lost your mind. But this food.” He shakes his head. “And having someone choose for you. . .it’s brilliant.”
“I’ll withhold judgment until I see whether she brings me that ghastly burger,” Mr. Dressel says.
“That’s what she brought me,” I say, “and it was amazing.”
But the next twenty minutes are quickly consumed with their ideas for launching a women’s line. By the time I shoot down the third one, I can tell they’re annoyed.
“Who has heard of the brand Express?” I ask.
Most of the board members scrunch their noses. At least they know what I’m talking about.
“That’s not a high fashion company,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “They’re nothing like us.”
I shake my head. “They were a designer label at one point,” I say. “Perhaps not couture, but designer at least. Back in 2001, they took the first misstep on their journey toward being delisted from the stock market because their stock price fell below a dollar.”
It’s a horror story in fashion.
“Do you know what that step was?” I glance around the room.
They shrug. They share meaningful glances with each other. They look down at their empty plates. A few drain their glasses. None of them look my way.
But finally, Mr. Jimenez says, “Just tell us.”
“They had two arms at first. Express was for women. They poured millions upon millions into creating that brand. It sold extremely well. However, their men’s line, Structure, always lagged. Some said it was a misallocation of advertising dollars. Some said the designers they used weren’t as in touch as those who did the women’s side.” I did a whole project in school on the rise and fall of Structure and Express. “The CEO in 2000 was tasked to bring the men’s line up to par with the women’s. Instead of redesigning or refreshing, he decided to take what worked—the Express name—and transition the entire men’s line to become ‘Express for Men.’” I can’t help my cringe. “It was an unmitigated disaster. All the dollars they’d poured into making Express a recognizable name for women made it anathema for men. That, coupled with a few years of safe but disastrously boring clothing, built out the coffin. A lot of people blame the leadership in the past five years, but it was already in a steep nosedive that very few could have pulled out of.”
“What’s the point?” Mr. Dressel’s never patient. Not ever.
“I understand your insistence that we launch a women’s brand, but doing it the wrong way would be far worse than having no women’s products at all.” I look around, meeting each person’s eye.
As if on cue, the doors open behind me, the various aromas of our food slamming me in the face. Beatrice has excellent timing, unsurprisingly. I told her I wanted longer than usual in between each visit so we could conduct our meeting, and she nailed it. It makes me wonder whether she was waiting outside the door listening in.
“As the best latency spotter in the market right now, we really need your insight into women’s couture so we can figure out what to target,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “But you went on one date and have refused any more.”
“That’s because,” I say, “I’ve already identified a girl I’d like to date. I need a little time to win her over.” I glance behind me.
Bea freezes for a beat, and then she sets a plate in front of me. “Lobster risotto,” she whispers. “I had chef swap out the snow peas for asparagus.”
“Your chef—David Burke, right?—is brilliant,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “That looks amazing.”
“David designed this menu,” Bea says, “but one of his up-and-coming sous chefs has been handling lunch. Her name is Julietta, and she’s like a savant with vegetables. She smells them for twenty minutes each morning, tossing the ones that don’t pass muster into a big bin.”
Mr. Dressel frowns.
“But for you, sir.” She walks toward Mr. Dressel, taking him his food right after mine. She’s already figured out the pecking order. She places his plate in front of him and steps back. “Native lobster and Crab Imperial.” She tilts her head. “Hasn’t been on the menu since last fall, but a fresh catch of beautiful lobsters came in this morning, and I thought you’d appreciate them.”
She doesn’t wait for Mr. Dressel to take a bite. She’s already off, serving Mrs. Yaltzinger her seared ginger salmon, and then Mr. Jimenez his bison short ribs.
A few moments later, and no one’s grilling me about the women’s line. They’re all oohing and aahing about the food—and Bea’s taste. “How do you do it?” Mr. Dressel finally asks, and then he licks his finger off. Clearly she really bowled him over with the lobster and crab thing.
“You want my secret?” She arches one eyebrow. “This is my job, sir, and you want me to give away my secrets?”
He sighs. “I suppose not.”
We haven’t made much progress—maybe about as much as I’ve made with Bea—by the time she returns for the final time. “I know that none of you asked for dessert, and most people don’t want it after lunch. But I could tell that three of you really needed just a bit more.” She sets a wooden board with skewers on it in front of Mrs. Yaltzinger, Mr. Jimenez, and Miss Lundgren. “These are called dessert pops. There’s a champagne-infused berry, a macaron, and the best truffle cake ball you’ve ever had. The dips on there are to die for.”
“What about me?” I ask.
“You’re already too sweet.” She flounces out.
When I go to grab the check, she’s talking to someone. I’m pretty sure she’s not actually waiting for me, but it almost feels like it. “Hey, you did a great job today,” I say. “There’s a reason I asked for you. I knew they’d love the select-their-food-for-them trick.”
“None of our other waiters do that,” the host says. “A few of them have tried, but it went. . .not as well. ”
“I asked for her secret,” I say. “But she wouldn’t share it.”
“Sometimes she refuses to do it,” the host says. “But when she’s on ? It’s pretty amazing.”
Now I really want to know how she does it. I pay with the company card—board meeting—and then pull her aside. “Come on,” I say. “Now that no one else is around, surely you’ll share how you do it.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Easton,” Mrs. Yaltzinger catches up to me. “I just talked to Ursula. I know the last date was not a love connection, but she has some ideas, and I think if you give her a chance, you’ll see that she’s great at her job. She learned a lot from your feedback last time, and she has a few strong candidates. You can even take a look.” She holds up her phone. “I really like this lady, who runs a salon on the West side.”
“He really did meet someone, you know,” Bea says.
My heart stutters.
“She’s pretty shy, but he met her on his last date.”
“Did he?” Mrs. Yaltzinger’s eyes light up. “Tell me more. Is she pretty? Did she look fashionable?”
Bea shrugs. “She actually looked pretty plain to me. Definitely not a stylista.”
I snort. “She’s breathtaking.” I can’t help staring. Even in her work uniform, her flawless skin, her waterfall of hair falling from her high ponytail down her back, and her full, pursed lips are just. . .stunning. There’s no other word that fits.
“She’s small and mousy,” Bea says. “But Easton seemed to really like her.”
Mrs. Yaltzinger sighs, staring at me without the slightest idea that Bea is talking about herself. “I’ll give you a week. If you’re not dating someone officially by then.” She points. “You’ll let us try again.”
I nod slowly.
But when Mrs. Yaltzinger wanders off, I pounce. “How about you open the door a little. I only have a week.”
“Huh?” The little wrinkle between her eyebrows is adorable.
“Just let me in a little—you can see what you think.”
“It’s not that I?—”
“I know your jingle finals are tonight, and I want to go with you.”
“The thing is, Jake’s already coming to help me,” she says. “He’s—he gets—I don’t think it’s a good idea if?—”
“I’m not scared of your brother,” I say.
She bites her lip.
It’s so cute. “Just give me a shot. If I make things hard for you on your big night, you can refuse to talk to me again.”
“I wouldn’t normally take him with me,” she says. “Jake makes most things harder. I know he hasn’t been that nice to you, either, but he’s really connected, and he’s also painfully talented with music, entertainment, all of it.”
I’m sure he is. I actually hate that she’s right. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Tell me I can come.”
“Fine,” she says.
“I should also confess that I might have mentioned the details to Emerson.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s fine. He probably would have pried them out of Jake anyway.”
I’m on my way out the door when something hits me. I have no idea what to wear. “Hey, so what are you planning to?—”
But when I turn around, she’s already gone.