60. The Promise Of You
sixty
Chloe
Breathe in, breathe out.
I got this.
I clench and unclench my hand around my leather backpack-slash-laptop bag, and glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls of the office building. Nothing weird like greasy paper stuck to my four-inch heels or a pigeon dropping on my elegantly understated pantsuit.
I got this.
I deserve it.
I check my phone screen. Thirty minutes early.
My meditation app interrupts its ocean sounds to announce Fiona wants to connect via video. Answer? I’ve been dodging Mom’s calls this morning because I don’t need another one of her lectures on how I should live my life.
But my sister rarely calls, and when she does, it always brings a smile to my face. And it’s always on video. A lightness spreads through me as I accept the call and her feisty face fills my screen.
“Hey. Did Mom call you?” she asks point blank.
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Uncle Kevin died.”
I blow air as dull sadness over my uncle’s passing replaces the tension I always feel where Mom is concerned. “Oh no.” Images of my uncle’s big belly trembling with his hearty laughter blur my vision. “How’s she doing?”
“Not great. You know how she gets.”
Yeah, I can just picture it. Mom sobbing, Dad mumbling, ‘Another asshole gone.’
Another lovely day in the Sullivan household.
“Funeral is next week. Think you can make it?”
“I’ll make it.” Uncle Kevin was a nice guy, and even if I haven’t seen him or my aunt Dawn—or my cousins, for that matter—in what must be now over ten years, they hold a special place in my heart. And not only because summer vacations at their home in Vermont is one of my favorite childhood memories.
They were good people.
“How about you? Can you make it, or will you be touring?” I ask her.
“Nah, couple concerts got canceled.” Her eyes shift to the side. “I’ll try and make it.”
“What’s the holdup?” I ask.
“They’re kinda behind on payments, and last-minute flights from Europe at this time of year are going to be through the roof. But it’s Uncle Kevin. I’ll make it work.”
“D’you need money?”
“Nah, I said I’ll make it work.”
“I’ll send you money.”
“I don’t want charity, Clo. It’s annoying enough.”
“Charity? Who’s talking about charity? Consider it a loan. You can repay it by playing at my wedding.”
“You have that kind of money sitting around?” She grins. “Damn, sis. I wish I had my shit together the way you do.”
“Um, hello? You are a rock star. I mean, how many people can actually say that?”
“I’m not a rock star. Just a rock musician. I think a lot of people call themselves that, these days.”
“You write your own music, do your own thing.”
“And am currently starving doing so.”
I lower my voice and glance nervously around me. “Well, I’m up for a promotion,” I whisper into the phone. A much-deserved, well-paid promotion that will be handed to me in exactly… twenty-two minutes. “I’m feeling generous. That okay?”
Through the video I can see her blushing. “Did you mention a wedding earlier? Did I miss something? Did he propose?”
I was wondering what took her so long. “Um… no.But I think this promotion”—I lower my voice again—“is going to speed things along.” I step away from the building’s entrance and cross the street for more privacy.
Fiona narrows her eyebrows. “That’s whacked, Clo. Although I will say, when a man marries a woman for her money, that could mean progress for the rest of us? Maybe?”
I chuckle, seeing where she’s coming from. “To be honest, Tucker and me, we’re going through a rough patch.” I sigh. “Basically, he’s saying I’m not spending enough time at home. I work too many weekends and evenings.”
She tilts her head. “And this promotion is going to help how?”
“It’s a move to a cushier department. More pay, less stress, less hours.”
“Really.” Doubt seeps from her tone.
It does sound counterintuitive, but there it is. It’s a bigger job, one where I would have a large team working for me. After the initial few weeks or months settling in, I’ll have more free time. I think.
“What’s this job about?”
“It’s…” I hesitate on how to best describe it to her in few words. Tucker hasn’t asked me about it, and it’s the first time I’ve had to explain it to a lay person. “It’s financial analysis on the feasibility of opening new breweries.” My new team will do the grunt work that requires travelling, as well as weekend and evening calls and meetings. If I play this right, I’ll be able to wind down, put my mark on this department, and fix things with Tucker, all while having a job I think I’ll love. A job that will feel more like I’m running my own thing. “Trust me, Fi, I got this.”
“I trust you. You’re a kick-ass boss woman, even if Tucker doesn’t appreciate it.”
Not this again.“Fi…”
“You know how I feel about him.”
“I do.” Fiona has made that clear. She’s not a fan of my boyfriend. Moving on.
“And you wanting to marry him gives me anxiety, and the fact that Mom and Dad would be beyond themselves happy is further proof that something’s seriously whacked when it comes to him.”
I roll my eyes. “I gotta go, Fi. Wish me luck,” I say and touch the four-leafed clover at my neck.
“Good luck in the elevator.” She chuckles. “Here’s to hoping it doesn’t break down on you.”
“Not funny,” I answer, forcing a smile, my stomach clenching. I’m extremely uncomfortable in small, enclosed spaces, and my worst fear is to be stuck in an elevator. Not that it’s ever happened to me, but Fiona teases me about that every chance she gets.
“Proud of ya, putting yourself through that shit twice a day for a career,” she says before shutting down the connection.
Make that six times a day, what with lunch break or outside appointments, and the ride up and down to the apartment.
I quickly access my banking app to send her money for a flight, put my phone on silent, cross the street, and enter the building feeling awesome about myself.
Thirty minutes later
Assholes.
I can’t believe they’re doing this to me. The voice sounds tinny, remote. “New management is shifting our focus, Chloe. The whole department is let go. It’s not just you. God, if it were me, we’d keep you.”
Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.
“An uber competent, ambitious person like you won’t have trouble finding a much better job elsewhere. Your severance package will give you all the time you need…”
I struggle to keep my composure. I remind them my plan could make the company millions in profit over the first three years.
These ignorant assholes don’t seem to care.
I bite the inside of my cheeks until I taste blood.
I take no time packing all my stuff in the brand-new moving boxes provided by HR. They also thought of the packing tape. With a whole department let go the same day, they had to prepare. Make it as clean and quick as possible.
I take the emergency staircase down, avoiding the clusters of dejected colleagues all carrying the standard-issue box, lined up at the elevators. All cramming an already suffocating small space.
My fern is heavy. That bugger needs a lot of water. Which means, it’s not only heavy, it’s humid, and the humidity is seeping through the box. Add to that the fact that HR didn’t extend the courtesy to provide bubble wrap, which means my photo frames clink against each other. I set my box on the sidewalk and schedule a car from my phone. I’m not carrying that stuff on the subway.
My next job, I’m not getting too comfortable until I’m the boss and no one can fire me. My next job, I don’t want to deal with small spaces.
I haul myself and my belongings into the car; three and half years’ worth of work and all I walk out with is this one little box.
On the upside, Tucker should be happy. I’m going to be home the next few days or weeks until I find the right job, not only for me, but for the two of us. I want our relationship to work, I really do, and I know I’m to blame for the dry spell we’re in.
I lean over and ask the driver to swing by the mall and confirm that he’ll wait outside, meter running.
The upside of being home is, I won’t be so tired in the evenings. I wouldn’t mind picking up the bedroom action where we left it off a few months ago. I mean, it’s not like I’m fending him off. He’s not showing any interest either. But with one of us to focus on that, we should be good.
So I charge through the mall and pick up a few necessities at Victoria’s Secret. And on the way out, I stop at Whole Foods and grab fresh lobster, onions, and cream. I already have everything else I need to make Tucker’s favorite dish. That and a bottle of Chardonnay and I’m ready to go home. I’m not going to let a setback at work take over my whole life. It’s midday. I have literally hours to prep a romantic dinner and an even more romantic evening.
Chloe Sullivan does not give up. She always gets what she wants.
Operation get-this-show-back-on-the-road has begun.
Fifteen minutes later
I press the elevator button with my elbow, balancing my box from work, the pink bag from Victoria’s Secret jammed inside it, groceries precariously plopped on top, my backpack with my laptop, and the bottle of wine acting as a counterweight to all the shit I’m carrying in my arms.
The doors slowly open, then close on me. Breathe in, breathe out. Another elbow press on the panel, the elevator hiccups up, and I clench my jaw.
But I’ve hit rock bottom already this morning. I’m not getting stuck in the elevator now. The Law of Averages says so.
I get to my floor, no problem. See?
Steadying my box on my hip, I unlock our front door and enter the apartment backward, pushing the door open with my backpack, then letting it shut softly. I close my eyes.
I can do this. Being let go is not the end of the world.
For most people, Chloe, but for you? Pretty much is.
I turn the little voice off.
Reality is beginning to catch up with me, and I need to get a grip.
Eyes still closed, I focus on my breathing. On the smells.
There’s a weird smell.
Something sweet. Flowery.
I open my eyes.
What.
The.
Fudge.
I kick my shoes off and set my stuff on the kitchen counter. I resist the urge to call Tucker to bitch about him lending our apartment as a fuckpad to his loser brother.
Whatever.
There’s a bra on the back of the couch, a blouse on the floor, jeans on the coffee table, and the trail of shoes and underwear continues down the hallway.
To
our
Bedroom.
G-ross.
And really—the nerve!
I stomp down the carpeted hallway, dark except for a ray of light seeping from our half-open bedroom door. Not enough for me to see inside the room.
Plenty enough to hear.
The woman has her full volume on.
Come. On.
This is like a porno soundtrack, without the lounge music.
No music? The guy is lacking in the atmosphere department. I’ll have to tell Tucker that. We’ll have a good laugh.
Meanwhile, this is my place, and I need them out of here.
I’ll clear my throat, knock on the door, push it open, say a few words, then retreat to the kitchen so they can leave decently—I hope. It’ll be awkward but what the heck. Not my problem.
I’ll have to wash the sheets. That’s really annoying.
I’m getting pissed at Tucker now.
The woman picks up her moaning, and the guy grunts.
He grunts just like Tucker. Brothers, I guess.
God!I so do not want to be here right now. I train my eyes to the floor as I prepare to push the door wide open, not wanting to see anything. Still wanting to get them out of here right. Now.
But then the woman moans, “Oh, Tux… my god… Tux!”
My hand pushes the door, my eyes fly up to the bed, and the thump of my heartbeat covers the rest of their sex noises as I struggle to just stand there. To not collapse, or scream, under the humiliation.
The anger.
The shame.
I expect them to jump and grab the sheets to cover themselves and say something absurd like “It’s not what you think,” but they’re so deep in it. And I’m so totally in the dark of the hallway, I go unnoticed.
I’ve lost all sense of touch, as if my skin were building a shield around me. There’s a voice-over in my head making commentaries, helping me process what I’m seeing.
Tucker has his face snug between her legs. She’s undulating under his mouth. They still have no clue they have an audience. At some point he lifts his face and says, “On your knees,” and they end up both facing the oversized mirror on the side of the bed. I have a prime view of his narrow ass ramming into hers. Her face looks vaguely familiar, but she has one of those pretty blonde faces. Could be anyone.
Is she faking? He’s not that good.
When I’m close to throwing up, I go back into the kitchen on wobbly knees, shove my box with my fern in the pantry, the pink lingerie bag and the brown grocery bag in the trash, and quietly leave the apartment, taking the emergency staircase down to the street, blood swooshing through my ears, my mouth dry, my eyes wet.
I walk the streets for hours, trying to quiet my heart. Trying to shut down the thoughts in my head. When did I start meaning so little to him that he could do… that? Why am I feeling dirty and ashamed? Like I did something wrong. Something to deserve that. God! This has to stop.
And why did I leave the apartment instead of yelling at them? I wish I’d had the guts to throw them both out. I don’t like confrontation, and I always thought that made me a better person. Until now. My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands, forming pitiful little fists.
Eventually I end up at a coffee shop and wait until it’s my usual time to come home. I don’t have the energy for a fight. I’m too defeated.
We never have sex like that. He says he doesn’t like going down, that it’s gross. But he sure didn’t mind going down on another woman. In our bedroom.
I guess I’m the problem.
And then there’s the matter of losing my job.
My throat tight, I swallow my shame.
Eventually the sun dips over the buildings, and I walk into the apartment. Tucker is at his usual station on the couch, watching a game on TV, fully dressed, no trace of any woman. Not even a faint smell.
He looks so normal. Does this happen often? Like, regularly?
I sit on the armrest of the couch. His gaze cuts to me. “Hey,” he greets me and looks back to the game.
I wipe my hands on my thighs. “Hey… So. I was here earlier,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from trembling.
His face whitens. “Why were you here?”
I fight to control the quiver in my voice. “I live here.” Again, I can’t believe his nerve. Really? Why was I here? I stand from the armrest. “You have thirty minutes to pack your shit.”
“Come on, Chloe. It’s not what you think.”
I knew it!I knew he’d use that stupid phrase.
“Tux? She calls you Tux. You need more details?”
He stays silent but still doesn’t budge from the couch.
“Thirty minutes, Tucker. Get the hell out of here.”
He doesn’t bother looking at me. “It’s my place, Chloe.”
“What?”
“Lease is in my name.”
A-hole. Crapcrapcrap.“I’ll take it over,” I say with way more confidence than I feel. Sure, I already pay two thirds of the rent because Tucker makes way less than I do. But paying the extra third will be a stretch, and then there’s the matter of losing my job.
“No you’re not. Like I said, it’s my place. You can’t find it in your heart to be cool about what happened, feel free to go.”
“Cool about—” Is he effing nuts? I don’t want to argue about the blonde in our bed. I can’t believe he’d even—actually, yes, I can believe it. But I’m not leaning into the argument going that way, because I know what lies there: my responsibility. “You can’t afford the place,” I say instead. “Don’t be a dick.”
He stands and towers over me. “Gave you your chance, Chloe. You just burned it. Now I’m breaking up with you, and you got thirty minutes to get the hell outta my space.” He plops back on the couch and adds, “Sick of your shit.”
Sick of my shit?
What shit are we even talking about? Me working too much?
This argument hasn’t even started yet, and I can see how useless it would be. There’s nothing to discuss.
I cross my arms. “I’m going to need to rent a U-Haul. And I’ll need time to pack. And it’s already night.”
He disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a duffel bag. “Move out by tomorrow night,” he says before slamming the door on his way out.
My eyes well up. Three years together, the last six months not so great, but this? I never saw this coming. What did I miss? How can he just write me off like that? My vision blurs as I think back to the blonde. And here I was thinking he’d be proposing soon. What an idiot! I don’t know if I’m more hurt or ashamed.
I shake myself out of my pity party and call my mom. I misjudged the situation, me, Tucker. Clearly, I missed so many things. I need to focus back on my family. Starting with Mom, who’s just lost her brother.
She’s shaken, and I hardly recognize her voice as she tries to quell her sobs. “I wish I’d seen him more often,” she manages to say.
“They lived far away. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Not that far. Anyway,” she continues, forcing fake strength into her voice. “The funeral is next week. Do you think you can make it? Maybe Tucker too?” She likes Tucker, and so does Dad. He’s everything they want in a son-in-law. Good family. Successful, even if he makes less than I do. It’s only a matter of time for him to be fast-tracked by his father into a brilliant career.
Shame washes through me when I tell her what happened—the PG-13 version.
“Oh, honey.” Is that disappointment in her tone? It can’t be. She’s probably sad for me or upset. “Boys will be boys. And men have needs. Are you sure he was getting what he needed at home?”
My toes curl. No, he clearly wasn’t getting what he needed, or wanted. But is it entirely my fault? Really? And can’t my own mother stand by my side, even if I’m to blame for Tucker straying?
Also—cheating? Is that something she would let Dad get away with?
And in our bed? Not that that matters.
God, I don’t even know what to say to her.
My voice is unsteady when I ask her, “Um… do you know what day Uncle Kevin’s funeral will be?” That’s a safer conversation than discussing if my dreams of a blissful marriage were shattered by my callous boyfriend or by me being too self-centered.
“Next Monday. Daddy and I will be staying at the lake house. It’s only an hour away from Kevin’s. Why don’t you go there right away, get yourself centered. Maybe see if Tucker will come to his senses and join you there. It’s very romantic. I always loved it.”
I didn’t know Mom loved the house on Lake Champlain. It must be the recent loss of her brother that’s making her sentimental. Dad and she bought the house fairly recently, and I’m not attached to it. But it’ll be a perfect place to lick my wounds while I look for another job and another apartment. “Thanks, Mom.” And no, I won’t be asking Tucker to join me and reconsider.
“I’ll text you the door code.”
“Thanks.”
“And talk to Tucker, honey.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
I go to the bedroom and pack my clothes in suitcases. Then I make a mental inventory of all the things that are mine here, the things that made this apartment feel like a home—at least to me. I don’t want to leave anything behind.
At least not objects.
My disillusionment can stay behind. Because really, what does it say about me that I just didn’t see it coming? Didn’t suspect anything was off? Dry spells happen, don’t they? It shouldn’t be anything else than just that—a spell.
The next day, after a few short hours of restless sleep on the couch, I buy packing supplies and rent a U-Haul, thankful my secondhand Honda Civic came with a hitch.
I’m on autopilot while I sort through three years of a life in common. The Moroccan carpet is definitely mine. The coffee table, too, and I’m not leaving it here, even if it’s a nightmare to carry down the steps alone.
While I pack the rest, I try to shut down Mom’s voice in my head. Try to ignore her questioning, but still it pops in my thoughts. What did I do wrong? Was working long hours to make a good living a wrong thing to do? Is being ambitious and driven wrong? Was it wrong to want it all? The career, the husband, and happiness to top it off?
It looks like it was. Because it’s all gone now. Even our friends, I realize, are really all his.
Guess what, Chloe? It’s time to let that go.
Driving out of the city, my nerves are raw. But it’s only because of the trailer behind my car. Because thinking about Tucker as I glance in my rearview mirror before changing lanes, a sense of relief washes over me. It’s over.
And what does that say about me?
On my way to the lake house, I stop by Aunt Dawn’s. Her pain is fresh and raw, her house is full, and I feel awkward for only a minute. I haven’t seen my aunt and uncle and my cousins since I was a teenager, and I feel guilty that these are the circumstances that bring me back to them. I used to spend time here a lot during the holidays and summer vacations. Somewhere during my teenage years, that stopped, and I’m not sure why.
I stay only long enough to hug them all, drink some apple cider, and be on my way. Aunt Dawn and my cousins Brendan, Daphne, and Phoebe are under the shock of their sudden loss. But their welcome is genuine, and I leave their home feeling their pain but also feeling the warmth of reconnecting with family.
I’ve missed that.
Then I’m alone at the lake house. I spend my days applying to jobs in a desperate, frantic, and therefore random manner. I spend my evenings drinking too much wine, alone.
I know, I know.
But this is temporary.
Mom and Dad and Fiona eventually get here, and the loneliness is replaced by some massive family tension.
“Did you talk to Tucker?” Mom asks for the umpteenth time as she’s preparing a dip platter.
I throw my head in my hands and scratch my scalp. “What are you doing, honey?” Mom asks softly, seeing that I’m about to lose it but not seeing that it’s over her reaction and not Tucker’s effed-up behavior.
“Gonna catch up with Fi,” I say, then go down the wooded path where Fiona disappeared.
I find her throwing stones in the lake. “Hey.”
“Uncle Kevin is still dead. Shoulda stayed home, woulda saved you a load, woulda saved my nerves.” She throws another pebble, watching it ricochet.
She’s had the usual lecture about her looks—piercings, tattoos, and colored streaks in her hair. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially in her world. Why can’t they see that? “Maybe there’s a song in there,” I say to try and lift her spirits.
A bitter chuckle escapes her lips. “Yeah, maybe.” She turns to face me. “I’m too old for that shit, Clo. I don’t think I’ll ever bother coming back.”
My heart constricts at her words, but I understand her, I really do. Still, I try. “They mean well.”
“Mom and Dad treat you like shit, and you, of all people, should see that.”
“They treat you just the same.”
She turns her back to the lake to look at me. “Right, and I don’t put up with it.”
Right. “I just don’t want the confrontation.”
She closes the space between us to hug me tight. “I’m sorry that asshole hurt you. But I’m not sorry you broke up. Please tell me you’re not getting back with him.”
“Of course not,” I reply without hesitation.
She settles her face in my neck. “Good,” she mumbles on a last squeeze before letting me go and throwing stones in the water again. “How about the job hunt?”
“What about it?”
She shrugs. “How’s it going?”
“Um… I been thinking.”
She turns to face me, pebble in hand. Tilts her head and reads my mind. “Fuck no.”
“I’m tired of working for strangers. I want to work for myself, and at this stage in my life, working for Dad is the closest I can get to that.”
Fiona rolls her eyes dramatically. “UGH,” she yells, her bark echoing on the hills. “You are your own woman. You don’t need anyone. You are the kick ass person who inspires me daily.”
She’s right. No offense, but I am all that. So why do I hope against reason that working for my father is a good idea? “He’s our dad. You don’t get to choose your family.”
“You won’t change him, Chloe. And maybe he will show you more love and appreciation if you work for him. I really hope he does. But I’m not holding my breath. And, Chloe? I love you. I really do. I’m proud and fucking happy you’re my sister. But my family? My family is my band. I hope you find that someday.”
Something breaks inside me at her words. We exchange a long glance, defiance, and anger, and in the end love, so much love. When our eyes water, Fi turns back to throwing stones in the lake, while I go back up to the house.
“Rhonda is retiring at the end of the month,” is my father’s answer to my carefully worded opening about me having an interest in joining his firm.
“Rhonda is your receptionist,” I answer stupidly.
“Start at the bottom, show your worth.”
I take a deep breath. “I have an MBA, Dad. Maybe I can start at the bottom in an actual department? Or as Luther’s assistant?” Luther is the CFO. Being his assistant would at least put me in the mix of things, get me acquainted with the business. I mean, surely Dad is thinking about a succession plan or just retirement down the road? I know there’s time. I’m in no way thinking I should push him out the door. But look at Uncle Kevin. He died suddenly, and now they’re scrambling to figure out who’s going to run the restaurant in Emerald Creek.
Just that should give Dad pause.
“Darling, you don’t know your place. If I hired you for one of them top jobs, guys would talk. Nobody cares about your fancy em-bee-ey. And, I’ll have you know, a receptionist is important.”
My toes curl in my shoes, and I can almost feel the hair raise on the back of my neck. There’s no point arguing. Just like I did with Tucker, I shove the feelings away, and put a thick lid on them.
“I’m not sure that’s right for me, Dad.”
“Didn’t think so, honey.”
“What’s with the U-Haul?” my cousin Brendan asks. Uncle Kevin has been laid to rest. Aunt Dawn and Mom face their grief together, both heavily medicated and slightly inebriated, which is not the best combination but the one that works right now. Brendan and I are sitting on the steps that lead to the wraparound porch of his parents’ house. The reception is coming to an end, but despite the reason I’m here, I find peace. I don’t want to go just yet.
Fi and I drove here in my car so we’d have some alone time before she flies back out, and so we don’t have to spend another hour or so in a confined space with our parents. And yeah, I’m not dealing with unhooking and re-hooking the small trailer, so it’s here with me.
“Broke up with my boyfriend.”
“So you U-Haul your shit everywhere? That’s kinda dramatic,” Brendan says sweetly. He’s always been nice in a quiet, mountain-man kind of way.
I count on my fingers. “I lost my apartment. I lost my job. I don’t know where I’m going to end up. And I didn’t have time to plan, what with Uncle Kevin passing.”
“His timing was shit, I’ll give you that,” he manages to joke.
I place my hand on his forearm. “I’m really sorry about him, Brendan. I mean it. I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch more, but you guys mean a lot to me. If there’s anything I can do, you know, just... I’m here.” That’s the kind of stupid thing I’m prone to say at a funeral. What the hell can I do now? “I can stay a few days and check in on Aunt Dawn while I’m at the lake house, you know. In case you need to go back to your cows or…” What does Brendan do again? Some real Vermonty stuff.
“Sheep,” he volunteers with a smirk.
“Right. Sheep.”
We fall silent for a while in the gentle glow of twilight.
“Actually, there might be something you could help with while you’re here.”
“Yeah? Great!”
“I don’t know anything about restaurants,” I say. After everyone left and Fiona got a ride to the airport, Brendan and I moved to the study, a dark paneled room with a legit desk, shelves with trophies, deep leather armchairs. Aunt Dawn is there, too, and Brendan’s younger sisters Daphne and Phoebe. They see this as a business meeting.
“But you’re a businesswoman, sweetheart,” Aunt Dawn says. “A restaurant is just a business like any other. It’s actually much simpler. Just a few employees. One location. Preparing dinner. How complicated can it get? I mean, you’ve managed whole departments. And your recent bump in the road is not on you.”
She knows all this about me, and I haven’t even stayed in touch? The warmth of her love spreads through me like sunshine. She continues her plea, but she’s already won me over. How could I let her down? She needs someone to run the restaurant while they put it on the market. It needs to stay open for them to get the best price out of it. They believe that considering how well the restaurant is doing, it shouldn’t take more than a few months to sell. I’ll be paid a fair salary. And it’ll add hands-on experience that would factor favorably on my resume. “There’s a chef, right? No cooking involved on my end?”
She cackles. “Your uncle Kevin couldn’t cook to save his life, bless his heart.” The meds are definitely at work in the relaxed way she’s dealing with all this, but she still has her wits about her. “It’s just a numbers game, honey. I’m sure you’d have a lot of fun doing it while you get back on your feet.”
I sometimes watch reruns of Restaurant Disasters. It doesn’t look remotely fun. But I get what she’s saying. And from what I know, the restaurant my uncle owned is a small, fine dining place with a stellar reputation. Not the stuff that draws audiences on TV.
I’ll just be tucked away in the office, making sure bills are paid and remittances are posted.
“The restaurant lease comes with the cutest cottage, so you won’t have to worry about finding a place to stay. It’s adorable, and your uncle Kevin barely used it. It’s all yours!”
I glance at Brendan, and see him nod, visibly relaxed.
“When do you want me to start?”