Chapter 18 Holly #2
“Don’t give her a hard time, ladies,” Byron coos, sidling up beside me and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Our little Holly Berry can be a bit naive when it comes to—”
“Blatant sexual attraction,” Justine snorts.
“I am not naive!” I retort. “Plus, you’re wrong. Luisa’s not, like, into him. It’s a professional relationship.” Justine raises her eyebrows but doesn’t push back.
Anxious to avoid this conversation, I grab Irma by the elbow and drag her into the walk-in, pointing out the stash of extra ingredients. Then I make my way back to the Ivy Room, studiously avoiding Byron and Justine.
I return to my seat, just in time to hear Luisa asking Eli, “All right, My Fair Guy, are you a squeamish eater?”
“I’m not a squeamish anything,” Eli responds, judiciously avoiding the nickname she’s assigned him for Phase Four. “Why?” he asks.
“I’d say your best bet is to just dive in and order,” she replies. “That’s the only surefire way to avoid asking a very dumb question.”
“Like, what the fuck is preserved yuzu?” Eli asks, pointing at an item on the menu. “And aren’t truffles those little round chocolate balls? Seems weird to serve with tuna fish.”
“Which is why you’ll not ask any questions,” Luisa says, laughing despite herself. “Confidently order your starter and main course, avoid words you can’t pronounce, and be sure to let any women at the table order first.”
“And speaking of women,” I jump in, “try not to order anything too feminine.”
“Feminine,” Eli repeats slowly, staring down at the menu. “And how might a gentleman know if a food is, uh, feminine?”
“A good rule of thumb,” I instruct, “is to stay away from anything that seems healthy, like something you might eat on a diet.”
“So, meat and potatoes,” he says in a lovely slow cadence. “Well, thaaat I caaan do.” He winks at Luisa.
Seeing no sign of Justine or Byron, I start to worry that some disaster may be unfolding back there. Where is everyone?
“Can we get some of those crackers?” Luisa asks, looking toward the kitchen longingly.
“You mean the saltines?” I ask, incredulous. “Do people really like those?”
“They’re, like, the only reason I came.” Luisa smirks.
I sigh and excuse myself from the table again, to rustle up some saltines. Heading through the door, I hear her call out, “Make sure they’re warm, please.”
At least she asked nicely.
“What’s going on back here?” I ask, bursting into the kitchen to find the three of them huddled close. “We need some warm crackers out there. Luisa’s getting hangry.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Irma says. “We got distracted by juicy gossip.”
“Did you hear Dennis is retiring?” Byron asks.
Dennis is the club’s general manager—the sixth since I arrived at Dogwood Hills, and among the best of them.
He’s not the brightest bulb on the circuit, if I’m being honest, but he’s reliable, and a good enough boss to know when to step aside and let those of us who’ve been around for longer make and execute the plans—as long as they don’t include such earth-shattering propositions as replacing mimeographed locker lease forms with online documents. That sort of thing simply wouldn’t fly.
I shudder, recalling a particularly foreboding moment last spring when, entering my shoebox office, I found Griggs already standing inside the doorway, demanding to lease a second locker in the men’s locker room.
Though I’ve never been in there, Byron tells me the lockers are enormous—nearly the size of my office.
I was so busy wondering how many pairs of golf shoes that man must have that I didn’t notice until it was too late: He had positioned himself so that I’d be forced to brush against him to approach my desk, where I keep the stack of mimeographed lease forms. Seriously, the forms are in triplicate—the kind you have to press hard on with a ballpoint pen.
And then I file them in an actual folder, in an old-school metal file cabinet.
Another part of the club’s timeless charm, I suppose.
But also a pain in the ass for staff. I had to make the split-second decision as to whether I’d let my tits or my thigh brush against his body.
I went with thigh. Looking back, I should have known where all this was going.
“Dennis is headed out to pasture,” Justine says, “which means he’s about to move to Carrolton and join a bowling league, or maybe take a bus tour of America’s national parks, or something equally dull—”
“Don’t be cruel, Justine,” Irma interjects.
“Well, you’re the one who called him mediocre the other day,” Justine retorts.
“I said trustworthy and reliable,” Irma replies, her voice rising. “He’s a classic Taurus.”
I know these two all too well, and their play-fighting banter could go on for days. Before we know it, Irma will be explaining the planets in Dennis’s first house or his moon or something equally incomprehensible, and Justine will be calling bullshit on her astrological insights.
“You should apply for the GM position.” Justine turns to me with sudden clarity, all hint of banter gone. I look to Irma and then at Byron, and they both nod vigorously in unison.
Have these people lost their minds? There’s no way I’m qualified to be the general manager of this club.
I wonder for a moment how Luisa would respond if she were in my situation.
If her three closest friends were to tell her she had the chops to be their boss, she’d say, Hell yeah, I do. Thanks for finally noticing.
But I’m not Luisa. (And, come to think of it, I’m not sure Luisa actually has three friends.) So instead, I shake my head and do what I do best: get back to the task at hand.
“Focus, people,” I announce. “We have a meal to serve.” They all stand at attention, and Byron even gives a little salute.
It doesn’t matter what I want, anyway. Before I can even consider seeking a promotion, I have one enormous obstacle to deal with: Griggs Caldecott Johnson III.
That man stands firmly between me, my son, and our future, and we’re way past the days when I could awkwardly slip by him.
Our Tripp is the only person with any chance of knocking him down.