Never the Bride

  “Why? They’ve seen me at other meetings.”

  “Yes, but usually in a corner and looking very bored. They need to know you’re part of the bigger picture.”

  I try to sit up straight like Nicole and smile. “You know I hate this kind of thing.”

  Nicole smiles. “I think Mr. Keegan is single.”

  I glance over. No ring. And no way. He’s a decade older and looks like an expression might kill him. But I decide to take Nicole’s advice. She is savvy in these things. I stand and lean over the table. “Hi, I’m Jessie Stone.”

  They look at me. Blink. Blink. I hold out my hand. They each shake it. I sit down. Awkward. Nicole shoots me a look. I whisper out the side of my mouth, “It’s them, not me. I smiled.”

  Mr. Coston flies in, carrying folders, juggling his coffee, trying to button his jacket. “Good morning, gentlemen. Coffee, anyone? Soda?”

  Thankfully everyone says no, because that’s my job. Mr. Coston stands at the end of the table near the whiteboard, and I get comfortable, sipping my coffee carefully and trying to swallow without tasting much. I want to close my eyes, think hard about what happened last night. I can only wonder if insane people know they’re insane. I don’t think I’m insane because I’m rationally thinking that I am insane, and insane people think they’re sane. Of course it can be argued that sane people don’t see God or have visits from God. Insane people may claim to have visits from God, but I’m willing to bet these visitors don’t look like the God who showed up on my doorstep. All Prince Charming—ish. So I’m not sane or insane. What does that make me?

  Jessie Stone, ladies and gentlemen: the first woman to discover there’s actually a third option.

  “Jessie?”

  I glance up. “I’m sorry…yes? Um…?”

  “You have the report to pass out?”

  “Yes, of course.” I quickly stand and start passing out stapled stacks of paper.

  Mr. Coston continues. “Despite the typical slump for this time of year, not to mention the current housing market, we’ve had a better-than-average showing count. Nicole, outshining us all. Congratulations.”

  Nicole smiles and nods. I give her a congratulatory wink.

  “And I’d like to introduce Jessie Stone to you. She’s been with us for ten years. She is reliable and passionate for what we do here.”

  Grin. Sell it. Sell it.

  “Jessie, can you update us on listings?”

  “Sure.” I move back to my chair and pick up my notes. I decide to remain standing because that seems more professional. And I am, after all, passionate about real estate. “We have ten new properties—”

  And then he appears, walking straight through the door like it’s made of air. He is dressed in slacks and a polo, and has his hands in his pockets. He smiles at me. I don’t smile back.

  “—um, that came in from the God Development Project.”

  “God?” Mr. Coston’s voice shoots through the room.

  “Gabe. Sorry! Yes, Gabe. Not God. How ridiculous of me to—”

  He speaks. “Jessie, I have to tell you something. Before you give me that pen, you should know a bit of what you’re in for.”

  Suddenly someone kicks my shaking leg. It’s Nicole, staring so wide eyed at me that for a moment I think maybe my pants have dropped. But no, I’m simply making a fool of myself. I try to refocus, though I can’t help watching him move to the other side of the room.

  “Um. And the condo renovations in Montecito—”

  “I said you’d be busy. And I am compulsively true to my word.”

  “Be quiet! Quite, I mean. Be quite…lovely The Montecito con-dos, that is. They’ll be ready for showings.”

  “Did you hear me?” my imaginary friend named God asks.

  “You said twenty-four hours!” I whisper, foolishly thinking that somehow a whisper would go unnoticed. I try a smile. “In twenty-four hours. They’ll be ready. Just finishing up some minor touch-ups. You know how that goes. We want everything to be perfect. Mr. Coston expects no less.” I glance at Mr. Coston, who looks ready to intervene for me at any second.

  He seems to relax a little as I sit down. I keep my focus on Mr. Coston, staring so hard at him that Nicole keeps glancing at me.

  “Send a photographer today” Mr. Coston says. “Let’s get these on the premier listings.”

  “You have to find a way” says God from across the room, “to share your proposal ideas with other people.”

  “What?” I whisper, turning my head to look at the man no one else can see.

  “A photographer,” Mr. Coston says loudly, looking where I am looking and obviously seeing nothing. He looks back at me, and I force myself to look at him, smiling. “The one who takes pictures? Pictures that you can upload to our Web site?”

  “Yes, of course.” My hands are shaking, and it’s not from the espresso, I can tell you that. I ignore God for the few more minutes we are in the meeting—even though I am all too aware that he is pacing on the other side of the room. Mr. Coston finally finishes up, and I bolt out the door and straight to the ladies room. I check under the stalls. I’m all alone.

  Except. Poof! There he is, sitting on the sink counter.

  “Is this funny to you?” I ask.

  “Is what funny?”

  “Making me look like an idiot. Why didn’t you show up at Starbucks? We could’ve talked there. You have to come into a meeting?”

  He turns on the faucet for no particular reason, it seems, except to let his hand play under the water. “I’m kind of on my own schedule. I’m not in the habit of checking if it’s convenient.”

  I put my hands on my hips but I don’t say anything. That does sound very God of the universe. And it feels foolish arguing that he’s not working with my schedule.

  “So,” he says, “to recount what we’re doing here. You are going to be participating in, well, let’s just call it show and tell. You’re going to help others, Jessie. I’m really into that, you know”

  I take two paper towels, move to the sink, and start wiping off the water droplets he’s making. “You’re trying to tell me that while waiting for my own proposal, you want me to help other women get the ones I have been dreaming about my whole life.”

  “That about sums it up.” He smiles and holds his hands up to dry in the air.

  I snatch two more paper towels and dry up water droplets from the other sink. “And how do you, oh wise one, propose I do this?”

  “That’s up to you. You know how you’re always bemoaning that all these people around you are getting engaged?”

  “I do not moan. I merely point out.”

  He looks down at me, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of who he really is inside that young man’s body. I squirm. The moment passes, and he says, “Share those creative serenade ideas from your journals with the guys who need your brilliance. I particularly like the one that involves the daisies—oh, and the ball of fire.”

  I grab another towel. Water spots seem to be appearing out of nowhere. God hops off the counter. I start wiping. “How many proposals do I have to share? Three? Four? Nine hundred?” I need a number. Numbers comfort me.

  But he is gone. Naturally. And right on cue, Nicole comes barging in. “There you are!”

  I toss the paper towel in the trash. “You know when I get nervous I need to wipe things.”

  Nicole stands there with her hands on her hips, not smiling. “Okay, first of all, no more coffee for you.”

  “It wasn’t the coffee.”

  “Secondly, what just happened? I’ve always known you to be quite confident in front of people, Jessie.”

  “It was nothing. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

  Nicole took her hands off her hips and took a few steps toward me. “You didn’t embarrass me, but I am worried about you. You just seemed very unfocused.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Sweetie,” she says and comes in for a hug, “I’m just so worried about you
. You don’t seem like yourself.”

  “I know.” I lightly tap her on the back and then head out of the bathroom. She scurries after me.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, hurrying up beside me.

  “Yes, but I can’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You always say that, Jessie. But I think you’d be surprised if you just shared it with me.”

  I reach my desk and sit down. Nicole leans over the counter, looking at me. Should I tell her? I can’t. I don’t know how to explain it. “This place, Nicole, is good for you. You love what you do and you’re good at it. But it’s just a job for me, you know?” Much better reason than explaining how God was pacing the boardroom.

  She nods. “I think Mr. Coston senses that and wants to give you more responsibility. That was what this morning was all about.”

  “And I blew it.” I reach for chocolate but think twice. I’d hate to swell today and have to deal with that on top of everything else. I tend to swell more when I’m stressed.

  Nicole smiles at me. “It wasn’t as bad as you think.”

  I lean back in my chair and put a hand over my face. “No. I’m sure I came across as endearingly abnormal.”

  Nicole laughs. “You’re always endearing, my friend. No matter what. Listen,” she says, reaching all the way over the counter and straightening the stapler for me, which I thought was very nice, “I’ll talk to Mr. Coston, okay? Tell him to give you another chance.”

  “You are the best!” I lean forward and squeeze her arm. “But that’s okay. I don’t want you to have to wipe up my messes for me.”

  The strange thing about it, though, was that messing up the presentation didn’t seem like that big of a mess—which got me to thinking.

  And that can be dangerous.

  six

  Malia’s store looks a little empty. All the candy is half off, and I’ve got an arm full of assorted dark chocolates as I make my way to the checkout. The day after Valentine’s is truly along with Easter and Halloween, the best time to buy candy.

  I’m relieved to have made it past Valentine’s Day again, though perhaps not with my sanity intact.

  I heave my candy onto Malia’s counter. She chuckles.

  “I can always count on you to help relieve my inventory.” She holds up a discounted Valentine’s card I’ve picked out and raises an eyebrow. “Something you want to share with me?”

  “No, not at all. You know how I like to buy cards for my future husband.”

  “How many cards do you have for him?”

  “Oh, you know, I don’t keep count.” Fifty-two. I lean on the counter. “So, I’ve got a crazy idea.”

  She looks up at me with a big smile. “Yeah?”

  “What if I rented space from you and opened a little business?”

  She looks intrigued but not sold. “What kind of business?”

  “A sort of consulting firm. For men. On how to make the perfect proposal. A mind-blowing proposal. I’d help them plan the whole thing, and that would hopefully bring more gift-giving, lovesick, paying customers into the store.” I eagerly rub my hands together. “So, what do you think? Can I move in?”

  Malia squeals. Don’t be alarmed. She’s a squealer at all things exciting. She squeals at babies and small animals and good hair days. She reaches over the counter and pulls me into a hug.

  “I love it! Oh, sweetie, I’ve been wanting you out of that dead-end nine-to-fiver for so long! If it means I get to keep you all day—” Malia stops. “You’re turning pale.”

  It doesn’t surprise me. I feel the blood draining out of my head. Quit my other job? I hadn’t thought of that. I was thinking more like a supplement to my job. I look at Malia, who is frozen between elation and hesitation. She’s watching me to determine what she should do next.

  “Can I really do this?” I whisper.

  Malia looks directly at me. “Jessie, the way you’ve stepped up all your life, how you’ve done what you had to do, like taking care of your sister—it amazes me. But she’s old enough to take care of herself now. You can take a risk. You can do this. You can do this.”

  I take a deep, liberating breath, then bite my lip. Is this even sensible? I mean, quit the reliable job that has paid the bills for so long? Quit the familiar job that I’ve just spent ten years at?

  That wretched exclamation mark morphs into a question mark.

  “I can do this. I can, can’t I?”

  Malia pounds the counter. “You can, baby. You can.”

  “I can! Okay. Okay. Yeah. This feels right.”

  Malia rings up the last of my candy and the card. “Why don’t you write some ideas down on paper, your vision, your practical needs, all that. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She puts my stuff in a bag but holds up the card. “May I take a peek?”

  “Sure.” I smile.

  She opens the card and reads. “‘You’re absolutely divine.’”

  I shrug. “Just seemed to fit at the moment.”

  I don’t know why it surprises me anymore, but it always does when I find Brooklyn sound asleep in the middle of the day. I have a strange internal clock that won’t allow me to sleep past eight, and that’s on the weekend. Plus, I have no idea how someone can wear a mask while sleeping. I get annoyed when my hair brushes against my face.

  I walk into her room, already a pigsty, kicking clothes and high-heeled shoes to the side. I throw open the curtains. Bright beaming light warms my skin and makes me blink. Brooklyn doesn’t even stir. I clap my hands. She manages to groan.

  “Hey! Get up! It’s the afternoon, for crying out loud.”

  She rolls over. “I’ve got my alarm set for five. Leave me alone.”

  “Five? That’s when you should be getting off work. Work” I throw back her comforter, and she curls her knees to her chest. Bouncing on the end of the bed, I say, “If you are moving back in, you need a job.”

  “I have a job.”

  “Volunteering at the community theater doesn’t count.”

  “Jessie, later. Please.” She tries to pull the covers back over her, but I won’t let her. “My lower eyelids get puffy when I don’t sleep. Plus I get moody. I’m liable to start crying at any moment, so just let me sleep.”

  I wish she could see my unmoved expression. “You have always been my favorite drama queen. Now get up.” I pull her arm and manage to get her into a sitting position. I tear off her sleeping mask. “You no longer have a boyfriend to pay your bills.”

  “Yes, Jessie, I realize that, which is why I’m drowning my sorrows in a day’s worth of sleep. Or trying to.” She almost tips over again, but I catch her and get her to her feet. Then I let out a gasp. “Hey, you better make it to the bathroom and get some cream on that thing.”

  That pops her eyes open. She has no idea what “that thing” is, but by the look on her face, if it requires cream it’s enough to get her out of bed. I smile. I am so stinkin’ clever it kills me.

  I go downstairs and start some battery acid / coffee for her. I keep it around for Brooklyn, who can’t manage to tackle a day, or the end of a day, without it. I hate the smell of it brewing, though. It’s so bitter and skunk-like. Like a good beverage gone bad.

  Ten minutes later she plunks down the stairs and spills onto the kitchen table, managing her behind into a chair. “I feel like I’m dying.”

  I bring her a cup, doctored with sugar-free sugar and cream-free cream.

  “Straw.”

  I hand her one, but only her white sparkling teeth manage to thank me.

  I sit down, put my elbows on the table, and get ready to watch her expression. “Here’s the deal. I’m starting my own business.”

  She barely looks up from the coffee she’s hovering over. “Is this a Mary Kay sort of deal?” she asks between sips. “Because if so, you’re going to have to start wearing the stuff and you know how you hate makeup.”

  I get up. “I can do makeup. Red lipstick, no less.” I pull out the bread and peanut butter
.

  “Red is not your color.”

  I grab the jelly from the fridge. “Shut up and listen. It’s a service for men who want to make a splash proposing to their future wives. It’ll be in Malia’s store.”

  She nods her head slowly, as if tasting a new food. “Sounds interesting enough.”

  “I know.” I put the sandwich on a plate and put it in front of her, then sit down at the table with her. “There’s nothing else like it out there. I believe in this, Brooklyn. So much so that I’m quitting my job.”

  She shoves the sandwich in her mouth and says with her mouth full, “Huh? You—Jessica Esther Stone, a woman for whom risk is a four-letter word—are going to leave your very reliable and well-paying job to start a business? That’s funny.” She crouches over her coffee again. “Do you have any mochaccino?”

  I notice a few drops of coffee near her mug and grab my rag. “We’ll be adding a service to the shop Malia already runs. We’ll stage proposals for guys who want to ask a girl to marry them.”

  Up her head comes. “We?” She pulls the straw out of her coffee. It drips. I return with the rag and realize she may be dripping on purpose because she knows it drives me nuts.

  “I can’t do this myself, Brooklyn. But I have to share my creative proposals somehow.”

  “Have to? Why?”

  “I just do.”

  She bites into her sandwich again. “Well, I have to say, over the years you’ve come up with some really amazing ideas.”

  I clap my hands—“I know!”—and then realize I sound like a cheerleader.

  Fortunately Brooklyn doesn’t seem to notice. “And men need help in this area. They seriously don’t have a clue.”

  “I know!”

  Brooklyn seems to be contemplating, which is a good sign because she rarely thinks about much.

  “So?” I ask. “Interested?”

  “I guess. If we must.” She slurps her coffee.

  It’s not gung-ho, but we are talking about Brooklyn here. Maybe more excitement will come later. I watch her watch her coffee. She’s always loved straws. Now she uses them primarily for cosmetic purposes, but as a kid, she was obsessed with them. She’d drink the milk out of the bottom of the bowl or use it for canned chicken noodle soup. I bought straws in bulk and still do. She even has a way of squeezing them and running the tip between her teeth like floss. And anytime she’s nervous or upset, she likes to chew on them.