Now here I am, standing on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Inman Street, fighting back waves of nausea and struggling to keep myself from crying.
This changes everything, absolutely everything. No more family vacations down the Cape. No more warm and happy Christmases, sitting around the fireplace, sipping hot chocolate, watching It’s a Wonderful Life and listening to Sean play Madden NFL 2005 on his computer. And my wedding—the one I’m going to have as soon as I meet a smart, gorgeous, successful man who loves me for me—is totally ruined. How can I have my father walk me down the aisle when he clearly doesn’t respect the sanctity of marriage? I can’t believe it. I’m not even engaged yet—I don’t even have a boyfriend—and already my father has ruined my wedding.
I’m gonna kill him.
But before I kill him, I’m gonna to talk to him, find out why he did this. But how? How can I make myself broach the subject? “So, Dad, I met your mistress today . . .” How can I say those words?
I think I’m going to throw up.
I blow off work for the rest of the day and take solace at The Thirsty Scholar in Davis Square. It’s a quaint, traditional Irish pub that attracts a crowd of wannabe poets, writers, and drifters. I slump down at a corner table and order a Glenlivet on the rocks. Then I call for reinforcements. She answers on the second ring.
“Fintane Catering; this is Krista.”
I mumble something that sounds like hello.
“Dani?”
“Mmm.” I pull the cell phone closer to my mouth, banging it against my lips.
“You okay?” she asks, sounding concerned.
“I’m drinking Scotch in the middle of the day, if that tells you anything.”
Krista pauses. “Scotch?”
“Yeah. Glenlivet, to be exact.”
“Dani, you don’t even like hard liquor! I’ve never seen you drink anything stronger than a wine cooler.”
She’s right. But this day is so horrific, I feel obligated to have something potent. “I’m guessing you’re not at work,” Krista says.
“Good guess.”
“Where are you?”
“The Thirsty Scholar in Davis Square.”
“In Somerville?” She sounds baffled.
“Yeah. I left work and hopped on the Red Line and rode around for a while. Somehow, I wound up here.” There’s a long silence, and I can tell Krista’s trying to figure out what to say. I decide to just come right out and tell her. “My father’s having an affair.” He is no longer “Dad.” From this day forward, I will always refer to him as “Father.”
Krista gasps. There’s a long silence on the line. Finally, she says, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not kidding. He’s got a girlfriend. I met her this afternoon.”
“Oh, fuck!”
“Literally,” I deadpan.
“Wow . . . that’s just . . . how? Did you catch him red-handed?”
“No, but I caught him red-headed, so to speak.” I quickly fill her in on what went down. When I finish, Krista lets out a low whistle.
“Jesus, Dani,” she says, and I hear her fumbling around in the background. “Sit tight; I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ll have lunch or something.”
I take a huge swig of Scotch. It goes down like fire, scorching the inside of my throat. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. Haven’t you already taken a lunch break?”
“Nobody will care. Besides, you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She makes it sound like someone’s died, but I appreciate her concern. “Thanks, Krista.”
“This is so weird,” she says. “The way you found out. It’s so . . .”
“Comical?” I supply.
“I was going for ironic. Or shocking. Or fucked up.”
I snort. “How about all of the above?”
True to her word, Krista makes it to The Thirsty Scholar in less than twenty minutes. I’m just starting my third drink. I downed the first two in record time, and my head feels light and fuzzy. I’m not used to Scotch, but I’m finding it suits me. Krista comes bustling in through the door and rushes over to my table.
“Hey,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a hug.
This makes me burst into tears. I remember the last time we hung out, at The Cheesecake Factory. Everything’s so different now.
“Shhh, Dani, don’t worry,” Krista says, stroking my hair. “Everything will be okay. Just give it some time.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and pull away. “This isn’t one of those ‘time heals all wounds’ kind of situations. My father’s a liar and a cheat. My family is over.” I start sobbing harder.
“Maybe there’s another explanation,” Krista suggests, sitting down beside me.
“And to think, I just went shopping with that jerk two days ago,” I say, ignoring her. “I helped him pick out an Anne Klein shirt for my mother—my mother! The woman he’s cheating on!”
Krista motions for me to keep my voice down. “It’s going to be all right, Dani.”
A thought occurs to me. “Maybe this is some kind of karmic payback?”
“Meaning?”
“I make my living ruining relationships; it’s only fair that mine get ruined, too.”
“You can’t be serious. By the time people come to Your Big Break Inc., they’re ready to jump ship. It’s not like you tear them apart; if anything, you make the breakup easier on both parties.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I ought to be bringing couples together, not pulling them apart.”
Krista shrugs. “You can’t force people to do anything. If they want to break up, they’re going to break up. It doesn’t matter whether you help them or not.”
My cell phone starts ringing. It’s work calling. “Oh, shit!”
Krista looks alarmed. “Your dad?”
“No, it’s Craig.” I quickly answer the call. “Hello.”
“So you are alive.”
“Barely,” I mumble.
“You left me in a real bind, Dani.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook since you left!”
“It has?” I ask nervously. This can’t be a good thing. What if Gretchen somehow figured out that Paul Myers is my father? What if she tracked my mom down and told her about the affair? What if my parents—
“A Jason Dutwiler has called four times, looking for you. He says it’s urgent.”
Oh, crap. That’s right. I’m supposed to convince Jason’s ex-girlfriend Lucy to consider reconciliation. Between the Evan Hirschbaum creep-out and Gretchen’s big bombshell, I’ve completely forgotten.
“He said you promised to get back to him in a few days but never did. That doesn’t reflect well on our organization.”
“I’m sorry, Craig, I totally dropped the ball.”
Craig sighs. “Actually, that’s not my concern. I looked through your computer files and, well, I’m just gonna come right out and ask. Dani, did you promise Jason Dutwiler you’d find him a date for his sister’s wedding?”
I take a swig of Scotch, trying to stall. “Kind of. I promised I’d try to convince his ex-girlfriend to go with him.”
He draws in a deep breath. “I was afraid of that. Dani, have you forgotten about rule number five?” He pauses and then recites it: “Do not get personally involved. This is the cardinal rule and must be followed above all others!”
“I know better than to get personally involved,” I mumble.
“And yet that is exactly what you’ve done with Jason Dutwiler!”
“It’s no big deal. I can handle it.”
“There shouldn’t be anything to handle! You dumped the guy; that ought to be the end of it. We’re not running a matchmaking service, for God’s sake!”
“I’m not matchmaking,” I assure him. “I’m just helping out with the healing process.”
“The healing process!” Craig explodes. “You’re not a guru, Dani.”
> “I know that,” I say, defensively.
“Apparently, you do not. First, you tried to reunite that couple from Jamaica Plain—”
“And that worked,” I jump in. “Last I heard, they were engaged.”
He ignores this. “Then you gave that computer science student from Tufts a makeover—on company time, I might add.”
“Craig, the guy had a ten-inch ponytail! That wasn’t a makeover; it was an intervention. If you’d seen him, you’d understand why I took him for a haircut—”
“And to Banana Republic for clothes. Don’t forget that part.”
“He’d just been dumped by his Internet girlfriend! He needed a confidence booster. There’s nothing in the rules about taking a client out for a haircut and makeover.”
Craig continues, “And last month, you went to end one of Mr. Hirschbaum’s relationships, and five hours later, you came back raving about the latest Keanu Reeves film!”
“Okay, well, see, that . . .” I struggle to think of a way to explain it. My head is starting to spin from the alcohol. Krista slowly scoots my half-finished Scotch across the table, replacing it with a water. I yank it back.
“Dani, if you keep this up,” Craig is saying, “I’m going to have no choice but to—”
“But to what?” I demand. “Fire me?” I’m usually not this bold; it’s the Scotch talking.
“No.” His tone softens. “Nothing that drastic. But suffice it to say, I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you. And you’re going to have to learn to abide by my rules. They’re not here to torture you; they’re here to make the business run smoothly. Understand?”
“Yeah, I get it.” I roll my eyes at Krista. I know I have no right to get snippy with Craig, but I can’t help myself.
I think I’m about to get off easy, but then he adds, “Now, you wanna tell me the real reason why you left in the middle of a client consultation?”
My mood crashes as thoughts of my father come flooding back. My lower lip starts quivering, and I feel as though I’m on the verge of tears again. “Craig, my life is so messed up right now. You have no idea.”
“Give me an idea, then.”
“It’s my father.”
Craig gasps. “Is he sick? Dying?”
Well, I think wryly, he’s dead to me. “No, he’s alive and well. But the situation’s personal.”
“Are you coming back to the office today or not?”
I glance at my watch. It’s almost 4 p.m., and I’m in no state to work.
“Can I take a half day or something?” I beg. “I’ll stay late tomorrow, I promise.”
He pauses for a moment. “Oh, all right,” he says, giving in.
“Thanks, Craig.”
“If that Dutwiler dude calls again, I’ll tell him you had to leave early,” he says briskly. “But I want you to straighten out this mess first thing tomorrow.”
“Sure, Craig. No problem.”
We quickly say our good-byes and hang up.
“You get away with murder at that place,” Krista says. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “So, do you . . . do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I just keep going over it in my mind, trying to understand. No matter how hard I think about it, it doesn’t seem real.”
“It’s pretty shocking,” she agrees.
“How could my father do this?” I ask in disbelief. “Yesterday, we were great friends; now I feel like I don’t even know him anymore.”
“Are you going to confront him?”
“I have to.” Hands shaking, I pick up my cell phone and start punching in his work number.
“You’re going to do it now?” Krista exclaims, stopping me mid-dial.
“It’s now or never!” I say, a little louder than I intended.
“Maybe you should take a few days to, uh, sober up. You know, figure out what you want to say. And besides, don’t you want to do this in person?”
“I don’t want to do this at all.”
Krista smiles sympathetically. “I know you don’t, sweetie. And I’m here for you, whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” I swallow hard, struggling to keep my composure. As long as I can keep it together, everything will be fine.
“Maybe you shouldn’t deal with this yourself,” Krista suggests. “It might be better if your mom confronts him.” She stops, thinking it over. “Yeah, you should probably go to your family first.”
My family. I think of my mother and brother and how devastated they’re going to be and the bottom drops out from under me. The nervous breakdown I’ve fought off suddenly hits and I can’t move or speak. I feel paralyzed, rooted to my chair.
“Dani?” Krista says, and her voice sounds very far off.
I cradle the cell phone in my hands and burst into tears.
7
GirlS’ Night In
I wake up the next morning feeling a thousand times better.
I’ve realized something: Gretchen is a liar.
It’s so glaring, so obvious that I can’t believe I didn’t see it immediately. So what if she claims to be sleeping with a financial analyst named Paul Myers? That doesn’t make it a fact. What proof do I have, other than her word? So she knows my father’s name and where he works. Big deal. His bio is in the Merriwether Payne information booklet that the company gives out to potential investors. It’s also posted on their website. She’s obviously a stalker or something.
I’m in such a good mood, I go into the office early. The first order of business is Jason Dutwiler. I try his house and don’t find him there, so I leave a message. I’m about to phone his ex-girlfriend, Lucy, when Craig comes bustling in.
“Word up, Dani!” he calls out, sailing into my office.
“I think you mean ‘what’s up?’”
“Close enough. It’s good to see you’re up and running.”
“Good to see you, too,” I say brightly. Even my throbbing headache—the result of yesterday’s Glenlivet indulgence—can’t drag me down.
“I booked you an appointment for tomorrow afternoon,” he informs me. “Erin Foster-somebody-or-other.” He digs into his briefcase and pulls out a memo. “Meant to leave this on your desk,” he says, passing it to me.
I look down at his scratchy handwriting.
Erin Foster-Ellis
27
from Beacon Hill
Wants to cut ties with long-term bf
Initial consultation w/ Dani, Thurs., May 12, at 2:30 p.m.
“Beacon Hill. Impressive.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Craig gives me a sly smile. “Hit her up for our most expensive package. Make sure she feels nice and guilty so she’ll send this poor dude some expensive ‘parting gifts.’”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise. Sometimes I wonder how I make it in this business. As soon as Craig leaves, I get back to work. I’m in the middle of checking my e-mail when the phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hi Dani, Evan Hirschbaum here.”
“Hi, Evan,” I say. “You got another job for us?”
“No, I’m calling about Sophie Kennison—the job you’ve yet to finish.”
“As soon as she comes back from Connecticut, I’ll pay her a visit,” I say. “She won’t bother you again.”
“She’s been bothering me for the last week,” he gripes.
“I thought she was out of town,” I say nervously. I hope I haven’t gotten the dates screwed up.
“She is. But she’s been e-mailing me every hour on the hour since she left!”
Uh-oh.
“‘Dear Evan, Why don’t you love me anymore?’” he begins reading in a singsong voice. “‘Tell me what I’ve done to drive you away. Am I too fat? I’ll lose weight. Bad in bed? I can be kinky, try anything you want . . . ’”
Oh, no. Not the sex talk again.
“‘Am I boring? Not smart enough? I can read the same books you do. I’ll learn to cook your favorite foods, cheer on your
favorite sports teams . . . ’” He reverts to his normal voice. “It goes on for two pages. And I’ve got another twenty just like this one!”
“Forward them to me,” I instruct him. “I want a copy for our records.”
“Screw your records!” he shouts down the phone. “Just get her to stop.”
“I’ll speak with Sophie ASAP. Do you have her parents’ phone number in Connecticut?” I ask, picking up a pen and preparing to write. “If not, I’ll call her cell.”
“No, I don’t have the number,” he barks. “Why would I?”
“Right, I understand.” I’m starting to get worried. Evan is our most important client, and I am screwing everything up.
“This Sophie situation is out of control,” he continues. “Up to this point, I’ve been ignoring her. But if she writes me again, I’m going to tell her to fuck off. Now, I’m going to Chicago for a few days, but by the time I get back, I hope you’ll have this mess sorted out.”
“Absolutely, sir. And don’t worry about Sophie. I’ll straighten her out. Count on it.”
Evan chuckles. “Again with the ‘sir’ business. You’re making me feel old.”
He clicks off the line before I have time to respond. I’m flustered, but I feel relieved that he didn’t fire me—or ask me out to lunch again.
I pull up Blackbaud on my computer and locate Sophie’s cell number. I dial it, hoping she’ll answer, but instead I get voicemail. I leave a brief message: “Hi, Sophie! This is Danielle from Your Big Break Inc. I understand you’ve been e-mailing Evan Hirschbaum, and I’m going to have to ask you to stop. I realize you’re feeling upset and a bit lonely, but, unfortunately, you’re going to have to let Evan go. He isn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with you. I hope you’re doing well. Let’s meet for coffee when you get back in Boston.”
For the life of me, I hope that tides her over.
The Gretchen-as-stalker theory takes me through the first part of the morning, but by mid-afternoon, I’m starting to get worried again. What if I dismissed the whole thing too easily? What if—what if—Gretchen is actually telling the truth? I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s a pathological liar, but there’s that little one percent of me that’s still questioning it.