Olive Oil and White Bread (17 page)

The day didn't get any better, and not for the first time, Angie wondered why she hadn't just stayed in bed.

“Oh, yeah. That's right. Because I was on the couch,” she muttered aloud as she waited on hold for a supplier to come back on the line with pricing.

Hope popped her head in through Angie's office doorway and tipped her hand to her lips, miming the universal sign for “Want to get a drink?” Today's mismatched earrings were a dangling teal cupcake and a red maple leaf.

“Oh, god, yes,” she hissed in response, just as a voice came on the line and began rattling off numbers that Angie jotted down.

“I'll buzz you,” Hope stage whispered, then scurried on down the hall.

Angie didn't love the pricing she'd been given, but it was the only supplier who had stock on that particular pen, and Angie's customer had a firm in-hand date. They had no choice. She added in any incidentals, marked it up to cover her own costs, typed up the quote, and hit Print. She walked to the printer, which sat behind Rosie at the reception desk, and grabbed the quote. Then she signed it, and dialed the fax number of her client just as the front door buzzer went off to signal a visitor.

“There she is,” Matt Jones said with a grin. “Just the woman I was looking for.”

“A customer who doesn't hate me,” Angie said. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.” Turning to Rosie, she said, “Can you drop that fax in my office once it goes through?”

“Of course.”

To Matt, she waved a come-this-way gesture. “Follow me, young man.”

Once settled in her office, Matt said, “I need some tank tops. Do you have something that won't make my guys look like a bunch of losers in wife beaters?”

Angie laughed. “I know exactly what you mean, and I think I've got a solution. One of my clothing suppliers was here last week and showed samples of sleeveless T-shirts. They're a bit neater than a tank, but still let your guys stay a little cooler.” Rifling through a file cabinet, she found the catalog she was looking for, thumbed to the page, and handed it to Matt. “Here.”

“Oh, perfect. Those'll work.”

Rosie peeked in as Matt was perusing. “Here's the fax you sent; it went through. And this one came for you.” Angie took the papers from her with a nod of thanks.

The fax was from Jim Carmen, telling her he had enjoyed working with her, but they'd decided to go with another company to handle their catalog program from here on out. He'd send further instructions about where to ship the remaining stock she had on her premises.

Knowing it was coming and actually reading the words turned out to be two different things. Angie closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, exhaled even more slowly, swallowed hard, willed the lump in her throat to leave, hoped she wouldn't cry.

The sound of pages turning had stopped, and when she opened her eyes, Matt was gazing at her with concern.

“Are you okay? What's wrong?”

Slowly, she shook her head back and forth. “I just lost a really big account. I guess it was easier to tell me in a fax than actually call me on the phone and talk to me about it like an adult.”

“Aw, that stinks. I'm sorry.”

Her attempt to shrug it off was lame. “I knew it was coming.”

“Doesn't make it easier,” Matt said, his expression one of sympathy and understanding. “Happens to me all the time.”

“Really?”

“In a tree and landscaping business? Absolutely. You think there aren't a hundred other guys out there just like me?”

“I guess I didn't really think about it,” Angie said honestly.

“Oh, I know who my loyal customers are. Then there are the fly-by-night ones. Those are the people who will drop me like a hot potato if they get a bid that comes in five dollars cheaper than mine. Those sting. I try not to let them because I know there's nothing I could have done any different to have kept them, but they still sting.”

“That's exactly it. I did a good job for this guy. My prices were fair. My products were of good quality. I'm sure some schmuck working out of his basement came in with a cheaper price and Jim's eyes lit up.”

“You've been doing this for a long time now,” Matt said, his voice gentle. “Aren't you used to guys like that?”

Angie thought about that. Matt was right. She should be used to this kind of thing. It came with the territory. “Yeah, this one's bothering me. I don't know why. I can't stand the guy anyway.”

“Well, he'll be sorry when Basement Guy can't keep up, won't he?” Matt winked.

“This is why I keep you around, Matty. You cheer me up.”

“Wait, you mean it's not my good looks?”

By the time four-thirty rolled around, Angie'd had enough. Remembering Jillian's plans to grab Boo and go to her father's, she hit her intercom button and buzzed Hope.

“Hey, sexy,” she said into the speaker. “Is it wine o'clock?” Hope asked.

“It is.”

“I'll be right there. Five minutes.”

They decided to keep it simple by sticking with the little bistro just down the block from the Logo Promo office. It was a place they visited often, and Mindy, the bartender, knew them well.

“What can I get for you ladies today?” Mindy couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Her straight, dark hair hung halfway down her back, and her large brown eyes were made up with subtle color. An easy smile made her approachable, and probably earned her some good tips. That, the ass-hugging jeans, and the unbuttoned blouse.

“Martini,” Hope said without a second thought.

Angie blinked at her. “Wow. You're not messing around.”

“No, I am not. I had one of those days.”

After ordering a vodka tonic, Angie said, “Yeah, when you asked me before lunch if I wanted to drink, I figured something must be up.”

Mindy delivered their drinks, and they clinked their glasses together. “Why do we stay in this job?” Hope asked suddenly. “This business? Why do we stay?”

“Oh, that's easy,” Angie replied. “I've thought about this long and hard. It's like golf. I hear you can suck at it for seventeen holes, but that one beautiful drive on the eighteenth keeps you coming back for more, because all you want is to hit another one. And you're willing to wade through seventeen more sucky holes if you can get it.”

Hope nodded, sipped, nodded some more. “That is the
perfect
analogy, Angie. I spend my days dealing with assholes and writing orders that will net me a hundred bucks here and eighty bucks there because I know that if I just hang in there long enough, that big order will come in, the one that pays me a few thousand in commission.”

“And then you can breathe.”

“And then I can breathe.”

“But only for a little while, because then it starts up all over again.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Then,” Angie said, “there's the added joy of having a lucrative program, but worrying all the time that you might lose it.”

“Along with the steady income you've gotten used to.”

“Exactly.” The slug of vodka was too big and burned Angie's throat as it went down. “I lost Davis Direct today.”

Hope set down her glass and stared at Angie. “Shit. Really? I'm so sorry.”

Again, as she'd done with Matt, she tried to wave it off. “I saw it coming. Though dumping me by fax was a nice touch.”

“That guy is such a prick,” Hope said.

“I haven't told Guelli yet.”

“Speaking of pricks.” Hope sipped.

“He's going to think it was me. It wasn't, but he's going to give me that look, like I'm just a
girl
, and if he'd set up Jim Carmen with a male salesperson, this wouldn't have happened.”

“Tell me again why we stay.” Hope winked, and Angie snorted a laugh.

“Fuck him,” Angie said. “Forget it. I don't want to give him another ounce of energy. Tell me about your day. Why were you ready to drink at ten o'clock this morning?”

They commiserated for the next hour as the crowd around them thickened and the volume of the music increased. This time with Hope was vital to Angie, vital to her sanity. Somebody who didn't work in the ad specialties business had a hard time understanding the stress, the hoops that needed to be jumped through, the bubble gum and string and paper clips it sometimes took to close an order. Not to mention the fancy footwork that was often the only way to hold on to a good customer. Talking with Hope, complaining, bitching, and supporting each other, was often what helped Angie stay sane in a business that could seem utterly cracked.

As Mindy hit them with thirds, Angie asked suddenly, “Do you think we drink too much?”

“Yes,” Hope answered immediately.

“No, no, take your time. You don't have to answer right away.”

Hope laughed, but at Angie's suddenly serious expression, she asked, “Why?”

With a resigned sigh, Angie told her about the previous night. All of it, even the horrible thing she'd said to Jillian.

“Ouch.”

“I know. The look on her face . . .” Angie shook her head, not wanting to relive it. “I'm a complete fuckwad.”

“I hope the sucking up has already begun,” Hope said, arching one eyebrow.

“I sent flowers to her work.”

“That's a good first step. Why are you out with me and not home making it up to her?”

“She's at her dad's.”

“Until when?”

“No idea.”

“Okay, come here.” Hope ducked her head down low, as if she had a secret plan to share. In a way, she did. “Here's what you're going to do . . .”

Sixteen

Hyacinths had the most amazing smell of any flower Jillian knew; it was one of the few things she and her mother had agreed on. The purple, pink, and white plants lined the side of the house as well as the garage, and she could still picture her mother from years ago, on hands and knees, painstakingly burying each bulb in her family's backyard. Surprisingly, some of them were still in bloom. As far as Jillian was concerned, their only drawback was that they didn't last long enough.

Boo came bounding through the yard toward her and dropped a tennis ball at her feet. She dutifully threw it.

This was Jillian's favorite time of year. The evenings began to stretch, the sun staying up a little longer each day. Warm air was pushed around by a gentle breeze. The smell of freshly cut grass was one of the biggest, most prominent markers of the season. In the distance, she could hear the buzz of a lawn mower, probably Mr. Jacobs a couple of houses down. He was a freak about his lawn.

Her dad handed her a glass filled with ice cubes and Sprite. “Here you go, sweetheart.” It was the only soda he kept in the house, but she didn't mind. Folding himself into the patio chair next to her, he groaned.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Just old,” was his usual reply. Then he patted her knee and gave his other usual reply. “Don't worry about me.”

Since her mother's death, Jillian
did
worry about him. She supposed that was natural. It made sense that losing one parent would cause a child to become overly concerned about the other. He seemed to
have handled his wife's death as well as could be expected. He'd dropped weight in the first six or eight months, but then seemed to turn a corner. Jillian had dinner with him once or twice a week, to keep tabs on his eating habits, among other things. She tried hard not to be ridiculous about showing up unannounced, and she knew that her brother was doing the same thing. They visited often, popped in unexpectedly with some lame excuse—he wondered if he could borrow a tool, or she needed to get something she thought was packed in the attic. To his credit, it was pretty obvious that Ted knew exactly what his children were up to. Also to his credit, he didn't tease or mock them about it. Jillian thought he probably understood, and she was grateful that he let them do what they felt was necessary to check up on him.