Olive Oil and White Bread (5 page)

Angie swallowed her beer wrong, and turned back around on her stool as she coughed. Trying to cough quietly, or not at all, was no easy feat, but she managed to keep it together. Hope returned to her seat, took one look at Angie's red face and watery eyes, said, “What the hell happened to you?” and rubbed a hand over Angie's back.

Several moments later, Angie finally felt like she could speak. “Ugh. Down the wrong pipe.”

“I hate when that happens.” Hope dipped her head to catch Angie's eye. “You okay?”

“I think so.” Angie took a deep breath. “Now I'm just embarrassed. I hope nobody saw me.” She hazarded a glance toward the corner table, but nobody seemed to be paying her any attention. Of course. “I need your advice,” she said to Hope.

Hope's eyes twinkled. “I am nothing if not helpful.”

“Remember I told you about that softball game last summer? The one my friend dragged me to watch?”

“Even though you hate all things sports-related? Vaguely, yeah.”

“Hey, keep your voice down! They can take away my lesbian card for that.”

Hope chuckled.

“Remember I told you about that cute blonde?”

Hope squinted as she searched her memory banks. “Oh! The one who slid.”

“That's the one.”

“I remember you talking about her, yes.”

“She's sitting at the corner table with her friends.”

“She is?” Hope whirled in her seat. “Where?”

Angie ducked her head down like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell, at the same time grabbing at Hope. “Would you stop being so obvious? Jesus.”

“You should go talk to her,” Hope said, an unspoken “duh” in her tone.

Angie sighed. “I can't. Too forward. What if she's with one of those other women?”

“Hmm. Good point.” Hope took a swig from her beer, thinking. “Maybe we go the old-fashioned route.”

Angie raised her eyebrows in question.

“Send the girl a drink.”

It was the right call, Angie knew. Her stomach flip-flopped anyway as Hope gestured to the bartender and asked what the blonde was drinking. She did all the work and then pointed to Angie. “It's from her.” Angie grimaced at the bartender and received a sympathetic smile in return.

“I can't look.” Angie kept her back to the table, surreptitiously glancing at Hope every now and then, as her friend had no qualms about sitting once again with her back to the bar and openly watching the corner table. “God, you're so obvious.”

“Well,
somebody
has to see the reaction. Okay, she's got the drink. The waitress is pointing. The blonde is looking.”

“Oh, god. This was a mistake.”

“No, no. It's okay. She's smiling. Now I'm pointing to you. The whole table is looking over here.”

“Christ.”

“And she's lifting her glass. Mouthing ‘thank you.' Nice.” Hope turned back around. “I like her. And you're right. She's very cute.”

“I can't believe I did that,” Angie said, wishing she could crawl into a hole and disappear.

“Did what? You didn't do a thing. I did it.” Hope bumped Angie with her shoulder. “It was good,” she said, more serious. “Now she knows you're interested. That was the idea, right?”

With a nod, Angie finished her beer, vowing never to turn around again. “One more?” At Hope's agreement, she put in another order. “So, let's get my mind off of all this. Tell me about work. What can I expect on Monday?”

It didn't take long for them to fall into a comfortable conversation about the job, the company, the customers. Hope had been in sales for nearly ten years, though in the ad specialty business for only five. Angie was infinitely grateful that she was the one who would be training her. She knew Hope would be patient and thorough even as she furrowed her brows, lowered her voice an octave, and threatened, “Don't even think about slacking, little missy. I will have none of that from you. You will work hard and do what I tell you, or I will have you fired
immediately.” The absurdity of little, tiny Hope Maynard, with her funky glasses and mismatched earrings, swigging a beer while trying to sound harsh and intimidating made Angie burst out laughing. Two seconds later, Hope was right there with her.

As they pulled themselves together, wiping tears, still grinning, the bartender approached them. She slipped a folded piece of paper to Angie and said, “From the woman you sent the drink to.”

Angie kept her hand on the paper, her heart in her throat, as Hope swiveled to the corner table. “They're gone.”

“I can't look.”

“Oh, my god, you are utterly ridiculous, you know that? It's a piece of paper. Look at it!”

“What if it tells me to fuck off?”

“Then it does. So what? Stop being such a wimp.”

“Okay.” Deep breath in, slow breath out, she unfolded the paper:

          
Jillian Clark

          
716-555-0217

          
Call me
.

Four

Angie was not naïve; she knew sales was a tough trade. But it took a week and a half before she closed her very first order. It was more difficult than she'd anticipated.

Today, though. Today was a good day. She'd closed a sale. Her very first one. The order wasn't large, but it was hers. She'd cold-called the company, gotten transferred to the right person, given her pitch. Hope kept telling her timing was everything, and such was the case with Jones Tree. She'd spoken to owner Matt Jones himself. Turned out, his company was fairly new in the landscape business, and he needed to outfit his team. He asked her to bring him some samples of T-shirts. She obliged.

One of the things she'd really envied the salespeople when she'd first started working at Logo Promo was their freedom. They came and went as they pleased, visiting clients and suppliers. Nobody punched a clock. For the most part, they were autonomous. On bright and sunny days, the idea of hopping in her car and zipping along to a client meeting seemed appealing.

Today, she got to experience that for herself as she headed out on her very first sales call.

Matt Jones was a terrific first customer, because he was as new to all of it as Angie was. They laughed as they each stumbled over details. He had a bare bones logo design that needed help. She'd forgotten to bring color options for the shirts. In the end, he'd placed an order for fifteen T-shirts for his five-man crew and one full-zip sweatshirt for himself. They shook on it, he gave Angie a deposit, and she headed back to the office to tell Hope the good news, smiling all the way.

Now, in her apartment, she popped open a beer to celebrate while the mouthwatering scent of garlic and basil from the pizza in the oven filled the miniscule galley kitchen. It was silly to be so giddy. She knew that. The order was tiny by most standards. Her commission would total out at
maybe
twenty bucks when all was said and done. She didn't care. It was still a successful day. It was still a step forward. It was still a taste of what was possible for her. What if she sold fifty T-shirts to somebody? A hundred? More? Hope wrote up an order for a thousand pens the other day and netted herself a couple hundred dollars in commission. From one order! That was the beauty of the ad specialties business. The possibilities were endless. The money was there. You just had to work hard to get to it.

Angie was nothing if not a hard worker.

Using an oven mitt, she took the pizza—her father's homemade—out of the oven to see if it was heated through yet. He and her mother had been so proud of her, she felt like a kid again bringing home an “A” on a test. They hugged her and kissed her and told her to keep up the good work. She smiled as she remembered their faces, her mother telling her the sky was the limit for her. As she plopped onto her couch with a plate of pizza and turned on the television, she thought,
Yeah, the sky may be the limit, but I need to get a bit higher—and fast. Twenty-dollar commissions aren't going to pay my rent. Unless I get a few dozen of them a week
.

“Then I'll get a few dozen of them a week,” she said aloud, with determination, refusing to let reality creep in on her good mood. Instead, she savored the pizza, tried hard to solve the puzzle on “Wheel of Fortune” (failed), and finished the beer. As she set the empty can on the table next to the couch, her gaze fell on the piece of paper that had been sitting there for several days.

Angie picked it up, caressed the neat handwriting with her thumb, and saw a flash of blonde hair and dimples. In a split second, she decided to take advantage of the wave of self-confidence she was riding before it washed down to nothing and she became her insecure self once again. She picked up the handset and dialed as quickly as she could, not wanting her fear to catch up to what she was doing.

As the ringing began, Angie nibbled on the side of her thumb and prayed for an answering machine to pick up.

“Hello?” A female voice.

Angie tried to speak, but croaked instead. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hi, is Jillian there?”

“I think so. Hang on.” Rustling sounds followed. A thump. A muffled voice called, “Jill! Phone!” A moment or two crept by. Angie's palms began to sweat. Just as she considered hanging up and trying another time, noise that sounded like somebody had dropped the phone clattered in her ear. A muttered curse. Then a voice.

“Okay. I've got it.”

“Um, hi. Jillian?”

“Uh-huh.” A little bit of an edge to her voice.

You're annoying her. Pull it together, Righetti
. “Um, hi. This is Angie. Angie Righetti.”

“I'm sorry, who?” Confusion now.

Realizing Jillian would have no idea what her name was, Angie cleared her throat again. “Yeah. I, um, I bought you a drink at AJ's a week or so ago? You gave me your number? Remember?”

“Angie. . . .” She said it like she was thinking, trying to grasp something. Then, “Oh. Oh!” Jillian's voice lost its edge immediately. “Of course, I remember. It took you long enough to call. I was beginning to give up on you. Angie.” She was teasing, that much was obvious. Angie felt herself warm from the inside.

“I know. I know, I'm sorry. I'm . . . a little . . . I've never done that before. Bought a drink for somebody I've never met. Took me a while to work up my nerve.”

“Well, I've never given my number to a complete stranger before, so I guess we're even.”

The way she said it, playfully accusing, like it was Angie's fault Jillian had handed over her phone number, made Angie smile like a schoolgirl. “I guess so.”

A few beats went by. Jillian said, “So, Angie.”

“So, Jillian.”

“Are you going to ask me out or what?”

Somehow, rather than making her even more nervous, the mischievous
lilt in Jillian's voice gave Angie strength, made her feel brave. “I was thinking about it.”

“Good. I was thinking about saying yes. Where should we go?”

“Well, how about we start with someplace neutral?”

“Ah, I see. That way, if we decide we can't stand each other, we can retreat easily. I like it. It's smart. Safe.”

“How about we grab a drink at AJ's—er, The Dimpled Pickle—during Happy Hour on Friday? Then, if we're enjoying ourselves, we'll get some dinner.”

“And if we're not, we're free to leave or mingle or whatever.”

“Exactly. What do you think?” Angie held her breath.

“I like it. What time?”

Angie shrugged, even though Jillian couldn't see it. “Seven?”

“Works for me. Should we meet there?”

“Good idea. That way, we're each free to go when we want to.”

“Perfect. I'll see you Friday at seven.”

Jillian's voice softened. “I'm really glad you called.”

The bar was hopping, surprisingly, but Jillian knew it would only get busier; she hoped it wouldn't get much smokier. The older crowd was always in first, the dykes stopping in for a beer after work. As the night progressed, they'd go home and make way for the younger crowd. At almost twenty-four—and gainfully employed—Jillian couldn't imagine doing the old take-a-shower-at-ten thing in order to stay out dancing and drinking until two in the morning. No, these days, by two in the morning, she wanted to be long asleep.