Too Close to Touch (7 page)

They’d met in college; he was a senior when she was a freshman.

He graduated, but they continued as a couple all through Gretchen’s education and married as soon as she graduated. He devotedly and

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stupidly overlooked several ß ings she’d had with women during her dorm-living years, interpreting these as part of a collegiate phase and insisting that marriage was the best way to cure such things. Theirs lasted for three years before he Þ nally sat Gretchen down and told her she needed to face the fact that she was a lesbian.

She knew he was right, and that she was keeping him a prisoner by staying married to him. Their divorce was painful and they took over a year to lick their wounds, then they bumped into each other at a conference, had a drink, and had been best friends ever since. When Pete married Allyson the following year, Gretchen stood up as his “best man” in the wedding.

“So, where’s your place?” Pete asked, sipping his Merlot.

“About two blocks from here and around the corner. It’s great.

Very roomy as apartments go, and I have my own tiny little balcony.”

Gretchen smiled at the realization of how much she liked her new abode.

“You should think about buying a house, you know. The market’s hot and you can Þ nd a nice one in the city for the same size mortgage payment as your rent.” He smirked as Gretchen sighed over their familiar conversation. “Or, hell. You make a nice wad of cash. Go out to the suburbs and buy something big.”

“For who? Me and my plants? I don’t need big.”

Pete held his hands up, palms forward, feigning surrender.

“Wouldn’t want you to actually settle down anywhere.”

“What? Pete, I haven’t even been here a month. You want me to settle down already?”

“Well, I’d prefer you settle down
with
somebody, but I’ll give you some time on that one.”

Gretchen growled at him as the waiter arrived with their dinners, saving Pete from a sarcastic retort. He shook his head over the huge slab of beef on her plate.

“I’ve never seen any other woman devour red meat like a caveman the way you do. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” He laughed, then changed the subject completely. “How goes the job?”

Gretchen nodded, popping a piece of steak into her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second, savoring the taste of the seasonings and juices mingling on her tongue. “It’s going well,” she responded eventually. “I’ve had to do some ass-kicking—my sales force is in a

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GEORGIA BEERS

bit of a slump—but overall, I really like the company. The beneÞ ts are great, upper management has been easy enough to deal with.” She shrugged. “So far, so good.”

“And you’ve got enough help?”

At Gretchen’s last job, her support staff left much to be desired, and she’d often bent Pete’s ear on the subject. “My help is great, this time.” She Þ lled Pete in on Kylie and what a competent, helpful assistant she’d been. “We did have a bit of a tiff last week, though I’m sure it’ll be Þ ne.” Her tone was less conÞ dent than she’d intended and Pete instantly picked up on it.

“What happened?”

“She disagreed with my methods and made me aware that I’m being too hard on my sales staff—you know, the underperformers I mentioned.”

Pete grimaced. “Oh, poor Kylie. I guess she’s clear now about that being a big no-no. Poor girl.”

“It was no big deal. I laid it out for her and she got it.”

“What did you say? You didn’t make her cry, did you?”

Gretchen gave him an indignant stare. “No, I didn’t make her cry.”

“You say that like it’s never happened.” Pete winked at her.

“Shut up.” Gretchen sipped her wine. “I simply told her that salespeople don’t like being told they’re not doing well, and that it was natural for our team to try to get her to side with them against me. I said I wasn’t there to make friends, and her opinion of my methods didn’t matter, and that I needed her working with me and not against—” At Pete’s aghast expression, she stopped and demanded, “What?”

“You told her that her opinion didn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“But you
told
her that? To her face? Jesus, Gretch, way to make her feel valuable.”

Anybody else would have gotten a sarcastic, angry retort. Pete was different…because he knew her so well and he was usually right.

Gretchen pushed her remaining vegetables around with her fork.

“Too harsh?”

“I’d say yes, but that’s just me. She didn’t cry, so that’s a plus.”

“No. She just packed her stuff up and left. It was late.”

“Uh-huh. When was this?”

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“Thursday night.”

“And how was she yesterday?”

Gretchen thought back to the previous day and her interactions with Kylie. Work had gone smoothly. Things had gotten done with no problems. Kylie’s friendly, smiling face appeared in her mind, causing the corners of her own mouth to turn up slightly until it occurred to her that Kylie had barely smiled in her presence at all yesterday. She’d been very business-like. Very distant and cool. Very much like Gretchen.

“Crap,” she muttered.

After several long seconds, Pete commented, “Interesting.”

Gretchen’s eyes snapped to his face. “What do you mean,

‘interesting’?”

Pete pressed his lips together, obviously trying to decide how far to push her. “I mean, it’s interesting that it’s bothering you a little bit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You like her.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, Gretch, relax. It’s not a crime to like somebody. I’m just saying you seem to give a shit about what this woman thinks of you.

That’s unusual for the Gretchen Kaiser I’ve known for more than twenty years. That’s all.”

“She’s nice,” Gretchen said, shrugging.

“And you don’t want her to think you’re a complete bitch.”

Gretchen sneered at Pete’s feeble attempt to hide a grin. “Well, she already does, so it’s kind of a moot point now.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a glimmer in Pete’s blue eyes, but he let the subject drop.

v

So far, Monday had been complete and utter chaos. The phone rang incessantly. Five times, it was Jason calling to pump Kylie for information. By the third call, she wanted to throttle him. Margo Wheeler was chomping at the bit to see Gretchen, who kept putting her off. With the new Þ scal year beginning on the Þ rst of June, Wheeler needed budgets and sales projections in place. The tone of her voice said she was getting a little nervous. The way Gretchen dodged Wheeler told Kylie she was getting a little nervous, too.

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GEORGIA BEERS

Kylie avoided any attempt to be personal with Gretchen. After her dressing down on Thursday, she had sulked, cried, gotten angry, and then hardened her resolve. It was Þ ne. If Gretchen didn’t give a shit what she thought, Kylie didn’t give a shit about knowing anything there was to know about Gretchen outside of work. So there.

But it was hard. Kylie was naturally inquisitive and genuinely friendly. She liked to talk to people, to learn about them, to debate with them and have in-depth discussions. She and Jim Sheridan used to talk well into the evening about politics and entertainment, and religion and philosophy. Often, Jim’s wife would call his cell and only then would either of them look at the clock and realize they’d missed dinner. She would refer to Jim as a father Þ gure if she didn’t feel that was an insult to her own dad. So she thought of him as a favorite uncle instead.

She missed him.

That Þ rst day, when Gretchen left the coffee on Kylie’s desk, Kylie was sure they’d be great friends. Gretchen had put up a wall, though.

She apparently didn’t want such a relationship with her EAA and she’d made that perfectly clear last week.
His opinion doesn’t matter to me
and, frankly, neither does yours…

Kylie was annoyed by how much that sentence had stung her.

After all, she barely knew Gretchen. Why should she care about what Gretchen thought of her? What did it matter? She sighed in frustration, looking at the clock and noting that it was going on seven already. The truth was, Gretchen’s opinion did matter and she had no idea why. The thought that Gretchen might not like her, didn’t think of her as a friend or even as a valued employee with good business sense, bothered the hell out of her.

Dismayed to feel the beginnings of emotion well up behind her eyes, she muttered, “Goddamn PMS,” and pressed her Þ ngers into her eyelids.

After a couple of sniffs, she took a deep breath, raked her Þ ngers through her hair roughly, and squeezed her shoulders, hoping to work out some of the tension. She wanted to go home, have a glass of wine to allay the oncoming cramps, and be a pile on the couch. She glanced at the framed photos of Rip on her desk and smiled wistfully.

A softly clearing throat made her whip around in surprise. Gretchen stood in the cubicle opening. She didn’t look the least bit stressed and

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TOO CLOSE TO TOUCH

Kylie suspected that this kind of pace was what she lived for. Her black slacks hugged her hips intimately and the pink blouse was open at the throat, inviting the tiniest peek at a collarbone. Almost-black curls framed a face that showed a crooked and uncertain semi-smile.

“Hey,” Gretchen said, and even that one word rumbled so low that Kylie felt it in the pit of her stomach.

“Hi.”

“Busy day, huh?”

“Insane.” Kylie worked hard to keep her business face in place, despite the fact that she wanted to ask Gretchen how she was holding up, how she liked Rochester, how she liked Emerson. But she knew Gretchen didn’t want that, so she bit her bottom lip and remained silent while Gretchen shifted from one black pump to the other.

“Um…” Gretchen had a small, white paper bag in her hand. She held it out to Kylie. “I went out to dinner on Saturday and I had steak. I thought…” Her eyes pointed to the pictures of Rip on Kylie’s desk. “I thought you might want the bone for your dog, so I saved it for you.”

She seemed embarrassed and looked out over the top of the cubicle while she waited for Kylie to take the bag.

If Kylie hadn’t been premenstrual, she would have been able to accept the bag for what it was: a peace offering from a woman who rarely gave them. Instead, her eyes Þ lled with tears. A horriÞ ed look appeared on Gretchen’s face as big, fat drops rolled down Kylie’s cheeks and she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, my God,” Gretchen said, her voice laced with confusion.

“Oh, God, Kylie, what’s wrong? I’m sorry. What did I say?”

Kylie made a snorting sound that could have been a sob or a laugh.

When she glanced up at Gretchen, the poor woman looked like she was at a complete loss, an expression she never expected to see on the face of Gretchen Kaiser a.k.a. Cruella De Vil. Kylie’s tears were free-ß owing.

She sniffed and grabbed Gretchen’s wrist, worried that the panicked woman would ß ee in terror within the next few seconds, before she had a chance to explain herself. With her free hand, she snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her nose, then her eyes.

After a few minutes, when she felt like she could speak, she realized absently that she was still holding Gretchen’s wrist. The skin was soft and warm in her hand…not at all cold and brittle like many

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GEORGIA BEERS

might suspect. It was with regret that she let go and with great relief that she noted Gretchen didn’t leave. She looked up into Gretchen’s eyes, as dark as rich coffee, and saw worry there. Concern.

Surprised by the depth of emotion in them, she pointed to the picture on her desk and said softly, “That’s Rip. I lost him four weeks ago. He was Þ fteen. I’ve had him since I was twenty-two. He was very old and weak and sick and I Þ nally had to put him down. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes welled once more and she cleared her throat to keep it from closing up.

“Oh, Kylie. I’m so sorry.” Gretchen’s voice was tender. She looked at the bag in her hand and embarrassment clearly registered on her face.

“I’m so sorry. God, I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Kylie assured her. “No, not at all. I think it was sweet. It was a really nice gesture.”

“Well, still. I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.”

Kylie couldn’t help herself; she laid her hand on Gretchen’s bare wrist once more. “Really. It’s okay. You had no way of knowing. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome.” Gretchen licked her lips and glanced around the empty ofÞ ce. “You should go home. It’s late.”

“Tomorrow is another day, right?”

“Yes, it is. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Kylie watched Gretchen walk back to her ofÞ ce and toss the doggie bag into the wastebasket. She blew her nose a Þ nal time, gazed lovingly at the picture of Rip lying on his back, paws up in the air, hamming it up for the camera, and sighed.

v

“So, she threw you a bone, huh?”

Kylie couldn’t help but laugh at Mick’s analogy. “Yeah, I guess she did. It was a nice thing to do.”

“Whatever.”

Kylie rolled onto her side on the couch and switched the phone to the other ear. Absently, she hit the channel change button on her remote, surÞ ng through shows as she talked. She recalled Gretchen’s face, the

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horror at having made her cry, the worry in her eyes. Her empathy revealed a side of her that Þ lled Kylie with pleasant surprise.

Stopping on a rerun of
The Simpsons
, she said, “You could give her a chance, Mick.”

“She had her chance with me,” Mick spat. “She treated me like a peon. I don’t need that from somebody who doesn’t even know me.”

“I know, but like I said before, it was her Þ rst day. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Whatever,” Mick said again. “You seem to have given her enough chances.”