Your Big Break (17 page)

We brainstorm for twenty minutes, coming up with a plan. We decide that on Friday, Sophie will pay an impromptu visit to Addington Academy, the school where Brady works. She'll show up around lunchtime, bearing a picnic basket full of treats.

“I'll tell him I'm a secret admirer,” she says. “We'll eat lunch together, enjoy each other's company. Who knows where it will lead.”

17

This Hurts Me AS Much AS It Hurts You

“What's this I hear about you turning away potential clients?” Craig demands, catching me as I come into the office the next morning.

I feign ignorance. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Does the name Gretchen Monaghan ring any bells?”

I don't say anything for a minute. Then I mumble, “I had a consultation with her a few weeks ago.”

“That's what I thought.” Craig narrows his eyes. “You want to explain yourself here, Dani? Because I got a call from Ms. Monaghan early this morning. She wanted to know if our client load had eased up any, if we had enough ‘free manpower' to take her case.”

“What did you tell her?” I ask, staring down at my shoes.

“I told her you'd be more than happy to take her case.”

I squeeze me eyes shut. “I can't do it, Craig.”

“Why not?” he demands. “Is the boyfriend a rageaholic ex-con?”

“No, he's my father.”

Craig bursts out laughing. “Good one, Dani. Don't play.”

“I'm not playing. Gretchen wants to hire us to break up with
my father.
”

He looks utterly perplexed. “I thought your parents were married.”

“Craig, my father's having an affair!” I burst out.
Is he really this slow to catch on?

“Morning!” Amanda comes sauntering in. Halfway to her desk, she turns and asks, “What's wrong with you guys?”

We must look pretty ridiculous. Craig's standing there, mouth agape, and I'm teetering, my lower lip quivering. “Dani's just told me a really funny story,” Craig covers. His face is so red, it blots out his freckles.

“I love funny stories!” Amanda prances over to us.

“It's kind of personal,” I explain.

“I don't mind.”

I can't tell if she's too dumb to take a hint or just plain nosy. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Talking about it might be the best medicine.”

Craig recovers from his momentary stupor. “The time for talking's done. Back to work, peeps. Chop, chop!” he says, making a beeline for his office.

I head to my own office. I've just plopped down at my desk when an IM pops up on my computer screen.

Bossman? Craig's IM name is Bossman?
I quickly type a response.

 
Object? I guess I don't object. . . .

 
He signs offline.

I didn't think it was possible, but Craig comes across even dorkier online than in person. I thought the Internet was supposed to have the opposite effect, making nerds into studs, losers into winners.

I don't dwell on this point too long. The real issue at hand is this: Your Big Break Inc. will be taking Gretchen's case after all. That means Father's about to get a Dear Paul letter, which might not be such a bad thing. At least their relationship will be over. But it's only a matter of time until he finds someone new. It's like that old saying:
Cheaters never change.
Or is it
Cheaters never win
?

Either way, the bottom line's the same.

My father's an adulterer. Always was, always will be.

Before I leave work, I place a quick follow-up call to Erin Foster-Ellis.

“Erin? It's Dani from Your Big Break,” I say. “I was calling to see if you were satisfied with our job performance.”

“Yes,” she says simply, “I'm very satisfied.”

“And you haven't had any troubles? Brady hasn't been contacting you?”

“No. It's a bit surprising.” She's quiet for a minute. “I anticipated he wouldn't be able to
stop
calling me. But he's been oddly silent.”

What if he never got the letter?
“Did you receive your personal items?” I ask nervously.

“I did, thanks,” Erin says. “They arrived this morning via FedEx.”

“Great!”
Whew! That means Brady did receive his Dear John letter.
And since he sent Erin's stuff back without a fuss, and hasn't bothered calling her, I'd say he got the message loud and clear. I can forget about this case and move on. “Well, let me know if you have any problems.”

“Oh, I will,” Erin says. “First sign of trouble, I'll call you. Believe me.”

18

 
 
 
 
“Sit! Stay!” I lurch forward. “No! Bad boy!”

It's Wednesday morning, and I'm being dragged down Boylston Street by an enormous Old English sheepdog named, quite appropriately, Magnus.

“Heel, Magnus! Heel!
Stay!
” I'm shouting out every dog command I can think of in an attempt to slow him down. Nothing's working. “Roll over!” I shriek helplessly. “Play dead!” He stops briefly, then takes off running again at top speed. “Down, boy!” I cling furiously to his leash, cursing myself for wearing my Coach pumps with two-inch heels.
Why didn't I put on flats this morning or, better yet, tennis shoes?

He comes to an abrupt stop next to a red mailbox, squats, and . . . “
Magnuuuus,
no!”

I pull a plastic Baggie out of my tote and scoop up dog poop.

It's been a crazy day. I drove out to Norwood at the crack of dawn to pick up Magnus at his owner's ex-girlfriend's house. “Take the filthy beast,” the ex had said, showing me to the back-yard. “I never wanted him living here in the first place.” Then she broke into sobs. I find “pet retrieval” one of our most difficult services. Magnus spent the twenty-five-minute drive back to Boston with his runny nose pressed up against the window in the backseat of my car. I wonder if he was watching for the ex-girlfriend.

I'm scheduled to meet Magnus's owner in front of Au Bon Pain at eight o'clock. I drop the soiled Baggie in a garbage bin and continue down Boylston. I tug on Magnus's leash, trying to get him to turn the corner. It's no use. We head across the street and go sailing past the turnoff for Au Bon Pain at a dead run. “Dani?” I hear someone yell. “Hey, wait up!”

I look over to see Brady Simms jogging along beside me.

Mercifully, Magnus stops right in front of the entrance to the Four Seasons. I struggle to catch my breath. Magnus sighs loudly and then hangs his head in gloom. “Poor baby,” I say, massaging his ears. Sometimes pets have just as hard a time dealing with a breakup as their owners do.

Brady leans down to rub Magnus's head. “It's weird running into you like this. How've you been?”

“Good,” I tell him, then want to smack myself. He's in the middle of a trauma. The last thing he wants to hear is how great
I
feel. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“My school—Addington Academy—is right around the corner.”

“I see.” We stand there awkwardly on the sidewalk, watching the guests move in and out of the Four Seasons Hotel. “I guess you heard about me and Erin. . . .” he says, his voice trailing off.

“I heard.”
I wrote the letter and sent the Breakup Recovery Kit.
“I'm sorry.”

He gives me a sad smile and I feel awful, as if it were me who broke his heart.

“On some level, I saw it coming,” he admits.

Magnus sneezes loudly. “His nose has been running all morning. You wouldn't by chance have a Kleenex?”

Brady shakes his head and laughs. “I take it he's not your dog?”

“How'd you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Brady continues to pet Magnus. “And it's a pretty safe bet you're not a professional dog walker, either.”

“Is it that obvious?” I joke.

“Kind of.” He stands up and looks at me. “Where'd you get the pooch?”

“He belongs to a . . . friend.” I don't mention that the “friend” is a client.

“Do you need some help with him?”

“The friend?” I ask, startled.

Brady laughs. “No, the dog.”

“I think I can manage, thanks.” As if on cue, Magnus plops down on the sidewalk and makes himself comfortable. “Come on, boy, let's go.” I tug at his leash, but he doesn't budge. The valet at the Four Seasons gives me an exasperated stare. “I've got to drop him off in front of Au Bon Pain”—I check my watch—“five minutes ago!”

“I have a way with animals,” Brady says, winking. “I bet I can make him get up.”

“That's a bet you'd lose. Magnus is cute,” I tease, “but he's got a mind of his own.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Brady says. “The first part, anyway.”

Did Brady just call me cute?
I'm about to respond with something equally flirty, but Magnus chooses that exact moment to pass gas. Loudly.

I groan, moving away from the smell. “I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

“Don't be embarrassed,” Brady says, smiling. “I grew up around dogs. Trust me, I've smelled worse. At least he didn't do it in your car.”

“Good point.” I laugh. “So, as you were saying before Magnus interrupted . . .”

“Ah, yes. We were negotiating a bet.” Brady thinks it over. “How about the loser treats the winner to the Starbucks beverage of their choice? Might be a good chance to get to know each other.”

“No!” I shriek. “I mean, no on the Starbucks, not the getting to know each other part.”

“You hate coffee?”

“Something like that.” I laugh. “Why don't we go somewhere else?”

“Okay. How about lunch, then?”

“Deal,” I agree. He extends his hand and we shake on it.

Brady crouches down next to Magnus. “All right, boy, I need your help here.” He scratches him behind the ears and takes hold of his leash. “Make me look good. Come on, Magnus!” The dog doesn't budge.

“Once he takes off, there's no stopping him,” I caution.

“I noticed he was pulling you along pretty fast.”

I laugh. “You'd have to be an Olympic track-and-field medalist to keep up with this dog.”

“So you're not an Olympic runner and you're not a dog walker. What
do
you do for a living?”

When you have a lie already in place, it's easy to reach for it. “I write promotional copy for websites.”

He stands up. “I thought Web designers died out with the Internet bust?”

I feel my face go red. “We're an endangered species, that's for sure.”

“Speaking of species . . .” Brady reaches his arms around Magnus's midsection and attempts to lift him up again. It doesn't work.

“Ready to admit defeat?” I ask.

Brady nods. “Want to grab a quick breakfast?”

I glance at my watch and see that now it's ten past eight. “I'm really late. I was supposed to drop Magnus off ten minutes ago. I'd better call my friend and ask him to meet me here.” I fish in my purse for my cell phone.

“No problem,” Brady says. “I'm due at school soon myself. Why don't you give me your e-mail and I'll drop you a line this weekend?”

I'm not allowed to date clients. That's in definite violation of Your Big Break Inc.'s rule #5. Even if it weren't, Brady Simms is off-limits. He's Sophie Kennison's rebound guy. At least, he will be after this Friday. “Sure,” I say, whipping out a pen and a piece of scrap paper. I can't give him my work addy, since it's registered to Your Big Break Inc.'s domain. I scrawl out my other e-mail address—[email protected]—and hand over the piece of paper. Now I've given him my last name, which breaks Your Big Break Inc.'s rule #2.
Oops.

“Great! I'll e-mail you this week and we can get together.”

“Bye, Brady.” I smile, and he heads off down the street.

 
 
“We've gotta move quickly,” Sean says when I call him that evening. “There's no telling what Dad will do when Gretchen dumps him. Whatever happens, we've got to be prepared. I don't want Mom caving in and staying with that creep. She's too good for him.”

It's a harsh statement, but I've got to say I agree. “Have you finished your so-called investigation?” I ask.