Coming Together Page 8

  But you know what? As long as the kids are happy, bright-eyed, and passionate about putting on the best version of Jesus Christ Superstar a ten-year-old can create, I’m giddy to work with them. I love every aspect of theater, and nothing’s better than seeing a kid’s face light up when she takes her center stage moment as Candlestick #5 in Beauty and the Beast.

  That’s what I do, what I’ve been doing the five years since I graduated Northwestern with a B.A in Communications in my eager, sweaty grip. I travel from town to town, school to school, setting up shop for a few months to put on a fabulous production with a bunch of adorable kids. Then the face paint gets wiped off, the auditorium doors shut, and I get a not-so-hefty paycheck and a friendly, “Thanks, we’ll call if we need you again.” Nothing permanent yet.

  Which, to be honest, is kind of a pain. At twenty-eight, I’m hitting the age where being a redheaded lady who bounces around the country with a suitcase and teaching lessons Xeroxed the night before is no longer that attractive. I’d love to settle down, get put on the full time faculty of a nice elementary school, and spend my life happily showing kids the marvelous joys of community theater. I mean, it’s what I went to school for. It’s what I trained for.

  As Archie does three zooms around a rock and then pees on it with crazy puppy excitement, I think about taking my little portable pooch and heading back out to my parents’. That’d be tough at the best of times, but considering what my folks do…well, let’s just say that putting on a prepubescent version of Hair looks downright conservative.

  Archie puts his little nose in the air, smelling something frantically. Then he charges ahead, kicking up clouds of dust and yapping his flappy-eared head right off. I take off after him, and then stop. Because I hear something ahead—a man’s voice shouting, and damn if it doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble.

  “Shit! Shit! Hold on!” he yells. I take off, images of heroic rescue leaping into my mind as I go. I may be five foot nothing with Ronald McDonald hair, but this heart beats Gryffindor scarlet. I was on Pottermore. I know the drill.

  I make a turn in the road, and find myself face to…well, not face, but face-to-back with a tall man, one hand to his ear. The shirt he’s wearing has a V of sweat down the back, and you’ll pardon me for noticing it’s a very nice back. I’m pretty sure I can pick out every definition of muscle. He’s like a sweaty Donatello carving.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, running around to look at him. From the way he’s got a hand to his ear, the poor man might be suffering from a ruptured eardrum. That or, you know…he’s on a Bluetooth. Yelling at somebody.

  “Ken, you can’t be serious. How can the Dow be that low at opening bell?” he asks, his brow furrowed. There’s a majorly incredulous look going down here. He’s tall, so tall he doesn’t seem to notice me. Then again, most normal-sized people don’t seem to notice me—I am but a ginger hobbit.

  “Sorry. Thought you were in a crisis,” I say again, right down here at like his navel. My god, this man is tall. And as the sun begins to crest the canyon, I notice how tall is also translating to hot. In fact, he…

  Then Archie gives a yelp. I wheel around and find him pinned down to the canyon floor, getting his maidenly virtue tarnished by a humping bullmastiff. This dog, this slobbery, beautiful, big-eyed dog has probably not been neutered and is claiming his territory like a canine John McClane rappelling down the Yakatomi Plaza. If the Yakatomi Plaza were my dog.

  “Hey! Get off Archie! Shoo!” I cry, waving my hands at the big slobbery sweetheart. He looks up at me, jowls tumbling, drool drooling, and gives a big, happy bark. It’s a loud bark—it could probably make you as deaf as a four hour U2 concert. But as soon as he sees me, he bounds off my little mutt and makes straight for me.

  It’s love at first slobbery sight. I laugh as he knocks me down and starts laying on the wet, sloppy kisses. His tail is waggling like nobody’s business, and from the view I’m getting from down here…yep, that is a fella who seriously needs his stones scooped. But who am I to get mad at such a beautiful baby?

  “Oh, I love you too,” I laugh, especially when Archie starts bounding up and down around us, looking to get in on the action. I hear the guy hang up his call, and he takes the big mastiff off me by his collar. The dog whimpers, looking up with “please love me” eyes. Who could ever resist that face?

  “Bruno. Come on, I was on a call,” the man says, though he gives the dog a loving scratch between the ears. Bruno’s massive Gene Simmons tongue lolls out as he gets scritchies. Still chuckling, I get to my feet, dusting at my sweatpants. Archie takes a flying leap into my arms, licking at my chin to make sure he’s still my number one special guy.

  “We almost had to make it a shotgun wedding between these two,” I say, grinning as Bluetooth Man turns to me, finally clearly visible in the pink morning light. When I get the full picture, I nearly do my own Gene Simmons impression. Because this man is a sweaty god.

  He’s at least six one, gotta be, with rock hard biceps and a gray college shirt that is hugging gorgeously sculpted pectorals. His chin is angular, dusted perfectly with stubble, his eyes the kind of steel gray that can only be described as snapping. With looks like this, it makes sense he has some important-sounding job on the other end of a Bluetooth. Hell, he could be the emperor of a small foreign country, one where they’re still on the gold standard and people are all supple and hot even past fifty.

  Man, what a place. I’d like to retire there.

  Then, Bluetooth Man makes Bruno heel, looks me up and down, and says, “You should keep that dog on a leash, you know.”

  Oh, hypocrisy, thy name is This Guy. Cradling my little Archie against my chest, I try to keep myself from sniping as I reply, “You’ve got the bigger ballplayer. And since he’s got all his balls intact, maybe he should be on a leash.”

  “I only meant that smaller dogs can get snatched up easier,” the man says, crouching a little to look into Archie’s face. His forehead creases. “Much, much smaller. Wow. What breed is he?”

  Oh, I get it. A small dog snob. The kind that thinks any animal under fifty pounds makes no sense. I take Archie and press him into Hypocritical God’s face, and Archie gives a friendly lick. The dude starts a little, surprised by cuteness.

  “He’s all tongue and eyes,” I drawl.

  “So I gathered.” The man pats his leg, and Bruno heels at once. He looks like the sort of guy who wrestles bears into submission and then beds maidens fair by bubbling streams, beneath a crush of wildflowers. That is not a fantasy I am having at all. These are just facts. “Sorry to interrupt your walk. It’s just good to get out in the morning.” The guy looks off into the dawn light, which is doing amazing things to his cheekbones, my god. “This canyon is the perfect place—”

  “To feel at one with nature, and be peaceful,” I say, agreeing.

  “—to get some actual work done. New York’s three hours ahead.” Right, of course he’s obsessed with hours at the office. Probably worships at the altar of CrossFit, too. The man finally turns his rugged, admittedly panty-melting gaze back at me. “You keep to a tight schedule, too?”

  Oh, I could try to invent a hundred great and impressive sounding jobs to interest this hot dude I’m never going to see again. But for some inexplicable reason, the truth slips out. “I’m a substitute teacher.”

  “Ah.” He’s got that look that people in a certain tax bracket get when they find out I’m living like an overgrown college student. “That probably doesn’t require…strict hours.”

  That gets my natural redheaded dander up. Putting my chin in the air, I say, “Prepping the next generation for a hard world is a pretty noble calling, if you ask me.”

  Ha! Sweaty God nods in agreement.

  “Sorry. What do you teach?”

  “Theater.” Idiot! Not impressive sounding at all! “Science,” I add weakly.

  “Theater science. Sounds…relaxing.” He passes his glance over me once, probably taking in all the components of
a struggling late twentysomething. Well, two can play at that game, buddy. And when I pass my glance over him, I…get lost a little bit on the way. But still, I refuse to give in.

  “It’s a balm for the soul,” I say in the most aggressive way possible. Then I take a step backward with Archie, and feel a rock slip out from under my heel. Oh, shit! I’m going backward, about to take a dive off the canyon trail, and I can just imagine how much this is going to hurt. I’d wave my arms to save myself, but I’d have to drop Archie. Never. You jump, I jump, Jack. Or Archie. Dog.

  But I don’t have to take that dirt bath, because the man steps in and grabs me around the waist, pressing me to his body for one brief moment. My heart beats against him, or it would if we weren’t squashing a tiny, licking dog between us. Still, his arm is a rock hard support around me, and he lifts and deposits me easily back onto the trail. My head spins a little. He steps back, looking strategically tousled and nonchalant. Like he dashes to the mountain rescue of fair ladies on his off days.

  Man, what would his on days be like?

  Don’t get horny on the trail, Chelle.

  Maybe I should ask him to walk with me a bit? Get to talking, laughing, swapping dog stories. I mean, it’s the least I can do for my rescuer…

  And just like that, the hand goes up to the Bluetooth, and Hot Dude forgets I exist. “Ken? Listen, tell Don we need to sell… No, don’t give me that shit, sell, dammit!”

  Hmmf. Well, anyone who’s that wrapped up in his work is perhaps not the right candidate for my maidenly affections. Whistling for Archie, I take off up the trail, having to coax Bruno back when he bounds along for some slobbery love. I finally manage to shoo him home to his hot, workaholic owner.

  “Hey,” the guy calls as I head higher up the trail. “No goodbye?”

  Oh, for god’s sake. I whip around, and this time I don’t even trip over my own feet. Good for me. “Tell Dow and Jones hi for me,” I drawl, flashing him a peace sign. Something about that makes him give a short laugh. And then he rolls his eyes.

  Okay, the laugh was cute, the eye rolling was frustrating in only slightly a sexy way. Tossing my fabulous curls, I run ahead, Archie yipping at my heels. Honestly, some guys are so entitled, so full of themselves, so convinced of their own Master of the Universe shtick.

  Probably a good thing I’ll never see him again.

  2

  Will

  Numbers aren’t hard; people are. It’s no chore to see which way a market’s going, how much it’s faltering, if it’s taking a quick nap or crashing hard. When you realize what’s wrong and how much it’s going to cost, it’s not difficult to assess the damage and come up with a plan.

  Back at U Penn, a buddy of mine called me Mr. Freeze. I thought it was for my admittedly fantastic Schwarzenegger impression, but it was on account of my cool head. Sang froid, as the French call it. No bullshit, as the late great William Munroe II used to call it. My dad. So now, William Munroe III is sitting in his Santa Monica office on the twelfth floor, looking out over the Pacific Ocean and the pier in the distance. You don’t get this far at thirty-two without some serious no bullshit sang froid. If all I had to do were study the numbers day in and day out, I’d never break a sweat.

  But like I said, numbers aren’t hard. People are. And right now, I’m trying to talk down a terrified man who’s convinced himself, somehow, that Coca Cola is not a safe goddamn bet. In the market, I say people should bet absolutely on only three things: Coke, Apple, and me.

  Right now, my client’s balking on two of the three, which annoys the shit out of me. But I keep a professional tone. It’s important.

  “So, let me see if I understand,” Mr. Jackson says, making this the third time so far he’s repeated my own words back to me. “It’s a safe investment?”

  “I would put my own daughter’s entire inheritance in the hands of Coca Cola,” I tell him, which is true. I glance at her picture on my desk, taken one year ago at a trip to the beach. She’s grinning up at me, one of her front teeth gone, a tiny mussel shell to her ear. She was convinced she could hear the ocean in that, even though I told her it was impossible. Just the picture brings a smile to my face and sets me back in the zone.

  That’s one picture of approximately seventy sprawled all over my desk. I’m a proud papa.

  Mr. Jackson breathes a nervous sigh of relief. I get the feeling this is a man who still takes “don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back” like it’s gospel. Poor bastard.

  “All right. If you say so, Will, we can stay with Coke.”

  “Excellent decision,” I say. “In fact, I think we should buy more shares. The market’s down right now, which makes it a great time to dig in deeper.”

  And wouldn’t you know it? I convince him. Mr. Jackson hangs up feeling great about the world, and I kick back in my ergonomic chair, feeling like a badass. That lasts approximately ten seconds until I get a call from Nicki at the front desk.

  “Hey, Will. Sorry to bother, but your daughter’s school’s on the line?”

  If you ever want to feel every muscle in your body tense, including your sphincter, first have a child, then send that child off to school, and finally have said school call you at work. I grab the phone and hit line two, my heart rate the best it’s been in ages.

  “Hi. What’s wrong?” I admit it’s not the most tactful and restrained I’ve ever been, but can you fucking blame me?

  The musical voice of Willow, assistant vice principal over at my daughter’s school, floats in over the line. “Oh Mr. Munroe, we don’t use the word wrong at Bay of Dreams.” Willow clucks her tongue; I’m pretty sure I can hear Sherpa bells in the background. Probably leading the kids in Tibetan chants again. “Wrong implies that children are somehow out of sync with the universe. We prefer the language of unconventional.”

  “Okay, is my daughter unconventionally at the hospital? Sick?”

  Willow sighs dreamily. I don’t think she does anything un-dreamily. “Not at all. Amelia has such a rare and raw individual energy. We would simply like to invite you to attend a cleansing process.”

  I swear to god, if I could go back in time to the night when Suzonne and I made Amelia, I would do two things. First, I would finish making sweet love to my ex-wife, and then, after whispering in her ear that I loved her, I would tell her we are never sending any child of ours to school in Laurel Canyon. It would’ve made everything so much easier.

  “Is this a parent council thing? Do you need help sweeping up or something? Because Suzonne usually handles the intimate school schedule thing.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You probably didn’t read the new vocabulary sheet we sent home with the children.” Willow laughs. “It makes these situations so much easier when you know the language. A cleansing process is like a parent teacher conference, only much more spiritually humbling.”

  Shit. Amelia’s in trouble at school again. Rubbing my eyes, I lean back in my chair. Ergonomic. It feels so good.

  “This’ll make it, what, the fourth time this quarter I’m in the office?” I ask. I try not to snap, because this woman’s just doing her job.

  “Amelia is simply having a difficult time with energy transference to the group,” Willow soothes. “Once her chi becomes more in sync with the other children, these issues will smooth themselves over.”

  You know, I don’t think I want a ten-year-old who blends in harmoniously with all the other children. I kind of like my precocious, energetic little angel the way she is. But Suzonne’s out of town this week—stupid silent yoga retreat workshop—and I promised I’d balance the parenting and the work seamlessly. I feel a twist in my gut at the thought. Amelia’s handled the separation better than could’ve been expected, but she’s still feeling unmoored. Hell, it’s probably why she’s acting up in school so much. And that’s my own damn fault.

  So I’m going to be the parent Amelia needs, as well as deserves. I’m like Batman that way.

  “Okay. Let’s talk,” I say,
leaning forward. I’m going to be dad of the damn millennium.

  “Wonderful,” Willow coos. I can practically see her, hanging upside down from a circus silk while making this call. “Would an hour work for you?”

  For Amelia, I’m willing to get up and cancel the rest of my workday. I’m even rising to my feet to do it when Bert, my boss, leans into my doorway, a look on his face that says “remember that VIP meeting, Will? I know you didn’t forget. You are so fired if you forgot.”

  Shit. I can’t. Wincing, I say, “Unfortunately, office hours aren’t going to permit that. But if there’s time later?”

  “Of course. We can set up a time at your convenience.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Give Amelia my love.” I sneak another quick look at the myriad pictures of my smiling little girl. The stockbroker’s heart grew three sizes that day. “We’ll talk soon. Er, namaste.”

  “Mr. Munroe.” Willow’s voice gets a bit reprimand-y. “That’s cultural appropriation.”

  Okay, but Sherpa bells aren’t? I exchange a quick pleasantry before finally hanging up on the call. Bert runs a hand across his bald, sweaty pate. Poor bastard’s lost just about all of his hair. He’ll tell you it’s too much testosterone, then he’ll also tell you his balls are too big for his underwear. I try to make sure we’re away from the ladies in the office before he lets that truth bomb slip.

  “Japan,” he says as I slip into my jacket and head out the door. He walks with me toward the main conference room.

  “Country. Asia. Good sushi, though you can get that anywhere in LA,” I say conversationally.

  Bert groans. “Don’t play cute with me, asshole. I need to send my very best over there,” he says, huffing and puffing as we round a corner.

  Right, the big international trip. The golden tour. Two solid weeks in Tokyo, with maybe a stopover in Kyoto. It’s the kind of trip every man and woman in this office salivates to get sent on, and Bert tossed it into my lap like a particularly juicy bone with a hunk of meat still hanging off of it.