Authors: Jane Tara
“There’s my date.”
Jess squinted across the room. “Cute.”
Eva gave a warm, throaty laugh. “Honey, you’ve had way too much to drink.”
*
Angel and Rowie were drinking at another bar across town.
Angel scanned the room. “What’s your friend’s name again?”
“Shin.” Rowie played with her straw. “So how’s work?”
“Who gives a shit about work?” Angel leant across the table. “More importantly, this Shin … is he cute?”
“Yes. I think you’ll like him.” Rowie’s eye’s filled with tears. “I’ve had such a crap day.”
Angel took Rowie’s hand. “Stop worrying about what happened. It’s over.”
Rowie frowned. “Do you mean with Drew, or my job?”
“From the sounds of things, both,” said Angel, and then seeing the look on Rowie’s face, “I’m joking. Drew will come round. Just give him time. As for the psychic thing, it’s never happened before and it won’t ever happen again. It’s like writer’s block … not that I’ve ever had it myself. But if I did have a dose … I’d know it wasn’t permanent.
“Yeah? So tell me, how
is
your novel going?”
“Cheap shot, Rowena,” said Angel. “Actually, I think the elephant you have in the shop is possessed.”
“Who? Ganesha?”
Angel nodded. “He’s Hindu-haunted, honey. Came to me in my dreams a few nights ago.”
“Really, what did he say?” asked Rowie, as though a visit from a Hindu God was a perfectly normal occurrence.
“He handed me a gold fountain pen and said, ‘Use it wisely. Write from your heart, everything will follow.’”
“Oh how wonderful,” sighed Rowie.
“Why is a rep from Montblanc in the form of a talking elephant
wonderful?
” asked Angel.
“He was telling you to stop procrastinating and write that novel you’re always raving about. He’s guiding you and telling you it will be a success,” explained Rowie.
“You think so?” Although skeptical, Angel wasn’t completely close-minded. The new age may be a pile of dog-droppings but she would trust Rowie, and her wacky insights, with her life.
“You’ve been talking about this novel ever since I met you. Write it! What are you waiting for?”
“I’ve been collecting life experiences,” explained Angel. “How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live.”
“Thoreau! And didn’t Tolstoy say, ‘If you want to be a writer then write’?”
“How can you write about life if you haven’t experienced it?”
“How much experience do you need, Angel?”
“There are things I haven’t done yet.” Angel tried to think of something. “I haven’t been sky-diving or drunk vodka in Russia with a poet. I hear med students at NYU pay $50 an hour for women to be practice vaginas.”
“Darling, your vagina has had enough practice,” Rowie laughed. “You realize this novel will be a bestseller?”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend. It’s the law.”
“I see it, Angel. I know I never let you know what I see in store for you, but today I’m breaking the rules. You don’t take a visit from Ganesha lightly.”
Angel looked uncomfortable. “Great, you’re on the elephant’s side. What if it wasn’t Ganesha? What if it was Dumbo playing a joke? I’m not the perfect candidate for a visitation from a god. I’m messy, I swear too bloody much … The last time I gave to charity was when I shagged my ex.”
“The Gods, from any religion, Hindu, Tibetan or Ancient Greek, are simply our inner archetypes; aspects of Divinity within ourselves. Divinity knows what you’re capable of, even if this sexy mess you mistake as your real self doesn’t. It was that higher part of yourself that came to you in your dream.”
“As an elephant?” joked Angel. “Then I don’t think it was a sign to write but one to quit the cheesecake habit.”
Rowie smiled and knew that, despite the jokes, Angel was listening. “Ganesha symbolizes the writer. You work it out.”
“You know Rowie, you really talk the talk … but do you walk the walk?”
“No. While the lives of others are oh so clear, mine is but a muddy puddle,” she laughed.
“Well Miss Muddy Puddle, is that hunk of manhood over there your friend?”
Rowie turned and noticed Shin standing by the door, scanning the room. “Sure is.” She gave him a wave and he made his way over to them.
“Bloody hell … he’s lovely,” Angel whispered.
Shin arrived, gave both Rowie and Angel a kiss on the cheek, and then ordered a fresh round of drinks. Rowie could tell he was trying to be cool, but was completely bowled over by Angel.
The attraction was mutual. After an awkward start, the alcohol, the great social lubricator, kicked in and the two were soon chatting away like old friends—old friends who desperately wanted to get naked together. Rowie’s spirits lifted. Her intuition about her two friends had been spot-on. Her gift still worked. It really only failed her when Drew was around, so as long as she stayed away from him, everything would be fine. And staying away from Drew wouldn’t be a problem, now that he despised the ground she walked on.
Silent tears spilled into her vodka.
Shin noticed and put his arm around her. “Hey, are you still upset about today?”
Rowie nodded and skulled her vodka and tears.
“You were there, Shin,” said Angel. “Do you think Rowie made a complete fool of herself?”
Shin shook his head. “Not at all. It actually looked like she wasn’t well. By the time I left work there were dozens of emails telling her to take Echinacea.”
“See, it was noticeable,” Rowie groaned.
“But it wasn’t a big deal,” said Shin. “And I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“And what about Drew?” Rowie wiped her eyes. “We spent the most amazing weekend together, and it ends like this. He thinks I knew I was getting his job.”
“He’ll get over it,” Shin promised. “He’s not the type to hold a grudge.”
“Really?” Rowie was clutching at straws.
“Really,” Shin assured her. “I bet he’ll call.”
Angel nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. He’ll call.”
*
Later, after leaving Shin and Angel together at the bar, Rowie curled up on the couch in front of the TV. There was only one way to deal with her heartache: chick flicks.
First up,
Bridget Jones’s Diary
. For the next few hours she barely moved from the couch. She vacuumed down a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s and a couple of Toblerone, and then stretched out on the floor and prayed her gut wouldn’t explode. After Bridget, she watched
How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.
Ten days? Hell, she could do it in three!
And every half hour—okay, every ten minutes—she checked that the phone was still working. It was. He had no excuse for not calling. He would call.
Rowie fell asleep waiting.
Drew was tempted to call Rowie. Every half hour—okay, every ten minutes—he picked up the phone, but he never dialed. Why should he call her? She should be calling him. If she apologized, and gave him his job back, he’d be willing to forgive her. Hell, if she just called he’d seriously consider it.
He was half way through a bottle of Jack Daniel’s when the phone finally rang. He let it ring three times—he didn’t want her to think he was waiting by the phone—and answered it in a relaxed, carefree voice—he didn’t want her to know how desperate he was.
“Ye … llo.”
Great, answered the phone with a primary color.
“Drew … it’s Jess.”
Drew’s heart sank … plummeted a thousand feet. Rowie wasn’t going to call. “What do you want, Jess?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Fine. I’ll see you at work.”
Jess wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I’m standing outside the gates. Let me in.”
Drew walked up the hatch and onto the deck. He could see Jess standing behind the security fence. Freaking fabulous! Just what he needed. He let her in and then, without a word between them, led her back to the boat and offered her a seat on deck.
“I don’t get to see inside?” she asked.
“I only invite friends inside.”
If looks could kill. “I thought we were friends.”
Drew shook his head in amazement. “You completely screwed me over at work. Is that how friends treat each other? Perhaps you’d like to sink my boat, or run over my grandmother as well.”
“You’re taking this personally, Drew.”
“Of course I am,” he said. “It’s personal. It’s my job, my life. You pulled the rug out from under me and didn’t even have the decency to warn me.”
“I would have, but you were busy all weekend,” Jess hissed.
Norm ambled up and plopped himself at Drew’s feet. He sensed trouble brewing and decided to be on hand in case he was needed.
“Is that your dog?” asked Jess.
“No, it’s my goat,” Drew snapped. “What are you doing here, Jess?”
“I know how you can get your job back,” said Jess quietly.
“Really?”
“Yes really.”
“What about your precious ratings?”
“It wasn’t my call.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t my idea,” Jess admitted. “Her ratings are better than yours, Drew. It was a business decision.”
Who was he to argue, thought Drew. Dumping Jess had largely been a business decision as well. “If her ratings are better, why do you want me back?”
Jess went quiet and stared out at the water. Finally she shrugged. “I want her out. Watching her mess up today scared me. She’s a gimmick, so I think your style is better in the long term.” Jess paused for a moment. “Mostly, I just want things to be like they used to be.”
“Before or after we slept together?”
Jess looked Drew straight in the eye. “During.”
Drew was tempted, for a moment. She was beautiful; he was drunk … she was there. It was like dial-a-bonk, delivered straight to his door. But then she flicked her brown hair over her shoulder and he realized he might never settle for anything but a redhead ever again.
“As much as I’d like to, I think we’d both regret it when we sobered up,” he said.
Jess nodded. It had been worth a shot and she was too drunk to feel embarrassed.
“I really enjoyed what we had, Jess. I don’t regret it at all.” Drew chuckled quietly. “Well perhaps I did for a moment or two today.” He looked her square in the eye. “But it wasn’t right, long-term.”
Jess shuffled uncomfortably. As drunk as she was, this conversation was getting way too Dr Phil. She decided to change the topic. “Totally. I agree. Let’s forget about that and concentrate on how you can get your job back.”
Gwendolyn straightened her skirt, gave her hair a quick pat, and then pressed the doorbell. She noticed her reflection in the ornate brass knocker in the door. Someone had recently polished it. William Walters was obviously a man who took time to maintain his home properly.
She could hear footsteps approaching the door and had an intuitive flash of the man who was about to open it: tall, smart, and quite irritated. He regretted agreeing to meet
this Shakespeare woman.
Gwendolyn smiled. She’d soon change his mind.
She’d heard of William’s plight through Petey, who felt Georgette’s father needed some counseling. Georgette had been living back with William since her mastectomy. They both pretended she was there so her father could help her while she underwent chemotherapy, but really, Georgette had moved home to help him.
William Walters was devastated. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing two beloved women to the same disease. He had stumbled into fatherhood late in life. He was 45 when he met Isabel, a much younger woman whose love and energy knew no bounds. He was glad he’d waited. They shared eighteen magical years before cancer stole her away, but even then, he felt blessed to have experienced such a marriage, such a woman.
And he still had Georgette.
Each time William saw his daughter, dressed in her simple conservative clothes with their subtle tones, he felt proud and counted his blessings. To be faced with the possibility of losing her was more than he could bear. He couldn’t go through it again.
It had been ten years since Isabel had died and the darkness of her demise had lifted. William still missed her, but her breastless corpse was not how he remembered her anymore. It was the wave she gave him from her bike while wearing a bright yellow sundress. Or her subtle smile as she looked into his eyes and handed him their daughter for the first time. It was the slightly crooked way her feet pointed, the wave in her hair that annoyed her so, how she sang while she baked. These were the memories he had of his wife, and he hated himself for staring hungrily at his daughter’s every move in an attempt to make a catalogue of memories he could draw on later, in case she died.
Georgette understood what her father was going through, which is why she moved back home. She tried to talk to him about the possibility of life after death. She tried to discuss the idea of an afterlife that wasn’t limited to heaven and hell. But whether it was the deeply ingrained teachings of his Catholic school days, or the prospect of believing in a tempting idea that would one day prove itself untrue, he rejected the concept completely.
Until the day he met Gwendolyn Shakespeare.
William opened the door and looked surprised to see an attractive redhead wearing a neat wool suit and shiny shoes. He’d been expecting one of those over-done gypsy women from the Lower East Side, not this rather conservative
lady
.
“You must be William.” Her voice was low, her enunciation crisp. Her green eyes penetrated straight through his stoical veneer. “I’m Gwendolyn. Petey asked me to drop by and chat to you about Georgette’s cancer.”
William felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Finally, someone had said the word:
cancer
. His friends and family meant well, but skirting around the issue with words such as illness, predicament, or worst of all … tragedy, was not helping him one iota. He realized he needed to talk about the
cancer
. About death. And suddenly he wanted to talk about it with this woman.
He led her into the dining room where a pot of tea was waiting. Gwendolyn nodded her approval. The man was well mannered and prepared. She reached into her bag and pulled out a slice she’d baked that morning.