Pink Slips and Glass Slippers (22 page)

“Hi daddy,” Brooke leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“Let me introduce you to my friends.” He turned and extended an open hand, then said, “Gerald Wilton, this is my daughter Brooke.” They shook hands. “Ron Weller, Brooke.” Handshake and nod.

Weston said, “Ron’s on some prestigious boards. I think the two of you should talk.”

Brooke feigned a smile. Still mourning Monday’s events—even if it was Pharmical—she wasn’t ready to play the interview game. “It’s nice to meet both of you.” Ron smiled and inhaled deeply, then said, “I’ve gotta run, but here’s my card Brooke.” Digging in his suit coat, he handed her a shiny card, then said, “Let’s have lunch.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.” Treading away and behind the maître d', she glared at her beaming father and lowered her voice, “Daddy. I wish you wouldn’t do that. Can we just have a normal lunch?”

Weston frowned, “Ron Weller is on the board of a bunch of big companies here in Charlotte. He was once vice chairman of a major tobacco company.”

“Great, maybe I can start smoking.”

The grey-haired maître d' pulled the chair out for Brooke as Weston plopped down on his chair and said, “I’m only trying to help.”

“I know. I know. Everybody’s trying to help. But, I’m not ready to even think about what I want to do next.”

“Well, don’t wait too long. The economy’s still in rough shape. We’ve lost 3,000 jobs just in banking. There was a time when Charlotte gave Wall Street a run for their money in banking.”

“That’s banking. I’d rather kill myself than work in a bank.”

Weston raised his eyebrow and curled his lips down.

After a long silence, Weston said, “Well, it looks like your ankle’s better?”

“Much better thanks. I knew it wouldn’t take as long as that doctor said. I’ve been able to run again. I’m entered into the Race for the Cure in another month.”

“Don’t push it. It may feel fully healed, but running a marathon will probably reinjure it.”

“I know, I know. Believe it or not, I’m a big girl now.”

“Do you have any job leads?”

Brooke suppressed a shriek, thinking
he won’t stop—I don’t want to talk about it
. Instead, she drew a deep breath, and said, “As a matter of fact, I do. My recruiter called me this morning and said he had—”

“Whenever I see your smiling face…” That’s probably him. I gotta take this daddy. Before allowing Weston the chance to voice his disproval for cell phones at the table, Brooke jumped up, turning away. Pressing the cell to her ear, “Hello, I was wondering when you’d call back.”

“Brooke?”

Brooke froze, and her knees buckled. She recognized that voice. “What do
you
want?”

“Brooke, don’t hang up,” Chase gulped, then said, “I really need to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a nice big package I wanna give you…”

After Brooke heard
big package,
a sea of red overtook her. “What? I can’t believe you just said that. You’re no different than Dixie-dawg. Oh my God…what an asshole!” Brooke nearly broke her cell as she slammed it shut. Cheeks flushed, eyelids fluttering, and her heart raced faster than a king’s cook beating eggs. Brooke pressed the off button as if strangling her cell to death, then after it shut down, she glanced up—all eyes glowered at her.
Oh shit.
Brooke felt like she was standing in front of a Pharmical boardroom meeting, naked.

Brooke caught her father’s scowl and decided against heading into that furnace. She wheeled around, lowered her head, and dashed to the ladies room.

After ten long minutes, Brooke peered around the corner. No eyes, except her father, now perched like a wooden tennis backboard.

Brooke moseyed over to the table. Weston had an empty martini glass in front of him. He didn’t stand as his daughter slithered into the chair across from him. After a silence, Weston said, “Well, that was a fine show for the entire club. I’m guessing that wasn’t your recruiter. If so, you can kiss that job goodbye.”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“I’m glad, neither do I, but the rest of the restaurant might. I’ve never felt so many stares.”

The waiter appeared, causing a truce, asking, “Would you care for another cocktail, sir?”

“Yes, and make it a double.”

He scribbled on his notepad, then said, “Would the lady care for anything to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have a cosmo.”

Weston’s eyes bulged, Brooke turned away.

“Very well, can I take your food order?”

Brooke ordered a cup of soup and a small Caesar salad. Weston frowned and said, “You need to eat more.”

“I had a big breakfast,” she lied.

Weston ordered a steak sandwich, and raised his eyebrows at Brooke, who mouthed
I’m not hungry.
The waiter hovered for a moment, then scurried away.

Weston cleared his throat, then asked, “Did you bring the severance for me to take a look-see?”

“It’s not much. I could’ve written it on this drink napkin.” Brooke reached into her purse, then unfolded an envelope and handed it to her father.

Weston pulled his reading glasses out of his front pocket, then scanned the crinkled paper. He grimaced, then fixed his gaze on Brooke. “I hope you didn’t sign this.” It sounded more like a command than a question.

“No.”

“Don’t. This is absurd. I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years.”

“It is what it is.”

“You can’t really mean that. They have to expect you to fight this. Let me blast them a nasty memo on my letterhead. I’ll get you a real severance package.”

Brooke fidgeted, then said, “No. I just want to be done with them. It’s time to move on. I don’t care about the money—I have plenty from the buyout.”

“Honey, you’re not thinking clearly. I know this company—they play dirty. I fought ‘em and won, even with that shark Chase Allman.”

Chase Allman.
Hearing the name—especially out of her daddy’s mouth—sliced through her. Brooke sighed, if he only knew the rest of the story. As much as she would have loved to dump on Chase, she decided against it. Weston was perceptive and she felt susceptible after her outburst heard round the club. Her father was understanding—to a point—Brooke’s little tryst could never reach her daddy’s ears. She feared he’d sue Pharmical with glee and disown her with disdain.

Brooke gulped her cosmo as Weston inhaled his second martini, then gobbled his two olives. Thankfully, lunch kept her from ordering another round. Brooke remembered the last time she had two cosmos and where it landed her.

Weston said, “I have a surprise for you back at the house.”

Brooke smiled, then said, “Don’t you have to work?”

“Not today—I get to spend the day with my beautiful little girl. Besides, after those martinis, I’d probably sue Pharmical and watch that All-shark squirm.”

Brooke hoped her daddy wasn’t psychic. “No lawsuits daddy. Promise me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s go home before I order another drink.”

“Can you drive?”

“I’m fine—I can handle my liquor.” Hearing they way he slurred the last phrase, Brooke raised her eyebrows. She searched for the waiter, hoping to ascertain the actual martini count. Glancing both ways, she frowned.

Weston clumsily slid his chair back, then wavered as he stood. Brooke scanned the room one more time—still no waiter.

“I’ll follow you home just to be safe.”

“I’m fine, really, you’re making another scene.” Glaring, he said, “You ready?”

Weston gripped Brooke’s arm as they ambled from the restaurant to their cars. Descending the hill, Weston shuffled in slow motion. Brooke noticed her daddy struggled and she wasn’t sure how much of it was martini related. She hated to see him age, the thought of losing him made her stomach ache.

Brooke followed at a safe distance and her father seemed in control, unlike herself after a couple of vodka shots. She replayed Chase’s call in her head, igniting another sharp pang in her stomach. How could I have been so stupid?

Inside the familiar home with all its dated furnishings, Weston led Brooke to the kitchen. He opened up the almond refrigerator door and said, “Look.”

Brooke spotted the plastic bags with reddish lobster etchings on the side, then said, “Lobster lasagna? My favorite. I’ve been craving it—how’d you know?” Her mouth watered as memories of cooking beside her daddy flooded in. She recalled the recipe by heart, though he always pulled out the withered paper from his “Meals” folder and followed step-by-step.

“Want me to buy the wine?”

“Nope. Got it covered.” Weston reached behind the lobster bags and retrieved a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé.

“Wow, you even remembered my favorite white wine.”

“Of course. We should start making it in two hours…do you want to watch a movie in the meantime?”

Brooke smiled, picturing him planning all this. Always great with details, though he may not walk too well, there’s no problem with his mind. She wondered how many times he’d gone to this much trouble for her and then she would make an excuse to scurry back to Chapel Hill.

“Sure, I haven’t watched a movie with you in a while.”

He led her to the family room, then strode to the oversized rear-projection TV with the DVD player she had bought him. “Wanna watch an old Cary Grant film?”

Brooke’s eyes looked like Janet Leigh’s in the movie
Psycho
as she focused on the cover:
An Affair to Remember.
“Oh God, not that one!”

“I thought you liked Cary Grant?”

“I just feel like watching a comedy…”

“Suit yourself.” He lunged around the TV, then opened his video drawer. Leafing through the stack like library cards, he said, “How about
Forrest Gump
?”

Relieved he didn’t suggest a romantic comedy, she said, “Perfect.”

They both laughed at the now-famous scenes, evoking memories of growing up in the South. Brooke recalled their trip to Savannah when she was seventeen. Her father loved the tour of the set used in the movie and talked about it often over the years. Tom Hanks was brilliant as the lead and she had forgotten how good Sally Field, Robin Wright, and Gary Sinise were. The story transported her mind away from her hurricane week.

As the credits rolled, Weston waited until he saw Savannah, then said, “Ready to make dinner?”

True to form, Weston lined the ingredients on the old oak counter in order—like soldiers awaiting roll call. Brooke retrieved their matching aprons and, for the next half hour, they prepared the delicacy like two brain surgeons. Once the layers reached the top, Weston carefully slid the porcelain dish in the oven and set the timer. Brooke opened the refrigerator and grabbed the wine.

They sipped wine while swaying in two shaded rocking chairs overlooking the rolling backyard. Chickadees darted back and forth from the old trees to the gray wooden deck, landing a few feet away. A single Carolina Wren perched atop a nearby cedar post, as if vying for attention, with its tail raised, belting, “Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.” The freshly cut grass mixed with the daisies and tulips, forming a hazy sweetness. Brooke settled in and enjoyed the surroundings like an outdoor movie.

Weston checked his wrist watch as the buzzer sounded. He jumped up, grabbed his wine glass, and said, “Let’s eat.”

The lobster lasagna was sensational, even better than Brooke remembered. Her daddy’s comments rang true—she wasn’t eating right. But tonight, her appetite resembled Tanner’s after a football game. Tanner preferred a meaty red sauce, but loved the creamy white lobster lasagna. Brooke could still picture him sitting beside her, chatting with her daddy about sports while devouring three helpings. Her daddy always made Tanner feel at home.

Brooke swallowed the last bite of her second helping, then lifted her wine glass, “To the greatest daddy in the world. You make the best lasagna.”

“Aw, thanks Brooke,” he lifted his glass and clanked with hers, “
We
make the best lasagna—it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

They both drained their wine, then Weston glanced at his watch. “Oh, we better get these dishes in. It’s already past my bedtime.”

“Don’t worry about it—I’ll do ‘em. You go get your beauty sleep. I don’t have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“Nonsense, let’s do ‘em together. It won’t take us long.” Weston lugged his plate over to the sink and began rinsing before Brooke moved.

“Okay, you wanna rinse, I’ll load.”

“You betcha. Are you staying here for a few days?”

Brooke wasn’t prepared for the question and the wine dimmed her usual wit. While setting a plate inside the dishwasher, she said, “I can’t. I have so much stuff to do.”

Weston frowned, then Brooke said, “I’m going to hit the job search Monday.”

“We could do it together tomorrow. I have some people in mind.”

“I need to be near my computer. I’m supposed to do my resume. Plus, I have to shop for an interview outfit.”

Brooke loaded the last dish, squirted detergent in the small square in the door, then closed it and spun the needle to start. As she turned, Weston stood in her way, and said, “Well, I hardly see you when you’re working, now I don’t see you when you’re not.”

“I had such a nice time—I loved our dinner. I’ll be back soon, I promise. Thanks for everything. I love you.”

“Love you too, goodnight. If you change your mind…”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

Brooke scrutinized her father’s shuffle toward the stairs like a kid sent to bed by his parents. He reverted to his old man walk, and Brooke realized his demeanor was attitudinal, not physical. Still early, Brooke glanced at the TV, but decided against it. She didn’t find many worthwhile shows and she didn’t want to disturb her father’s sleep. She remembered she packed that book Shane recommended. Brooke grabbed her overnight bag and slinked up the stairs to her old bedroom.

Flipping on the light, the shocking pink walls transported her back in time like a little girl entering Disney World for the first time. Though she hated being perceived as a twelve-year-old by her father, she loved how he preserved her childhood bedroom. She gazed at her track trophies from grade school, the picture of Jessie—her horse growing up—and photos of her and daddy at amusement parks, on a tennis court, and on the beach—happy times.