This Is How It Happened (22 page)

I spend day and night working at my computer. Developing my models. Working up charts and graphs. Getting prepared for the only thing I know that will save my career.

When I’m finally finished, I look down at my Marketing and P.R. portfolio book. I’ve had it professionally copied onto thick color paper, and bound by the best printing company in town. All in all, I have to say, it looks pretty good. But in this competitive market, good won’t cut it. It’s gotta be great.

I pick the portfolio off the table, check my interview suit in the mirror, and cross my fingers.

“You can do it, Maddy,” I say, giving myself the ultimate pep talk. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. Today’s the day. The day that will determine whether I, Maddy Piatro, have what it takes to make a comeback.

As I’m hurrying out the door, my phone rings. I dash back into the kitchen and reach for the phone.

“Hello?” I say.

A familiar voice comes on the line.

“How’s my FAVE-rite gal?”

Good ol’ Henry.

I smile broadly. “Thanks for calling me back,” I say, immediately.

“Of course, kiddo. And let me start by saying
thank you
for sending me the brilliant Miss Nathalie. She already found two accounting errors that could’ve been expensive mistakes. I’m telling you, Maddy, she’s a knockout with numbers.”

“She’s a knockout in more ways than one,” I say.

Henry chuckles into the phone. In the background, I can hear him splashing what I imagine to be Jack Daniels into his coffee.

He takes an audible sip and sighs into the phone. “That body of hers could certainly sink a navy ship,” he says. “I’ve already had to protect the poor gal from a few of our more aggressive male clients.”

“I think Nathalie is in good hands,” I say.

“Ahh. If I were only twenty years younger…” Henry muses. “And not happily married to my dear Eva.”

“Try thirty years younger,” I say, and he chuckles again.

“Never sass a crusty old Polak,” Henry warns.

I feel my shoulders relax. A warm feeling washes over me.

We’re back. Henry and me. And it took no time at all.

“So I assume you need a recommendation for your big interview?” he asks.

“Yes, I listed you on my resume, because I couldn’t list Carlton. Is that all right?”

“The H.R. woman from Giganto Foods already called, kiddo. I gave her a dazzling review of your work performance.”

“Thanks, Henry. How can I ever…” I pause. Because I’m at a loss for words.

“You can let me take you to lunch next week,” Henry says. “My treat.”

“Enchiladas at Manny’s Mexican?” I ask.

“Now you’re talkin’,” he says.

Henry is quiet a moment. I expect him to say something along the lines of “
I told you so
,” but he doesn’t.

“Did you hear the one about the Polish kamikaze pilot?” he asks.

I pause a moment.

“He flew forty-eight successful missions!”

I don’t want to remind Henry that I’ve heard this joke about forty-eight times myself.

He chuckles at him own joke and says, “Break a leg, kiddo.”

“I’ll try.”

I cross the lawn and slide into my car. Driving slowly through my neighborhood and onto the expressway, I rehearse what I’ll say in the interview.

The Giganto Foods corporate office is housed in one of the larger and more impressive skyscrapers downtown. It’s a towering, sheer glass structure with a needle on top. The building is shaped like a triangle and vaguely resembles a space ship. People in town jokingly call it “The Death Star.” Probably because there are so many law offices on the bottom floors.

I reach the building and park in the garage underneath. Then I take the elevators up to the top suites. Only the best for Giganto. As I step into the reception area, I see that the view over Town Lake and the Texas hill country is breathtaking. I could get used to this view, I think.

I never pictured myself as the corporate type. Trying to rise up through the ranks. But then again, I would love an opportunity working for the top dog in the industry.

A smiling woman greets me at the reception desk.

“Ms. Piatro?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“They’re expecting you in the conference room. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

She smiles and leads me through a wide, airy hallway and into a beautiful room filled with floor-to-ceiling windows. Two women and two men are sitting around a large conference table. We shake hands all around and I pass a woman named Gretta my portfolio.

“We were impressed with your resume, Madeline,” she says, motioning for me to take a seat at the table.

“Thank you.” I sit down. I’m dressed in my sharpest interview suit, but I see that everyone else in the room is wearing smart-casual. Which is nice to see, especially on a Monday. There’s a plate of breakfast pastries on a side table, along with coffee and tea.

Everyone goes around the table and tells me about themselves. About how they started in the industry. They seem friendly and welcoming. And they’re all foodies. They love to talk food. In fact, before the interview, they invite me to enjoy some of Giganto’s low-fat croissants and muffins.

We gather at the side table, and Gretta hands me a small plate. I point to the muffin tray and say, “If these are low-fat, I’ll take two of everything.”

This gets a good chuckle all around. So I start to feel more comfortable.

A few minutes later, one of the men kicks off the interview. “So tell us, Madeline, what is your vision about the logistics involved in rolling out an organic lunch program for kids nationwide?”

I open a folder and pull out copies of all my data. My spreadsheets, my marketing proposals, my cost/benefit analysis. Everything I’ve worked up for the interview. I pass the sheets around, and then spend the morning discussing the pros and cons of the organic niche market for children. Things I’ve learned while working at Organics 4 Kids. Things you can’t read in a book. I go into every detail, big and small. I really get into the nitty-gritty.

When I’m finished, my interviewers sit back in their chairs. “That was very thorough,” Gretta says. “You answered all my questions. It’s obvious you have a firm grasp of the marketplace.”

The other interviewers nod in agreement. They tell me they’ll be in touch soon.

Gretta offers me a tour of the building, and the office where I would be working if I got the job. The office is gorgeous. With more floor-to-ceiling windows, and, I notice, a terrific, modern-looking desk. The whole place is sleek black and tan, not cluttered with the usual clunky brown office furniture.

Gretta tells me that the position I’m interviewing for—V.P. of the new Organics For Children Division—comes fully staffed with a secretary, and several staff assistants.

She wishes me luck and says I’ve been the best candidate so far.

“Have there been a lot of other candidates?” I ask.

“You’re the first,” she says. And we both laugh.

Gretta, I’m pleased to find out, has a sense of humor after all.

I post a message to Dick on the Starbucks corkboard. It’s short and sweet and reads:

I grab a cappuccino in a to-go cup. As I’m breezing out the door, I run smack dab into Nick.

“Hey there, stranger. I thought I might run into you, here,” he says, grinning. I see he’s wearing jeans and a short sleeve polo shirt. He looks incredible, really. I’m suddenly glad that I decided to wear makeup this morning.

“Are you following me?” I tease.

Nick’s face changes and he takes a small step backward.

“I’m kidding,” I say.

He breaks out into a relieved smile and motions for me to sit at one of the outdoor tables. So I sit and sip my cappuccino. Like the dainty little butterfly that I am.

“I missed you at tennis the other night,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me.

I nod, quietly. I don’t want to tell Nick about why I missed the lesson. About my run-in with Carlton at the restaurant.

But he persists. “Why were you a no-show? You better have a good excuse,” he says, in a playful tone.

“I was working late,” I say. “I just had an interview with Giganto Foods that I’m pretty excited about.”

“How’d it go?”

I flash my sexiest kitty cat smile. “I think I nailed it,” I say.

I realize that I may sound overconfident, but some guys appreciate that kind of bravado in a woman. Especially guys like Nick.

“So now that you know everything about me, Nick, why don’t you tell me something about yourself? I mean, the other night at dinner, I didn’t even catch your last name.”

“You’re going to laugh when I tell you,” he says.

“Why?”

“My last name is Nolte.”

“You’re Nick Nolte?”

“In the flesh.”

“You’re kidding.”

Nick flashes me a grin. “I wish I were.”

I laugh and say, “Will you autograph my coffee cup?” I pull a pen from my bag and toss it toward Nick. He snatches the Styrofoam cup from my hand, scrawls something in large, bold letters across the side, and passes it back across the table.

For a good time in bed, please call Nick.
P.S. No refunds or exchanges.

“Clever,” I say. “But that’s
my
line.”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery,” Nick informs me. He grins and I look into his clear blue eyes. The electricity is zinging between us again, and I know he feels it, too, because I see him blush slightly.

“I never asked what you did for a living,” I say.

And poof! Just like that, the electricity is gone.

Good one, Maddy
.

I’m—apparently—about as sexy as a blackout.

Nick stiffens in his chair and then gives me one of those lopsided smiles. Like a person trying really hard to smile.

“I’m a hit man,” he says, with complete seriousness.

I stare down at the table. And feel my face burning hot red.

Okay, Maddy. Get a grip, here.

When I look back up at Nick, he winks at me and laughs.

“I bet you’ve never met a hit man, have you?” he asks.

I wonder, suddenly, if Nick knows something about me. Or am I being paranoid?

“You’re creeping me out,” I say.

Nick shrugs and says “Sorry.”

So I decide to write it off. I’m being paranoid after all.

Nick stands up abruptly and says, “Excuse me a sec while I get my daily caffeine fix.”

He swings through the door of Starbucks and heads to the counter. I lean back and sip my coffee. Nick still hasn’t told me anything about himself, except for the fact that his last name is Nolte. Which I’m not sure whether I believe. I should ask to see his driver’s license.

Yep, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

A few minutes later, Nick returns with a coffee for himself and two slices of lemon pound cake. (Yum. My favorite decadent dessert.) He passes a slice across the table along with a napkin. “I thought you might enjoy a sugar boost,” he says, smiling at me. God, those dimples. They really do get in the way of logic and reason.

“Thank you.” I pinch off a bite of pound cake and pop it in my mouth. “I’d like to see your driver’s license to confirm your last name,” I say. And I’m kind of teasing, and kind of not.

Nick looks closely at me. He says, “I left my license at home.”

“Mysteriously,” I say.

“I walked here,” he explains. “And I don’t like to carry a big fat wallet when I’m walking. Just my money clip.”

“I see. Well, in that case, why don’t we walk back to your place and get it?”

I’m really going balls to the wall with this one. And I’m not sure Nick likes it. But I don’t care.

“Are you trying to sleep with me, Maddy?” he asks, shooting me a mischievous grin.

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay. You got me. My last name isn’t Nolte. It’s Montana,” he says. “Nicholas Montana.”

“Thank you.” I shake my head back and forth. “I almost believed the Nick Nolte story. Which shows you what a sap I am.”

Nick stares at me a moment. A long, hard stare. And then he says, out of the blue, “Are you really a sap, Maddy? Could someone pull the wool over your eyes? And get you involved with something you really didn’t want to be involved with? Because I’d really like to believe that.”

I glance down at the table, and then look up into Nick Montana’s clear blue eyes. He’s staring at me in a really intense way. I’m not sure about his question, but I suddenly feel uncomfortable. My stomach does a little flip flop.

I check my watch and say, “Oh my gosh! Look at the time. I’ve got to run.”

Nick stands from the table and I stand up, too. We do this awkward handshake thing, and I say, “Thanks for the cake. It’s been…entertaining.”

Nick’s face suddenly seems dark and solemn. He isn’t smiling anymore. He says, “Can I give you a lift?”

I stare at him. “That would be great, Nick. But you walked here, REMEMBER?” I pivot around and am surprised when he grabs my arm.

His grip is firm. A little too firm.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m not some kind of weirdo.”

I jerk my arm away.

“Right,” I say.

I turn and literally race out of the coffee shop and down the block.

“Maddy, wait!” I hear him shout out. But I’m already rounding the corner.

Heather and I are having a super fabulous afternoon at the Neiman Marcus outlet store. We’re strolling through the maternity clothes section, and I’m helping Heather pick out some great outfits. I’m saying brilliant stuff like: “The blue in this shirt totally matches your eyes.”

Actually, that’s not true. Heather’s picking out her own outfits while I mill around aimlessly. As she digs through the racks, I regale her with a History of Nick Montana and Maddy Piatro. The abbreviated version.

It goes something like this…

Tennis with Nick

Smoothie with Nick

Dinner with Nick

Coffee and pound cake with Nick

Psycho Nick

Maddy fleeing Nick—which, I admit to Heather, was possibly overdramatic.

“So, in conclusion…” I say, waving my hands in the air. “Another one bites the dust.”

She turns and gives me a supportive pat on the shoulder. “That’s a shame, Maddy,” she coos in a soft, baby doll voice that only Heather can get away with.

“I NEVER should’ve tried to date someone new,” I sigh.

“Nonsense,” Heather says. “What happened to my ‘Leap Before You Look’ best friend?”

“I’m actually feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time,” I say.

Heather looks at me, but this time, it’s not the wounded dog look. It’s not the look of pity that I’ve become accustomed to.

This time, my girlfriend is looking at me with pride.

“You seem confident, lately. More bouncy,” she says, simply.

She pulls a hanger from off the rack and holds up a pair of mud-brown overalls in front of her bulging belly.

“Too blah?” she asks.

“On me, it would look like someone rolled me in a pile of cow dung,” I say. “On you, it’ll look like maternity runway couture.”

“I’m going to try it on,” Heather announces. We walk to the back of the store and I hold her purse while she zips inside one of the dressing rooms.

“So tennis boy turned out to be Ted Bundy?” she calls out, from behind the door.

“Not quite. I mean, he was nice at first. We went on an official date.”

“I remember,” Heather says. “He took you to Le Bistro.”

“Right. Well, I thought we had tons of chemistry but then things went south.”

“How so?”

“He’s been completely mysterious. He hasn’t told me anything about himself, including where he works. And then he tells me his last name is Nolte.”

“Nick Nolte?”

“And I believed him.”

“Maddy,” Heather says, in a tone that makes me feel like a gullible idiot. If my dear, sweet girlfriend realizes that Nick was pulling my leg—and Heather’s not all that street savvy—then I’m definitely slow on the uptake.

“His last name is actually Montana, which is a nice name, but it was strange the way he told me. As if he didn’t want to tell me. The conversation just got weirder after that.”

“Maybe he’s an undercover agent,” Heather comments.

“Yeah, like an undercover serial killer?”

Heather giggles from behind the door.

“Nick Dahmer,” she says.

“Nick Rifkin,” I say.

“Son of Sam, Nick Berkowitz,” she says.

“Nick Manson.”

We go back and forth for a few minutes until we run out of serial killer names.

After what feels like a year and a half, Heather swings out of the dressing room and says, “Ta-da! What do you think?”

She looks like a million dollars, of course. Like a pregnant supermodel Heidi Klum. The brown overalls hide her pregnant belly so, from the front, you can’t even tell she’s pregnant.

“It’s a keeper,” I say. “You look like you should be on the cover of
Maternity Magazine
.”

“Oh, stop.”

Heather steps back into the dressing room and reappears a few minutes later with the overalls folded neatly over her arm.

“These are only thirty dollars and they’re designer, can you believe it?”

I say, “The price of clothes these days. Oy Vay. Don’t get me started.”

Heather shoots me a funny look and says, “Started on what?” And we both burst out laughing.