The Night I Got Lucky. Laura Caldwell
on the button.
“Hiya, Billy!” A chipper voice shot through my phone. “What do you need?”
“Uh…” I considered my possible responses. A lobotomy. A clue. “Lizbeth?” I said, the word alien on my tongue.
“Yeah?”
“You’re my assistant, right?”
A peal of girlish laughter. “Of course.”
I sat back in my chair.
“Billy?” I heard through the phone.
“Yes. Uh… Lizbeth, what day is it?”
“May 5th.”
That sounded right to me. “And it’s Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah. Is something wrong?”
What could be wrong? I’d had fabulous sex with my husband that morning, and I’d been promoted overnight. The only problem was I didn’t seem to know anything about that promotion. Then I got an idea. I knew who could help me.
“No, everything is fine,” I said. “Have you seen Evan today?”
Evan looked up from his desk, his green eyes sparkling, his dimples crinkling. “Hey there! I’m glad to see you.”
He came around the desk and hugged me tight.
“Whoa,” I said, pushing him back a little. Evan and I might hug when we saw each other out at night (me being the one holding him a tad too closely) but we never embraced at work. It wasn’t that kind of office.
“God, it’s weird, but I missed you,” he said.
“You missed me since yesterday?” Wasn’t it yesterday that I’d gone to the team meeting, that I’d been humiliated by Roslyn, that he’d mentioned the Hello Dave show?
“Yeah.” His hand, still on my arm, felt almost like a caress.
“I’ve got to ask you something.” I slipped away and closed the door.
“Sure.” He gestured to one of the chairs that faced his desk and went back to his own.
“What’s going on around here?” I said, taking a seat.
“You look sexy today,” he said.
“Do I?” I took a quick look at my brown pants, my ivory blouse. I’d worn the outfit to work no less than fifty times.
“You do.” His eyes dragged down my body, then back up again. “God, what is it about you today?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe it’s the fact that I just got steamed an hour ago? “Look, Ev, focus for me, okay? What in the hell is happening around here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do I have a VP office?”
He laughed. “Because you’re a VP, baby. Get used to it.”
“Why did it happen so quick?”
“What do you mean? You deserved it for a long time.”
“I know,” I said, irritated. “But why did they just move me in there overnight?”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been VP for a while.”
“A while? How long?”
He ran a hand through his blond hair—the kind of gesture that normally made me sigh with desire. “I can’t remember.” He scratched his head. “Huh. That’s strange. Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you tense?”
“What?”
“You seem like you’re tense. Let me give you a neck rub.” In a flash, he was around his desk and behind me, his hands massaging my neck.
My eyes drifted shut for a moment, then snapped open. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you work out the kinks.” His voice was low, thick, the kind of voice I was sure he used with his girlfriends in bed.
“Okay, okay.” I stood up and spun around. “Is this a joke? Seriously, this is unbelievably cruel if it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My VP office! And—” I pointed at him, unable to find the words “—you, acting like this.”
“Sorry.” A confused expression. “That was inappropriate, wasn’t it?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Geez, what is with me?” He shook his head. “Are you all right? Is it tension in your lower back? Here, let me work on that.” He moved forward, his muscled arm slipping around my hips.
“All right, I’m out of here,” I said. With a nervous laugh I headed for the door.
“Want to get lunch?” Evan said, looking like a child left behind on the playground.
“I’ve got plans.” Odd. It was the response he usually gave me.
Back in my office, I climbed into the chair, and with my feet on the phone book, let my eyes sweep the room. All my stuff was there—no doubt about it—and everyone seemed to think I was a vice president. But it felt surreal, having it just happen like that. I wanted a party, maybe a cake with Congrats Billy! on it in pink frosting. I wanted someone to say, “You deserve it.”
I needed my mom. She would ramble and rave; she would make me believe this was real and I had earned it. I slid the phone closer and perused the speed dial buttons. There it was. Mom.
Two rings went by, then three. I knew her machine would pick up on the next ring, and I’d hear the message, “Sorry we can’t come to the phone. We’ll call you back.” My mother hadn’t changed the message since Jan died, and so it still sounded as if he were running around town with her, about to head home and check voice mail.
The answering machine clicked on, and surprisingly I heard something new. Tinkling piano music in the background, then my mother’s chipper, “Hello! I’m not here right now. I’d love to phone you back. Just leave your number. Ta ta!”
Ta-freakin’-ta? She sounded like Joan Collins on Dynasty. “Mom, it’s me,” I said. “Nice message. Give me a call as soon as you get in.”
I put the phone back on the receiver. What to do now? Work, I supposed, but it seemed I might have a different role now, one I was unclear about.
“Hello, Miss Billy.”
I looked up and saw Gerald, the elderly black man who ran the mail office at Harper Frankwell and personally delivered everyone’s mail each morning.
I greeted him, and waited to see if he commented on my new office.
“Have a lovely day now.” He handed me a stack of mail. He turned and left, whistling an aimless tune.
I flipped through the envelopes—letters from clients, one from a TV station in Dallas, where we’d been trying to get coverage for a new product. And then there was a shiny lacquered postcard. The photo on the front showed a multispired white building. I flipped it over and looked at the printed words on top. The Duomo, it said. Milan.
Below that, in my mom’s tiny, perfect penmanship, there were three lines: The collections are surprisingly tedious! The Trussardi stuff—particularly stale. Love, Mom.
I flipped it back and looked at the front. I turned it again and read the lines a few more times. It appeared that overnight my mother had transported herself, by herself, to Milan and the fashion district. My mother adored fashion. She was always decked out in the latest, and she’d always talked about going with Jan to the shows in Milan, but when he died, so did that dream. Until now. If this postcard was legit, my mother had a real life, something I’d been hoping for her for so long. And if it was true, then she’d gotten