All I Ever Wanted

“Morning, boss,” I said, reassured that my voice sounded normal. I paused, the tray of scones growing heavier. My purse slipped off my shoulder. “Hi, Muriel. Welcome.”

She stood next to Mark, one bony hip tilted out. “Hello,” she said, giving me a quick once-over. Her nostrils twitched. “How are you, Calliope?”

“Great!” I answered. “How about you? Getting organized?”

“Already done.”

Muriel was beautiful, I couldn’t deny that. Her hair was black, pulled back into a severe twist, revealing her narrow, ice-queen face. Glittering pale gray eyes, white, white skin with two fiery spots of pink glowing on her cheeks, as if she were burning from fever. She wore a very fitted black suit—Armani maybe, sleek and vicious—and a black silk shirt. Couldn’t have been more than a size two, and I instantly felt quite large and very soft. “Well. I should put these scones—”

“Do you have a moment?” she asked.

I glanced at Mark, who looked blandly back. “Um … sure! Of course.”

“I’ll leave you girls alone,” Mark said, standing aside to let me by. “You look nice today, Callie.”

“Thank you,” I said. He smiled and closed the door. Setting the tray down on the only available surface—Muriel’s desk—I felt a little sweaty. Muriel’s perfume suffused the air.

“It looks great in here,” I said, forcing a smile. Great if you liked sterile, that was. Over the weekend, her office had been redone—the standard-issue desk had been replaced with something modern and white. A sumptuous white leather chair sat behind it. On the walls hung black-and-white Ansel Adams prints—well, given the deVeers money, they were probably originals. Black bookcases, white walls. There was a picture of her and Mr. deVeers in ski gear standing on some mountaintop. I seemed to remember that Muriel’s mother died when she was young.

Muriel sat behind her desk. “Have a seat,” she said, looking at me with those glittering eyes. I obeyed, feeling like I’d been called to the principal’s office (something that had never happened in real life, let me assure you).

“Would you like a scone?” I asked. “I made them this morning.”

“No, thank you,” she said, folding her hands primly.

“So,” I said. “What’s up?”

Once again she looked me up and down as if surveying a bug. “I thought you should be aware that Mark’s told me about the little … fling … you two had last year,” she said.

Fling? Is that what he called it? My heart flinched. All of me flinched, apparently, because she smiled, an evil little Cruella De Vil smile. “I didn’t want you to think you had to hide that information,” she said. “It must be quite hard, still having feelings for your employer.”

“Oh, no,” I lied. “I’m fine. I’ve known Mark most of my life, and we’re very good friends. Thank you so much, though.” I tried to match her cool tone, but it was hard when my face was practically bubbling with heat.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, raising a silken eyebrow. “Well, I commend you for not letting it get in your way. I’m not sure I could work with the man I loved if the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

Wow. I mean, really. Wow! It took balls of steel to say that. “I’m fine, let me assure you,” I said, though my throat was tightening.

“Well! Good for you, Callie,” she said. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”

I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the door, hoping not to look as shaken as I felt.

“Callie?” Muriel called, writing something on a pad.

“Yes?”

She didn’t look up. “Don’t forget your snack.”

“They’re for everyone,” I said defensively. “I always bake on Mondays. Production meetings.” She didn’t answer, just shot me a dubious look, as if she knew I’d be galumphing across the hall with my scones and stuffing all twelve of them into my mouth.

Taking care not to accidentally let the tray, oh, I don’t know … hit her in the face, I picked it up and left, closing the door quietly behind me.

THE NATURE OF ADVERTISING is to make people yearn for something. As creative director, my job was basically to come up with a concept … the big picture, the general idea of an ad campaign. But it was more than that, too. To me, there was something magical about my job. When I had an account, I got the chance to repackage something, to focus only on its good qualities, to convince others to like it, want it and need it. In essence, I focused on the positive. That had always been a strength of mine.

Mark was the account exec on all of our clients, though I knew Fleur had high hopes to move up the food chain. For the time being, she worked under me, doing the grunt work of writing the copy before giving it to me for approval and tweaking. Pete and Leila took care of the graphics side of things, the layout and fonts and color schemes and all that fun stuff. Karen booked ad space, paid the bills and dealt with our vendors, and Damien answered the phones, made appointments and worshipped Mark.

And now there was Muriel. We’d never had anyone work on just one account before, but then again, Bags to Riches was our biggest client. They wanted to do a huge national ad campaign—radio, television, Internet, print, billboards, everything. This morning, Muriel was supposed to give us the lowdown on what the client wanted, and then we’d finesse some ideas. I already had a few mock-ups prepared.

And so, ten minutes later, the entire staff filed into the conference room. I set down the tray of scones in the middle of the table.

“God loves you, Callie,” Pete said, lunging for one, then breaking a bit off and feeding it to Leila like a male cardinal.

“Those look great,” Mark said, grinning at me. “Muriel, Callie’s an incredible baker. Want one?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m starving.”

“Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re that thin and you eat carbs. Life’s so unfair. Hi, I’m Fleur Eames.” Fleur stopped dunking her tea bag and stuck out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way in. Fucking deer almost smashed my windscreen, yeah?”

“You hit a deer?” I blurted.

Fleur glanced at me. “Almost. I had to pull over and settle down, though. Have a ciggie, calm my nerves.”

“Nice to meet you,” Muriel said.

“Great meeting you,” Fleur said. “Heard oodles of good stuff about you.”

“Ass-kisser,” Damien whispered, taking his customary seat next to me.

“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s get down to business. Everyone’s met Muriel, we’ve got Callie’s great scones …” He smiled at me, and I forced a smile back. Good old Callie, scone baker. “Muriel, want to get us rolling? Tell us everything we need to know about Bags to Riches.”

“Absolutely. And let me just say I’m thrilled to be here.” She smiled at each of us in turn, then cleared her throat and reached for her notes. “Bags to Riches is an outerwear company that makes clothing out of a unique blend of cotton and plastic grocery bags.”

Her voice was confident and loud, as if she were addressing a stadium. “Our demographic is young, affluent people who enjoy outdoor activities, such as hiking and biking.” She paused, and made eye contact with each one of us, her expression grave. Damien kicked me under the table. “Our goal is to reach these people in a variety of media and increase sales. Thank you.”

With that, she sat down. Mark gave her a confused look, but she just smiled demurely and looked at her hands. “Um … okay. Great, Muriel,” Mark said. “Well, Callie, any ideas?”

I glanced from Mark to Muriel. What Muriel had just told us was something so basic a fourth grader could’ve presented it. Usually, Mark would give us much more detailed information … how long the campaign would last, which markets were underselling, which were doing great, product tie-ins, etc. “Are you … um, are you all done?” I asked her.

“Why, yes, I am, Callie,” she answered. “Mark said you were presenting some ideas. May we see them?”

“Of course,” I said, glancing at Pete, who shrugged. “Well, obviously what makes this company unique is the grocery bag element, and that’s something we’ll definitely focus on.”

“Obviously,” Muriel murmured.

I looked at her. “My first idea is geared toward male consumers, college grads, twenty-five to forty years old, earning more than fifty grand a year.” I reached down next to my chair, grabbed the first poster (PowerPoint was fine, but I was a little old school in presentations) and read my tagline aloud. “Kick some butt, save the planet. BTR Outerwear.” The poster showed a good-looking, sweaty guy, his backpack next to him, standing at the top of a mountain, overlooking a vast wilderness.

Mark smiled, and the usual tingle of pride fluttered in my stomach.

“Oh, nice work,” Leila said.

“Delicious,” Karen murmured, taking a bite of scone. “Him, I mean.” She jerked her chin at the poster.

“I’m thinking all our ads should be shot in national parks,” I continued. “If BTR coughs up some money, we can say we’re a proud sponsor of the Yellowstone Foundation or what have you, and—”

“He’s not even wearing Bags to Riches clothes,” Muriel protested. The rest of us paused.

“It’s a comp, Mure,” Mark said, patting her hand. “It’s a mock-up.” At her look of incomprehension, he continued. “It’s not the real ad … it’s just the idea for the ad.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well.” She squinted at the poster. “The name of the company is Bags to Riches, not BTR.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, that’s another thing. I think Bags to Riches is a little … off. See, it implies that someone’s getting rich off this, and while I’m sure that’s quite true—” everyone but Muriel laughed “—I think we should abbreviate.”

“I doubt my father will go for that,” Muriel said, scribbling something in a notebook. “Moving on, Callie, do you have anything else?”

I glanced at Mark, who was looking at the surface of the table. “Yes, I do, Muriel,” I said. “Female demographic.” I moved to the next comp, something I was quite proud of. It was a stock photo of a woman rock climbing somewhere in Bryce Canyon, dangling from a precipice, teeth gritted in concentration, dripping with sweat. “Redefining ‘bag lady.’ BTR Outerwear.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, Callie!” Pete cheered.

Mark nodded approvingly. “Bull’s-eye,” he murmured.

I smiled. “Now, I’m not sure how much we can afford, but I’d love to use a couple of celebs who champion the environment—Leonardo DiCaprio, for example.”

“Why would we use him? Does he hike?” Muriel asked.

I paused. Looked at Mark again, who was suddenly engrossed in doodling. Glanced at Damien, whose eyes were very wide. “Well, if we get a well-known face, especially one associated with a cause, we brand BTR—”

“Bags to Riches,” she corrected.

“Right.” I paused. “Okay, well … people want to be like celebrities, right? That’s why J. Crew sells out of whatever Michelle Obama’s wearing.”

“J. Crew is not our competitor, Callie,” Muriel said condescendingly. Leila winced.

“I know that,” I said. “What I mean is, the First Lady has influence. Which is true in any ad campaign that uses celebrities, whether they’re hawking milk or Nikes. So if we had Leo in a BTR ad, I’m sure we’d see a bump in sales.”

“Hmm,” Muriel said. “Interesting.”

No one made eye contact. This was Advertising 101. I glanced at Mark, who was looking at Muriel with a very tender expression. He leaned over and placed his hand over hers.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “Well, this has been great. Thanks, Callie. We’ll get back to you and talk about next steps. Oh, and by the way, the BTR people are coming out later this week. We’ll be doing an event on Friday. Participation mandatory.”

“What kind of event?” Damien asked, immediately suspicious.

“A little hike so Charles can see the beauty of a Vermont sunset,” Mark said, ignoring Damien’s stricken expression. “Drinks and dinner afterward.”

JUST BEFORE LUNCH, Fleur slipped into my office and closed the door. “What the fuck-all was Mark thinking?” she hissed. “Yeah, he’s shagging Muriel, but did he have to hire her? She doesn’t know a bloody thing!” She flopped onto my couch.

The thing about Fleur was that when she was truly upset, her accent slipped, something she was completely unaware of. Her accent was in full force now. I suspected she wanted gossip.

“It’s Mark’s company,” I said calmly, turning away from my computer. “And I’m sure Muriel will …” I paused. “Well, she’ll catch on. Obviously, her dad wants her on this account.”

“Callie,” Fleur whispered. “I’ve got much more experience than Muriel.” Accent gone, revealing shades of New York. The truth came out. “Just because my father doesn’t own the company doesn’t mean I should have to take orders from that frigid and ignorant bitch.”

“Listen,” I said quietly, “don’t go there. Just do your job well and trust that Mark will work things out.”

“She’s making more than me. More than you, too, as a matter of fact. Karen told me.”

“Karen shouldn’t have—”

“All right, all right, she didn’t tell me. I just happened to see some paperwork when I was in there for something else.” She sighed. “Figured you should know. You and Mark were … well. Whatever.”

The accent was back. I glanced at my watch. “I have to run, Fleur. I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

“Oh, right!” she said. “The plan!”

“What plan?” I asked, closing a file on my computer.

“The plan to make Mark green with envy!” she whispered gleefully.

“Oh, I’m not really going—”

“Now, now, no need to explain! I’ll walk you out.”

Sighing—Fleur could be a bit much—I grabbed my bag and we walked into the foyer, where Mark was signing something for Damien. “Have fun on your date!” Fleur called loudly as I pulled open the door to leave. Mark and Damien looked up.

“You’re going on a date?” Damien asked, as shocked as if I’d just announced I was getting a sex change.

I blushed. “Well, I’m just meeting a … a friend, that’s all. For a quick lunch.”

Mark’s eyes were … knowing. Smiling, too, the type of smile a man uses when a woman … when he … ah, shit, I was losing my train of thought. His eyes were warm, as if we shared a secret, and his generous mouth pulled up at one corner. For a second I—

“How thrilling,” Damien drawled. “Toodles.”

“Have fun,” Mark said. His eyes wandered down to my legs, and when he looked up again, he gave me a little wink, and my dopey heart leaped.

“See you in a bit,” I said. Get over him, Mrs. Obama said. I’m trying, I answered silently.

Doug336 and I were meeting at Toasted & Roasted, one of the three restaurants in our fair city. It was a little café known mostly for its coffee, the usual endless variety of lattes, mochaccinos and chais, but it also served soup and sandwiches for lunch. It was a pretty space with brick walls and lots of plants, the old tile floor intricately patterned. “Hey, Callie,” the owner called as I came in.

“Hi, Guy,” I answered. “What’s good today?”

“Got some nice hot pastrami and Swiss on rye,” he said. “Also a Philly cheese steak special.”

Both sounded fantastic … but both were dangerous date foods, requiring much chewing and many napkins. They were really more of an “alone” type of food, where you could get grease on your chin and really enjoy. First impressions were so important, though, and I didn’t want Doug336 to have a mental image of me with a cheesy wad of steak on my bosom. “I guess I’ll have a cup of the soup,” I said regretfully.

“Coming up,” Guy answered cheerfully.

At that moment, the door to Toasted & Roasted opened, and in came my mother. And Louis. Upon sighting me, Louis’s pale face lit up with creepy delight.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Someone looks good enough to eat.”

“Hi, Mom!” I said brightly, giving my mother a kiss and making sure she stood between myself and Voldemort there. “Hi, Louis.”

“Hello, honey, fancy running into you. And you do look nice. Louis is right.” A Grinchy grin spread across Louis’s face, and he stepped a little closer to me. Oh, God. He’d obviously come right from work.

“Louis, you’re … you still have your gloves on,” I said, swallowing against the images that leaped with unfortunate clarity into my brain. Latex gloves meant he was … preparing someone.

“Oopsy,” he said. Without taking his eyes off me, he peeled off the gloves, slowly, as if doing a striptease, then did a throat-scraping snort to clear his postnasal drip. Dear God.

“Calliope, did you know your father has been calling me?” Mom asked, frowning as she surveyed the take-out choices of the day. “Of course, I don’t pick up. Does he have a brain tumor or something I should know about?”

“Um, nope, no brain tumor, Mom. He has more time now that he’s retired. Maybe he just … needs to talk.” She gave me a dubious look and said nothing.

“I was just thinking about you today, Calliope,” Louis murmured. “How I’d … display you.” His anemic eyebrow rose.

“Come on, Louis!” I blurted. “That’s a horrible come-on line, not to mention terrifying!” He said nothing, just smirked. “Well, I’m meeting a friend, so I’d better run,” I added, backing away. “Have a nice lunch!” With that, I scampered into the corner and took a seat.

Toasted & Roasted started to fill up with the lunch crowd. I waved occasionally, since I knew just about everyone in town. There was Shaunee Cole, one of the River Rats. Dave, Annie’s brother, was on his phone. “Hey, gorgeous,” he called to me, pausing in his conversation. I waved back. Always loved Dave.

In four more minutes, Doug was going to be late, I noted, glancing at my red Hello Kitty collector’s edition wristwatch. I figured I’d give him ten minutes, then leave. Granted, I’d have happily waited hours for Mark … had, in fact, waited for months, if not years. I squelched the small lance of pain that thought caused and texted Annie to distract myself. Am meeting Doug336. Please choose color of your dress as maid of honor. Will call with a report. Annie was taking quite the interest in my love life, determined that I, too, should end up as smugly happy as she and Jack were.

Ah-ha! Here was Doug336 coming in right now. I waved (not too vigorously, didn’t want to seem psychotic or desperate). He didn’t see me. Alas, the guy behind him did, and that guy was Ian McFarland, veterinarian. He froze, then gave a small nod before fixing his attention firmly on the specials board.

Oh, calm down, I thought. I’m not here for you. I stood up and walked over to greet my date. Ian didn’t look away from the board, reminding me of Josephine’s early years, when she’d cover her eyes to become invisible.

“Hi, there, Doug.” I smiled my hundred-watter and noted from the corner of my eye that Ian McFarland let out a sigh of relief. For heaven’s sake!

“Hi, Callie! Great to meet you,” Doug said.

“I got us a table in the back,” I said. “Do you want to order?”

“Nah, I’m not here for the food,” he grinned. “Lead away.”

Ooh! I liked Doug336! He was cute! And how nice for Dr. Stuck-Up to see that a man liked me! So there! “Hello, Dr. McFarland,” I said.

“Hello, Miss Grey,” he said, not taking his eyes off the specials board.

“Can I call you Ian?” I asked, just to be a pain.

He cut his eyes to me, then looked back at the menu. “Of course.”

“Have a wonderful day, Ian,” I said, turning away to my date. That’s right, Ian. I have a date. And he’s cuter than you.

“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Doug336 said as we sat down.

I smiled. “Thank you, Doug.” He was quite attractive, with longish dark hair and hazel eyes. Nice build, jeans, T-shirt, a woven bracelet made of some shiny fiber.

I hadn’t been on a first date in a long, long time. In fact, I’d never been on a date with someone I didn’t know pretty well. “So,” I said, grinning so my dimple showed, something that always worked well for me. “Where shall we start? I have to admit, you’re my first Internet date ever.”

“An Internet virgin,” Doug murmured. “Nice.” I blinked. “How about a basic exchange of information?” he suggested.

“Sure,” I agreed, suddenly hesitant. “Well, I work at an ad agency. Um, I have an older sister and a younger brother. Lived in Vermont most of my life, though I went to college in Pennsylvania and lived in Boston for a few years. Never married, no kids, two nieces.”

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“No, I live with my grandfather, actually. He’s um …” I paused, not wanting to share Noah’s issues with a stranger. “We’re very close.”

“I have a housemate, too,” Doug answered. “She’s kind of a shrew, but it’s her house, so what can you do?”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”

“Well, it’s my mother, so I’m stuck.”

Strike one. “Why don’t you move?” I asked.

“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.

Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama … the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.

“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.

“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.

“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”

“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.

“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”

“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”

My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.

I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”

“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him … after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.

“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.

“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.

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