The Christmas Wedding - James Patterson [28]
“Well?” he asked as he held her shoulders.
“I received a lovely bonus.”
“Great. Congratulations. And…?”
“And?” she asked with mock innocence.
“And are you now a partner at Dull, Farty?” The name was Bart’s ongoing joke about the pretentious firm.
Slowly and firmly, emphasizing each word, Emily said, “I…am…not.”
Another husband might have dropped his arms from her shoulders and stepped back. But, as Gaby kidded, Bart was Dr. Perfect. So instead, he pulled her close.
“Em, that sucks big time. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You worked so hard. You are so talented.”
“Would you believe me if I said—I don’t care.”
“If the words come from your mouth, then I know it’s the truth.”
“Want some tea?” she asked.
“I’ll have some of yours,” he said.
They walked into the living room. She sat on the couch and Bart lay down, resting his head on her lap. He turned his head to one side and enjoyed the soft skin of her thigh against his cheek. He rubbed her lovely bare leg. “Peach fuzz. I love peach fuzz,” he said.
“So, as you know, the party was in the office…up on thirty-five…where there’s that huge corridor with all the fancy conference rooms off it. And they had this guy, DJ Nini, blasting music, and I’m sure a lot of people were having a fabulous time. But there was also the undercurrent of politics and the undercurrent of sex and the…Oh, Bart. I just didn’t want to be there. And that’s because…because…I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t like them. They weren’t like me. I absolutely looked like them. But I was different inside…”
She breathed in the steam from her tea.
“Be careful with that tea,” Bart said. “If you spill it on my face…you’ll…you’ll…” He was searching for the words.
Emily supplied them: “You’ll lose your boyish good looks.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Anyway. What happened next?”
“Cliff asked me to come into his office, and…” She paused. She was searching for the words.
Bart supplied them: “And he made a pass at you, of course.”
“How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess. What else could make the evening absolutely perfect?”
“So he handed me a bonus check. He hemmed and hawed and pretended to be sorry that I hadn’t made partner, and then…” She paused again. And for the final time that evening Bart supplied the words:
“And you quit.”
Then he kissed her again. Gaby was right. Dr. Perfect.
“We’re going to Stockbridge for Christmas?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Gaby’s getting married. Who in their right mind would miss that?”
Chapter 33
ANDIE AND SETH
“I SWEAR TO GOD, this little heap of junk has more miles on it than Apollo Eleven,” Andie said as they drove their old Chevy Cav across the Mass. Pike “from Boston to Stockbridge”—just the reverse of the old song “Sweet Baby James.”
Andie’s nickname for the car was Popcorn because of its tendency to lurch or backfire unexpectedly. Seth’s nickname for it was This Goddamn Piece of Shit.
The car lacked a proper inspection sticker, an emission sticker, and a radio (stolen years before when Popcorn was “resting” in a sketchy area of Baltimore). Since the radio and cassette player were gone, Seth had hooked up his iPod to two small speakers and taped the speakers to the genuine plastic dashboard.
He and Andie sang along with Mýa and Pras to “Ghetto Supastar”:
I’ma teach this cat
how to live in the ghetto
As they headed past Framingham they saw that a significant amount of snow was coming down. Nothing to do but crack open a warm Guinness, and keep singing.
They allowed Mya to solo a little too. Seth handed the Guinness to Andie. He clearly needed both hands on the wheel. He leaned forward and squinted hard into the heavily falling snow.
“I hate This Goddamn Piece of Shit car,” he shouted over the music. “The first thing I was going to do when I sold my book was buy us a luxurious used Honda.”
“Stay calm, sweetie,” Andie said. “Like your mother says, we’re still kids. We’ve got time to be big shots.”
“I don’t want to be a big shot,” Seth replied. “I just want to sell a book. I want a few people to take it to bed at night.