“I understand,” I said weakly.
I stood up and gave him the bravest smile I could muster, which wasn’t much of one. “I’ll be all right in here, really.”
Then I fell into his arms, like I promised myself I wouldn’t do, reduced from age thirty-four to four, and sobbed into his chest, leaving big, wet stains on his gray suit jacket, crying for me, crying for Vickie.
He smoothed my hair and said, “I could stay here longer if you want, but I’d like to get right to work on this.”
“What is there you can do?”
He gave me a funny smile. “I might think of something. You hang in there, pumpkin.”
Back in my cell, I returned to the bed, where I sat staring at the tan wall.
If only I hadn’t gone to The Brew that night, our paths wouldn’t have crossed... And I wouldn’t be sitting here now with my life and business in shambles.
But then, our meeting again after so many years hadn’t really been left to chance, had it? Because Vickie had come to town looking for me. I realized that now, too late.
We’d met in the seventh grade, Vickie and me, and soon became good friends. I had a cousin, Ann, a few years older, who’d had a number of best friends in school. One by one they betrayed her: Sue spread nasty, false rumors; Janice stole her boyfriend, and Liz got her kicked off the Pom-Pon squad when Ann gained a few pounds. I watched on the sidelines and made up my mind not ever to have a best friend.
But the more time I spent with Vickie, the more she seemed like the genuine thing: someone I could confide in and trust. She knew the value of keeping secrets. Hadn’t she given me my first diary, for my thirteenth birthday?
And she was so confident, out-going and fun. Qualities I felt I lacked. When I was around her, she made me feel like a different person, a person I liked much better.
I lost track of Vickie after high school, when we went on to different colleges, me to the University of Minnesota, her to Northwestern. She didn’t come back for our tenth high school reunion, but a photo of her (looking gorgeous behind a desk in a fancy high-rise office) was tacked on the bulletin board, along with those of other classmates who couldn’t make it back. An accompanying letter said she and a partner named Kyle owned a very successful insurance company in Chicago. A p.s. on the note said, “A special hello to Rebecca!”
So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I turned around from the bar at The Brew six months ago, a glass of Chablis in one hand, to see my old friend Vickie. We squealed like little pigs, and hugged, and laughed and hugged some more, then found a booth in the back.
“You look terrific,” I told Vickie. And she did: long blond hair, startlingly blue eyes, porcelain skin, perfect white teeth. “Don’t have a portrait of yourself, getting wrinkled in the attic, do you?” I asked.
She laughed and shook her head. “You look wonderful, too,” she said.
Maybe. Maybe not. But it was nice of her to say it.
“What brings you back to town?” I asked.
“I’m going to open my own insurance agency here,” she said happily.
“Really!” I was thrilled. I reached out and squeezed her hand, immediately visualizing us lunching at Noah’s, shopping at Valley Junction, and spending Friday evenings at Billy Joe’s Pitcher Show. Just like the good old days.
She ran one manicured fingernail around the rim of the glass of red wine she’d brought to the table, and looked down into the drink. “But before I can,” she said, “I have to pass the Iowa exam, since I’m only licensed in Illinois. But that shouldn’t be too hard.”
Not for her. “What happened to your other insurance business?” I asked.
Her face clouded, and she stared off into the smoky, noisy room behind us. “My partner — Kyle was his name — and I had a rather bad falling out.”
“I’m sorry.”
She took a sip of her drink. “It’s not what you think... We weren’t lovers or anything. Just business partners who couldn’t see eye to eye.”
“I understand.” I’d been there with my father, but never bad enough to call it quits.
“I couldn’t take his unethical practices anymore,” she explained sadly.
Curious, I asked, “What do you mean by ‘unethical practices’?”
She paused a moment, wineglass to her lips. “Kyle would give customers more coverage than they needed, with outrageously high premiums, just so he could collect a big commission.” She took a sip of wine, then added, “That’s just one example, and believe me, there were plenty of others.”
“Wow.” I’d read about such scurrilous practices that were rampant in the 1980s, when suddenly, reputable insurance corporations found themselves in legal hot water because of some unethical agents. It cost the corporations millions and millions to settle all the claims.
“I just had to get out,” Vickie said, pain showing on her pretty face, “so I left it all behind.”
I smiled supportively at her. That must have been hard. That must have taken guts.
“Anyway,” she went on, “the first thing I have to do is find a temporary job, until I can move forward with my plans. Got any ideas?”
And a bolt of lightning struck me. Three weeks ago I let our office manager go because of poor performance, and I hadn’t gotten around to finding a replacement, doing the work myself.
“Have I!” I said. “You can come and work for me, doing bookkeeping and such.”
“Really?” she asked, her face lighting up. Then she sat back in the booth, putting one hand to her forehead, like she felt faint. “Oh, Reb, I’m soooo embarrassed. Here I’ve been talking about myself and my problems, never once asking you about yourself.”
“That’s all right,” I said, warmed by how considerate she was. “I run an investigations firm here in the city. With my father.”
“No kidding?” she said. “How exciting. With your father, you say.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How is he? Did he ever remarry after your mom died?”
“Nope. Too set in his ways.”
She gave me a half-smile. “I always thought you were so lucky having him for a dad.”
I smiled back; such a nice thing of her to say.
We fell silent for a few seconds, then Vickie raised her glass. “Here’s to us,” she said.
Our glasses clinked together. And I downed my drink.
Vickie would be perfect for the job, I had thought. After all, she had a business degree. She couldn’t possibly do any worse than the previous manager had done.
You think you’re way out in front of me, don’t you?
Well, within a week Vickie had cleaned up the mess left by the other manager — straightening out the payroll, collecting delinquent accounts receivable, even cracking down on employee pilfering of company supplies. She ran one hell of a tight ship with, “Do we really need that?” and “Can’t we buy it cheaper?”
Within the next few months, the coffers at Knight and Knight and Associates had never looked fuller. Which, in hindsight, made a lot of sense. Because there was just that much more money for her to steal.
Which she did.
Yesterday, Friday, the first day of Spring, I stayed late at the office to finish some paperwork when I got a call from a west coast electronics firm we’d purchased some surveillance gear from, saying their bill was ninety days overdue. I assured them there must be some kind of mistake because we always pay on time, but I’d look into it and call them back Monday morning.
I went into Vickie’s office to scribble her a note about checking on the overdue bill, and I opened the right hand desk drawer looking for a note-pad. There was the company checkbook, so I flipped back through the register and found that the check to the LA firm had been written nearly a month ago. But there was no check mark by it, which meant that it hadn’t cleared — as hadn’t a great many of the checks written two, even three, months ago.