The woman flushed. By then I was not surprised by Marge’s utter lack of social finesse, but I still felt bad for the young woman.
“What may I get for you?” she asked, noticeably softer.
“I’ll have a spring salad, with the dressing on the side,” I said. “Thank you.”
She gathered our menus. “All right, I’ll be right back with your appetizer.”
After she was gone, Marge said, “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.” That was one of the surprise quirks of Marge’s personality. She kept track of all her employees’ birthdays and, no matter how tenuous their employment, would commemorate them by coming in early to bake one of her raspberry almond cakes.
“It’s okay. You’ve had a lot on your plate,” I said.
She sighed deeply. “I didn’t realize how heavy the grief would be.” She seemed annoyed by this, as if her husband’s death had been more of an inconvenience than she expected. “I’ve felt crazy.”
“I thought the same thing when my mother died.”
“I have a present for you.” She reached into her purse and brought out an envelope, which she handed to me. I hoped there was money inside. There wasn’t. There was only a birthday card with one of our business cards with my name on it. All the card said was Happy Birthday.
I didn’t really understand why she was giving me one of my own business cards.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You didn’t read the card,” she said.
“I read it.”
“I meant the business card. Read it.”
I looked back down and saw Just Desserts. Maggie Walther. Owner.
Owner. I looked up at her.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she said.
Her comment was a little odd since she really hadn’t done anything with the business for months. “Do what?”
“The business. It’s time I retired. I hate our clients and I have no desire to spend the rest of my life freezing my bones in Utah. I’m moving to Sun City, Arizona.” I didn’t know there was such a place but it sounded nice. “There’s no one else who could run my business.”
“What about Tabitha?”
“Oh, please.”
“You could sell it,” I said.
“To who? Some moron who would run it into the ground after I’ve put my best years into it? And then I’d have her calling me every time she had a problem. You know I don’t need the money. Craig left me with more than I can spend. Besides, you’re more a daughter than my own daughter.”
It was the sweetest thing she had ever said to me. Maybe to anyone. “Thank you.”
“You’re the only thing that has made the last few years remotely tolerable.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “I’ll miss you.”
She said, “Yeah. Don’t get sentimental on me. You know I hate that crap.”
The waitress returned carrying our meals. She pretty much dropped the food on the table and ran. I watched in anticipation as Marge tried her soup. She took a second spoonful, so I knew we were safe. “When are you leaving?” I asked.
“I put the house up for sale last Monday. It’s already under contract.”
“You mean the kitchen?” I asked. Our company headquarters was an old home that Marge had converted into a commercial kitchen and bakery. She usually just called it “the house.”
“No, not the kitchen. You’re going to need that. I meant my personal residence.”
“That’s fast,” I said. “That’s good.”
“It means I sold too cheap.” She shook her head. “What’s done is done. The buyers want to close by April third, so I’m flying to Arizona tomorrow to find a place. I’ll have Scott finish up the paperwork so we can legally transfer the company over before I leave. We’ll need to transfer all the bank accounts into your name. I’ll leave a cushion in there, but I doubt you’ll need it. We have six thousand in receivables. There’s at least fifty grand in equity on the kitchen.”
“I’ll pay you back when I can,” I said.
“I don’t want you paying me back. It’s a signing bonus. We already have more than a hundred thousand in contracts. You’ll do okay.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Just eat your salad,” she said.
I saw Marge only once after that. She died of cancer just eighteen weeks later. I found out later that she’d had stage four uterine cancer when she had turned over the business. She never even told me. She hated pity. There were only three of us at her funeral. Tabitha didn’t even come.
Chapter Five
An anonymous woman posted her sympathy online for me, saying that she too had been “Clived.” In spite of my pain, I almost laughed. You never want to live to see your name become a verb.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I met Clive six months before I took over the company while we were catering a political soiree for the Salt Lake mayor’s race. The event was held at the National Society of the Sons of Utah Pioneers convention hall. The room was filled with suits and pantsuits—ambitious political types. Clive was there, younger than most, yet swimming through the crowd as effortlessly as a koi in a backyard pond. He was already in his second year of law school and was clerking at the firm he would eventually become a partner at.
I thought he was handsome, though not in a way I was used to. Most of the guys I dated had long hair and tattoos. Clive looked perfectly arranged, from his flawlessly knotted tie to his expensive-looking shoes. His hair looked better cared for than mine. From my experience, those kinds of guys might give you a second look but never a second date. We shared eye contact as I came from the kitchen carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres to the room.
He immediately took a step toward me. “I’ll have one of those,” he said, lifting a bacon-wrapped chestnut from my tray.
I might have been flirting. I don’t remember. “Just one?”
“Let me see.” He popped the morsel into his mouth, ate it, then took another. “Did you make these?”
“No.”
“You just serve the food.”
“No. I bake. I just made other things.”
“What do you think of this party?”
“I’m working,” I said.
“We all are,” he replied. “The laughter is fake. Bunch of sycophants. Are you partisan?”
“No,” I said. “I’m Pisces.”
He burst out laughing. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night. I’m a Leo. King of the jungle.”
“Which jungle?”
“Whichever one will run when I roar,” he said, a slight smile bending his mouth. “Pisces and Leo. We’re compatible opposites.”
“I need to get back to work,” I said.
“What time do you get off work?”
“Long after the party is over.”
“Is that a brush-off?”
“No. It’s a fact.”
“May I have your phone number?”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“That would be helpful,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Maggie. What’s yours?”
“Clive. Like Clive Davis.”
“Your last name is Davis?”
“No. Clive Davis is a famous record producer.”
“Never heard of him,” I said.
“He signed the greats. Janis Joplin, Aerosmith, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, the Grateful Dead.”
“All before my time, but yes.”
“Yes, you’ve heard of them?”
“Yes, you can have my phone number.”
He pulled out his phone. “Go ahead.”
“It’s 555-2412.”
“That’s not a fake number, is it?”
“Do women often give you fake numbers?” He didn’t answer. “If I didn’t want you to call me, I’d tell you.”
“That’s refreshing,” he said. He typed something into his phone. “I just texted you.” I guessed he was testing me, waiting to see if something on me would buzz or ding. “Nothing.”