Читать книгу Almost Crimson - Dasha Kelly - Страница 6

ONE

YARN

CECE FELT HER HIP BUZZ. It was the third call. She knew her mother would start picking at that damn finger if she didn’t answer one of these calls soon. The last infection was gruesome, and CeCe didn’t want to deal with it again.

CeCe and her small team of coworkers stood in a carpeted intersection of their office suite holding what their boss called a flash-forward. According to him, the stand-up, bare-bones briefings saved them all from nearly four hours of bloated conference room meetings each week.

CeCe tugged at her purse strap as her hip vibrated again. She wanted to abandon this circle and escape into the elevator behind them, through the lobby, and into the downstairs diner. She needed to call her mother, and she needed a slice of cake. Now.

CeCe shifted her weight and tried to will a coworker into silence as she unwound a tangled ramble about missed calls, transposed numbers, keynote speaker contracts, and water chestnuts. CeCe tried to make eye contact with her boss to flash her impatience and annoyance. The blathering coworker was young and new and eager to counter every reality these truths might hold.

“Maybe we check out his booking fees through a different agency?” CeCe said, realizing no one was going to stop this child from speaking. Her boss was usually good at shepherding their small, nine-person team. He was being far too generous today, CeCe decided. “That way, we’re on his calendar but not locked in to such a crazy high quote. Good thing you pulled those numbers early.”

The young associate beamed, nodded and was quiet. The group dismissed and CeCe slipped into the elevator. She waved to the pair of security men as she walked the expansive lobby, breezed through the open doors of the Golden Goose diner, and headed toward a booth in the back. CeCe sat down and pried away her shoes. Beneath the table, she wiggled her toes.

“Heya, CeCe,” her waitress, Misha, said from behind the counter. She wore long braid extensions this month, and her signature brilliant red lip gloss, which had too much blue undertone for her complexion. CeCe had tried lobbing cosmetic tips at Misha when she first started working in the building. Much of the advice had been new for CeCe then, too. She’d been eager to evangelize. Misha would always respond with enthusiasm and conviction. Four years later, Misha still sported homegrown experiments of quick weave, color streaks, iridescent makeup powders, and elaborately decorated nails. Like any new convert, CeCe got over herself and her newfound style scriptures and embraced Misha’s good nature, red gloss and all.

“I’m good, Misha,” CeCe said as her cell phone rang again. She pressed the talk button and spoke into the phone. “Yes, how are you?”

As Misha poured a cup of coffee, CeCe mouthed her order. Cake. CeCe counted on an extra thick slice.

“I know, Mama. I was in a meeting,” CeCe said into the phone, digging in the small tray of sugar packets. “I’m sorry you worried.”

CeCe emptied two packets and stirred while her mother recounted highlights from her news programs. She had taken to calling CeCe with leading stories or curious statistics, in case the news of Prescott Public School closings, council meeting decisions, or book reviews might prove helpful in CeCe’s work at the management consulting firm. CeCe often reminded her mother there were televisions at the office, but she remained undeterred. CeCe’s best friend, Pam, had once pointed out that atonement arrives in many forms.

“Yeah, even Spencer voted for it,” CeCe said into the phone, pointing and nodding as Misha stood near the cake domes waving her hand above the pound cake like a model from The Price Is Right.

CeCe’s mother was asking if she was busy after work.

“What do you need?” CeCe said, and mouthed a “thank you” as Misha placed the cake in front of her.

CeCe switched the phone to her other ear, picking up her fork. Her mother was talking about the new knitting class. Or was it crochet? CeCe used her tongue to flatten the bites of cake against the roof of her mouth. She didn’t suckle the rich flavor. She let them rest, feeling the sweetness of indulgence ink into her.

“It’s fine, Mama,” CeCe said, sipping her coffee. She approached the golden edges of the cake, her favorite part. “Yes. It’s fine. I’ll get it. Yes. Don’t worry about it. OK. I’ll see you later. Yes. Bye.”

CeCe disconnected the call and tucked the phone back into her purse pouch.

“Whatchu goin’ to get?” Misha teased as she refilled CeCe’s coffee cup. “Something sexy for yo’ motorcycle man?”

CeCe snorted at the mention of the bike, and gave a theatrical sigh. “Nah, my mother needs green yarn.”

Misha raised her dramatic penciled eyebrow. “Yarn?”

CeCe shrugged. “If green yarn will keep her off the ledge this week, then I need to get the woman green yarn. Everybody wins.”

Misha laughed. CeCe ate her cake.