One Fiancee To Go, Please

“Hon, I need more coffee,” the burly trucker at table ten called as she passed. She managed to sidestep him in time to avoid the fanny pat he had bestowed on her twice already.

Three tables ahead sat the man who had ordered the chili. He was impeccably dressed in a navy wool suit, crisp white shirt and muted print tie, all of which screamed expensive. He looked as if he could be a banker or a lawyer or some other white-collar professional, not the usual sort to come into Earl’s greasy little joint. He sat alone with a Wall Street Journal spread out on the table in front of him, open to the stock page. But he wasn’t reading it. He was watching her. And the level, measuring look he gave Tess made her pulse pick up speed.

Handsome didn’t begin to do him justice. He had a strong jaw, wide-spaced eyes the color of jade, and a nose that listed slightly to the left and gave the impression he had once played contact sports. He wore his tawny hair short, but Tess had a hunch that if it were allowed to grow long it would have a tendency to curl, much like her own.

The crowded diner seemed to fade into the background as their gazes held. The pounding of her heart drowned out the din of patrons as she was drawn forward on legs that felt too rubbery to hold her weight. Ridiculous, she told herself, bemused by this uncharacteristic reaction to a man, but she couldn’t manage to break eye contact or to reel in her giddy pulse.

At least not until the tyke at table four scooted off his mother’s lap and toddled directly into Tess’s path. It seemed a minor miracle that she managed to sidestep the boy at all; too many hours on her feet had dulled her reflexes, and the man claimed nearly all of her attention. But she didn’t have time to ponder the near collision or to congratulate herself for avoiding it. In the instant it took to dodge the little boy, the steaming crock of chili lost its purchase on her tilted tray. Helpless, she watched it slide off, striking the gorgeous businessman just above the breastbone with a dull thud that sent its contents spewing. Kidney beans, onions and bits of ground beef oozed down the man’s broad chest like a mini-mudslide.

“What the…!” he broke off an oath, instinctively pushing away Tess, who very nearly found herself in his lap along with the remains of his dinner. She grabbed the edge of the table to upright herself, then stood back in mortification and surveyed the damage.

“Oh, no!” The hand she clamped over her mouth barely muffled her cry. Unless the dry cleaners could perform miracles, the man’s very nice and very expensive-looking suit was also very ruined. What, she wondered, would a suit like that cost? She had the awful feeling she was about to find out. The tip money weighing down her pockets suddenly felt inconsequential.

Tess peered anxiously over her shoulder, hoping Earl had not witnessed her latest debacle. In the past week alone she had given the wrong change to three customers, botched a number of meal orders, and sent an entire tray of brown coffee mugs crashing to the tiled floor. She didn’t think she could bear another lecture on how she should get more sleep or cut back on her class load. Her luck seemed to be holding. While she had captured the attention of nearly every diner in the place, the swinging doors to the kitchen remained blessedly still. She turned back to the man and gaped in horrified silence as he eased himself out of the booth with as much dignity as the situation would allow. Globs of chili dropped to the floor in a sickening chorus of plops as he straightened.

He grimaced, attempting to hold the soiled shirt front away from his skin by pinching it between his thumb and index finger. A gold cufflink winked at his wrist, catching Tess’s attention. French cuffs, she thought with an inward sigh, and another imaginary dollar sign appeared before her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said in a shaky whisper. Snatching some napkins from the table dispenser, she began blotting his soggy tie and wiping the stubborn bits of ground beef from his shirt. She hesitated when she reached the shiny buckle of his leather belt. His lap was covered with chili as well, but she dared go no farther south with the mass of matted napkins. He grasped her wrist lightly, as if he thought she might have the audacity to continue downward, and she felt a blush creep from her chin to her cheeks. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You’ve done enough, thanks,” he bit out between gritted teeth, releasing her hand and grabbing the napkins from her. He swiped at the stain that had bloomed a rusty red on his shirt and turned his navy suit a dingy shade of brown. The mirthless little laugh he issued made Tess feel even worse.

“I’ll get you some more chili if you’d like. Or anything else from the menu,” she offered, eager to make amends.

“I’ll take my check.”

“I am truly sorry,” she repeated. Any minute now, she thought, he would be mentioning the cost of his suit and demanding compensation. “I’m not usually so clumsy. I just didn’t see the little boy until it was too late.”

He nodded grimly. “My check.”

“Oh, no charge,” Tess assured him, offering a tentative smile in the hope of coaxing one out in return. “Really, I insist. Dinner’s on me.”

Her words drew out more than a smile. Humor, unexpected but definitely welcome, danced in the man’s green eyes a moment before she heard the first deep rumble of his laughter.

“Dinner’s on somebody, lady, but I don’t think it’s you.” To Tess’s immense relief, his irritation seemed to evaporate. He flashed a grin that showed off straight white teeth, and a dimple tugged in his left cheek. Charmed, Tess smiled fully in return. When he spoke again, the clipped, crisp tone of his voice had turned almost conversational. “I’ll take a rain check on the meal, but I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for chili for a while.”

As the man sauntered out of the diner, leaving behind a small trail of diced onions and peppers, Tess let out a sigh of relief. Not only was the man easy on the eye, but if his casual attitude about his ruined suit was any indication, he would be easy on her bank account as well.

Humming lightheartedly, she went in search of a mop.

A couple of hours later, Jack Maris had showered and given the offending clothes to the concierge at the Saint Sebastian in the hope that something might be salvaged.

Now that he had washed away the pungent scent of onions and chili pepper, Jack reclined on the room’s queen-sized bed, stacked his hands behind his head on the pillow, and tried to ignore the angry growl of his empty stomach. He didn’t want to bother with room service. His thoughts strayed to the waitress who had taken his order at the little hole-in-the-wall diner. He’d always been a sucker for long red hair, and the young woman with the gray eyes and full rosy lips had it in abundance. He recalled the way a few wisps of it had escaped the confines of the severe ponytail she wore, and he thought about the rather vivid fantasy he had been enjoying as he watched her walk to his table, her smoky gaze a mixture of awareness and uncertainty.

What would she do if I tugged that mass of fiery hair free and ran my fingers through it until it snaked down her back? Jack had been wondering. A dousing of chili, hot though it was, had cooled his ardor considerably. Then he had felt so foolish, standing in front of her covered in soup and still slightly aroused, that he had practically bitten off her head with his remarks. In truth, his foul mood had had little to do with the pretty waitress or the unfortunate mishap. Indeed, the accident had been the perfect cap to a lousy day, he decided, his thoughts turning to the job interview that had brought him to town.

Ira Faust of Faust Enterprises was looking for a vice president. More than just a vice president really, he was courting an investor. Someone who was willing to buy into his distributorship. Someone who would become the new head of Faust Enterprises when Ira finally retired. The man was pushing eighty, so Jack figured it wouldn’t be long. In the meantime, he would learn the business and bide his time.

Opportunities like this didn’t present themselves every day, especially for someone as young as Jack Maris. At thirty-two, Jack didn’t doubt he could handle the responsibility of running a company. He had graduated top of his class at Northwestern University, where he had earned his BA and MBA, and he excelled at solving problems and turning deficits into profits. The past several years in the employ of others had reinforced his desire to be his own boss. He wanted—needed—to be the master of his destiny, the one calling the shots for a change.

A therapist might say his need for control came from his chaotic childhood, and Jack admitted privately, it could be true. His parents were divorced and rather nomadic, moving often and remarrying with nearly the same frequency. But whatever motive lay behind his goal, Faust Enterprises was exactly the type of company he wanted to own—solid, established, respected. It was relatively small, with just less than four hundred employees, but Jack saw plenty of room for growth with someone more aggressive at the helm. He felt he was just the man Faust needed, and, thanks to the tidy sum Grandmother Maris had left him, Jack had the money to invest. For some reason, however, he got the impression Ira Faust was not quite convinced.

Jack stared at the stuccoed ceiling and reviewed the meeting. It had started off well enough: firm handshake, plenty of eye contact. Ira had given Jack the speech about how Faust Enterprises remained a family operation despite the fact that he was the only Faust still employed there. Ira and his brother Evan had begun the business in the family garage nearly sixty years before. Evan had died a confirmed bachelor seven years ago. Ira and his wife, Cora, had been blessed with only one daughter, and she had died tragically in a car accident when she was twenty-six. Family. The older man must have used the word more than a dozen times during the interview, Jack mused.

If he had to put his finger on when the interview began to stall out, it would be right after Ira Faust asked Jack to tell him a bit about himself.

“You’ve got a very impressive background, Mr. Maris. Graduated with honors from Northwestern. And your references are outstanding. But tell me something about yourself that’s not on your resumé,” Ira coaxed, leaning forward over the wide mahogany desk. He folded a pair of large, blue-veined hands on the blotter and waited for Jack’s reply.

Jack had told him the standard things: where he was born, what he saw as his strengths, different experiences that made him uniquely qualified for the job.

As an afterthought he threw in: “I’m single, in excellent health, and I love to golf. Since Michigan has more courses per capita than any other state, I figure I’m going to enjoy working on taking a couple of strokes off my handicap. Too bad the season is so short here.”

Ira offered a polite smile in return, but if Jack had to pinpoint it, he would say that was when the older man’s demeanor changed. Subtly, sure, but Ira seemed to be mentally crossing Jack off the list of contenders.

The phone on the nightstand began to ring, and he snatched it up. “Maris here.”

“Hey, Jack, how did the interview go?” Davis Marx asked. He worked as Faust’s personnel director and had got Jack the interview. The two men had first met in an economics class as freshmen at Northwestern. They had remained close friends over the years, despite living in different states. Jack had even been best man at Davis’s wedding a few years earlier.

“I don’t know,” Jack replied. “I mean, it started out great, then it just fizzled. Funny thing is, I think I had him hooked until he asked me about my personal life.”

“What the heck did you say?”

“Nothing outrageous. Basically I told him I’m not married, and I like to spend my spare time on a golf course. It’s not as if I said, ‘By the way, I deal drugs, don’t believe in paying taxes, and belong to a militia group.”’

Davis groaned dramatically. “Don’t you ever listen to me? I told you the man all but lives and dies by family. When he asked what you do in your spare time couldn’t you have at least thrown in visits with your sister or parents?”

“But I haven’t seen any of them in more than a year.”

Davis groaned again. “I know, but couldn’t you have stretched the truth? Or, better yet, hinted at a serious relationship with a woman? I told you Ira all but did backflips when I tied the knot. Yet you go in there and announce that you’re single and probably gave him the impression you’re not looking for a wife.”

“I’m not,” Jack said flatly.

“Yeah, and that’s got Ira thinking, ‘How committed will this guy be to the company I built from nothing when he can’t even make a commitment to a woman?’ Especially when your resumé seems to confirm his suspicions that you move around a lot. Three companies in five years. It doesn’t exactly say steady as a rock, Jack.”

“What do you suggest I do? Get married and have kids just to prove to the man that I’m stable and planning to put down roots here? I’m willing to invest a sizable sum of money in his company. Shouldn’t that be enough of a commitment?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, and this conversation is strictly off the record, but I told you Faust is looking for a successor, a surrogate son of sorts who he can feel good about leaving in charge. Maybe it’s not too late to make him think you’re involved with someone. And I mean seriously involved, Jack, as in heading to the altar.”

“But I’m not involved. I told you, Nancy and I broke it off six months ago. And over this very issue.” Jack thought about the woman back in Boston who had so recently shared his life, and felt a small prick of disappointment over their bitter parting after so many years of amicable co-existence. Yet, he couldn’t keep the sneer from his voice when he added, “She wanted a ring, and she got one, just not from me. She’s marrying the guy who sold her the Volvo.”

“Marriage isn’t so bad, you know,” Davis said quietly.

“I’m not saying it is,” Jack insisted, scrubbing a hand over his prickly chin. “No one in my family has managed to make it work, although, God bless them, they just keep trying. But I know it does work for some people.” His voice lowered a notch, sincerity replacing flippancy. “I’d say it works for you and Marianne, but it’s just not in my long-range plans.”

“Well, you don’t really have to get engaged,” Davis said finally. “Just drop a few hints leaving that impression. Tell him your fiancée is back in Boston and won’t be moving here until she wraps up loose ends. Once you have the job, it won’t really matter. You can say things didn’t work out. Look, Ira wants to see you again tomorrow morning. Officially, that’s why I’m calling. Be in his office at ten o’clock sharp. Unofficially, I’m telling you that one little white lie really could help. Your call, Jack,” he said before hanging up.

Jack mulled Davis’s suggestion for the next couple of hours. He didn’t like deceptions, but he wondered what one this small, this insignificant, could possibly hurt. He wasn’t lying about his qualifications or keeping some vital piece of information to himself. His private life, after all, was no one’s business but his own. Besides, he did plan to stick around if he got the position. When he became head of Faust, he planned to nurture and expand Ira’s carefully built company, not slice it up and sell it off before he went on his merry way. His conscience duly wrestled into submission, he set the alarm clock and climbed under the covers.

Jack took several deep breaths, exhaling them slowly through his mouth in an effort to quell his nerves before the elevator reached its destination on the top floor at Faust. Now or never, Maris, he thought as he walked down the corridor to Ira’s office. The receptionist smiled politely as Jack approached her cluttered desk.