Chapter Text
She smells it.
That’s what it always is – that first tug of it. The musty scent of the bag over her head, like it’s been left forgotten too long in the back of a linen closet, in a laundry basket, balled up in the trunk of a car. After the smell, the rest of it finds her, just like it had that night – the slightly too-cold chill of the car air conditioning, the thrumming, just-audible sound of top-40 hits on the radio, her own breaths – too loud, too fast, even to her own ears.
“Please,” she hears herself say, every sharp drawn inhale pulling the fabric of the bag into her mouth, every time leaving it a little wetter, from her breaths or her tears, she’s not sure. “I’m a mother, I have four children, I - - I’m not - - I’m not anyone, I’m not - -”
Then that low, rumbling laugh, unfamiliar, but - - but not quite, and she hadn’t been able to place it until he’d talked.
“Boss wants you,” the voice – Bullet, Demon, one of them, one of Rio’s boys, that much she knows – says. “Usually doesn’t want somebody who ain’t somethin’, lady.”
And it’s quicker than any knife, than any gunshot, that eruption of confusion, of anger, of grief, tearing through her chest, holding her hostage, and then the memory of the rest of it is flooding her senses too, fixing her arms, clutching at her throat and then it’s - -
Then its tiny, cold hands pushing at her jaw, and a little forearm crushing awkwardly at her neck, and Beth wakes up with a gasp, scrambling back against the bedsheets.
“Mommy!” Jane says with a grin, like she’s surprised to see Beth there, in her own bed, and it takes Beth too long to catch her breath again, to gently push Jane’s arm off her neck and root herself in the room, in the moment, in just right here. She looks past her daughter towards the alarm clock, blearing bright red numbers back at her through the dark – 4.42am.
“What are you doing up, bunny?” she asks, her voice hoarse with sleep, swiping blearily at her eyes as Jane wriggles against her side.
“You said we had to get up before the sun did!”
And well, Beth thinks, glancing out the French doors to where even her curtains can’t hide the first murky pull of morning.
“I did say that, huh?”
“You did, mommy,” Jane says solemnly, and Beth smiles, rolling over to face her daughter and reaching over to push her hair gently off her face, somehow avoiding a mouthful of dubby as Jane flails around on the mattress. “Are you going to work?”
“Yeah, bunny, we’re going to work.”
*
So it’s this.
It’s cherry and cream slab pies and cinnamon scrolls and pumpkin doughnuts dusted with nutmeg sugar. Banana and coffee oat muffins and pear and blackberry galettes and honey loaves and zucchini bread and lemon and raspberry danishes with fresh mascarpone. She decorates vanilla and chocolate cupcakes with farm animals and minions and smiling little snowmen, and sugar cookies with polka dots and gum drops and sprinkles.
She’d done most of it over the last couple of days, but makes neat work of finishing it this morning, wiping her floury hands down the belly of her apron after laying the finishing touches on a rainbow cake while Jane licks frosting off the spatula. The rest of the kids are up now too – Emma and Danny helping place cakes into containers while Kenny slumps sullenly in his stool behind the kitchen island.
“You don’t have to come with me, you know? You can go to work with your dad,” Beth says, stacking the finished containers up high on the bench. “You just can’t stay home alone.”
He scoffs, all teenage, boyish outrage, and god, she thought she at least had another year before puberty roughed Kenny’s edges.
“Josh stays home alone all the time!”
“Yeah, well, Josh and his mom live two houses down from a police station, so I think they kinda get a pass.”
It’s enough to make Kenny huff all over again, slumping further down in the stool until he’s almost melting off it, and Beth just rolls her eyes, already exhausted as she grabs a stack of containers and marches them out to the minivan. The crisp spring air finds the back of her neck, nips at her cheeks, kisses the tip of her nose pink, and she resists the urge to shiver. It’s still early, after all – barely six. Annie and Ruby should be pulling into the market now, starting to set up the stall, and in her head she does the math on how long it’s going to take her to get the rest of the baking and the kids in the car. Popping the trunk open, she slides in the containers and promptly checks the flap concealing the spare tyre, lifting it heavily and scooping out the wad of around $3,000 in unwashed cash. She thumbs the baggie of green rubber bands attached to it, tries to guess if there’s enough for the day, or if she needs to rifle more out of her craft table.
“You heading out? It’s a little later than usual.”
Dropping the flap quickly, Beth spins on the spot, and almost has to catch her breath again. It’s only Dean, of course it’s only Dean, standing at the front door of the house, coffee mug in hand, still in his flannel pyjamas.
“Just about,” she replies, clearing her throat. “The market’s pretty close. It’s at this elementary school on the corner of Hurston. Ruby said she almost sent Sara there.”
Dean makes a vaguely interested face like you don’t say, and Beth closes the trunk behind her.
“What time are you meeting Alan?”
“11,” Dean runs a hand back through his hair as he says it, shifting his weight a little on the spot. “He really thinks this new buyer might actually close. The guy’s seen the books, and seems happy with them, so it’s really just this last walkthrough, and you know, hopefully it’ll be a done deal.”
And sure, Beth thinks, biting the inside of her cheek. She’ll believe it when she sees it. Turns out selling a car dealership that’s been raided and closed for months by the FBI is easier said than done.
They’d had the go-ahead to re-open the place, the FBI not able to push the case against it through without Turner, but it had been harder to get the place back up and running than they’d thought. It had taken Beth almost a month to go back to the storage unit after the - - just - - after, and she hadn’t really been surprised to have found it emptied of both the cash and the furniture. It figures, she thinks, ignoring the twisting ache in her gut, that even in death he could still give and take with the same hand. Re-opening Boland Motors without capital hadn’t been an option – they had no income to buy new cars, nothing to backpay staff wages from the shutdown, or promote the re-launch in a way that would salvage any scrap of reputation.
It had been Dean in the end, who’d proposed selling it, the two of them half drunk in the living room and bitter with their own, personal griefs, and she’d been strangely relieved that losing the Boland family business (her fault, her fault, her fault) had given her an excuse to sob.
(“Hey,” Dean had said, rubbing her back, his touch clammy even through the fabric of her blouse. “You know, I never liked selling cars that much anyway.”
And Beth had nodded blankly at him, tears streaking her face, the pit of grief in her belly laying its roots between her hips.)
Still.
It’s been on the market for months.
At least Alan, their realtor, had seemed optimistic though, jubilant almost with salesman energy in a way that grated, and in hindsight it probably figures that Dean decided real estate was really perfect for his next chapter, shadowing Alan like a kid with a crush.
“You’ll be home tonight, won’t you?” Dean asks now, and Beth glances at him again, fiddling with her car keys.
“Should be. Why, what’s up?”
It takes Dean a minute to answer, to school his expression into one she knows too well, and Beth can feel her own lips thin right as she feels the mood change.
“Sooo,” and he drawls it out, rocking back on his heels, and god, Beth thinks, steeling herself. “I might have a date.”
Beth blinks.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting his weight, looking at her a little bashfully. “I mean, we’ve talked about it, right? And you know the divorce will be finalised in like, a week, and, I just. I figured it was time to get back out there, you know?”
The wind really is cooler than it should be at this time of year, she thinks, tugging her jacket a little tighter around herself, and she just - - she nods, maybe a little too sharply, a feeling she can’t name unfolding in her stomach, and she thinks about Amber, she thinks about Dean fucking Patti while Beth was home, in bed in the middle of the afternoon (Annie crying in the hallway outside, because it’s just like mom), Ruby beside her holding tiny, baby Jane because Beth just couldn’t, she thinks of - -
“Do I know her?”
Dean goes a little red around the neck of his pyjama shirt, and Beth somehow thins her lips even further, feels it, and forcibly exhales to try and release them. He takes a sip of his coffee, stalling.
“Actually, I mean. Kind of? You know. Like, I mean, you know her, but you don’t know her, if you know what I mean?”
Beth sighs, pushing out a hip and folding her arms over her chest.
“Dean.”
And it must be there in her tone, the demand, the exasperation, the exhaustion, because Dean flusters, but at least he answers.
“Well, you know Nicole?”
Wracking her head, Beth searches the catalogues of Boland Motors staff, PTA moms, friends of friends in her head, finally drawing one who fits the name and arches an eyebrow before she can help herself.
“Emma’s assistant ballet teacher?”
Dean just sort of shrugs.
“Isn’t she like, nineteen?”
“Twenty-three,” Dean says. “But she’s like, really mature. She’s retired already, from her dance career. That’s crazy, right? Retired in your twenties! Now she’s studying elementary school teaching at Wayne State. Plus, you know Emma loves her.”
And to be fair, she does, Beth thinks, nodding bluntly. She looks Dean up and down – can’t help it – scruffy in his flannel pyjamas and his dad sweater, coffee in hand, a little bit of sleepy drool dried at the corner of his mouth, and god. It’s not like she wants him. Someone should. Starting back towards the house, Beth slows as she walks past him, smiling as best as she can manage.
“She seems nice. You guys’ll have a great time.”
And the grin he returns her is blinding.
*
“So he’s dating someone closer to his children’s age than his own?” Annie says, grabbing some change from the tin and passing it over to Ruby for the customer.
Beth just gestures in a brief flick of both hands, and at least she’s swallowed the burn of embarrassment she’d felt the whole drive over, knowing she was going to tell them.
“I mean, are you really that surprised?”
“No, but it’s still gross,” Ruby supplies after the customer’s left, and Beth can at least give her that.
It’s almost midday, the sun having eased some of the morning chill, settling the day sweet around them. The markets have been thriving for most of it too, a bustle of families with arms full of local-grown fruit and vegetables – red cheeked apples and blueberries like blackened pearls, olives, jams and preserves. There’s even a kombucha stand which, as Annie says, really just brings the hippies in off the communes. Their stall had been thriving for most of the day too, and they’re already down to their last two containers of pastries.
Almost all of the $3,000 she’d brought to wash is clean too, re-banded and laid flat in the base of the money tin.
“I want to know how he manages to pull these chicks,” Annie says, flailing her arms in Beth’s general direction. “Like, no offence, but it’s Dean. It’s Deansy. He’s like if Gumby banged Chewbacca and had like, some weird, hairless man baby.”
Rolling her eyes, Beth looks out across the market. Being held in an elementary school carpark has definitely got its perks – namely the playground, and she can see Jane already at the top of the slide, Harry pressed into her side, waving her arms about trying to get Sadie and Sara to watch her.
“There’s a reason men like Dean go young, that’s all I’m gonna say,” Ruby says, holding up her hands, and it’s enough to make Beth look back at her, something twisting cool in her belly. She’s not sure how she looks, but it must be more sad than annoyed, like perhaps she intended, because Ruby’s expression quickly turns apologetic.
“I think that settles it though, B. We need to get you some dick.”
And well, at least that’s enough to snap her out of it.
“Oh, god, Annie.”
“No! I’m serious! I will not have your vagina seal up again. It’s suffered enough. Hell, the thing probably still has whiplash from the way you went from Dean to - -”
Annie stops dead, slapping her hands over her own mouth, and just - - just Beth can’t look at them, can’t quite breathe either. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the space, which is dumb, she thinks, a bubble of something like hysteria forming in her throat, given they’re outside. How can there be no air? She just - - she feels suddenly breathless, that’s all, so much so that there are tears prickling at her eyes until she can barely see, and it’s just - - too much - - it’s - -
“You okay, B?” Ruby asks, her voice soft, cutting through the quiet, and Beth whips around to face them both again, Annie shifting her weight guiltily as Ruby reaches out to touch Beth’s arm.
Shying slightly back, away from the touch (she just - - maybe she should - - no, she can’t), Beth paints on the biggest grin she can manage, resisting the urge to swipe at her face. Her eyelashes are wet, pearling with tears, she can feel it, but prays Ruby and Annie can’t see it - - won’t, maybe, if Beth can manage not to draw attention to it.
“You know, I should probably check on the kids. Can you guys hold down the fort?”
Annie and Ruby exchange a look, but Beth doesn’t wait for a reply, ducking out and striding through the market away from them.
*
In the end, the whole thing had been Annie’s idea.
Or rather, Annie’s joke, and really, Beth seriously wonders why so many of their plans start that way.
Because the storage unit was empty again, and none of them had been able to make ends meet – not for Sara’s meds or Sadie’s hormone therapy, and not to salvage the husk of Boland Motors nor stop Beth and Dean from slipping further into debt, and so maybe Beth had thought about the fake cash, then maybe she’d done enough research into making it, then maybe - - maybe she’d done it, taking it out of her oven the first time she’d pulled it off with a wide and honest grin.
Because right then it had felt good. To have done it. To remember it. To remember she was good at this, that what he’d seen in her had been right and true, even if he was only ever playing with her, even if the rest of it had all been a lie. After that though, after that first rush of success, there had been a wall.
Rio had always pointedly avoided giving her the contact details of his networks outside of addresses for drops, even when their partnership was running smoothly (well, as smoothly as it ever did), and she highly doubted doorknocking would get her all that far. Still. She’d had a few numbers that he’d given her over those months though (generally wrangled on the very few occasions that he’d been suddenly unable to screen them and pass the information on – elusively out of range or on another job), but not one had actually replied to her messages requesting a meeting, nor picked up when she’d called. It had been weeks of silence before she’d given up, and then Annie’s joke one day, picking at the birthday cake batter Beth was whipping up for Danny –
“You really are Martha Stewart, huh? Baking, crafts, crime. We should get you your own show.”
And, well, not a show.
But maybe a business.
Still, washing the money through cash-only bake sales and markets had proven excruciatingly slow. It’s not like selling dozens of pastries and cakes really compared to washing it via TVs and appliances, and even branching out to Beth’s handmade blankets, hats and scarves, kids costumes and cushion covers hadn’t exactly helped them to wash more than a few thousand dollars a week, which split between the three of them barely covered the costs of stall bookings, ingredients and supplies, let alone really turn a profit. Plus Beth is pretty sure between the baking and the knitting and the physical creation of the fake cash, she hasn’t slept in weeks. Not like the sleep she does steal isn’t bogged down with nightmares anyway.
Beth groans, rolling over in bed, tangling the sheets up between her legs, ignoring the ache in her lower back from so long on her feet. After a minute, she bites the inside of her cheek, reaching for the drawer on her bedside table and pulling out her burner phone. She scrolls through her unanswered messages to Rio’s contacts, and thinks - - screw it.
Last chance. This opportunity will be worth your while.
She sends the message to all four of them, before dropping her phone back to the bed and pushing the heels of her hands against her eye sockets. It’s there at least, the tug of exhaustion pulling her to the brink, and she’s almost asleep when she hears the front door open and click shut, a tipsy stumble, and then a woman, giggling, and Dean’s voice:
“Shhhh, shhhhh, kids are sleeping.”
And then Dean’s hiccupping laugh, and his bedroom door opening and clicking shut, and it’s only a few minutes before there’s a stifled moan, and Beth’s fingers are white knuckled in the sheets, and she should be angry, or jealous, something, but all that’s left is humiliation.
*
“Don’t cut it. I like pushing it off your face.”
She can almost feel it. The ghost of his fingers, calloused, they were always calloused, the skin there almost a little rough, but his touch had never been, not when he touched her like that anyway.
“Beth? Bethie? You in there?”
Beth blinks, startling as Dean waves a hand in front of her face. The light suddenly feels too bright, too sharp, the memory having briefly dulled her senses, and she clears her throat, circling her hands around her coffee mug as she digs her aching lower back into the kitchen counter.
“Lost you there for a minute,” Dean says, and Beth paints on a smile, shrugging lightly.
“Sorry, just tired.”
“That’s okay. I was just talking about work anyway.”
And he grins a little, placating, and Beth can see it, the lax set of his shoulders, the ease in his gait. There’s a hickey peeking out from the neck of his shirt she kind of wants to scratch off for no reason more than to hear him squeal in that way she’s always hated. He’s fucked out, she thinks bitterly, but tries to swallow the thought.
“Right,” she says instead, nodding. “How’d it go with Alan and the buyer?”
At least it’s enough to tear the look off his face, his expression drawing a little glumly, and Beth knows the answer before he even talks.
“Oh, uh, not great. The deal fell through. Guy didn’t even show for the walkthrough.”
“God, that’s rude.”
“Right? That’s what I said to Alan.”
Taking a sip of her coffee, Beth glances past Dean back towards the family room, where the kids are blasting Sunday morning cartoons and arguing over the clicker. She should probably go break it up before it becomes a fight, but then - - maybe Dean can do it. She’s got at least two blankets and a T-Rex costume she has to make today to fill the back orders for next weekend’s market, and she’s wondering if she has enough canary yellow yarn when Dean’s voice chirpily cuts through her thoughts.
“But!” he says. “I might have found us a lead.”
The I feels about as loaded as it ever does with Dean, and Beth looks back at him, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn’t, she presses.
“For Boland Motors? How? With who?”
There’s always a battle with Dean like this – and she can see it, plain on his face. The urge to simultaneously brag and keep something a secret, and he hums a little, rocking his head side to side, considering it, before he finally caves.
“Remember Dominic from services? The guy who unloaded those Honda parts you, uhhh, acquired back at - - at what’s-her-face? Greg’s new girl’s?”
“Nancy’s,” Beth says, and Dean clicks a finger at her.
“Right! Well, you know, he’s got some connections. Thinks he might know someone who might be interested, who won’t really care about the - - the recent history, right? We won’t get what the place is worth, but we’re kind of over a barrel at this point. I’m worried the staff are going to go class action on us if we can’t pay them soon.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, time seems to stop, and Dean’s still talking, about the dealership, about this deal, about sending paperwork through this afternoon and setting up a meeting, but Beth doesn’t hear another word of it. Something in her is sharpening, tightening in the best way, just - - just - - lighting up.
“Dominic from services,” she says, and God, how had she forgotten about him? “When are you talking to him again?”
“Probably Wednesday afternoon? He’s going to send me the buyer’s info this afternoon, and so I’ll give them a call and we’re going to go from there.”
She can’t fight it, the grin that splits her face in two, and Dean looks back at her, surprised, but then he’s smiling too.
“Dean, that is great,” she says. “You know, I’d just love to see you in action again. Do you mind if I tag along?”
*
It’s the headlights they see first, shining bright through the glass walls of the dealership, then the sleek body of the Audi pulling up into the otherwise empty lot. Beside her, Dean is jittery with energy, palms sweating, shoes tapping on the linoleum floor. Beth had dressed him for the meeting, putting him in one of his nicer navy suits, a white dress shirt and thin grey tie, and it was effective enough. He’d felt good then, and she’s sure he still does, if the square of his shoulders is anything to go by.
“Okay, it’s showtime,” Dean says, clapping his hands together as they watch a tall, slender woman step out of the car and start towards the dealership building.
“You’ve got this,” Beth tells him, and he gives her a nervous two thumbs up before disappearing out the door, and she watches him through the glass walls of his (her? Their?) office, striding out towards the woman and making quick work of slipping into his salesman mode. It’s all it takes for Beth to turn on her heel towards Dominic-from-services, currently hunkered down on the small couch by the window, thumbs tapping on his phone.
They’re both quiet for a moment, and Beth purses her lips, smoothing her hands down the line of her dress.
“Thanks for organising this. We really do appreciate it.”
Dominic’s younger than she remembers, but not exactly young. Maybe five or six years younger than herself with a healthy head of dark hair, tanned skin, and a fit, swimmer’s build still visible beneath his tight slacks and button-down shirt. He’s handsome in a way, and she’s seen him look at her enough to know to jut out her hip a little and widen her eyes just enough to play a touch coy.
Dropping his phone down to the couch beside him, he leans back, smiling up at her.
“Well, I figure I owe the guy,” Dominic says. “Not many people would hire someone with a criminal record.”
And god, the irony of it. Beth almost laughs, but moves to sit beside Dominic on the couch instead, close, but not too close. Not enough to be weird – at least she hopes not – but enough to be friendly, enough that maybe he can smell her perfume.
“Well, we really believe in second chances. I mean, you’re kind of giving us one by arranging all of this.”
It’s enough to make him chuckle, a little bashful, looking over at her. It’s almost too warm in the office, stuffy, with the air conditioning shut off and the lights dim (they hadn’t been able to afford to keep them on), and Beth’s briefly grateful for the forgiving softness of the dusky light that might be able to cover the bags under her eyes, and her exhausted, frayed nerves.
“I haven’t really arranged anything, Mrs. Boland. I’ve just set up a meeting.”
Widening her smile, Beth shifts, turning towards him in a way she hopes is disarmingly friendly.
“You can call me Beth, you know? God, haven’t we known each other long enough for that?”
Dominic laughs, and nods in concession, but Beth honestly has no idea how long they’ve known each other for. A few years, she thinks? She’d tried to probe Dean during the week, but he’d seemed suspicious of her sudden interest, and so she’d dropped it.
“You know, speaking of meetings,” she says. “I was wondering if you could set some up for me?”
And even with the poor lighting, she sees it all over his face, that sudden, clamped down suspicion, the new tightness to his formerly lax shoulders.
“What sort of meetings?”
Dominic’s tone is careful, but, screw it, Beth thinks. She’s tired of careful. And she can hear it, when she speaks, the sharpness in her voice.
“I have a business opportunity that I think some of your contacts might be interested in.”
Somewhere in the background she can hear Dean laugh and the clip of the woman’s heels down the linoleum of the dealership floors, she can hear the traffic outside and the thrum of afternoon cicadas, but all she can see is Dominic’s jaw, rocking sideways, not unlike - -
No.
Not now.
She can’t - -
She sucks in a breath.
Balls a hand into a fist at her thigh.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Boland,” Dominic says carefully. “Besides, I’m not really in those circles anymore, you know?”
“But you knew who to talk to for this.”
“Yeah,” he says it slowly, drawing the word out over seconds. “But that was a favour.”
“And this’ll be another one,” she says brightly, her voice a little too sweet. “I’ll owe you. Anything you want. And you can raincheck that.”
Dominic looks at her then, an expression she can’t quite interpret passing over his face, but she sees it, when it settles, and with a swelling sense of satisfaction, she knows that she has him.
“And it’ll just be a few meetings?”
“Right,” Beth reiterates. “I just need to get in front of people, that’s all. You don’t need to be there, you don’t need to do anything else. Just set up the meetings.”
He sighs, the sound hoarse in the quiet of the office, and Beth sits up a little straighter, a little prouder, can’t quite help herself.
“You got a number for this stuff?”
And Beth grins, bright, grabbing his phone out of his hands to punch in her burner number.
*
She spots Dean down the other end of the empty display floor, walking beside the tall, slender woman from the car. Closer like this, and with more time to observe her, Beth takes in her short-dark hair, angular features and the smart look to her in her black patent stilettos, wide-legged slacks and perfectly-fitted teal blouse. Beth’s more pleased than she’d like to admit that she’d dressed up herself a little for the meeting – a navy sundress to match Dean’s suit, presenting the united front for the sake of the sale and Dean’s image.
Still, she doesn’t really intend on going over until Dean waves her down, gesturing her closer.
Walking out, she smooths the skirt of her dress back down over her hips, only to falter, surprised, briefly, when the other woman’s eyes find her and don’t leave her, something discretely scrutinous in her gaze as Beth gets closer.
“And this is my other half,” Dean says when Beth reaches them, tossing an arm over her shoulders and drawing her into his side. “My wife, Bethie.”
And right, Beth thinks, pushing her shoulders back and deliberately softening her features. Dean needs Bethie right now, and what the hell, she figures, brightening as she slips into the role, she can do that today, for this, especially with Dominic’s number burning up her phone. She almost gleans with pride. Her own contact. Not one of his. Hers. She paints on a smile.
“Hi! It’s lovely to meet you. My husband tells me you’re interested in buying Boland Motors?”
“I’m actually representing a client,” the woman tells her, but returns the smile. “He couldn’t make it today unfortunately.”
“Oh! Working late?”
“On vacation actually.”
And Beth blinks, a little taken aback, although maybe she shouldn’t be. Something about this woman feels unexpected, but then, she has no idea what contacts Dominic has, not really, so Beth tries to smooth over her expression and aims for light.
“Couldn’t wait until he got back, huh?”
Lifting her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, the woman keeps her expression neutral and unreadable.
“What can I say,” she says. “He knows what he wants. Plus, he’s got a real passion for local business.”
“Well, you don’t get much more local than this. Dean’s grandfather opened the place almost fifty years ago.”
“Yes, a family business. Your husband was just telling me. It must be hard seeing it on the market.”
“Yeah,” Dean jumps in, loosening his grip on Beth’s shoulder. “But hey, change is good, right? Gives you the chance to really build something up on your own.”
“Absolutely,” the woman says, her gaze only flicking briefly to Dean before settling again on Beth. She resists the urge to squirm under the weight of it. “I own my law firm. It’s only small, but I like it that way. I’d much rather split my time between a few big clients than on a hundred small ones. Plus being your own boss never hurts, although I’m not sure you ever really are when you’re in client work.”
“You can say that again,” Dean says, voice too loud, echoing in the empty lot. His grin is so goofy Beth resists the urge to cringe. “I took over this place when my dad retired. Nothing like it, y’know? Can’t ever imagine working for the man.”
And there’s a beat, maybe two, where the woman just looks at Dean, and Beth can see it – hell, has looked at Dean too many times like that herself. Complete and utter disdain. And no, Beth thinks, desperately scrambling to regain ease for the sake of the deal. She opens her mouth to speak, only for Dean to cut her off.
“Bethie’s recently become a business owner too. Tell her, honey.”
Beth’s mouth snaps shut, looking up at Dean who looks pointedly back at her before tilting his head to the other woman. Save me, he’s saying, and she was going to, but not like this. She can feel herself pink as she waves a hand out.
“Oh, no, it’s really nothing. Certainly not my own law firm. I mean, I haven’t even been to college.”
And god. Embarrassing. She inhales shakily.
“It’s like her own little bakery,” Dean fills in, taking her silence for humbleness instead of embarrassment (misreading her, always, and god, they’ll be divorced in two days, she thinks, briefly blissful with the thought of it). He grabs her shoulder, pulling her in again and shaking her slightly. “What did you call it again, honey?”
“Oh, um. Crafternoon Tea,” Beth says, finding her voice and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s – I mean, it’s a play on Afternoon Tea, but with crafts. Because it’s crafts and baking. My sister and a friend and I do markets, and my goddaughter actually just got me set up on Etsy, which is like, this online marketplace? It’s been fun.”
She can feel her blush deepen at the woman’s briefly weighted look – something between surprise and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say almost amusement, but before she can think about that anymore, Dean cuts in again.
“The Mommy thing is a whole industry now,” Dean tells her, and Beth wrinkles her nose, shrugging.
“Dean, come on, I don’t think - -” she pauses, wracking her head for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name?”
The woman looks at her, blinks, before seeming to take Beth briefly in for the utmost time. She holds out her hand, and Beth takes it.
“Sorry about that. Gretchen. Look, I won’t keep us. My client’s actually ready to make an offer. Is there somewhere we might be able to sit down and I can take you through it?”
Dean’s grin is close to blinding in its smugness as he gestures Gretchen down the hall towards his office.
*
They’re quiet for almost a full minute after Gretchen slips out to see Dominic and make a phone call, and Beth swears she can feel it, the heat radiating off of Dean’s arm, the pit of realisation looming between them. Finally, Beth can’t take it any longer, and she breaks. Needs to, at least, before Gretchen gets back.
“I think we should take it,” she says, and watches Dean splutter at the desk beside her, affronted.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Dean - - “
“We were already lowballing, Beth, but this is less than half of what the business is worth.”
“I know that, but every other offer has fallen through.”
And he splutters again, the sound loud in the space between them, his arms flailing, his neck almost purple with anger, and god, Beth thinks, she’d walked out of this office on clouds less than half an hour ago.
“This is my father’s business. My grandfather started this company out of nothing.”
“I know that,” Beth repeats, guilt spiking in her gut. “And this is on me, I know that too, but I just don’t see any other options right now. She said that this guy might even keep on some of the staff, and we owe them that at least. We’ll be able to pay the back wages, we’ll be able to pay most of our bills. We can start to move on.”
“We’ll still owe money, Beth.”
And they will, she knows they will, but she can fix it. She knows she can fix it. She’ll book meetings, she’ll get her own partners, she’ll sell cakes, wash cash, knit blankets, whatever it takes. She’ll get them out of this. She opens her mouth to say it, to tell him, when the door clicks open and Gretchen strides back through, sliding back down into her seat at Dean’s desk.
“So, Mr and Mrs Boland. Do we have a deal?”