Hanging by a Thread. Karen Templeton

whatever information I might be able to dispense is already outdated. Right?

      “Sorry, Frances. I honest to God have no idea what’s going on.”

      “Which I suppose is why your cheeks are the color of Jimmy’s marinara sauce.”

      “It’s hot in here?”

      The question mark at the end probably wasn’t very bright. But before she can move in for the kill, somebody knocks on the door. It’s Jason, looking particularly fetching tonight in several layers of shredded black T-shirts, torn jeans, and rampant despondency. He looks at me, his mouth struggling with the effort to smile. Kinda like my belly the one time I tried Pilates.

      “Starr’s wonderin’ where you were,” he says to me, then turns to his mother. “And Luke called. Said he was sorry they couldn’t make it, but Tina’s not feeling good.”

      “Oh?” Frances perks up like a hound catching a scent; Jason ducks her attempt to brush his hair out of his eyes. “He say what was wrong?”

      “Uh-uh.”

      “He want me to call back?”

      “Dunno.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake,” Frances says, but I’m already out of the room to go find my daughter, so my butt is safe.

      Until the next day, when Luke calls me at work.

      “El! Guess what? I’m freakin’ gonna be a father!”

      chapter 5

      The joy in his voice is indescribable. As is my reaction. Although let’s go with stunned senseless, for the moment. I mean, yes, I’m relieved she’s changed her mind. I guess. But at the same time, I’m getting disturbing images of trucks heading straight for brick walls.

      Behind me—I’m taking the call in the middle of the workroom—Nikky and Jock are screaming at each other in different languages.

      “Wow!” I force out. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations!”

      “Isn’t it great? I mean, I had to do some fast talking to convince Teen it’s gonna be okay, but she’ll come around, I know she will. And maybe this’ll get things back on track for her and me, you know?”

      I swallow past a knot in my throat. “What did your mother say?”

      “I haven’t told her yet, Tina says she doesn’t want to tell anybody until she’s really sure. Something about getting past the first trimester. But how could I not tell you, huh? Anyway, gotta run, we’ll see you later. Dinner to celebrate, you and Starr, our place, maybe this weekend?”

      “Sure,” I say, but he’s gone.

      Well. This is great. Really. Luke’s gonna have Tina and a baby. Just the way it’s supposed to be. What he wanted. What I’d helped him get.

      Well, send in the big fat hairy clowns, why not.

      Behind me, Harold sticks his nose into the argument; the noise level is deafening. And heading my way.

      “Where the hell do you get off,” Harold is now screaming in my face, “accepting that return from Marshall Field’s?”

      You know, I am so not in the mood for taking the brunt of somebody else’s screw-up right now.

      “Since the order clearly states the delivery date was three weeks ago,” I say with the sort of calm I imagine someone resigned to their imminent death must feel, “I didn’t see as I had much choice. I couldn’t exactly send it back, could I?”

      Harold’s face turns an interesting shade of aubergine. And the finger comes up, close enough to my nose to make me cross-eyed. “Then I suggest you get on the goddamn phone, young lady, and do some fast talking and get them to take it back! We can’t afford to lose that order!”

      The first words that come to mind are, “So why didn’t somebody make sure they got the frickin’ order on time?”

      “Harold,” Nikky says as she comes up behind him. “Leave Ellie alone. It’s not her fault—”

      He whirls on her. “That’s right, it’s not. It’s yours, for being so goddamn disorganized you can’t even make sure your goddamn orders are delivered on time!”

      She doesn’t say a word. Nor does her expression change. But not even three layers of makeup are sufficient to mask the color exploding in her cheeks.

      Swear to God, I want to wrap my hands around the man’s blubbery neck and choke him until his froglike little eyes pop out of his head.

      “Nikky?” I say, “I’ll call the buyer, see what I can do. Maybe if we give them a small discount—?”

      “Like hell!” Harold bellows.

      “Hey!” I bellow right back, because frankly, I don’t care if Harold Katz thinks I’m the biggest bitch on wheels. “You wanna give me a little leverage here, or you want the whole order to land in an outlet mall in Jersey?”

      The aubergine begins to fade to a dusty magenta. “Do what you can,” he finally says. “Just don’t start out talking discounts, you got that?”

      He turns on his heel and storms off. I’m tempted to salute behind his back, but Nikky’s still standing there, looking at me as though I’ve either lost my mind or deserve a medal, I can’t quite tell. Then it occurs to me that, to add insult to injury, Harold didn’t suggest Nikky call the buyer. That he trusts some schleppy little assistant with about as much clout as a worm more than he does his wife, who happens to own the business.

      “You wanna call ’em?” I say.

      She seems to think this over for a minute. “I take it you’re not asking me because you don’t want to make the call.”

      “Truthfully, I’m not sure that anybody should be making this call. But I don’t mind doing it. If that’s what you want.”

      Her Lancômed lips twitch into a smile. “Start off with ten percent, on top of the standard seven/ten EOM.” The usual seven percent discount for bills paid by the tenth of the month following delivery. “And then pray the damn stuff sells so it doesn’t boomerang back to us, anyway.”

      Then she, too, turns and walks away, basically trusting me to fix things. Not that I mind—or care—but, excuse me? What’s happening here? Is this really the same woman who only a few days ago played hardball with that fabric vendor, who shrugged off her husband’s bad-mouthing as nothing more than a mild annoyance?

      Suddenly, I want to curl up in a ball and cry. Or go to sleep for a very long time. And I have no idea why. Aside from the fact that all the yelling has made my head hurt. But that, for the moment at least, seems to be over. Nikky, Harold and Jock have all spun off in different directions; all I can hear now is the hum of the heaters, the stop-and-start whirr of the sewing machines, the sporadic ringing of the phone and Jock’s totally irritating Easy Listening FM station.

      I’ll make that phone call in a few minutes, when I’m not feeling quite so shell-shocked. Instead, I wander back out into the showroom, which, once again, is a wreck. So I start cleaning it up, my thoughts more jumbled than the samples covering every piece of furniture.

      Luke’s going to be a father, which he’s always wanted. Tina’s going to have the baby, which absolves me from having to keep a secret that was going to make me sick to keep. And who knows, maybe they can work things out, get their marriage back on track.

      So why do I feel like shit?

      Actually, I think I know. But going there would be on the same level as the dumb-as-dirt Gothic novel heroine who goes down into the cellar, by herself, at night, in her nightgown, because she hears a strange noise.

      I pick up a wool crepe dress with a loose waist. The fabric is gorgeous, but I’ve never liked the neckline. Or where the waist falls. What’s the point