S heila was really gone.
She wasn’t returning his calls. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t at work. Morris had staked out every place he could think of and there was no sign of her. She had meant every word in that awful message she’d left.
He’d never gotten the chance to tell her what he’d decided. Or to wish her well. Or to say good-bye. Now she was out there somewhere, trying to get better, with no idea that he still loved her and wanted to make it work. She was all alone, probably terrified, and whatever she’d done, she didn’t deserve that.
It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so goddamned judgmental…
He sat in his office, staring at a dark computer screen, his door shut tight. He was finally back at Bindle after taking a day off, but he couldn’t seem to remember his user name or password to log on to his computer. All he could think about was the locked drawer in his desk where a brand-new bottle of Johnnie Walker Red was hiding. He’d sneaked it in that morning, which hadn’t been too difficult-everybody was avoiding him thanks to Darcy’s strict instructions to the staff not to mention the canceled wedding.
He could only imagine the rumors swirling around the office like a flu virus. After all, it wasn’t every day that a senior partner got dumped a week before his own wedding. Hell, if this hadn’t been his life, he’d be titillated by it, too.
His gaze shifted to the framed photograph sitting beside his computer. The picture had been taken the night he proposed, at the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. Sheila in a low-cut black dress, red velvet lips, gorgeous and glowing; he in his favorite pin-striped suit and the tie Sheila had picked out.
He touched the glass. She looked beautiful and he looked happy.
Someone cleared a throat discreetly. Morris looked up to see Trevor Baker standing there, one of his many account managers. Goddammit, he’d forgotten to lock the door.
“Good morning, Trevor.” His usually hearty voice sounded flat and deflated even to him. “What can I do for you?”
Trevor stood staring at his boss, not bothering to hide the shock on his angular face. It wasn’t hard to guess what the younger man was thinking-Morris knew how he looked. He’d slept only two hours the night before, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his face ruddy from too much whiskey. Oh, yeah. He knew exactly what he looked like. And he didn’t give a shit.
Trevor eased his twig-thin frame into the office. His salmon shirt clashed with his coral tie, the combination too bright for Morris’s dry eyes. The man’s bony fingers clutched a thick manila folder.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need your signature on these documents for the Glasgow account-”
“Leave the file with me.”
“Thanks.” Trevor placed the folder on the edge of Morris’s desk, then hesitated.
“Anything else?”
The younger man shifted his weight. “Just, uh, wondering how you’re doing.”
Morris grunted and leaned back in his chair. Cracking his knuckles, he glared at his account manager, suddenly unable to think of a single reason why he’d hired the twerp in the first place. “Well, let’s see. How do I look, Trevor?”
The younger man swallowed and backed away. “It’s just… I met your fiancée at last year’s Christmas party and she was so lovely, very down-to-earth. I honestly can’t believe-”
“For God’s sake, Trevor, she’s not dead. She dumped me.” Morris could see the spittle flying from his lips as he spoke. He kept his fingers firmly on the armrests of his chair so he wouldn’t spring up and detach Trevor’s pretty little head from his twiggy little body. “Thanks for your condolences, but if I’m not talking about it, why are you?”
Trevor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Morris stared him down. “Shut the door on your way out.”
The account manager scurried out without another word.
Morris got up and locked his office door, then sat back down, not sure what to do next. He stared at the football that always sat on his desk, preserved in Lucite. Game ball from his last college game with the Longhorns. He wished it weren’t boxed up in plastic-he wanted to hold it, squeeze it, smell the leather. Football used to be such a great outlet. He missed it almost as much as he missed Sheila.
Suddenly he felt her eyes on him. He turned back to the framed photo of the two of them. Restraining himself from hurling it against the wall, he instead shoved it into his top drawer, facedown.
It seemed like a real good time for the Red.
Unlocking his bottom cabinet, he poured a shot into the empty coffee mug. It went down like fire. He poured another, glancing at the clock. It was ten thirty in the morning. He poured one more.
It was gonna be a long day.
Feeling marginally better, at least for the meantime, he locked the bottle back up and turned to his computer. Mellowed from the booze, his password came back to him and he finally logged on.
Morris’s e-mail program informed him that he had twenty-one new e-mails, not terrible for a Tuesday morning and a day off from work. Darcy was good about screening his messages. He scrolled through them quickly. There weren’t any e-mails from Sheila. He hadn’t expected any, but he was disappointed anyway.
An e-mail buried in the middle of the list caught his eye and he scrolled back up. It was from Brenda Walcott, a woman in Human Resources. The subject line read: Tom Young.
Oh, yeah. Tom Young. He’d forgotten all about his son Randall’s old friend. They’d had dinner after the interview. Had that really only been a few weeks ago? It felt as if a decade had passed. Morris’s eyebrows furrowed as he read Brenda’s message.
Subject: Tom Young
Morris,
I got your e-mail last week about Tom Young applying for position #M-39003. I have not yet received his formal application. Just a reminder that the position closes Tuesday and interviews are next week if he’s still interested.
Brenda
p.s. Sorry about your wedding.
Morris felt his face flush. Well, fuck, if the news had made it all the way to HR eight floors down, then clearly the entire company knew that he had been stood up at the altar. Humiliating.
He pushed away the mental picture of his colleagues whispering behind his back and forced himself to concentrate. At least now he had something to distract him.
What the hell had happened to Tom Young? He was surprised that the paperwork hadn’t arrived-the kid had seemed bright. Morris had been impressed by him, had liked him because he’d made him feel one step closer to his estranged son.
He scrolled through his e-mails until he found the one Randall had sent him a few weeks before. Not giving himself a chance to chicken out this time, he hit REPLY and started typing.
Subject: Re: Favor
Dear Randall,
Hope this e-mail finds you well, wherever you are in the world. I was thrilled to hear from you, even if it was due to a business matter. I was going to respond earlier but I kept overanalyzing what I would say (you know me).
By the way, I gave your friend Tom a hearty recommendation. HR hasn’t received his résumé yet, so would you remind him to send it in no later than tomorrow?
My home and office numbers are the same. Your old man would love to hear from you.
I miss you very much.
Love,
Dad
Morris hit SEND.
Exactly three minutes later, he received a reply. That was quick. Excited, he clicked on the new e-mail.
Subject: Re: Favor
We’re sorry, but this e-mail is undeliverable for the following reason(s):
SENDER ADDRESS UNKNOWN.