Dawn Atkins - Wedding For One

“You’ll probably recognize the suit he’s wearing from back then, too.” Nathan led her to a tiny office next to the entrance to the factory floor. He tapped on the door, then opened it.

Bernie was in the act of peeling an invoice off his cheek. He’d apparently been napping at his desk when Nathan knocked. He looked the same, except his hair was now white, instead of streaked with gray. “Hey, there,” he said, blinking rapidly.

“Bernie, Bernie,” Nathan said affectionately. “You’ve gotta quit partying ’til dawn. Say hello to Mariah.”

“Well, look at you, all grown up.” He stood to shake her hand, smiling fondly.

She blushed, feeling twelve all over again.

“I heard you were coming to work for us.”

She resisted the urge to explain his error and just smiled.

“Why don’t you tell Mariah a little about our marketing plan, Bernie?”

“Marketing plan? Now, let me see…Where did I put that?” He pretended to pat the surface of his desk. Mariah noticed he didn’t even have a computer on his desk. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up an index-card box and delivered it to her like a present. “Our customers,” he said, grinning broadly. “And the plan?” He tapped his skull. “All up here.”

“Bernie’s an old-style marketer,” Nathan explained.

“Marketer, my ass. Pardon the language. I’m a salesman. I don’t need no phony-baloney title. I’m in sales. Life is sales. And sales is personality. And relationships. I’ve got good steady customers who know me and trust me. That’s how it works.”

“I see,” Mariah said. She flipped through the dog-eared cards and saw that in addition to order dates and amounts, the cards contained wives’ birthdays and reminders to ask about how kids’ weddings had gone. “Impressive,” she said, handing him back the box. “Have you had any luck with the new coffee-houses and gourmet grocery stores? Seems to me I’ve seen some obscure products there—Australian rock candy and Native-American flat breads. I bet our candies would fit right in.”

“Fads come and go,” he said. “We stick with the basics, and the basics stick with us. I’ve been here twenty-five years and I know what works.”

“I’m sure you do. I know my father counts on you.”

He looked pleased at the recognition, then smiled wistfully at her. “I remember when I used to steal your nose. You remember that?”

“Sure do.” She hated feeling twelve. “What ads do you run?”

“A couple in warehouse catalogues. A full-color ad in Candy International. Advertising isn’t the answer. Relationships are the answer. My customers know me and trust me.”

“I see what you mean,” she said. “You’re the expert.”

“If you want me to show you how it all works, just stop in. End of the month I make my calls.”

As soon as Nathan and she were outside his door, Nathan said, “See what I mean? Bernie’s locked in the eighties. That coffeehouse and gourmet store lead sounded good. Why don’t you make some contacts?”

“I was just talking.”

“I mean it. You can see we could use the help.” He paused. “You’re fresh and new and—” He ripped his gaze from her chest— “Anyway…” A crafty look came over his face. “On the other hand, why bother? You’d never be able to get around Bernie. He’s completely set in his ways.”

“All you have to do is draw him into the planning. Lean on his expertise. Made sure he knows he’s respected and valued.”

“Good point,” he said, and she could see he was fighting a grin. “But still. I think it would be virtually impossible.”

“I could talk to him,” she said. “Just to keep busy.”

“Of course. Might as well use your time well.” He couldn’t hold back his smile. Okay, he’d manipulated her. But if she helped boost business, that would boost Nathan’s enthusiasm.

She could always goof up later. Or in between times.

WHEN SHE GOT HOME that night, Mariah’s mother met her at the door. “Tada!” she said and waved her arm to indicate the sofa on which she’d laid out three business suits with matching handbags and shoes. “Look what I got for you!”

“Mom, you shouldn’t have.”

“Sure I should. You’re a businesswoman. A tiger has to change his spots.”

“Tigers have stripes, Mom, and they don’t change them. That’s the point of the saying.” She went to finger one of the suits—gray and tailored. It was something a funeral director might wear. “This isn’t me, Mom.”

Then she caught sight of her mother’s crestfallen face. She hated that look. She’d caused it so many times as a teen. Since she’d been here, there had already been difficult moments. Her mother had pointed out her bad posture, bad eating habits— “you’ll give yourself cancer”—her colorful language and how loud she played the stereo.

“All right. I’ll wear them.” Dressing like a flight attendant for the few weeks of her visit wouldn’t kill her. She’d spice up the suits somehow. She knew her mother meant well. Mariah was her only child, after all. Why not give her this small pleasure? Clothes weren’t permanent at least.

“Terrific. You can model them for the girls when they come for pinochle.”

Before she could object, the doorbell rang. Her mother bustled to the door. “Why, Sergei, what brings you here?” she said, faking surprise.

“A hair emergency, you told me it was,” he said, sounding gay, Russian and worried at the same time. He looked past her mother at Mariah. “And you were correct, I can see.”

Before Mariah knew it, Sergei had her by the hair, tsking and huffing. She relaxed and let herself be styled to her mother’s satisfaction. No matter what, though, she was not joining the church choir.

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