Taking the Heat. Victoria Dahl
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And his sisters knew, because Gabe had tried to talk each of them into stepping up and taking over the MacKenzie’s chain of restaurants. His sisters were older, after all, and someone had to do it or their dad would work himself into an early grave.
But they’d refused, and so it had come down to Gabe, the one who liked to keep the peace and make things right.
“Well, if Naomi does come out here, let me know.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Benton shouldered his own pack. “All right, you’re not as pretty as your sister, but you’ll have to do for now. Come on, beautiful.”
Gabe laughed as Benton started down the trail, but Gabe didn’t immediately follow. He was distracted by the echo of his own laughter off the rocks behind him. How long had it been since he’d heard that? His voice bouncing off mountains instead of being swallowed up by a cacophony of cars and air conditioners?
He took a deep breath and felt years of stress fall away. If he’d been in any kind of shape, he’d have turned around and headed right back up the face again, taken a slightly different path, pushed himself a little harder. But his arms already burned and there was no way his hands would hold up. Sunday would be soon enough to push himself. And then every Sunday after that.
Gabe rolled his shoulders, stretched his hands and set off down the trail, suddenly eager to get out, have a beer and watch the Dear Veronica show from the crowd. He’d just be careful not to get too close.
* * *
VERONICA CHEWED HER gnocchi and watched as her father typed out an email on his phone. She didn’t know why she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. It wasn’t as if there’d been any chance that an hour with him would be relaxing. On the other hand, the stress of his disapproval did distract her from the stress of worrying about tonight’s performance, so maybe that was what her subconscious had jumped on.
And he always chose great restaurants. Judge Chandler was used to the best.
He finally looked up, glancing around the restaurant before he looked at her. “Did you say something?”
“Yes, I said that it went so well I’m doing a live Dear Veronica again tonight.”
He frowned. “For free?”
“No, Dad, I’m getting paid.”
“Not much, I’d bet.”
No, not much. Not as much as she’d get paid if she’d followed in his footsteps and gone to law school. “I told you I’d be happy to pay rent.”
He waved a dismissive hand before picking up his Scotch. “At least I don’t have to worry about the unit being vacant during the spring and fall.”
Yes. At least she could do that for him. Fill space in the smallest apartment in the building he owned.
“I only got you that job as temporary work,” he grouched, settling back into his sweet spot of disappointment combined with magnanimous gestures.
“I’m a writer, Dad. It is an actual job.”
“Is it?”
She stuffed more gnocchi into her mouth and stared hard at her water glass. If she’d been making even a few hundred dollars more a month, she’d never have accepted her dad’s offer to live in his building. She’d known exactly what it had meant. But she’d spent her life savings trying to make ends meet in New York. When she’d come home to start over and try again, she’d thought maybe—just maybe—she’d find a soft place to fall.
She’d been wrong. “Just tell me the market rate on the apartment and I’ll pay it,” she said, not for the first time. “Then you won’t have to worry about my job or my decisions.”
He gave the same answer he always did. “You can’t afford it.”
The problem was that he was likely right. As small as the apartment was, it had a nice kitchen and a fireplace and it was in Jackson. It was a place she definitely couldn’t have afforded during ski season, but she told herself that a yearly lease wouldn’t be quite so much. It wouldn’t be like living in New York. Nothing was that expensive.
She set her fork down hard. “I’d better go,” she said. “I need to get ready for the show.”
“Knock ’em dead,” her father said, already looking at his phone again.
He was always like this. She knew it had nothing to do with her, but it was sometimes hard to believe it when he was directing his arrogance at her. “Sure, Dad,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He patted her hand, then got back to his phone.
Maybe her plan to see her dad tonight had actually worked. She was still nervous about the show, but she had a little anger to energize her now. She stalked toward her apartment, pissed that her dad was such a self-absorbed ass and mad at herself for failing so hard at life that she was relying on him again. She was living one of her Dear Veronica letters.
“Dear Veronica,” she snarled as she jammed the key into her apartment door, “I’m a stereotypical twentysomething who couldn’t quite make it out of the nest and now whines nonstop about it. What should I do?”
She slammed the door behind her and looked around at the furniture that had once filled a Brooklyn apartment she’d shared with two virtual strangers. “Shut your mouth,” she told herself, “stop whining and find something you’re good at.”
Actually...
She stared at the stylish little chair she’d found on the curb in front of a nice brownstone near her subway stop. It had been one of her most triumphant moments in the city, sadly, and she still loved that chair.
Find something you’re good at.
Hadn’t she already done that? She was good at writing. Her editors in New York had rarely offered anything less than praise, and her boss seemed happy with her work here. She was a good copy editor and she was surprisingly good at giving advice, despite having zero qualifications for it. Aside from the normal trolls, commenters on the paper’s website seemed thrilled with the column and eager to contribute their own thoughts. So maybe “Find something you’re good at” wasn’t the right advice.
It wasn’t her work that was the problem; it was...everything else. And everything else was a lot harder to fix than the wrong job.
She needed advice. And she was good at giving it. She just had to dig a little deeper.
Veronica made herself move slowly as she got ready for her show. She couldn’t rush or she’d panic and lose all this hard-won calmness. So she changed from jeans and a sweater to the dress she’d already laid out on the bed. It was a cute little blue A-line number she’d found at a charity store in New York.
She’d found a lot of her clothes there. So many women in New York would wear a dress only one or two times before they moved on.
She added high-heeled ankle boots and a silver necklace that looked expensive but had been on clearance at a department store. Her hair was already styled, so she freshened her makeup, darkened her eye shadow and put on some earrings that swung and sparkled when she moved.
Her transformation was complete.
She’d never thought much about her apple cheeks and blue eyes before she’d moved to New York, but once there, her look had drawn attention. Men had called her Heidi on the street, as if she were fresh off the mountains of Switzerland. They’d called her “baby doll,” yelling out that they’d love to dirty her up a little. Her stupid round cheeks had flamed with mortification every time, which made the men howl with laughter and get even filthier. Catcalling was not something she’d grown up with in Wyoming, and it had taken months for her to school her response.
But she’d done it. Walk taller, tune them out, don’t look at them, don’t respond. She’d learned to put on heavier makeup, a mask to hide behind, along with high heels and