A Bump in the Road Read Free Page B

Isabel Castle’s mom is.”
    “Yeah, right. I’d like to keep my job, thanks.”
    “Well, maybe you should try coming in on time once in a while, then.” She smiled sweetly and lumbered off to raid the vending machine for Snickers.
    I hacked through my e-mails by lunchtime—most of them were pointless ones people cc’d me on. One of the e-mails was from Reese, who sent me more pictures of Grace. I looked at them for the required ten seconds, sent back an e-mail proclaiming how cute they were, how we should get together for lunch soon, and then deleted the e-mail. I love Reese to death but I don’t need to see a virtual slideshow of pictures of her kid every other week. I mean, Grace is a cute kid and all, but I don’t need to see Grace at one month! Grace at two months! Grace at three months! Grace at Halloween! Grace with a flower next to her face!
    Jake and I wouldn’t have room for furniture if I framed all of the pictures Reese gives me.
    Christina finally came in around lunchtime. She breezed past my office, juggling her cell phone and a new Prada bag I drooled over in
InStyle
last week. I swear she has to be prostituting herself on the side to afford all of her clothes. The first time I met her, I felt like she was the prom queen and I was the nerd trying to befriend her. Like I should send her a note:
Will you be my friend? Circle yes or no
.
    “Clare, are you free to meet in an hour?” Christina called through my office wall.
    “Sure.”
    I spent the next hour coming up with lame excuses why I couldn’t work on the Gala. I already have a trip planned for that weekend! I’m taking a sabbatical to India! I don’t like being humiliated!
    I walked into Christina’s office and sat down for our meeting. She started, “Before I forget, I have a meeting tomorrow around three and I may or may not come back to the office afterward.”
    Knowing this was code for her leaving early, I smiled and nodded, looking forward to spending my afternoon at Banana Republic.
    “I’m glad you’re smiling. You might not be in a few minutes. On Friday I met with Carolyn Wittenberg, the president of the Women’s Board of Chicago Samaritan Hospital. They would like to hire us to do their annual fundraiser black-tie Gala. I told them we’d be thrilled to work on their event and you’d be a wonderful contributor. What do you think?” She looked at me critically.
    “Doesn’t Annie usually assist with their events?” Last-ditch life-line.
    “Yes, but she’s swamped with Isabel Castle’s sweet sixteen party. I know, I know. They are bitches from the deepest level of hell. But we have to do it. I know you’ll be a consummate professional.”
    “Of course.” I smiled, but I felt my face turning crimson.
    “Thanks, Clare. Round of drinks on me next happy hour.”
    “Sure,” I said, and recalled the Women’s Board’s spring luncheon when Mule Face washed eighty centerpieces in her dishwasher. At the time, I was overjoyed.
    Karma, she is a bitch.
    As an event planner, I’m somewhat used to odd requests and wealthy, picky clients. But the Women’s Board is a particularly demanding group. Planning this event means fitful, sleepless nights spent dreaming about incorrect invitation assembly, and smiling while being called incompetent because the luncheon napkins aren’t the correct shade of hunter green.
    I paused a moment before getting up to leave, desperately hoping Christina was going to say, “Gotcha! You should’ve seen the pathetic look on your face! April Fool’s!” She just smiled apologetically, completely aware of the firing squad she placed me in front of, the same smile a sales clerk gives right before she cuts up a credit card.
    “Oh, and Clare,” Christina called out as I walked to my office, “they’re coming in two weeks from now to meet, so that’ll be when you can get the ball rolling.”
    “Sure thing,” I called back.
    “And, like I always say: ‘Please don’t publicly bitch about this