Hate Notes Read online

  “Yes. I came to see . . .” You. “And I wasn’t expecting you to be so mean.”

  His laugh was angry. “Mean? You have no regard for the value of a person’s time, walk in here with a completely fake profile, and you’re calling me mean? I think you need to look in the mirror, Ms. Darling. Surprisingly enough, it seems that is your real name. Why you lied about everything else and gave your real name is beyond me, not to mention idiotic. So, no. If I were mean, I’d be calling security right now.”

  Security?

  I snapped.

  How dare he go there? I’d only come to see him. To make sure he was okay, that they were okay. And while I couldn’t admit that, his turning this nasty really flipped a switch in me.

  “Okay. You want to know the truth? I was curious. Curious about this place . . . curious about what seemed to be the complete opposite of the life I’ve been dealt lately. I wanted a change. I’ve been down in the dumps for weeks, so I got a little drunk one night. Looked online and found this listing—found you. I wanted to come see, not for malicious reasons, not to waste your time. I just wanted a little bit of hope that things might turn around someday. Maybe I wanted to pretend things aren’t as miserable as they really are. I don’t even remember entering that ridiculous information, okay? All I know is that I got a call confirming this appointment, and I took it, thinking maybe it was fate—that I should come and experience something out of the ordinary.”

  Reed was silent. So I continued.

  “And I do read, Reed. I was embarrassed to tell you the truth. I still read romance, but only the books with hard-core sex since I’m not getting any at the moment because I don’t trust anyone enough to let them near me after my fiancé cheated on me. So, yeah . . . I read, Reed. I read a lot. And I would use the shit out of that library, except the books on my shelves wouldn’t be anything you’d be able to display to stuffy prospective buyers.”

  His mouth curved up a bit.

  “And if you can throw it in a Crock-Pot, I can cook it. But I would never actually use that kitchen. It’s way too much. This bedroom, though? Absolutely. It would be a dream. Just like this whole experience. It’s all a dream, nothing I’ll ever really get to live. So sue me for being a dreamer, Eastwood.”

  I stormed away, but not before tripping on the rug on my way out.

  CHAPTER 4

  CHARLOTTE

  “Goddamn it!” I’d managed to keep my tears in until I found a bathroom in the lobby of Millennium Tower. I’d even somehow succeeded in keeping them at bay while I went into one of the large stalls to pee. But then there was no toilet paper, so I opened my purse and started to dig for a tissue while I was still hovering. My hands hadn’t stopped shaking from the ass-chewing I’d just experienced, and I wound up bumbling the damn thing, causing the entire contents to spill all over the floor. And . . . my phone cracked as it smashed against the fancy tile. That was when I broke down and cried.

  No longer giving a rat’s ass about germs, I sat down on the toilet seat and let it all out. It wasn’t just a cry because of what had transpired upstairs. It was a cry that was a long time coming—a big, fat, ugly cry. If my emotions were a roller coaster lately, this was the part of the ride where you put your hands up and careened down at a hundred miles an hour. I was glad the bathroom was empty, since I had the terrible habit of talking to myself when I was really upset.

  “What the hell was I thinking?”

  “Dog surfing? God, I’m such an idiot.”

  “Could I have at least embarrassed myself in front of a less intimidating man? Perhaps one that wasn’t a tall, dark, confident Adonis with an attitude?”

  “Speaking of men, why are the good-looking ones always such jerks?”

  I wasn’t really expecting an answer, although I got one anyway.

  A woman’s voice spoke from somewhere in the bathroom on the other side of the stall. “When God was making the mold for good-looking men, he asked one of his angels what else he should add to make a man more attractive in her eyes. The angel didn’t want to be disrespectful by using foul language, so she simply said, ‘Give him a big stick.’ Unfortunately, the added piece was put on backward, and now all good-looking men are born with a large stick up their tuchus.”

  I laughed through an unattractive sniffle. “There’s no toilet paper in here. Would you mind passing me some?”

  A hand appeared under the stall door with a wad of tissue. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  After using half the paper to blow my nose and dry my face and the other half to wipe myself, I took a deep breath and began to collect the contents of my purse from the floor. “Are you still out there?” I asked.

  “Yes. I figured I’d wait to make sure you were okay. I heard you crying.”

  “Thank you. But I’ll be okay.”

  The woman was seated on a bench in front of a mirror when I finally emerged from hiding in the stall. She was probably in at least her seventies, but she was dressed in a suit and groomed to the nines. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine. Why don’t you tell me what upset you?”

  “I don’t want to trouble you with my problems.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  I suppose it’s better than talking to myself. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  The woman patted the seat next to her. “Start at the beginning, dear.”

  I snorted. “You’ll be here until next week.”

  She smiled warmly. “I’ve got as much time as we need.”

  “Are you sure? You look like you’re about to go to a board meeting or get honored at some charity event.”

  “It’s one of the only perks of being the boss. You set your own hours. Now, why don’t you start with dog surfing. Is that actually a thing? Because I have a Portuguese water dog that might be interested.”

  “. . . and then I just ran out. I mean, I don’t blame the guy for being upset that I wasted his time. It’s just that he made me feel like such an idiot for even having dreams.” I’d been talking to my new friend, Iris, for more than an hour. Just like she’d said, I’d started at the beginning. We’d been through my engagement, the breakup, my job, Todd’s new fiancée, my drunken apartment application, and the resulting ass-chewing that landed me in the bathroom in tears. For some unknown reason, I’d even told her I was adopted and how much I longed to find my birth mother someday. I didn’t think that fact had anything to do with everything that was upsetting me today, but nevertheless, I found myself unloading that piece of information along with my tale of woe.

  When I finally finished my story, she sat back. “You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago, Charlotte.”

  “Really? So I’m not the first unemployed, single, broke hot mess to have a near nervous breakdown while you were trying to wash your hands?”

  She smiled. “It’s my turn for a story, if you have a little time.”

  “I literally have nothing but time.”

  Iris began. “In 1950, a young seventeen-year-old girl graduated high school and had dreams of going to college to study business. Back then, not many women went to college, and very few studied business, which was widely considered a man’s field. One night shortly after graduation, the young woman met a handsome carpenter. The two had a whirlwind courtship, and before long, the girl had immersed herself in his world. She accepted a job as a secretary answering the phones for the family business that the carpenter worked for, spent her evenings helping his mother take care of their home, and put her own passions and dreams on the back burner.

  “On Christmas Day in 1951, the man proposed, and the woman accepted. She thought by the following year she would be living the American dream of being a housewife. But three days after Christmas, the young man was drafted into the army. Some of their friends were also drafted, and many of them were getting married to their sweethearts
before they were shipped off to the military. However, this woman’s carpenter didn’t want to do that. So she vowed to wait for his return and spent the next few years working for his father’s carpentry business. When her soldier finally returned home four years later, she was ready for her happily ever after. Only on his first day back, he informed her that he’d fallen in love with a secretary on base and was breaking off their engagement. He even had the audacity to ask for the ring he’d given her back so that he could offer it to his new girlfriend.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “Did I mention that Todd’s new fiancée is wearing my engagement ring? I wish I’d never thrown it at him.”

  Iris went on. “I wish you hadn’t, too. That’s what this girl did. She refused to return the ring, telling him she was keeping it as payment for four lost years of her life. After a couple of days of licking her wounds, she dusted off her dignity, held her head high, and promptly sold the ring. She used the money to pay for her first business classes at college.”

  “Wow. Good for her.”

  “Well, the story doesn’t quite end there. She finished up college but was having the worst time trying to secure a job. No one wanted to hire her to run a business when her only experience was secretarial work for her ex-fiancé’s family carpentry company. So she embellished her résumé a bit. Instead of saying she was the secretary of the carpentry company, she wrote she was the manager; and instead of listing her duties as typing up quotes and answering phones, she listed preparing bids and negotiating contracts. Her improved résumé got her a job interview at one of the biggest property-management companies in New York City.”

  “Did she get the job?”

  “No. Turned out that the personnel director knew her ex-fiancé, knew she had lied about her responsibilities with the carpentry company, and berated her during the interview.”

  “Oh my God. Like what happened to me today with Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The world has a funny way sometimes. A year later, she had worked her way up in a rival, smaller property-management company, and she received a résumé from Mr. Locklear, the man who had berated her during that first interview. He had been downsized from his position and was looking for a job. So she called him in with the intention of giving him back as good as he’d given it to her. But in the end, she took the high road and hired him because he was qualified and, after all, she had lied on her résumé.”

  “Wow. Did Mr. Locklear at least work out?”

  She smiled. “He did. After the woman removed the stick up his ass, they worked together quite nicely. In fact, eventually they started their own property-management company, and it grew into one of the largest firms in the state. Before he died, the two of them celebrated forty years in business, thirty-eight of which they were married.”

  By her smile, I knew. “I guess your name is Iris Locklear?”

  “It is. And the best thing that ever happened to me was having that soldier break our engagement. I was never meant to be a housewife. I’d forgotten all about my own dreams. Was being a buyer at a department store your dream career, Charlotte?”

  I shook my head. “I went to college for art. I sculpt.”

  “When was the last time you sculpted?”

  My shoulders slumped. “A few years ago.”

  “You need to get back to it.”

  “It doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

  “Maybe. But you need to figure out how to love the life that you have, while you work on the life that you want. So you’ll find a job that pays the bills and sculpt at night. And on weekends.” She smiled. “That’ll keep you from trolling the internet and submitting fake real estate applications.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Everything happens for a reason, Charlotte. Take this time to reevaluate your life and what you want out of it. That’s what I did. You can only find true happiness within yourself, not inside of other people, no matter how much you care about them. Make yourself happy, and the rest will come. I promise.”

  She was absolutely right. I’d been so busy being miserable and sulking that I’d forgotten there were things I loved that made me happy. My own things. Sculpting, travel . . . I had the oddest urge to run home and make a list of things I wanted to do. “Thank you so much, Iris.” I engulfed her in a big hug, not caring that she had been a stranger an hour ago.

  “You’re welcome, my dear.”

  I washed my hands and, using the mirror, did my best to wipe away my smeared makeup. When I was done, Iris stood. “I like you, Charlotte.”

  I snorted. “Of course, I remind you of you.”

  She extended a business card to me. “I have a position open for an assistant. It’s yours if you want it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Monday morning, nine a.m. The address is on my card.”

  My mouth hung open. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. But bring me a piece of pottery you make this weekend.”

  CHAPTER 5

  CHARLOTTE

  This place made my old office look like a dump.

  I knew from the clothes that she wore, not to mention the fancy cream business card with gold-leaf lettering, that Iris Locklear ran a successful business. I just had no idea she was this big of a deal.

  I looked around the reception area in awe. A giant, sparkling chandelier, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Park Avenue, and space—so much wide-open space. The lobby was bigger than my entire damn apartment. An attractive brunette called my name as I gawked out the window. I tried to hide the shake of my hands as I walked toward her.

  “Hi, Charlotte. I’m Liz Talbot. I’m in charge of Human Resources. Mrs. Locklear said I should expect you this morning. She’s at a meeting but should be here in about an hour. Why don’t I take you back and show you around, and you can fill out all your employment paperwork in the meantime.”

  “That sounds great. Thank you.”

  Locklear Properties occupied the entire floor and employed more than a hundred people, including forty property managers, thirty real estate agents, a marketing department of ten, and dozens of other support staff. Iris hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d worked her way up. After the grand tour, we went by Liz’s office, and she gave me a stack of paperwork in a folder that had my name typed on it.

  “I’ll take you to your office, and then you can get started on this stuff. Your employment agreement is in there, along with information on your choice of health-insurance plans, information on our 401(k) options, direct-deposit forms, and your W-4 and I-9, which we’ll need filled out and returned by Wednesday. Paydays are the first and fifteenth of the month.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “I feel like I’m forgetting something. But it’s Monday, and I’ve only had one cup of coffee so far, so I probably am.”

  Liz opened a drawer to her desk and took out a large ring of keys before leading me to where I’d be working. She unlocked an office door and flipped on the lights. “Here we go. I’ll order a nameplate for the door and get an extra set of keys made up this afternoon.”

  “Umm. I think maybe you’re confusing me with someone else.”

  She furrowed her brow. “You are Charlotte Darling, right?”

  “Yes. But shouldn’t I be in a cubicle somewhere? This looks like an executive office. It has a couch?”

  A look of understanding crossed her face. “Oh.” She chuckled. “I’ve been working here so long that I forget how unusual some things at this place can seem. The assistant takes care of all of the personal needs of the Locklear family. You’re going to have access to a lot of confidential and personal information, and the family is very private. They wouldn’t want that information left out in a cubicle where everyone could see.”

  “Oh. Okay. That makes sense.” Although it still seemed a rather large space for an assistant. But who was I to complain about a private, posh office on Park Avenue? Everything
almost seemed too good to be true—a job where I could learn from a woman like Iris, a steady paycheck with benefits, and no Roth family to deal with. Even though I’d enjoyed my job working for Todd’s family, I’d always felt that some people looked at me like I’d gotten my job because of the man who slept in my bed. Iris had given me so much more than a job when we met, and I was determined to show her she hadn’t made a mistake.

  “I’ll let you get started. You know where my office is if you need anything at all. I’m extension 109 if you want to call with questions.”

  “One-oh-nine. Got it. Thanks.”

  Liz smiled and walked toward the door. She stopped when she reached the couch and tapped her hand along the back of it. “By the way, just a heads-up—woman to woman—Max can be a bit of a flirt. He’ll be lying in here on this couch trying to chat you up before the day ends. But he’s harmless. Don’t let it freak you out.”

  “Max?”

  “Mrs. Locklear’s grandson. He’s not around often. Only comes in on Mondays, most weeks. I think his weekend runs Tuesday through Sunday. He and his brother run the property-sales side of the business. Well, mostly his brother runs it. Mrs. Locklear runs the property-management side of the business. They’re separate corporations with separate names, but a lot of the staff, like you and me, work for both companies.”

  “Oh. Okay. And thanks for the tip on Max.”

  My head was spinning after Liz left me alone. I gave myself a minute to take a few deep breaths and then started on my pile of paperwork. Iris and I had never even discussed a salary. So admittedly, I was curious about what my new position paid. It was a good thing I was sitting when I found out. Seventy-five thousand dollars! That was more than I’d made at Roth’s. This entire thing seemed like a dream.

  Almost exactly an hour later, the woman who’d started me down a new path in life knocked on my new office door.

  I stood. “Iris. Uh . . . Mrs. Locklear.” I’d noticed that Liz had called her the latter.

  “Call me Iris, dear. How are you this morning?”