Read Online Skipping a Beat by Sarah Pekkanen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
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the big bonus question he’d been waiting for. “I’m going to sell my company,” he said.
I gasped and grabbed the arms of my chair. Suddenly the room seemed to be shrinking. Nausea rose in my throat, and I closed my eyes against the dizziness that engulfed me.
“Sell your company?” I repeated dumbly.
I didn’t think anything Michael could say could shock me more, but I was wrong.
“I want to donate everything I have to charity.” He looked at me as if he wasn’t just shattering all of our dreams. As if he was giving me a gift. “My company ruined me, Julia, and it almost destroyed us. I know you’re not happy; you haven’t been in years. The things I’ve done, the people I’ve screwed over …” His voice trailed off while my mind flashed to Roxanne, the former publicity director for his company. He could blame his company all he wanted, but it was his affair with Roxanne that had upended our marriage.
“I’ve gotten a second chance,” Michael was saying. “How many people get one? Now I need to fix everything I did wrong in my life.”
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Eight
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I SWEAR THE PRENUP seemed to make sense at the time. It was even—that thudding sound you hear is my head repeatedly whacking itself on a table— my idea . But to understand why I wanted a prenup, you first need to understand my relationship with my father.
I was a daddy’s girl from the day I was born. And who wouldn’t be, in my place? My dad was the first guy you’d ask if you needed help moving furniture or had an extra ticket to a ball game; he was the kind of father who made a Wednesday night dinner seem like a New Year’s Eve party.
“Mr. Tolson shoplifted another Snickers bar today,” Dad would say, piling his plate high with mashed potatoes and chicken breasts as he recounted his day at the small general store he and my mom owned. “Stuck it right down the front of his pants. He’s a genius, that guy. He knows I’m never going to reach down there and risk grabbing the wrong thing.”
“Steven!” Mom would admonish him while I cracked up, and then my dad would lean over and kiss her, and Mom would start laughing, too. Mom always said that, when I was a baby, Dad was the only one who could rock me to sleep. As a kid, I was happiest perched up on his broad shoulders. When I became a teenager, Dad and I went out every Sunday afternoon, just the two of us, to run errands. He never once turned on the radio but instead asked me about my teachers and friends. He listened so intently and laughed so easily that he made me feel like I was a good storyteller, too. On Saturdays, when our store was busiest, our little family worked there together. Mom bagged groceries while Dad ran the cash register and I stocked the shelves.
We were happy. Happier than most families, I think. Even though there were only the three of us, our house never seemed quiet or empty, and although sometimes I secretly wished for a sister, I knew I was lucky to have parents who loved me so much.
Sometimes I wonder how and why everything began to change. Dad had always been a man with big appetites, a guy who lived a small life in an oversize way. He devoured second helpings of dinner before Mom and I finished our first ones. People always flocked around him, crossing the street to greet him and slowing down their cars so they could lean out the window and chat when they saw him working in our front yard. Sometimes I wondered: Had this hunger always been buried inside my father, like a seed waiting for the right conditions to break through the ground and grow so big and strong that it cast a dark shadow on the sunniest days?
We didn’t suspect anything for so long. The urgent, whispered phone calls; the five percent discount Dad suddenly offered customers if they’d pay cash; even the time our electricity was cut off at home and we had to store our perishables in a neighbor’s freezer and eat dinner by candlelight.
“The check must’ve gotten lost in the
I gasped and grabbed the arms of my chair. Suddenly the room seemed to be shrinking. Nausea rose in my throat, and I closed my eyes against the dizziness that engulfed me.
“Sell your company?” I repeated dumbly.
I didn’t think anything Michael could say could shock me more, but I was wrong.
“I want to donate everything I have to charity.” He looked at me as if he wasn’t just shattering all of our dreams. As if he was giving me a gift. “My company ruined me, Julia, and it almost destroyed us. I know you’re not happy; you haven’t been in years. The things I’ve done, the people I’ve screwed over …” His voice trailed off while my mind flashed to Roxanne, the former publicity director for his company. He could blame his company all he wanted, but it was his affair with Roxanne that had upended our marriage.
“I’ve gotten a second chance,” Michael was saying. “How many people get one? Now I need to fix everything I did wrong in my life.”
----
Eight
----
I SWEAR THE PRENUP seemed to make sense at the time. It was even—that thudding sound you hear is my head repeatedly whacking itself on a table— my idea . But to understand why I wanted a prenup, you first need to understand my relationship with my father.
I was a daddy’s girl from the day I was born. And who wouldn’t be, in my place? My dad was the first guy you’d ask if you needed help moving furniture or had an extra ticket to a ball game; he was the kind of father who made a Wednesday night dinner seem like a New Year’s Eve party.
“Mr. Tolson shoplifted another Snickers bar today,” Dad would say, piling his plate high with mashed potatoes and chicken breasts as he recounted his day at the small general store he and my mom owned. “Stuck it right down the front of his pants. He’s a genius, that guy. He knows I’m never going to reach down there and risk grabbing the wrong thing.”
“Steven!” Mom would admonish him while I cracked up, and then my dad would lean over and kiss her, and Mom would start laughing, too. Mom always said that, when I was a baby, Dad was the only one who could rock me to sleep. As a kid, I was happiest perched up on his broad shoulders. When I became a teenager, Dad and I went out every Sunday afternoon, just the two of us, to run errands. He never once turned on the radio but instead asked me about my teachers and friends. He listened so intently and laughed so easily that he made me feel like I was a good storyteller, too. On Saturdays, when our store was busiest, our little family worked there together. Mom bagged groceries while Dad ran the cash register and I stocked the shelves.
We were happy. Happier than most families, I think. Even though there were only the three of us, our house never seemed quiet or empty, and although sometimes I secretly wished for a sister, I knew I was lucky to have parents who loved me so much.
Sometimes I wonder how and why everything began to change. Dad had always been a man with big appetites, a guy who lived a small life in an oversize way. He devoured second helpings of dinner before Mom and I finished our first ones. People always flocked around him, crossing the street to greet him and slowing down their cars so they could lean out the window and chat when they saw him working in our front yard. Sometimes I wondered: Had this hunger always been buried inside my father, like a seed waiting for the right conditions to break through the ground and grow so big and strong that it cast a dark shadow on the sunniest days?
We didn’t suspect anything for so long. The urgent, whispered phone calls; the five percent discount Dad suddenly offered customers if they’d pay cash; even the time our electricity was cut off at home and we had to store our perishables in a neighbor’s freezer and eat dinner by candlelight.
“The check must’ve gotten lost in the
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