It Started With A Lie Part 1

Olivia: Friday, July 19th, Early Evening

“Vivian, where do you want the cake table, again?” I ask as I lift the small, wooden case holding her rented cake knives. While helping with party prep is not a contractual part of my Logistics Manager position at Wagner Communications, helping Vivian is something I have and will continue to do without question or hesitation. So, when she called and asked me to stop on my way in from the Savannah airport to the River Overlook Hotel to pick up the last of her party accessories, I, of course, said yes.

“I was thinking we should put it near the bar instead of the catering table, you know, for flow. What do you think?” She hums lightly as she finishes arranging the guest book and flower pieces on the gift table. Puffing a loose strand of her greying blonde hair from her cheek, she puts her hands on her slim hips. Always stylish, she's dressed in her delightfully yellow taffeta suit dress. She glances around, spinning in a little circle on her perfectly color-matched kitten heels.

In her late 60s, Vivian has an impeccable fashion sense and loves to overdress in every situation. Ever seen someone manage to overdress for a high-society, black-tie, gala event? No? I have. Vivian is known in every circle she moves in for pulling out all the stops. And not just for big events. She wears top designers to the grocery store. It might come across as pretentious, and you could be forgiven for thinking it’s some sort of ego thing, but you’d be wrong. For Vivian, it’s a respect thing. Yes, respect for herself, but mostly respect for those around her. In her mind, her careful attention to her appearance is meant to show the host that, even if it’s a chain store owned by a conglomerate that answers to a shell company, their work effort was worth her best. I’ve wanted to ask why for the 4 years I’ve worked for her, but I haven’t found the right moment. I think it has something to do with her growing up poor and seeing her parents treated like nothing. In her own way, making everything a social event is meant to include everyone in something special. Not sure it works the way she means for it to, but she tries, and I’ve never heard her say anything even remotely condescending or impolite to anyone, especially waitstaff or cashiers. She’s just too sweet for that.

“Okay, makes sense. How big is the cake you ordered?” I ask as I move toward the bar set up in the corner. It's positioned to provide anyone near it with a view through the massive wall of windows that overlooks the Savannah River. There are two tables in front of the windows, a small round one and a medium rectangle. My steps stutter as I wait for her answer.

“Bigger than I should have, I think!” She laughs, her hearty chuckle can’t help but make anyone who hears it smile. It rings in the large, empty event space. Laughing with her, I turn toward the rectangular one and place the wooden case in the middle. Once my hands are empty, I start pulling the first of two chairs that the hotel staff had arranged around it away, depositing them along the back wall. We can worry about what to do with them later.

“Does this one work?” I ask, pulling the last chair.

“It’s perfect.” She startles me when her hand brushes my shoulder. While Vivian’s touch is usually welcome, unexpected contact always makes me jump a little. Remnants of my childhood, I guess. She smiles warmly and slides her arm around my shoulders. I release the chair and stand tall, turning slightly to face her more directly. “Olivia, I can’t thank you enough for helping with this. You always help, and I don’t deserve it.”

Her dark green eyes begin to cloud, and I sigh, “Stop it, Vivian. It’s no problem at all. I’m happy to help, you know this!”

“You say that, but you aren’t my assistant anymore. You don’t have to help with my little projects, you know. You’re allowed to have your own life.” She smiles shyly. I know she feels guilty for flying me here for this. She’s said as much every time I ask her what little things she still needs help with.

“Vivian, I’m not going to say this again. I’m here because I want to be. You’re my friend, not just my boss!” She laughs at that and nods. “Tomorrow’s a big deal for you, so it’s a big deal for me, okay?”

“But you aren’t even staying for the party! Oh, can’t you stay?” Her smile pulls into a practiced pout that usually works.

“I’d love to, Vivian, but you know I can’t.” Her bottom lip drops lower, and I can’t contain the giggle. Her fake pout breaks.

“But you’re doing the work and won’t even get a piece of cake!” My laugh grows louder.

“I don’t like cake, Vivian.” She shakes her head as a smile begins to form.

“I also ordered a raspberry cheesecake.” She teases, and for a moment, my smile falters. She’s playing dirty.

“How about I agree to think about it.” She smiles and squeezes my shoulder, knowing from experience that this phrase usually means I give in.

“Good!” Her phone chimes in her bag, set on a table at the edge of the dance space. She bounces, releasing me to go get it, waving her hand in the air as she continues, “I really hope Michael likes his party. I almost can’t believe he’s finally coming home!”

Michael. Vivian’s mysterious, absent son. This party has a triple purpose and all of them are for him: his 30th birthday, his graduation from his business program, and his homecoming, not just to Georgia for good, but to the company his father had built from the ground up. Vivian has been running it by herself since his unexpected death 5 years ago from a stroke. I never met her late husband. She brought me on about 8 months after his death to help her with the massive new workload she had no idea how to handle. I’ve never met Michael either. Like father, like son, I guess. At least I know what his father, Clayton, looked like. There’s a massive oil painting of him and Vivian, painted shortly after they were married, that hangs in the lobby of our building. Michael, on the other hand, is an enigma. I’ve never even seen a single photo, at least not one less than fifteen years old. Vivian has over a dozen pictures of him, ranging from toddler to high schooler, in her office, but nothing I would call an adult image. She speaks of him often, and she’s visited him half a dozen times a year in Connecticut over the last four years, but never once has he come here.

“I’m sure he’s going to love it!” I respond as I glance around the space. While the decorations are a little more ‘child’s party’ than 30-year-old to me, there’s no question that inordinate planning, care, and a stupid amount of money was spent. And that’s before the ridiculous catering spread has to be brought in and set up tomorrow. Vivian spared no expense, and it shows.

“I really hope so!” she says as she responds to whatever message she’s received. “Okay, so my nail appointment is in 20 minutes. I hate to do this, but I need to run. Are you sure you’re okay to finish setting up? I hate to just leave you here working…” She’s already putting her phone back in her designer bag as she turns to face me.

“Yep! Honestly, there isn’t really that much left to do. A few centerpieces need to get placed, and that’s it. You go. I got this.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me out on the island tonight? You know you’re welcome to.” Her offer is kind, but the drive to Tybee Island is an extra 30ish minutes one way that I don't care to spend.

“Here’s more convenient, but thanks again for the offer.”

“You can be so stubborn, you know that, honey?” She teases. I shake my head and reach for another centerpiece from the crate. “Well, anyway, I’ll be back after brunch tomorrow. Don’t start working without me. That’s an order.”

“First, no, you won’t because you have to pick Michael up from the airport at 11, and I have to leave for my flight by 10. Second, I’m not on the clock, so you aren’t the boss! At least not for the weekend. Now go, before you lose your appointment.”

“Oh my god! Thank you for reminding me!” She pulls her phone again and begins furiously typing as she wanders slowly out of the space, waving goodbye as she slips through the propped-open double doors. With a smile, I place the floral piece in my hands and go back for two more. Lost in my own head, the deep gravel voice splitting the silence makes me yelp. I jump and spin to find a man in his late twenties to early thirties, dressed casually in a pale green button-down and jeans, leaning relaxed against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His sandy-blonde hair is perfectly disheveled as if he put effort into looking like he didn’t. He’s clearly fit and easily 6 feet tall. His smile widens as my mouth drops open, the thin white scar on his right cheek forcing a deep dimple to pull on only one side. My throat tightens. Damn.

“What?” I stammer, realizing he asked me a question I didn’t really process.

“I said, I guess I’m a little early for the party.” His smile shakes me.

Swallowing and trying to pull my brain back together without showing it, I retort before thinking. “A full day early and totally under-dressed.” His brow lifts at my sarcasm, and I cringe at myself. “Sorry. That was rude. I don’t like being startled.” He scoffs and, for some reason, it pisses me off. Without warning, another gem blasts out. “Or spied on, for that matter. How long have you been watching me?”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, “Whoa, baby girl. I just got here.” His chest rumbles softly with a contained chuckle, and I can almost feel the vibration from here.

“I’m not baby girl. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“Okay, got it. No nicknames.” He chuckles again, and I can’t seem to stop a smile from spreading on my face. I turn back to the table I was working on, even though it’s done now, just so he can’t see it. “So, who are you to me, then?” His question makes me stumble.

“No one,” I blurt, a little too much squeak in my voice. Smooth, Olivia, I think, as I try to take a deep breath.

“Not true.” Heat flashes in my cheeks. I think he’s flirting with me. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s not like I date a lot. It’s July, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been out so far this year, but this feels flirty. One way to find out.

“You sure about that? Kinda feels like ‘no one’ to me.” I say, turning and sitting on the edge of the table to face him, a bit of rasp in my voice. His smile slants, and my heart flutters. I’m right.

“Oh, I’m sure.” He stands from the doorframe but doesn’t come any closer. We stare at each other for a long moment, as if daring the other to make a move. Then, something registers, and my smile falls. He reminds me of someone. Someone very specific that I see every day. My heart drops. So much for a little flirty fun. I mean, it’s not like anything was going to happen anyway, but I was enjoying it.

“Are you Michael?” I ask bluntly, the disappointment at the realization tightening my chest.

“Why do you ask?” His guarded response makes me roll my eyes.

“So that’s a yes. Got it.” I stand and turn around.

“I didn’t say yes, I asked why you think I’m Michael.” I can tell he’s moving toward me.

“You look a lot like your father.” My voice is weak. Why? It’s not like we have shared more than a few words. Jeez, am I really this lonely? Maybe Vivian’s right, and I do work too much.

“And that’s a bad thing? If I’m Michael?” I scoff and face him again. A mistake. He’s a lot closer to me than I realized. He has Vivian's green eyes. I swallow awkwardly. While I’m not totally pinned against the table, I’d have to squeeze myself small to escape without touching him.

“Yes.” He seems to sense my discomfort and takes a step back. I relax and lean on the table again. I want to move away, but I’m pretty sure if I tried, he’d follow.

“Why?” He crosses his arms again, his face going flat.

“Because starting Monday, you’ll be my boss.”

“And that means we can’t have a conversation?” His brow raises, and my face fills with heat.

“Well…I mean, of course, we can talk…but, you know…not…you know what, it doesn’t matter.” I wave my hands shakily in the air between us, as if trying to brush away any memories of what I thought was happening. “Does your mother know you’re already in town? She’s supposed to pick you up from the airport tomorrow.” I finally pull myself up and escape him, heading for my bag. “I’ll just text her that you’re here already. I’m sure she’ll want to have dinner with you after her nail appoint–” His hand, rough-skinned but gentle, grabs my wrist just long enough to stop me before letting go.

“No.”

I stagger back. “No? What do you mean, no? You don’t want to have dinner with your mother?” I ask, disapproval in my tone.

“No, as in I’m not Michael.” He chuckles, shrugging before moving to the closest table and leaning against it.

My eyes narrow, and with skepticism in my voice, I ask, “Really?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, baby girl.” My nose bunches.

“I’ve told you not–”

“To call you that, but until you tell me something else, it’s all I’ve got.” The more frustrated I get, the more he seems to be enjoying the moment.

“Olivia. Olivia Beckham. There. No more baby girl.” His smile is fast and genuine. Why can’t I stay mad at him? This is ridiculous. “So, if you really aren’t Michael, then who are you? You must know him. I mean, you came here for his party.” He nods, the smile on his lips growing wider.

“Nice to meet you, Olivia Beckham. My name is Sean.” He extends a hand to me for a handshake. I don’t take it right away, my eyes locked onto his as I fish for another image in my mind. One of two boys who could have passed for twins, maybe 10 years old, holding the smallest fish you’ve ever seen up to the camera as if they just caught whales, and smiling with toothy grins. It’s a picture I’ve seen dozens of times, sitting on Vivian’s desk. The picture isn’t what I’m fishing for, though. The frame has an inscription carved into it.

‘Michael and Sean’

“The childhood best friend?” I mumble to myself. Apparently tired of waiting for me to take his offered handshake, he does it for me. His hand, still rough-skinned, is warm and squeezes me lightly, but doesn’t release when the handshake is over. Instead, he tugs slightly, and I take a step closer to him.

“Have dinner with me.”