Page 5 of Some Sort of Happy (Happy Crazy Love 1)
Stop it. This is where you interviewed, so it’s probably where she conducts all her employee meetings. I’ll just leave the door open. No one gets fired with the office door open.
“Shut the door. Have a seat.”
Fuck. I’m so fired.
I approached the chairs and stared at them, like maybe if I chose the right one this would go better for me.
“Sit, sit,” Mrs. Rivard said a mite impatiently. She looked exactly the way you imagine a witch would look in real life—sharp features, shrewd eyes, long skinny fingers—but without the bedraggled hair. Her silver bob was perfectly even and hung in one shiny sheet to her chin. She wore very little makeup but her skin was actually pretty good for a woman her age, and I briefly considered opening with a compliment. I reconsidered when I saw the critical look in her eye, the firm set of her mouth.
Slowly, I lowered myself to the edge of one brown leather chair, desperately trying to think of a way to change the tone of this meeting. Speak before she does! Open with something positive!
“I’m glad you wanted to meet with me this morning, Mrs. Rivard, because I had an idea I wanted to run by you for a video series.” I tried the beauty queen smile on her.
Fail.
“Skylar,” she said firmly, linking her fingers together beneath her chin, “I’m afraid I had to make a difficult decision.”
I kept a ghoulish smile frozen in place. “Oh?”
“Yes. It’s about your position here at Chateau Rivard. You see, our brand projects a certain image, and—”
“Mrs. Rivard,” I broke in. “If I could just—“
“Don’t interrupt,” she said sharply.
Fail.
“As I was saying, Chateau Rivard is very serious about its reputation. We are the oldest winery in this area and have always been dedicated to quality, professionalism, and tradition. We stand out in the market because we are more upscale, and we cater to discerning wine drinkers who expect our wines—and our staff—to be beyond reproach. Do you understand?”
I sighed. “Am I here to be reproached?”
“When you interviewed, I was pleased with your appearance, your family’s history in the area, your role as former Cherry Queen, and your enthusiasm for our wines.”
“And now?”
“Now, I regret to say that I’m afraid those initial impressions have been eclipsed by your recent behavior on television and the subsequent media attention to it. Specifically, this morning’s article in the Peninsula Press.”
“What article?” I asked, gripping the arms of the chair. My Froot Loops churned in my stomach.
“You’ve not seen it?” She raised one thin brow and glanced meaningfully at the newspaper on her desk.
“No.” Panicking, I jumped up and grabbed the paper. My eyes scanned the headlines—and there it was.
FORMER CHERRY QUEEN MORE TART THAN SWEET.
Oh God.
I read the article quickly, my heart sinking with every snarky comment and embarrassing rehash of my misdeeds on the show. The writer mentioned how proud everyone had been to see a “hometown honey” on television but how that pride had withered as the weeks went on. Who’d have thought we’d ever see our sweet Cherry Queen drunk on vodka and suggestively riding a mechanical bull? he asked.
“What? That’s not even right! It was tequila, not vodka!” I blurted.
“I hardly think that detail makes a difference.” Mrs. Rivard’s tone was arch.
Maybe not, but I was hoping for more erroneous statements in the article, things I could point to and say, That wasn’t me! I never did that! I never said that! But unfortunately, everything he’d written about was something shown on screen. He ended the article by condemning me for the terrible things I’d said about where I came from, where my family still lived and worked, and scorned me for insulting good people with my catty, callow words, the same people who’d crowned me Cherry Queen and happily allowed me to represent them all over the country.
The country! The farthest I ever went as Cherry Queen was an Elks Lodge in Flint!
But it wouldn’t serve me now to be defensive. If I wanted to keep this job, I needed to apologize and agree that my behavior was not appropriate.
