Sipping an Amaretto from her Starbuck’s cup, Heather turned down Michigan Ave. and stopped to gaze at one of her favorite shops. It was called Monument and it housed some of the most amazing contemporary furniture. She didn’t go in, though. That would be too much for her. Each piece probably cost more than she made per week.

Heather finally began to relax from the intense interview at a local accounting firm she had just been in. Nyman and Foster was one of the most respected firms in the country, and if she could get a job with them, even as an assistant, she’d be making more than she did at her current job as a secretary assistant for a local bank. She would finally be able to maybe have something of her own. Something that she earned. Something that was all Heather. A mix of stability and madness all rolled into a home she could be proud of.

Smiling to herself, she imagined having a beautifully decorated home overlooking Lake Michigan. The black and white furniture would be gleaming and the metallic tables would catch the sun on their glass tops. She saw herself peacefully sitting on that plush, black chair, flipping though the pages of a book. She would walk though her kitchen decorated with shiny black appliances and black iron accessories. She would have her friends over for wonderful dinner in that cherry wood dining room, surrounded by huge windows and framed paintings of her favorite cities…

Her magnificent revere’ was suddenly broken by a figure slamming against her, spilling what was left of her coffee down her white blouse and dribbling onto her brand new leather shoes.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” the man said hurriedly as she gazed down at her black faux leather backpack which had tumbled to the ground.

“It’s okay,” she said sarcastically, muttering as she nodded slowly, briskly picking up her bag and wiping the front of her shirt. “It’s only a white shirt and well, it’s not like I had to save a month to finally buy these shoes.”

The man looked at her pitifully. He was tall, but not too tall. Maybe about 6’2, she guessed. Sunglasses hid his eyes and a baseball cap with the words, “Three-Peat Bulls Championship” covered his head. He wore a plain blue t-shirt, jeans, and a black jacket. A day or two of stubble covered his face.

Heather smirked as she looked back down at her bag, pushing her black Ralph Lauren sunglasses, a gift from her sister, onto her forehead. Looks like she was going to have to reorganize her bag again.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said, turning his head in remorse. “I wish I had a napkin or something. I’m such a klutz sometimes. I mean, one moment I’m walking and thinking and the next I’m knocking someone over, I mean, geesh, you’d think…”

Heather raised an eyebrow. Whoever this guy was, he sure knew how to ramble.

“…did you really save a month to buy those shoes,” he asked, looking down at her coffee dribbled pumps. “Because you look like you…”

“I look like I what,” she asked, pushing her long blonde hair over her shoulder and glancing slightly at her reflection in the store window.

She knew. Today she had worn her best outfit for the interview at Nyman and Foster. Nearly every major name brand item she owned was on her body. From her tailored, black Calvin Kline pants, cuffed and crisp white Ralph Lauren shirt, to the black sunglasses that were perched on top of her perfectly coifed hair. She looked like she could have had a closet full of those shoes.

“Well, you look like you…,” he began again, nervously adjusting his hat.

“Yeah, well,” she began, nodding and starting to walk away, “my grandmother always told me that even if you don’t have a lot of money, it’s important to look like you might.”

The man smiled bit and looked down, mulled the statement over and chuckled before catching up to her and stopping her.

“I’m late for a meeting,” he said, gesturing to a building a few blocks away. “My friend is supposed to be by any minute with a car. I don’t have any cash on me, but I would love to reimburse you for those shoes…and maybe your blouse too.”

“Look,” Heather said, trying to send the “get away from me” vibe, pushing her glasses down over her eyes, continuing down the street, “you don’t owe me anything. Accidents happen…”

“Really,” he continued, following her quickened pace, “I feel really bad.”

“Look, it’s fine,” said Heather, wondering why he wasn’t responding to an obvious brush off. “I’ll survive. I’m a big girl. I know what gets out coffee.”

“Oh yeah,” he asked, titling his head in curiosity, “what’s that?”

Inwardly groaning, Heather slowed her pace for just a moment to tick some ingredients off on her hand, “Hot water, club soda, maybe some oxy clean…”

“Club soda,” he questioned, “I thought that was for grape juice.”

“Wait,” she thought, stopping for a moment to think, “or is it hair spray and bleach?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about do you,” the man asked, smiling and chuckling softly.

Something about the smile looked familiar.

He shrugged. “My mom always used peanut butter and jelly to get gum out of my hair.”

She glanced at him over her sunglasses with an eyebrow raised. Something that random deserved questioning.

“How’d you get gum in your hair,” Heather asked, wondering why in the world she was still talking. “I thought that was a ‘girl only’ problem.”

“Or maybe it was just peanut butter,” he continued with a laugh. “Ah, there are many problems I have had that you don’t know about.”

“Maybe we should keep it that way,” Heather muttered with a slight grin, not being able to hold back a laugh of her own.

He smiled again. Did she help sell him a house last week? Something about that voice too.

“Cam,” a voice shouted from a black jaguar that had pulled to a stop next to them. “I wanted for you on 2nd, man.”

The man turned and furrowed his brow at the man in the jaguar and looked from side to side.

“Just a minute, Bobby,” the man mouthed to the guy in the car, making a cutting motion with his hand. Turning back to Heather, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

The horn blared from the Jaguar and this Bobby guy grinned mischievously as Heather’s coffee assailant began to redden.

“Could you keep it down,” the man said turning to the Jag again, gritting his teeth and looking quickly from side to side.

Heather looked from the car to the guy in front of her with wonderment as the man wrote something down hurriedly on what appeared to be a blank business card.

“Here’s my office number,” he said, turning back to her and glancing at her from over his sunglasses, nearly causing Heather’s eyes to pop out of her head. “My assistant can be reached at this number. Tell her you’re the blonde with the coffee flavored shoes and she’ll be sure a check gets to you for that.”

“I, uh,” Heather stammered, suddenly not knowing what to say or do, her normally profound and confident voice reducing to merely stammers.

“Let’s go, Cam,” the Jag tauter bellowed again.

“I’m really, really sorry again,” he said as he opened the back door to the Jaguar and stepped inside, slamming it tightly.

“It’s, uh…,” Heather mumbled, as she lifted her hand in a wave as the car drove quickly and disappeared into a sea of traffic.

“…okay,” she whispered, dropping her hand to her side and letting out a breath that she felt like she had been holding for the last minute.

Hundreds of people continued to push past her down the busy Chicago street, but Heather remained where she was, standing in awe at what just happened. Finally, she brought her eyes down to the card, but she had to blink a couple times just to make sure she was reading it right.

It was, in fact, a blank business card with dark pen scroll where the words she could hardly believe were written.

“Juan Valdez.”

Of course that wasn’t the real name of the person she had just met, and argued with. She had just met, and tried to blow off Cameron Keley.

“Cameron Keley,” she quietly repeated to herself.

“That was Cameron Keley,” she thought, pressing the card against her taking in a deep breath. “Cameron Keley spilled coffee on me. Cameron Thomas talked to me. Cameron Keley offered to buy me new shoes. I have Cameron Keley’ card. I talked to Cameron Keley.”

Turning and slapping the card against her head, she leaned against a parking meter and took and deep breath to try and regain her composure.

“Why didn’t I recognize him sooner,” she thought as she began to walk home. “It’s got to be the clothes! And the look. But that smile…those eyes…”

Heather groaned inwardly as she recalled the meeting in her mind as she neared her apartment.

“Oh no. I talked to Cameron Keley,” Heather thought, rolling her eyes, “and tried to brush him off like lint on a black sweater.”

She could hardly believe it.

Slipping the card into her purse, she walked faster, suddenly realizing how silly she must look with the front of her shirt nearly brown with a coffee stain.

“Ugh,” she groaned, unlocking the door to her apartment and stepping inside. “I must have looked like such an idiot.” She’d given him the old “Heather-chill”, as Brad liked to call it, and he still was nice to her.

Taking off the shirt and holding it in front of her, she contemplated for half a second about keeping it in her memory box. Surely she’d never see him again, and she would never call that office number on the card. That would seem too needy.

Glancing once more at the shirt, she put on an old, comfy sweat shirt and headed for the kitchen, trying to get her mind to focus on just one thing.

“What does get out coffee?”

Part Three...
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