think Baxter is going to ask Hazel to marry him,” Carly said.
“Ya think? If they get married, who will have custody?” Max wondered aloud.
“Obviously you,” Carly said.
“Funny you should say that.” He smiled down at her, his gaze moving over her face. “I thought obviously you.”
The fluttery feeling turned to pure delight, and Carly giggled. The seventeen-year-old was back and inhabiting her body again.
“Here’s your drinks,” the woman at the counter said.
Max reached for a wallet in his back pocket. “Want something to eat?” he asked Carly.
She always wanted something to eat, unless she had flutters in her belly like she did now. “Oh, I—”
“Yeah, you do,” he said with a wink. “Let’s have the hummus plate,” he said, squinting at the chalkboard, and looked at Carly for approval. She nodded. “And some of those lucky puppies. Oh, and throw in some of those weenie bites for the dogs.”
“Oh, I—”
“I know, it’s not in the manual,” Max said. “But it’s the weekend.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Coming right up,” the lady said.
Max opened his wallet and took out some bills. “How’s your weekend so far?”
Oh, but her weekend had sucked until this very moment. “Busy! My fashion guy is depressed.” She tasted her drink. It was delicious. She was beginning to feel rescued and sunny and happy again.
“Oh yeah?” Max tossed the money onto the counter. “What’s wrong with Calvin Klein?”
“Ooh,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “Points for knowing the name of your underwear designer. To answer your question, Calvin has had his confidence shaken by some unkind comments on social media,” she said. “And now he won’t get off the couch.” She paused. “Like, literally won’t get off the couch. He won’t work and he’s tossed out everything he’s been working on. He’s in the throes of a major funk.”
“That’s not good,” Max agreed.
“I’ll bring the food out to you,” the lady said, waving them on.
Max gestured to a nearby picnic table with an umbrella. They sat side by side on the bench, using the table as a seat back, facing the small concession. They sipped their drinks for a few moments, listening to the young woman sing. Her style was bluesy and melodic, her voice raspy.
“She’s really good,” Carly said.
“She is.” Max sipped his drink. “Sorry to hear about fashion guy. Does this mean you won’t be wearing any more . . . high fashion?”
She slanted him a look. “How dare you. I will never quit wearing high fashion . . . at least as long as I have a designer for a client.”
Max laughed. “What’s going to happen with him, do you think?”
“Good question. My father warned me I would deeply regret dropping psychology my freshman year. I think it would come in handy right about now because I don’t know how to deal with him. Have you ever been in a major funk?”
Max shook his head. “Nothing more than garden variety, I guess. What does his funk mean for you? I know you’re his publicist, but I don’t know what that means, exactly, especially if he’s not making things for you to publicize.” He paused and looked at her. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I try and get him noticed. And that’s the thing. I had a spot for him in front of the creative director at Couture magazine. She could really make his career, you know, but Victor is choking.”
“Tell me,” he said.
Carly told him everything. About the work she’d done to get Victor back in the fashion conversation. The blogs, the interviews, the photo shoots. She told Max how Victor was to be featured in the New Designer Showcase, but was removing pieces and replacing them with things that looked bad to her untrained eye. How she feared he would lose all his confidence and, horror of horrors, not show at all.
“Wow,” Max said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Nope. If Victor bows out of that show, it will be a huge blow to me. I obviously can’t afford to lose another client right now.”
Max frowned. “So what will you do?”
“Hopefully, what I’ve planned to do all along,” she said. “I’ve been applying for public relations jobs in New York.”
The woman with the guitar began to play a folksy number.
Max paused with his cup halfway to his mouth and looked at her. “You’re moving to New York?”
“Well,” she said airily, “that’s the plan. I have to get a job first, and so far, I haven’t had much luck in that department, either. But it’s what I’ve been working toward