But some things were worth an extra helping of local drama. "Fuck it," I murmured. "I need to find myself a man."
Before I could go hunting, I had to make my way inside, throw on some clothes, and run a comb through my hair. Instead of doing any of those things, I searched my bedroom for the phone I'd abandoned in the pocket of yesterday's shorts. Keeping track of mobile devices wasn't an aptitude of mine. In New York, I'd hired an assistant with the singular responsibility of holding my phone. In Talbott's Cove, I had no such luxury. If it wasn't in my pocket or tucked under the band of my bra, I was hopeless. But I'd vowed to do better following recent events.
Over the summer, one of Dad's home health aides texted me while I was on a video conference call with investors on four continents. She reminded me she had a personal thing and was due to leave early and other details I should've known in advance but didn't. That left me pitching my investors with my phone switched to silent and set facedown while Dad went unsupervised—for two hours. Since dementia functioned like a goody bag of jigsaw puzzle thoughts, Dad managed to get out of the house, leave the property, and walk his bathrobed ass two miles down the coastal highway while I closed a deal worth more than the state of Maine's annual operating budget.
Since I'd earned a sweet seven figures that day—and it was obviously the right thing to do—I doubled Dad's staffing and committed to keeping my phone visible at all times. I succeeded on the visibility front for a little while. Last month, I forgot my phone downstairs, and when I went looking for it I found my father using it as a sounding block for his gavel. He remembered all of his fifty-two years on bench but not that he had a daughter. Dementia was fun like that.
He'd cracked the screen to shards, but he had a lot of fun playing courtroom. Since there was no salvaging the device, I taped up the glass and let him keep it. His happiest, most calm moments always involved presiding over his courtroom.
As if those reasons weren't enough to keep me connected, Annette Cortassi, my best friend and this town's only redeeming quality, messaged me throughout the day. Usually between customers at the bookstore she owned in the harborside village. Today was no exception.
Annette:Did you ever watch that Netflix comedy special I told you about? The one where I strained a muscle laughing and couldn't pull a shirt over my head for a week because my side hurt so much?
Annette:I swear, it was worth the pain.
Annette:I'm going to assume by the delay in your response that you're either buying a country or dealing with some shit. Let me know when you're free and/or if I can help.
Annette:I can't do anything with buying countries, but…
Brooke:So long as I'm here, I'm not free.
Annette:Oh, would you shut up?
Brooke:You're more capable than you think. You could run a small country, no problem.
Annette:I'm going to stick to running a small bookstore. That's challenge enough for me.
Brooke:I don't buy countries. That's not what hedge fund management is about.
Annette:You say that, but it doesn't clarify your job to me at all.
Brooke:I oversee the investment and strategy of macro and long/short hedge funds with the objective of minimizing risk and maximizing profits.
Annette:Nope, that doesn't help either.
Brooke:People give me lots of money and I decide where to put that money to turn it into more money, and for my trouble, I keep a lot of that money.
Annette:That's a little better.
Annette:Let's talk about you now, Miss Brooke.
Brooke:We are talking about me. This entire conversation has been about me.
Annette:Any chance you're excited about your birthday weekend?
Brooke:That really depends on whether I have to acknowledge that I'm older.
Annette:You do not.
Annette:Once you hit 30, you don't have to acknowledge each individual year. You're a woman in your 30s and everyone knows better than to ask for specifics.
Brooke:It's not that I have an issue with this year. I just don't like the look of 34. It's obnoxious. I mean, 32 was cute. That was a cute year. Everyone is cool with 32. But 34 is that awkward phase after the early 30s and sliding into the mid 30s. It's not cute anymore. It's a nightly serum regimen and a living will.
Annette:I remember being young and my parents throwing a 40th birthday party for one of my uncles. It was over-the-hill themed. All black. A tombstone cake.
Annette:And here I am, 34 now, wondering what the fuck that was about.
Brooke:I could be wrong, but I think you'd light things on fire if anyone threw you an over-the-hill party, ever. Even if you were 95.
