by Joan Cohen
“Believe me, we are. Why are you defending him?” She averted her eyes and took a sip of her tea, wondering why, indeed, and noting how inadequate chamomile was for this exchange. Parker swiveled his chair back and forth. “What do you think about going to the board—all of us?”
His words took a moment to register. “Mutiny?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “What you’re suggesting amounts to the same thing, and there’s little, if any, justification. It’s absolutely nuts and would certainly backfire. The board still has confidence in Jake.”
He stopped his chair. “I suspected you’d say that, given your special relationship with Jake.” Parker’s smile was unpleasant. “I’ve already talked with Franklin Burrows, and, though it may surprise you, he was receptive to my concerns. He wants to know if the rest of executive management has the same issues.”
“And you think we do? I don’t believe the whole executive staff would threaten to quit, even if they shared your opinion.”
“If you don’t want to go to the entire board, you might feel out a certain investor.” Parker’s sideways glance was sly. “I believe you have some influence. . . .”
So, he knew about her and Vince. “I don’t,” she snapped. “I respect Jake for the job he’s done at Salientific. Give him a chance to grow with the company before you give up on him.” She’d leave it at that. It was bad enough Parker knew about her social life, but if anyone suspected she and Jake . . . She grasped her cup and rose to leave. “The company’s doing too well for the board to take action against Jake. It’s not like he’s some kind of ax murderer.”
Parker scowled, and when he stood, black coffee sloshed on the table. “Well, I’m on record. I’d rather work this through the board, but if you won’t help . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Does your venture capitalist boyfriend know you’re the apple of Jake’s eye? You think what happens at an office party stays there?” Jeanne’s face colored. “Maybe you ought to consider the risk to yourself if you’re the only holdout.” How good it would feel, she thought, to yank that toupee off his head and stuff it in his mouth.
He rearranged his features into a more benign expression. “I’d rather work with you, Jeanne, than against you. Let’s not be adversaries when it serves both our interests for Salientific to win big.”
She bolted for the door, ignoring his belated altruism and pausing just long enough to point at him. “Don’t try to manipulate me.” Her temples pulsing, she slipped out the door.
Placing Bertucci’s and Weight Watchers next to each other had to be the work of the devil. Stepping from her car at six o’clock, Jeanne was all but sucked into the restaurant’s doorway, so tantalizing were the aromas. Instead, she stiffened her spine and marched to her weekly showdown with the scale.
Perhaps tonight’s meeting would be her last. Although the program was billed as a lifestyle change rather than a diet, she didn’t want to watch the scale register her escalating pregnancy weight—if, that is, she stayed pregnant. She could see from the lines at the three stations in the entrance area that she hadn’t arrived early enough. Not only did the receptionists need to weigh each client and inscribe in their booklet the week’s gain or loss, they had to answer questions from the evening’s new enrollees. Jeanne skipped the weigh-in and went straight into the meeting.
Maggie was sitting in her usual spot—right side, third row, first seat off the center aisle. Her hand was on the metal folding chair next to her, and she patted the seat as she caught sight of Jeanne. Since Jeanne always occupied the seat next to Maggie’s, the gesture was superfluous, but that was Maggie, ever welcoming.
Maggie was a permanent fixture at Weight Watchers and had lost over a hundred pounds while Jeanne had been wrestling with her recalcitrant fifteen. In spite of the difference in objectives, the two had bonded. Maggie was a good ten years younger than Jeanne, but she possessed a steadiness that made her seem older, a trait Jeanne attributed to her work as a nurse.
Work commitments and business travel had made Jeanne a perennial quitter and re-joiner who joked she’d still be at Weight Watchers wrestling with her fifteen after Maggie became a sylph, but Maggie encouraged her as though their tasks were equal. Maggie had gone from chunky child to plump adolescent to ever enlarging adult. Jeanne refrained from mentioning her own athletic youth, during which her mother had insisted she learn to compete and win. “That’s what you’ll need,” she’d said. “No matter what the feminists say, the truth is it’s a man’s world.” Jeanne’s work schedule left scant time for exercise, and with so many restaurant meals over the years, the pounds had crept on.
Maggie eyed Jeanne’s cashmere sweater and tailored gray skirt. “So, bet you wish you could wear scrub pants and smock tops like me. Shame you’re stuck with those smart-looking duds.”
Maggie’s scrubs suited her. In Jeanne’s mind, Maggie was the epitome of the helping professional. “You’re the most glamorous nurse I know,” Jeanne teased. Maggie’s sculpted brows and long-lashed blue eyes used to be lost in her fleshy face, but her striking features had become more prominent as her face had narrowed.
“I’m the only nurse you know,” Maggie whispered, as the room grew quiet. They turned their attention to the front where their leader, Lucy, was positioning her flip charts in front of the group and greeting the assembled. Good turnout, Jeanne thought, looking around the room. No shortage of overweight people to fill in the seats. In the back row sat a young woman nursing an infant. Her breast was draped with a flannel baby blanket. Jeanne swallowed hard.
Lucy, who wore a sweater and pencil skirt with chunky turquoise jewelry, was always turned out in clothes that were not only trendy but dripping with colors overweight women avoided. She never failed to make motivational reference to her own seventy-pound weight loss. When Lucy came to the part of the meeting when she asked who was celebrating a weight-related accomplishment, she seemed truly invested in that person’s success, probably the reason her groups did so well.
At the end of the meeting, Jeanne joined the weigh-in line, while Maggie perused the newest cookbooks. A two-pound weight gain for Jeanne, but at least she wasn’t showing yet. She looked around for Maggie, who had moved to the snack display and was comparing the labels of the miniscule Weight Watchers Chocolate Caramel Mini Bars and the Chocolate Pretzel Blast snacks. “Why are you bothering? You know you’re addicted to Mint Cookie Crisps.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Everything I buy is the same. Everything I do is the same. It’s sad to bore yourself.” She replaced both boxes in the display rack and grabbed two handfuls of her favorite treat.
“You don’t talk to me about technology, which automatically makes you less boring than the rest of my associates.”
“Great. I’m interesting because of what I don’t talk about. Isn’t that called ‘damning with faint praise’?”
Jeanne batted her with her weigh-in card. “You know what I meant.” Not much did change week to week, she thought, while Maggie paid for her Mint Cookie Crisps. In spite of Maggie’s impression that Jeanne’s life was full of corporate excitement, her routine consisted of long, pressure-filled hours at work, sex with Vince or those who had preceded him, and walks with Bricklin. She was counting out her life in rows, columns, and dog biscuits. Measurable progress, not the unexpected, had been her comfort zone.
“So how are you doing? Good week?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Maggie looked as shocked as Vince had after Jeanne had turned loose those words. “Congratulations—I think.” She looked as though she wanted to hug Jeanne, but the look on Jeanne’s face held her back.
“I—uh—I’m not sure I’m having it.”
“I get that.”
“I guess I just had to tell someone besides Vince. No one at work knows.”
“I don’t want to be presumptuous, but do you want to talk about it?”
Jeanne, who was unaccustomed to seeking personal advice, hesitated. �
�I guess maybe I do, but . . .” She looked at the wall clock. Bricklin would be waiting by the window. “Do you have time to meet for lunch Saturday?”
“Maybe an hour—I’m working this Saturday.” They agreed on a Salad City that would be convenient for Maggie. “Courage,” Maggie said, patting Jeanne’s arm as they stepped out into the night.
CHAPTER 3
Jeanne was getting used to the idea that she was pregnant. She knew she had wasted days she could have used to schedule an abortion, but making such a consequential decision required the calm, logical reasoning she used when she was in her normal state of mind. The same applied to seriously engaging in the business tasks she’d been putting off, so she was engrossed in an upside-versus-downside analysis for Jake when a knock on her door was followed by Bart Connelly’s face peering in at her. He dropped into the armchair opposite her and smiled as though he’d received a warm welcome.
Bart’s specialty was endless demands, all of which were urgent. She was glad she had this legitimate business-related reason for disliking him, because she had a bunch of bad reasons, and without a substantive complaint, she’d have to admit they were petty. Those who hated him called him arrogant, while others defended him as merely cocky, common enough in a sales VP. If Jeanne had met him in another context, she would have considered him an asshole, but in business, many a talented, hardworking asshole was counted as an asset.
Bart’s smile was often smug, and he had a thick head of black hair and a compact, muscular body. If you didn’t know him, Jeanne thought, you’d find him attractive. She sat upright and pulled her chair closer into her desk. With Bart, the best strategy was to get right down to his issue, so you could get rid of him quickly.
He crossed his legs, which drew Jeanne’s attention to his pants. Bart’s chinos annoyed her because they were pressed like a uniform. She could imagine getting a paper cut—a khaki cut?—if she touched the crease, although this was rarely possible with Alberta’s thigh so close to his during executive staff meetings. Jeanne could only imagine where Alberta’s hand was when the two had privacy.
Since Alberta was their human resources VP, “inappropriate” didn’t begin to cover her behavior. Bart was on the road most of the time. What happened on the road stayed out of Alberta’s sight, not to mention Bart’s wife’s, but Jeanne had heard it involved lap dances—probably why Bart’s pants needed aggressive pressing.
Bart held a printout in his hands, and Jeanne could see the crossed-out entries and notes in the margins from across her desk. “The leads from the Chicago seminar sucked. Not a genuine sales prospect among them.” Bart thrust his head forward, and several strands of dark hair shook loose from his perfect wave. She watched him reunite the stragglers with the rest of his coif.
Jeanne’s staff had organized a set of seminars across the country to help generate sales opportunities for Bart’s reps. Her staff had performed well on the front-end work that was marketing’s responsibility: obtaining lists of technology decision makers, arranging the venue, sending out invites, and arranging for speakers. “There were plenty of attendees,” she said. “Maybe the problem was in the follow-up by telesales. Those folks report to you, no? You’ve got enough deadwood there for a marshmallow roast.” Bart wouldn’t fire his telesales reps. He’d hired foxes, and whenever he was in town, he spent considerable time leaning over their shoulders as they sat at their computers. He called it mentoring. Jeanne called it cleavage assessment.
Bart leaned back in his seat. She’d noticed that his strategy for dealing with her was to change the subject when she scored any points off him. “I want to brief you on the annual sales kickoff. I’ve got a great idea for a theme. Actually, Parker made me think of it.” Jeanne had mixed feelings about kickoffs, since they were expensive annual parties for sales reps. Marketing, engineering, accounting, and services had nothing comparable. She had to admit they were motivational, though. The sales force was pumped afterward.
The last kickoff had been at the Seaport Marriott. Though many of the sessions over the course of three days were educational, there was entertainment, and there were fun team-building activities like a chili cook-off contest. Senior management made presentations about Salientific’s goals for the new year and accomplishments during the fiscal year just ended. Jeanne spoke about marketing’s plans. Sales wanted to hear that advertising, public relations, and trade shows would support their selling effort, but beyond giving those assurances, Jeanne would need to make her talk entertaining. She hoped Bart’s theme would stoke the flame of her creativity.
“Do you own a flak jacket?” he asked.
“All VPs of marketing own flak jackets. We get fired more than the VPs of any other discipline.”
“More than sales? I doubt it, but you know that’s not what I meant. How do you feel about presenting in camouflage? The theme is ‘Year of the High-Value Target.’” Bart smiled and nodded at Jeanne. “Great, huh?”
Jeanne sat back in her chair and regarded Bart. She did not think a military theme was great. In fact, she thought it sucked. Not only were military metaphors business clichés, a military theme was in excruciatingly bad taste. The pullout from Afghanistan was still incomplete, and no one would forget how many soldiers had died there and in Iraq. As for ‘high-value targets’—weren’t they terrorists? “Bart, to say I have reservations would be an understatement.”
“But it fits. Really, it does.” He became earnest in a boyish way, and Jeanne reminded herself she had more than ten years on him. “I found out there’s a Department of Defense term, Quick Response Force—QRF—that’s a perfect description of what the whole company needs to be.”
“Catchy.” He ignored her sarcasm.
“It also fits what I want my sales reps to do: target the biggest revenue opportunities, the high-value targets; don’t chase pocket-change deals.” He leaned forward like an imploring child, eyes wide, lips parted. Jeanne looked out at the sky, hoping to find some celestial inspiration that would help her manage Bart.
“I do understand—really—and QRF is a good way of describing how everyone in the company should be ready to back up sales. It’s just, you know, the country’s war-weary.”
Bart pressed his case. “Remember that old Mel Brooks musical, The Producers? It was about Hitler, only tongue in cheek. Mine’s tongue in cheek too. People will get it. And think what a great resource we have in Jake. He’s a veteran.”
Jeanne had more confidence in Mel Brooks’s sense of humor than in Bart’s, but she could see he was emotionally invested in his military theme. She couldn’t imagine Jake as Bart’s creative muse for the sales meeting, but she’d wait to see if Bart could pull it off. “Let me know what Jake says before I rush out to buy camo.”
After checking the thermometer outside her kitchen window, Jeanne hunted for a warm jacket for her Saturday morning hike with Bricklin. She stuffed her pockets with the necessities—plastic bags for scooping poop, a couple of dog biscuits, and a water bottle. She draped the leash around her neck.
Bricklin stood, tennis ball in mouth, as close as he could to the door leading to the garage. He was taking no chance that Jeanne might squeeze by without him. “Do you think I’d leave you, boy? Not a chance.” As soon as she opened the car door, he bounded into the back seat, launching puffs of fur into the air. Jeanne eyed her car vacuum in the corner of the garage and turned her back on it. Keeping up with a shedding golden was a Sisyphean task.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the Weston Reservoir. They both loved the trail encircling it and the scenic paths leading away. In the autumn, the woods were so full of fallen leaves that the trails were all but obscured. Obscure paths, she thought, that seems like the order of the day.
Although Bricklin stayed on leash to cross the road, once Jeanne set him free, he became a honey-colored streak through the woods, tearing around in big loops. She smiled at the simple joy of it. “We’re a family, Bricklin. Why should I have a baby when I don’t want anything to change?�
�
Bricklin showed no interest in Jeanne’s musings. This was his time, and he intended to wear himself out running, playing, and sniffing. She wondered what it would be like to have no need to pace oneself. Bricklin was ten, as old as a human in his seventies. He’d slowed down some but was every bit the puppy when he had a ball in his mouth. She couldn’t bear to think about life without him.
She tried to focus on the beauty of the leaves floating in the wind, the iridescent reds her favorite, but her mind refused to enter anything resembling a meditative state, wandering instead from one source of consternation to another: her improbable pregnancy, Parker’s impractical mutiny, her childhood—all about achieving rather than experiencing. She felt alone, alone except for Bricklin.
She whistled for him, and dutifully he appeared, tennis ball clenched between his teeth. He trotted toward her, limping. “Bricklin, what happened?” He wagged his tail as she crouched in front of him and peered at his paw. “That’s no answer. Help me out here.”
As soon as they returned home, Jeanne had Bricklin sit on the kitchen floor so she could lift his paw. She examined the pads underneath closely and ran her hand up his leg, squeezing and pressing gently, but he showed no evidence of pain. “It’s okay, boy. I know you’re supposed to conceal injuries from predators, but everyone in this condo complex is domesticated. It’s safe to let me know where it hurts.”
