After taking a deep breath, I pull it open and step into the cool, air-conditioned lobby. The receptionist, a perky blonde who looks like she’d be right at home delivering the evening news, greets me with a perfect thousand-watt smile. Clutching my bag tighter than necessary, I step over to her desk and return her smile.
“Hi, I’m Chloe Dixon,” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “I have an appointment with Ms. Walsh.”
Receptionist Barbie glances at her computer screen and nods. “She’s on a call at the moment, but she’ll be with you shortly,” she chirps. “You can just have a seat in the lobby.”
“Great. Thank you.”
I walk back to the lobby area and take one of the seats, staring at the paintings hanging on the opposite walls. They’re obviously prints, but I rack my brain, trying to recall the artist just to occupy my mind as the minutes tick by. I sneak a glance at my phone as I turn it to silent and notice it’s been fifteen minutes – which means that my meeting with Ms. Walsh is now officially ten minutes late. I do my best to tamp down the irritation that flares up within me.
I recognize what Veronica Walsh is doing – this be here in an hour and then have me wait – it’s all a power play. I know because I used to pull the same garbage when I was in charge. It’s to remind me that she’s the one in control and the position of power here and that I’m merely the needy supplicant coming to beg for her favor.
Okay, fine, I may have gotten a touch of the dramatic streak from my mother.
That doesn’t change the fact that it’s kind of rude. Yes, I know how hypocritical that is for me to say. But I prefer to think that now having the shoe on the other foot, I’ve learned something, and should I ever find myself in a position of authority again, I’ll think twice before I do something so rude again. I see now that not only is it unnecessarily stressful, but it’s also a waste of time as well.
After twenty minutes in the lobby, Receptionist Barbie calls for me.
“Ms. Walsh will see you now,” she beams. “Just follow the hallway on the right and take a left at the first turn. Ms. Walsh’s office is on the right-hand side.”
“Thank you very much,” I say, forcing a smile I hope doesn’t look too fake.
I shouldn’t be so salty with Receptionist Barbie. It’s not her fault – she’s just doing her job and what she’s told to do. In truth, I’m not even all that upset with Ms. Walsh. They’re just handy targets since I can’t lash out at the source of my anger – my father. Obviously. I know I’m going to have to find a way to work through – or at least around – that anger, but I have no idea where to start just yet. All I can see is this screwed up position I’m in, which inevitably fuels the anger I feel for him.
It’s circular and ultimately, a useless waste of energy and emotion, but it’s where I’m at right now.
The door to Ms. Walsh’s office is cracked open when I find it, and I hear her voice. It sounds like she’s on the phone, so I gently knock to let her know I’m out here.
“Come, come,” she calls.
I push the door open and step into the office to find a woman who can’t be more than a few years older than me sitting behind her desk; a cell phone pressed to her ear. She waves me in and motions to the chair in front of her desk. I give her a smile and sit down, cross my legs, and hold my case in my lap like a security blanket.
The woman behind the desk has a harsh frown on her face that isn’t helped by the severe bun she’s wearing her hair in. She listens to whoever is on the other end of the line, her lips pressed in a tight, thin line, resting her forehead on her hands. Her eyes flash with frustration, and I gulp. I hope this isn’t what I’m stepping into.
Ms. Walsh carries on a rather terse conversation that’s obviously personal, and I do my best to shut it out. Whoever is on the other end of the line is getting an earful. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a significant other – a thought that’s confirmed by the “I love you,” she said right before disconnecting the call. She drops her phone on her desk and looks at me appraisingly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she starts, rolling her eyes. “Minor disaster at home. I swear to God, my husband can’t seem to function without me.”
She laughs, and suddenly she’s transformed. She seems less like the hardcore taskmaster and more like an open and friendly woman who might be fun to have a few drinks with. It’s a shocking shift in her personality that leaves me a bit flatfooted. Here I am, gearing up for what might be a contentious back and forth, but the atmosphere in her office lightens up just like that. I’m definitely not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I roll with it.
“It’s not a problem,” I tell her. “I just appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
She waves me off. “It’s not a problem,” she replies. “Amber has spoken so highly of you; I’m expecting the Pope to canonize you any day now. So of course, I just had to meet you to see if you were actually a real person.”
“I’m a real person,” I laugh. “All flesh and blood.”
“So I see,” she says and taps a piece of paper on her desk with one perfectly manicured nail. “And one with a tremendous amount of education – and yet, no practical experience.”
I feel the corners of my lips slipping down into a frown, knowing this might be a big stumbling block to finding a job. At least, a job in my actual field of study.
“Your resume says you’ve spent the last decade or so working in the financial sector?” she questions. “Atlas Financial?”
I nod and do my best to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “After getting my master’s, I – went to work for my father. He founded Atlas, and I was heading up the London office.”
She nods thoughtfully, her eyes boring into mine. Her face softens, and she looks like she understands my plight. She looks like she understands that I didn’t really have much of a choice in my career path. But then she purses her lips and looks down.
“Your father – that wouldn’t happen to be Harvey Dixon, would it?”
A second lead weight settles in my chest, and I find myself struggling to draw a breath. Of course, this was going to come up. How could I have been so stupid to think it wouldn’t? My father’s crimes have been front-page news seemingly forever now, and I can’t seem to get out from under the shadow of it. It was naïve of me to think it wouldn’t be an issue in trying to find a new job. But there’s no other option for me than to just own it.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I admit. “Harvey Dixon is my father.”
“I see,” she purses her lips and studies my resume again.
“Full disclosure because of my father, the SEC has stripped me of my license,” I tell her. “Which means I’m not looking for a job in the financial sector.”
A wry chuckle passes her lips. “That’s probably a given,” she leans back in her seat and steeples her fingers as she looks at me for a long, quiet moment. “Can I ask you something? Totally off the record, of course.”
I already know the question she’s got teed up for me – it’s the same question more people than I can count have asked since this whole fiasco started. Frankly, I’m getting tired of feeling like I have to defend myself. But what else can I do? This is a stigma that’s probably going to follow me around for the rest of my life. It’s just one final gift from my father – the kind that’s going to keep on giving.
“No, I had no idea he was running a Ponzi scheme on the side,” I answer flatly. “I believed with everything in me that what we were doing was completely above board. He never talked to me about his side business. I was as completely shocked and blindsided as everyone was.”
Ms. Walsh continues to look at me, studying me closely, and I’ve never felt as much like a butterfly pinned to a board as I do in that moment. But then a soft smile touches her lips.
“I believe you,” she announces. “I get the impression that you’re a by the book kind of woman.”
A small smile tugs my lips upward, and the feeling of r
elief washing through me is powerful. I don’t know why her belief in my innocence is so important to me, but it is. It’s not the same as Amber saying she believes me – she’s my friend and is loyal to me. Maybe it’s not fair, but having an unbiased, outside person tell me that they believe me means a hell of a lot because she has no loyalty to me and no vested interest in whether I’m guilty or not.
“Maybe you should talk to the FBI then,” I laugh wryly. “They still think I’m the second coming of Bernie Madoff.”
She laughs long and loud, clapping her hands together for emphasis. “I’ve known you for all of fifteen minutes,” she says, “and I’d be willing to bet that you don’t have so much as a parking ticket.”
“Guilty as charged,” I respond. “Or rather, not guilty.”
Ms. Walsh’s laughter eventually fades, leaving us in an awkward silence; the elephant still very much in the room. I know she believes me, but the question now is, what can she do with me given my skill set – or rather, lack of a skill set anymore.
“I like you, Chloe,” she says. “I just honestly don’t know what we’re going to do with you, given your experience and your unfortunate situation.”
I look down at my hands as she turns to her computer. Her fingers fly over the keys, the tap-tap-tap sound of her typing filling the air between us. My stomach roils, and my head is pounding as images of me actually working as a barista fill my mind. Working in the financial sector is all I know, and even with my education, I honestly don’t know if I can do anything else.
I sit there fighting back the dark blanket of depression that’s been threatening to smother me for weeks now. I won’t give in to it. I won’t let myself shed another tear of self-pity. I will not cry. Those four words have almost become a mantra since everything in my life blew up. Oh, I’ve shed plenty of tears – in private. But this is the situation, and there’s nothing I can do about it except forge ahead. Chart a new path forward.
All I can do is stop feeling sorry for myself and stop crying – a task that’s not been without its challenges and setbacks.
As I sit there, listening to her nails click-clacking on the keys, I try to settle my stomach and regain my composure. I try to focus on the reason I’m here in the first place – to find a job. The soft monotony of her keystrokes are like a metronome that helps me clear my mind. It’s then I realize that I’ve been so focused on the short-term misery of my life right now that I’m failing to look at the bigger picture. I see that I’ve been looking at this all wrong.
The realization that for the first time in my life I’m free – truly free – hits me with the force of a freight train. I’m glad I’m sitting because I feel like my legs would have gone right out from under me. As it is, I’m sitting here trembling with something that feels like a newfound superpower or something.
I’m free. I’m truly and actually free. I don’t know why I’m only coming to that realization now, but after the storm clouds that are this whole debacle with my father rolled over and socked me in, it feels like they’re starting to break. The first rays of sunshine are starting to filter through.
I look up at Ms. Walsh, feeling a sudden rush of excitement, the likes of which I haven’t felt in years. I’m practically bouncing in my seat.
“Do you happen to have anything in the architectural field?”
Chapter Sixteen
Chloe
The sound of my alarm bleating wakes me up. I quickly shut it off, then stretch languidly. The sun is slanting in through the blinds, lighting up my room in with the golden glow of morning. I slip out of bed and rub my eyes. Staring at myself in the mirror, I cringe. My hair is shooting off in a million different directions, and there’s a crease from my pillow that cuts across my cheek.
I don’t have time to worry about right now – I am in dire need of coffee. Bedhead and all, I take my phone and trudge downstairs. I was starting to get worried when I hadn’t heard from Ms. Walsh a few days after our meeting. But I got an email from her last night telling me I had an interview this morning with an architectural firm, and that she’d follow up with a text confirming the details. It’s only for a junior designer position, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers – especially when I don’t have any practical experience in the field.
But it’s a chance to get my foot in the door. And once I do that and start to build a positive reputation for myself, who knows what doors might open for me. Who knows what I might be able to build from this. Maybe in time, if I do well enough here and build up my reputation, I can open the doors to my own design firm.
I don’t know what the future holds, but for the first time since I was in college, I’m looking toward the future with excitement and optimism. For the first time in my life, my destiny and my future are in my own hands. No longer is my path being laid out for me with the expectation that I’ll walk it. No, now I’m charting my own course with nobody to stop me.
By the time I hit the kitchen, not even the sight of my mother sitting at the counter on the center island can dull my shine. She puts the newspaper down far enough to see me, and I only have to look at her eyes to see that she’s frowning. Gee, my mother’s in a sour mood – how surprising.
“Good morning,” I chirp. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.”
“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” she notes.
I shrug. “Is that a bad thing? It was just a couple of days ago that you were complaining about me moping around,” I remind her. “I figured the change would be seen as a positive.”
She huffs and raises the paper again, so I can’t see her. I don’t need to actually see her to feel the disapproving vibe wafting off of her. She’s obviously woken up in a bad mood and is looking for somebody to take it out on. I don’t intend to let her lash out at me, so I go about my business, fixing myself a cup of coffee.
“How long do you think you’ll be staying with me?”
She asks it casually enough, but the subtext is more than clear to me. My mother is reminding me that she’s doing me a favor and holds all the power in this relationship. It’s not quite as subtle as making me jump through hoops for a job interview, but it’s close enough. But that’s okay. Unlike with Ms. Walsh, I know exactly how to handle my mother and don’t have to walk on eggshells around her.
“Do you want me to go?” I answer her question with one of my own. “Just say the word, and I’ll clear out.”
She lets out an exasperated sigh and lowers her newspaper with a loud crinkle, looking at me with sheer frustration on her face. It’s times like these I’m sure she wishes she’d never taught me to be so dramatic about things.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what exactly are you saying, Mom?”
“I just – I just want to know what’s going on so I can make my own plans.”
I take a sip of coffee and look at her. “Am I keeping you from something important?”
“Chloe, why are you being so difficult?”
I lean back against the counter and consider her words. I think back to my earlier thoughts about not being so hard on her. None of this is her fault. But even knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to bite back the scathing replies that are so frequently on my lips when talking to my mother. She just makes it so easy to fire off a snarky reply than to actually converse with her like a normal, adult human being.
But for whatever else she is, she’s still my mother, and I should at least try. As hard as that might be.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I mutter. “I don’t mean to be difficult. My whole life just seems to be upside down right now, and I’m having a hard time processing it all.”
It’s a simple statement, but it’s as open and honest as I’ve been with her in a very long time. Other than telling her the basics of what happened with my father, I haven’t shared anything more about how it’s impacted me from a personal standpoint. I haven’t talked to her about what it’s done to me on an emotional level.
My mo
m and I have never really had the sort of relationship where we sit around and share our feelings with one another. It’s a pattern that was set when I was young and has continued through today. But there’s a small part of me that’s always wondered what it would be like to have a relationship with my mom. That’s always wanted to bridge this gap that’s always existed between us. It’s not something I talk about or even acknowledge most days, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t that lost little girl inside of me who’s always wanted her mom.
My mom looks at me, and I see her face soften. She looks at me with an expression of compassion I don’t think I’ve ever seen from her before. At least, not when it comes to me. A moment later, though, that softness fades from her eyes, and she goes right back to being the same cold, callous woman I’ve always known.
“Well if you’d listened to me about your father from the start, maybe none of this would have happened,” she snarls. “I told you he was a snake when he divorced me.”
“A snake?” I hiss and motion to the house around us. “It sure seems like you did pretty well for yourself, so I don’t know what in the hell you’re bitching about. If not for Dad, you’d still be dealing cards at some shitty casino on the Strip.”
My mother recoils like I just slapped her. I know that throwing her past in her face like that is a cheap shot. There’s a part of me that’s disgusted I did it. At the same time, I’m tired of her using my father as an excuse for her own behavior. I know who and what he is. I don’t need a constant reminder of it. Nor do I need her laying her own bullshit where it doesn’t belong. Over the years, my mother has become increasingly bitter and angry, and yet, she takes no responsibility for herself.
Boss Next Door Page 13
