What does that even mean? I swallow. “The clock is ticking,” I say.
He tilts his head as if he needs to get a look at me from a new angle, like this angle isn’t making sense. “It’s my strong recommendation that you take it.”
What will happen if I don’t take it? He seems so in control—I feel like, at any moment, he could get up and walk out. Dare me to tell on him. Have me hauled away.
He’s waiting.
I fumble back to what I know—the only thing I know for sure: “You were mandated by a court of law to undergo this training. A court of law.”
His eyes sparkle. “Wait, what kind of court?”
“Not funny,” I say.
He smiles, and it does something to my insides. I’ve never been near a man so magnetic—his pull is nearly physical.
“What is it that you want, little country mouse? If it’s not money.”
“For you to watch this video,” I say.
“That’s not what you want. Tell me what you really want. Let’s find a way to get you what you really and truly want.”
For a second, I’m tempted to tell him—I want you to spare the building. Please, please, please don’t knock it down.
“There must be something,” he says.
I say, “I want you to watch this video with complete attention. And an open heart.”
He’s studying me with keen interest. “It can’t be just that.”
“I want you to see these people. Really see them,” I say.
He grins like I must be joking. Anger rushes over me—anger that this man has our fate in his hands and it’s all a big joke to him. Anger at myself for lusting after him in spite of it all, like some naive schoolgirl. Anger that I find him sexy even now.
“It’s got to be something more,” he says. “Tell me.”
I realize that I don’t have to answer his questions. I’m the coach, right? I meet his gaze with a hard stare. “If we don’t get back to the video,” I say, “you’ll be in danger of missing your appointment.”
He looks amused. He looks extra gorgeous when he’s amused, like he’s lit from inside. “So you’ll just leave it on the table?”
“Leave what on the table?”
He blinks, as though my question defies comprehension. “Your tip,” he says.
“Well…that wasn’t a tip, it was a bribe,” I say. “I suggest you refrain from further bribery attempts. Now are you ready to get on with it?”
He studies my face, still with that glint of humor, and slowly his eyes fall to my neck.
My cheeks heat with shame. Country mouse, he called me. Why didn’t I listen to Francine about the bow tie? I’m sure he thinks I have a collection of creepy dolls with eyes that never close now.
My heart thuds.
Is he going to figure me out? Will he realize I’m a fraud and kick me out onto the streets of San Francisco…or worse? Oh my god, what was I thinking?
Even the way he’s looking at my butterfly tie now—he knows I’m out of my depth. He knows he has all of the power.
“No more questions?” I ask—or more, plead. No more questions. Pleeeease no more! That’s what it sounds like in my head. I move my finger near the “Play” button. I need for him to watch it, and then I need to get away from him so that I can think straight.
“Hmm,” he says, like he’s pondering, but I’m sure he’s just saying that for the pleasure of watching me sweat. Maybe he’s trying to get into my head like Nisha warned. “And will we get any more letter carrier wisdom?” he asks suddenly. “Or is that part over?”
I sit up, grateful that he’s brought me back to familiar ground. There’s nothing I can’t overcome to deliver the mail, obstacles large and small. I can do this. And I know everything about being a letter carrier.
I cross my arms. “As a matter of fact, Malcolm, this is a perfect time for some letter carrier wisdom. Thank you for that idea. I have a little quiz for you.”
13
Malcolm
* * *
“A quiz,” I say. “I didn’t know I’d be quizzed on the material.” I cross my arms, still reeling from the fact that she turned down so much money. From what I reviewed of her background, she doesn’t come from money. She grew up in a hardscrabble rural Pennsylvania town. She worked as a letter carrier while attending the local community college, graduating with a degree in psychology.
Exactly how much are they paying her? More than sixty thousand? Does she get a bonus at the end? Is she a better negotiator than she appears to be?
That wasn’t a tip, it was a bribe. She really seemed surprised. She’s impossible, and so damn delicious. And her program—it’s a hundred percent ridiculous. And now she has a quiz?
I’m a hundred percent fascinated. People so rarely surprise me.
Slim, nimble fingers move up to straighten her little tie. She wears pale pink polish on her short, carefully shaped nails. Everything about her is pitch-perfect in a way I can’t quite articulate.
“This quiz is designed to provide you with a very important lesson,” she says. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice.”
“You think I’m that kind of student? That I need multiple choice?”
She smiles a genuine smile, and I find it strangely pleasurable. “No comment,” she says.
“This had better count toward my hour,” I grumble.
“Letter carriers encounter three types of dogs,” she begins, “big dogs, medium dogs, and small dogs. Which of these three kinds of dogs does the letter carrier consider far and away the most dangerous?”
“First of all, you can’t imagine how delighted I am that we’re back to the letter carriers again,” I say.
“Well?” she asks primly. She seems to be taking the quiz very seriously.
“This feels like a trick question,” I say. “Is the obvious answer the wrong one or the right one?”
“Why not just tell me what you think is the correct answer without being fancy,” she says.
I study her eyes for a clue. “Clearly the big dogs. All dogs are territorial, but the larger breeds—your Dobermans, your Rottweilers, your German shepherds—those would have the more lethal bite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Malcolm, you flunked that quiz completely.” Here she grins. “Letter carriers consider small dogs to be the most dangerous. You see, large dogs are confident dogs. They know that they can hold their territory, and they play by a certain set of rules; for example, they nearly always give you a warning growl before an attack. Letter carriers know exactly where they stand with a large dog.”
“Is that so?” I ask, wondering where she’s going with this.
“The medium dog is the same way,” she continues. “Medium dogs will play by the dog rules, too, though they have less ability to back it up. But the small dog?” She shakes her head sadly. “Small dogs look cute. But they cannot be coaxed with treats. They cannot be reasoned with. I think it’s something about their being small. The one thing they have in their arsenal is the ability to be unpredictable, to go completely crazy for no apparent reason when they feel threatened.”
My blood races. Is she doing what I think she’s doing?
She continues, “One minute they’re just looking at you with their sweet little faces. And the next thing you know, razor-sharp teeth are attached to your leg!” Here she fixes me with a playful look. “And they do not let go! When a little dog attacks, they attack with everything, like a wild banshee.”
“Is that so?” I say.
“Yes. Letter carriers carry pepper spray in their bags, as you know,” she continues merrily, pretty eyes sparkling, “but good luck with that. Once a small dog is in attack mode, all bets are off.”
“I see,” I say, blood racing.
Her face glows with aliveness and a look of pleasure that’s beautiful on her—or would be if she weren’t threatening me. She looks downright amused by her clever little threat.
“Are you the little dog in this equation? Are you going to
attack me with no warning?”
“No, the moral of the story is that you should never underestimate little dogs, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe they have something to teach you.”
“And if I don’t behave, they’ll bite me?”
She shrugs. “Ready?”
“For more of the video?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says brightly.
“I’m jumping out of my skin with eagerness.”
She turns on the video and we watch it. Or at least, she watches it. My face is pointed in that direction, my ears are open to the ridiculous conversations on the screen, the answers that the people give to the probing questions thrown out by the unseen filmographer who seems to know them all, but my attention is all on Elle.
The next day’s negotiation session is uneventful, or at least, on the surface it is. I’m getting to know a lot more about Gerrold and his son.
Our executive coaching session is also uneventful. Elle has gone back to her maroon suit, though she wears a new butterfly tie with tiny hedgehogs on it, and she starts the video up right away and allows no chitchat, shutting me down whenever I ask a question in the faux-bold manner of hers that I so enjoy. She’s so intent on her program, so serious.
Today’s program features a woman who bakes stupidly themed cookies; later, John, the Korean War vet, voices approval of the building’s boiler system. I’m buckling in for a lot of jibber jabber, but then the unseen filmmaker asks him to describe a typical day overseas in the Korean War, a seemingly innocuous question that has him telling a moving story about a dear friend of his.
Elle ends the session as soon as the hour is up, escaping the Blue Flame conference room like the place is on fire.
The Germantown negotiation rolls on a third day. We’re talking about side issues, and Gerrold Jesperson and his son are revealing a great deal of themselves.
In the world of negotiation, a black swan is a term meaning an unknown, unseen factor at work behind the scenes. A black swan is something like a hidden corporate history, an owner’s secret belief, an unknown need that drives the negotiator. In current events, it’s typically an unexpected circumstance or a catastrophe that radically changes everything going forward.
People have black swans too—a person’s black swan might be a secret burning desire, or a trauma that drives them. Understanding a person’s black swan gives you insight into why they do the things they do, and lets you predict what they’ll do next.
So in this part of the negotiations, Gerrold and his son think they’re telling me all about their company, but they’re actually telling me about themselves, and hopefully revealing a black swan.
I need their black swan, no doubt about it. I made a massive acquisition last year that will be a total loss if he doesn’t sell. In other words, I stand to lose a pile of money if this doesn’t go my way. Nothing like an uphill battle, right?
So I’m in these sessions bleeding out tens of thousands of dollars a day to keep the team on site, needing to be on my A game…and what am I spending my mental energy on? Thinking about Elle. Wondering about Elle’s black swan. Imagining the different ways in which I’d pull off that bow tie, which seems to be my new obsession.
If the bow tie’s a clip-on, well, it ruins things slightly. At some point, I’d need to find a way to make her replace it with a regular women’s bow tie, just so that I can have the pleasure of pulling it off. It comes to me that I should buy one, just to be ready. Like having a condom at the ready.
And after I pulled it off, I’d undo a button and kiss her neck. And I’d gather up the silky softness of her hair, closing it greedily in my fist as I press my lips to that side-of-the-mouth freckle, after which I’d devour her mouth.
“Boise,” Gerrold says. “Boise, of course, would be an exception.”
He’s watching me, waiting for my response. What was he talking about? How is it that I wasn’t listening? “An exception,” I say.
Luckily this puts him back on the road of what he was talking about. “Yes, exactly,” he says, and he proceeds to re-explain his point in greater detail, allowing me to catch up. He wants me to fully grasp the breadth of the network, I suppose. I just need that black swan. What drives him? What keeps him up at night?
What keeps Elle up at night? Why turn down so much money?
I force my focus back on the proceedings.
I can feel Walt at my right, shifting feet, bored. Across the table, Junior’s bored, too, if not downright hostile. He’s useless to watch, as are Germantown’s minor players—admins and lawyers. They give me nothing. It’s possible there’s nothing to see.
My gaze slides to Elle, sitting four seats to my left. She’s staring at the tray of pastries again. She always takes one almond croissant during each session; not quite at the start, mind you; she stares at it for a while first, but then, inevitably—most often when people are fussing or gathering papers—she rises demurely from her seat, takes the tongs, and deftly transfers one to her small plate, then quietly sits back down. She eats it slowly, tearing off little bits, chewing with intense concentration—or so it seems; I can’t fully see her from where I am.
Sometimes after she’s finished eating her croissant, she seems to fix her gaze back on the pastry platter, as if she wants to take another one, but she never does. Why not take another one? Does she have a sweet tooth she’s trying to tame? Is it out of some sense of propriety? Nobody ever takes two; most people don’t even take one, but that doesn’t mean it’s forbidden. Is that why she didn’t take the money? An idea that it’s forbidden? It seems improbable, but Elle is improbable—deliciously improbable.
Silently I will her to take another.
Of course she doesn’t. It’s not like her to give in to temptation, but I think she wants to. God, what I wouldn’t give to watch her yield to desire, to cross a line just once.
I have a lunch meeting after this, and then Elle and I have yet another afternoon emotional intelligence session scheduled for the Blue Flame room.
Will we get another postal-themed quiz or anecdote? I’m trying to think how to goad her into that. I need to know about her—not the people in that building. It’s possible that Corman warned her not to let me ask too many questions. He knows what I can do.
I glance at the time. Our session is in just under three hours—a hundred and sixty-five minutes from now.
I straighten up right then. Am I literally counting the minutes until my court-ordered executive coaching session instead of finding my opening with Gerrold?
I call for a break at the next acceptable interval and order an espresso to be brought to me on the roof. I drink it up, sucking in the cool air, hoping to cattle-prod my psyche back to the business at hand. Energized, I head back down. I get the guys rolling on my business vision and close out the session soon after.
I arrive at the Blue Flame room to find Elle already there, taking pictures of the view out the window. Who does she send them to? Or does she post them? She wears the same business suit as she did in this morning’s negotiation session. Does she wear her business suit while lounging around in her own hotel room? Does she take off the jacket? What about the tie? I close my eyes. The goddamn tie!
I settle into an upholstered armchair. “Did you have a nice lunch?” I ask.
She spins around, smiles. “More or less,” she says mysteriously. She sets up the iPad on the table in front of us.
“Quite the view here, isn’t it?” I say. “Different from New York. Or the rolling hills of rural Pennsylvania.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “Somebody’s been nosy.”
“Wouldn’t you be more surprised if I hadn’t looked?”
“I suppose,” she says.
“What inspired you to move away from there? A small-town girl moving to such an urban part of Jersey, working in the big city. That’s a major move.”
“Not much need for executive coaches out on the rolling hills and potato fields.”
“So you moved to the big c
ity for the plentiful executive coaching opportunities?” I doubt that would be her reason, but sometimes when you offer the wrong reason, a person corrects you.
She frowns. I can see the thoughts, back and forth behind her eyes. Should she correct me? Is this a conversation she wants to indulge?
“I suppose it was always a dream of mine—bright lights, big city. Somewhere bigger, anyway,” she adds quickly. “And to have lots of girlfriends near me. Fun things going on.”
“Fun things going on?” I ask.
She smiles. “If you think you’re running out the clock on your session, I should remind you that this conversation does not count as part of it. We have the video program to get through.”
“I know,” I say. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes,” she says. “I very much did.” She sounds almost wistful.
“But,” I offer.
She furrows her pretty brow. “Are you ready?”
“But what?” I ask.
“But we have an hour-long program to get through,” she says.
Room service arrives right then. A woman pushes in a tray with domed platters, plus a pitcher of lemonade with two glasses and a small stack of plates. She comes to a stop next to Elle’s chair.
I stand. “Thank you,” I say, handing over a tip.
“What is this?” Elle asks.
“Refreshments.” I pull the lid off of a pile of almond croissants—I had them bird-dog the Kendrick building’s bakery source. There are almond and chocolate arranged around the edges. The other platter holds an assortment of fruits, crackers, and cheeses.
She’s staring, wide-eyed as I pour her a glass of lemonade.
“You ordered food?” she asks. “Didn’t you have lunch?”
“Snacks. Fix yourself a plate,” I say. I fix myself one with cheese and a bunch of grapes and a croissant and settle in.
She’s frowning.
“Surely eating doesn’t count as multitasking,” I add.
“We’ll see.” She hesitates, turns on the video—without taking a plate, though she does her fair share of consuming the food with her eyes. She clearly wants it. What’s stopping her?
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