by Gail Hewitt
She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. She felt, moreover, energized, and she slid off the bed and pulled out her laptop. She still had some finishing touches to apply to the new opening presentation she'd be making at Lake View Lodge in a few days. The main body of the material had been prepared by the graphics artist, but Maggie liked to do the introductory piece herself, usually just before the trial began.
Normally she hated PowerPoint, but today it was positively soothing to see its "Create a new presentation" screen and to get back to the professional routine that grounded her, however disenchanted she might become with it at times. She clicked "Open an existing presentation" to access the template she'd already designed for the introduction to the "Write Your Own Story" Seminar, and set to work. After a couple of hours, her BlackBerry began to vibrate. She read Miles' message and grinned. "Nt fun, bt OK," she texted in return. "Lkg frwd Fri." And, she realized, with some surprise, she was. She returned to work with renewed vigor. All she had to do was to get through this upcoming week, and there Miles would be, waiting at the end of it, like a well-wrapped present. So what if he was six years younger? Life was too short to focus on that.
By the time she finished the presentation, it was growing dark, and she was so sleepy she couldn't keep her eyes open. She ate one of the Paydays she carried in her case for just such emergencies, and fell across the bed and into a sound sleep.
The next morning, she was awakened by a banging on her door. "Miss Maggie. You got to get up. Your mama got away from me, and some strange lady is talking to her out front."
By the time Maggie hurried down the stairs, Amanda was already in the yard, attempting to persuade Elizabeth McLaurin to return to the house. To Maggie's surprise, the "strange lady" turned out to be the polished specimen to whom Ann Longstreet had been showing the old Worthington house on Friday.
"Thank goodness," Heather Mybawr said, her face red and her lips pouty. "I can't make her understand what I'm talking about." She began to move toward the front door, obviously intending to follow Amanda as she shepherded Elizabeth McLaurin into the house. Maggie closed the door behind Amanda and blocked the newcomer's way.
"You don't understand," Heather said. "Dick and I've talked it over and he's decided we need both places, the one next door and this one. He even thinks he might want to keep this house as a guest cottage – properly done up, of course. All I need is to see the inside and we're prepared to make you a very generous offer."
Maggie was shocked, and also angered. "This is my mother's home, and she isn't . . . she isn't herself today. Anyway, the property isn't for sale. So tell Mr. Mybawr that we aren't interested."
As she opened the door and slipped through, she glanced back to see that Heather was scowling, showing more expression than Maggie would have thought the Botox allowed.
It was only after she'd gone in search of Amanda that Maggie realized that it would have been the perfect solution. Sell the place, for undoubtedly a lot of money – she'd gotten an estimate of almost three million the year before – and put her mother into one of the elegant care facilities recommended by Dr. Fowler. Maybe it would come to that, she thought, but not yet.
Doors Closing, Options Ending
Two days later, back in New York, Maggie was sitting with Bill Holmes, her boss, at one of the City Club's best tables, close (but not too close) to the huge, sleekly decorated Christmas tree and suitably distant from a harpist playing carols. In the near-distance, wall-sized windows showed that the snow flurries that had been coming and going for the past day had turned into what gave every appearance of being a blizzard. It was exactly the sort of day that made one glad to be inside in such warm and pleasant surroundings. This lunch was, she assumed, something akin to a holiday treat before she left for Lake View to trial Bill's special project. Bill certainly seemed jolly enough, although somewhat keyed up, and everyone around them was obviously having a good time. So why this sense of foreboding that seemed to envelop her?
She supposed it was the residue from yesterday's extremely unpleasant meetings at the bank in Atlanta. She was sure that only the good breeding typical of SunTrust officers, even the junior ones, had kept the trust manager from laughing at her when she explained the situation and asked him for a referral to a mortgage loan specialist. That young woman had been equally polite, but specific.
"You're about two years too late for that, Miss McLaurin. In this climate, this isn't the kind of loan we'd be interested in making, but we appreciate your talking to us about it and hope you'll let us know if there are other ways in which we may be of service to you and your mother."
Adding insult to injury, they'd kept her waiting so long that she'd almost missed her flight back to New York. The flight itself had been the stuff of nightmares: the usual security hassle at Hartsfield; seated next to a strong-elbowed space hog; held on the ground in Atlanta; forced to circle in New York; an endless line of people waiting for cabs; and unrelieved traffic congestion all the way back to her place on the Upper East Side. Then, waiting at the condo, there had been a stack of mail consisting of little that was pleasant, being mostly bills, credit-card solicitations, and a number of Christmas cards with surprisingly depressing sentiments. She didn't know why anyone had bothered this year – she hadn't, not only because she'd been working nonstop, but because the general mood was so sour.
Still, there was a bright side. She was totally ready for the Lake View seminar. Her PowerPoint introduction was, she thought, one of the most motivational lead-ins she'd done, and it was already on its way to Lake View with her assistant, who'd flown up this morning to do a last-minute check of venue arrangements. Her bag was packed and waiting in her office. All the correspondence that she'd shoved back in the Manila envelope when she'd been blindsided by that damned magazine cover had been taken care of. Everything would be all right, she assured herself. She could work her way out of anything. She always had, hadn't she?
Maggie toyed with an orange segment from the salad that was a club specialty as she listened to Bill giving last-minute thoughts on the best ways to present the "writing your story" material.
"That's pretty much the approach I'm taking," she told him. And why wouldn't it be? He'd been saying the same thing for the half year since he first had the idea for the self-empowerment series of which this was the lead segment.
"Excellent," Bill said, and then repeated himself. "Excellent. I know I can always count on you."
She realized suddenly that he was looking increasingly uncomfortable. He fiddled with the bottle of Berg that sat between them in a silver wine cooler. He looked repeatedly at his BlackBerry, even though she knew he'd depowered it before lunch. He folded, then unfolded his napkin and replaced it in his lap. He tapped his fingertips on the tabletop and looked around as if he wished the waiter would bring their entrées. As he did this, he periodically cleared his throat. He was, she decided, either bored out of his head or on edge. But what did he have to worry about? She knew what they charged for seminars and training and had a pretty shrewd idea of the firm's overhead. He must be minting money, and had a gorgeous wife and two handsome sons on which to spend it. He lived in a luxurious co-op within walking distance of their offices, and had a villa in Barbados to which he was taking his family for the holidays. It was hard not to envy him.
Still, she supposed, in this economic climate she was lucky to have a job. Now, all she had to do was to figure out how to get more money from Bill for doing it. As she considered possible opening gambits, the harpist plucked her way through Good King Wenceslas. Surely she'd played that before? How long had they been here that the soloist was already repeating the program? Maggie looked at her watch. Only a little after one. Not as late as she thought.
The remainder of the meal was taken up with increasingly jittery small talk. Finally, over coffee, Bill got around to what was really on his mind and, now that — as he would have described it — the rubber had to meet the road, he wasted no time. He put it tactf
ully, even flatteringly given the circumstances, but what he said was clear. He'd sold WHT to a larger Boston consultancy. The sale would become final in three months, and WHT would become the New York branch of its former competitor. Only a handful of people would be kept on. Maggie was not one of them.
"It's no reflection on you, my dear. Your work has been outstanding, but in this climate everyone is being very conservative about staffing. I'm sure you understand. Still, there might be some possibilities. It's my understanding that our new owners outsource many functions that we handle inhouse. If you like, I can set up an appointment for you with their HR group and ask them to apprise you of their vendor requirements.. Until the buyout is formalized, we won't be doing any development, of course, but the scheduled seminars will continue. As I recall, several of those are yours – one at Lake Louise, two in Seattle, and one in Orlando."
Maggie nodded numbly. Bill seemed to expect no other response, for he continued to talk as he signed the bill, got their coats, and led her to the elevator.
"This isn't general knowledge, of course," he continued, "but I wanted you to know as soon as possible so you can be making your plans. Unfortunately, it isn't a particularly good time to be out there, but I know the money isn't an issue for you so at least there's that." He went on at what seemed interminable length. He reminded her that certain benefits would accrue to her as of the date of severance, that the Benefits Administrator would discuss these with her after the first of the year. She nodded. He said that her redundancy was particularly difficult for him because of his high regard for her. She nodded. From the dining room behind them, the harpist began to play Angels We Have Heard on High.
"All the details haven't been ironed out yet," Bill said, punching the button for the elevator with red-faced vigor. "I do know you'll be paid for the full three months, but it's perfectly acceptable if you take some time off to assess your options, as long as you do your scheduled seminars. It occurs to me that you might meet someone in a seminar who can help you find another position, as long as it doesn't violate the non-compete. I'll certainly be keeping my finger on the pulse of the broader situation and if I hear of anything, I'll let you know at once. I'll text you. You can keep your BlackBerry — we'll have the subscription transferred to you effective your last day, or you can get your own subscription if you'd rather have a new ID. And your laptop, too, of course. I'd like for you to keep your laptop. A girl has to have her laptop. It's the one essential fashion accessory."
He laughed uncomfortably. She knew her expression was noncommittal at best, but it took every ounce of will power she possessed to keep it even that socially acceptable. She wanted to shake Bill Holmes, to scream at him, to remind him of all that her father had done for him, to ask him if he had any idea of what this would do to her mother's situation, to her situation. But a lifetime of good manners held her prisoner. Noncommittal was as negative as she could get. Anyway, she didn't think histrionics would do any good.
The elevator doors opened, and two well-suited, older men got off, one of whom actually turned to look at Maggie with obvious admiration. "May I say, young lady, that you are looking particularly charming today?"
Bill turned to look at her. "He's right, you know. That outfit suits you. You really are a remarkably attractive woman, and that will be useful."
Maggie wanted to yell or stamp her foot or do something to show how absolutely stupid she found the remark, but forced herself to ignore it. From the corner of her eye, she saw disappointment flicker on Bill Holmes' face. He'd actually thought giving her a corny compliment and an old laptop would make everything all right? She'd always suspected he might be a little obtuse; this proved it.
Outside, the day was dark and gloomy. The heavy snow had stopped, but Maggie felt the sting of light sleet on her cheeks as they went through the lobby's revolving doors. She jammed her gloveless hands into her pockets. She'd had gloves when she came in. Had she left them upstairs? Did it matter enough to go back? She couldn't remember which gloves. Her mind wouldn't seem to function in any normal sort of way.
Bill solicitously took her resistant elbow as they crossed the street, steering her around a puddle of solidifying slush as he hailed a cab. Another sign of how bad the times were? A cab to be hailed in this kind of weather at lunchtime during the holiday season? She shivered. Suddenly, indications of the general economic instability had become all too personal.
"Maybe it's going to clear up," Bill said with excessive cheerfulness as they settled in for the short ride.
"There's a storm front coming from Canada that's supposed to blanket the entire Northeast with snow and sleet," Maggie said automatically. She regularly checked the weather when she was traveling to do a seminar, especially in winter.
"Oh," Bill said, "that's too bad." With that, all conversation ceased.
Back in the building that housed WHT's offices, Bill punched at the elevator button. "You know," he said, as if suddenly seized by a giant inspiration, "I'll have Hilary cancel your flight and we'll send you to Lake View in a car. That way, you can dodge a lot of the hassle and be sure of getting there. If the weather's as bad as you say north of here, they may be restricting flights. Wouldn't you enjoy that, having a car and driver?"
"That would be very nice, thank you," Maggie said, still on autopilot. "I appreciate it."
Inside the elevator, Bill depressed two buttons and became much more voluble: he hoped she had a successful session at Lake View; told her to take some time to enjoy herself — it was a quite a place; and asked her to come by to see him on her return and let him know how it had gone. She nodded. The elevator stopped at fourteen, and Maggie got off. When, victim to the end of her relentlessly polite Southern heritage, she turned back to wish her executioner a Merry Christmas, she surprised a look of relief on his face so intense that she blushed. She forgot what she had been going to say, and the elevator doors closed with the two of them looking at each other, mouths slightly agape, eyes round. It would have been funny, except that it wasn't. In the course of one lunch, she'd gone from being an old friend and "valued associate" to an embarrassment.
In her office, Maggie shut the door and stood for a moment, feeling as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. So that was what it all came down to. She looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time. One wall was covered by shelving filled with manuals and reference books, as well as copies of journals that contained articles she'd written. The wall behind the nondescript desk had a small window that looked over the back of the building next door. The other two walls were covered, almost floor to ceiling, with her university degrees, various professional certifications, and several dozen company awards, of which the most-impressive looking, a large glass figure seven mounted on black Lucite, had been given her the year before to commemorate her seventh service anniversary. The Lucky Seven it was called. At the time, she'd thought it a clever WHT tradition. Now she realized how tacky-looking it was.
There were also a couple of photographs, one from a Young Business Leaders of Georgia session fifteen years ago, when she was in her late twenties. She was standing in the center, probably because she was the tallest, with Susan Morrow on one side of her and Jack Olden on the other. Maggie walked over to the photograph and examined it. Funny, she could remember the exact moment it had been taken. They'd just come from an awards ceremony where the three of them had been recognized as "Best in Class." Maybe that's why they were grinning like crazy. They were young, they were enthusiastic, and they were on their way. Susan and Jack both worked at IBM, in a special fast-track program, as was Maggie at BellSouth. The future seemed laid out clearly before the three of them. They'd do their time in the appointed places, and keep climbing the corporate ladder according to a more-or-less predictable timetable, the goal being an officer title and the proverbial corner office. It wasn't an unreasonable expectation, and that was how it had happened for the other two. Maggie's BellSouth affiliation — which seemed the most solid at the time — hadn't
worked out as well, and she'd found herself downsized at the age of thirty-six, after only twelve years at Campanile. That had been eight years ago (six years before BellSouth itself ceased to exist), and — even in those calmer times —finding another job had taken a couple of months. She'd thought she was lucky to be hired by WHT, but maybe not.
Her phone rang. It was Hilary Ames, Bill's assistant. The car and driver would be at the front entrance in half an hour. Could she get her bags downstairs on her own or did she need help? Maggie assured her she could manage fine. Hilary's voice then dropped to a heavy whisper. Bill had told her to arrange a special treat for Maggie at Lake View, so she should be sure to remind the desk about her spa appointment. WHT did not lightly hand out such treats, and Maggie could sense the curiosity in Hilary's voice. She supposed everyone would know soon enough, but not from her. It was Bill's decision. Let Bill announce it as he wished; he would anyway. An unusual wave of bitterness swept over her as she thanked Hilary for her help and hung up.
She spent the next fifteen minutes inventorying what was in her office and making a list of personally owned materials and other stuff that would need to come with her when she left WHT, which she wished she could afford to do immediately but which in all probability would happen on the last day that they were willing to pay her. Everything, it seemed, came back to money in the end. Then she strapped her case to the bag, and rolled the assemblage to the elevator. The car - a large, dark sedan - pulled up just as she reached the lobby's brass doors.
