by Gail Hewitt
"I'm calling to thank you for that great package of information you and your staff put together so quickly for me. Also, I have another request for you."
"Whatever you need, Ms. McLaurin. We're here all day."
"Gosh, I hope not," Maggie told her, "at least not on my account. All I need today is a list of organizations or companies in those same nine Georgia counties that rent conference rooms or focus-group facilities — I'd like two for each county, at least one of them in the county seat. There probably won't be too many focus facilities per se, but a lot of civic groups and clubs — even local governments — rent meeting rooms. Large restaurants sometimes rent their private dining rooms for meetings. I need full contact information for each and as good a description as you can get of what they offer. If they can email their brochure or information sheet, that'd be helpful too. With the list, I need a map tied numerically to the facility locations. Also, I'd like any reference you have or can find online about devising surveys for educational and/or counseling professionals. Think you can get all that for me by, say, around four?"
"I don't see why not," Rachel replied. "It's only 7:30."
"I appreciate it," Maggie told her.
Maggie laid out the notes from which she'd been working the day before, and began to make a list, not just of what she thought she should tell the rest of Tom's TTI team, but also what they ought to be able to tell her, both tactfully worded, of course. Tom could say what the others thought didn't matter, but she knew that the minute any of them seriously complained, he'd pat her on the head and tell her to play better with others, which she didn't think she could endure. She was already getting tired of his indulgent attitude. It was as if he viewed her as a pet.
She'd been working for an hour or so when her desk phone rang. It was Tom, sounding very businesslike.
"The Wells problem was handled late yesterday afternoon," he told her. "If you ever hear from him again, if you are bothered by him in any way, if you even see him in the distance, you get to a safe location with other people around and you call me and we'll conference call with Julie Hunt, the PeopleMatters lawyer from yesterday. If you can't get me, call the police. Julie is supposed to be getting us the name of the point person and a direct cell number."
"If you think it's necessary," Maggie told him.
"I think it is," Tom said grimly. "You promise?"
"It seems a little extreme, but I promise."
"This Wells character is really a piece of work, a real turd," Tom continued. "If it makes you feel any better, I've spoken to Jack Holt to make sure we take a closer look in future at the way we hire even junior members for his section."
"I appreciate it," she told him. "But, you know, you shouldn't blame Holt. Bad apples don't always look bad. Anyone would have been fooled by Josh Wells unless he himself volunteered something self-incriminating during the interview. I couldn't quite believe what he was saying even while I was watching it come out of his mouth. He looks so wholesome."
"Well, be that as it may. Just keep in mind what I told you. Don't let him get close to you for any reason. Understood?"
"I understand," Maggie assured him.
"Also, I caught a glimpse of your boy friend on Celebrity Sightings while I was waiting for them to get Wells into the main conference room yesterday. You might like to see it. I'll email you the link."
"Thanks," Maggie said briefly.
"Well," Tom said, sounding reluctant, "I'll let you get back to it."
"To my content-generation machine?" she said drily.
"You said it this time, Maggs," he chuckled. "I didn't."
The content-generation machine hummed along for another hour or so before she was interrupted again, this time by a call on her personal cell. It was Amanda Perry.
"I just thought you ought to know that some more of the roof blew off last night, Miss Maggie. What do you want me to do about it? Do you think the insurance would cover it?"
Maggie realized with a start that she had not told Amanda about the sales contract. "The insurance will probably cover at least some of it, so call their claim people. Meanwhile,why don't you call the roofers right now? Get a couple of the big companies to send someone out, and see if one of them can make some emergency repairs to the worst places right away and at the same time work up an estimate for replacing the roof in January, or as soon as they can?"
"Miss Maggie," Amanda protested, "That's going to cost a lot of money." She was obviously shocked at Maggie's sudden indifference regarding expenditure.
"I know," Maggie told her. "I've had a bit of luck. I'll tell you about it when I come down . . . " Then she had a thought. "Look, how would you feel about it if I come tomorrow, just for the day, and we go through the place together and make a list of the things that need to be done?"
"Now, that's a real Christmas present," Amanda said. "What time do you think you'll get here? I'll do you a Christmas dinner."
"No," Maggie told her. "I'll do the Christmas dinner, at least if you'll make the arrangements. Contact whichever restaurant or caterer you'd like to have bring dinner — it'll have to get there no later than two because I'm not sure when I must leave to come back. They'll balk, but tell them you'll pay a surcharge if need be. Just put it on the charge card I gave you. Be sure and order whatever you'd especially like to have and anything you think Mother would particularly enjoy. As for the time I'm arriving, I don't know. A business associate is giving me a ride in his private plane. I'm not even sure which airport we're flying into. I'll have to call you when we get there."
"Well, this is fine, Miss Maggie, just fine." Amanda chuckled, obviously pleased. "Merry Christmas."
"Same to you, Amanda," Maggie told her. "Oh, I almost forgot to ask, how's Mother doing today . . . " But Amanda, already beginning to hum, had disconnected.
Maggie tried to call Tom's personal cell at once but got the immediate rollover message, delivered in a voice that sounded more like the Tom she'd known than the older man. He was probably on one on his continual calling binges, and she was afraid she'd forget to call back, so she left a message telling him that, if the offer were still open, she'd like to fly to Atlanta the next day with his aunt. "Just let me know where I need to be, and when, in order to connect with Mrs. Evans."
She'd resumed work on her research scenario when there was a banging at the door. She walked over and looked out a peephole which someone had conveniently installed before her time. An unfamiliar young woman stood there, and she didn't look happy. Maggie unlocked the door and opened it to the woman, whose splotchy face hinted that she'd been crying.
"Hi, can I help you?"
"I'm Heather Thomas," the girl sniffed. "I know we haven't met, but I work up on two as an EA."
"Well, Heather, have a seat and tell me what I can do for you."
"Did you know that you got Josh Wells fired?" Heather said, so angry her lips were barely moving. "Why did you tell those lies about him?"
"HR is way out of my jurisdiction, Heather. If you have questions about another employee, I think you need to ask the employee or, barring that, an outfit called PeopleMatters that handles HR issues for TTI."
"I don't need to do that," Heather whined. "Josh told me you'd made a play for him and that, when he turned you down, you told him you'd get him."
"I can't imagine why he'd say anything like that, Heather. It certainly isn't true."
The two women, separated in age by a decade and a half, sat and stared at each other. Inevitably, Heather looked away and began to blush and then tear up again.
"I don't know why Josh would lie to me," Heather sniffled. "Why should I believe you?"
Maggie shrugged. "I don't know why he'd lie to you either, but I assure you that what I told you is true. I did not make any sort of advance to Josh Wells. He's obviously a friend of yours, and I think it would be much better if you talk to Josh himself directly or call PeopleMatters to discuss this. I don't have anything further to say about it, and I'm busy."
It was that exchange that gave Maggie her verification; Heather had almost certainly been one of Josh's "trainees." That explained the formfitting sweater, so tight that Heather's nipples were clearly visible. That would have been part of their game, a bit of a thrill that could be incorporated into the office routine. This time she spoke more gently to the younger woman. "Heather, one of the things a woman learns as she gets more experience with men is that they don't always tell the strict truth. I'm sorry you're upset, but I'm busy and I've got to ask you to contact PeopleMatters if you have any other questions. Alysha Harding, Mr. Scott's secretary, can give you the name of the person to whom you need to speak."
Heather got up slowly. She'd obviously prepared herself for a big confrontation and was disappointed that it hadn't come. "Well, then, I'm just going to call Josh, and see what he has to say and if it turns out that you lied, I'm going to get you. I don't know how, but I'll figure something out and when I do, you'll be sorry."
"You do whatever you feel you need to do with your personal time, Heather. All I would suggest is that you be careful."
Maggie watched thoughtfully as Heather left the room. Afterwards, she relocked the door and at once called Julie Hunt's number and left a brief message for the PeopleMatters lawyer. After that, it took her a few minutes, but she'd managed to get back into the rhythm of what she'd been doing when the phone rang again. This time it was Alysha calling to see if Heather Thomas had been to see her and wanting to know what she'd said.
After that Maggie worked for perhaps half an hour before she realized the day was almost half gone. She set herself a goal tied to being finished with the next section in an hour and continued to work until a message on the corner of her monitor notified her that she'd received an email from TMS. Realizing it must be the link that Tom had mentioned he'd send her, she clicked over. The link was id'ed as "Supermodel and New Boy Friend."
Stomach suddenly in turmoil, Maggie clicked onto it and watched the video load. Even without the accompanying images, the audio told the tale:
French hottie Aimée Girard and her new squeeze arrive at the Back Bay Ball surrounded by dozens of paparazzi who follow the supermodel everywhere. Inside, the couple shows they both know how to use a dance floor, and later – get this – here they are sharing one of those private, intimate moments that somehow make it onto YouTube. He's certainly not intimidated by Aimèe's Armani gown!
The clip ended, and a well-coiffed, vacant-faced blonde, one of the show's stars, came on, smiling lasciviously, to offer end remarks.
Afterwards, we're told, the new "it couple" went back to The Langham, where Aimée has a suite while she's in town filming a star turn in hot director Jack Jones' new flick, Model Madness. The guy, incidentally, is Boston businessman Miles Brewster, descendant of one of the most famous families in New England. His mother, Jane Kimball Brewster, a well-known businesswoman, was co-chair of the charity event that traditionally kicks off Christmas week in the city. Gossip has it that Aimée and Miles first met in Cannes at last year's film festival.
Of course, it wasn't just audio, but full-color video. There was Miles, slim and incredibly elegant in a black tuxedo of Italian design, helping a young, leggy blonde from a black limo. She wore an ankle-length fur coat dyed bright red that hung open over a black and gray dress of what appeared to be silk chiffon, its skirt long and flowing and its bodice barely there, with sides slit to the waist. The girl looked like the star of a spread in Vogue come to life, which in effect she was. She really is breathtaking, Maggie thought hopelessly. Miles couldn't seem to take his eyes off her, especially once they began dancing, their bodies intertwined, moving in suggestively easy rhythms. Not that the clip showed much of the dancing, being in too much of a hurry to get to what the show's producers obviously considered the heart of the matter, a behind-the-scenes shot of the French supermodel and the Boston businessman, wrapped in a lingering embrace that involved not only serious French kissing but Miles' hands inside the dress's bodice, encircling the girl's obviously bare waist.
Then the two parted briefly and Miles looked into the eyes of the beautiful girl who was as tall as he was, a goofy grin on his face, before leaning closer to nuzzle her neck. The graininess and slight lack of focus of the video showed that it had been shot from some distance away and enlarged, obviously catching the couple in what they thought was a private moment.
Maggie felt almost as if she were eavesdropping or peeping through a keyhole. She also felt literally breathless, as if she'd been smothered. She leaned her head against the cool wood of the desk, fighting a wave of nausea. It was fair to say she was devastated, and also that she was more surprised than she would have expected, given her terrible track record with men. But Miles? The Miles she had known for almost two years? Sweet, loving, considerate Miles? Smart, strategically minded Miles? Nice Miles? If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn't have believed it. It was only a week ago that they'd been together in the oversized bed at Lake View Lodge, the diamond ring he'd given her twisting on her finger as they sank deeper and deeper into the dark personal space their mutual passion had created. Was that really what it had all been about? Had Miles, ready to move on, made the big play for no other reason than to get her into bed before intensifying his relationship with someone younger, richer, and more famous? Had she been no more than unfinished business, with the ring and the proposal just window dressing?
Still, even at the time, she admitted to herself, she'd felt she was making a mistake. She shouldn't have let him talk to her about marriage, shouldn't have practically dragged him into bed. It made all of this the more painful, and she'd been so careful to avoid just this sort of personal anguish. If she'd made a stand and resisted her own impulse to take the situation to the next level, things could have remained as they were, with her enjoying Miles' ongoing but nonintrusive pursuit. They should have remained just business acquaintances with a friendly, flirty relationship that avoided both the pleasures and the pains of anything more. No strings attached. No real feelings. That would be better than this. Anything would be better than this.
Her phone rang. It was Alysha Harding.
Maggie sat up and took a deep breath.
"Hi, Miss McLaurin. A vendor has sent over lunch from Le Bernardin, and Mr. Scott told me to call you to see if you'd like a plate put together and sent down to you. There's a beautiful organic Scottish salmon appetizer, poached halibut with Brussels Sprouts, and their special chocolate-sweet potato dessert."
"That sounds wonderful," Maggie said.
"Would you like it now?"
"Whatever's convenient for you," Maggie told her.
"I'll bring it down myself in a few minutes."
Maggie got up, stretched for a minute, unlocked the door, went back to her desk and kept working. When the phone rang again, she assumed it was Alysha calling to say she was delayed. It wasn't Alysha, however, but Josh Wells.
The conversation was brief, slightly more than a minute, but it was unlike any she'd had; and, when the call ended, she was definitely discomfited. She had disconnected, but only just, when there was a brief knock at the door and Alysha came through, carrying a well-laden tray. Maggie was still holding the receiver.
"What's wrong, Miss McLaurin? Are you all right?"
"I just had a weird call . . . I mean . . ." She couldn't stop her voice from sounding odd. "It was Josh Wells . . . "
Alysha put down the tray, and took Maggie by the arm. "You're coming upstairs with me, now."
Maggie looked at her in surprise.
"I'm the one who reviewed the paperwork with the lawyer from PeopleMatters," Alysha explained. "We need to tell Mr. Scott immediately. It is totally gross that he's calling you — you shouldn't be here alone."
<
br /> An hour later, Maggie found herself seated at the conference table in Tom Scott's private office. Across from her sat Detectives Joanna Banks and Jerry Cook, who'd been sent by the nearby precinct in what had probably been record time. Tom had tactfully removed himself to the anteroom, and a worried Alysha had gone back to her office.
"So, Miss McLaurin, to summarize," Cook said, looking at his pad, "you had never met this Josh Wells before Monday afternoon?"
"That's correct."
"And on that Monday, the first time you met him, he made sexually explicit remarks to you, but you did not feel threatened by him?"
"That's correct. I thought he was just one of those offensive types who toss an idea out there to see how you'll react. He didn't scare me at the time. I just thought he was unpleasant. It was after he began to brag about having successfully harassed other women at TTI that, as a TTI manager, I knew that I had no choice but to report him to my management."
"So you reported him to Mr. Scott, who at once arranged for his dismissal through the firm that TTI uses for human resources matters. The actual dismissal occurred late Tuesday afternoon in the staff conference room, and it was during that termination interview, according to Julie Hunt, the PeopleMatters lawyer, that Mr. Wells first made threats against you, to say that 'the bitch asked for it, and next time I'll see she gets it,' and . . . "
Maggie interrupted. "I wasn't present at that interview. This is the first I've heard of what actually happened."
"So you didn't know that Mr. Scott had employed a security detail to see you home last night, watch the lobby of your building, and then see you back here this morning?"
Maggie shook her head. "I didn't know."
"So I gather that last night was completely uneventful as far as you were concerned?" Cook continued. "You were not contacted by Mr. Wells?"
"Not last night. Of course, my personal phone is unlisted . . ."
