by Gail Hewitt
She was about to point out that press releases teased and that the shorter they were, the more likely they were to be noticed, but she remembered Miles' advice. "I wondered about that myself. I have the original version in my office if you'd like to see it."
Again, Halbrooks gave her a quizzical look, but Tom nodded and then asked, "What else do you have for us?"
"A one-page outline for an initial teacher guide including the concepts TTI wants them to incorporate in their talent-agent role."
Tom glanced at it, and looked up at her. "This makes me feel better about where you're heading."
She misunderstood him. "Then you think we should do more focus groups? The approach employed in the guide is based on what we learned in Georgia in mid-January."
Tom frowned, and she knew at once that she'd lost whatever ground she'd gained. "I have to tell you up front, Maggie, that I not only see no benefit to the focus groups continuing, but think they might actually damage something we've taken a great deal of care to build up, namely the esprit de corps between the members of the TTI team."
"I don't see what focus groups have to do with TTI esprit de corps," Maggie protested, genuinely puzzled.
"Every question you ask that elicits information that calls into question some aspect of our endeavor on which all these prominent and extremely talented people have been working creates a problem," Tom said adamantly. "Much as I like you, I can't have you running roughshod over the ideas of my experts."
Maggie looked toward Jameson Halbrooks, waiting for him to give some signal of support, but he looked steadfastly at Tom. So that was how it was going to be, she thought. Suddenly, she was sick of it. It wasn't so much that she forgot what Miles had recommended as that she could no longer stomach what was evidently going to be required just to hang on here.
She turned back to Tom. "I gather by that remark you don't consider me among the 'experts.' Which is your prerogative. It's true that I haven't written books or spoken to the U.N. on educational theory as it applies to developing countries, but I do have fields of expertise, particularly community initiatives and training dynamics. I know how to take ideas and make them work in a real-world context. I thought that was what you hired me to do."
"It was," Tom said, tapping his forefingers together. "But I did not expect you to undermine what we've already done in the process of demonstrating your expertise."
"I'm not 'demonstrating' anything, if by that you mean staging some sort of show just to impress," she protested. "I'm trying to determine the best way to launch this to achieve the results that you told me you want. That isn't going to happen automatically."
Tom shook his head. "We've had excellent reactions to every trial balloon we've floated with the state board."
"But you don't have official approval," Maggie couldn't resist pointing out.
"That's just a technicality." Tom brushed aside the reminder. "Anyway, you haven't said anything about researching the board."
"The basis for my work is research with target populations," Maggie reminded him. "I have summaries from the first two groups, the ones you monitored, to show how the material can be used to further your goals. If you can allow me half an hour to give you an overview, I think you'll see the benefits we can gain from further research, not only TTI, but also your experts, who can only gain if we make this work as well as it can."
"I just don't see the point," Tom said, slapping his hand on the table and making her jump. "The research is ended. The discussion about the research is ended."
"Then I don't understand what it is that you expect me to do." She sat and looked steadily at him. "Tell me what it is that you want me to do, Tom. I confess I'm totally mystified."
He pursed his lips and looked uncomfortable, his eyes refusing to meet hers. "Well, you're here in case we need for you to do the things you do so well."
"Which you won't allow me to do." She sighed. "You know, Tom, I've given this a lot of thought. I'm beginning to regret agreeing to join TTI, and I suspect you're beginning to regret inviting me. I don't see that you're getting any benefit from my being here. In fact, I seem to serve only as an irritant, at least where you're concerned."
"Don't be silly," Tom said. "There's no cause to pout or get mad."
"Now you're being silly," she told him. "I'm not pouting. I'm certainly not mad. I'm not even terribly surprised. All I'm saying is that I don't see the point of my being here. You obviously have an image of TTI that is very different from anything that my experience tells me will work in the real world. You'll have my letter of resignation on your desk before lunch. My assistant is more than capable of filling the role that you appear to envision for the position, so there's no reason I can't clear out at once if that's acceptable to you." She paused, looking from one man to the other. Halbrooks was obviously shocked, but Tom merely nodded.
"If you want the signing bonus returned," she continued, "or reimbursement for the clothes that Martha charged for me . . . "
Tom's face reddened. He turned toward Halbrooks. "Thank you for joining us, Jameson, but we don't need to keep you further. Give me a call by tomorrow about the status report."
Halbrooks covered the distance to the door in record time, eyes straight ahead. Tom waited until he heard the outer door shut behind his executive coach and TTI coordinator.
Maggie sat, waiting for an outburst that didn't come. To her surprise he didn't even object to her quitting. In fact, she thought, looking at him more closely, he appeared relieved, if anything.
"Of course, there's no need to return the signing bonus or pay for the clothes," he said, brushing away the suggestion as he would a buzzing insect. "But you're absolutely certain you want to do this?"
"I'm certain."
"And you won't hold it against me if I allow it?"
"I don't see that it's a matter for you to allow or not," she pointed out, "but, no, I won't hold it against you."
"Then that's that," he said, standing up.
"That's that," she repeated.
His cell rang, and he glanced at Caller ID.
"Sorry, I've got to take this," he said.
She looked back as she left the room to find him staring at her. The wave they exchanged felt like the punctuation mark for years of ambiguity.
Another chapter ended, she thought.
An Unexpected Turn Of Events
It was the first time that Maggie had quit a job, and the euphoria carried her through the process of turning in the TTI gear, giving her assistant a heads up, cleaning out her desk and making her way back to the condo. It was only then that the reality hit her. She had just done something that was possibly very foolish. In the midst of a seriously accelerating recession (or had they become more honest and begun admitting that it was a depression?), she'd walked out on the best-paid job she'd probably ever have. At least, she'd been sensible with the signing bonus, using it to pay off every bill and loan save for the mortgage on the condo. The bulk of the first month's salary would be needed to make the mortgage payment and handle the new credit card bills she'd run up, including the $2,000 for this suit which Tom appeared not even to have noticed. In fact, if it weren't for the house proceeds she would almost immediately be facing a serious financial crunch yet again. And that reminded her of how much she owed Tom in a personal financial sense. Tom was the logical candidate as the secret buyer of the Atlanta house. In addition, he'd paid her the compliment of offering her the dream job. And now she'd thrown his job back in his face and in a way that had almost certainly insulted him. He'd tried to help her, and she'd been insensitive to his excitement and too impatient to learn what it was she needed to do to help him and TTI.
She couldn't help wondering if — even as these last few weeks she'd debated whether their old personal connection kept him at times from being totally professional in his attitude toward her — she was the one who'd been unable to separate the two. Had she assumed that he'd be automatically more receptive to her ideas? Had that led her to p
ay less attention to his preferences than she would to those of another boss or made her less willing to defend her ideas? Should she have worked harder to position her concerns regarding the TTI launch so that Tom recognized them as valid? Had she done everything she could to make sure he realized that her only priority was that his wonderful program would be successful from the outset?
She sat on the gray sofa in her blue and cream condo and thought of the mess she'd made of things. At almost every key point in her professional life, she had chosen the wrong turn. As for her personal life, it was, if anything, in even worse shape. The only two men she'd ever loved — apart from her father — were lost to her, and the loss was of her own doing. She had no idea as to what she wanted to do next. She had no close friends in New York, no one to whom she could turn for sympathy and advice. Her mother's condition meant there was no point in expecting compassion from her, not that any would have been forthcoming even had circumstances been otherwise. She could hardly go back and ask for Bill Holmes' opinion. It wasn't fair to burden Julia and dampen the good time she was obviously having as she planned her wedding. Anyway, there was nothing anyone could do. She'd screwed up, so it was back to the drawing board. At least she wasn't immediately destitute, but she'd have to do something soon or dissipate the financial benefit the short-lived TTI job and the house sale represented.
It had been a long time since she'd felt so hopeless and alone. She got up and went into the bedroom, undoing fastenings as she went. She threw the suit onto the bed, stripped off blouse, cami, bra and tights and went naked into the bathroom where she stood under a shower so hot that she felt almost scalded. When she dried off, her normally pale skin was bright red, and her hair was dripping. She splashed cold water on her face and surveyed herself in the mirror over the angled steel sink. Would she ever get it right, she wondered?
She debated calling Miles and telling him what she'd done about the job, but rejected the idea. Even if he cared — which she now doubted, having come to see much of what had happened in December as no more than some kind of game he'd been playing — she wasn't sure how she felt about the whole situation.
She was, in fact, so sick of thinking about Miles, about the TTI job, about Tom, about her mother, about her own inadequacies, about everything that seemed incapable of acceptable resolution, that she retreated to the only reliable distraction, one to which she had not resorted in years. The regimen was simple: books and chocolate. The first need was satisfied by a trip to Partners & Crime, where she bought a bag full of new mysteries. The second she satisfied by going to Kee's, where she assembled truffles (Almond, Black Sesame, Tiramisu, Pignoli, Blood Orange, Cognac) and a ganache assortment guaranteed to provide a total chocolate high (Smoked Salt, Keylime, Mint Mocha, Champagne, Maxito, Balsamic). For good measure, she added several Turtles, two of the Ginger, and one lonely Thompson, as she felt that two might be the final straw, the "Just one tiny mint, Monsieur?" of Monty Python fame. Then she returned to the condo, put on her most-comfortable sweats, took a mystery from the bag, and settled back on her living room sofa, a small dish of chocolates on the coffee table.
Two days later, enjoying the buzz that only high-priced chocolate can provide, the mysteries having dissipiated some of her black mood, she'd just walked in from a swim in the building pool to find the house phone ringing. It was Howard, the doorman, obviously excited. "There's a gentleman here for you, Miss McLaurin. Mr. Merriman Scott. Can I send him up?"
"Why not, Howard? Send the gentleman up." She went into the bathroom and got a towel to wrap around her dripping hair. She looked down at the sweats and supposed she should change. No, she thought, why bother? She no longer had to care what Tom thought of her dress sense.
She'd gone into the kitchen to get a Diet Coke when she heard the knock. Looking through the peep hole, she saw that Tom was carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed roses and tulips, an enormous burst of crimson and yellow that must have cost a fortune on this cold, blustery February day. He evidently felt secure, for Jack Holt wasn't with him.
She opened the door, determined to be cool. "Hello, Tom. What beautiful flowers."
"They're for you," he said, following her inside. "That wasn't a good way for the conversation to end Monday."
"Have a seat while I get something for the bouquet," she told him.
The roses and tulips deposited in the largest vase she possessed, an impressive Steuben model given to her by Julia Clifford when she worked for the company, she rewrapped the towel around her still-wet hair and sat down in the chair opposite his seat on the sofa.
He leaned forward slightly, his hands propped on his knees. "First, let me say that I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings over your research thingamabobs. I can't expect you to understand in a few weeks the significance of what I've spent years thinking about. It wasn't fair of me to hold your feet to the fire just because I knew what you viewed as standard operating procedure had no relevance for TTI."
"It isn't SOP," she told him. "It's common sense. If you'd kept an open mind, you could have seen that for yourself during the focus groups you monitored in Georgia. Still, it's not my concern anymore so I'll shut up about it. I appreciate your apology, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me. I'm sorry my work proved to be such a disappointment, but thanks for everything." She stood up, expecting him to follow her lead, but he continued to sit on the sofa, a sheepish expression on his face.
"I might as well come clean," he said finally. "The truth is I couldn't pay attention to anything in Georgia except looking at you and listening to you. All the rest of it was just noise until you started talking again. You're the only woman I ever saw who looks that good at work."
"I'm not sure how to respond to that," she told him, frowning. "Are you saying that because of what happened between us New Year's Day?"
He held up his hand. "Let me say something else. I'm not comfortable mixing business with my personal life and I got myself backed in a corner by inviting you to come to work for TTI. It solved one problem, but it made things very awkward. That's one of the reasons I got out of town these last few weeks. I didn't see any point in continuing the work charade, but I couldn't figure out how to end it without making you mad or hurting your feelings. But that's all right now, now that you've quit."
"I don't understand."
He got up and came over to her, sitting on the edge of the leather bench that served as a sometime hassock.
"I want to marry you, Maggs."
She was so shocked that her jaw literally dropped as he began to speak urgently, as if he couldn't get it out fast enough. Embarrassed, knowing she was blushing, she looked down at her hands, lying clasped in her lap.
"Look at me, Maggs," Tom commanded, and she was drawn irresistibly to do just that. He was staring at her with earnest sincerity, looking so much like the old Tom that her heart turned over. "I love you. I'm not sure I ever stopped loving you. I want to have children with you, and grow old with you. I want us to have the life we should have had all along if it hadn't been for that stupid misunderstanding back when we were kids."
He looked so bereft that she reached out and kissed him gently on the forehead. "Oh, Tom, that was so long ago."
"But this isn't," he said, pulling her to him. When he began to kiss her, it was with an urgency so intense that she felt enveloped by it, by him, and she began to kiss him back, long, intense kisses that made her blood quicken. His hands slipped inside the sweats and began automatically to seek her breasts, between her legs. She put her hand on his crotch, working at the zipper, not sure if what they were doing made any sense, but as caught up as he in a fantasy of long ago and far away, in a dream of what had been. When he roughly pulled her up and toward the bedroom, she did not resist, just as she had not resisted then. They somehow got out of their clothes and, still standing, Tom grabbed her, pressing his body against hers, holding her tightly with one arm wrapped around her waist while the other moved over her body with increasing hunger. She held onto his
bare hips hugging them against her the way she had then. If their lovemaking on New Year's Day had been adult and full of technique, this was the way it had been when they first knew each other, furious and passionate, full of just-discovered need and the means at hand to satiate it, save that there would be no satiation, only continual assaults until both of them lay back, breathless and sweating, side by side.
"Wow," she said.
"Wow," he repeated.
It was nice to lie there, immersed in the moment, holding hands with her first love, knowing that he'd loved her too, that he loved her again.
"Well, Maggs," Tom said finally, with some satisfaction, "I gather that was a 'yes.' Or do you do this with all the fellows?"
"No, I don't do this with all the fellows," she said, pulling herself up to sit propped against the headboard. "But you know, Tom, there have been other men in my life, just as I know you've been with many other women."
"But I was the first," he said, grinning.
"You were the first," she confirmed. "Which is more than you can say to me."
"And you loved me," he stated, ignoring the last comment. "I loved you," she conceded. "As far as I was concerned, the planets revolved around you. Nobody ever loved you more than I did, but . . . "
He slid up so that he was sitting with his shoulders against the headboard, beside her. He leaned over and kissed her, working her mouth open with his tongue, then pulled away to look at her.
"And, obviously, we're still good together."
"Well, all the parts still work in tandem, that's for sure," she tried to joke, but he would not be distracted.
"Then make it official, Maggs. Say it out loud. Give me an oral contract. Say 'I agree to marry Thomas Merriman Scott, my first and last love.' Say it, Maggs." His grip on her arm tightened until she pulled away.
He was so insistent that she began to feel uncomfortable.
"I'm curious about something, Tom. This seems awfully sudden. When did this great epiphany come to you?"
