by Wendy Wax
OK, so it had been a lucky guess.
“I can hardly wait to hear.”
Shelley signed her name to the credit card slip, but her attention was riveted by Ross Morgan’s matter-of-fact tone.
“We both know I can’t fire you. But part of your salary’s coming out of my pocket now, and I think it’s time you started earning it.”
There was a pause and in the brief silence Shelley could hear her anger build. It was loud and crackling and it burned away the icy apathy that had gripped her all week.
Seeing her face, Nina reached for Shelley’s shopping bags. “I’ll, uh, just step over there and look at the, uh, ties. Let me know when you’re done.”
Shelley barely heard her. Every one of her faculties was completely focused on the voice coming to her through the receiver. And the asinine things it was saying.
“I’m assigning you your own client list, and I need you to come in and get started. Tomorrow. In the morning. Like a normal employee.” There was another pause and then, “I’ll expect you in my office at nine A.M.”
Shelley waited for her head to explode. It felt as if it might just shoot right off her shoulders, kind of like those cartoon eruptions that were accompanied by the sound of train whistles.
Ross Morgan was an interfering, business-stealing pain in the butt, and she could hardly wait to tell him so.
She’d get on it first thing in the morning. Right after she finished shopping. If she was going on the offensive, she was going to do it in a knockout outfit.
chapter 7
Too keyed up to sleep, Shelley spent the night lying in bed with her jaw clenched and her fists gripping the sheet while Ross Morgan’s words replayed themselves in her head.
In the predawn light she showered and dressed, using concealer to camouflage the dark circles under her eyes and gel to tame her normally curly hair into a chignon. Standing in her walk-in closet, she pulled out the Chanel suit she’d bought, and paired it with her fabulous new Ferragamo pumps. Nana Rose’s antique pearls went around her neck.
She suspected Ross Morgan thought that she wouldn’t show up, or that if she did, she’d come in weeping and wailing like a hysterical female. But Shelley intended to be icily genteel. Elegantly intimidating. Untouchable. Calm. In fact, she was going to do Grace Kelly with a touch of Katharine Hepburn; a persona that would allow for plenty of looking down her nose at him, even if she had to get a ladder to do it.
At 8:59 she swept past Ross’s secretary, Mia, and into his office, grateful he hadn’t yet moved into her father’s office. Closing the door behind her, she posed just inside, her shoulders angled, her chin elevated. When she had his complete attention she walked to the seat across from his desk, carefully channeling both Kelly and Hepburn, then lowered herself into the chair. Crossing her ankles, she swiveled her legs to the side, folded her hands in her lap, and gave him a regal nod. She opened her mouth to begin. Only he beat her to it.
“Queen Elizabeth,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re doing Queen Elizabeth, right?”
She blinked in surprise.
“And it was good, too. The only thing missing was that little cupped-palm wave thing.”
Shelley clenched her teeth; she may have growled.
“No? Let’s see . . .”
“Ross—”
“Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady?”
He had to be kidding.
“After the transformation, but before he starts to appreciate her.”
This was not happening.
“Am I close? I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to pin it down.”
Good grief. They were playing charades.
“I know!” He pointed a finger at her. “It’s Barbara Parkins, isn’t it? In Valley of the Dolls.”
Abandoning her pose, Shelley folded her arms across her chest. “Are you finished with ‘name that movie’? I’d like to get started.”
His eyes twinkled. They were bright blue and filled with amusement, damn him.
She waited for him to wipe the smile off his face.
“You asked me to be here and I’m here,” she said, her tone imperious, but not Elizabethan.
“Yes, and on time, too. I’m stunned.”
She ignored the jibe. “I’m here because it’s obvious that we need to clear the air.”
He nodded, but didn’t comment.
“We both know you don’t want me around. Well, I don’t want you around, either. In fact, I absolutely loathe the way you’ve horned in on my family’s business.”
So much for her problem with being direct. Too bad Howard Mellnick wasn’t around to witness her breakthrough.
Ross folded his arms across his chest. He was so calm she wondered if he’d missed the part where she told him she wished he’d get lost.
“Funny that you call it horning in,” he finally said. “I call it doing my job. Earning my paycheck. Showing up and putting forth effort. If you’d done a little more of that, there might not have been an opening to horn into.”
Shelley bit back a retort and tried to imitate his maddening calm. “You don’t know anything about my family’s dynamics. Or me. It’s not as clear-cut as you seem to think.”
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t know your history.” He paused. “Or why your father’s let you get away with this spoiled princess business for so long. How old are you now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
She gasped.
“Well, however old you are, you’re old enough to pull your weight.”
She had a horrible feeling he was going to guess her weight next. Instead, he stood and walked around to stand between her and his desk. “Fortunately, we’re not family. And we don’t have any dynamics to speak of.”
Except, of course, that dynamic episode in the supply closet. “Thank God for small favors.”
“So we’re talking business here.” He gave her a look. “And personal pride.”
Her head snapped up. “Which you seem to think I’m lacking.”
“I can understand your anger and hostility, even though I think a lot of this situation is of your own making.” His reasonable tone was sending her right up the wall. “If you don’t feel like we can work together, I’ll understand.”
There was a wonderful moment in which she thought he was going to bow out. He reached across his desk and picked up a typewritten piece of paper. “In fact, I took the liberty of drafting a resignation letter.”
Her heart leapt at this piece of good news. He was going to step aside. Maybe he wasn’t as big a schmuck as she’d thought; maybe she’d misjudged him.
Ross passed her the letter and she skimmed it, curious to see what kind of excuse he’d come up with. Then she reached the signature line. “You want me to resign?”
He handed her a pen. “It would make things a lot easier for both of us.”
She considered doing a little palm-cupped wave right now. With her middle finger clearly extended. “Let’s see,” she said, still mimicking his dead-calm tone. “You’ve insulted my dress, my manner, my age, possibly my weight, my family, and my work ethic. And now I’m supposed to sign this paper so you can have the place all to yourself?” Sitting back in her chair, she folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He studied her right back and then reached across his desk to retrieve another piece of paper. “All right, then,” he said, still calm. “Here’s a list of clients. I want you to contact all of them, introduce yourself, and start setting up appointments.” He handed her the sheet of paper. “These are underserviced accounts that could produce a much greater revenue stream.”
“But I’m an account supervisor. I don’t service clients directly.”
“Actually, you haven’t serviced any indirectly or otherwise—at least not with any regularity. I think it’s time you take a step back and reacquaint yourself with how this agency operates.”
“But this would be a demotion.” And a humi
liation.
Shelley skimmed the list. It included a string of funeral homes with the unfortunate name of Forever Remembered, a low-end contemporary furniture chain whose owner insisted on serving as talent in his own television commercials, her uncle Abe’s electronics business, a fledgling falafel maker who was in the process of franchising his operation, and something called Tire World. Those were the best ones on the list.
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
Their gazes locked as she confronted the obvious. “You’re trying to make me quit.”
He stared right at her out of those blue eyes. “I prefer to think of it as giving you a chance to prove yourself the good old-fashioned way.”
She wanted to throw the list in his face and stomp out of the room. Wanted to rip it into tiny pieces and shove them down his throat one at a time. Which would be playing right into his hands.
He waited quietly, clearly expecting her to utter those two magic words that would free him of her and her salary. But he didn’t know whom he was dealing with. Shelley Schwartz had spent a lifetime refusing to do what was expected of her. She’d been resisting her parents’ plans for her since she was ten; why would she change for the man who’d stolen her business out from under her?
Wrapping her anger around her like a shield, Shelley stood. Ross Morgan did the same. Then folding the list into a tiny square, she shoved it in her purse. He didn’t think she could do anything with this list. He didn’t think she’d even try. What Ross Morgan didn’t know about her could fill an ocean.
Extending her hand, she looked him straight in the eye, the blue ones that had turned a dark velvety color; the ones that were giving absolutely nothing away.
“Thank you so much for this incredible . . . opportunity,” she said in her best Hepburn voice. “I can hardly wait to get started.”
And then she turned on her heel and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
“He gave me the absolute dregs of the advertising world. The littlest, piddliest, most ridiculous waste-of-time accounts in the history of the world.” She took a deep breath and told herself she would not cry. “He demoted me!”
Howard Mellnick made a note on the pad in front of him. “And you think he’s just trying to make you quit.”
“No, I know he’s trying to make me quit.”
“And so you dug in your heels.” He studied her for a long moment. “Why?”
“Because . . .” Despite years in this very chair, self-examination did not come easily. “Because nobody, and especially not Ross Morgan, is going to shove me out of my family business.”
Howard Mellnick looked up and out the window for a moment then back at her. “So you’re staying because he wants you to leave.”
“Yes! No!” She groaned. “I don’t know.” She stared at him, miserable. “Does it really matter why?”
Howard Mellnick sat back, crossed his legs, and propped his yellow pad up on his knee. Apparently this was one of those questions she was supposed to answer for herself.
“All I know is, I’m not quitting. And as crappy as that list is, I’m going to have to do something with it.”
He made another note on his pad. “You know, getting rid of the family dynamic and the attached emotion could prove to be a positive. If you’re not carrying any of the old baggage, you should be able to travel . . . lighter. It’s fortunate your relationship with Ross Morgan has always been strictly business.”
Shelley suspected this would be the time to tell Dr. Mellnick about her and Ross and the supply closet. Except she was still trying to blot out that memory, and there were some things that were too embarrassing to share with your shrink; even one as nonjudgmental as Howard Mellnick.
“You know, Shelley,” he said, “this could turn out to be a good time to prove yourself. To yourself.”
Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Ross Morgan looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. Still, she kind of liked the sound of it. “When I referred to my new accounts as the dregs, that was actually a compliment. I have no idea how I’m going to suddenly turn them into producers.”
“I think you’re up to the task.” Howard Mellnick smiled. “And I can’t wait to hear all the gory details.” He flipped his yellow pad closed, signaling the end of their session. “Just remember that torturing Ross Morgan is only a perk—not your main goal.”
“Right,” Shelley said as she stood and prepared to leave. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
On Sunday afternoon Judy stood at the entrance to the Temple Kol Chaim social hall and surveyed the hum of activity inside. Today’s Bar Mitzvah Expo, which was to bar and bat mitzvah planning what a Bridal Fair was to weddings, was in full swing.
Scanning the crowd for her coordinator, Judy waited for the expected rush of adrenaline, but nothing happened. Which was very strange indeed.
She could still remember the excitement of her first expo four years ago, when she’d spent an entire afternoon visiting each vendor, nibbling catering samples, watching videos, and listening to demonstration CDs.
At home afterward she’d spent a euphoric afternoon poring over the brochures and promotional items. With wonder, she’d contemplated the caterers and event facilities, the photographers and videographers, the goody basket creators and personal shoppers, even the security companies specializing in hormonal thirteen-year-olds.
Entertainment options had ranged from a lone guitarist to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and included the ever-popular DJs, who came with emcees, light shows, and crates full of party favors, as well as the all-important crowd motivators.
It had all seemed so incredibly exciting.
You could have a video of your child’s life. Or photos of the guests applied to buttons they could wear home. Concession stands, celebrity look-alikes, jugglers, magicians—name it, and it could be ordered à la carte or as part of a package. The sky and the depth of your pockets were the only limits.
On that fateful day she’d understood that her son’s bar mitzvah was more than a ceremonial trip to adulthood. It was something she could throw herself into; something that required more than chauffeuring and cheerleading. It was her opportunity to make her mark.
Judy had read every word of every brochure, and then she’d hired the ridiculously expensive Mandy Mifkin. Together they’d come up with the Roman gladiator theme and turned Jason’s bar mitzvah into the gold standard against which all other such functions were measured—at least in the highly competitive suburb of Atlanta where she lived.
But today, Judy’s competitive juices refused to flow.
She was contemplating slipping out the way she’d come, when Mandy rushed up and enveloped her in a hug.
“It’s so crowded I didn’t see you standing here,” Mandy said. “Come.” She turned to lead the way back into the exhibit hall. “I want to show you the invitation I told you about.”
The crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Mandy nodded regally as they passed through the throng of women, and Judy heard the awe in their voices; “togas,” they mouthed to each other. “A lion in a cage right next to the gift table.” Another nodded importantly. “I heard the rabbi wore a toga under his robes.”
The room was thick with their admiration and envy, but Judy felt no answering sense of pleasure or accomplishment. In fact she felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience—the kind those briefly dead people described in which they levitated up into the air and watched the hospital staff trying to revive them. Everything around her was muffled, once removed, but there was no beckoning ray of white light, only a ton of other women snapping up samples and exclaiming over chair covers. And all of them seemed to be moving and talking at warp speed, while she was stuck in slow motion.
Mandy led her to a brightly decorated table whose sign read Pinchas Paper Products. After the requisite air-kissing, Stacy Pinchas pulled out an oversized piece of card stock festooned in gold and silver foil and presented it to
Judy.
“Don’t you just love the type style?” Mandy gushed. “And look how the silver stands out against the black and gold. It’s masculine, yet communicates the sports theme with real elegance.” She lowered her voice. “The sports theme’s been done to death, so doing something new with it is critical.”
“Hmmm?” Judy tried to focus, but she couldn’t seem to work up the energy.
“The sports thing,” Mandy repeated. “If you don’t do something different with it . . . well.” The coordinator looked her in the eye. “Then you really don’t need me.”
Judy considered the other woman. During the planning of Jason’s extravaganza, the slightest hint of losing Mandy would have triggered a full-blown panic attack. Today Judy felt only a bone-crushing weariness. And an increasingly urgent need to get out of this building. Now.
Judy looked at the invitation. Did she really care what color the foils were? Did she believe the invitation’s design would appreciably affect Sammy’s bar mitzvah experience?
“It looks fine,” Judy said. “I guess I’m just not in the mood for all this”—she motioned around the room—“right now.”
Mandy stiffened but quickly recovered. It appeared Judy was not going to be fired.
“We’ve already booked the important things. Why don’t I stay and pick up any samples I want you to see?” She gave Judy a parting hug and made a show of shooing her off. “You just call me when you’re ready to see them, and I’ll run them over.”
Outside, Judy drew in great gulps of fresh air. The day was bright and a slight spring breeze stirred the air, but she felt lost, unsure what to do next. Sliding into her BMW SUV, she started the car, then rooted around in her purse until she located her cell phone.
Craig picked up on the third ring. She could hear a baseball game on in the background; heard one of her sons shout in response to something that must have happened on-screen.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “Where are you?”
She used to feel a little bubble of pleasure when she heard her husband’s voice; now the little bubble was filled with annoyance.
