My progress across the office had drawn all the glances Nathan had avoided. Walking outside always attracted attention, and gossip. I consoled myself with the thought that most folks would think Craig had tasked his consultant to kill his engineer’s failing idea. Awful as that was, it was better than the truth: Craig’s engineer had a hopeless crush on his consultant and now appeared to be racing after him. No one except Moira knew that one.
Nathan held the door open for me.
“Where are we going?” I straightened and smoothed my skirt.
He took a few steps from the door, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. “Don’t you love it out here? You can smell that dry, crisp fall smell. You can smell the sun.”
I stifled a smile. While running on the treadmill during my lunch breaks, I’d seen him out here doing this countless times. “To be honest, I haven’t been out here much lately.”
The whole office complex, ten high-rise buildings housing three times as many tech companies, was riddled with paths and ponds—a man-made oasis designed to promote creativity and relaxation. What had looked so clearly planned and artificial when WATT moved into the space four years ago had now grown in and filled out. It looked natural, beautiful even. I almost felt myself relax. Almost.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I’ve gotten into a bad habit of arriving early, staying late, and running on the treadmill at lunch.”
Nathan looked straight at me.
“I’m getting fired, aren’t I?”
“Despite your best efforts, no.” He winked and resumed walking. “Let’s circle the paths. Karen’s voice is scraping my ears like those whiteboard markers you love. That high-pitched squeal can drive a person nuts.”
“And it does . . . every day.” I stepped beside him.
Nathan was silent.
“You could at least warn me so I’m prepared to face her . . . Do I need to dust off that Boston job offer?”
“Stop it.” Nathan spun on me. “Unless you want to leave. I feel like you keep angling for an escape.”
“With Karen in charge, I may not have a choice. So?”
“Do you ever feel like running away? Or is it just talk?” He offered me a sideways smile. It, too, felt like a question, but not the ones he’d asked. Can I be real with you?
He acknowledged my nod with his own and continued. “She got to me in there. Craig hired me to manage growth and reposition WATT. We’ve done that job well.”
“But?”
“You all know this. His goal was to stay independent, maybe go public someday. Karen is pushing for a sale, and soon. That’s public too, if you haven’t heard it. Finance is running numbers. That’s a whole different ball game.” He looked back to the building. “For everyone here.”
“I see . . .”
Craig, a brilliant physicist and engineer, thrived in the chaos of creativity. He had founded WATT, named for his childhood hero and the unit of power, on the principle that a few twenty-somethings with energy, smarts, and grit could make great stuff. Not glamorous or sexy stuff, but bold and innovative devices that people wanted or needed to make the sexy stuff run better. Craig loved innovation. Karen loved strong sales and healthy margins.
For the first time I saw clearly the power struggle pulling at us. I also saw that Karen’s vision was gaining ground. And that my project was a tangible symbol of the conflict.
“Golightly” was my pet name for it—a pair of glasses I’d started dreaming of years before the technology caught up with my imagination. One Friday night, when I was about twelve, my mom introduced me to Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Audrey Hepburn’s iconic character, Holly Golightly. I watched that movie dozens of times, mesmerized. I’d never seen a woman more beautiful. And although I missed much of the story in those early years, I caught the drama, the ukulele, and the sunglasses. I’d made my own ukulele out of cardboard and string, and now I’d moved on to the sunglasses.
They weren’t as glamorous as Hepburn’s, but mine did more than shield the eyes from UV rays. My Golightly glasses were self-contained augmented virtual reality glasses that embedded interactive 3-D images. They rivaled Microsoft’s and Apple’s offerings in an even slimmer format—at least that was the goal. Every prototype had failed—one exploded—and each one took something within me with it.
I walked past Nathan—my version of running away. “Back to batteries for me.”
Two strides and he caught up. “What’s wrong with batteries?”
“Nothing, except I didn’t think my world would be dominated by them. I’ve been dreaming of these glasses for years.” I stopped. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
“There’s no point.” I shook my head. “You know what drives me nuts? Out-of-the-box thinking used to be lauded around here. But now . . . no more risks? No innovation? I needed this one, Nathan. I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
I studied his face. “But not anytime soon . . . She cut funding, didn’t she?”
He didn’t reply, but one blink said it all.
“It’ll be too late, you know,” I said. “We can’t circle back. The market will move on.”
“I know that too, and I’m sorry.”
We walked on in silence. I looked up in surprise when we reached the building again.
Nathan held the door’s handle but did not pull it open. “Are you going to be okay?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “My allergies are horrible this fall.” I lowered my hand and caught Nathan’s expression—sympathy encasing pity. “Of course I’ll be okay. Easy come, easy go, right?”
He narrowed his eyes. It felt like some offering, some connection, had fallen between us because I hadn’t held it.
He accompanied me back to my desk and perched as he had before—as if we’d never taken a walk and he’d never delivered the blow to Golightly, and to me.
“Craig mentioned you had an advancement for the IR battery.”
Back to batteries.
“I was playing around with Golightly . . . Double insulate it and we can cut the space between components. Everyone wants smaller devices. See, Karen doesn’t get that; we need some ideas to generate others. Without—” I pressed my lips together. “Never mind. The lab is testing the battery now.”
Nathan picked up a small wire elephant sitting on my desk and handed it to me. “Please don’t let this derail you, Mary.” He stood. “I’ve got another meeting with Craig. Will you be around later?”
At my nod, he was gone . . . and my afternoon was suddenly free.
Chapter 2
Easy come. Easy go.” One swipe of my hand and six months’ worth of wire animals skidded across my desk and onto the floor.
Moira leaned over the wall. “Easy? There was nothing easy about all that work, and stop killing your animals. They’re wonderful.”
I bent to pick them up, and one by one repositioned them at the edge of my desk. Duck. Giraffe. Two horses. A tiger complete with contrasting stripes. “It’s embarrassing there are so many. Shows you how stymied I’ve been.”
I picked up the last one, an elephant made of black 18-gauge electrical wire, and crushed it in my palm. “I was so close to the answer. I can almost see it. But . . .”
Moira snapped her fingers. “Then answer something else for me.”
I pushed back from my desk to give her my full attention. “Shoot.”
“Why haven’t you grabbed that boy and kissed him already?”
I shot up and scanned the room, noting that most cubicles were empty. “You can’t yell stuff like that. You can’t even think stuff like that. What if someone hears you?”
“Then we’d all get somewhere.”
“Now?” I sat back down. “You want to talk about my love life now?”
“Seems a more fruitful topic.”
I could still smell the coffee at that morning meeting when Craig first introduced Nathan to the team.
“He’s th
irty-two, so most of you may feel the need to call him sir, but listen to him anyway. He got his MBA at Harvard and he’s brilliant at running a business. So while you keep pushing the limits, he’ll keep our lights on and get WATT running smoothly as we grow—’cause that’s what we’re doing around here. We’re taking this whole thing to the next level. And as soon as I hire another CEO to manage this beast, I’ll get back to playing with you lot.”
Craig rubbed his hands together, then slapped Nathan on the back. Everyone gathered around, a few called him sir, and then most drifted back to work. I stood frozen—overcome by a simple, clear awareness that something about him spoke to something within me. And we hadn’t yet exchanged two words.
In the eleven months that followed, that feeling had only grown.
Nathan was smart, patient, clever, quixotic, and kind. He was a completely analytical consultant, ready to tear your business apart, who also quoted romantic movies, remembered everyone’s birthday, and crooned ballads to our sixty-five-year-old office manager. He was a mystery and infinitely intriguing.
Moira interrupted my reverie.
“You knew Golightly was dead the minute Karen became your boss. You’ve had three months to digest it.”
“She’s going to fire me.” It was the first time it felt real.
“Karen won’t fire you. I run the numbers; you’re too valuable.” Moira walked around the divider between our cubicles and I twisted in my chair to face her. “And let’s get back to the subject. Everyone can see the way Nathan looks at you. Why do you give him the Heisman every day?” She thrust one arm straight in the famous football pose.
I had to laugh at her attempt to cheer me up. Moira, dressed in four-inch heels and a tight skirt, knew nothing about football.
“He doesn’t look at me any differently than he does you. And I don’t give him the Heisman.”
“If he looked at me that way, I might break my engagement. You’re either a liar or a fool.”
“I’m pragmatic. Besides, one: he’ll be gone soon, and two: he’s dating someone.”
“He told you that?”
“He’s mentioned Jeffrey’s and Sophia’s. Those are date restaurants.”
Arms crossed, Moira drummed the fingers of one hand against her skin. “Nice assumption, Sherlock, but this isn’t the sixth grade. Talk to him. Ask him.”
“It isn’t the sixth grade, but it feels like it . . . and I hated the sixth grade.”
She pushed herself upright. “Invite him to Crow Bar tonight.”
“Right. Look, it’s already been a rough day and—wait. Tonight?” I scattered through the chaos on my desk to find my phone. “How’d it get so late? I’m meeting my dad at Guero’s for dinner.” I gathered my notes, my computer, and my second computer and shoved everything into my bag. “I’ll never make it to South Congress on time. MoPac will be jammed.”
“Nathan? Crow Bar? Call him and see if he’ll meet you there after dinner.”
I started to leave, then stopped. “Is it obvious, Moira? No one else knows, do they?”
Moira had every right to laugh. I did sound like a sixth grader. Instead her eyes softened at the corners with sympathy or pity. “You’re safe. It’s me, Mary. I doubt anyone else would pick up on it.”
“Including him?”
“Definitely him. All shields are up and in perfect working order.” The humor didn’t reach her eyes or her voice.
As I walked away I felt her disappointment follow me.
“Safe isn’t always best, Mary,” she called out—vague enough not to raise listening ears, pointed enough to hit its mark.
I shot back. “But safe doesn’t get her heart ripped out twice in one day.”
Chapter 3
I inched down Texas State Highway Loop 1—known to locals as MoPac, after the Missouri Pacific Railroad that was there before the road. At ten miles per hour, I had plenty of time to replay every word, spoken and unspoken, from my walk with Nathan.
The sun had dipped to the horizon, but the heat hadn’t abated. It was late October and Austin hovered in the high eighties and low nineties.
I pulled into a spot a few blocks south of Guero’s, directly in front of Crow Bar, and crossed the street to the restaurant. As soon as I stepped inside, I spotted Dad’s cloud of white hair through the mass of people. He always reminded me a little of Albert Einstein, and I was secretly glad he never cut his hair short or even brushed it much.
He wore his usual white oxford with Davies Electric embroidered in red over the pocket, worn jeans, and Ropers. He stood to greet me, and I reached up and kissed him. He smelled of home—WD-40, Clubman, and Tide.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry I’m late.”
He twisted around me so I could take his stool. “You’re right on time. I put our name in about an hour ago. We should be up soon.” He nodded to the bar behind me. “I’ve been chatting with the bartender. Very nice fellow.”
The light glinted off Dad’s whiskers. They were scruffy, gray, and thinner than I remembered. He’d forgotten to shave again. He’d probably forgotten to eat today too.
“Have you gone through all those meals I made?”
Dad fought a grimace, and I almost laughed. I wasn’t a good cook. I wasn’t even a marginal cook. A friend had taught me five easy-to-freeze recipes a couple years ago, and whenever I was home I made double batches for my dad.
“Stop fretting,” he said. “And don’t let me forget—I made a new gizmo for you.”
“You did?”
“Wait until you see what it does. You’re going to love—” Dad stiffened, then his eyes lit. “That’s us.” He gently directed me in front of him to cut through the crowded bar.
Dad made me “gizmos” to solve small everyday problems or simply to make me smile. My favorite remained the toothbrush that self-dispensed exactly the right amount of toothpaste and timed my two-minute brush.
We sat at our table, and he opened his menu.
“Dad? What are you doing?” I pushed mine aside. “You never look at the menu at Guero’s. You always order the Chiles rellenos.”
“What, a man can’t branch out?”
I wagged my finger at him. “There’s something else going on here. Spill.”
His eyes darted up and down the long page, then he gave up and laid the menu and his glasses on the table. “Fine. You should accept Isabel’s invitation.”
I felt my lips part and my body slump against the chair.
“We already talked about this. You agreed with me.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“She called you, didn’t she?” I closed my eyes. I should have expected it.
Isabel, unquestionably my oldest friend, questionably my best, had called a couple months ago with an invitation for a “trip of a lifetime”—a costumed Austen-style adventure to Bath, England. And while aspects of it appealed to me, brought back pleasant memories rather than painful ones, I concocted a few excuses and politely declined.
When I’d told Dad about it, he’d agreed. Work comes first, two weeks is a long time for a vacation, having a new boss is a tough spot to be in . . .
What I hadn’t told either of them was the truth: I was tired, and on some level was easing my way out of my friendship with Isabel. Our relationship seemed to be stuck at age eight. The same dynamic charged between us—and that might have been fine, but somewhere in the last year it had darkened a shade and taken on an even more competitive edge than it had acquired in high school—which started over an incident regarding Austen too. So despite the temptation to hop on my first plane, take my first true vacation, and finally see something beyond the ninety-mile radius of my world, I’d said no.
That Isabel had rejected my decision and gone around my back to Dad should not have surprised me. That was standard operating procedure. She loved my father almost as much as I did. While her dad traveled to oil rigs and refineries around the world, mine was the one who had attended her parent-teacher conferences, picked her up from fie
ld hockey practice when she broke her ankle, and was the name she wrote down as her emergency contact every year. And if you want something, that’s what you do: you ask your dad.
“She needs you.” Dad leaned across the table and rested his hand on top of mine.
I could feel the calluses on his fingertips. I slid my hand to my lap.
“I’m not saying she can’t be a challenge. She lays claims to things and no one else can touch them, but remember, Mary . . . We had our problems, and God knows it was tough, but that little girl had it even harder. Her mama left when she was only six. Think of her life in England, her father traveling all the time, then uprooting her to bring her to the States but still constantly gone. She went home to a live-in nanny most nights of her growing-up years. Can you imagine that? You had your mama, you had me, and you had your brothers. Who held her when she cried herself to sleep? Who paid attention? No wonder real and make-believe got blurred.”
As much as I wanted to protest, I couldn’t.
Isabel had joined our second-grade class three weeks into school. With her bright-blue eyes, gorgeous black curls, and lilting British tones, she had every girl salivating to be her best friend. At lunch on that first day, Missy Reneker, the most popular girl in the class, with her Guess jean shorts and gladiator sandals, pushed me off the bench to sit with the new girl.
Isabel, without missing a beat and wearing the coolest Beatles T-shirt ever, grabbed my arm to pick me up and said, “Mary sits next to me.” That was it. Best friends. Even now, looking across this table twenty years later, I had to admit . . . It was pretty much the best day of my childhood.
Dad smiled with an odd mix of compassion and shame. He rubbed at a stain on the linoleum tabletop. “I’ll never forget how she helped you find all those pretty dresses. I had you working as an electrician’s assistant every summer, and your mama was too weak by then to do stuff, but Isabel made things fun. She made them pretty. Your brothers and I . . . We didn’t know how to do that. She even made the reservations and planned that party for your sixteenth birthday. Remember how she called all your brothers and told them to get their butts back home!”
The Austen Escape Page 2
