by Jess Bentley
He’s already started on his porterhouse, with a sloppy triangle carved through the steaming flesh on one side. As soon as Maxwell and I sit, a waiter arrives with two more matching plates of what have to be sixteen-ounce steaks. It’s absurd, but it is also kind of a tradition. Maxwell murmurs his scotch order, and I ask for a gimlet. It’s not quite a girly drink, but it’s also not quite a manly slug of firewater either.
To my surprise, Maxwell immediately takes his iPad from his satchel and asks Isaac if he would like to see the properties we have available for his medical practice. Isaac chews thoughtfully, his cheeks crinkling with amusement.
“I heard you were all brass tacks,” Isaac says after a healthy swallow. “Right to business, eh?”
Maxwell swipes past the first few listings, serious and professional but friendly.
“Well, lunch is on you, right?” he jokes. “I don’t want to tie up your afternoon.”
Isaac smirks at me, winking patronizingly. “You have another set of listings?”
My gimlet arrives and I twist the stem of the glass between my fingers thoughtfully. “Actually, the same listings,” I smile blandly. “Maxwell has you covered.”
That was enough of a response to direct his attention back to Maxwell. They continue chatting, swiping back and forth between listings, discussing the pros and cons of each. This is work I would normally be doing, and it is nice to sit back and just drink my stupidly expensive lime juice and gin cocktail and watch Maxwell work.
He really is quite good at this, I have to admit. He pivots easily between making suggestions and listening receptively to Isaac’s requests. After a little while, I come to appreciate that Maxwell is directing Isaac’s attention in a strategic way. He is getting Isaac closer and closer to an elusive target, with the promise that we can fulfill his business needs.
“Yes, you could go with the Near North Side location,” Maxwell finally announces, expertly swallowing that last bite of steak.
I’m not really sure where he puts it, since he is so trim. Maybe a low-carb eater? Paleo? With those shoulders, could I even hope for CrossFit?
“But like you said,” Isaac agrees thoughtfully, peering at the surface of the iPad as he downs the last swallow of his scotch, “the complex near the U of I campus makes a lot of sense too. It’s something to consider. I’m glad you brought it up.”
Maxwell’s eyes crinkle, the expression I’m getting to know as a tiny, silent look of victory. Not a bragging expression, but something that is definitely conscious of the advantage he has just taken.
“Best thing for us to do is to go through them,” Maxwell suggests casually as he pulls the brokerage contract from his satchel. “This Friday work?”
Isaac takes the contract and just signs it, right there, stabbing the pen forcefully at the end of the line with a flourish of his signature. That’s it. The deal is as good as done. In just one lunch.
“Friday is perfect,” Isaac agrees as he takes the check from the waiter.
“No, let me get that,” Maxwell smirks. “That was just a joke. You know lunch is always on us.”
Maybe it is the gin, or maybe it is the beautiful lunch, but I can really appreciate Maxwell’s skills right now. Maybe he’s not just another thick-necked frat bro with an overinflated ego. His negotiation here was so smooth, it was practically invisible.
“You know what? I’m going to let you do that,” Isaac laughs as he wipes the corners of his mouth. He seems to think that he ended up on top of this agreement too.
As Maxwell slides a black card onto the silver tray to pay the bill, he scowls and squints at the face of his cell phone. Suddenly his attention is diverted and when the waiter returns with the receipt for him to sign, it takes him an awkward few seconds to finish up.
“Really looking forward to working with you,” I add, hoping to cover for Maxwell’s rudeness.
I realize I haven’t been very useful at this meeting, but Isaac smiles at me anyway. Those three glasses of scotch probably don’t hurt too much.
“Yeah, Clarissa will join us on Friday,” Maxwell announces abruptly as he stands.
He passes the paper contract to me and steps away from the table.
“Can you get the addendums to Isaac’s office this afternoon? We will need all that for Friday,” he asks me, suddenly cold and officious. Then he turns back to Isaac and extends a hand to shake it. “Okay! See you then!” he announces before hurrying from the restaurant.
I’m left with Isaac, sort of startled at Maxwell’s sudden rudeness but not completely shocked. This was a classic Greg move as well: grab all the glory, leave me with all the paperwork. I smile gamely at Isaac as though I’m just thrilled to death to have the opportunity to run back and forth between our offices and get the rest of the signatures today.
“Can I circle back to your office this afternoon at about 2:30?” I ask, careful to make sure my resentment doesn’t show.
“Certainly, certainly,” he nods, but he’s already distracted too. Now I’m just the assistant and completely beneath his attention.
The lunch rush is in full swing now, and I slip from the restaurant practically unnoticed, back to my office to assemble the remaining paperwork. It isn’t my job to be a messenger too, but a hired messenger would add hours to this process anyway. It’s just simpler for me to handle it, I guess.
As I go over the forms, I quickly change the templates from Greg’s name to Maxwell’s. I know all the forms by heart. Down where it says “Head Broker” I consider putting in my own name… but I don’t. Greg always instructed me to leave my name out of it. I’m not sure Maxwell will feel the same way, but… Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it will be the same.
Chapter 3
Maxwell
As the Lyft driver weaves in and out of lunchtime traffic downtown, I clench my molars together and remind myself that in the big picture, this is not a big deal.
Yes, I look like a jerk for dashing out of the restaurant right at the end. I couldn’t help but see the look on Clarissa’s face, especially because over the course of the lunch it seemed like I had really made an impression on her. I didn’t make her take the lead, I didn’t talk over her, and I maneuvered Isaac into a near-effortless contract signature.
It was very close to a complete professional and personal victory, right up until the moment Zella texted me “911.”
At that, I had to make my exit. Terrible timing, but 911 could be anything. Zella’s mother has had some issues since her hip replacement—though we are not supposed to call it that, lest the society pages get wind of it. Zella herself can be a bit on the dramatic side. But we did agree to remain friends, and 911 means emergency.
As my cab slides quickly between Gold Coast townhomes, I see Zella and her mother standing under the elm tree by the curb, smiling and laughing. My stomach tightens immediately.
“Oh, Maxwell!” Zella’s mother, Judith Hews, calls out in exaggerated relief as I tip the driver and mount the curb. “You didn’t have to come so quickly! It’s fine! Absolutely fine!”
She positions herself defensively between Zella and me, a manipulative maneuver that I know only too well. Zella smiles coquettishly and clutches Turtle, her bichon frise, to her chest.
“Good afternoon, Judith,” I say evenly as I approach, accepting her chaste kiss to my cheek out of habit.
She withdraws immediately, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, you just reek of scotch!” she exclaims. “I hope you are not slacking off on the job already!”
“Stop, Mom!” Zella giggles against Turtle’s fluffy white years. “Maxwell wouldn’t do that, and it’s none of our business anyway!”
Judith shrugs like a teenage girl. It’s both one of her most charming and most annoying aspects. Both of them, really, seem to exist in this never-ending space of girlish mannerisms that do not age. Zella used to complain that her mother’s forced ideas of femininity made her feel old-fashioned and constrained. But I guess they took root, anyway.
In
any case, they both seem far too happy to see me.
“You said there was an emergency?” I begin awkwardly.
“Oh, that!” Zella chirps nervously. “No, we’re fine now! Poor Turtle, here, the naughty scamp!”
Judith leans toward me as though divulging a secret as she lays her fingertips lightly on my shoulder. “We nearly lost him!” she says with her eyes widened dramatically.
I glance at him with alarm. He licks his lips disinterestedly.
“Oh, not that!” Zella laughs. “She means the new dog walker! He was gone for just ages! We thought he was lost!”
Again I feel my jaw tightening. “That is… why you texted me?”
“We thought he was lost!” Zella repeats as though the first time was unclear.
Turtle wriggles in her arms and she places him on the sidewalk. He trots over to the elm tree and lifts one leg to pee on it. Drawing my cell phone out of my pocket, I shade the screen with one hand as I open the app for Lyft again.
“Oh, you don’t have to go so soon,” Judith purrs.
Zella blinks innocently behind her. The Lyft driver hasn’t even made it onto Michigan Avenue yet, and is only one minute away.
“Looks like I do,” I correct her as politely as possible.
“New assistant not working out?” Zella asks shrewdly, smacking her lips together in a sympathetic noise that I know is anything but.
“No, she’s fantastic,” I answer abruptly as the car rolls up behind me. “Have a wonderful day.”
I can feel their eyes on me as the car pulls away, but I can’t bring myself to look back, or even wave. I know we said that we would remain friends since our parents do so much business together, but I’m starting to wonder if this makes a lot of sense. Even if she had lost her dog… That’s an emergency? Maybe for someone. Maybe for her new boyfriend or whoever. But not for me. Definitely not for me.
Clarissa’s paperwork is, of course, completely flawless. Isaac’s signatures are flagged with little colored sticky notes so I can find them easily. After flipping through the papers, looking for something to request or correct or replace just to be useful, I find myself calling her extension with a smile on my face.
“This is Clarissa,” she answers immediately.
It’s funny this office still has phones on desks. They even have curled cords on the handsets. Cords! Like it’s 1998.
“Good morning,” I murmur, suddenly tongue-tied. It occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve spoken on the phone.
“Oh, hello,” she continues, her tone cooling noticeably.
I can practically hear the warmth draining away. Compared to her attitude at the lunch with Isaac Nelson, this is a totally different kind of communication. Then again, I ended on a noticeably unprofessional note, probably well below her standards.
“I, um, got the paperwork for Nelson’s contract. Are the listings all set up for today?”
“Of course,” she answers immediately, as though that was a stupid question. Which it was.
“Okay, so…”
“I will meet you in the lobby in five,” she sighs impatiently.
“Sounds good,” I finish strongly, trying to cover for my own awkwardness.
Great. It isn’t that I need her approval, or that I require her respect, but I sure wouldn’t mind it. I can see why she drove Greg nuts. Her disapproval is quite profound.
As we walk to the parking garage, I can see the stiffness in her posture and stubborn set of her jaw. Still, it doesn’t diminish the beauty of her honey-colored waves as her hair brushes the tops of her shoulders in the sunlight.
She’s wearing a powder-blue suit with cropped trousers and cute loafers that expose her slender ankles. I am a good six inches taller than her, and can see a sliver of cleavage every time her silk blouse brushes over her breasts. I wonder if women know that tall men can get a great view of their cleavage when they get dressed in the morning, or if this is purely accidental. I’m sure she didn’t dress to impress me, so I can only assume it’s an accident, or it’s for someone else’s benefit.
The attendant spots me before we reach the parking garage and I see him dash from his chair. By the time we reach the end of the driveway, my car is idling next to the curb. One of the perks of working for Lou is getting some of these old-fashioned benefits, such as a designated parking spot and valet. It’s probably been with the company for fifty years. It would be almost impossible to buy this kind of service these days.
“This is it?” she murmurs as she eyes the Tesla shrewdly.
I can hear the admiration in her voice. It’s an expensive car, as well as environmentally responsible, if you are into that sort of thing. Plus it’s beautiful and sleek. The midnight-blue paint job sparkles in the morning light.
The valet opens the passenger door and she slides in, her fingers reaching unconsciously to stroke the dashboard. But by the time I climb into the driver’s seat, she has regained her composure.
She is not going to make this easy on me, that is for sure.
She barely talks at all as we head south toward the University of Illinois campus. Cradled in the bucket seat, she knuckles her chin and stares out the window. Finally, she pulls her iPad out of her leather briefcase and swipes the screen to wake it up. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her thumbing through the listings we will visit today.
“So… paperwork good?” she finally asks in a clipped tone.
I am happy to agree and tell her so, but can’t help but notice that the temperature inside the car drops about 10 degrees immediately.
“Well, it was perfect,” I say for the second time, confused by her reaction.
But she shifts in her seat, turning her shoulders away from me. What the hell did I just say? The paperwork was perfect. She should know that.
This makes no sense. Obviously she is competent… probably even more than I am, if I am honest. And I have been nothing but polite here, right? If I rack my brain, I can not come up with any major missteps. Nothing that should have her treating me like I’m covered in leprosy lesions or anything like that.
What did I do? It’s maddening. It’s like she doesn’t even realize that I got her this job. She wasn’t going to get anywhere suing the company. She’s a million times better off than she was. You’d think she would give me a thank you or something.
But no. Icy stares. Cold shoulders. No matter what.
And actually, why do I even care?
I definitely should not care. After all, the work is getting done. That should be enough. It’s not like I’m looking for Fred to get warm to me, right? Then I shouldn’t expect it out of Clarissa either.
Of course, there is a small difference between them. One I should probably push right out of my mind.
We finally reach the office park, and I pull in and park right next to Isaac’s roadster. Guys like him always have cars that are way too young for them.
He is wearing a baseball cap and white Nikes, another strange convention of multimillionaires in Chicago. They seem to want to let you know that they could be drafted for the Bulls at any time. He grins and waves hello, careful to shake Clarissa’s hand first. Then he shakes mine, hard, and looks around with a thoughtful groan, as though weighing something mentally.
“This is it, eh?”
“Should be everything you need,” I assure him.
We walk around the property and do the usual things, checking room sizes and looking for evidence of water damage or mold. The last tenants took excellent care of the place. It was a high-end cosmetic surgery group, and they made several improvements.
But I can tell that he is not entirely convinced, so at the end of the tour when he rubs the back of his neck and twists his mouth sideways, I can practically read his mind. I know what is coming.
“I’m just not sure,” he admits.
Clarissa immediately takes action, strolling around the perimeter of the reception area as though she is his wife or girlfriend, who is a decision-maker on the pr
oject. It is a surprisingly effective bit of salesmanship, and I admire her for doing it. Isaac falls immediately into her thrall, his eyes tracking every move of her strong, elegant limbs. I realize suddenly that the slyly exposed bit of cleavage is not for my benefit. It was for his.
“I don’t know, Isaac,” she simpers. “I think this is pretty close to perfect, to be honest. You could see a lot of business from the University, maybe research?”
“Yeah, well…” He glances at me, and his expression changes to guilt as he shrugs. “If I am honest, I saw another property yesterday that had some pretty good attributes as well.”
Clarissa stops strolling and glances at me, her eyes narrowed. She and I both know what is up.
“Yeah…” Isaac continues. “Greg showed me a loft on the Near West Side. What can I say? It had a certain… something…”
I press my lips together, but stop myself from saying anything because Clarissa steps forward.
“You know what?” She suddenly smiles. “Greg has some great ideas. And I hear what you’re saying about this place, but you can keep an open mind, right?”
He smiles, slightly confused and cautious. But she is turning on the charm full blast, and in a few moments, he visibly relaxes.
“That’s what holistic healing is all about, right?” he chuckles.
She bounces on her toes and grins as though the deal is already settled. “Okay, how about this? Let me show you one more property, okay?”
He cringes and shrugs. “I already saw the listings—”
“This wasn’t on the list,” she breathes, as though conveying a secret. “Just trust me. Can I drive?”
I realize she is talking to me. “Oh, of course,” I stammer.
Without another word, Clarissa strides between us, leading the way back out of the office park. I follow her almost at a jog, catching Isaac’s eye for a conspiratorial shrug. He seems game for the mystery, so I guess we are all right.
