by Arden, Susan
On wobbly legs, she returned to bed. A reprieve for ten minutes. And she’d make a concerted effort to restart her morning.
Sam made it as far as her office before she had to bolt into her private washroom. She exited, and noticed Marcia standing in the doorway.
Marcia walked into the office and over to her. “You’re so pale. Is everything all right?”
“Feels like a stomach flu.” She grimaced. “Don’t you just love Mondays?”
“Let’s try some tea to settle your stomach. Should I reschedule your meeting with your father?”
Sam held up her hand. “No, I’ll be fine. I can’t cancel. Our meeting stands as scheduled. You know how he is, and I’d rather get through it today than wait.”
Marcia slid the doors back from the kitchenette in the corner of the office and pulled out a box of teabags. “Yes, enough said.”
“Thank you, Marcia. You’ve always been extra nice to me, even when I was a small child…” Sam’s voice trailed off. She refocused on the computer screen and clicked on the email icon. Her gaze scanned meeting notes, Monday morning property updates, and a memo from her father.
Marcia set the steaming cup on Sam’s desk. “Here you go. This should help, but be careful. It’s hot. If you need me to, I can arrange an appointment with your doctor. I’m sure we can get you in today.”
Sam picked up the tea cup. “No, let’s wait and see what happens.”
Marcia wagged a finger at her and smiled. “Very well, but if you start to feel worse, I’m calling the doctor. We can’t have our VP ill. Your father would have my head.” She marched to the door and closed it behind her.
She returned to scanning down the list of emails, suddenly stopping when she came to one from Rob. Her fingers trembled over the mouse. She’d already received one stark email from him, which he had copied to her father, stating they could expect receipt of the proofs later that week. If Rob was avoiding her, she figured she should take the hint if she had any sense whatsoever. Regardless, she didn’t have his business card, and Rob hadn’t included a telephone number in the message.
Frozen, her finger hovered over the mouse. Secretly, she hoped her intuition was wrong and this wasn’t a short business message. But really, what would she do if he wanted to reconnect? Blindly run out the door didn’t seem like an option. Her heart beat a furious staccato as she clicked her mouse.
It took forever for the message to open. Jesus, could he have written less?
She read and reread the few words he’d sent, and noticed that there was an attachment. The photos. She clicked on the box, already convinced this was a bad idea.
Her screen filled with images of herself. Some were hardly recognizable. Several were artistically shadowed. Others were taken at the beach, even times she hadn’t realized he’d been snapping. Many images of her face were completely unfamiliar, as if the expressions were superimposed from another person. Open and smiling, some in motion, some downright…sultry. She remembered a few of her thoughts and a flash of heat rocketed over her body.
She kept scanning over the images. And yes, there were more than a few familiar expressions, affixed frowns detailing consternation, like when he’d asked her to hop up on her desk. It was the moment they first touched. Her whole body quivered suddenly.
Scrolling through his photographs, she relived the intimacy of each image. One drew her attention. A photograph of her against the glass, and it had captured Rob in the reflection off to the side. She touched the screen, tracing his outline.
In each photograph, he was on there. Hidden on the other side. Like right now, in her pain, he was on the other side. She had one option. To move on and forget what had happened.
Sam closed the file. And sat dry eyed, gazing out the wall of glass. At first, the coldness creeping through her body made her sit perfectly still and stare blindly at the sky beyond her office. Jesus. She shouldn’t do this. Her cousin would say she’d turned into a sorry sack of shitty shit.
She turned her gaze toward her computer screen, clicking shut the photographs. All the message really said was that if she or her father had questions, they should contact him via email. After today, he’d be out of the country indefinitely.
Indefinitely? What was that supposed to mean? Didn’t he have a cat? He’d probably have one of his friends take care of his cat. Men like Rob had hundreds of friends. And, oddly enough, she bet most of the women actually were his friends.
Two short emails and he’d cut all ties to any attempt at re-connecting. The thought stung worse than a puncture wound…straight to the heart. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.
It was over. No more thinking. That was Rob’s choice.
But not her choice. Never her choice.
She sniffed attempting to clear the stinging from her eyes.
Last.Time. One last time, she decided—a good cry. And then she’d go meet her father and deal with him.
Afterwards, it was time to push forward. “I won’t ever look back.” she vowed.
* * *
Sam knocked on her father’s threshold.
“Why so formal?” he asked.
“Dad, we need to talk.” It must have been her tone. He pushed back and looked over his glasses at her. She sat before him and gazed across his desk. “I’ve no intention of remaining in my position as vice president.”
Her father’s eyes widened as he peered back at her. It was one of the few times she’d witnessed him speechless. He stood up, took a few steps, then swung around.
“Sam, what do you imagine doing? You’ve known for years. This was the plan. I’ve groomed you for this position. You’re the only person who can act as my successor. This is nothing more than stage fright. You don’t want to step up because you believe you’ll make a mistake. Stop that thinking right now. No one’s keeping score. You’re doing fine. End of discussion.”
“No, Dad, that’s not it. I’m not interested in staying on.”
He stared at her for a moment before he gravely nodded. She watched as he ceremoniously walked over to the chair next to her and lowered into the seat. “Good lord, Sam. You’re just upset. I think this is a normal reaction to your mother’s passing.”
Her chest tightened at the mention of her mother. “No. That’s not it.”
She broke eye contact with him. Biting her already tender lip, she folded her hands on her lap. At the sound of his voice, she shifted her attention back to her father’s face.
“Sure it is.” His voice softened. “This has been hard. But everyone confronts death by reassessing their life. Even me. Do you think I’m untouched? I’m extremely thankful for what I have.” He patted her arm, casting his glance toward the floor.
In the middle of sharing his experience, her father removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. She could tell he was thinking something and needed a moment.
“Listen to this. I propose you take some time off. A week or more. Do a bit of writing. Travel to one of the resorts. It will be a working vacation.” He smiled, beaming at his own idea.
“Dad, I don’t need a vacation. You’re not hearing me. I don’t want to work here anymore. I’ve got…other plans for my life.”
“Like what?” he snorted.
“I’m going to write. It’s my dream to be a published author.” She wasn’t going to mention that she’d promised her mother.
“You’re not serious? His face darkened, his voice ramped up. “You’ll be penniless. What are you going to live on? That’s a romantic notion. Sounds more like a plot for a work of fiction, not a life plan.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, exhaling.
“All this time spent on educating you and training you, and now you’re going quit. Just like that. How much thinking actually went into this crack-pot idea? You didn’t even ask my opinion? What is this, some sort of afterthought? You have the audacity to simply stroll in here and tell me!” His face went from pink to bright red. Her father stood, towering over her a
s she remained seated. Sam had seen this before but not with her. Thwarted, he was well on his way to erupting. This wasn’t going to be pretty or nice.
She looked him in the eye. “I’ve got to live my own life.” she said calmly. “Would you rather I’d written a letter of resignation and emailed to you? I thought we could talk. Rationally.”
“You’re being selfish. You want to leave, try your hand in the wide world of writing. Well, missy, fine. Go right ahead,” he stormed, walking to his doorway. He turned to face her, his pointed finger stabbing the air. “You’ve got thirty minutes like everyone else who quits. You want to leave? Mark my words, you’ll find a remarkably different life than the one you’ve known. I can’t stop you. But I won’t support an ingrate.” He narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not asking for your financial support. Just your blessing.” She didn’t wish to argue with him and would not allow herself to be swayed. She left him standing in the middle of his office done in relaxing woodland hues, his voice raised, demanding that she return.
That’s what her life had been so far: luxurious in material surroundings, yet confusion in her identity. And even worse, an unrelenting mystery as to the person she could become. The finer things in life meant nothing if she continued to hide out, and avoid living her own life.
With every step back to her office, she cemented her vow to follow her dream, even if it meant closing one door in order to open another.
Loud footsteps now followed her down the hall. She turned into her doorway. Her father was behind her as she entered her office. He closed the door before he started up again.
“I want to remind you there won’t be many opportunities open to you out there. And all your assets will be frozen if you’re not part of World Travel. Those perks you enjoy, who do you think pays for them? You’d better reconsider all this foolishness right now before this mistake ruins our working relationship.” He stormed out; his voice boomed, demanding that Marcia come down to his office. Several minutes passed before Sam gazed up at him returning across the threshold, his brows knitted furiously.
“Here.” He shoved several sheets of paper into her hand. “Read it all. There’s a list of all your credit cards that will be closed. All your bank accounts will be frozen, and you’ll no longer have access to our resorts or properties. None of them. These changes will be effective immediately.” He leaned over her desk, glaring down at her. “As in the moment you step out of this office today. Is that what you really want?”
The only thing she owned outright was her car, and he couldn’t take the condo from her, at least not in the next twenty-four hours. She imagined in time, he’d employ the loop hole already in place. All it would take was service of process on her and then she’d have legal fees regardless of whether she agreed or not.
“Fine,” she said in a monotone. None of what he said mattered. If anything, he brought to light all the things that had kept her imprisoned in a state of confusion.
For a beat he blustered. “What? You still can’t see the idiocy in this idea of yours. I’m not backing down. You’ve thirty minutes. Same as anyone who resigns from World Travel. Your time has officially started.” Randall Cainwright III glanced at his gold wrist watch, then back up at Sam.
He motioned to the guard hovering in the doorway to come in. “Harold. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”
Marcia walked in carrying a box. She set it on her desk, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”
Sam didn’t want to refocus her father’s ire on Marcia and silently nodded her thanks. Her father’s cold perusal of her twisted his mouth into a taut line. His eyes narrowed, making the skin on his face tighten into an angry mask. She’d been privy to that expression. A callous veneer that he’d displayed to her mother on the few occasions when she’d stood up to him.
Sam flicked her gaze over at her father and he glared back at her. It looked like neither of them was going to back down. Sam hated that it had come to this, but if she didn’t stand up for herself at this moment, then she’d never do it. Even though her stomach felt as though it had been dropkicked, she had to forge forward. Her whole body trembled as she emptied her drawer.
The security guard stood at her doorway, as was standard operating procedure for any employee who was permanently leaving the company. She’d always thought it was a rather coldhearted way to treat someone, and now she was one of “them.”
She loaded the box while her father paced up and down in front of the panel of glass within her office. Sam took her parking pass out of her purse and put it on the desk, then glanced at Marcia.
She picked up the box and walked past her father over to Marcia. The two women silently hugged. “I’ll never forget you. Thanks for everything you’ve done,” Sam said.
Sam turned toward her father who had taken a position facing out the glass panel. “Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered.
She walked out of the office toward the elevator, with the guard in tow, and the two rode the fifty-two floors down to the lobby in silence. When the elevator doors opened, Sam was left behind.
Cynthia, on the other hand, glided off the elevator. Clicking her heels over the granite flooring, and then out of her father’s office building—and into her own life.
PART TWO
When in doubt, smile and make eye contact.
Names aren’t truly important.
Down deep, faces are what we remember.
Chapter 8
The next morning, and the next morning, and the next morning were no better variations of the Monday she’d stopped working with her father. Constant nausea and a killer headache persisted. But only the mornings posed a problem.
Once Cynthia was up and going, the one-two punch of the nausea and headache simmered down. By afternoon, her body began to slowly return to normal.
Or as normal as it could, considering her life was in a tailspin. Ever since leaving her job at World Travel, she refused to think of herself as Sam. No one, except to a few of her cousins used that nickname. She introduced herself as Cynthia Cainwright beginning with a new voicemail greeting on her cellphone. She’d already set up a lease for a modest apartment and revamped her resume. After today, her stress load should drop by a ton, and she was certain this pressure vice would ease up and she’d feel better.
She showered, and then dried off, patting the skin around her aching breasts, which felt oddly swollen. It was nearly time for her period, but something seemed off. She counted backward and her eyes opened wide. Oh, God. She was late. By two weeks. She was never late.
“No, no,” she told herself, hanging up her towel with shaking fingers. Missing the hook, she watched the towel fall to the floor as though involved in an out-of-body experience.
The nausea was compounded by the bittersweet memory of her passionate afternoon with Rob. That recollection was a white-hot poker in her mind, constantly stabbing at her heart, no matter how she tried to forget him.
She wrapped her arms around her middle. It was too easy to remember that they’d fallen asleep, and she’d woken up with Rob’s penis still deep inside her. She’d needed to use the bathroom, but she hadn’t wanted to wake him. Instead, she’d eased away from him and found that the condom had ripped.
Back at the condo with him, there simply hadn’t been time to discuss the condom, nor had she felt comfortable bringing up such an intimate concern. She’d naively figured the chances of becoming pregnant were not high.
The last few weeks, all she’d been capable of was going from day to day in the middle of the vortex that her life had become. There’d been other concerns in the middle of life falling apart and it had been easier to forget about the possibility of an unplanned pregnancy. Until this second, she’d not faced the fear of becoming pregnant. Alone. Now, she was truly alone. Rob was out of touch, out of the country, and out of her life.
She’d finally managed to accept that Rob was water under her bridge. Considering all she’d been through, it more than likely was her body reacting t
o her emotions. No way was she going to try to locate Rob to discuss the remote possibility of her being pregnant. Especially when this might be a condition caused by stress instead of torn latex.
All the while she was dressing, she employed several rounds of stern self-talk to get her head on straight and into a calm frame of mind. A controlled mode. Why expect the worst? She didn’t even know if she was pregnant and, until she did, she couldn’t allow a major ‘what if’ to gobble her time and energy.
Her plate was woefully full, and the thought of being pregnant with Rob’s child required more than she could bear at that moment. After a series of deep breaths, she finally let the thought go.
At ten o’clock, Tia Sonya and she were due at the probate attorney’s office. Her father had contested her mom’s will. At first, stunned Cynthia was too numb and penniless to fight.
Then her grief began to shift, or somehow sharpen in anger. Perhaps it was that her father had gone on an out-and-out mission in wanting to punish her for refusing to work for him. He’d sent letter-after-threatening-letter demanding her return and if not, then he’d seek legal recourse.
Well, she’d be damned if she’d simply let him twist her mother’s last wishes. In her mother’s life he’d dictated all too frequently what his wife could and could not do. For years, her mother had begged that she not intervene. She’d understood and respected her mom’s wishes.
Cynthia refused to step aside this time. Even if her father couldn’t understand her need to find her own identity and footing, there was no excuse for his actions. These were family heirlooms that he had no right to keep. For years, he’d harped about wanting to get rid of these precious knickknacks from her maternal grandparents as if they were in his way at home.
And some items were of sentimental value that reminded Cynthia of her mother, things he more than likely didn’t even know existed. Nothing he could possibly want, outside the fact that she’d expressed an interest. He had no right to claim these items, and she’d stand her ground, or aimed to, and had asked for her aunt’s help.
