The Surfer Solution

by Cathy Yardley

  “You’re all dressed up,” she said. “You clean up awfully nice, Mr. Gilroy.”

  Which brought him back to the whole reason he was there...which effectively doused his ardor with a bucket of ice water. “Yeah, I’ve got an interview,” he said. “I just thought I’d see you beforehand. Sort of as an inspiration.” She blinked at him, and he swore she looked disgruntled. “I’m your inspiration for getting a job? Because of what I do?”

  “No,” he said, chuckling a little ruefully. “Because of what happens when my life settles down.”

  She still looked puzzled, then understanding dawned on her face and her brown eyes turned heated.

  “But you’re still more important,” he said. “Hell, I could reschedule or cancel the thing, if you want me here.”

  “No, I know how important this is,” she said, and he felt a little let down—realizing just how hard he was reaching for another excuse not to go to the interview. “But can we go surfing tonight?”

  After the interview, he felt sure he’d need to. And the thought of Allison in the water, and surfing, was like being wrapped up in a comforting blanket. “Definitely.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her voice low and husky. “You always make me feel better, you know that?”

  He sighed, cuddling her against him, and the warmth in his chest had nothing to do with the fact that she was pressed against him. Or rather, everything to do with it, but not in any way he would’ve imagined.

  “I guess you’ve got to go,” she said finally, the regret in her voice mirroring his own.

  “Yeah,” he said, but before he could completely pull away, she got up on tiptoe and kissed him, harder than she had when he’d walked in initially.

  He groaned and leaned into her, feeling the soft silkiness of her lips beneath his. His fingertips dug into her waist, pulling her tighter to him. Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, gratified to hear her soft moan of approval.

  “Allison, Frank says you’ve got to...” Gary said, first knocking directly on the door. Then, just as abruptly, his voice stopped as he took in the scene, and he retreated, shutting the door quickly.

  Allison and Sean broke apart, staring at each other. “You’ve got to go,” she said, her breathing uneven and ragged.

  “Right.” It took Sean a minute to get his brain back on track and remember why he had to go anywhere but here, with this woman who made him silly. “Yeah.”

  “And I’ve got to go.”

  “’Course.”

  “But I will definitely see you later,” she said, and her voice rang with promise.

  He couldn’t help it. He leaned down, kissing her one last time, like a man leaving for war or something. “Count on it,” he whispered, then forced himself to walk out the door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALLISON’S BLOOD was still buzzing from the kiss as she made her way to Frank’s office, her arms overloaded with posters. Kissing Sean in her office was a dumb idea, no doubt. Still, she had to admit, it had taken her anxiety down a few notches.

  She liked the way he winked at her, she thought. She liked the way he smiled. He reminded her of being on the ocean, not surprisingly. As immense and chaotic as it was, there wasn’t anything complicated about actually being on the ocean. When she was out on the waves, feeling the water beat against her and the wind stroke her face, she felt free, like some kind of sprite or spirit or wild animal. Not like somebody trying to claw her way out of her own life.

  She almost tripped as the last bit of that thought cleared up for her. Good grief. Was that what she was really feeling?

  So why the hell am I staying here?

  She thought of her parents. Of the way they listened so raptly to Rod’s stories, and to Beth’s law tales. It just seemed like such a long time since she’d felt special. It might seem pathetic, it might seem dumb, but just once, just once, she wanted to be the one that got that praise. The one they thought had really “made it.”

  How could she live like that? How could anyone live like that? Were those her only options: get promoted, or die?

  There has to be another way.

  She never would’ve thought of it if she hadn’t started surfing lessons, and now that she had, she might be crazy but there had to be more to life than this single-minded pursuit of pursuing. She had to get off this nutso thing.

  As Sean would say, she was “hamster wheeling.”

  Frank was staring at her as she put everything down on his desk, so he must’ve caught the grin that spread at the thought of Sean. “You’re smiling. You must’ve nailed it. Tell me you nailed it.”

  “Nailed what?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The presentation. Got all the changes.” He sat at his desk, leaned back, looked at her expectantly. “Come on. Wow me.”

  She suddenly felt like... well, like a stripper, she thought, abjectly horrified.

  “Frank, how long have I worked for you?”

  ‘Two years.” He fidgeted, his irritation clear. “I take it I’m not about to be wowed.”

  “How often have I been able to wow you?” she asked instead. “Seriously. That you remember.”

  He frowned. “Up until the past few weeks, kid, you’ve always, always, always wowed me with your work.”

  “Yeah, but how often have you told me that?” she said. “Before whatever presentation we’ve had to do was done? Or even after, for that matter?”

  He paused, thoughtful. “Is that what this is all about? You think I don’t appreciate you?” He rubbed his left temple with his fingertips. “Come on, Allison, you know what this business is like. If I haven’t complimented your work, then I’m sorry. I know, I’m hard on people I work with. But after the work’s done, you know that I tell everyone how stellar your work was. I don’t take credit that’s not mine. I don’t screw anybody over.”

  “I know that,” she said, and meant it. Frank might be monomaniacal, but he wasn’t unfair.

  “So, could you please tell me if what you’ve been going through lately is a mental aberration?” Frank said, crossing his arms. “Or is it all stemming from this ‘you don’t bring me flowers anymore’ crap? Because if it is, frankly, you’re in the wrong line of work. If you want strokes every time you do what we pay you to do, you’re better off someplace else.”

  She winced. “Nicely put,” she said softly. “Let’s just chalk it up to mental aberration, then.”

  He stared at her, as if he was testing her response. Then he sighed heavily. “Sit down. Let’s talk about it.”

  She sat down, if only to get over the shock. Talk about it? With Frank? Since when had he gone all paternal?

  Somebody must’ve had a sit-down with H.R. recently, she thought uncharitably.

  “Come on, spill. Are we talking gambling debts? Family problems? Boyfriend issues?” He leaned back, with the same sort of look of expectation he’d sported when asking for the presentation. She got the feeling he wanted her to “wow” him with the extent of her inner turmoil, and almost giggled nervously. “I’m all about listening. Doctor’s in.”

  “What if I just said work problems?” she asked curiously, hesitantly. He did seem to be inviting comment.

  “Well, I thought we just ruled out me,” he said. “Is it me? I mean, honestly, you can tell me. Is it something I’m doing? Besides not telling you often enough that you’re doing a good job? You’ve got to let a guy know these things. It’s all about communication.”

  She sighed this time, sinking into the chair. “It’s not just your lack of appreciation, really. It’s a combination of things. It’s hard—you have this streak of perfectionism that’s absolutely impossible to live up to. I think that’s what leads to your strangely intense desire to micromanage.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she gasped. She had never spoken that way to a boss. Good grief, she’d never even spoken that way to a co-worker. What had happened to her?

  Sean. Surfing. Both had “happened” to her.

  Fra
nk spluttered and coughed. His eyes bulged out. “Remind me never to have a heart-to-heart with you again.”

  “Well, you asked," she muttered, realizing immediately that he’d just asked to show he was a good manager… not because he actually expected her to say anything negative whatsoever, since he was perfect.

  “I didn’t ask you to rip out my heart with a salad fork!”

  “You’re a tough guy, you can take it,” she said, trying desperately for a note of humor. “I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s just...I’ve been really stressed, Frank. And doing this stuff over and over again, when there’s really nothing wrong with it, is not helping my mental state one bit.”

  He was still obviously ruffled. “I see. So you’re feeling a little put out because I want things just right?” he said, with a defensive snap.

  “You might call it ‘just right,”’ she said gently. “But I think a jury of my peers would say it’s starting to cross into cruel and unusual.”

  He scrunched down into his chair. “What, did you get a refill on your prescription of honesty pills or something?”

  She sat silently, miserable.

  “Well,” he said, and he coughed for a second. “Have you always felt this way?”

  “Honestly, Frank, I don’t know,” she admitted. And slowly, in fits and starts, she admitted everything. The anxiety attacks, the doctor’s orders. She left out the bits with Sean, the private stuff, but everything else got thrown into the mix.

  He grew pale as her story continued. Finally, he rubbed his hands over his face. “Allison, why didn’t you tell me you were cracking up?” He sounded more than unhappy. He sounded angry.

  “Would you have told your boss?” she shot back.

  “Listen, I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he said, and to his credit, his voice did sound sincere. “But...well, you know how important this account is,” he said.

  “Yes, I—”

  “So you know why I’m going to have to take you off of it,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  He continued forward, barely looking at her, his mind obviously going a mile a minute. “I just need to see if Peter or Kate can take over. Thank God you had them working on your team.”

  “Wait a minute!” she said. “Listen, I told you what I’ve been doing. I told you that I can handle this. I—”

  “No, you’ve just proven to me that you can’t handle this,” he said sharply. “I can’t afford to screw this up. Sure, it’s an account sup job for you, but this is a vice presidency for me, Allison. And much as I like you personally...” He shrugged. “Well. This isn’t personal and I have to think about the bottom line.”

  “So. I’m off the account?”

  “As of right now,” he said. “Hey, you’ve got New Year’s coming up. Might as well take a day or two off.”

  “Take a day or two off,” she said woodenly. So she could think about the fact that, in her honesty, she had just thrown away everything that she had worked toward in her whole career in advertising. Just focus on that.

  “You could even go home early today, if you wanted,” Frank added. Like this was some sort of added incentive.

  She got up, feeling numb. There was no way she was going home. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

  The only place she could go where she might feel better did occur to her.

       

  “SEAN?”

  Sean stood up. “Yes?”

  The guy, Gabe’s head of marketing or something, was wearing a blue shirt and khakis. He looked like the poster child for business casual. He seemed nice enough. Sean wondered if he’d bumped into the guy surfing—he seemed vaguely familiar, Sean thought as they shook hands.

  “I have to say up front, I learned how to surf and got all my gear at Tubes, back in the day,” the guy said.

  Sean narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry. What’s your name, again?”

  The guy laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me that you don’t remember me. Steve...Steve Milton.”

  “Stevie?” Sean goggled. “Didn’t you just graduate from high school?”

  Steve laughed a little ruefully as he looked around. “Uh, it’s Steve now,” he said, and Sean immediately felt bad for blurting out the guy’s childhood nickname. But Stevie— Steve—had to be about twenty-four. If that. Sean remembered selling him his first board, with his dad.

  Good grief. Am I that old? Sean felt completely awkward as he walked into Steve’s office. “Sorry,” he reiterated as Steve shut the door. “I guess it’s just been a while.”

  “Yeah. You’ve been at Tubes forever. I was actually pretty surprised when Gabe told me you wanted to come work here,” Steve said, sitting down at his desk. Despite the corporate casual and the desk, Sean still couldn’t help superimposing the mental picture of the twelve-year-old over the man who might be his boss.

  This was going to go badly. Sean could just tell.

  “So. Mind if I ask why?”

  Sean forced himself to focus. “Why what, exactly?”

  “Why do you want to come work for Lone Shark?” Steve definitely sounded older, and on the ball. He crossed his arms. “It’s a lot different than retail. Not to say that the experience won’t translate over. Just...well, I’ll let you do the talking.”

  Do you have to? Sean squirmed internally. “I just feel like it’s time for a change,” he said, wishing he’d taken Gabe up on his offer to coach him for the interview. “I think I can offer a lot to Lone Shark.”

  “Like what, exactly?”

  Steve wasn’t trying to grill him. It sounded like a perfectly innocuous question. So when Sean started sweating, he wondered if maybe he was blowing things just a smidge out of proportion.

  Get a grip, Gilroy!

  He felt a nervous bubble of laughter. “Well, let’s see. I have been a surfer around here since I was maybe eight. I’ve worked at Tubes since I was sixteen. I’m offering a lot of job loyalty. And I know surf gear, so Gabe thought that I’d work out well in helping with your distribution. I know surf stores and what works for them, like the back of my hand.”

  Steve nodded thoughtfully. “This would require a lot of travel. Are you okay with that?”

  “Uh...” Unbidden, a mental picture of Allison snapped into his mind before he could dispel it. “I suppose so.”

  “Okay. You wouldn’t really be in marketing, you’d be more in sales.”

  “So, I need to provide my own checked jacket and get a personality transplant?”

  Steve did not look amused. Sean cleared his throat, embarrassed.

  “It’s not like that,” Steve said, just this side of prim. Mrs. Tilson would be duly impressed, Sean noted. “We don’t really have anything in marketing, and besides, you’ve been working in sales for the past sixteen years, basically. It’d be much better for you to learn the ropes that way.” He sounded faintly snide. “I mean, I know I’m young, but I do represent the sales force for Southern Cal.”

  “How long have you been working at this?” Sean asked, crossing his arms. He’d sold this kid his first wet suit. He didn’t need to be talked to like he was an moron!

  Steve frowned. “I don’t see that it’s that important. The important thing is, Gabe’s trusting me to build a sales team. And that’s what you’d be a part of.”

  Sean was pretty sure that Gabe was just pitying him at this point. The really pathetic thing was, working for this punk kid, driving around to different surf shops, malls, would probably pay a hell of a lot more than he was getting paid now.

  The thing was, he liked what he did now. He liked helping people get the right gear. He liked talking to surfers. And while most of the people who owned surf shops were surfers, he didn’t want to talk selling points or anything like that. He wanted to talk to real people.

  “So, what do you think I’d be best suited to doing?” Sean asked, a little challenge in his voice.

  The kid looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, you’d have
a small territory to start. Then we’d see how you did.”

  Would we, now? Sean felt a spurt of irritation.

  “So. How about I let you know sometime after the first of the year? And just so you know, there’d have to be a trial period before anything became permanent.”

  Sean sighed. Thought of his apartment, his decrepit truck. Thought of Allison, again.

  “Sure,” he said, although it was like talking through a mouthful of overcooked oatmeal. “Why not?”

  Steve looked a little taken aback by Sean’s distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Well then. I look forward to it.”

  Sean shook his head and ignored the clamoring of his gut. He needed this, he reminded himself as Steve went through the company’s mission statement, key objectives and expectations for all employees, prospective and otherwise, the whole nine yards.

  “You’ll be fine,” Steve assured him.

  Sean thanked him, then headed out to his pickup. He suddenly, abruptly, felt the need to go out into the surf. If only to feel clean again.

       

  ALLISON TOOK A DEEP BREATH as she surveyed the surf. She’d already checked her handy tide table—she was back at the easy part of the beach, where the waves weren’t so harsh. She was wearing her wet suit and had her board out. The beach was relatively deserted. She was ready, and she couldn’t seem to move.

  Well, there’s something therapeutic about just sitting and watching the waves.

  She shook her head. She was making excuses, she realized. In a nutshell, she was “punking.” Oh, how far the mighty had fallen.

  Just because Sean isn’t here doesn’t mean you can’t get out into the water.

  Although Sean always did tell her to be careful. She could always rely on that, she said. She ought to be careful. Maybe she should wait until later that afternoon, when they had their rescheduled lesson.