Brave (Contours of the Heart Book 4)

by Tammara Webber

  Uh-oh bounced around inside my skull like an internal warning of an impending malfunction. I could already picture my boss’s tightly contained smile and shaking head. He was going to say no and keep saying no, and he would enjoy doing it; the rules were on his side. “I’ll have to run it by my supervisor before I can confirm—” I began, my brain speeding toward and discarding tactics that might change Isaac’s mind.

  “Of course, of course! These men build opulent, impressive homes, but they clearly lack the refinement essential to appreciate the magnitude of this fortuitous chance.” Did she—did she just play the fellow-woman card? “I can tell that you know just what to say to persuade whomever needs persuading.” Okay, so her woman card was a bit outdated and veering toward sexist.

  Leo had grown up in Southlake but had no concept of artistic refinement, and he only broke rules when they applied to him. Of course he’d said no. But why had Isaac Maat refused to listen to reason? He struck me as a thousand times more cultured than my brother—not that it would have been a difficult feat. Surely my supervisor could be made to see the advantage in approving the Andersons’ request? Even if it meant making me look right. Again. Ugh. He was going to say no so hard I would feel it.

  I gave myself a stern talking to. I could do this. I would do this.

  It was too early for celebration, no matter my burgeoning confidence in the outcome. “I’ll do my best,” I said, smiling into the receiver.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  Isaac Maat wouldn’t budge. “We have rules about things like this for a reason,” he said, wearing a satisfied, pig-in-shit smirk while issuing his we have rules decree. “He could damage the property.”

  I stood in front of his desk, my head tipping to the side in honest-to-God disbelief. “You think a brilliant, distinguished artist is going to damage a wall.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, up-down, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shrug both. “Our workers and city inspectors will be in and out of there every day toward the end of this project, finishing up, checking code compliance. Someone could damage his… art.” He made air quotes.

  He had a point, but I loathed disparaging air quotes, particularly where the derision was invalid. “So we’ll block it off. Screen it from the workers with plastic sheeting or something.”

  He shook his head, unmoved. “Nope. Sorry.” He was the most unsorry man on the face of the earth. “You’ll have to find some other way around this one. Maybe you can hypnotize one of the Andersons and instill an aversion to murals. Or pretentious artists.”

  Oh he did not. My mouth dropped open and I snapped it shut. I left his office without replying, convinced, now, that he was just dying for me to be wrong. I couldn’t prove myself right without the mural’s ultimate completion and he knew it, the jerk.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  That thing I said I would never do? I did it. I went over his head. I wasn’t proud of one-upping him like that, but desperate times, et cetera. I would wheedle into his brain later—if his head didn’t explode first—to figure out why he stubbornly continued to despise me no matter how well I did my job. I didn’t have time for that bullshit now. I was too busy impressing everyone else.

  I didn’t run directly to my father, who would undoubtedly hold the same unqualified, overly conservative opinion that Isaac, Hank, and Leo did, if not worse. Instead, I confided in Mom, who (hallelujah) knew the artist and immediately flipped out over the notion of him custom painting a one-of-a-kind mural in a JMCH home. Feeling a slight bite of self-reproach—even though it was for a good cause—I left her to it. I was Pontius Pilate washing his hands.

  “I don’t make a habit of butting in on these sorta decisions,” I heard my father say, while eavesdropping on my parents like a manipulative child who just set off a parental squabble to further her own conniving scheme. A scheme that will benefit everyone, I assured myself in an attempt to mollify my conscience. I could imagine Isaac Maat’s dark, narrowed eyes and clamped jaw of fortified steel. I swung between surging dread and the desire to laugh out loud, but the latter was less genuine glee and more hysterical surplus from the former.

  “Jeff, this is the definition of an extenuating circumstance! This isn’t a client who wants some would-be trompe l’oeil yahoo to sponge on a tacky faux texture. This is a client who’s chummy with a gifted contemporary artist. Do you want Jeffrey McIntyre to be known as the clueless hick who wouldn’t allow a highly acclaimed artist to contribute to the magnificence of one of his homes?”

  Wow, Mom, below the belt. On target, but damn.

  “Jesus, Cheryl—”

  “I’m sorry. But is it your company or not?”

  She was as not sorry as Isaac Maat, but Daddy must have just glared at her over his coffee before giving some sort of affirmative gesture because she continued.

  “Then simply tell this Isaac person that you’ve approved the exception. Done and done. You don’t have to explain yourself to an employee, especially one who isn’t even a direct report. Perhaps he needs to be reminded who the real boss is.” Shit. Mom was veering off course. “He’s the—you know—” Her voice lowered. “African American, right? Are you sure Erin should be working under him? Hasn’t Leo had trouble with him?”

  Oh. Hell. Leo was a boneheaded dipshit who had trouble with everyone. Isaac Maat and I just had a difference of opinion, and I had access to a higher authority, which I’d used.

  “Hank hasn’t had any problems with Isaac, and his opinion is the one I give a crap about. From what I hear, Erin is doing a bang-up job, but she’s still new. Her boss is a stickler for following rules. I like that in an employee.”

  “But you’ll veto his verdict on this.” Her tone made that a declaration, not a question.

  This exchange was the audible version of a rapid-fire game of Ping-Pong. Not the game we all played badly as children or drunken undergrads—more like unsmiling competitors in the Olympics and a match of furiously slammed white missiles that could put an eye out.

  He sighed. “Yes. If you feel this strongly about that artist doing that mural. If this isn’t about your little girl getting her way, or because he’s her supervisor and he’s— Some other reason.”

  “Of course it’s about the artist. What do you mean, some other reason?”

  “You know what I mean and how I feel about it. We’re not going there again. I always respected your father as a businessman, but we’re not going there again.”

  “Good Lord, Jeff, will you ever just move past that? It was more than thirty years ago and wasn’t even your decision – not really. You have nothing to feel guilty for.”

  “Drop it.”

  “The world is a different place now—”

  “Drop it.”

  A chair squealed across the kitchen tile, and I slinked back up the stairs, my brain churning. I should be ecstatic. I’d fought for my client’s perfectly reasonable request and won.

  But the rest of my parents’ conversation didn’t pertain to the client, or the artist, or the mural. What had happened more than thirty years ago and involved Grandpa Welch? What could it have to do with Isaac, who hadn’t been born yet?

  My grandfather was one of those old guys who said some racist shit sometimes, and you just hoped it was over Thanksgiving dinner and not out in public. But he had retired and become a silent partner long before Isaac came along, so he couldn’t have had anything to say about the one black man who worked at JMCH in a professional capacity. Right?

  chapter

  Eight

  Joshua Swearingen invited me to lunch. We were leaving the building at the same time, so he made it seem like no big deal—but his flirtatious half smile showed definite interest. Likelihood of persuading him to reveal any noteworthy workplace gossip: high. Also, he was sorta cute, and not my boss.

  “Why not?” I said, slipping on the mirrored shades I’d had to wear in my office some mornings before having a motorized shade installed in tha
t damned east-facing window. I’d felt like chicken under a broiler that first week, slathering sunscreen on my left arm and shoulder to prevent disproportionately dark freckles on one side.

  “Cool. I’ll drive.”

  Joshua turned to walk toward his SUV after that statement, a small but telltale indication that he might be one of those guys who preferred to dictate everything from the car to decisions about vacation destinations to how big his girlfriend’s ass would be allowed to grow before she was teased or scolded for it. If he thought I would tolerate that bullshittery, he was prowling up the wrong family tree. I was my mother’s daughter, and we didn’t take orders unless we wanted to. But I was curious enough to follow, plus my fuel gauge was behaving as if my little hybrid was running on fumes. Might as well waste his gas on in-town traffic instead of mine.

  “Sure. Where to?”

  He opened the passenger door of his shiny, metallic-blue Range Rover and leaned in to clear a Malouf’s shopping bag and plastic panini container from the passenger seat and a gym bag from the floor. Tossing everything into the back, he asked, “Sushi?”

  Dry cleaning hung on a hook behind the driver’s seat—starched pastel dress shirts and slacks with perfect creases. There were Starbucks cups of various sizes in every available cupholder and magazines—GQ and Men’s Health—crammed into the door pockets. It looked like he lived in his car.

  “Sounds good. I could use some Zen.”

  I was relieved that Zushi was close to the office given Joshua’s antagonistic driving performance on the short trip down the boulevard. Muttering rude asides about anyone going slower than he was, i.e. pretty much every driver on the same stretch of road, he cut people off right and left but got instantly riled if someone dared to move into his lane. I was reminded—and not in a good way—of ninety percent of the testosterone-fueled boys I’d dated in high school and college. So much for Zen.

  When I was fifteen and dating older boys, I didn’t want to be accused of being a grandma in the passenger seat. So I’d clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and held on to the door grip to brace for the eventual impact. But eventually I’d stopped worrying about wrecking my adventuresome persona and asked my dates to slow the hell down. Some grumbled or tried to sass their way out of yielding, but they shut it quick when I threatened to call my father to come get me—something I would have likely walked home before doing—but they didn’t know that and they’d all met Daddy or knew who he was.

  By college, that warning had become null and I switched gears accordingly.

  “Do you always drive like you’re in a live-action video game?” I’d asked a guy on our first date, after he’d NASCARed around everyone on 21st between DKR Stadium and my favorite pizza dive on Guadalupe. The ’Horns had trounced Nebraska 20-13, our first win after a couple of humiliating losses. It was time to celebrate with our collective group of boisterous friends. Chaz was tall, blond, and smoking hot, but his driving was scaring the bejeezus out of me.

  He’d smiled as though I’d paid him a compliment.

  Um. No.

  “Maybe you should get in the back seat and let an adult drive,” I’d snapped as he cut off some dude in a pickup who blared his horn and hollered obscenities.

  Instead of being offended, he’d laughed. “Don’t worry baby, I’m in complete control of this car.” He’d flashed a sexy smile that almost maybe might’ve worked. Then he ruined it. “I turn this wheel or hit the gas and she obeys.”

  “Ah, so your car’s an obedient, controllable female? Then maybe you can get freaky with her later tonight, because I won’t be getting back into this car unless you quit driving like a dick right now.”

  He’d slowed right down and snapped a chivalrous, “Yes, ma’am,” without a trace of sarcasm, and I’d never had to say another word about his driving.

  “Erin?” We were parked in front of Zushi, and Joshua was looking at me; I’d zoned out thinking about my college ex. Awesome.

  “You in there? Man, you do need some Zen.”

  I wasn’t going to find any Zen riding with this clown, but I hoped to ply him for intel on my boss so I could prepare for surefire backlash when he found out I’d outflanked him to get my way. For the Andersons, of course.

  “Sorry. Just debating how to handle an issue with one of my clients.”

  “The Andersons? The whole place is buzzing about the sorcery you’re working with our VIP PIAs.”

  He twirled his keyring as we walked toward the door, waited while I pulled it open, and entered in front of me. I couldn’t help comparing him to Isaac, who automatically opened doors, whether for me or Cynthia Pike or the UPS guy. My mother, who took being “ladylike” way too seriously, would have wondered aloud about Joshua Swearingen’s upbringing. I huffed a small sigh and reclaimed my feminism. I opened doors for myself all the time, for chrissake. Ordinarily men didn’t enter in front of me afterward, but whatever.

  “PIAs?”

  “Two,” he said to the hostess and then turned to me to clarify. “PIA—pain in the ass.”

  What a super classy way to describe our clientele. I thought of Wayne Jansen and Iris Hooper, “PIAs” to people like Joshua. To me, they were clients who needed a sympathetic ear.

  “I think most of them just want the beautiful home they were promised.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He winked like I’d just run a marketing line while simultaneously knowing it was categorical bullshit.

  Once we were settled at a table near the window, having ordered and run through small talk mostly focused on him, he returned to my earlier bait like a predictable guppy. “So this issue with a client. Wanna bounce it off me? Voicing it out loud might help you work toward a solution. Who knows? I might even be able to help.” He might have wanted to help—his complacent smile said he was certain he could—but he was practically salivating over the chance to exchange gossip about our wealthy, often eccentric clients.

  I leaned up, staring down at my colorful Oaklawn roll as though I was planning my chopsticked attack rather than hiding my eagerness to know why Isaac seemed to hate the sight of me. “They want to have some contracted work done in the house before it’s complete. It will all work out, I’m sure.” I shrugged and popped a spicy, caviar-topped piece into my mouth.

  “So Maat decided to be all hard-ass about it? That guy has such an giant ego.”

  I looked back down at my plate. I was exasperated with Isaac Maat. He had been tyrannical about the Anderson’s request. But Joshua made it plain, whether he meant to or not, that his dislike of my supervisor went beyond work.

  “He’s just a stickler for following procedure,” I said, echoing what I’d heard Daddy say. “I’m more of a think-outside-the-box sort of girl. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.”

  “When? You should reconsider a transfer to Sales. Cynthia would probably let Ashley or Megan go to make room for you, but I’m number one in sales, so I’m safe. No worries on that account.”

  Joshua’s loyalty to his coworkers: zero. He took my lack of response as deliberation.

  “I could, you know, show you the ropes, teach you whatever you need to know. I’m sure Maat would be glad to let us have you. He’s probably all wound up that you’re making the clients happy when he couldn’t.” He laughed. “You’re showing him up.”

  I thought of all the green-tabbed folders in my file cabinet—the dozens already there when I’d arrived—and felt unreasonably defensive of Isaac Maat, who wasn’t here to defend himself. “Most of the clients were perfectly happy before I came along,” I said, moderating my tone in hope of giving an impression of benevolent diplomacy rather than protectiveness I could not justify to myself, let alone anyone else. “Does he usually get his way?”

  “Maat?”

  I nodded.

  “Seems like it. I mean, he pisses off enough people.”

  Again, Hank had said the direct opposite. Had he played Isaac up to sell me on working for him, or was his difference of opinion the result of upp
er management bias toward educated, white-collar workers like themselves? I dismissed the former. Hank and Daddy wouldn’t lie to me about someone and then put me under his supervision. So either Hank was ignoring complaints about his chosen one, or Joshua was a jealous liar.

  “Can I try one of these?” he asked, lifting the largest piece of my sushi roll off my plate before I’d said yes.

  It was all I could do to keep from stabbing him in the hand. In my family, there was no compulsory sharing unless someone wanted to end up wounded. He popped the bite in his mouth and then swirled his chopsticks over his bento box.

  “Feel free to take anything you want from mine,” he added, as if that would absolve him of straight-up stealing part of my lunch.

  I don’t want yours or I would have ordered it, I thought, scooting my iced tea glass between him and my food. “No thanks. What do you mean by ‘He pisses off people’? I haven’t heard that from anyone else.”

  I was starting to think the only people who didn’t like Isaac were Joshua… and me. As much as I found Isaac judgmental and condescending, no one else—Joshua aside—remarked on it. Which just meant that Isaac didn’t like me. But why? Oh my God. Was that my only real problem with him? That he didn’t like me? How pathetic and juvenile that would be.

  “Well, yeah, management doesn’t really see it, you know? He’s just smart enough to stay under their radar,” Joshua said, as if he meant to school me on what management at the company my father owned was thinking. And what the what with that just smart enough baloney?

  “He got his MBA at Wharton,” I countered. “That’s kind of a big deal. And I’ve seen the weekly financial reports he puts together for the CFO. They’re insanely complex and detailed.”

  Joshua’s dismissive gesture was a rapid, all-body sneer, as though a wave of derision had coursed through him. “Like I said—he’s smart.”

  I’d gotten no closer to preparing for Isaac’s reaction to being overruled, which would come any minute now. Maybe even when I returned from lunch.