by Bec Linder
I dreamed of the mountains, green and silent, clouded in thick fog, where I went to see the gorillas at Bwindi while I still had the chance. They would be gone in another generation, wiped clean off the face of the earth. I dreamed of the small clearing where I crouched among the foliage and watched a female gorilla placidly strip leaves from a branch and eat them one by one, while her infant—only four months old, the guide told me—clung to her furred belly and gazed at me with dark, solemn eyes. Rain dripped from the trees overhead. Somewhere a bird called and then fell silent.
And then I woke to the sound of a taxi honking on the street outside my apartment, and knew I was back in New York.
I sat up and swung my feet onto the floor, and rubbed my hands over my face. I should have stayed in Uganda. I was a stranger there, permanently marked by the color of my skin, but I was a stranger here, too. I hadn’t spent more than six months in New York in almost a decade, and for most of the last five years I was in East Africa, in one country or another. The US was foreign to me now. Everything was too clean and bright. The first time I went into a supermarket after returning from Uganda, twelve hours after landing at JFK, I had to turn around and leave, overwhelmed by the fluorescent lights and the sheer selection of food. I was fluent in four languages and knew enough of a handful of others to hire a taxi or ask for directions. I had lived through the crisis in Kenya after Kibaki was elected. I had fallen in love with a Kenyan woman and lived with her for almost two years. And now here I was, in the shitty apartment I had rented, rootless and adrift in the city of my birth.
I never should have come back.
My phone chirped at me from the nightstand. It was my calendar reminding me that I needed to get to the office earlier than usual so that I could set up Sadie’s workspace.
Seeing her name brought forth a vivid, unexpected memory of the other dream I’d had that night: a woman beneath me, her warm curves pressed against my bare chest, her arms wrapped around my neck…
I pressed my fists against my eye sockets, hard enough to see bright spirals behind my closed lids, and then I stood up and headed for the shower.
The woman I had dreamed about was Sadie, of course. When she walked into my office, slim waist accentuated by the same pants that highlighted the shape of her ass, I knew I was in deep, sexual-harassment-lawsuit trouble. She was my employee, now. My attraction to her was irrelevant. Dreams were the brain’s sad mulling over of the day’s events, like a cow chewing its cud. It meant nothing.
She was a talented designer. That was the extent of my interest in her. We would have a productive working relationship, and once she had completed the branding work I needed, I would send her on her way with a glowing reference.
Heaven help me.
I had never been particularly good at lying to myself.
Fine: she was gorgeous, intelligent, sharply funny—a deadly combination. And I was just fool enough to lose my way and do something regrettable.
Four weeks wasn’t such a long time. I could hold out for that long.
I walked to the office, my hands shoved in my coat pockets, head bent against the January chill. I didn’t remember New York being so cold. I thought that my bones might freeze and shatter, too brittle to withstand the icy winds that whipped through the Midtown streets.
Always complaining, Sloane. Uganda was too hot; New York was too cold. Delicate as a woman, my father would say, sneering. As if women were somehow fragile and worthy of his contempt. As if he had never noticed the steel rod my mother had in place of a spine.
I would never know why she had agreed to marry him. It was too late to ask.
The building was quiet still, this early. The lobby was empty aside from the security guard, who nodded at me in a weary, companionable sort of way. This was hardly the first morning he’d seen me in before 8. I knew I should stop and chat with him, ask him about his family—surely he had a family—but I had never developed a knack for initiating a conversation with a stranger. Three months in, and I still didn’t even know his name.
A shameful trait in a businessman, of course. I should be greasing palms and charming women out of their panties. But my allegedly inborn charm had failed to develop. I was tongue-tied, awkward. A disgrace.
I stepped out of the elevator on the sixteenth floor and hit the switch on the wall. The light above the receptionist’s desk flickered on. Belatedly, I realized that I should have turned the rest of the lights on yesterday before Sadie arrived, to lessen the office’s undeniable air of “serial killer horror house,” but I was so accustomed to working beside the windows that it hadn’t occurred to me at the time. Keeping the lights off saved energy. I was conserving the environment, and my bank account.
The office building was aging, well past its prime, but it was half-empty and rent was cheap. I liked the deserted air: no one to bother me, and free rein to spend as many nights as I pleased sleeping on the floor beneath my desk. And, as an added bonus, I could poach furniture from the empty offices above and below me.
That was what I did now. I had a desk for Sadie, but I needed a decent chair—ergonomic, lumbar support—and a lamp. Maybe two lamps. Maybe a poster of a tropical island, to remind her that there was more to life than bleak midwinter New York. “YOU COULD BE HERE.”
Maybe that would be cruel.
One floor down, I found a chair that looked suitable. It was leather, in relatively good condition, and—when I sat in it to test it out—comfortable enough to pass muster. I took it upstairs in the elevator, and wheeled it to the desk I’d chosen for Sadie, close enough to mine for easy communication, but not so close that she’d feel I was constantly looking over her shoulder. I plugged in the table lamp I’d found and turned it on, pleased when the bulb lit up.
I wanted her to—well. Not be happy. Office work had never made anyone happy. But I wanted her to at least be content, to enjoy her workspace and not dread coming to work each morning. I wanted us to get along well, and for her to do good work for me, and for everything to go smoothly.
We were both professionals. I was a professional. I could control myself.
Everything would be fine.
She arrived promptly at 9:00, blowing into the office in a whirlwind of coat and scarf and enormous totebag and boots that clicked across the floor as if to say: I’m Sadie, here I am, look at how lovely I am and how unexpected.
You are, I told her silently. You’re both of those things.
“Hi, Mr. Sloane,” she said. “I guess you don’t have a coffee maker, huh? I should have stopped somewhere on my way in, but I didn’t think of it until just now.”
I drew in a steadying breath. “There’s a place just around the corner where I usually get coffee,” I said. “You’re welcome to step out whenever you’d like.”
“Yeah, I probably will,” she said. She unwound her scarf and shoved it in her totebag. She scanned the office, head swiveling, and I saw her gaze light on the new desk. “That’s for me, I guess.”
“That’s right,” I said. “If the chair isn’t suitable—”
“It’ll be fine, I’m not picky,” she said. “Although I’ve noticed lately that my back hurts if I sit at the computer too long. Getting old, I guess.”
“You aren’t old,” I said automatically, well-trained by my mother and sisters.
She grinned. “Turning thirty this year. That’s a big birthday, you know. Over the hill.”
“You aren’t over the hill until you’re forty,” I said.
She waved one hand, dismissive. “Whatever. Is there any paperwork I need to sign?”
The sudden change of subject made my head spin. “Uh, yes. I drew up a contract that outlines the terms of employment—”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said. “I’ll sign it. I won’t understand it anyway, and Carter wouldn’t let you screw me over.”
She had an optimistic view of Carter’s influence over my actions, but I handed over the paperwork without comment.
She scribbled
her signature, head bent over the papers, and then she glanced up and said, “Look, I’m going to go get both of us some coffee, because you sure look like you could use it, and then let’s sit down and you can explain what I should be working on. I still don’t even really know what the company does. Carter told me you’re doing stuff with clean water, but that could cover a lot of ground. Okay?”
“Sure,” I said, amused by how neatly she had taken charge.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked. “Let me guess: black.”
“Cream and two sugars,” I said. “I’m not nearly man enough to drink my coffee black.”
She laughed. “If you’re lying to me, you’re going to be sorry,” she said, “because I’ll make it plenty light and sweet. Okay, I’ll be back in like five minutes, and then we’ll get started.”
She left again, shoes clicking back toward the elevator, and I watched her go with the distinct sensation of having been hit over the back of the head with a blunt object.
It was going to be an interesting four weeks.
SIX
Sadie
I gave myself a stern mental dressing-down as I waited in line at the coffee shop. Elliott wasn’t my buddy. We weren’t pals. He was my boss, and I needed to remember that and not fall into bantering with him like he was a co-worker. It didn’t matter how ridiculously drop-dead sexy he was. I worked for him now, and I wasn’t going to cross that line. At least not for the next four weeks.
When I wasn’t working for him anymore, well—all bets were off.
Not that I would date him or anything. But maybe I could screw him just once, to get it out of my system.
“Hello? Do you want coffee?” the girl at the counter asked, squinting at me, and I realized that I’d been standing there thinking about Elliott’s broad shoulders like some sort of fool.
“Yeah, sorry, uh, coffee,” I said, fumbling with my wallet, and the girl rolled her eyes.
When I got back to the office, Elliott was sitting at his desk, suit jacket slung carefully over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to bare his freckled, ropily muscled forearms. It was amazing that he was so pale after spending—what had Carter said?—the last year, at least, in Africa. He must have used some high-octane sunblock. Or maybe he carried around a parasol like the Japanese tourists did.
“Coffee delivery,” I said brightly, walking toward him with the cups in my hands.
He looked up from his computer and blinked, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite sure why I had interrupted him. Then his expression cleared, and he reached for the coffee. “Full of sugar, I hope,” he said.
“You’ll be bouncing off the walls like a toddler before naptime,” I said, and then wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. Lord, couldn’t I ever shut up? “Uh, so can you tell me a little bit about the company?”
He nodded. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “I realize I didn’t give you many specifics when we spoke yesterday.”
No specifics at all, really, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I set my things down on my own desk and then wheeled my chair over and sat down. Elliott had pulled up some type of presentation on his computer screen. Importance of Providing Clean Water to Sub-Saharan African Communities, it read.
Oh boy. This was going to be dry.
I scooted my chair a little closer. He was wearing some sort of rich cologne, and I had a powerful urge to lean in and press my face against his neck and breathe. Who cared about a boring presentation when you had gorgeous eye candy to distract you?
“I want to build a better water filter,” Elliott said.
That wasn’t the opening I had expected. Maybe the presentation wouldn’t be so dry after all. “So you’re worried about water-borne diseases, right?” I asked. I had done some research over the weekend, and wanted to show off what I’d learned. I wanted to impress him. “I mean, I know that clean drinking water is a huge problem in many parts of the world, but what’s wrong with the water filters we already have? I’ve got one of those pitchers in my fridge and it works pretty well.”
“Right,” he said. He clicked forward a few slides, past pictures of sad African children and microbes. I’d passed that test, then. “You’re talking about commercial carbon filters. Those are excellent for removing bad tastes from water, but the one in your kitchen won’t filter out any microorganisms. Chlorine doesn’t kill protozoa, and boiling doesn’t remove chemical impurities, and it’s not very environmentally friendly. There are more options in urban areas, but in rural areas there are basically two solutions: dig a well, which is of course very time- and labor-intensive, or use a BioSand filter.” He clicked forward to a picture of a tall concrete cylinder. “These are very effective, but they have to be constructed and maintained, and it takes time for the water to filter through.”
He seemed like a different person when he was talking about his work: less inhibited, more animated. Even his hand gestures were more expansive. “Okay, that all makes sense,” I said. “So what are you planning to do?”
Mistake. His lips compressed. It was like watching a computer shut down. All of his eager openness disappeared. “I’m still working on the details.”
“You mean you don’t have a plan,” I said. Great. I’d be lucky if he could even afford to pay me for the four full weeks.
“That’s not entirely true,” he said, and rubbed one hand over his face. “I have some ideas. But I’m not an engineer, and I can’t afford to hire one right now. I need investors.”
“You need a marketing plan,” I said, realizing now why he had hired me. “So you want me to do a slick branding package, make you seem important, and then—that’s the conference you mentioned on Friday. You’re going to try to find investors.”
He nodded. “I need money before I can move forward.”
“Can’t Carter give you money?” I asked. “And aren’t you rich, too? Carter doesn’t know anyone who isn’t rich.”
“You aren’t rich,” he pointed out.
“That’s different,” I said. “He only knows me because of Regan. Hit him up for some cash, he’s got more than he knows what to do with.”
“He offered,” Elliott said. “But…” He trailed off, and shrugged.
“You’re too proud, huh?” I asked. I knew how it was. I was the same way. “Okay, let’s do it. I’ll get you some investors. What else do I need to know?”
“I’ll direct you to some existing clean water charities so you can see how they’re presenting themselves,” he said. “For now, I’d like you to focus on developing a logo and a general scheme for visual branding. We’ll go from there.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll send you some color palettes by the end of the day.” I tipped my head to one side and considered him. “How come you’re doing this, anyway? There can’t be a lot of money in clean water.”
“I don’t imagine there will be,” he said.
I waited for him to continue, but after a few seconds, it was obvious that was all he was going to say. He hadn’t answered my question, but I wasn’t going to push it. “Well, I’ll get to work then,” I said.
He grunted and turned back to his computer. Okay. Conversation over.
I wheeled my chair back to my desk and opened my laptop. I didn’t understand Elliott at all. I had spent the weekend reading about clean water and international development, and it wasn’t interesting, necessarily, but it was important. It might even count as meaningful. The sheer number of people who died each year from dirty drinking water had stunned me. Maybe Elliott’s business plan wouldn’t work and his plans would fizzle out, but at least he was actively trying to make the world a better place. It wasn’t what I expected from a rich boy. Carter was kind, well-meaning, and philanthropic, but I couldn’t imagine him devoting himself to something so unglamorous as water filters.
But Elliott had a fire in him. I barely knew him, but it wasn’t hard to spot. He was on a mission. I wondered what had happened in his life that made him the way he was:
odd, focused, intense. He had a dry, subtle humor that I liked, but he also seemed like he was so involved in his work that it was hard for him to remember other people existed.
I glanced over at him. He was frowning at his computer, hands poised over the keyboard.
Well, he wouldn’t be annoying company, at least. I would get a lot done, as long as I could keep myself from wasting all my time gazing at him longingly.
We definitely needed a coffee pot, though. Caffeine fostered creativity. Everybody knew that.
* * *
My first week working for Elliott was one of the busiest and most productive times of my life.
When I showed up on Tuesday morning, brand new coffee pot in my arms, Elliott was already at his desk, and his rumpled shirt and the three cardboard coffee cups beside him told me he’d been there for quite a while. I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t late. I was actually a few minutes early.
“Burning the midnight oil, Mr. Sloane?” I asked.
He looked up at me, brow furrowing. “Sadie.” He stared at me for a moment. “Is that—”
“Yeah, I bought a coffee pot,” I said. “It was cheap, don’t worry. Consider it my investment in the company.”
“Hmm,” he said. He opened his mouth, and then seemed to reconsider whatever it was he had been about to say. “Please call me Elliott. Mr. Sloane makes me feel ancient.”
“You’re my boss, though,” I said. “I have to call you by your last name. It’s tradition.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Fuck tradition.”
The profanity was so unexpected that I burst out laughing. I’d thought Elliott was too buttoned-up to swear like that, but obviously I was wrong. I liked it. Strait-laced men were boring. “Okay, Elliott,” I said. “Whatever you want.”
His dedication to his work was infectious. I would have been inclined to slack off a little, maybe take fifteen minutes in the afternoon to look at cat pictures and text my brother, but Elliott spent all day sitting at his computer, barely moving, usually skipping lunch, and faced with that example, I couldn’t justify any wasted time. I had a set of preliminary logos drafted by the time I went home on Tuesday, and after a brief meeting with Elliott on Wednesday morning to select the best one and make some changes, I went to work on the full branding package.
