When I get back to Sherri’s computer, I see that the e-mail has disappeared. She rejoins me, and checks Reuben’s account, too. “It’s gone,” she says, astonished. “How’d you do that?”
“You don’t survive this long at MTA without learning a few tricks,” I say. Then I ask the critical question. “Did Reuben see it?”
She sighs. “I’m not sure, El. I was panicking and I didn’t notice if it he’d opened it or I did. But he probably would have called you, right?”
I think about his casual conversation with Baxter, earlier. If Reuben knew a picture of me making out with a junior was circulating, it’s quite likely I’d have heard from him by now.
But I’m not counting on anything today.
Walking to reception, I hear a different sort of hum. It is coming from everywhere and nowhere. At first it seems tuneless, but finally I make it out: Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around. I stop moving and the music stops too. Maybe it was a product of my fevered imagination; I’ve had so little sleep I’m becoming paranoid.
But when I start walking, the humming starts again, too, and it’s louder this time.
Insurrection: a rising up against established authority; rebellion.
Clearly, some of my little bees have spirit. It will need to be crushed, and quickly.
Exterminate: To get rid of completely, usually by killing off.
On the other hand, maybe it makes more sense to try to attract bees with nectar?
I meet the Starbucks staff at reception and follow them as they roll their carts into the main boardroom. They unload trays of muffins and urns of coffee onto the vast oak table. Once they’re gone, I close the door, pull out my vial and add several drops of Wonder Glass to each urn. Then I carefully apply a drop to each treat on the tray. Thank god Vera supersized my bottle. I had no idea I’d need so much of the stuff.
As I work, I try to shake off the vision of myself on stage last night, one arm slung around young Dylan, the other hoisting a shooter to my lips. Making love to the mike in my white blouse and black skirt, like a nun on a day pass. Could I be any lamer? The worst of it is that my staff have seen and exploited my inner geek. In the past, recruits may have wondered if she was there, but I soon put those notions to rest, earning their respect with my capabilities. I have successfully relied on an aloof manner and occasional displays of dazzling intellect to corral my little bees.
It took years to master the art of leading staff and in one night, I threw it all away.
Career Limiting Move: a foolhardy action performed before colleagues under the influence of layered liqueurs.
Thanks to Wonder Glass, it may not be too late to recover from this fiasco. I’ll dose the whole crew and get on with it.
From the boardroom, I send an email to the postal service project distribution list, subject line, “Launch Recovery Party: Free coffee and Treats.”
As I expected, the juniors stampede for the boardroom. I step quickly out of the way, and as the bees devour the nectar, quickly make my rounds to the water coolers on three floors, carrying a box-cutter.
Nine punctures later, I head back to my office with the remains of the Wonder Glass.
The hive is oddly quiet as I pass through the halls. It seems as if I’ve been able to seal the major cracks and can actually sit down and start my day.
I’ve been less exhausted at the end of a yearlong project.
Mena is normally unreachable during the school day, but she happens to be at home tending to one of her sick sons when I call.
“I’m so glad to hear from someone who isn’t whining,” she says.
“Hold that thought.”
“What’s wrong? Things go south with Noah after the ambush proposal?”
“Can you believe he did that?” I say, momentarily distracted from the madness of my life.
“I can, because men are idiots,” she says. “What you need to decide is if this is the best possible idiot for you.”
I sigh. “Yeah, he’s my best idiot.”
“Then, that’s settled. Now what happened with the partnership offer?”
She makes all the right disapproving noises as I tell the story. “Oh, El, I’m sorry. But I’m not that surprised. Reuben’s been taking you for granted all along. Please don’t get mad, but let me ask if you can imagine—just imagine—doing anything else.”
I stare at the row of awards on a shelf over my desk that document my progress over the years, alongside photos of me with various clients, always in my sensible suit. “I’d like to imagine something else, Mena, but my brain might short out.”
“Give it a chance. What would you do if you could do anything at all?”
I am utterly stumped. I’ve only ever been able see one rung ahead at NTA since starting the climb. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, just for fun, tell me what you’d do if you had six months off. No worries about money.”
That one’s easy. “Travel.”
“Of course! And when was the last time you travelled just for fun?”
“Fiji, I guess.”
“That was over two years ago. Do you think NTA would give you a leave of absence? You and Noah could take off and revive the love.”
“Never,” I say. “Even maternity leaves are frowned upon. You’re supposed to deliver quietly at your desk, hand the baby to a wet nurse, and pick it up at age 18.”
She snorts. “Sounds good to me.”
After a moment of companionable silence, I ask, “Mena, do you believe in magic?”
“Like potions and hexes?”
“Hexes,” I muse. “That’d be great.”
“I definitely believe in intuition,” Mena says. “And maybe ghosts. But probably not potions and hexes.”
“You’re drawing the line at ghosts?”
“Yeah,” she says, laughing. “But if I had a magic wand I’d turn Baxter into a scorpion, so that everyone could see his true nature.”
“Perfect. And you could make Reuben a hippopotamus.”
“But first,” she says, “So I didn’t waste the magic on losers, I’d turn you into a happily married woman with her own travel agency.”
“Really.”
“Yep, and I’d baby-sit your angelic little girl while you went on those freebie comp trips.”
“Let’s leave the kids with the guys and take the comp trips together.”
“Huh. It would be magic if we came home and found everyone alive.”
I’m actually laughing when I hang up. True magic indeed.
The receptionist buzzes to say that Scott and Jasper are waiting to see me. My brothers have never visited the NTA offices, so my heart leaps into my throat with the prospect of bad news.
I hurry to the foyer, relaxing only when I see the guys showering the giggling receptionist with a heavy dose of twin charm.
“Chill, El,” Scott says, flashing me a grin. “No one died. You look like you need a smoke.”
“As if,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
They flank me, each grabbing an elbow, and march me toward the elevator. “Wait a second,” I protest. “I don’t want any more of your surprises.”
They banter over my head on the way downstairs.
“She looks like hell.”
“A granny.”
“Good thing we had the party when she was still able to enjoy it.”
“Has she thanked us yet?”
“I don’t think she has. We laid down good coin for that party.”
“She’ll remember us in her will.”
I don’t bother responding until they lead me outside the building, where the wind is swirling a few fat snowflakes. They’re wearing, coats, but I’m shivering in my suit jacket. “Guys, what’s going on?”
Scott pulls cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one with a practiced hand, despite the wind. He hands the pack to Jaz, who does the same.
“Look at her expression,” Scott says.
“You’d think we just snorted crack,” Ja
z replies.
“You guys smoke?” My surprise is surprising, considering what I’ve seen today.
“I thought you knew all, Number 1,” Scott says.
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “Anyway, I’m freezing. Talk to me.”
Scott waits as Jaz takes a long drag and exhales. They’ve clearly scripted their lines and Jaz comes first.
“We wanted to apologize about the party,” Jaz says. “Well, not about the party, but the half-life theme. And about talking Noah into proposing. It obviously rattled you hard, Number 1.”
“Did you talk to Noah?” I ask, hearing the hope in my voice. He still hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts.
Jaz gives a quick nod. “He said you were pissed to be put on the spot like that.”
“We thought it was a done deal,” Scott jumps in. “I mean, it’s Noah.”
I stare at them, my hair whipping in front of my eyes. The mere absence of smartass grins means they honestly feel bad. “It would have come to this at some point,” I say.
“She’s letting us off the hook.”
“Good ol’ Eleanor.”
“But it did come at a bad time,” I add. “Things here are just... impossible.”
“Yeah,” Scott says. “We saw the photo.”
“The one of you making out with the hot guy,” Jaz says.
“He wasn’t that hot,” Scott says.
“Hotter than Noah,” Jaz replies.
“But... how...?” I begin.
“Baxter had my e-mail address because I sent the party deets,” Scott says. “Although this came from some general NTA account.”
“And then it apparently disappeared,” Jaz says. “Like magic.”
“Thank god I was up early enough to see it,” Scott says. “Otherwise, I’d never have believed it.”
“It wasn’t what it looked like,” I say, hunching against the wind.
“So you weren’t kissing some hot guy?”
“He kissed me,” I say. “Like you’re in a position to talk. You’re both players.”
They shrug in unison. “This is you,” Scott says. “Last woman alive still wearing a girdle.”
“Not that we’ve checked,” Jaz says, shuddering. “Anyway, you’re the smart one, Eleanor. The sensible one.”
“And Noah’s the brother we always wanted,” Scott adds. “You can’t play him.”
“I didn’t play him. It’s complicated.”
“Cheating isn’t complicated,” Jaz offers.
“I’m not cheating. I’m just trying to balance things out between Noah and my career. The kiss is a non-issue.”
“Except the whole company knows about it,” Scott says.
“They’ve already forgotten it,” I say.
“Please,” Jaz says. “No one forgets something like this. Especially not in a corporate cesspool like yours.”
“Normally you’d be worried sick about something like this,” Scott says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m worried about getting sick, standing out here arguing with you in the snow,” I say. “Just go back to whatever it is you guys do during the day.”
They finish their cigarettes at the same moment and grind them out underfoot. It’s like they rehearse in private to make the simplest things look like choreography.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jaz asks.
“Don’t tell me... It seems like a half-life crisis,” I say, trying to smile.
They try to smile back, but all they can manage is a twitch. Despite their good intentions, they know something went terribly wrong after their party, and now they want me to make things right again. I’ve always been the fixer, sorting things out for them before Mom and Dad found out. The one with a strategy. This time, I’m overwhelmed.
Finally I explain. “The partnership thing didn’t work out. Baxter told Reuben about the proposal and he figured my priorities had shifted. So he’s sending me to Ottawa on a long-term project.”
There’s a clash of competing profanity and overlapping dialogue.
“Noah will freak.”
“You’ve got to say no.”
“Screw Reuben. He’s been stringing you along for years.”
“The whole company’s a hornet’s nest.”
After the barrage, Scott’s voice emerges, “But she does have a Lexus.”
“True,” Jaz says, “She can trade it for something cool when she quits.”
Laughing, they shove each other. Their momentary concern for me seems to have dissipated.
“Guys, quit it. I’ve got enough trouble today.”
“That Baxter is the worst of the hornets,” Scott says. “Sorry we invited him Sunday.”
“Let’s lure him down here,” Jaz suggests to Scott. “Swing him around by his tie.”
I start backing away. “Don’t talk to anyone else about this. Especially Mom and Dad. Need I remind you what I’ve got on you?”
Their grins are back and as bright as the snow. “The list is long,” Scott says.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. “Go.”
They look reassured, and I’m strangely reassured, too. It’s nice that I don’t have to spend any Wonder Glass on these two. No matter what’s happened, they accept me as I am.
Scott pats his jacket, remembering something and comes rushing after me. Giving me a one-armed hug, he presses a bag of cinnamon hearts into my icy hand.
Back in my office, I slip on my coat to try and warm up. I’ve checked with Sherri and my e-mail, and all seems quiet. The buzz in the halls is back to its usual level, although I can’t take the comfort in it that I once did.
Thanks to Wonder Glass, it appears that I’ve salvaged my reputation at NTA. But I’m still stuck with the Ottawa gig—a fact that I need to share with Noah, if he’ll ever talk to me again. The cinnamon hearts on my desk remind me that I’m going to have to call him today to wish him a Happy Valentine’s Day. I’ll ask to see him tonight, and break the news in person that I’ll be commuting as of next week.
I pick up two small, silver model airplanes from my desk. Noah gave them to me to capture a couple of significant moments in our relationship. The first represents the plane we took to Edmonton together the day we met. The second is the plane we took to Costa Rica a year later, a trip that cemented us as couple. Aside from the cinnamon hearts, there are no other personal items in my office. There are plaques and awards, and dozens of trinkets from clients, but only the planes have meaning.
Now, I direct the planes at each other with my left and right hands, making a crashing noise as they collide.
The phone’s ring startles me, and I drop the planes onto the industrial gray carpet.
“There’s someone to see you,” the receptionist says, no longer giggling. “Noah Taggert.”
I drop the phone without even responding, and jump to my feet. Then I open my drawer and pull out a hand mirror. As suspected, I look awful. My mascara is running from the snow, my fine hair is sticking up all over, and my face is doubly pale. I think about taking a moment to fix myself and decide it might be better if my insides and outside match.
The walk from my office to reception is short, but I still have time to play through several scenarios. The very best is that Noah has defied my longstanding request and is delivering flowers to me for Valentine’s Day. That one’s highly unlikely, but I hope at least that his face will brighten when he sees me, so that I’ll know that there’s something worth fighting for. I want to make this right, for him, for me, for my brothers. I need to figure out a way to get the planes back in the air.
Noah has perched in a visitor chair, still in his coat. He stands when he sees me, but his expression is a mask, totally unlike my emotive boyfriend. The dark circles under his eyes, and the two-day stubble aren’t promising. I notice he’s wearing jeans, which means he skipped work today.
He stares at my coat, but doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer an explanation. Instead, I lead him away from prying eyes downstairs to the cafeteria
. It’s 3:00 now and the place is nearly empty. I motion him to a seat in the corner while I head to the counter to buy two cups of coffee. While adding cream and sugar to his, I decide to add a couple of drops of Wonder Glass. It probably won’t work to heal the cracks in our relationship, which clearly began long before this week, but it’s worth a try.
Finally I sit across from him, smoothing my hair behind my ears. I take a sip of coffee before asking, “How are you?”
“Upset,” he says.
“Me too. I was going to call you again later. After I figured out what to say.”
“There’s nothing else to say. The picture said it all.”
My stomach gives a heave, tossing the coffee back into my throat. Holding a serviette to my mouth, I swallow hard to clear the acid, and croak, “What picture?”
Instead of answering, he pulls out his blackberry and scrolls through his inbox. His brow furrows. “It’s gone. But I got it this morning. A picture of you and some guy kissing. It came from an NTA account to my work e-mail.” His fingers work quickly as he tries to find it. “It must have been recalled.”
My brain races as I try to position this. In the end, I decide to be honest. “What happened is that Baxter took a photo of a drunk newbie kissing me at a project launch party last night. Then Baxter sent it to the entire company, as well as you. He’s trying to sabotage me, as usual.”
Noah stares at me, refusing to be sidetracked. “Are you having an affair?”
“No! The guy kissed me, and it meant nothing.
“You let some colleague kiss you. At a launch party.” His voice is completely flat.
“I was drunk,” I say, knowing how pathetic that sounds.
“You were drunk,” he repeats. “At a launch party. When has that happened before?”
“Never,” I say. “I’ve never been drunk at a launch party, and I’ve never let anyone kiss me.”
Shatterproof Page 5
