by Jamie Beck
“You don’t need to check in. I’ll call you if there’s any problem.”
8:50. No more stalling. She leaned in and kissed Colt’s head one last time. “Bye-bye, bugaboo.”
Before letting Ian see the new tears forming, she spun around and raced out the door.
She tossed her bag into the passenger seat of the “Volcanic Orange” convertible Mini Cooper—the car she refused to give up in favor of a more practical car—and sped off to work, blowing through at least one yellow light. She cranked the Julia Michaels tune about issues and sang aloud, determined to pull herself together.
She could do this. She could be a single, working mother who stunned her coworkers with her brilliance and made her son happy and secure. She could have it all, just like society—and her family—promised. But she’d do it better than her parents because, when push came to shove, Colt would be her priority.
It’d been a while since she’d worn such tailored clothing and spiky heels, so her race from the parking lot to the elevator was less than graceful.
9:05. Shoot.
She strode down the hall to her cubicle and dumped her bag on the floor beneath her desk. The ten-by-ten workstation had never looked so neat. Proof of her extended absence. After turning on her computer, she decided a cup of tea might be better than slapping herself in the face to wake up. Preferably the Earl Grey with double bergamot. On her way to the break room, she passed her mom’s office. Lights on, but empty.
Just as well. Her brain needed a shot or two of caffeine to shift gears before doing battle. She’d use the five or ten minutes to get herself organized before wowing her mom with her new slogan idea. It wasn’t until she was walking back to her desk, sipping her tea—sweetened with three packs of sugar—that she noticed the other empty offices and workstations. Even Miss Perfect, Becky, wasn’t around.
She sat at her desk to open her calendar when her phone pinged.
Where are you? came a text from her mom.
At my desk. Where r u?
Conference room meeting with your brother and the rest of the team. 9 weeks to launch.
Ten minutes in and she’d already screwed up. Way to burn through the goodwill she’d built up prior to maternity leave. She sprang from her seat, spilling hot tea on herself. Fuck all, that was hot! And now a pale-brown stain slowly bled across her cream-colored Alexander McQueen silk top. Perfect. Hello, everyone, meet the American Bridget Jones. Better dressed, but just as clumsy.
After ducking into the bathroom to dab her shirt so the stain wouldn’t set, she dashed up the steps to the conference room. At least she’d remembered a notepad.
Before she drew near the glass-walled meeting room, she slowed her pace. She’d never be as smart as Hunter or Colby, but she had her own talents to offer. She also knew enough to project the illusion of having her shit together.
It’d all be fine once they applauded her latest contribution. She’d e-mailed it to Hunter last night in a moment of pure genius—because pure genius always strikes at three a.m. when one is burping an infant.
Hunter stood at the head of the table, still speaking, so he simply gestured toward an open chair. His eyes momentarily strayed to her tea stain before he continued his train of thought. “We’ve got to stay on point with the branding. So let’s take another look at some of these marketing messages. For instance, this tagline, ‘The tea you know, on the go.’”
“That’s mine,” Gentry announced, beaming. The cleverness of that tagline sounded even better today than it had last night. When her smile was met with blank stares, she added, “What?”
“It’s off point.” Hunter’s face pinched the way it always did when he concentrated.
Gentry kept her eyes on his, mostly because everyone else, including Becky, now stared at her like she’d shown up in a bikini. “It goes to our established reputation and the new product’s convenience.”
“We’re entering a billion-dollar market and need to distinguish ourselves from the established big players. The fact that ten percent of every purchase of Cabot’s ChariTea will be donated to the Maverick Foundation makes our bottled iced tea different. It’ll make people feel good about the purchase.” Hunter’s hands went to his hips. He wasn’t nasty, just direct. Like always. Imposing and well dressed, with laser-focused eyes that weren’t the least bit softened by his wire-rim glasses. “Your idea doesn’t highlight that.”
“But it’s catchy.” Like a castaway grasping at a leaky dinghy, Gentry desperately fought to salvage her idea. “‘ChariTea begins with you’ is boring—”
“It’s on message,” her mother interrupted. She darted a look around the table, then chose her words carefully. “I know you’ve been . . . distracted. But the weekly updates you should’ve been reviewing explained the charitable USP.”
Unique selling proposition. Yeah, fine. But the slogan they’d chosen was lame. No way would it resonate widely.
“Millennials make up the majority of this product market. Like me, they actually buy convenience products for two dollars per bottle rather than brew a pitcher at home. Like me, they’ll prefer my tagline,” Gentry said. “The tags aren’t on the labels, so we can still change it on ads and social media campaigns.”
She noticed Becky raise her brows, and not in a good way.
“Research and experience say we stick with one distinct message,” her mom insisted. As chief marketing officer, she pretty much had the final say.
Gentry’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She knew she shouldn’t look, but it could be about Colt. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at the screen. Not Ian. A comment notification from her blog, which she’d respond to later. She set the phone aside, but not before drawing her brother’s attention.
“May we proceed?” he asked.
Everyone’s gaze now carefully avoided hers. No doubt sweat had added new stains to her silk blouse.
“Sorry.” She shrank back in her seat after being scorched by her mother’s perturbed expression.
“Nine weeks from today we soft-launch in Oregon, Washington, California, and Nevada, with a national rollout next summer.” Hunter looked across the table at Jenna. “You’ve got the influencers in these spaces teed up, right?”
“Yes. Becky has the full report on that.” Jenna looked at Becky, who preened whenever she got attention.
This was no surprise. Becky fit in better with Gentry’s family than she did. Gentry rarely received public accolades. She told herself it was because her family couldn’t risk annoying the other employees by heaping praise on her.
The sad truth was that taking maternity leave had set her back to square one. Meanwhile, Colt was at home without her. Not an acceptable trade-off. Her idea had merit. “Can we revisit the slogan thing?”
“Sis, no one’s saying your slogan isn’t catchy,” Hunter said, his patience fraying. “It just doesn’t fit.”
“But—”
“Gentry, move on.” Her mom’s tight voice interrupted.
The others, including Becky, stirred uncomfortably. Her mom had a reputation for resisting change once a decision had been made. On the other hand, Gentry saw no point in rejecting a fresh idea. Sometimes it took time for the right proposal to bubble to the surface. She did, however, realize that now wasn’t the time to push.
Hunter laid his hands on the table. “We have to get through the agenda. Let’s move on to discussing our distribution partners in the various markets, and what we’re doing to get prime placement in those outlets.”
The conversation turned to boring business aspects that fell outside the scope of her responsibility, so Gentry’s mind wandered. She hadn’t planned on the teary start to her day, let alone being summarily dismissed in front of a dozen coworkers. Not the triumphant return she’d envisioned, and that didn’t make it easier to be here instead of at home with her son.
The image of Colt nestled in Ian’s strong arms resurfaced, tugging at a needy spot in her chest like it had thirty minutes ago. She then tried
to picture Smith with their son but couldn’t.
Colt resembled Smith, though. A daily reminder of the fact that he was growing up fatherless. She wished she knew more about Smith so she’d also know what to expect from Colt. With the exception of his stubborn streak, her son didn’t seem to have inherited any of her traits.
That thought made her wonder how many ways he’d already found to torment Ian.
Suddenly people around her were standing and making their way out of the room. She rose, but Hunter held his hand up. Her mom didn’t budge, either. Perfect. A not-so-private scolding coming her way. Unlike praise, these kinds of talks did not stir employee discontent.
Once the room had emptied, Hunter shut the heavy glass door and took a seat. He shrugged in an uncharacteristically resigned manner. “Sis, how’s Colt?”
“I told Sara yesterday that he’s fine. It’s an ear infection.”
“Good. That’s good.” Most days Hunter took seriousness to new heights, so his forced smile made her suspicious. “I’m sure it’s tough being away from him for the first time. I know I said we needed you back, but not if you can only give us half of your attention. If you need more time, tell us now so we can redistribute the work and hit all our targets.”
She supposed the softball-size tea stain and her slogan screwup justified his concerns, but the fact that she’d lost the ground—the respect—she’d been earning this year embarrassed her like a pie in the face.
When Colby had an off day, she got the benefit of the doubt. Granted, Colby had finished college, become a lawyer and, unlike Gentry, hadn’t reneged on a promise to let Hunter adopt her baby. Then again, Colby did marry someone she barely knew the first time around, and that ended with two major disasters. In Gentry’s mind, both Cabot sisters had made some big mistakes, but Gentry never got out from under the weight of hers.
She knew in her bones that, no matter how hard she tried, she’d always be the “half” sib. But she’d suck it up and work with her family, hoping to build a personal bridge her son could cross to belong, because she never wanted Colt to feel left out or “less than.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s only the first day. First hour, really.” Gentry kept her chin up, pretending she didn’t already look like the disaster they believed her to be. “It may take a couple of days to nail down the juggling routine, but I will. I promise.”
Her mom and Hunter exchanged a look. Then her brother said, “You know, if you need an extra hand, Sara’s available.”
Saint Sara, the perfect wife and mother. Competence personified. No doubt everyone thought Colt would’ve been better off with Sara and Hunter than with her. Sometimes even Gentry wondered.
“I have Ian.” Gentry avoided her mom’s gaze.
“What?” Hunter sat back, surprised.
“She hired a temporary nanny.” Her mother’s tone was uncommonly neutral, drawing Gentry’s ire.
She almost preferred her brother and mother in their natural state—intense and aggressive—instead of coddling. This patient act freaked Gentry out. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe the conference room had transported her to a virtual-reality version of her life.
“I couldn’t drop Colt at day care with a fever,” Gentry added.
“True. He’s still colicky, too, which would be tough for anyone managing more than one kid.” Hunter grimaced.
Her mom’s brows shot up as she glanced at Hunter. “I’d take colic over the stunts your sister pulled.” Then she raised a brow at Gentry. “You’d better hope Colt doesn’t test you the same way.”
“He won’t.” Gentry stopped herself from saying more. Colt wouldn’t rebel because she wouldn’t treat him as an afterthought or a possession to be trotted out when convenient. He’d never be “half” of anything, either. He would be whole. Gentry would make sure of that. “If that’s all, let me go get myself organized.”
“Good idea,” they both said in unison. Unaccustomed to agreeing on much, they each made an uncomfortable face and moved away from each other.
Gentry grabbed her empty notepad and left the room, ducking into the bathroom to call Ian.
“Hello?” Ian answered.
Gentry didn’t hear her son in the background. “Why can’t I hear Colt crying?”
“He’s got a bottle in his mouth.”
“Oh.” She pictured Colt in Ian’s lap, sucking away. The image made her smile, then frown. Colt didn’t care who fed him as long as someone did. Even her own son didn’t need her and only her. Would anyone, ever?
She stifled a self-pitying sigh. “So you’re fine? He’s fine?”
“Everyone’s fine.” Ian paused. “Anything else?”
Well, now she felt foolish. “No.”
“Have a good day.” Ian’s warm voice lingered in her mind after he’d hung up.
When Gentry arrived at her desk, Becky swung by to drop off a stack of research. In her typical pedantic tone, she said, “If you recall, we’ve taken a brand molecule–mapping approach. This compilation includes all the research supporting the focus on ChariTea’s charitable aspect. Now we need to incorporate environmental information into the process and build consumer anticipation.”
Becky stared at Gentry as if waiting for some acknowledgment. Gentry stifled the urge to break into a golf clap, choosing a polite nod instead. “Got it.”
“Good. I’m tasking you with pushing the social media campaigns. Matt and I will work with traditional advertisers and distributors. Use this research to identify unique outreach opportunities on our online platforms. Contests, giveaways, competitions, and so on. All of our target market data is in there to help.” Becky crossed her arms, her expression prim. They’d worked together this past year, but Gentry was sure Becky never wanted to be stuck training her. “Start with what we’ve begun, but I’d like some fresh ideas by Wednesday. We don’t have a lot of time, and unlike you, I don’t have job security.”
It’d been a while since Gentry had been hit with a blatant dig about nepotism. In truth, nepotism wasn’t the right term, because she owned a chunk of CTC, like her parents and siblings. That had come about years earlier when her dad’s tax adviser had made some estate planning suggestions.
Unlike her family, Gentry had never aspired to climb the corporate ladder. She’d preferred less conventional work, like when she’d been a live mannequin, professional cuddler, and dog walker. She’d thrived on those unusual adventures, although she quit the cuddler job because the loneliness of some of those clients would cling to her for days.
Even now, photography and her blog were more engaging than pushing iced tea. But her family didn’t understand any of that. They’d considered all those other jobs as stunts or whims. Not options befitting a Cabot. Now she sat, working in a cubicle with no view or adventure, still waiting for acceptance.
Becky cleared her throat.
Hunter’s warnings about earning her peers’ respect rang in her head, so Gentry let Becky’s dig pass. “You’ll have an outline by Wednesday.”
“Good.” Becky relaxed a bit. “Thanks, Gentry. Welcome back.”
Welcome back. Wouldn’t it be nice if Becky were sincere?
Gentry walked through the front door and dropped her bag on the floor without looking at him. Ian watched her shuck off her shoes, which she flung into the corner, where they lay piled atop each other like blue silk firewood.
Expensive shoes, no doubt. He’d learned a bit more about her today when he’d had sixteen free minutes to scroll through her blog. Replete with photos of—and stories about—Colt, it also showcased clothes and accessories, baby and beauty products, and evidenced an endearing mix of enthusiasm, hubris, clever observation, and a fair amount of empathetic commiseration with her followers.
The last few paragraphs of the post she’d written last night had caught his eye.
I swore I’d never hire a nanny. I had my reasons, none of which matter to anyone but me. Still, they mattered to me as much as air and water, and yet
. . .now I’ve gone and hired a nanny.
I could make excuses. He’s a temporary fix. Desperate times and all that blah, blah, blah. But why bother with explanations?
If I begin with a truth—the fact that, like all new moms, I don’t know what the heck I’m doing—then there’s no good reason to stick to preconceived ideas about what I should or shouldn’t do. That kind of mindless adherence to things that sound good in concept but don’t work well in real life won’t help me or my son.
No siree.
We’re all winging it, so we might as well roll with it and, in this particular case, enjoy the perks of being proven wrong.
He’d wondered what caused her anti-nanny stance to begin with, and then he’d wondered exactly what perks she intended to enjoy.
Now, though, Gentry’s stained shirt and drawn expression warned him to tread with caution.
He braced to be the target of her dark mood. Farrah had given him some practice in this department. He used to point out the harsh realities he’d seen in his work to give her a different perspective on her problems. Turns out that tactic had only made him seem unsympathetic. Today he’d be careful not to make comparisons.
Gentry forced her frown into a weak smile. “Thanks for watching him later than our deal. I promise I won’t make it a habit.”
Six forty-five. Not horribly late. Not like he had anything, or anyone, else waiting on him, either.
She arched her spine, hands clasped behind her back, as she walked farther into the living room. Even a conservative—if stained—top and pencil skirt couldn’t hide that sinfully sexy body when her hips and chest were thrust into that position. Not that he should be thinking about that now—or ever.
Still, he couldn’t help but smile at the contrast between her attire and her ankle and forearm tattoos.
“No problem.” He pointed at the faint beige spot on her blouse. “Rough first day?”
She glanced at her chest; then her chin rose above a half shrug. “Some people are clumsy.”
