by Beth K. Vogt
“But I played the song without any mistakes—”
“Tut, tut, tut. With enough practice, anyone can perform without mistakes.” Mrs. Hill’s reprimand was spoken with gentleness. “But that is not the same as knowing what a song means . . . letting the song own you . . . when you move past playing and performing to something more.”
“I don’t understand.” Johanna’s fingers were restless on the keys. For so long, what she’d done had been more than enough to please her teacher. Impress her.
“You will.” Mrs. Hill rested her hand on Johanna’s shoulder. “You will. Now try again—but this time, don’t try so hard. Relax into the music.”
Johanna closed her eyes, listening as Mrs. Hill began to hum the melody of the song she’d learned for the competition. Her fingers found the notes, even as her mind tried to find what her teacher wanted her to . . . some sort of connection with her heart . . .
“I thought you said you don’t play piano.” Beckett’s words were intertwined with the melody Johanna hadn’t known she’d been playing.
As her fingers stumbled on the keyboard, Johanna came back to the present with a discordant clash of notes. “I don’t.”
“Then what was that?”
“I mean . . . I used to play. When I was younger.” She snatched her trembling hands away from the piano as if the keys burned her. “That? That was muscle memory.”
Johanna pulled the cover over the keyboard again. Stood, brushing past Beckett, ignoring the older couple who said, “That was lovely, dear.” They must have stopped just inside the room to listen to her play.
Beckett grabbed her wrist. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going . . . going to find the concierge and ask him about wedding information. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” She twisted loose from Beckett’s grasp. Stepped back, holding up her hand like a shield, and then eased the action by leaning in to give him a kiss. She gathered up her coat and purse, words tumbling from her mouth. “No. Get a few more photos. Didn’t you want to go by the alcove library again because there were some people in it the first time we looked? Do that.”
A few moments later, she paused in the middle of the bridge, inhaling the fresh air. Her hands gripped the railing, the metal cold against her skin. She hadn’t touched a piano in years—the closest she’d been was sitting in the orchestra section the few times she’d given in to temptation and attended the symphony.
She was not that girl anymore.
The memory was an unwelcome glimpse from her past. She escaped through the main hotel. Time to think about her life now. She had a book to read. Needed to figure out how to make the pharmacy staff feel important. Valued.
Yet another Broadmoor employee smiled and greeted her as he passed by. Every single one who had walked past them today had smiled. Said hello. Some had even stopped to ask how they were enjoying their day, if they were staying at the hotel, if they were from out of town.
Maybe it was as simple as that.
The Broadmoor was known for its exceptional customer service training—and she would bet morale was outstanding, too. She stopped just before exiting the lobby of the main hotel, retrieving her phone. Maybe there was even information online. A quick google of Broadmoor employee training pulled up thousands of hits. She clicked on the one about customer service and leadership tips.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. “Tell me something that will impress Miller.”
She scanned the article, and her eyes locked on a quote in point five: “You can teach a turkey to climb a tree, but why not hire a squirrel?”—considered an unofficial Broadmoor hiring slogan. It went on to say that the Broadmoor didn’t limit its selection pool of employees but looked for the best of the best from around the world.
Axton Miller’s triumph in getting her promotion was still fresh in her mind.
She was the turkey and he was the squirrel.
Johanna closed the browser. It was like she’d been trying to one-up the man and he’d already anticipated her move and double one-upped her. He’d probably read this blasted article.
Fine. She was a fast learner. She might not like how the man played the game, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him to ruin her career and fire her. She’d spend the rest of the weekend learning enough of the lingo to make him think she wanted to play along. That she supported his feel-good team approach. In the meantime, she’d also gather the statistics proving what she’d said about overall efficiency. A nice one-two punch to counter his attempt to take her down.
IT WAS THE MORNING after my last Girls’ Night with Harper.
Try as I might, I still couldn’t quite comprehend the reality that there would be no more evenings with my best friend where we ate too much of all the wrong foods and talked and laughed, maybe watched a favorite rom-com like Bringing Up Baby or How to Steal a Million or tried a new restaurant and came away sane and satiated.
Harper exited the spare bedroom across the hallway, pulling her small rolling suitcase behind her. “I took the sheets off the bed.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It wasn’t a problem. My mom always told me a good guest does that. Isn’t it funny how our mothers’ directions still follow us when we’re adults?”
“Like writing thank-you notes?”
“Now that I don’t do. I might send you an e-mail.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you do that—I mean, not to thank me. You do have to e-mail me to tell me all sorts of other things.” We single-filed down the stairs, the suitcase thumping behind Harper. “Do you need any help?”
“No. Everything else is in the car—or on its way to North Carolina in the moving van.”
The remains of our bagel-and-coffee breakfast sat on the kitchen island. “I made sure you’ve got fresh coffee in your travel mug.”
“What travel mug?”
“The one I bought you for the trip.” I nodded to the purple stainless steel container. “Surprise! I figured you needed something new.”
Harper hugged me, her arms gripping me tight. How many hugs had we shared since she’d arrived last night?
“I do love this kitchen—it’ll be perfect once the new floors are in.” Was her comment an honest compliment or an attempt to forestall any tears? Probably both. “Zach made sure everyone did a beautiful job. So, you still think it was worth all the extra time?”
“Yes, and all the extra money, too. I mean, you hear other people’s renovation horror stories, but somehow you hope you’re going to skip that part. But I guess I wasn’t being realistic. I keep reminding myself that ours wasn’t as bad—or as costly—as some people’s.”
“Perspective, right?” Harper winked.
“I guess so.”
Perspective—the great equalizer. Life could always be worse when I forgot to look at it through the lens of perspective. But doing that didn’t mean there weren’t problems to deal with. Putting something in perspective didn’t erase the issues you faced. Didn’t mean you could ignore them.
Harper’s smile was the same one she’d pasted on the day Trent had walked out on her, when she’d believed he would come back to his senses—come back to her. The same one she’d worn when she’d cheered me through chemo and radiation.
Perspective helped you get through the hard times, but it didn’t mean you could fix anything. Not that I was going to throw that cold dash of reality in my friend’s face right before she hit the road to her chance for a new beginning.
“I have a gift for you.”
“Another one? I really wish you hadn’t. This—” she held up the insulated coffee mug—“I can fit in the car. But anything else . . .”
“It’s not that big—and it’s nothing ridiculous like a puppy to keep you company.”
“You’re too good a friend to do something like that.”
I retrieved the glass jar filled with positive sayings Harper had given me. Pla
ced it on the kitchen island. “I figured you might need this.”
Harper shook her head, pushing the jar toward me. “What? No. This is yours.”
“I took a photo before I removed the sayings from the mirror and put them back in the jar. So in a sense, I still have every single quote.”
Harper removed the lid, sifting the slips of paper through her fingers. “I don’t remember the jar being this full.”
“I added a few of my own.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “And I plan to text you every day with a quote—just like you texted me.”
“Thank you.”
I was only giving back to Harper what my friend had given me—a jar full of encouragement. A tangible reminder of our friendship.
Now Harper’s fingertips traced the outline of the jar. Our friendship was changing . . . from Harper giving me so much to a season when I could give back, even as Harper moved away.
Trying to hold my friend close even as I let her go.
“Are you excited?”
“About a solo road trip to the Outer Banks? No. Not really. But I’ll stop and see some friends and family along the way. That will make it easier.”
“Does Trent know you’re moving?”
“No. I thought about telling him. But then I realized he doesn’t care. I mean, that’s the point, right?” Harper’s laugh was forced. “Talk about perspective.”
In that moment, it was as if Harper used the all-powerful perspective button to mute her emotions. Like putting a silencer on a loaded gun so you wouldn’t hear it go off—but the bullet was shot all the same.
I wanted to tell her not to pretend—with me or with herself. But she needed to do whatever was necessary so she could leave the life she’d hoped for behind.
“Are you and Geoff okay? I haven’t seen much of him—”
“He knew we’d want time together last night—and he’s not much for good-byes.”
Harper touched my shoulder, her smile gentle. “Jill. This is me, remember?”
Of course Harper wouldn’t let me keep things surface, even if she was leaving in less than an hour.
“No. No, we’re not okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s told me why he doesn’t want children.”
Harper hesitated for a moment, searching my face as if trying to guess what I was going to say. “Why?”
“He had . . . has an older brother.”
Harper’s eyes widened.
“Brian was rebellious and he ran away from home when he was seventeen. Geoff and his parents have no idea where he is now.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense.” I pressed my lips together. Tamped down my emotions. I knew how to use a silencer, too. “But there’s no talking to him about it. He’s gone back to working late and leaving early. And I can’t tell him to stop feeling a certain way.”
“So what now?”
“What now? We’re married—until death do us part, right?” Oh, I hoped my words hadn’t gone astray and wounded Harper. “So . . . nothing. We don’t talk about it. I imagine we’ll figure out some way to get over this. Or through it. One of us will give in. I suppose it’ll be me.”
“But you want children.”
“Yes. And for some reason, trying to take steps against infertility before my cancer treatment didn’t indicate that to him.”
“Why didn’t he say something back then?”
“That’s a very good question—but then Geoff had an answer for that, too.” My husband seemed to have an answer for everything. “He said something about bad timing. I’d already said yes to Geoff when he asked me to marry him. And that was my first yes, wasn’t it?”
I’d finally said out loud the thought that had been whispered over and over in my mind.
“Your first yes?”
“I said I’d marry him—what do I do now? Start saying no when things get hard? It seems like marriage comes down to whether we say yes or no to one another . . .”
I’d been debating all of this by myself, my answer shifting back and forth as if I were running from one side of a teeter-totter to the other, trying to keep it going up and down all by myself. Exhausting myself. Up. Down.
How was I supposed to choose?
The question followed me as I walked Harper to her car, carrying the glass jar and setting it on the passenger seat.
“I’m not very good at good-byes.” Harper played with her car keys.
“Can we just not say good-bye?”
“What do we say then?” A smile twisted my best friend’s lips even as tears filled her eyes.
I shrugged. “How about something like ‘Talk to you soon’?”
“Or ‘Text you soon’?” Harper giggled. “Or ‘FaceTime you soon’?”
“Or ‘I’ll come visit you soon.’”
“I like that idea best of all.” Harper locked eyes with mine. “I love you, Jillian. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“I love you, too, Harper. Just because you’re moving cross-country, don’t think you’re getting out of best friend duty.”
“We can still do Girls’ Night long-distance, right? Skype?”
“Sure. We can eat snacks and watch the same movies together.”
Harper pulled me into one of her bone-crushing hugs. “What am I going to do without you?”
“You’ve still got me. We’ve still got each other. We’re a text or a phone call away, right?”
“When you say it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad.”
“New adventure—it’s a good thing.”
“Of course it is.”
“I want to hear all about the beach life. Photos and . . . and everything. It’s time you got on Instagram.”
“You’re texting me daily positive thoughts, right?”
“I promise.”
I hung on, not wanting to accept another loss. Not because of cancer, but because of Harper’s choice. I had to believe this was the best for my friend, or I couldn’t let her leave. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.
And then I stepped back, pushing Harper away. “Go on now. Be safe.”
I had to hope for the best for Harper. And for myself.
Johanna set her travel mug next to the copy of The Power of Positive Leadership. It might not be dog-eared, but she’d read it. Every last page. Her second cup of coffee, brought from home, would do her more good than what the café served—even if they went out of their way to hire baristas who made it to order. And there would be no need to thank her new boss for anything. They would meet. Discuss the book. She’d tell him her suggestion—and then they’d part ways and be done with these coffee sessions.
Dr. Miller would not have the advantage this morning.
Until he arrived, she’d clean out her in-box. There was a reason efficiency had been up while she’d been interim pharmacy director.
She’d just finished skimming an article about patient engagement when a pair of dark-brown dress shoes appeared on the tiled floor beside the table. Johanna set her phone aside, facedown. Glanced up.
“Good morning, Johanna.” Dr. Miller’s smile creased the tan on his face, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Good morning.” She silenced her phone, tucking it in her purse to prove he had her complete attention.
“I saw you had coffee already.” He motioned with the hand not holding a white to-go cup.
“I brought it from home.”
He pulled out the chair across from her. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
Fine. She supposed they had to start with small talk.
“Yes. I spent it with my family and my fiancé.”
“That’s nice. My family and I decided to take a break from unpacking boxes and go skiing in Breckenridge. Everyone came back in one piece.”
Weekend ski trips—they were one way to keep up on his tan. “A good weekend, then.”
“I managed to keep th
e twins off the black diamond runs. They’re both daredevils, but they’re not quite ready for those yet.” Dr. Miller twisted his wedding band. “Do you ski?”
“Some. It’s been a while.”
“What do you like to do for fun?”
Couldn’t they just skip the get-to-know-you questions and talk about the book?
“I work out several times a week. Pilates. And I like to cook.” Was that enough? “And . . . I’m in a book club with my sisters.”
There. The book club was finally good for something.
“Oh, really? My wife was in a book club for several years back in Tucson. She misses it. She’s hoping to find another one now that we’re living here.”
“This is just my two sisters and me . . .” She sounded rude. “We’re all so busy, it’s a way to make sure we see each other on a regular basis.”
Now she’d exaggerated things to her boss—making it sound like she and Payton and Jillian cared about each other so much that they’d formed a book club to foster closeness. He probably imagined them sitting around a fireplace, drinking frothy cappuccinos, and reading a trendy bestseller.
Time to stop all this small talk and get down to business.
She tapped the leadership book, retrieving her notes from inside the front cover. “I started reading the book, as you requested. Finished it, actually. And then I was at the Broadmoor last Friday with my fiancé—”
“Skipped the Black Friday sales, did you?”
“Yes.” Johanna added a brief laugh. She had to at least pretend to appreciate the man’s sense of humor. “The Broadmoor is known worldwide for its customer service. I noticed how every time we passed any employee, they greeted us. Said hello or good afternoon—at the very least, they smiled and nodded.”
“Okay.”
“It got me thinking about our employees. How we should encourage them to be pleasant to people they interact with in the hospital.” Johanna backtracked. “Of course, I’m not saying they aren’t already doing this, but it’s always a good thing to remind them to smile. Say hello. To each other, other employees, patients. It will create a better mood overall.”
