by Molly Harper
“Is everything okay, Ray?” I murmured, careful to keep a pleasant, easy expression on my face. You never knew who was watching you at this sort of gathering. The last thing I wanted was for some helpful random acquaintance of Commissioner Bidwell’s to mention that they saw me pitching a hissy fit in Margene McBride’s garden.
Ray cleared his throat. He was trying too hard to appear calm and it was making his big brown puppy-dog eyes look slightly crossed. “Well, there’s just a little problem with your campaign.”
“What, like a printing error?” I said, looking over Ray’s shoulder to see that Mr. Perfect Pants was watching the two of us. I frowned at him, stepping behind Ray so he couldn’t see me. Well, he could see the outlying areas of hat, but not my actual face. What was this guy’s deal? Was he some sort of headwear fetishist with a penchant for green? “Is it anything that can’t be fixed before we do the mailing?”
“No,” Ray said, pinching his thin lips together. “It’s more of a conceptual issue.”
My smile faltered. “There’s a problem with the concept of my campaign and you chose to tell me three minutes before I announce it?”
“Well, that’s the thing. You’re not going to be announcing it today, hon.”
“Okay, Ray, stop stalling and tell me what’s really going on,” I said, as a crowd of women passed us, inspecting Margene’s collection of heirloom tea roses.
“We’re not going to use your campaign, Sadie,” Ray said quietly.
“What?!” I cried shrilly, startling several nearby ladies into bobbling their punch cups. I scrambled for an explanation for such an outburst, following with, “—a lovely hat.” I nodded toward Deanna Stanhope’s teal fascinator, decorated with a turquoise bow the size of a Buick. “What an absolutely lovely hat. Where on earth did you find it?”
Mrs. Stanhope, whose husband ran the most profitable personal injury practice in town, preened a bit and gave me some long, circuitous story about a personal milliner in New York. But I didn’t hear or care. Over Ray’s shoulder I spotted the hale, husky figure of Tourism Commissioner Ted Bidwell and his fembot assassin of an assistant, Gina, speaking to Mr. Perfect Pants. I wasn’t sure which was more confusing—the presence of the department head or the quick clench of gut-level jealousy when I saw willowy, blond Gina throwing her head back in a tinkling laugh at something Mr. Perfect Pants said.
Why on earth would Commissioner Bidwell be talking to this bizarre, attractive stranger? And how could I get him to leave and take his flirty assistant with him? We rarely saw our mighty overlord out of the office, as he spent most of his off time working his family farm just a few miles outside of Frankfort. He didn’t understand much about marketing, but he knew that in order to get butts in seats you had to make sure people knew that the seats were available in the first place. He reminded me a little bit of P. T. Barnum, always looking for the next big draw. We got along just fine because he didn’t mind my quirky ideas, as long as they worked.
“What is he doing here?” I whispered to Ray, smiling sweetly and waving at my boss’s boss. Commissioner Bidwell gave me a diffident nod and returned to his conversation with Mr. Vaughn.
“The commissioner dropped by this morning to let me know he wants us to use a new campaign by some marketing whiz out of Atlanta,” Ray said, which sounded odd coming through his tightly clamped teeth. “I’m sorry about the last-minute change, hon. I really pushed to keep your concept, but he was adamant. He wants new blood, new ideas.”
“Since when does a state-run marketing department use an outside marketing consultant?” I asked. Ray squirmed. “Damn it, Ray, just give me the bad news all in one shot instead of dragging this out!”
“He’s not an outside marketing consultant,” Ray said. “He’s the commission’s new marketing director.”
“What?!” I gasped, drawing the attention of several other guests, including Commissioner Bidwell. “—do you think of starting in ten minutes? I think everything is ready to go,” I quickly added.
Commissioner Bidwell barely made eye contact with me during my explosive bout of time management, suddenly and conveniently finding someone across the lawn that he absolutely had to see. My legs felt weak and wobbly as a new foal’s, collapsing underneath me. Ray caught my elbow and kept me from flopping dramatically to the stones like some antebellum diva. Mr. Perfect Pants moved closer, as if he would dive for me in the event of a head-cracking descent. While it was a little endearing, it was more humiliating to have a complete stranger witness this conversation.
“Please stop saying ‘what’ so loudly,” Ray hissed.
I took a deep breath, trying to school my features into something besides my current “I am going to either burst into hideous wracking sobs or take out bystanders with an ice sculpture” expression. I didn’t want to embarrass Ray in front of said bystanders. “I’m sorry, Ray, I know this is really awkward and I’m not responding very well. I know this isn’t your fault. But I’m—I am going to have to leave before I become some sort of garden-party cautionary tale.” I turned on my heel to leave, only to run smack into my blue-eyed stalker.
Oh, come on, now.
Who was this guy and what tragic lab accident had removed his social filters? I was clearly in distress, and he thought now was a good time to try to hit on me? With my boss standing right there? Where was Kelsey? Surely she had nunchuks or something hurt-worthy in that giant shoulder bag of hers. I once saw her threaten to staple an intern’s lips shut for stealing her tape dispenser.
“Ray’s had nothing but great things to say about you,” Mr. Perfect Pants said, though there was an odd twitch to his lip, as if he didn’t quite buy Ray’s praise. “I’m looking forward to working together.”
I stared at him as if he were speaking another language. I looked back to Ray, whose gaze was bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Per—Vaughn, Mr. Vaughn. My sputtering brain finally made the connection between the overeager stranger and the low-down, dirty snake who had swiped my job out from under me.
“The marketing whiz?” I hissed, my voice taking on the thicker, exaggerated Southern accent that bled into my voice when I was upset. I shot a significant look at Ray and felt an icy chill zip through my gut. I straightened my shoulders and let that cold, crackling anger fortify my spine. My voice was steady and so saccharine sweet it made my teeth ache. Of course, the way I was grinding them could have been a contributing factor. “I wish I could say the same thing. I didn’t have any idea you would be here today. Or at all.”
“I’m sure it will take a little time for us to get to know each other,” Ray said, chuckling awkwardly. “Maybe we could all go out for drinks after the auction.”
I had barely gotten through Ray’s little announcement without causing a huge scene. There was no way I would get through drinks with my dignity intact. My ice-maiden impersonation was only going to last a few minutes. I needed to get out of there before the numbness wore off. I needed to go somewhere I could process all of this and breathe and react in a way that didn’t make Ray feel guilty or require the removal of my shoe from any of Josh Vaughn’s soft tissues.
“Oh, I’d love to join you.” Gina appeared behind Vaughn and stroked her long, carefully manicured fingers along Vaughn’s suit sleeve. “I want to help welcome Josh to the family.”
Ray shot her an annoyed look and shook his head. I smiled wanly, as if Vaughn didn’t deserve the effort of actually peeling back my lips, and said, “You know, I’m not feeling very well all of a sudden. I’ll just do the introduction as scheduled and be on my way. We can discuss this on Monday.”
“Actually, Sadie”—Ray’s discomfort was evident—“the commissioner thought this would be a good time to introduce Josh as the new director of marketing. So he’ll be doing the introduction.”
For some reason, experiencing this humiliation while wearing a hat the size of a sate
llite dish made it so much worse.
Years of work meant nothing, apparently. Extra hours, extra effort, extra miles, none of that mattered. Because Josh Vaughn was going to be the new director of marketing. I was going to be his assistant. I was going to have to work for this smug, arrogant jackass, whose only redeeming quality, so far as I could determine, was that he filled out a suit nicely.
“All right, then,” I ground out. I slapped my notecards into Vaughn’s open palm. “Good luck, Mr. Vaughn. Welcome to the team.”
I maneuvered around them all, chin held as high as I could tilt it without losing my headgear. I could feel the heat gathering behind my eyes, heat that would quickly turn into tears if I didn’t get far away from here as quickly as possible. I’d almost made it to the back door when I heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice from over my shoulder.
“Ms. Hutchins?”
I turned to find Vaughn giving me a long, deliberate once-over from head to toe. He smirked at me, the little dimples in his cheeks winking in a blasphemous mockery of good humor. “Great hat.”
Kiss my secondhand Manolos.
You look like Justin Bieber’s bastard brother.
I hope Gina gives you an incurable rash.
Those are all things I could have said. Instead I chose to give him the Brain-Melting Glare of Doom™ and turned away. I walked through the McBrides’ great room, wondering how I was going to get through the hour-long drive back to Frankfort without screaming myself hoarse.
Damn it. I stopped in my tracks, no small feat wearing high heels on a slick burnt-orange Tuscan tile floor.
Ray had insisted that all of the staff members ride together in a state van so we didn’t occupy precious parking space in Mrs. McBride’s driveway. I was going to have to ride home with my coworkers, knowing that I’d been passed over for the promotion and knowing that they knew.
I felt like throwing up all over again.
In Which I Smile Like a Serial Killer
2
Once again, Kelsey ran to the rescue. While I teetered through the McBrides’ house past the tittering crowd of exotically bonneted debs and tried to determine exactly how long it would take me to walk home in these shoes, Kelsey had already grabbed her enormous bag and secured keys to another vehicle. She was the James Bond of secretaries.
“It’s okay, Sadie,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders when she caught up to me in the circular cobblestone drive. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
We reached a bottle-green Ford Taurus with a strange collection of Picasso-style sketches spray-painted on the body. She reached into her magic bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of vodka, a brand so cheap I could practically see the potato peelings floating in it. I gave it a shake, my mouth pressed in a skeptical line.
“Oh, don’t pull the delicate-flower routine on me, woman. I remember the office Christmas party.”
“Touché,” I muttered, cracking the seal and taking a swig while Kelsey wrestled with the driver’s-side lock. “Whose car is this?”
“I went to college with one of the waitresses,” she said, nodding toward the catering van. “Which just goes to prove that you should not major in poetry. But, fortunately for us, she was running late to work today and had to drive.”
“And how exactly did you convince her to give you the keys?”
“You’re now the proud owner of about two cases of self-published volumes of esoteric odes to the left nostril,” Kelsey informed me, cranking the engine. “We just have to return the car to Eunice before Monday.”
“Just the left nostril?”
Kelsey shrugged. I whacked my hat against the frame of the car, ripping my hatpinned hair out by the roots. “Sonofabitch!” I yowled, yanking the offending millinery off entirely and beating it against the dashboard while shouting a string of words so blue even Kelsey blushed. When I emerged from this R-rated fugue, I was holding a crumpled linen hat carcass, and the tiny vodka bottle was empty.
“The hat had it coming. Bad hat,” Kelsey said, nodding as she sped out of the McBrides’ circular drive.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, burying my face in my hands.
“You handled yourself pretty well,” she assured me. “Up until the hatricide.”
“How could Ray do that?” I asked. “How could Ray do this to me in front of all those people? Did he time it so I couldn’t make a scene? Is that the work version of your boyfriend breaking up with you in a crowded restaurant? What the—he told me the promotion was just a matter of signing some papers.”
“Must have been some pretty important papers,” Kelsey muttered, turning the car onto I-64 east. “Trust me, Sadie, I see everything that comes across Ray’s desk. He was acting in good faith that you were going to replace him. I’m guessing he didn’t know anything about Mr. All-American until this morning, just like he said. Look, you’re going to go to the office on Monday. You and Ray will talk this out. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
“A good explanation that will magically soothe my hurt feelings and get my promotion back?”
“That would be shooting pretty high,” Kelsey acknowledged.
I groaned, rubbing at my aching scalp. This wouldn’t be the first time a political appointment had upset the bureaucratic apple cart. Ray was the head of the marketing department, but he answered to people on several levels of the administration. If someone higher up decided that a job should go to an outside hire with an impressive track record, there was nothing to be done about it. In some cases, outside applicants got more consideration to avoid the appearance of cronyism.
I expected better than this from Ray. More than just a boss, he’d completely changed the direction of my life. I was supposed to teach high school English with my shiny bachelor’s degree in secondary education from the University of Louisville. I went to a summer job fair on campus and there was Ray Brackett, trying to con some qualified kid into coming to work for his office, unpaid. The marketing major huffed off and, being the arrogant little coed that I was, I asked Ray if he really thought he was going to be able to sell an unpaid summer spent stuffing mailers and making copies. After acting sort of indignant about being able to sell just about anything to anybody, Ray admitted that the position was paid. He had just wanted to see who was interested enough to stick around and discuss it. Ray and I got along just fine. And because I was the only kid who asked in-depth questions, and Ray didn’t want to go to any more career fairs, I got the job.
Nothing bonds two people like the creative process. That summer, I learned everything I could about tourism marketing in-house, from copywriting to putting together pictorials to working with printers and media. Not everything we produced was gold—a memorable misfire that encouraged tourists to trace moonshiners’ hidden routes through Kentucky comes to mind. (Lost tourists primarily interested in illegal booze + isolated areas + locals irritated by increased traffic = angry calls to the people who put together the brochure.) But in general, we produced good work together. And when I graduated, he snatched me right up and hired me as his assistant.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like being assistant marketing director. It wasn’t even losing the promotion, though I’d really looked forward to it. I didn’t know this Vaughn guy. I didn’t know his work. I didn’t know how he ran an office. I didn’t know his creative process. What if he was like the assistant director who left right before I took the job, who seemed intent on making all our promotional materials look like beer ads?
Could Vaughn’s work really have been that much better than mine? My print ads and radio spots had always gotten positive feedback. I’d always scored well in my performance reviews. Were my deficiencies as a potential office leader really so dire that the commissioner of tourism had felt it necessary to look to Atlanta for a solution? Was it because of my age? At twenty-eight, I would have been
one of the younger department heads, but it wasn’t unheard-of when the candidate was qualified. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything to prove that I was unqualified.
The self-flagellation was doing me no good, I reflected. Professional wounding was the least of my problems. I could go to Commissioner Bidwell and claim to be insulted and hurt to be passed over. I could hop up and down and threaten to find some human resources route to revenge. But deep down, what really scared me was that this job was all I had. I was aware that this sounded a bit melodramatic, but it was the truth. Little by little, I’d let it take over every aspect of my life. I barely took vacations. I had no time to date because I was always running off to some event or doing game night with Kelsey or going to Melody’s scrapbooking club. (I wasn’t much of a scrap-rat, but I had a knack for cutting out those little paper embellishments.) There was also the small matter of what Kelsey called my “impossible standards” for a guy—funny, employed, considerate, nonsmoking, noncrazy, non-living-with-his-mommy.
My grandparents, who’d raised me, had both passed away in the past few years, leaving me without much in the way of family beyond the odd collection of misfits in the office. The closest personal relationships I had were with the people I worked with, good, kind people who accepted my quirks and flaws and inability to use the fax machine without occasionally sending documents to Beijing.
I loved my job. I loved finding that weird earwig of a promotion that made it impossible to ignore the state I’d adopted as my own. I loved that it was my job to help other people find their way to those same events and discover that quirky charm for themselves. I loved writing funny ad copy, picking the right photos to complement my message. I couldn’t threaten to walk away from my job, because I didn’t want to leave. I thought about going back to my cozy little apartment and trying to rewrite my résumé, and I was struck by a wave of despair so acute it made my chest ache.
