by Hayleigh Sol
“If we’re really going to do this, Maya, I think you should tell everyone you’re taking a vacation but let me take the lead from there. Our management styles are a little different, you know? Maybe we should give everyone a chance to see what mine’s like.”
It was possible that I was being overly sensitive, but whenever Brad talked about his “different” management style, all I heard was “better”. Stubborn pride might need to be pushed aside, though, if he was going to become a manager or partner in the future. Compromise, open–mindedness, two heads are better than one, I didn’t have all the answers, yada yada.
“Okay, I guess we can have you take the lead at the meeting, but I think it’s important for me to show I’m aware and on top of everything that’s going on here. It is still my company, right?”
Might have to work on that stubborn pride thing some more.
Brad looked exasperated. “Of course it’s still yours, Maya. But we both know things aren’t going as well as they should be. Certainly not financially.” I frowned at what sounded like a rebuke and he softened his approach, resting a warm hand on my arm. “I don’t mean that as a putdown. I just don’t want to see you lose what you’ve worked so hard to create. Give me a chance to help the way I know I can and we’ll get you through this. You trust me, don’t you?”
Unbidden, Bailey’s voice from a past conversation popped up as soon as he uttered those words. “Why is it that the people who go on and on about trusting them always turn out to be the ones you should trust the least?”
Bay had her reasons for feeling that way and I couldn’t really fault her for it, not with knowing her history as I did. I’d never experienced the same kind of betrayal, though, so I pushed her out of my head. Brad and I might be going through a rough patch as a couple right now, but he’d always been someone I could count on. His willingness to help save my company in spite of that rough patch was a testament to his dependability. He was a good guy and he deserved my trust and support.
“Thanks for coming in to those of you who’d planned to work remotely today.” I acknowledged Meg and Cory with nods.
“At the end of June, I’m taking a little vacation.” Evan’s eyebrows shot through his hairline. “It’s only for a couple of weeks and I’ll be available via email, phone, text, the usual. You probably won’t even notice I’m away. And”—I glanced toward Brad sitting next to me—“while I’m gone, Brad will be checking in on things here, helping with anything that I can’t take care of remotely.”
I wanted to say more but sensed that Brad was ready to jump in. Evan’s watchful gaze was on me but I turned my own to Brad, signaling him to take over while I listened attentively.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t entirely true. I paid some attention to his rah–rah speech about how excited he was to have an opportunity to work with “such an amazing team” and get to know each of them better, how they’d “dive deep” and work together to “improve the customer journey”. To me, it sounded like the kind of canned speech a corporate stooge would make to employees who saw right through him and had little interest in his buzzwords.
My mind wandered, apparently embracing the concept of time off before it had arrived. I pictured diving deep myself, but from a rope swing that released the bravest daredevils—as I’d proven myself to be every summer I marched up to that knotted rope—into the center of Willow Cove. The idea of sailing out over that open space was more frightening now than it had been when I was a kid. Maybe I’d outgrown such daredevilism.
Daredevilness. Daredevilry?
Briefly, as Brad asked the team for updates on their accounts, I focused back in on the discussion. It quickly became clear that he was asking questions I already knew the answers to; however, the one time I responded, his redirecting the question back to Meg illustrated he was sticking to his previous decree that I should take a backseat.
So I imagined the crackle of an evening campfire, the pops and snaps harmonizing with a chorus of crickets and frogs. I’d tilt my head back and the night sky above me would be filled with stars I never saw in the city or even at one of the nearby beaches; there was too much light pollution for stargazing here. Shooting stars were a nightly occurrence at the lake and I remembered the magic and wonder I’d felt the first time I’d seen one.
“—Maya?”
Oops. Brad was looking at me expectantly. I must’ve missed something.
“Sorry, what was that?” Honestly, I was surprised he was including me; he’d been talking to the staff—sheesh, for twenty minutes already—without my input.
“Tiffany was asking about our social media updates. It sounds like we haven’t been doing much there?”
We hadn’t done much on social media because it had yet to gain us any new business. I understood we were supposed to have a presence on the most popular platforms and we did have nice–looking pages and posts that were a balance of professional and fun, which I updated once or twice a month. But the only people who ever responded in any way were existing clients and they weren’t exactly racking up participation points by referring us additional business.
As with her recent push for inferior solar panels, I’d had this discussion about social media with Tiffany in the past. She’d volunteered to take over managing the accounts herself, but I felt it was a waste of time and wasn’t confident she’d convey the right message I wanted for Green for Green. Brad would call her unwillingness to back off the topic tenacity; I called it an annoying disregard for my position.
“I agree that we should probably do more with social in the future, but I think everyone’s time right now is better spent maintaining current accounts and, ideally, keeping them so happy that they refer new customers our way.” That was a diplomatic way of putting it, I thought. As far as I knew, Tiffany had yet to receive a referral from a satisfied client and she’d been here for over a year.
“Hmm, why don’t we try this: Tiffany will spend an hour each day working on our various social sites. I suspect we’ve been missing out on an untapped gold mine, so let’s see if a bit of effort there will yield results. Just an hour or two a day shouldn’t take away too much of your time handling existing accounts, right Tiff?”
“Not at all. Thanks, Brad.” She beamed at him. “I’m really looking forward to making our posts better so our social presence shines.”
Nice barb for the work I’ve been doing on them myself.
Brad was already flexing his managerial muscles, but I’d been prepared for that. While I was away, I’d just have to monitor Tiffany’s work more closely to make sure she wasn’t dropping the ball anywhere. Perhaps Brad was right, though, and we’d end up getting some new business from her efforts. Unfortunately, it was all too easy to picture her tumbling down the rabbit hole of social media, blowing several hours liking and commenting on posts that had nothing to do with Green for Green. Hours that I would be paying her for.
When I called Gram for details on the camping reservations, she’d been surprised but ecstatic that I was going.
“Good for you, Maya, you really do need—and deserve—a vacation. I half expected you to find some sneaky way to cancel the booking and have them refund my credit card.” I didn’t tell her that had been my exact plan. “Now, do you have everything you need? Camping gear you can borrow from your parents—I know! Let me send you a check for a new swimsuit. Or anything else you might need.”
“Gram, you don’t have to do that. I can—”
“Maya, what do you say when someone gives you a gift?”
“Thank you, Gram.”
“Good girl, you’re very welcome. If it helps, think of it as an early birthday present.” That was laughable, my birthday wasn’t for three months. “Do you think your parents still have their tent?”
Uggh, that reminded me, I’d have to tell them about the trip.
Mom didn’t take the news as well as Gram had.
“Who�
�s going with you? Brad? Did you two work things out yet?”
I sighed but kept it quiet. “No, Mom. I’m going by myself. I don’t know if Brad and I will get back together, by the way; he’s dating someone else. Or more than one, I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, honey. He just needs to see what else is out there right now. He’ll realize what you two have soon enough and everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. Try to stay positive.”
Shaking my head in amused disbelief, I wondered what Bailey and Holly—for that matter, Lisette, who never had time for guys and their games—would say to Mom’s total acceptance of the man she wanted her daughter to marry sowing his wild oats. I resisted the urge to remind her that I’d been the one to suggest Brad and I take a break.
“Okay, Mom. Anyway, I’m calling to see if I can borrow the tent and camping stove. You and Dad still have those, right?”
“I’m sure we do but, Maya, let’s talk about you going up there alone. I don’t know if that’s a good idea, baby. I’ll be so worried about you.”
After giving Mom the same reassurances I’d offered Simone, she still wasn’t thrilled about my solo camper status, but she was intimately acquainted with my independent—also known as “stubborn”—streak and dropped it. I asked her to have Dad unearth the camping gear and told her I’d be by later to pick it up.
Since I’d be leaving for the lake the next weekend, I anticipated a hectic work week of checking in with ongoing projects, those assigned to me and to everyone else. Vendors would need to be emailed or called to keep deliveries and installations on schedule, clients would need to be informed I’d be away but available, and, despite Brad’s insistence on doing things his own way, I’d never be able to sleep at night if I didn’t give the staff specific instructions.
A quick search through my closet and drawers confirmed that most of the clothing I would take on the trip was in decent shape, with one exception. Curling my lip in distaste, I acknowledged this would be my only chance to take care of that most dreaded of all chores – swimsuit shopping.
If there was a silver lining to Brad not accompanying me on this vacation, it was that I wouldn’t have to worry—as much—about finding that holy grail of bikinis. The perfect unicorn two–piece that highlighted my assets and downplayed my flaws.
Did such a swimsuit exist? Would my best friends and I form our own Sisterhood of the Traveling Bikini and reminisce in our old age about the discovery of the magical bathing suit that changed each of our lives?
Yeah, I didn’t think so, either.
By the time I hit the dressing room of the third store, I was so over the fruitless search. When my shopping mood plummeted like this, I tended to make ill–advised, grab–and–get–the–hell–out purchases I later regretted. Purchases I’d then have to find time to return, annoyed I hadn’t factored the extra journey into my hasty decision making. Luckily, I’d identified the spiral this time before it was too late and fiddled all the strings and straps back onto their ridiculous hangers before fleeing the tiny cubicle like the hounds of hell were at my heels.
The food court beckoned and I latched onto feeling peckish as my excuse for not being able to choose a bikini. Or should I say tankini, bandeaukini, skirtini, high–waisted, string, halter, flounce—I hadn’t felt this overwhelmed by the multitude of options when I was choosing a university.
Over a plate of stir–fry—backstroking in so much oil I knew my delicate gastrointestinal tract would hate me in the very near future—I read an article a friend and fellow eco–warrior had emailed. The Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design rankings had been published with China and Canada topping the list, after the U.S., for sustainable design projects. Happily, the article included links to some of the more impressive structures and I indulged my love of green architectural design, which always put me in a better frame of mind.
Once I decided I’d had enough of the meal, I pocketed my phone and glanced around for the nearest trash can. Standing from where they’d been sitting behind a tall planter, Brad and a laughing woman made their way in my direction. The very pretty woman wasn’t anyone I recognized and that, coupled with Brad’s grin, rendered me frozen in my hard plastic chair, certain they were on a date.
Shit. I didn’t want to make nice right now, wearing baggy shorts and shirt I chose for their easy on, easy off trying–on benefits. Not with sloppy ponytail, no trace of polish on my nails. I will not meet her in the mall, I will not meet her in a hall.
Panicking—mildly—I considered hiding under the table like some zany romantic–comedy movie heroine. In real life, nothing was sure to attract more attention than a grown woman diving under a food court table, the distinctive screeching of the chair’s legs accompanying the move. Instead, I yanked my phone back out of my pocket and, like ninety percent of the people in my vicinity, stared at its screen like the meaning of life had just been revealed and was streaming live.
As they passed within five feet of my table, I noticed the woman looked a bit like me. When I made an effort with hair and makeup, anyway. I didn’t know how to feel about that. Flattered? Disturbed? Jealous?
When Brad took her hand, my assumption that they were on a date was validated.
At least it wasn’t Tiffany he was with—at the moment.
It was…weird seeing him like that, but I wasn’t experiencing jealousy. Not really. Just…a kind of closure. A near certainty that our romantic relationship was done and dusted. In a way, it was a relief. Now that I had this information, I could look at Brad only as a future business partner. If I decided to keep him in my life and my company.
Chapter 9
The six–hour drive up I–5, then east through the center of the state wasn’t the most scenic or pleasant. Taking me through Bakersfield and Fresno—known to all, rather unfortunately, as the armpit of California—the route was colored desert–brown, the air pollution thick, and the scent of cows pervasive.
I remembered my family stopping for gas and a restroom break in Bakersfield as a child and, even at a young age, feeling like we’d stepped back in time to the Old West. Since I’d last been through the area, an outlet mall had been built in an effort to encourage travelers to stay longer than the amount of time it took to fill the tank and use the facilities. I wondered if it was working. For my part, I stopped only long enough to buy an iced tea before continuing on my way.
When I reached the fork that would take me farther north to Yosemite National Park if I turned left, my skin tingled in anticipation as I took the right onto Bass Lake Road. As a kid, I’d been so impatient every time I caught that first glimpse of the blue lake through the trees and it felt like forever before we stopped at the campsite and got out of the car. Some of that old impatience returned now as I navigated the winding lakeside road the fifteen or twenty minutes it took to reach Lupine Campground, now “Lupine and Cedar Bluff”. Another change—a welcome one—was that reservations were now site–specific. In the past, we’d leave home before daylight to arrive at the campground as close to check–in time as possible, claiming the ideal spot before other campers beat us to it.
So much of what I saw was familiar to me, even after more than a decade away; I checked the map at the entrance to the campground, though, making sure I followed the correct loop to find my reserved site. It was just after lunchtime and, while there was some activity around the place, I knew most campers were out for the day, fishing or skiing on the lake, sunning on the beaches, or hiking the trails. After a hasty meal, I planned to join them.
Hmm, maybe fun would have to wait until after I’d set up camp.
My parents were big on everyone pitching in and doing their part; as an only child, I’d always helped around the house and yard. Vacations were no different. Putting up and st
aking down the 1970s pea–green, family–sized, canvas tent was something I’d learned to do years ago…but I hadn’t ever experienced the joy of doing so on my own.
“There’s no way in hell this pole is supposed to go through that grommet.” It was never a good sign to argue—out loud—with the instruction manual. But, seriously, this bastard tent defied the very laws of physics. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to raise the three ceiling poles all at the same time and by myself. At the moment, though, the greater concern was why one of them was two feet shorter than the others.
Hungry, thirsty, and sweaty, all I wanted was to jump in the lake and devour a picnic on the beach. But I was committed now and I wasn’t about to let setting up camp defeat me.
I straightened out the issue with the poles—I’d somehow inserted a “B” pole where an “A” pole was supposed to go. Then, I grunted and strained and finally managed to hoist one side up before racing around to the other side, panting with the effort. Repeating the process was an even greater challenge with all the weight on this end and the tension from the already erect—teehee, erect—side.
Swaying and staggering against the unruly canvas like a liquored–up sorority girl, I got the second side up.
Hallelujah.
An ominous creak preceded the collapse of the first side. It happened almost gracefully, meltingly like the demise of the Wicked Witch of the West. Without all the screeching and “what a world, what a world”ing.
Erectile dysfunction really does happen to everyone, I guess.
Okay, it was official. I was punch drunk—tent drunk. Getting drunk on punch sounded fabulous right about now.
