Sarah's Choice

by Rebecca St. James

  “I can’t vouch for your vehicle.” Megan gave Buzz the look she usually reserved for the backs of high-maintenance clients she’d charmed out the door. “But the promotion is practically a done deal.”

  Sarah should have such confidence. Actually, anyone should. Megan oozed the stuff. Her hair was always sleek enough and blonde enough, as if roots were terrified to even show up. Her makeup was magazine flawless, down to the eyeliner that lifted in perfect tilts at the corners of her blue eyes. Eyes that said, I have this handled so why are we even talking?

  But it was Megan’s mouth Sarah could never hope to emulate. Full. Strong. Slightly ironic. If you could make it smile, you might as well call the day as good as it was going to get. Sarah usually could, which she figured was the reason Megan had taken her on.

  But Megan was miles from a smile now as she assessed Sarah.

  “What?” Sarah said.

  “You look terrible.”

  “I’m just a little nauseous.”

  “Nerves?”

  “Jalapeños. And Matt’s parents.”

  Megan’s eyebrows lifted in velvety arches.

  “I like them, but they don’t like me.”

  “The jalapeños or the parents?”

  “Both.” Megan continued to survey Sarah until a male figure dashed past them, calling, “You shouldn’t be carrying that stuff, Audrey! Let me give you a hand!”

  Sarah tried not to roll her eyes. That was on the list too. Something about avoiding obvious reactions to the juveniles you have to work with. But she couldn’t help muttering to Megan: “Look at him. He just . . . schmoozes.”

  “Thad Nussbaum’s picture is next to the word schlemiel in the dictionary.”

  Sarah made a mental note to look it up and watched the wiry, almost-panting Thad help a very pregnant Audrey Goetze wriggle out from behind the wheel of her Suburban. He piled her briefcase, her lunch tote, and a bag of what appeared to be knitting onto his person like a Sherpa, leaving Audrey empty-handed to waddle her way to the lobby door.

  She was so pregnant.

  “He’s wasting his time anyway.” Megan nodded Sarah toward the same door. “We’re talking ‘Arrivederci, Audrey.’ ”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I know she’s not coming back after she has that kid. Seriously, you haven’t seen the way she glows when you bring up the whole baby thing? She turns into Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  Sarah let out a guffaw. Not a wise choice, what with the nausea threatening again. She took in a long breath as Megan pushed open the glass doors and let her through.

  “Even if Audrey does come back, she won’t be working the ConEx account. Too much travel.” Megan shook her head as they watched Thad lug Audrey’s belongings up the stairs to the second floor, grinning and assuring Audrey that she still looked great.

  She didn’t look great. She looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

  Audrey had never been the glamorous account executive, not like Jennifer Nolte or, come to think of it, Megan, who was a peg below in the echelon. Audrey wore business suits from Macy’s and was always the consummate professional at meetings, but she was Eleanor Roosevelt to Jennifer’s Jackie Kennedy. Now when her maternity sweaters strained across her belly like plastic wrap, it was hard for her to even pull that much off.

  Megan nudged Sarah with her elbow. “You’re right. Thad does schmooze.”

  “He’s like a little puppy dog.” Sarah followed Megan up the steps. “He does everything but lick her face and say, ‘Like me! Like me!’ ”

  Megan waited for Sarah to fall into step beside her in the hall and lowered her voice as if she were about to impart the details of the Area 51 conspiracy.

  “Thad’s not smart enough to know that’s not going to get him anywhere.”

  “What should he be doing? Chasing after Henry and Nick and—”

  “No. He should be chasing after me.”

  “He did chase after you and you practically freeze-dried him with your eyes.”

  Megan stopped and narrowed those eyes at Sarah. “I mean he should be getting the same kind of advice I’ve been giving you.”

  Sarah felt her brow pucker. “Don’t give him any ideas.”

  Megan produced one of her almost-smiles as they entered the maze of cubicles bordered by glass-walled offices. “Not to worry. You’re my only protégée.”

  “And how am I doing?”

  “Fabulous. But no more jalapeños.” Megan lifted only one of the velvet eyebrows. “And how many times have I told you to lose that scarf?”

  Megan eased into her fishbowl of a space with its on-trend black leather and metal décor. Sarah leaned against the sign on the door that read: Megan Hollister, Assistant Director of International Accounts and tried to suppress a sigh that would broadcast envy up and down the hall.

  “In a couple of months, you’ll have an office like this,” Megan said.

  “What do you do, read my face?”

  “I just remember what it was like working in a prairie-dog cell. And I didn’t have as much going for me then as you do now.”

  Sarah resisted the urge to snort. “I can’t imagine that. What is it that I have—”

  “You know exactly what you want.” The blue eyes dug in. “And you won’t give up until you get it.”

  That brooked no argument. Except Sarah didn’t just want it. She needed it. But since Never, ever look desperate was somewhere around number 6 on the list, Sarah just gave Megan a firm nod and headed straight-shouldered down the hall. Behind her Megan called: “But get rid of that scarf.”

  Chapter Two

  Sarah was actually hanging up the scarf in her several-pegs-below-executive cubicle when she saw the Post-it note on her computer screen.

  SEE CARSON IN WATERMARK CONF ASAP

  Carson.

  Henry Carson. Of Carson Creative Services.

  This. Was. It.

  Or close enough. Sarah smoothed her hands over the sweater. She’d already been through more interviews for this promotion than it took to be approved for the Supreme Court bench, and that didn’t even include the surveillance. By Nick Kellog, V.P. of Campaign Development, all but looking over her shoulder while she wrote the copy for the ConEx account proposal and going over it like it was the Louisiana Purchase. And by Jennifer Nolte, Director of Domestic Accounts, observing Sarah’s every move in production meetings, in the break room . . . as she came out of the stall in the bathroom, for Pete’s sake.

  But this was the first time Sarah would come face-to-face with Henry Carson himself. Megan had been grooming her for this for months. She was ready. She had to be.

  So go down the Megan List. Dress professionally. Check. Keep your game face on. Check. Show no fear.

  Good luck with that one.

  Sarah felt her shoulders start to sag, but she soldiered them back into place. Go with your strengths was somewhere on the list, and Megan had nailed what at least one of them was: she knew exactly what she wanted. And this was it. It had to be.

  The only remaining question was, should she throw up now, or after the meeting?

  Sarah seldom had a reason to go into the Watermark Conference Room, named for the large account that had basically launched Carson Creative in the early 1990s. Its gleaming African mahogany was usually reserved for people in a higher tax bracket. That definitely applied to the three people who greeted her when she walked in. Nick sported a cashmere jacket and practically had Bulls season tickets sticking out of his pocket. Jennifer, of course, dressed several-zeroes-on-a-paycheck better than Megan, which was saying something, and easily paid more for her precise bob haircuts and chestnut dye jobs than Sarah made per pay period. As for the manicure—

  “Please sit down, Sarah,” Henry Carson said.

  Sarah realized she was standing there like the new girl in middle school, hands sweating onto the back of a leather chair, boot heels leaving divots in the three-inch carpet.

  “Please,” Carson said again.r />
  His voice was warm, warmer than Sarah expected, and he was far less tidy-looking than the other two. Maybe when you were the owner and CEO you didn’t have to be polished like the heirloom silver. His short gray hair was boyishly mussed, and his glasses hung precariously at the end of his nose, and he wasn’t wearing a jacket at all, cashmere or otherwise. Although the striped shirt was clearly Brooks Brothers or better, the sleeves were rolled to his forearms as if he were ready to talk football over a beer. Or maybe that was just to show off the conspicuously understated Rolex watch.

  “My colleagues speak very highly of you,” he said as Sarah tucked herself into the chair she’d lathered up. “I just wanted an opportunity to meet you in person before we make our final decision.”

  It did sound like they were about to discuss the Bears’ quarterback. Looked like it too. Mr. Carson’s small brown eyes, set happily amid a spray of well-earned facial lines, all but coaxed, Come on. I want you to do well.

  Sarah unclenched her hands in her lap. “If I’m given this opportunity, I can assure you, sir, that you will not be disappointed.”

  Henry Carson leaned back in his more massive version of the leather chair, removed his glasses, and smiled at her. It was almost fatherly.

  “Please. You’re practically middle management, Sarah. You don’t have to call me sir.”

  “Thank you—”

  “Mr. Carson will do just fine.”

  Sarah caught the edge of Nick’s snicker before she realized it was supposed to be a joke. She smiled and nodded even though, seriously, it wasn’t that funny.

  “Sarah,” Jennifer said. “We just have one more question for you.”

  Sarah nodded yet again. Megan had drilled her enough times. She was ready for anything short of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable with all the travel back and forth to Baltimore?”

  That was it? Sarah almost giggled.

  “Absolutely. I’m actually looking forward to it.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “You’d think we didn’t have Skype and e-mail.”

  Before Sarah could decide just exactly what Jennifer expected her to say, Henry Carson once again smiled paternally at Sarah.

  “We really called you in here to see if you have any questions.”

  She did. And she’d told Megan she was afraid to ask them. And Megan had told her she was crazy not to and if she didn’t, she could forget getting any more coaching from her.

  Sarah forced herself to look steadily at Father Carson. “Yes. I was wondering if . . . um.” Not good. Avoid voice padding was somewhere on the list. “I mean, I’d like to know what kind of raise I can expect with this position.”

  Nick leaned sideways toward Mr. Carson. “You had to open that door, huh?” He turned to Sarah, eyes sardonic. “When I got my first real promotion up at Y&R, I asked the boss for a raise too. You know what he said? ‘Nick, I’d love to pay you what you’re worth. But we have a minimum wage law in this state.’ ” Nick cocked his head. Not a strand of gelled hair moved.

  And she was supposed to do what with that? Henry Carson saved her with a chuckle. Only men his age and in his position could pull off chuckling without sounding like they were the entertainment at a children’s birthday party.

  “We’ll bring you up to fifty-five, Sarah.”

  She knew the game face was slipping but she couldn’t help it. Megan had assured her it would be more. She needed it to be more.

  Jennifer shuffled through some papers in a folder in front of her. Nick smothered a smirk with his hand. Henry Carson just leveled his Father of the Year gaze over his glasses and waited.

  Sarah readjusted her face. “That’s very generous, sir . . . Mr. Carson. I just thought it would be a little closer to sixty.”

  “Fifty-five is pretty close to sixty.”

  “Not as close as fifty-nine,” Jennifer said.

  Both men glared at her.

  “We can discuss this further after we’ve made our decision,” Mr. Carson said. “Sarah, any more questions?”

  Sarah shook her head and he stood up, hands parked in his pockets. “Thank you. This company is indeed lucky to have bright young people like you.”

  “I’m the lucky one, Mr. Carson.”

  Nicely done. At least she’d come up with a graceful exit line.

  “You know, of course,” Nick said, “this position is temporary until we see whether Audrey is really coming back.”

  “Hello-o,” Jennifer said out of a small hole in the side of her mouth.

  “Oh, right. Sorry. We have to maintain the politically correct illusion that she’ll be on the job again after maternity leave.”

  Megan was right again.

  “Despite the fact,” Nick went on, “that she spent the last two years driving up our health insurance costs using every means possible to get pregnant. It must have cost a hundred dollars a sperm—”

  “Hello-o again.” This time Jennifer used her whole mouth. Sarah was beginning to like this woman.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said, “but those are the facts.”

  Jennifer looked at Sarah. “And you didn’t hear them here.”

  Henry Carson was by now at Sarah’s elbow. “Naturally we are obligated to keep Ms. Goetze’s job open for her.” He nudged her gently toward the door. “But the world can’t grind to a stop while she makes her decision. The work goes on.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Sarah’s voice sounded bright, even to her. As long as she had the man’s attention—“I was wondering when you were going to make your decision.”

  “Smart question.” He pushed the glasses back up the nose as he consulted a schedule projected on the wall. “The next phase of the ConEx planning starts in two weeks.” His eyes twinkled at her. “We’ll need to make our decision by then, won’t we?”

  December 23.

  Sarah typed a series of exclamation points on her computer calendar and let the hope amp up. She’d kept it in check ever since she’d started the application process, but it was hard to do now. Now that Jennifer Nolte was clearly on her side. And Mr. Carson was giving her fatherly looks. And Nick was . . .

  All right, so Nick was just Nick. He probably wouldn’t trust any woman who still had her ovaries. Even at that, maybe it was finally okay to dream.

  Of giving Catfish a check and her final notice. Maybe even holding her breath and hugging his scrawny neck and wishing him a Grammy for Best Album by a Sitar Player. Of kissing Buzz Lightyear’s faded hood and saying good-bye before she cruised off the lot in a car that didn’t lapse into a coma at every traffic light. Straight to American Medical Credit and Midwestern Regional Medical Center and everyone else who was waiting for money. With each check she handed them she would grow closer to freedom.

  And to pleasing the faint voice in her head that whispered louder than Megan could bark. Be sure to count the cost, SJ.

  Sarah nodded as if her father were there squeezing her shoulder and went to the calculator on her cell phone. “Fifty-nine,” Jennifer had said. Could she do it for that? Of course she could, but how long would it take?

  She had the figures in her head and she entered them for the hundred and third time at least. That total, plus her basic living expenses—and actually paying the rent on time and getting a better used car . . .

  Sarah leaned back in the chair and blew air out slowly between her lips. A year—eighteen months at the most—and she could have it all paid off. A year and a half and she might actually start living again.

  I can take care of Mom, her mind whispered back.

  “I saw you go into a meeting with the Big Three.”

  Sarah whirled in her chair to face Thad, who was hanging in her doorway. Literally. Like a gibbon.

  “You’re not in trouble, are you?” he asked. Hopefully.

  Sarah wasn’t sure if the sudden recurrence of the nausea was jalapeño-and-Matt’s-parents or Thad-related. She fought it down with a look she hoped would frost the cubicl
e.

  “No, Thad. But thanks for asking. I appreciate your concern.”

  He let his very long arms fall and crept inside, wrists poking out of his jacket sleeves.

  “Can I help you?” Sarah said.

  Thad fingered the murky-blond soul patch on his chin. “Have you heard when they’re making their decision?”

  “Have you?”

  “I figure it’s any day now.”

  “Probably.”

  He thrust his hand forward. Sarah stared at his oversized college ring for a full five seconds before she realized he wanted a handshake.

  “Listen, whichever one of us gets that job,” he said as he pumped her arm, “no hard feelings, okay?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said.

  She really did kind of owe Thad, actually. If it weren’t for him being such a brownnoser, Megan probably wouldn’t have adopted her as a project.

  As Sarah looked at him now, leering at her with actual drool forming at the corners of his mouth, Sarah could see him in the break room that day in June, talking about how he was going to nail Audrey’s position. She had just announced she was three months pregnant. Everyone else was so happy for her because she and her husband had tried for so long to get that way—according to the office gossip—and there he was, ready to snatch her position out from under her the minute she had the first labor pain.

  When he left the break room, Megan had turned to Sarah with those searing eyes and said, “You should go for it too.”

  Sarah remembered looking behind her to make sure Megan was talking to her. They’d never done more than commiserate over the disgusting things people left in the refrigerator for months at a time. But from that moment on, even before the position was actually announced, they were inseparable at work as Megan groomed and shaped and all but cut Sarah’s toenails.

  Sarah didn’t kid herself. At first it had more to do with Thad not getting the job than Sarah having it. But it had become more than that, and Sarah was grateful. She’d worked with Audrey briefly on another account, and Jennifer oversaw her application process, but it was Megan who showed her how to play the game.