chapter
Eight
Joshua Swearingen invited me to lunch. We were leaving the building at the same time, so he made it seem like no big deal—but his flirtatious half smile showed definite interest. Likelihood of persuading him to reveal any noteworthy workplace gossip: high. Also, he was sorta cute, and not my boss.
“Why not?” I said, slipping on the mirrored shades I’d had to wear in my office some mornings before having a motorized shade installed in that damned east-facing window. I’d felt like chicken under a broiler that first week, slathering sunscreen on my left arm and shoulder to prevent disproportionately dark freckles on one side.
“Cool. I’ll drive.”
Joshua turned to walk toward his SUV after that statement, a small but telltale indication that he might be one of those guys who preferred to dictate everything from the car to decisions about vacation destinations to how big his girlfriend’s ass would be allowed to grow before she was teased or scolded for it. If he thought I would tolerate that bullshittery, he was prowling up the wrong family tree. I was my mother’s daughter, and we didn’t take orders unless we wanted to. But I was curious enough to follow, plus my fuel gauge was behaving as if my little hybrid was running on fumes. Might as well waste his gas on in-town traffic instead of mine.
“Sure. Where to?”
He opened the passenger door of his shiny, metallic-blue Range Rover and leaned in to clear a Malouf’s shopping bag and plastic panini container from the passenger seat and a gym bag from the floor. Tossing everything into the back, he asked, “Sushi?”
Dry cleaning hung on a hook behind the driver’s seat—starched pastel dress shirts and slacks with perfect creases. There were Starbucks cups of various sizes in every available cupholder and magazines—GQ and Men’s Health—crammed into the door pockets. It looked like he lived in his car.
“Sounds good. I could use some Zen.”
I was relieved that Zushi was close to the office given Joshua’s antagonistic driving performance on the short trip down the boulevard. Muttering rude asides about anyone going slower than he was, i.e. pretty much every driver on the same stretch of road, he cut people off right and left but got instantly riled if someone dared to move into his lane. I was reminded—and not in a good way—of ninety percent of the testosterone-fueled boys I’d dated in high school and college. So much for Zen.
When I was fifteen and dating older boys, I didn’t want to be accused of being a grandma in the passenger seat. So I’d clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and held on to the door grip to brace for the eventual impact. But eventually I’d stopped worrying about wrecking my adventuresome persona and asked my dates to slow the hell down. Some grumbled or tried to sass their way out of yielding, but they shut it quick when I threatened to call my father to come get me—something I would have likely walked home before doing—but they didn’t know that and they’d all met Daddy or knew who he was.
By college, that warning had become null and I switched gears accordingly.
“Do you always drive like you’re in a live-action video game?” I’d asked a guy on our first date, after he’d NASCARed around everyone on 21st between DKR Stadium and my favorite pizza dive on Guadalupe. The ’Horns had trounced Nebraska 20-13, our first win after a couple of humiliating losses. It was time to celebrate with our collective group of boisterous friends. Chaz was tall, blond, and smoking hot, but his driving was scaring the bejeezus out of me.
He’d smiled as though I’d paid him a compliment.
Um. No.
“Maybe you should get in the back seat and let an adult drive,” I’d snapped as he cut off some dude in a pickup who blared his horn and hollered obscenities.
Instead of being offended, he’d laughed. “Don’t worry baby, I’m in complete control of this car.” He’d flashed a sexy smile that almost maybe might’ve worked. Then he ruined it. “I turn this wheel or hit the gas and she obeys.”
“Ah, so your car’s an obedient, controllable female? Then maybe you can get freaky with her later tonight, because I won’t be getting back into this car unless you quit driving like a dick right now.”
He’d slowed right down and snapped a chivalrous, “Yes, ma’am,” without a trace of sarcasm, and I’d never had to say another word about his driving.
“Erin?” We were parked in front of Zushi, and Joshua was looking at me; I’d zoned out thinking about my college ex. Awesome.
“You in there? Man, you do need some Zen.”
I wasn’t going to find any Zen riding with this clown, but I hoped to ply him for intel on my boss so I could prepare for surefire backlash when he found out I’d outflanked him to get my way. For the Andersons, of course.
“Sorry. Just debating how to handle an issue with one of my clients.”
“The Andersons? The whole place is buzzing about the sorcery you’re working with our VIP PIAs.”
He twirled his keyring as we walked toward the door, waited while I pulled it open, and entered in front of me. I couldn’t help comparing him to Isaac, who automatically opened doors, whether for me or Cynthia Pike or the UPS guy. My mother, who took being “ladylike” way too seriously, would have wondered aloud about Joshua Swearingen’s upbringing. I huffed a small sigh and reclaimed my feminism. I opened doors for myself all the time, for chrissake. Ordinarily men didn’t enter in front of me afterward, but whatever.
“PIAs?”
“Two,” he said to the hostess and then turned to me to clarify. “PIA—pain in the ass.”
What a super classy way to describe our clientele. I thought of Wayne Jansen and Iris Hooper, “PIAs” to people like Joshua. To me, they were clients who needed a sympathetic ear.
“I think most of them just want the beautiful home they were promised.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He winked like I’d just run a marketing line while simultaneously knowing it was categorical bullshit.
Once we were settled at a table near the window, having ordered and run through small talk mostly focused on him, he returned to my earlier bait like a predictable guppy. “So this issue with a client. Wanna bounce it off me? Voicing it out loud might help you work toward a solution. Who knows? I might even be able to help.” He might have wanted to help—his complacent smile said he was certain he could—but he was practically salivating over the chance to exchange gossip about our wealthy, often eccentric clients.
I leaned up, staring down at my colorful Oaklawn roll as though I was planning my chopsticked attack rather than hiding my eagerness to know why Isaac seemed to hate the sight of me. “They want to have some contracted work done in the house before it’s complete. It will all work out, I’m sure.” I shrugged and popped a spicy, caviar-topped piece into my mouth.
“So Maat decided to be all hard-ass about it? That guy has such an giant ego.”
I looked back down at my plate. I was exasperated with Isaac Maat. He had been tyrannical about the Anderson’s request. But Joshua made it plain, whether he meant to or not, that his dislike of my supervisor went beyond work.
“He’s just a stickler for following procedure,” I said, echoing what I’d heard Daddy say. “I’m more of a think-outside-the-box sort of girl. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.”
“When? You should reconsider a transfer to Sales. Cynthia would probably let Ashley or Megan go to make room for you, but I’m number one in sales, so I’m safe. No worries on that account.”
Joshua’s loyalty to his coworkers: zero. He took my lack of response as deliberation.
“I could, you know, show you the ropes, teach you whatever you need to know. I’m sure Maat would be glad to let us have you. He’s probably all wound up that you’re making the clients happy when he couldn’t.” He laughed. “You’re showing him up.”
I thought of all the green-tabbed folders in my file cabinet—the dozens already there when I’d arrived—and felt unreasonably defensive of Isaac Maat, who wasn’t here to defend himself. “Most of the clients were perfectly happy before I came along,” I said, moderating my tone in hope of giving an impression of benevolent diplomacy rather than protectiveness I could not justify to myself, let alone anyone else. “Does he usually get his way?”
“Maat?”
I nodded.
“Seems like it. I mean, he pisses off enough people.”
Again, Hank had said the direct opposite. Had he played Isaac up to sell me on working for him, or was his difference of opinion the result of upper management bias toward educated, white-collar workers like themselves? I dismissed the former. Hank and Daddy wouldn’t lie to me about someone and then put me under his supervision. So either Hank was ignoring complaints about his chosen one, or Joshua was a jealous liar.
“Can I try one of these?” he asked, lifting the largest piece of my sushi roll off my plate before I’d said yes.
It was all I could do to keep from stabbing him in the hand. In my family, there was no compulsory sharing unless someone wanted to end up wounded. He popped the bite in his mouth and then swirled his chopsticks over his bento box.
“Feel free to take anything you want from mine,” he added, as if that would absolve him of straight-up stealing part of my lunch.
I don’t want yours or I would have ordered it, I thought, scooting my iced tea glass between him and my food. “No thanks. What do you mean by ‘He pisses off people’? I haven’t heard that from anyone else.”
I was starting to think the only people who didn’t like Isaac were Joshua… and me. As much as I found Isaac judgmental and condescending, no one else—Joshua aside—remarked on it. Which just meant that Isaac didn’t like me. But why? Oh my God. Was that my only real problem with him? That he didn’t like me? How pathetic and juvenile that would be.
“Well, yeah, management doesn’t really see it, you know? He’s just smart enough to stay under their radar,” Joshua said, as if he meant to school me on what management at the company my father owned was thinking. And what the what with that just smart enough baloney?
“He got his MBA at Wharton,” I countered. “That’s kind of a big deal. And I’ve seen the weekly financial reports he puts together for the CFO. They’re insanely complex and detailed.”
Joshua’s dismissive gesture was a rapid, all-body sneer, as though a wave of derision had coursed through him. “Like I said—he’s smart.”
I’d gotten no closer to preparing for Isaac’s reaction to being overruled, which would come any minute now. Maybe even when I returned from lunch.
“What do Harold and Sheila want to have done at the house? They’re rich as fuck, man, and old. Isaac shouldn’t be telling them no. They might not appreciate it coming from him, if you know what I mean.”
While he was correct that rich people don’t care for being told no (who does?), I didn’t like his implication that the Andersons were racist but absolved of it because they were elderly and had money. That was all kinds of gross and probably defamatory.
“It makes sense that a denial would come from Finance and Legal because of the liability aspect,” I said. “But that doesn’t matter now because they aren’t getting denied.”
“I thought Maat said no.” His eyes widened and I realized my mistake, too late. “Wait. You pulled rank and got him vetoed?”
I flushed, not with shy satisfaction over my victory, but with shame. What had I done?
He hooted, grinning. “That is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Ha ha!”
I considered stuffing my napkin in his open mouth.
“Man, you just went full boss on your boss. He’s going to lose his shit. And he can’t do a damn thing about it because it’s coming from the owner of JMCH!”
Which went right to the heart of my dread. Just because I liked getting my way and believed in the end result didn’t mean I enjoyed confrontation. I was not a hostile person. In a disagreement, my plan of attack centered on persuasion, not bullying. “I know you find this really humorous and all, but seriously—is he going to flip out?” So much for my plan to make a subtle inquiry. But if Joshua had a clue to what might happen next, I needed to know.
“That’s the beauty—he can’t flip out. He can’t risk being rude to you. You’re the owner’s daughter.”
“Hasn’t stopped him before,” I mumbled.
“What’d he say to you? If he’s being disrespectful, you should report him.”
Right. Report my supervisor for being disrespectful—a subjective accusation if ever there was one. I wasn’t about to run into my father’s company demanding respect for my ideas— Oh, hell. I just had.
“It was just normal supervisory criticism, not character assassination. I’m fine.”
I was so not fine. I still had no idea how Isaac might respond. And while I didn’t relish the thought of being justifiably reprimanded for subverting his authority, I didn’t want to push him over the edge and cause him to lose his job. If a confrontation over the Andersons’ great room wall happened—when it happened—I would have to pacify him and keep whatever angry shit he said to myself. After the house is complete, our clients are ecstatic, and this nonissue is resolved, he’ll get over it, I thought.
That wasn’t how it worked out. But I wouldn’t know that for a while.
• • • • • • • • • •
There was no immediate showdown. Isaac didn’t even bring it up. In fact, he didn’t speak to me about anything the rest of the day. Or the next day. On Thursday, in the weekly meeting that I was only invited to because of my surname, he introduced talking points, held conversations, and put forth a good case for continuing to use subcontractors instead of assuming that economic recovery in the housing sector would be steady and the current summer boom at JMCH was permanent. But none of those exchanges included me.
Hank sided with Isaac, reminding my father that JMCH had, in part, weathered the recession because we weren’t beholden to contractors like we were to employees, who required steady salaries and benefits and would put us at risk of layoffs if the growth fizzled.
My father sighed, agreeing with a reluctant “Point taken,” though it was obvious he was partial to his viewpoint of nothing but blue skies.
“Unless Erin has an objection?” Isaac said then, and everyone’s heads swiveled toward me.
I glanced up from my notepad where I’d taken a few client notes but was mostly doodling a pair of perforated wedges with a perfect little ankle strap that I wished someone would design and produce. “What?” Why would I object to something I knew nothing about? My puzzled midafternoon I-need-caffeine brain tried and failed to process that question until I realized Isaac’s dark-as-bitter-coffee eyes were boring into mine for the first time that week.
Unless Erin has an objection.
Oh.
I stomped my guilt and righteous indignation down—an uncomfortable mishmash of emotions that made me want to hide my face behind my hands while screaming—and cleared my throat. “No objection. Sounds reasonable to me.”
“Relieved to hear it.”
I wished he would look elsewhere so he wouldn’t see the remorse I didn’t want to feel or the fact that it didn’t keep me from wanting to strangle that smartass glare right off his face.
“Great.”
“Good.”