Chapter 21
“Clara Morgan? Nice to meet you, I’m Dick Stevee.”
Dick Stevee. Best name ever.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Stevee,” I replied, shaking his hand as I walked into the conference room. “How are things going for you so far?” The management team had taken over two of our conference rooms while they “transitioned” into this new arrangement. Dick Stevee would be my new supervisor, and he was the one meeting with the entire field team to appraise, adjust, and make any changes as he saw fit regarding the way we ran our operations.
Here’s what I knew about Dick so far. He was efficient, clever, and made split-second decisions—not only on policy but on people. The kind of guy who if you were on his good side, then you saw him as a leader, but if you were on his bad side, then you just saw him as a—
“Call me Dick,” he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table. “Things are moving quickly, Clara, which is why it was so important for me to meet with you today.”
I didn’t say call me Clara, but . . .
“See, I’ve been reviewing your files, I’ve been reviewing the files of all my new employees, and I must say, very impressive.”
“Well, thank you, I try and—”
“But you take too damn long.”
I swallowed. “Excuse me?”
“You take too damn long. All of you do. Some of the changes you’ve made at these places, and the results you’ve been able to achieve, are incredible. No one is denying that.”
“Okay?” I asked.
“But we need to start achieving those results in half the time.”
“Impossible,” I said, without missing a beat.
“That’s interesting you said that, Clara, because some of the other people in your position said no problem.”
“My colleagues do good work, great work in fact, but no one has the track record I do. My success rate is flawless, the returns made on my clients’ investments are a windfall in each case, and every single one of them would hire me again.”
“And yet you take longer on every project than anyone else in this firm.”
“Some would argue that’s exactly why I have the success rate I do. I take my time.” I held my ground. I was all for making nice with my new boss, but I knew guys like this, and if they sensed a weakness, any weakness at all, you were done for.
“Take the . . . what’s the name . . .” He shuffled through his papers. “Bigelow Mountain House?”
“Bryant Mountain House,” I corrected, and he looked up at me over his glasses.
“Yes, the Bryant Mountain House. According to your initial plan you’re spending the better part of the spring up there, but based on your projections you should be practically done by now.” He slid the paperwork toward me.
“Practically done and done are two different things,” I said, not looking at the paperwork. I knew what it said, I’d drawn up the plan myself. “This is a unique property, with unique concerns. They’ve agreed to more changes than I initially anticipated, and they’re significant. To abandon them now would be to do exactly that, abandon.”
“But surely you’d circle back to check in on progress?”
“Of course. After the initial phase is complete. Which we are still weeks away from, not to mention they’re going into their busiest time of the year.”
“One week.”
“I’m sorry?” I shook my head, not understanding.
“One week, Clara, you have one week to wrap things up at the Bigelow project.”
“Bryant Mountain House, but sir, with all due respect, that’s simply not possible.”
He looked at me keenly. “I’ve chatted with three other employees today, all of whom share the same job title as you. All of whom produce not nearly the results that you do. All of whom said they can bring their projects in early. Now, I have no doubt that whatever it is you’re doing up there is incredible, but now is the time for efficiency. Did Barbara tell you about the hiring freeze? The promotion freeze?”
“She did, Dick,” I said icily, locking eyes with him, not daring to look away.
“I know she talked to you about a promotion, making you a partner. I know you’re likely the only person on staff right now who is even remotely qualified for such a position, but I also know that right now we don’t need another partner. But next year, after things have settled down?” He closed his file. “There will most certainly be an opening inside The Empire Group. Provided that employee has proven she can be a team player. Embrace the changes we’re asking everyone to make. Sacrifice now, and be rewarded down the line.”
I said nothing. I could say nothing.
“One week, Clara. Then I want you bidding for that Oakmont job down South, and I expect you to get it. We can talk details after that.”
He rose up out of his chair, and shook my hand, hard. “Nice to have met you, welcome to The Empire Group.”
Sonofabitch.
My mind was reeling the entire drive back to Bailey Falls. My stomach, however, started reeling right about the time I pulled onto I-90 West. I’d felt a little off while I was meeting with Dick Stevee, felt a little more off while I was navigating the parking lot that was driving in downtown Boston, but by the time I hit the turnpike I was just hoping to make it back to Bailey Falls before all hell broke loose.
But apparently luck wasn’t on my side today. All hell broke loose at a truck stop somewhere between Ludlow and Chicopee when I vomited everything on my shoes in the ladies’ room. I threw up so loudly that when I came out there was a little old lady with a sympathetic look who handed me a bottle of water, which I took gratefully. It’d been ages since I’d had the flu, and for one brief and terrifying moment my brain galloped away with the idea that I was pregnant and that life as I knew it would forever be changed. I was halfway to the feminine care aisle to pee on a stick when my brain galloped back with the news that I’d started my period two days ago and was still currently enjoying the miracle of womanhood, so no, that wasn’t it.
Luckily I was only halfway to the aisle, so it was only twenty steps or so back to the ladies’ room when another round of let’s-reexamine-your-breakfast hit.
I was blazing hot yet freezing cold, I was shaky yet my back seemed locked in place, and my hands were dry while my elbows, somehow my elbows were impossibly sweating. But if I was dying, there was no way I was doing so in a bathroom at Stuckey’s. I splashed some water on my face, stumbled out to the store, bought Gatorade and a bottle of Pepto, climbed back into my stupid red convertible that I just had to have all those weeks ago, and pointed my car in the direction of Bailey Falls.
It took me another three hours to drive what should’ve taken me ninety minutes. I’d had to pull over two more times to throw up, and by the time I saw the crenellated stone roofline of Bryant Mountain House, I was pretty sure I had a fever that was high enough to concern the legions of leprechauns that had invaded my car.
I left the keys in the ignition, nodding weakly at the valet guy, took three steps inside the lobby and realized that I really didn’t need to go any farther, the sofa just to the left of reception was a lovely place to take a nap if I could just lay my head down for a . . .
I’ve been told that I face-planted on a hundred-year-old fainting couch. You couldn’t write this stuff, honestly, and that’s where Beverly from the front desk found me before my shoes had even fallen off my feet. Beverly called Jonathan, who called Archie, who whisked me away to my room like Prince Charming while I moaned and groaned wildly about red convertibles and a boss named Dick.
Bryant Mountain House is like The Love Boat. And like The Love Boat, they have an in-house doctor. Kind of. They’ve got Dr. Carlisle, a retired internist who comes up to the hotel every afternoon to play pinochle and steal tea cookies when he thinks no one is looking. He was there, in the middle of pinochle, when I face-planted, and followed Archie and a boneless me up to my room to make sure everything was okay. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but when he heard I’d been vomiting for about four hours, and other issues we do not discuss, then heard me vomiting once more when I made a run for the bathroom, he pronounced me down with a rather violent strain of the stomach flu that had been popping up all over the area, recommended rest and fluids and a bucket within splattering distance of the bed, and to let my body heal on its own.
For the record, vomiting in front of anyone is embarrassing. Vomiting in front of your kind-of boyfriend as he holds that damn bucket gallantly while whispering soothing words of encouragement is a fresh kind of hell.
Archie wouldn’t leave. He refused to. He put me to bed, he took me out of that bed when necessary, called down for extra pillows, extra blankets, a portable heater and an oscillating fan, three different kinds of chicken broth and four different kinds of Popsicles. And at least a gallon of Lysol, which gave the room a nice hospital scent but was undoubtedly better than the smell of sick.
I couldn’t fathom ingesting even a thimbleful of chicken broth, and when he tried to tempt me with a cherry Popsicle I vaguely remember telling him a very particular place he could hold it while I made yet another mad dash to the bathroom. I ended up curled up on the cool tile, convinced that I was going to die and that the last thing I was ever going to see were tiny bottles of shampoo lined up like soldiers and launching an attack on a stack of defenseless washcloths.
That bathroom floor delirium led to a confusing episode where I was convinced Archie was walking on the ceiling and had been sent by Jesus Christ himself to deliver the message that Mars could be made hospitable for human life if only Matt Damon could get the plants to grow.
Sometime around three thirty in the morning my fever broke, and I can remember a man with wonderfully cool hands tucking the comforter tightly around my shoulders and smoothing back my sweaty hair, the weight of his hand a lovely thing as it rested just above my closed eyelids. I remember the faint scent of pancake syrup and the tiniest freckles dancing just in front of my eyes before I slipped blessedly into an unbroken sleep.