Brave by Tammara Webber
“The ‘I need to find myself’ rationale? That sounds more like a gap year than career ambition.”
“Yeah, well, I said, ‘If I was going to be honest,’ didn’t I?” I sighed and dropped my empty cup into the cupholder between us. “Yes, I took the job because I didn’t know what else to do with my life right now. I can’t be the first person in the history of employment to do that, whether or not I bypassed having to tell pretty lies during a real interview to land the position.”
He sipped his coffee, stared out the windshield with an indecipherable expression, and said nothing.
“What about you? You said once that you took the job you could get because of the recession.” I’d circled back around to his weeks-ago reproach that my father had handed me a position created just for me and his indirect admission that working for JMCH wasn’t exactly his dream job either.
“And?”
I pressed on despite the vein pulsing at his temple. “And that doesn’t sound like someone who’s doing exactly what he wants to do with his life either. But neither of us is lolling around on a beach drinking mai tais or hiking up the Pacific Crest Trail. We both have our reasons for being there. So what if we didn’t disclose every motive for needing or accepting a job? That doesn’t mean the work we’re doing now is worthless.”
This time there was no lengthy pause and then another question, just uncomfortable silence but for the murmur of talk radio, the volume too low to catch more than a word here or there. Whether due to the caffeine or the abruptly ended conversation, I was fully awake for the remainder of the trip back.
As we entered the lobby, he said, “I’ll upload the scanned images to our folder and let you use your analytical expertise and congeniality to convince Mrs. Anderson of our proposed repair of her wall. Keep me informed. If she doesn’t go for it, I’ll have to come up with another angle.”
“She’ll go for it,” I said. I had no idea if she would go for it.
He nodded once with the most fleeting eye contact ever, turned, and jogged up the staircase to the second floor. I could have booked it up those stairs after him, stilettos be damned. By the time I was eighteen, I was accomplished at moving through the world in heels. But he couldn’t have made his desire to get away from me clearer. I followed more slowly, and his office door was closed by the time I passed it. The images were in our cloud file, as promised, minutes later, and I wasted no time in calling Sheila Anderson and asking her when she could meet me on-site.
“This will work,” I told myself, staring at the images on my giant desktop screen. I wanted to fix this for the Andersons. I wanted to fix it for Daddy. I wanted to rub Leo’s face in his failure to spoil everything for everyone. But most of all, I wanted to fix this for Isaac, because only his approval would fix it for me.
chapter
Fourteen
A couple of weeks later, Daddy and I crossed paths as he huffed inside from a run when I was leaving for yoga. “Well, Princess, I guess you really are the miracle worker Cynthia calls you,” he said, mopping his face with a small towel.
“Oh?”
“Harold Anderson withdrew his demand for blood money—says Sheila’s happier than a tornado in a trailer park about that young local artist you helped her discover. Apparently she loves being the first in her artsy-fartsy circle to unearth new talent. The girl has agreed to start work on that damned wall the day they close. I think she’s doing some other work for them too after that.”
“That’s great.”
I knew all that, of course, because I’d kept in close contact with both Sheila and Tuli as they exchanged ideas for the wall. Tuli would be creating a set of three arched columns, floor-to-ceiling, from stone, cement, and brick: two framing the mural on the wall’s outer edges, and one strategically set to screen the damage in the middle. It would cover a bit more of the painting than the ruined portion, but it would enhance the unique feature by providing dimension and a bit of protection as well.
I also knew that Isaac had planned to pay Tuli’s fee and material costs out of his own pocket, which made zero sense. None of this mess was his fault, even if he’d made it his responsibility. Before I could insist on paying it myself, Tuli waived the whole cost when Sheila Anderson hired her to transform a nondescript shed in the middle of her planned garden into a she-shed, a thing I’d never heard of until that moment. I googled and found loads of Pinterest and blog pages dedicated to the adult version of backyard playhouses.
“She wants it to be a space where she can enjoy her garden, a book, and a glass of wine, instead of just a structure to house tools,” Tuli told me. “She said, ‘I want it to look like a storybook cottage,’ so I sent her some proposal sketches that were basically miniatures of my house, and she loved them.” Her laugh was contagious. “I gave her my quote for the work, and she not only accepted it, she added a bonus for me to start as soon as the wall is complete. I’m good. Not taking Isaac’s money or yours either.”
“But—”
“Nope, girl. Look, I wouldn’t have this career if Isaac hadn’t picked me to be on his team back in high school, and I’m elated to be able to help him now. Besides, work begets work. This gal is a big talker with a wide-ranging social circle. I make her happy? It will come back to me.”
“Speaking of tornadoes,” Daddy said just as I reached the door. “Cynthia wants you to go to the convention. It’s a big once-a-year event. She’s taking one of her people too.”
“Convention? What?” I shifted the rolled mat under my arm.
The only convention I’d ever attended was my sorority’s national biyearly shindig two years ago. Meeting active members from all over the country and alumnae ranging from sophisticated recent grads to refined, white-haired retirees was amazing. Three days of meetings and workshops with wall-to-wall ladies in business attire, three evenings of the same people but in semiformal dress. Collegiates weren’t allowed to drink publicly, though private after-parties in our rooms happened—duh. But chapter advisors and GHs expected us to arrive fresh and professional the next morning and have our butts in chairs for the day’s events, and woe to anyone who skipped out.
I got the feeling a mixed-gender construction convention would not be the same. At all. I tried to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You want me to go to a builders’ convention? With Cynthia?” If the salesperson she was bringing was Joshua, I was determined to be violently ill with some unspecified stomach virus. “Is it meant for people outside Sales?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s not just for salespeople, but it’s client-facing info, so we always send her and whoever her favorite of the moment is. Hank usually goes too but may send Isaac this year—some kind of conflict with Miranda and surgery.”
“Miranda is having surgery?”
And Isaac might go?
Daddy’s unconcern about a lifelong friend’s upcoming surgery was baffling until he said, “Nothing health related. She doesn’t have your mother’s good fortune and genes.” He winked and chuckled, and I wondered if he knew about Mom’s trips to the spa for injectables, fillers, and peels. She always told him she was getting a facial or a mani-pedi.
“When is it? Won’t it interfere with my work? I mean, especially if Isaac is going—”
“We’ll manage, no problem.”
Not the most solid commendation, being regarded as unessential. I’d helped a few clients, but I’d spent a huge portion of my recent time resolving the harm caused by one of those attempts to help, and I couldn’t have done that without Isaac. My first two months had been like a game of Chutes and Ladders.
“Have you ever gone to one?”
“Used to go every year back when the boys lived at home.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “It was a nice little escape. Meet some vendors, learn a couple things, speak to some business-friendly political hopefuls, drink beer, smoke cigars, play some golf…” He smiled at his nostalgic memories and sighed. “What happens in Vegas…”
“Daddy,
He waved a hand. “Your mother knows I’m all talk. And considering the existence of you four kids, it’s a bit late for neutering, ha ha!”
I sighed and covered my face with my hand. I did not appreciate the tumble of thoughts I would have to spend the next week trying to eject from my brain. “And you want me to go to this thing?”
“I have every confidence that you’ll represent J. McIntyre more discerningly than your old man ever could.” He grimaced. “And a damn sight better than your older brother. He went last year, and Hank said he was like a crazed wildcat—too much drinking and too much tail.” He laughed at his own joke like he was prouder of Leo’s undisciplined behavior than he should be, especially in front of his daughter.
I scowled. “You should have warned me I’d need brain bleach for this conversation.”
“Sorry, Princess.” He chuckled.
In truth, my brothers had casually annihilated my opinion of the archetypal male long ago. I was too close to the action. I knew too much. From the swapped boasting I overheard, to sounds and smells emanating from their rooms, to porn left on browsers of shared computers when I was still in elementary school—I was all too aware of what boys were about before my earliest notion that boys who were not my brothers were sometimes cute. I’d been horrified.
Clearly, I’d gotten past the horror.
But if boys and men were routinely crude and tactless and too often deceitful about what they expected, I made sure I had the power to forgive what was tolerable and reject what wasn’t. If there was too much boys will be boys in my home and the world at large, I would be the one who could walk away from anyone—and I had, almost every time. Sure, I’d been down after a few of those necessary breakups, but guys used to doing the discarding were prone to resentment when the shoe was on the other foot. Any sadness I might have felt evaporated the minute they threw a public tantrum or wrote a vulgar Facebook post.
One night in high school, I was at Campania Pizza with several girls from my cheer squad, inhaling slices of double cheese and pepperoni after we’d come home from an all-day tournament in Waco. My most recent ex—who’d turned into a total ass in a record two weeks of going out—walked up to the table with a couple of his bros. He stared down at me, eyes narrowed, and I wondered how in the hell I’d ever liked him.
“How can you have red hair and be such a cold bitch?”
“How can you be tall and be such a whiny little shit, Todd,” one of the girls said. Everyone laughed, including his friends.
That was the last I heard from Todd.
Sometimes breakups were mutual. Other times the guy was hurt, and I felt like I’d kicked a kitten every time I saw him. That was the case for Brian, who’d given me a handwritten note swearing he was sorry for whatever he’d done and promising he would do anything to get me back. I couldn’t tell him I was just sixteen and bored. He moped for a couple of months but was never spiteful. When I saw him holding hands with another girl, I was happy for him.
I’d been so sure that would be my story with Chaz. That he would get over my refusal and move on. I was so wrong.
Yoga class was a total waste. I couldn’t seem to clear my mind. The harder I tried, the more errant thoughts pushed their way through. The teacher had to correct my horrid form a dozen times though I seldom needed any adjustment at all. When thoughts of Chaz began to play as if on a loop, I knew I could expect the dream that night. I wasn’t used to advance notice; it preferred to take me by surprise. Sometimes, though, I could feel it coming, and nothing I did or didn’t do would stop it.
My hands went cold and I got even clumsier and more distracted, finally excusing myself after whispering to my teacher that I wasn’t feeling well.
“Feel better,” she said.
If only. At least it was Saturday, and I could sleep in or nap the next day.
As I drove home, I tried to force my mind to something pleasant. Something simple. Like the sound of ocean waves against the sand, or a perfect slice of cheesecake, or the heady buzz of a first kiss. For some tragi-comic reason, the thought of kissing brought Isaac Maat to mind. I laughed at the absurdity. But standing under a cool shower minutes later, eyes closed and hands sliding over my own wet skin, all I could think of was Isaac, who didn’t like me. Who didn’t want me working with him, for him. Who would celebrate if I turned in my notice and departed JMCH forever.
But his smile, the few times I’d seen it. His soft laugh. The sharp, masculine planes of his handsome face. The heat I felt from his eyes when he trained them on me, which he seemed to struggle against ever doing. The likelihood that he felt the same insistent pull I did was remote. A slim chance, at best. A humiliating thumbs-down, at worst. But he’d taken my one hulking failure in hand and turned it around instead of letting it ruin me. He’d risked his professional standing to do it.
And I had no idea why.
• • • • • • • • • •
I entered the break room with my empty coffee mug just as Joshua shoved the near-empty carafe back onto the drip tray, which was still on. When he saw me, he leaned against the counter and began bad-mouthing his boss in low, angry tones, ignorant of my silent aggravation. I rinsed the carafe, pulled out the coffee canister and a filter, and began making a fresh pot of coffee, after which I was obliged to wait for it to brew while he yammered on about his grievances.
Cynthia had emailed her team to announce that she was taking Megan to the convention.
“When I confronted her, she had the nerve to imply that Megan’s sales record was equal to mine, which is utter bullshit, and then bring up the fact that I went last year! Like that should prevent me from going this year!”
Cynthia Pike, for all that I didn’t relish the thought of reporting to her directly because she was always on, was the Sales VP of one of the largest, most successful builders in DFW. She was capable of calculating, to the penny, the sales of each of her three salespeople. I almost said Wow—she has a lot of ‘nerve’ choosing which employee accompanies her to the convention but I didn’t bother because Joshua wouldn’t have caught my sarcastic tone. He was one of those people who never perceived sarcasm about themselves.
Since arriving at JMCH, I’d humored him because he did disclose a shit-ton of info about fellow employees and clients, even if half of it was so speculative that there was no way I’d have relied on anything he said unless I heard it from a more reputable source or witnessed it myself. Erratically credible or not, however, the rumors he passed on gave me a beneficial heads-up often enough to keep me from putting an end to his gossip.
“Maybe Cynthia trusts you so much that she wants you here to handle things while she’s away.” I continued the placating, diplomatic cover I’d maintained for weeks.
His terse pshaw showed how unappeased he was determined to be. “I know why she’s taking Megan, and it has everything to do with Maat and nothing to do with what I’m entitled to.”
“What?”
“Hank is sending Maat in his place this year. And Megan has a thing for Maat. Clearly, Cynthia is playing matchmaker.”
The thought of Cynthia Pike playing matchmaker for anyone was the single most ridiculous thing I’d heard out of him. The idea that Megan would find Isaac attractive was less ridiculous. The machine beeped, and I turned to pour myself coffee and take a deep breath through my nose. I had no reason or right to feel possessive of my boss or be piqued over some improbable office romance he might decide to carry on. Even if Megan seemed not at all his type.
And what is his type? my brain said, complete with mocking tone. You?
I added sugar and creamer and took my time stirring. “I really doubt Cynthia would choose who will accompany her on a corporate trip based on an interoffice crush.”
He stared at the open doorway and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s probably some sort of vicarious thing for her because she’s such a hard-ass and at he
My feminist hackles rose like tiny livid spikes. “And by ‘not like her,’ you mean?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You’re logical, not so fly-off-the-handle and prone to freaking out over every little thing.”
Cynthia was both logical and shrewd, and if her interactions with employees were comparable to anyone I knew, it would be my father. They were both aggressive, classic type-A extroverts. Even so, she surpassed him in the ability to be more gracious with clients even if she wanted to grab them by the throat and squeeze (this from an email about one of our orange-tabbed clients when she was at wit’s end with their incessant grievances). I was forming a retort that didn’t throw Daddy under the bus when Joshua changed the subject, glancing at the open doorway and still whispering.
“Speaking of Maat—what d’you think of that Ferguson shit?”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“Those cop haters rioting and looting over that criminal getting himself shot. A buddy of mine lives near there. He thinks they wanna burn the whole city down. Crazy shit. Man, I’m glad I live here.”
I’d come home from yoga Saturday afternoon, still distracted and stressed, to find every television in the house blaring what was known of the shooting that had happened hours before, replaying clips of interviews and the beginnings of protests. My parents shook their heads and worried over the state of the world and made disturbing oh-thank-God declarations similar to Joshua’s about where we resided and the gates we lived behind. Later that night and all day yesterday, the black community’s reaction to the shooting was the only news anyone was reporting, and the opinions were ambiguous.