by Joan Cohen
“I felt like curling up in a ball in the corner, but when I talked to Mariana—so close to everything yesterday yet back at the hotel, packing up and helping the sales force deal with what they saw—I knew I needed to step up.”
Jeanne’s impulse was to say we’ll all get through this together, but the words seemed trite and hollow given the enormity of what had happened. She patted Clara’s arm wordlessly. Who would be the first to mention it, Jeanne wondered—obviously not Clara. Mariana had been there. She must have heard Jeanne tell Jake the baby was his.
“The publicity,” Clara said. “It’s too late to get ahead of this story, but we need to manage it. The reporters started calling right after, but I sent out a company-wide message saying no one should talk to the press. Someone at WCVB managed to get through to Franklin Burrows. He wouldn’t comment until he was sure Jake’s family had been notified.”
Jeanne sighed. “It is what it is. CEO with PTSD ends his life. Follow it with the usual hearts and prayers going out, etcetera.”
“Um . . .” Clara looked away, an uncharacteristic gesture of avoidance. “That’s not the part of the story they’re asking about. It’s what you said to Jake that made him put down his gun, and whether it was a strategy to stop him cold or, or . . .”
“Or whether it was true?”
Clara squirmed.
“Yes, it is Jake’s baby, but I don’t think we need to put that in a press release, do we?” Jeanne cocked an eyebrow at Clara.
“No, and we’re not a public company. You know what I think? What you did was very brave. I could never have faced down Jake, knowing he was about to shoot me and probably everyone else in that room. I think the whole company is behind you.” Jeanne thanked Clara for her support. “There’s just one more thing. What should I say about Parker?”
Parker—Jeanne hadn’t even thought about him. She flushed with shame. Jake had shot him in the shoulder, but Jeanne didn’t remember seeing Parker being helped out. “I’ll check at his home and see if I can find someone to tell me how he’s doing.” Clara nodded and hurried out, while Jeanne reached for her phone. She didn’t pick up the receiver, though. Instead she allowed her hand to slide back down the buttons and across the desk to her lap. Her last exchange with Parker had been so . . . reptilian, just a pair of snakes hissing and threatening.
She decided to ask Lou before calling Parker’s home. He answered on the first ring. “Parker? He needs surgery. Bullet shattered his shoulder. When I talked to his son, it sounded like he was going to be out of commission for several weeks at least.”
“I’ll send an email to the company. Clara’s handling the press.”
“Jeanne, can we get together this morning?”
“Can it wait till afternoon? There’s so much to sort out since Jake . . .” They agreed on one o’clock, and Jeanne swiveled to face the windows. Lou had seemed reluctant to wait but didn’t say why he wanted to talk. She rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands.
“Jeanne?” Franklin Burrows stood in her doorway. “I’d like to talk with you. Would you mind stepping into Jake’s office?”
Franklin had a key and, after unlocking Jake’s door, gestured toward the conference table and closed the door behind him. He took a chair at the far end. Jeanne’s eyes were drawn to Jake’s empty chair. It seemed wrong that someone else should ever occupy it. She sat down with her back to it. “How are you holding up?” Franklin asked.
“A little shaky, to be honest.”
“You could probably use some time off.”
“Not really. I thought I wanted to be home, but now that I’m here, I feel a little more normal.”
“Well, that’s good . . . good.” Franklin seemed discomfited by her answer. Perhaps she’d been too quick to use the word “normal.” “I’ve been in touch with the rest of the board, and, as you can imagine after this tragedy, we need to move quickly to restore stability to the business.”
“Agreed.” She was pleased Franklin had taken control.
“We’ve decided to ask for your resignation, Jeanne.” She stared. Resignation? She’d been expecting him to ask her opinion on how they should manage going forward, on how to maintain morale after the company’s trauma. Instead, it was over. She was over. What Jake had spared her, Franklin went on to accomplish. In the vernacular of business, she’d been shot. His eyes momentarily flickered away from her gaze, which surprised her. Surely, he wasn’t uncomfortable, not after all the executives he’d fired in the past.
Franklin cleared his throat before continuing. Now that everyone knew Jake was the father of her baby, Salientific couldn’t continue to employ her. Without the sales conference and its tragic ending, her relationship with Jake might have remained private. Only a few people had heard her tell Jake the baby was his, but the news had spread fast.
Since the shooting hit the news outlets, questions were coming from all sides, with board members even getting calls at home. “They’re asking whether an intimate relationship between an employee and her superior is sanctioned at Salientific. You were courageous, Jeanne, which is what makes this situation so difficult, but we can’t ignore a violation of company policy, not to mention standard business ethics. We would look derelict.”
The board felt that in the interest of company morale, she should resign rather than be fired. Given what she’d been through and her impending maternity leave, she could easily explain her decision as health related.
Interesting, she thought, an employee couldn’t screw around with her superior. Why didn’t he say a manager couldn’t bang his subordinate? In Franklin’s version, she was to blame. He might as well have fired her for getting herself knocked up. Jeanne’s mother hadn’t been off base after all. A woman’s pregnancy changed everything. “I certainly wouldn’t want the board to appear derelict,” she said dryly.
He ignored the comment and plowed ahead. “Lou will be acting CEO, and Vince will temporarily join Salientific to fill in for Parker as CFO.”
Vince—he’d been in the room when she announced Jake was the father of her baby. With all the texts and emails she’d received last night, not one had come from Vince. He was out of her life for good. She remembered the awkward moment at the breakfast reception when he’d tried to talk with her. Maybe it was better this way.
Franklin wanted Jeanne to leave the company immediately. From an ethical perspective, the board needed a clean break with her. Ironic, she thought, venture capitalists as the standard bearer for business ethics. Franklin’s definition of a clean break, however, had some rough edges. They wanted her to function as a marketing consultant for the rest of the month at least. She was to manage marketing from offsite, by phone, text, or email. What choice did she have if she wanted to take care of her people? She agreed.
Jeanne detoured around the direct route to her office to avoid being waylaid by anyone in marketing. She stuffed into her briefcase as many personal items as would fit and left the building. Eduardo waved, but she didn’t stop.
When Jeanne arrived at Dawning Day, Maggie was checking residents’ blood pressure in the Alzheimer’s unit. Jeanne told the receptionist she’d come back later, but before she could leave, Maggie emerged from behind the locked door. “You look terrible. What happened?”
“I got canned,” Jeanne said with a wry smile. As soon as Maggie’s arms enfolded her, Jeanne gave up trying to hold back her angry tears. Thank God she hadn’t cried in front of Franklin.
“You can’t leave, okay?” Maggie guided her into the empty bistro off the lobby. I have to finish what I’m doing, but I’ll be back out here in ten minutes, fifteen tops. Sit down.” Jeanne sank into a chair while Maggie stepped behind the counter, unlocked a cabinet, and dispensed a hot chocolate from a beverage machine. “I want you to drink this slowly—it’s very hot—and don’t think about the calories. If you’re not here when I come back out, I’ll never speak to you again.”
Jeanne felt a wave of relief to have Maggie in charge, since she fe
lt as incapable of moving as a nonambulatory resident of Dawning Day. She took a tentative sip. Whatever the machine-generated hot chocolate lacked in chocolaty richness it provided in heat and caffeine, warming her from the inside out and elevating her mood from desperation to mere misery.
Jeanne offered up no prayers for help from above, but if she had, she could rightly claim they’d been answered, as a draft sweeping into the bistro from the lobby heralded the arrival of four golden retrievers. Jeanne was instantly at the side of the young couple accompanying them, but the dogs wore service vests, so she knew it was wrong to distract them when they were working. She asked permission to pet them and was soon surrounded by cold noses and furry muzzles nudging her to share her affections.
She buried her face in the dense coat of a blond dog named Willow. How she’d missed that scent and the tactile pleasure of hugging a dog. These therapy dogs, one of the handlers explained, were from Golden Years Pet Visits. They’d been trained, both by dog owners and company staff, to remain gentle and unflustered, regardless of noise or intruding distractions, while the elderly petted and cuddled them.
They didn’t need to persuade Jeanne of the delight these visits brought to the Dawning Day residents, not to speak of the lowered blood pressure of those who stroked them and the increased responsiveness of Alzheimer’s patients. Jeanne was at least thirty years younger than most residents of Dawning Day, and she, too, felt comforted by the encounter. She remembered her Thanksgiving with Bricklin and how the residents had fussed over her three-legged pet.
Jeanne asked as many questions as she could about the origin and training of the goldens and took a business card before the handlers were split up, one ushered to the upstairs lounge, the other to the Alzheimer’s wing. When Maggie passed the dogs on their way to the second floor, she found Jeanne staring up at the wagging tails. “Dogs and chocolate—all better now?”
Jeanne sighed. “I wish—but it’s a start.”
“I know where we can talk.” Maggie led the way through the dining room, and for a moment Jeanne thought she was headed into the kitchen. She pointed to the closed French doors at the back of the room. They had white sheers stretched behind their glass and led to a private dining room.
“Elegant. Is this where you hold the weddings?”
“Don’t laugh. We’ve had residents marry. Never too late for love.”
“Nice sentiment, but one I can’t subscribe to.” She sat down across from Maggie and recounted her morning conversation. Although Jeanne had returned Maggie’s call the night of Jake’s suicide, she’d been too wiped out to relate more than the essential information. “I told Jake the baby was his. People heard. Vince was there. If he didn’t hear me say it . . . well, let’s just say the word got around.” Her mouth twisted. “No job, no more mac ’n cheese, just a lot of free time.”
“So, the baby’s father is Jake? You didn’t tell me. When I saw on TV what you’d said to him, I didn’t know if it was true or just your strategy for stopping him.”
Jeanne hung her head. “Sorry I didn’t call. I put off finding out till my amniocentesis. Then the sales kickoff started, and the world went tilt. Ironic, isn’t it?” She put her hand on her belly. “This little boy will be just like me. He’ll never know his father.” Jeanne put her head down on her folded arms.
Maggie came around the table and rubbed her back. “Your kid is going to have a great life, and so are you. After the trauma you’ve been through, you’re entitled to feel like everything’s falling apart. Why don’t you stay at my house tonight? Better than being alone. I’ll even kick out my boyfriend.”
Jeanne’s head jerked up. “Boyfriend?”
Maggie laughed. “No boyfriend—at least not yet. I had to say something to keep you from getting mascara on our only twelve-foot tablecloth.” Jeanne wiped her tears with her hand and smiled.
“Thanks for the invitation, but I’m going home to cry in my own pillow and do all the important work around my house that I’ve neglected, like alphabetizing my spices. By now, everyone in the industry must have heard about Jake and me. There’ll be no end of gossip and sly jokes. No one will hire me. I’ll be radioactive.”
“Well, I say fuck them!” Maggie’s rare profanity startled Jeanne. “The software business doesn’t run the world.”
“Yeah, Maggie, it kind of does.” Jeanne gathered up her coat and bag and pushed open the French doors.
At eight thirty, the phone rang. Clara apologized for calling so early, though to Jeanne the time was of no consequence given how little she’d slept. “Franklin sent out an email yesterday to the whole company about your resignation, and Lou came down to marketing to answer questions and reassure us. He looked awful, which reassured no one. Is it true, Jeanne? Did you really resign?”
Jeanne popped a K-cup in her coffee machine and watched the dark brew stream into her cup while she debated how to respond. “Officially, I’ve resigned.” The last of the coffee hissed into her mug. Hope my baby forgives me, but I really need the caffeine this morning.
“Say no more. I get it. You should know, though, I’ve already fielded calls from reporters, including from industry rags, asking if it’s true you were let go because of an affair with the CEO. We’ll stick to the official line, but someone’s bound to get to you at home.”
“Judging from the blinking light on my answering machine, they already have. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Jeanne sipped her coffee and listened to her voice mail. She erased the three messages from reporters, though she knew she couldn’t duck them indefinitely. She could only hope Salientific wasn’t big enough to hold their interest for long. Their websites were hungry monsters requiring daily replenishment with fresh news.
The Boston Globe and local TV networks were more persistent than the trade press. Jake’s suicide was big local news, and since she was the one who had stopped his attack, her perspective was the one they wanted. They rang her bell and called her cell. Tracking down her number must have been easier than she thought. Finally, she turned her phone off. For once, she was glad she no longer had a dog and could remain indoors until she ran out of food. If her staff needed guidance, no one called. It was probably too awkward.
The next morning, when Jeanne saw the Globe headline, she realized someone had known what to say, accurate or not. “Pregnant Woman Fired After Saving Company from Gunman.” She wondered who could have come to her defense and ignored orders not to speak to the press. Jeanne was glad her mother was dead. This would have been no way to demonstrate she had achieved industry-wide recognition.
The article mentioned Parker as the only victim of Jake’s breakdown. Parker, whom she’d pushed out of her thoughts, was seriously injured. Though she felt sorry for him, he had been the first to flee the ballroom. He was an officer of the company and might have been able to help defuse the situation. She knew she ought to visit him in the hospital. She definitely would—at some point—maybe when she stopped feeling like a victim herself.
She felt guilty about her self-absorption, but she was the one who’d been fired. Worse yet, a basic tenet of her faith—that given the right data, risk could always be calculated—had been destroyed. The future could never be predicted with certainty.
CHAPTER 16
Parker’s family had transferred him to New England Baptist Hospital for his shoulder reconstruction. Jeanne planned her visit for an evening, two days after his surgery, a time, she hoped, when her visit length would be limited by the end of visiting hours. Perhaps Parker’s relatives would be in the room chatting, thus diminishing her need to converse.
She stopped at Whole Foods in Newton to buy a box of chocolate chip cookies, Parker’s favorite, as evidenced by his scouting conference rooms after meetings to scarf up the leftovers. Her calculation about timing proved incorrect, though, since there were no visitors in his room. He had a roommate, hidden behind the privacy curtain, and Jeanne heard the laugh track of a sitcom emanating from the speaker on that bed.
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Parker lay staring at the ceiling, but when he saw her, he lifted his head from his pillow. “I must be on my deathbed if you were moved to visit.”
“Not too far gone for sarcasm, I see.” She tried to conceal her shock at his appearance, so different without his toupee. The fringe of hair on his bald head was dark brown with a good inch of gray extending from the roots. Other than the two-tone remnant of his dye job, his skull looked better without it.
As she took in the rest of his face, she was struck by how his ordeal had aged him. The skin under his eyes sagged, and his formerly botoxed forehead was deeply lined. She wondered, as she pulled up a guest chair, if she, too, looked like crap. She held out the box of cookies, which he acknowledged with a nod as he took it from her with his good hand. Thirty seconds used up. Now what?
Parker’s cologne was notable by its absence. Instead, the room smelled of antiseptic. Jeanne cast about for a banality to help pass the time. “How are you feeling?” If he described the surgery he’d undergone, it might fill up fifteen or twenty minutes of her visit.
“I keep wondering,” he said, “if Jake was a good shot or a bad one. Did he mean to wreck my shoulder, or was he unsuccessful at killing me?” Jeanne didn’t want to go there, to see in her mind’s eye Jake’s face, to hear the crack of the gun. The question was rhetorical anyway, wasn’t it? She shrugged, but Parker wasn’t finished puzzling over Jake’s behavior. “Never thought his PTSD would lead to that, or I never would have suggested a military theme to Bart.”
Jeanne felt a jolt of anger but tried to suppress it, reminding herself Parker was in a weakened state. Change the subject, she told herself. How-about-those-Red-Sox? Anything. But Parker continued.
“I just wanted Jake out of the CEO slot for the sake of Salientific. Now look what’s happened. The company is a mess.” Altruism? She didn’t believe it. More likely self-pity. “It doesn’t help the stability of the company, Jeanne, that you got yourself fired. I guess you only fuck CEOs and VCs? Must be what they mean by managing up.”