The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  Jo took a sticky date. “Thank you for making time for me. I hope you can clarify something for me before I go home.”

  The director nodded.

  Jo took a breath. “I believe one of the purposes of the strategic plan we are developing is to estimate how people will react to the central museum as well as the regional branches.”

  “Yes, that is ideal.”

  “I gather that the committee already has some assumptions. They expect large enough audiences by year three so that half the museum’s operating budget comes from admission fees.”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “With respect ma’am, what I’ve seen so far tells me we don’t know how parents will react. I doubt the American business model can be transplanted here wholesale. You don’t have a history of museum-going or private philanthropy.”

  “The committee hopes that life is simple, but they know better. You will show us the American model and then the alternatives. I will be guided by your plan.” The director sipped her tea. “Is there another issue to discuss?”

  Jo shook her head.

  “Myriam tells me that you met her son. His English is quite good.”

  “He was a terrific guide. So was Myriam. I learned a lot.”

  “Excellent. I will be happy to read your report.” She leaned back in her chair. Jo understood she was dismissed. She rose and thanked the director for the meeting.

  In the elevator descending from the female floor, Jo felt her gorge rise. The American model and the alternatives. Not one strategic plan but several. Scope creep: you sign a contract for a fixed fee and then something gets redefined and then something else, and the scope gets bigger and bigger, and you lose your shirt. Ev’s skepticism had been justified. She felt stupid and vulnerable. It wasn’t the money—Owen would share the cost of scope creep—it was the whole, stupefying deal. She couldn’t wait to get home.

  16

  Carlos beamed at Jo, pleased with the folding frame he had constructed while she was in Riyadh. He had used double hinges, the kind that let you fold a door flat against a wall, attached to aluminum struts into which he’d inserted power cords for mounting spotlights. He told Jo to collapse the thing and pick it up with one hand. She could carry it on a flight herself, he said, worse comes to worst. Not that she would need to, because he was on schedule. He boasted that when the frame came out of its shipping crates in Saudi Arabia, anyone anywhere with a level floor and electricity would be able to set it up. No instructions necessary, like an Apple product. Jo folded two of the aluminum panels together. Truly tight and light. She said she’d had plenty of trouble getting Apple stuff going, and his design was better. Carlos went back to his drafting table, all smiles.

  Jo went to Diane’s desk to deposit her travel receipts in the inbox. Dumping the bookkeeping chore on someone else was a minor luxury. She could record the expenses herself, but Diane would do it more quickly, and Diane had the time. She often left early or came late—always doing something with Joey or the dog—but she worked more than twenty hours some weeks to balance it out. Jo had something more important to do: write a report that would satisfy both Owen and the director.

  Last night Ev had picked her up at the airport, and, as they drove across the ghetto and up the hill, she’d explained the scope creep. He’d not said a word, not a hint of “I told you so.” She was grateful for whatever it was in his character that kept him from being petty. They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, Ev hefting her luggage, and despite the hour and the jetlag, when they lay in bed, she reached for his body under the covers and they made love. This morning he was gone when she opened her eyes. She dressed and went downstairs. She peered out the back window and spotted him behind the glass wall of the studio, bent over the workbench. She decided to wait for him to call her. First, she had a trip to debrief.

  As she walked into the kitchen to get breakfast, Becca opened the front door. Without removing her jacket, Becca made straight for Jo.

  “Did you get the news?” Becca crossed arms in front of her chest.

  “I just got up.”

  “There was another bombing at a bazaar in Baghdad. Fifty-two people killed or injured. ISIS is claiming victory.”

  “Sorry.” Jo turned her back to open the fridge.

  “Don’t you care?”

  Jo spun around. “I didn’t do it.”

  “It’s no joke!” Becca averted her eyes. “I hate worrying about whether you’ll make it back alive. You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”

  “Nothing happened while I was in Riyadh. Riyadh is safe. Saudi Arabia is safe.”

  “The 9/11 radicals were Saudis! It’s the breeding ground!”

  “Calm down. Please.” She closed the fridge and took Becca’s hands, uncrossing her arms. “If you met the people I’m dealing with you would think differently. They’re special people who want to do better for their kids.”

  Becca opened her mouth and closed it. She looked into Jo’s eyes. “Special people on the verge of war.”

  “That’s not how it feels there.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  “I’m tempted to take you with me next time so you can see for yourself.”

  Becca blanched. “Do I have to go with you?”

  “No, but you have to get to work. We have a lot to do.”

  Jo dropped Becca’s hands and watched her leave the kitchen. Becca had been placid as an undergraduate, but somewhere along the way she’d turned militant without Jo’s marking the transition. Maybe it was over Trump. Jo stayed away from politics for the sake of the business, and Ev stayed away by temperament. It seemed Becca couldn’t stay away. With a sigh, Jo realized Becca might never want to converse with Myriam’s son. But the girl’s concern for her own safety touched her.

  Diane pushed the front door open with her hip, her arms laden with packages. She tucked her burdens under her desk, and as she straightened up she noticed the jumble in her inbox. She leaned over to retrieve the receipts. Jo approached.

  “The director’s assistant paid for lunch a couple of times. Everything else is there.”

  “I’m so glad you’re back. We were all worried. The news is so awful.”

  “Nothing happened in Saudi Arabia. Have you been talking to Becca? Something’s spooked her.”

  Diane looked hurt. “I wouldn’t want to spook her. Ev has been holed up in the studio, and we’ve hardly seen him. Carlos is spending money, but you had authorized it. We missed you.”

  “Carlos is making progress. I’ll go check in with Ev.” She didn’t like the sound of “holed up in the studio.” He should have been directing the team.

  She stepped out of the office into the cool, damp morning and knocked on the studio door. She opened it without waiting for a reply. She expected to see a cardboard mock-up or two on the workbench, but there was only an open notebook. Ev turned down the music and faced her.

  “I changed my mind. Can’t do spinning. Too clinical. We need to connect to daily life.”

  Uh, oh. Her pulse quickened.

  “I really want water play.”

  “We’re not building a filtration system for a two-week venue!”

  “I know. So I’m thinking … dirt. What’s under my feet. Not solid ground. Dirt vs. soil. Microscopic creatures. Roots. Seeds.”

  “Two thousand square feet, Ev. One month. Must we start over again?”

  “I started.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “Becca’s done some research. Carlos’s stuff will be fine. We may need to ship express, though. You want to tell Owen? You want me to?”

  “Jesus Christ, Ev! This job is screwy enough!”

  He looked away. “Gotta make it right.”

  Lord, what a homecoming! Becca talking about bombs and Ev’s head in the clouds! And there was no point arguing with him. His mind moved only in one direction. If past was prologue, he’d work his new idea night and day and almost finish in time. She’d have to do all the explaining.
He was so damn stubborn. She turned on her heel and flounced out of the studio.

  The office smelled like coffee. Becca was waiting for her with a cup in one hand, a folder in the other. “When Ev switched to soil, I called your person at Cal. Here’s what he sent.” She handed over the folder. “There’s not much research on children’s ideas about the underground. Ev wants to use plastic granules or seed hulls to make clean dirt. I think it will work.” She hovered.

  Jo collected herself. “I’m going to need you. Finish up whatever you’re doing for Ev and come find me.”

  Becca nodded and carried her cup to her corner.

  Jo took a breath. He’d been too chicken to tell her last night. But he had a point. “Underground” was the better topic, and if Ev felt inspired, they’d make something wonderful. If she let him loose, she’d be able to stare down those misogynistic, supercilious Saudis, come home proud and intact, whatever the committee ultimately decided to do. Tension began to diffuse from her body. She realized she’d been holding her breath all week in Riyadh. The very air in Oakland felt so much gentler.

  At Jo’s request, Becca refrigerated her brown bag lunch and climbed into the truck. Jo drove them to Berkeley, to her favorite deli near the Cal campus, and they took a table near the window. They sat catty-corner, and Jo set a notebook and pen on the table beside her. After a skinny thing with a ring in her eyebrow took their order, Jo began.

  “I’m going to need you to concentrate on programs for the next little while.”

  “It’s only a two-week venue.”

  “I’d like you to collect ideas for programs. You know, making collages with seeds. Worms under glass. Cooperative play with a front-end loader. They don’t do exploratory activity in school, and we have to show them what it means.”

  Becca pursed her lips. “I really don’t want to go to Saudi Arabia.”

  “Just figure out the programs. I’ll get someone over there to present them. Or I’ll do it myself.”

  The waitress laid a salad in front of Jo and an overflowing corned beef sandwich in front of Becca. The girl dug in with both hands. Jo continued. “I’m toying with an idea, and I want your help.”

  Becca used a napkin to wipe mustard off the corners of her mouth. “I have a couple of newsletters to finish.”

  “The teachers in Riyadh said parents might not bring their girls. Those women fight for equity, and they don’t often win. I’m on their side.”

  Becca looked puzzled.

  “If we want girls to come, we need to get to the moms. The women all have smart phones. The internet is the only place they roam free.” She took a forkful of lettuce.

  “And so?” Becca took another colossal bite.

  Jo said, “We need to make the moms want to bring their girls. I’m thinking of some sort of online club, with incentives, like Avon, or Mary Kay. Say we give the school kids seeds and two cups of different soils and ask the moms to report what sprouts, and when. Get them talking to one another, so they’ll pull each other. Are you ready to tackle it?”

  “Sounds out of my league.”

  “Well, online is out of mine. You start, and we’ll show whatever you come up with to Myriam.”

  “Is two weeks long enough to launch a club?”

  “It’s long enough to test the concept.”

  Becca stopped eating. “Are you sure the moms will want to join a club?”

  “No. It might not work. In which case, we’ll know we need to try something else.”

  “D-Three doesn’t do apps.”

  Jo leaned back. “Time to start. Saudi girls need a leg up. If there had been any sort of encouragement in the town where I grew up, Diane might not have gone off the rails.”

  “She went off the rails?”

  “Ask her about it.” She pointed a finger at Becca. “Are you ready to design a moms’ club?”

  “I have to say, when you dream up stuff like this, I remember how lucky I am to work for D-Three.”

  “Thanks.” Jo picked up the pen and notebook. “Any idea on where you’ll start?”

  Becca shook her head. “I haven’t had much time to think about soil. I was working on spinning.” She paused, sandwich in hand. “I don’t know anything about Mary Kay. Maybe someone in computer science at Cal would be better.”

  “Nerds don’t know anything about moms of four-year-olds. You can do this.”

  “I don’t think I can channel a Saudi mom.”

  “You can. Summon your courage and go for it.”

  Becca stared at her sandwich. “That’s what Ev said. Courage builds confidence. He said it’s the secret of your success.”

  So, Jo thought, she’s been talking to Ev. “Tell me more.”

  Becca began to blush. “We were talking about the state of the nation. I was feeling desperate and Ev told me to follow your example.”

  “My example? Or D-Three’s.”

  Becca flushed red against her pale hair. “Yours. He said you’re not the paragon of confidence I assumed you were. You’re just gutsy. He said I should take heart.”

  Jo reflected a moment. She didn’t think herself particularly brave, but she also didn’t shy away from challenges. Ev had a point.

  Becca lowered the sandwich to her plate. “I’m trying to ignore all the crap out there and just do my thing. Like Ev said.”

  Got to be one hell of a crush to make this one put aside her politics. “Sound advice. Are you taking it?”

  Becca’s face contracted. “I have to.” She looked down. “This is home.”

  “What about your family back East?”

  Becca shook her head. “I won’t go back. They wouldn’t take me in.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true.” Becca looked away, as if unwilling to say more.

  “Well, finish up. We have a lot to do.”

  Becca nodded and resumed eating. Jo took a mouthful of salad. She had not suspected that beneath the feistiness, Becca harbored such vulnerability. All that tough-girl talk, just a front. She felt responsible for Becca’s professional life, but not her psyche. She would have to talk to Ev about giving advice. He’d already done too much. She signaled the waitress for the check.

  Outside the sun had sunk behind the coastal range. Jo sat alone at her desk in the twilight, waiting for Ev to close up the studio. Despite the office distractions—Diane’s phone calls to doctors’ offices, Carlos’s mariachis, her computer chiming notifications at every turn—she’d managed to write her report, except for the section on the business model. She couldn’t figure out how to finesse scope creep, and she had run out of gas. With a sigh, she clicked “save” and left the office to go find Ev.

  Light from the studio windows illuminated the way. She saw Ev behind the glass holding the whirligig mechanism in both hands. She burst through the door.

  “What are you doing? Changing your mind again?” Her chest contracted.

  Ev looked up. “Finishing this off. Becca wants it for a friend of hers.”

  “So you’re jeopardizing the schedule to make Becca happy?”

  “This is a twenty-minute favor for a friend. I like doing it.”

  “She’s not a friend. She’s a heartsick girl who’s in love with you, and she works for you! Haven’t you noticed? You drink coffee with her every morning.”

  “She’s lonely. That’s all.” Ev lowered the mechanism to the workbench. He picked up a notebook and beckoned her to look at the open pages. “This is what I’m going to build for you.”

  Jo forced herself to look. The whole deal depended on his idea. He had drawn a tree sliced in half vertically, from crown to roots. Kids crawled beneath the roots and coiled around the trunk. Next to the tree, adults and kids sat in a circle, playing with stuff. In the background, a conveyor belt ran between two big bins into which children were digging.

  Ev said, “The set is a little heavy, but it ships in pieces. Everyone on staff has an assignment for filling in the pieces.”

 
The vision charmed her, thank goodness. She pointed to the slice of tree. “Shouldn’t you use a date palm?”

  “There are deciduous trees in the Saudi mountains. I need to use a tree with a deep root base so kids will feel immersed in the ground beneath it.”

  “Why so elaborate? We could get away with less.”

  “Like you always say, kids deserve magic.”

  She felt her chest release a notch. “Carlos says anyone anywhere can install this.”

  Ev shook his head. “I’m going to do it myself. With you.” He reached out to her shoulder.

  She felt her guard lowering. “One month, Ev. One month to get it done.”

  He grinned and pulled her toward him. He held her carefully for a beat, as if asking forgiveness for alarming her. She let him hold her. She wanted to believe he had thought it all through. She wanted to believe the pieces would fall into place in time. She also wanted a bath, and a glass of wine, and to lay her head on her own pillow.

  “Okay, okay.” She pushed out of his arms and turned to leave. She turned back: “You’d better be careful with Becca.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Right.” She’d have to manage Becca closely, for her own good.

  She walked through the dark office to the foot of the stairs and switched on the overhead light. The cantilevered steps cast slabs of shadow on the office floor. She climbed heavily, her resolve forming. Yes, she would pick up the burdens Ev’s about-face had created. She would make the necessary excuses and sell the plan to the skeptical. D-Three would work nonstop for a month, and then, after the crates arrived in Saudi Arabia, for another month without hope of profit. Ev had stolen whatever joy she might have found in besting Phil Owen. But they were still in the game.

  17

  The challenge: build fifteen displays in thirty days. Carlos constructed the stage set and fabricated cabinets, Ev built the mechanisms, Andy did the wiring, Becca sourced materials and programs, and Diane planned the crating and shipping. Jo supervised and wrote copy, designing and printing the labels herself. Every minute counted. It felt as if they were cramming for a final together: intense, but also fun. Andy filled Carlos’s boots with “clean dirt,” to break the tension, he said. In return, Carlos spread “soil fungi”—actually mushroom paste—on Andy’s lunch. Andy and Carlos rigged the conveyor belt between their two desks for the crate guy to measure. They conveyed pencils and markers back and forth just to needle Jo. She played her part, scolding them like naughty children. At the end of each day, Jo charted D-Three’s progress. Two weeks in, pieces of displays had accumulated in the corners of the office, and the job looked doable.