His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  I’m sick and tired of it.

  Ever since Adrian named me as his partner in the company, I’ve been running on pure adrenaline. Don’t get me wrong - I was made for this. I love it. Being in charge, delegating tasks, crushing doubt and uncertainty underneath my Manolo Blahniks. But it’s tiring. Or at least it would be, if I let myself stop and think about it.

  So I don’t.

  I don’t stop to think about much of anything.

  And honestly? I’m thriving. I couldn’t be happier. I’m not quite the same person I was five years ago, I guess. But who is?

  I’m not about being stagnant. Not now, not ever.

  Right on cue, my desk buzzer goes off. I frown at my day planner. I’m not missing a meeting, am I?

  “Yeah?” I ask, mashing the intercom button.

  “I’m sorry,” says Carol, the receptionist. “But I’ve got someone here for Mr. Risinger and I can’t reach him. Do you know if he’s in the office?”

  “He’s out with a client. Do they have an appointment?”

  “He says he does. But it’s not on Mr. Risinger’s schedule.”

  At one point, I would’ve been suspicious. But we’ve expanded this office enough that it’s possible something fell through the cracks.

  “Hold on.” I mute the desk phone and call Adrian on my mobile.

  As he answers, before he even speaks, the first thing I hear is a yowling cat.

  “Everyone okay over there?” I ask.

  “Absolutely perfect!” he exclaims, in a tone of voice that suggests the opposite. “Really great. He’s been great.”

  “RrrroooooWWWWRRRRR!” says Chester.

  “Glad to hear it,” I snicker. “You didn’t have a meeting today, did you?”

  “Of course not,” he replies, sounding offended. “I wouldn’t have scheduled anything to conflict with Chester’s appointment. We agreed I’d be handling this one.”

  “We did.” I’m trying not to laugh. “Okay, I’ll find out what they want.”

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Chester agrees.

  “Did he do well at the vet?” I ask.

  “Really great,” Adrian insists. “He didn’t even draw first blood.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I buzz the receptionist again. “What did you say the guy’s name was, again?”

  “I didn’t,” she replies. There’s a soft noise as she mutes me for a few moments, then she’s back. “John Locke,” she says.

  “Like the philosopher.”

  “Sure.”

  She sounds skeptical too.

  “Well, tell him to come on up to my office. Mr. Risinger’s at an appointment, but I can spare a minute.”

  “One moment.” Another soft noise, and then she speaks again. “He says...he says he only wants to meet with Mr. Risinger.”

  I blink a few times. Admittedly, this happens from time to time, but it’s gotten rarer. As I’ve become more of a public figure in running the company, I think people have just gotten used to treating me with respect - even if they don’t want to. At a certain point, it becomes a matter of peer pressure.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I know. I explained that you’re just as much of a decisionmaker in the company, but Mr. Locke says it’s ‘not about that.’”

  Sighing, I rub my eyes. I don’t have the patience for this shit today. “Well then, what is it about?”

  “He won’t say.”

  I can tell she’s biting back her frustration while “Mr. Locke” is within hearing distance. But it’s quite obvious she has no patience for him either.

  “Look, if he can tell you what he needs, I can make sure he gets on Adrian’s schedule tomorrow. Otherwise, I’m sorry. We can’t help him.”

  A soft noise, followed by a longer silence. “He says he’ll be back tomorrow. He’s sorry, but he really can’t speak to anyone except Mr. Risinger.”

  As much as I don’t want to be, I’m consumed with curiosity. “Hang on. Stall him for a few minutes. I know he doesn’t care about meeting me, but I want to meet him.”

  “Of course.”

  Quickly, I smooth my hair and slip my shoes back on. I know there’s a chance the guy won’t be there by the time I get to the lobby, but it’s worth a shot.

  The elevator music switched to Christmas instrumentals about a week ago. I always forget to tell the facilities people to change the Musak channel before it kicks in, and then once it’s playing I don’t want to feel like a Grinch. It’s not that I even dislike Christmas music that much, but it’s just so many covers of the same six or eight songs, over and over and over. Eventually it would drive anyone crazy.

  I end up reaching the lobby just as our mysterious visitor is heading for the door.

  “Excuse me,” I call out to him, my heels clicking on the marble floor.

  He stops and turns, looking like an animal caught in a trap.

  He’s a young man, maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s dressed nicely enough but the clothes don’t really fit him. He doesn’t look like the typical salespeople or reps who try to weasel their way into our offices. Hell, he looks like a kid.

  “Can I help you?” I ask him, walking forward with my hand outstretched.

  “No,” he says, softly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry.”

  I’m not letting him off the hook that easily. He could just walk out the door, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me to ask him something. I wish I knew what.

  “If you can just tell me what this is regarding -”

  “No,” he says, quietly but forcefully. “I’m sorry. No.”

  And with that, he seems to regain the power of movement and rushes out the door.

  “Strange kid,” I comment, more to myself than to Carol.

  “Well, it’s almost Christmas,” she comments. “I guess we all lose our heads a little bit.”

  ~~

  “Maybe we can get a tree this year,” Adrian muses, peering under the TV stand. I’ve never seen a man of his stature crawling on his hands and knees so much until the cats came along.

  Chester is sulking. But it’s a false sense of security.

  “He’ll be back out,” I reply. “Nothing green and alive will be safe in this house.”

  The Great Christmas Disaster of 2017 is still fresh in our minds. Chester and his siblings joined forces to destroy the holiday spirit, and we haven’t tried to put up a tree since.

  Adrian gets back on his feet, wincing slightly as he does. “Shit. Am I getting old?”

  I give him a look. “Uh, honestly?”

  “No,” he says, irritated. “Obviously not honestly. It’s a rhetorical question and you’re supposed to lie.”

  “You’re exhausting,” I reply, as he flops down on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. As someone who’s seen him every day for almost a decade, I can certainly tell he’s not thirty anymore. There are lines in his forehead that weren’t there before, and his jaw’s set a little different. His hair is as thick as ever, but there’s a touch of gray around the temples. Of course he’s still just as gorgeous, that goes without saying. People like him just age like fine wine, effortlessly. Everybody thinks it’s because of the money, but I doubt it. I’m working twice as hard to look half as good these days. He’s just one of those people who keeps on getting lucky. And me, I’m just lucky to be in his wake.

  There’s a tiny guilt that gnaws at me, but I stuff it down. I’ve done plenty for myself. I deserve everything I have. There’s no shame in hitching my wagon to his star.

  I settle down on the sofa next to him, curling up against him and letting my eyes fall shut. I’m only planning on relaxing for a minute, there’s still so much to…

  -

  I wake up with the sun in my eyes. Squinting, I stare at the alarm clock until the numbers start to make sense. It’s not even six o’clock yet.

  Adrian
snores softly beside me. He must’ve carried me to bed last night. I always protest when he tries to pick me up while I’m awake. I don’t care how much he claims he can deadlift at the gym, it can’t be good for his back.

  Well, the man deserves fresh bagels for that. I slide out of bed quietly and freshen up enough to be seen in public, which thankfully doesn’t require too much work in the winter. Shoving my unruly hair under a fashionable toque and wrapping a gorgeous scarf around my neck to hide the rest, I button up my coat and head out to the elevators.

  The coffee shop up the street is decked out in pine garlands and red velvet bows, with twinkling white lights framing every window. It makes my stomach twist with the slightest pang of...something.

  I’m probably just hungry for bagels.

  The door jingles merrily as I walk inside, and Nat King Cole is waxing poetic about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

  And that’s when I look over at the pickup counter, and I see a familiar face.

  “Shelly.”

  It’s been...God, how long has it been? The owner and operator of the animal shelter that had once been my second home, the only place where I felt like I could do any good. She was the reason Adrian and I finally got over our stubbornness long enough to admit that we loved each other. She’s the reason I have Chester and Peggy and Hercules.

  She turns around, slowly.

  “Oh, wow,” she says, looking me up and down. “Meg. You’re looking...glamorous..”

  My cheeks flush.

  “Thanks,” I reply. Why does it feel like I’m in high school again? I know she’s not being sarcastic, not really, but I can’t take it seriously coming from her.

  In all my time at the shelter, “glamorous” was the last word anyone would’ve used to describe me. It felt like a joke we would’ve shared, just the two of us, back when we’d laugh at my stuck-up boss Adrian Risinger and his high-falutin’ ways.

  “How are the kids?” she asks me, and I know she’s talking about the cats. She’s the only person who gets to ask me that question.

  “Great. Adrian’s saying maybe we could try putting up a tree this year, but I’m pretty sure Chester will pull it down.”

  “Anchor it to the ceiling,” she suggests with a little grin. “That’s an old cat lady trick.”

  I’m about to tell her that our ceilings are so high I’m not sure that’s practical, then I realize how that sounds. “Yeah,” I finally say. “That’s...that’s a good idea.”

  “Or, I don’t know, encase it in a giant aquarium. You’ve probably got a supplier for that.” She’s joking, I think. But I can’t tell, and that makes me incredibly uneasy.

  “I’ll have to check on that.”

  “SHIRLEY!” calls one of the employees, setting a cup on the pickup counter.

  “Thanks,” says Shelly, with a wry smile. She turns to me and shrugs. “Close enough, right?”

  “It was nice seeing you,” I tell her, only partially lying.

  “Same to you. Have a good Christmas.”

  “You too.”

  As I robotically order my bagels and stand there waiting, I find myself wondering why I feel so shaken up by this simple little encounter. It’s just...Shelly. She used to effectively be my best friend, although we never made those kinds of declarations, or even necessarily saw each other outside of the shelter very often. But we spent so much time together, told each so many secrets and hopes and dreams.

  Things are so different now. I never meant to stop talking to her, it just...happened. We simply drifted apart, and it hurts that I never noticed until now.

  Well, that’s not exactly true. I knew. I simply didn’t let myself think about it.

  It’s not just about her. It’s not even just about the animals, as important as they were to me. It’s the whole thing, the fact that I left a whole life behind and never gave myself a moment to mourn it. I was too busy, always too busy pushing forward.

  Do I even recognize myself anymore?

  -

  It’s a busy day at the office, everyone getting their projects wrapped up last minute before we break for the holidays. It happens every year, but somehow it always seems to take people by surprise. Oh my God, Christmas? AGAIN? It’s like this happens every December!

  The distraction is mostly welcome. I’m still feeling uneasy, and I hate it. I want to just shake it off, because it’s silly. Painfully silly. Of course my life has changed! Of course I’m a different person now. Everyone grows, everyone changes. Friendships end and it’s not necessarily anyone’s fault. So why do I feel this way?

  Around lunch, there’s enough of a lull for me to set my laptop aside and change into my sneakers. I tell Carol I’m going out for some fresh air, and she’s too busy to be suspicious.

  I don’t set out with a plan, but before long, I’ve walked several blocks, in a direction I haven’t gone in…

  Months. Years. Who knows.

  I don’t know why I suddenly want to see it again, but I do. Something in the back of my mind is humming, ever so softly, and the hum gets louder the closer I get to the shelter.

  And then I’m there.

  But I’m not there.

  But I’m there.

  I’m standing there on the street corner, staring at the shelter. No. Not the shelter. At the spot where the shelter used to be. At the space that’s now been subdivided into a cell phone store and a chain burrito shop.

  How’d they ever get the smell of wet dog and cat piss out of that place?

  I wonder if they had to use that enzyme cleaner. Did they get a bulk discount?

  These are the things I’m thinking about, so I don’t have to think about what I’m seeing.

  The shelter’s gone. The shelter’s gone, and Shelly didn’t tell me.

  I’m walking across the street and tugging on the door of the cell phone shop. It’s locked. The employee inside sees me, and to my surprise he walks over and cracks open the door.

  “You okay?” He looks genuinely concerned.

  “Fine,” I assure him. “Sorry. I just…” I’m digging desperately in my brain for an explanation that doesn’t sound deranged.

  “We close in ten minutes,” he says. “But if you need to pay a bill or something -”

  “No,” I assure him. “I just - I’m sorry. Do you know how long this store’s been here?”

  He shrugs. “Six months at least. That’s when I started here.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

  I know I sound like a broken record. I just can’t think of anything else to say.

  -

  When I get back to the office, Adrian’s pacing around the side entrance that we reserve for higher level executives. He’s holding his phone and furiously texting someone, by the likes of it. When he looks up and sees me, his face instantly changes.

  “Meg, there you are. You didn’t pick up your phone. I’ve been calling.”

  “Sorry. I just went for a walk.” Why does he look so...worried? “Carol should’ve told you.”

  “She did. But I wanted...I needed…” He stops, taking a deep breath and clearly trying to recalibrate his scattered thoughts. “Meg, we need to talk.”

  After all these years, I still can’t read his face sometimes.

  When I first started working for Adrian, he had this habit. I called it “spiraling.” If one small but crucial detail didn’t go his way, he’d start devolving into a cycle where every single thing that happened just made him more frustrated until he had a meltdown. Like an unusually eloquent toddler.

  Most of his previous assistants dealt with it in various less-than-successful ways. I was the only one who didn’t try to coddle him, wouldn’t accept the blame for it, and generally wouldn’t play his stupid game. He wasn’t doing it consciously, but I refused to humor him all the same.

  He’s gotten better over the years, but he still doesn’t like it when unexpected things happen. I’m getting the distinct feeling that’s what has happened to him today, and I’m ho
ping I can keep him grounded. The last thing he needs is a nervous breakdown for Christmas.

  As much as I want to be his rock, I’m still swallowing down panic as I settle in a chair in his office.

  Adrian squeezes his eyes tightly shut for a moment, then opens them as he begins to talk.

  “So I had this meeting today,” he says. “A strange kid who came to see me yesterday, I guess Carol set him up for today because I was busy.”

  Shit. I’d totally forgotten about “John Locke.” I meant to give him a heads-up, but based on his apparent mood, it wouldn’t have mattered. There’s no way I could have prepared him for whatever the hell he’s about to tell me.

  “I couldn’t figure out what the hell he wanted from me. But I try to be accessible. You know me. Obviously it was something sensitive, and security cleared him, so, fine. I said I’d talk to him. Fifteen minutes. He came in here and said he might need a little longer, and he was sorry in advance if so. I told him that I had a schedule to keep, and he just nodded.

  “He starts telling me this story. About how he’s been trying to get a job, but he doesn’t have the right paperwork. I feel bad for the kid, but I’m starting to think he should go to his senator or a social worker or somebody. I don’t know anything about dealing with this stuff. He never got his social security card because his parents didn’t fill out the right forms, and he was born at home. He’s totally off the grid - absolute dream for a Unabomber type, but he just wants to live a normal life.”

  Adrian stops and sighs deeply.

  “I ask him what I can do for him. He says he’s not sure, but he knew I’d want to help him. But why me? Why me specifically? And that’s when he asks me.”

  My husband’s eyes aren’t meeting mine anymore. He’s staring at the floor, slightly to his left.

  “He asks me, do I remember a girl named Vanessa?”

  A seed of an idea’s starting to grow in the back of my mind.

  He keeps talking, his voice soft and measured. “I worked a few summers in high school at a local deli. There was this girl. Vanessa. It was just a summer fling. She had a rough time of it - her family was controlling, very paranoid, didn’t even like her working on the books somewhere. But they needed the money, so they let her.