by Gail Hewitt
"You know," Halbrooks said slowly. "I see what you're getting at. You aren't talking about changing the program, just packaging it more appealingly and explaining its methods and goals in terms that the local participants will understand at once and find appealing."
Maggie nodded and grinned. "That's it exactly, Jameson. In the long term, the only way you can even begin to change entrenched habits and ideas is to get the target populations to identify their self-interest with yours. Communication about the program has to be truthful and precise, but there are many approaches to motivating cooperation."
"I think we should do the research," Halbrooks told Tom. Tom obviously remained unconvinced.
"Look," Maggie told him. "Let's do one county — that'll take a week. At the end of it, I'll prepare a summary and show the two of you what I'm talking about. Then you can decide whether it's worth going forward."
Halbrooks and Maggie looked toward Tom, who was obviously not happy. "All right," he said at last. "I told you that I hired you for what you know. Let's try one day that includes two of your focus groups. But I'll tell you up front that I very much doubt we'll do more than this first round, so make it count."
He shoved the list back to Maggie. "Let me know where you're going as soon as the arrangements are made."
Maggie had an idea. "Would you like to see a group in session? That would give you an idea of the validity of the protocol."
"How would that work?" Tom demanded.
"We've found a conveniently located focus-group facility in the area with an observation room," Maggie looked at the list put together by Sandra Jacobi. "Here it is — in Cumming. You two could sit in the observation room and watch the whole thing through a one-way window without anyone in the group knowing you're around."
"I like the sound of that," Halbrooks said with enthusiasm.
The steward came to the door. "The pilot says we're going into our approach."
"I'll think about it," Tom said gruffly.
Maggie returned to her seat, but the two men used the belts on the conference-room chairs and remained where they were, in deep discussion, occasionally looking up at Maggie.
Maggie felt very frustrated. If Tom didn't want to hear what she had to say, why had he hired her? He'd seemed almost hostile throughout.
At Logan, three serious-looking men boarded and joined Tom in the 767's conference area. Halbrooks came over and sat next to Maggie.
"I think what you were saying is very interesting," he told her. "Don't be put off by Merriman's initial reaction. He has such a clear idea of what he wants that anything unexpected tends to throw him, especially if it has even a whiff of corporate bureaucracy. He'll come around."
Maggie shrugged. "He hired me for my professional opinion. All I can do is offer it. Whether he uses it or not is outside my control."
Halbrooks looked at her curiously. "You've known Merriman for a long time."
"In a way," Maggie admitted. "But when I knew him, the circumstances were very different, and — as you know better than anyone — there was a long time when I didn't know him at all."
"Has he changed?"
"You mean because of the success and the money? I don't think so, not in any essential way. He always seemed very focused on what he wanted." She grinned. "He certainly seems to have great respect for you, and I appreciate your giving me the opportunity to make my point about the TTI launch."
"My pleasure," Halbrooks said. "Your reasoning makes sense."
In the conference area, Tom and the others were standing. Two of the men shook hands, obviously intending to depart, while the third resumed his seat at the table.
"I'd better make sure there's nothing I need to do with them," Halbrooks told her, standing up.
Once the visitors had departed, the 767 was quickly airborne, and all of the men — save for Jack Holt, who was impassively sitting beside the exit, not taking his eyes off Tom — remained in the conference area and immediately began to review a stack of paperwork.
As Tom and the other man talked, occasionally referring to spreadsheets fanned out before them on the table, Halbrooks did not look especially interested, and Maggie guessed that whatever was being reviewed had nothing to do with him. She'd seen enough to realize that the minister turned shrink turned executive coach served as a sort of intellectual security blanket for Tom. As for the rest of the TTI team, now that she'd seen them in person, she had an idea that each of them was as stereotyped in his or her function in relation to Tom. She wondered what her role would turn out to be. The buddy to his aunt? The corporate cover? The reminder of how far he'd come? She was beginning to get the idea it would have little to do with any particular knowledge or expertise she was able to bring to his project. She began to feel discouraged. What had she gotten herself into? From what she'd seen so far, it was shaping up, at best, as a well-paid dead end, which would be extremely frustrating, given the high hopes with which she'd started at TTI just a few days ago. Still, she supposed that frustration was a small price to pay for financial salvation.
Suddenly it struck her. The financial-salvation assessment in relation to this job was no longer strictly accurate. The West Paces Ferry house was selling. Closing was mid-month — the firm that had served the family since her father's time was handling it with her power of attorney. She no longer had to worry about what would become of the house or her mother's ability to remain there, and — while she had not had time to do the math — she thought that the financial salvation seemingly represented by this job that Tom had so miraculously offered was no longer a critical factor, at least not for the immediate future.
She could, she realized, walk off this plane and not look back, and her financial world would not end. Which was an interesting thought that led to another. If she did that and let Miles know, would he care?
She got up and stretched, and then headed for the amidships lavatory. She was about to open its door when Lars, the steward, stopped her.
"Sorry, Miss McLaurin, but there's been a malfunction here, and I see the crew head is occupied. I'll take you to the facilities in Mr. Scott's quarters." He opened the door and flipped a couple of switches. "It's just through there," he pointed, then discreetly withdrew.
The bathroom was larger than she expected and luxurious in a spare sort of way. It occurred to her that she was seeing more of Tom Scott's bathrooms than of her own these days. When she was done, she started across the bedroom back toward the door to the passageway. She couldn't help noticing that this private area was decorated in the same modern aesthetic as the rest of the plane — lots of cream and tan with orange accents. There was, she saw with some amusement, one major difference. Across from the bed was a series of photographs, large and grainy blowups of what had evidently started life as much smaller images. Probably some of the Polaroids Tom was so fond of taking. The images were dimly lit, but something about them caught her attention, and she moved closer.
There were three photographs, two verticals and one horizontal, each showing a nude female posing with abandon. In the first vertical, the shot incorporated part of the chin and nose in profile, as if the girl were looking downward at the tip of her left nipple, which was being pinched by the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. In the second vertical, the girl lay horizontal on the bed, her body in a slight curve, as the camera revealed her nakedness from the shoulders to just below the crotch. In the horizontal, the girl was seen in a waist-down crotch shot, apparently sitting on the edge of a bed or chair, hands propped on her thighs, the photographer shooting from between her spread legs, the clitoris just peeping through the lips of her slightly open labia.
The images were direct and intimate, as if the photographer were inviting the viewer to join him in unblushing observation of this subject who was — Maggie realized suddenly — little more than a girl with jutting shoulder blades, delicately pointed breasts, narrow waist and hips, and thin wrists, each adorned with a braided bracelet. She looked again at the wrists. She knew
those bracelets. They were identical to a pair that Tom had given her — she'd kept them for years. Still, he'd probably given them to all the girls who posed for him, so that in itself wasn't definitive. She looked more closely at the photographs and saw two things that were definitive: a familiar mole at the upper right of the pubic hair area; and a ring on the middle finger of the right hand, an old family ring of unusual design that had been given her by a great-aunt. She still had the ring — its value was more sentimental than real — but it hadn't been out of the safe deposit box in years.
She continued to stand at the edge of the bed, now convinced that the pictures at which she looked were of herself, as she had been at the age of seventeen. The adult Maggie was surprised. No, that was inadequate. As a former romantic interest of English origin would have put it, she was verklempt, totally gobsmacked.
She heard a noise from outside and realized she'd been gone too long; she had to return. She took a deep breath and forced herself to collect her thoughts. Back in the main part of the cabin, she settled into her seat as comfortably as possible given the length of her skirt and height of her heels and took out a book.
Pretending to read, she let her mind devote itself completely to what she'd just seen. The photographs were unmistakably of her. She sneaked a glance at Tom, still in the conference area with Halbrooks and the other man, all of them now poring over a document that appeared to be a large map. Tom looked normal and unconcerned, not at all like a man capable of presenting those photographs for the world to see. Of course, she thought, probably no one other than someone with whom she'd been intimate would recognize her. At least he'd had whoever did the transfer of the images from the old Polaroids to these blowups remove the heads, and the photographs were displayed in the most-private place possible. Still, it was a flagrant violation of the trust that the girl she had been had placed in him all those years ago.
Did the existence of these blowups mean, in spite of everything she'd begun to think, that Miles was right, that Tom had an agenda which led to his deliberately targeting her for purely personal reasons? Or were there so many photographs of so many women that he'd honestly forgotten the subject of these particular three? If he did remember, had he thought she wouldn't recognize them? Or had he assumed she'd never see them? Worse, had he meant for her to see them?
She thought of herself as she had been then. How could she have been so dumb? Of course, that girl had no way of foreseeing this situation. She had thought only of the moment, of the thrill she had felt in doing something so outrageous for the young man behind the camera, the young man she thought she was going to marry. Her irritation faded, and she felt almost sorry for the girl she'd been, with her young, vulnerable body, initially so shy and inexperienced and yet so quickly indoctrinated by the knowledgeable young man eager to explore and record all of her. Was that passionate, insistent man Tom then? Or Tom now? She sneaked a glance at him through the conference room's clear walls, actively engaged in things of which she had no knowledge, things surely of more import to him now than an old lover. She realized his glance was resting on her, then it moved away, leaving a frisson that washed irresistibly over her, releasing the power of old memory. What was Tom up to?
Party Time
Back in New York, even though it was almost midnight, Maggie found Martha waiting for her. "I forgot to ask if you can go with us to the New Year's Eve party Tom's business associate is giving," Martha explained. "Do say you will, Maggie. Tom insists that I go, but it'll be a lot more fun with you along."
Maggie, exhausted from the long day and the professional drama, her calves aching from the unaccustomedly high heels, agreed that she would and went upstairs to the Herter Bedroom. She could, she thought, always make her excuses later.
At work the next day, she received notification from the TTI paymaster that two items had deposited to her bank account: the signing bonus and her first TTI pay check. Even after taxes, the total amount was gratifyingly large. The signing bonus alone would help her get rid of several large credit-card balances.
Tami Lane stuck her head in the door. "Well, I'm out of here," she told Maggie. "I was just told by Mr. Holt that I'm off duty and you can go home whenever you want."
"I appreciate the help," Maggie told her. "Sorry if I seemed not to."
"You were fine," Tami assured her. "That was a shocking thing to happen your first day."
"It left something to be desired," Maggie agreed, "but it's evidently settled now."
As soon as Tami left, Maggie called Martha and told her she was coming over to collect her bag, that she was going home.
"It's been a pleasure to have you here," Martha said, watching her pack. "You know you're welcome anytime. You don't have to wait to be menaced by a stalker."
Maggie hugged her impulsively. She couldn't honestly say she'd enjoyed her time as Martha's guest, but she thought that, in some odd way, she would miss the older woman. It was almost like having a favorite aunt.
"I've had a very nice time here," she told Martha, "but I really need to get home. I haven't checked my mail in forever."
Back in the condo, she surveyed the high-ceilinged, open, loft-like space with satisfaction. Even in this building, it had — because of market timing and the tiny, awkward rooms into which it was broken up — been a bargain when she bought it eight years earlier. Its present-day incarnation, in the form of an efficient and attractive, free-flowing 800-square-foot plan with custom-designed fittings, was courtesy of a former boyfriend who belonged to that still-happy time at the turn of the twenty-first century, an English woodworker who'd himself taken down the dividing walls and built the sinuously shaped cabinetry that separated bedroom from living room and living room from kitchen. It had been the woodworker who'd shared the horrors of 9/11 with her, he who'd comforted her when she realized the terrible thing that was happening to her mother. He'd been gone now for four years, and she wondered briefly where he was and for whom he was employing his woodworking abilities as well as his other skills. She didn't think she'd been in love with him, but she'd liked him enough to think about it when he asked her to marry him. Unfortunately, it had turned out that he wanted her to spend half the year living with him in a cottage on a family estate in the Herefordshire countryside, and there was no way that arrangement would work out.
Just as Miles hadn't worked out. The thought, which had popped unbidden into her head, was dismissed as quickly. She'd decided years ago, long before the English cabinetmaker, that she wasn't destined to have a permanent relationship with any man. There was no point in expecting anything to have changed. Why should Miles be any different?
Going into the bedroom, she tossed her bag onto the king-sized bed that was the largest thing in the space and began to unpack, sorting everything for either cleaning or laundry. Then she went back into the living area, sat down before the long coffee table and began to go through the basket of mail that had arrived in the last two weeks. Sorting it by date, she realized that she hadn't done this since she left for Lake View, which had, surprisingly, been only two weeks before. Just two weeks? It seemed half a lifetime, a long, stressful lifetime.
There were eight Christmas cards, including one from Miles mailed before their Lake View encounter. It was a hand-drawn card, a loose pencil caricature of Miles himself wearing a Santa hat. Inside, hand-written, was the message, "Let me be your Santa Claus," signed with triple X's.
Looking again at the front of the card, Maggie realized that it was an original drawing, initialed by Miles. Evidently his unsuspected talents included art. It was a cute card, a clever card, a card that perfectly conveyed Miles' spirited sophistication, at least Miles as she thought she'd known him. Resolutely, she told herself she wasn't going to go there. There was no point. Miles wasn't thinking about her. There was no reason for her to think about Miles. She put his card to one side and began to look through the rest of the mail.
There were several cards from friends now scattered all over the world, inclu
ding one from Herefordshire with an inscription that made her look around at the cabinetry and grin fondly. There were flyers for last-minute Christmas sales. There were solicitations from charities to which she'd sent donations in the past, to which she could now afford to send donations again. And there were bills, lots of bills, some of them from credit-card companies showing balances dangerously close to account limits. For once, Maggie thought, it would be a pleasure to wade through this lot. She retrieved her checkbook from a drawer in the divider between living room and kitchen and sat down to enjoy herself. It had been so long since she hadn't worried about money that writing checks for such breathtaking amounts was as good as a therapy session, certainly more satisfying than paying online, as she usually did.
When she'd finished, she made herself a cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen in which stainless steel appliances and slate countertops figured prominently, and then went over to the windows that revealed a cityscape of high rises with slices of the Hudson visible between. It was a cold day, but she couldn't resist throwing on a coat and going onto the tiny balcony to take a deep breath. What a terrific city this was; she was incredibly relieved that she wasn't going to have to leave it — thanks to Tom, just as the ability to write the checks had been thanks to Tom. Unbidden, the memory of the photographic blowups of her seventeen-year-old nude body slid across her consciousness. Was his generosity to her a matter of guilt? Or was she seeing more in the photographs than they warranted? Were they merely decorative objects hung by some interior designer to provide a dramatic accent, a designer who'd been given access to Tom's treasure trove of Polaroids and selected the three that made the desired impact? She dismissed the questions as unanswerable, at least by her.
All she could deal with was what she knew to be fact. Tom had given her the best job she could imagine. His aunt had been incredibly gracious in giving her a temporary home when she'd most needed it. Of course, she'd go to the New Year's Eve party with the two of them. She'd be an ingrate not to since having her around seemed to bring Martha pleasure and Martha's pleasure was evidently one of Tom's primary goals.