“Who is Casey? And what in Helen Keller is wrong with my clothes?”
“Everything,” he said. “They do what the bottom of your shoes do, except they scream, ‘Notice me, but don’t take me seriously.’ And Casey’s my publicist.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re a jerk?”
“Joe, often. And you’ve asked that before, except I think you used jackasp instead of jerk.”
I huffed.
He motioned to Altin. “Your son’s a good kid.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “The best.”
“But he’s a challenge, too, I gather.”
“All kids are.”
“Don’t you want the best for him?”
I refrained from shoving him off the bench. “Of course, I do. But it’s not that easy.”
“It doesn’t have to be hard. His schooling will be part of your benefits, like health care.”
I stared at him. “Why are you being so nice?” Did he have ulterior motives? Of course, he did. Men like him always had an agenda. But what was it?
“I’m not. I’m being business savvy. There’s a difference.” He watched Altin dump his bucket and start filling it again. “I live by the philosophy that if I take care of my team members, they’ll take care of EcoCore.” He stood. “I think we’ve seen enough to make a decision. Let’s go.”
Ugh. I slung my satchel over my shoulder and called to Altin.
Mr. M gave me whiplash.
9
Lincoln
The daycare director was no-nonsense. Gemma answered her questions as I played the silent observer, along to provide clout to enable Altin to be accepted above a long waiting list of other children. Gemma had no idea I’d promised the woman a large endowment upon acceptance. I feared she’d never allow her son to attend if she did.
It was one of the reasons I’d come to trust her and why I’d driven all over town to interview potential schools. She’d surpassed my expectations at work and hadn’t taken advantage of my kindness. In fact, she could be quite stubborn about accepting help.
“Altin’s five, correct?” the director asked, pen poised above a notepad.
“Yes.”
“He’s small for his age, and developmentally behind by at least two years, from my observation.”
“He’s smart.” Gemma fidgeted. “I’m hoping your program will help him catch up.”
“What’s his disability?”
Gemma frowned.
“To enable him to reach his potential, we must understand his background.”
I perked up, curious about her answer. Gemma hadn’t been forthcoming with me, either.
Gemma’s brow furrowed. “His information will be kept private, right?”
“Of course.”
Gemma squirmed in her seat. “He was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.”
“Ah,” the director said. “That explains his facial features. And the lag in physical development. Does he have vision or hearing issues?”
The conversation continued as I chewed on the shocking news.
Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?
Why hadn’t she been upfront with me about that? Had Joe known about her problem? What kind of woman had I hired?
I clenched my jaw, not liking the ramifications of this new information. From here on out, I’d need to be wary and watchful.
Gemma wasn’t what she seemed.
No way would a woman manipulate me again.
I set my coffee down and switched the SmartGlass on to see into Gemma’s office.
The weekend had passed in a blur. At first, I’d been livid that Gemma had deceived me about her issues. I’d considered starting the process to demote her back to sales. She was too much of a liability to keep working with such big stakes at play. But a story Gramps had told me about his sister Shirley, who’d struggled with alcoholism, had come to mind. Gramps hadn’t hated his sister for her weakness. He’d reached out instead, giving her a job as his secretary, fixing things around her house, paying for her kids to be in sports, and just being there for her. That’d helped Shirl the most, he’d insisted.
I’d spent all Saturday and Sunday researching alcohol addiction and FAS—Fetal Alcohol Syndrome—so I’d recognize the warning signs and know how to intercede and help Gemma to recovery.
She straggled into her office, sliding her satchel onto the desk. She scowled when she looked up and caught me watching her.
“Good morning,” I called.
“Can we switch the glass off?” she said. “I feel like I’m in a fishbowl.”
Why did she want privacy?
“I like seeing out to the sales floor.” No way would I give her an inch. Addicts ruined not only their own lives, but the lives of their families, friends, and employers as well.
Gemma grumbled something under her breath, and I returned my focus to the report development had sent up for me to approve.
Hours passed, and I noted that Gemma paced more than usual. Was she stressed? Suffering withdrawals? I’d overheard the call with Wilder, and it’d gone better than expected. The man hadn’t committed, but his positive response to her had encouraged me.
That’s why I couldn’t let her fail.
One of the articles I’d read had suggested distraction as a helpful strategy for addicts. Get their minds off alcohol by playing games. Find new hobbies. Compete in sports or other events.
“Why are you pacing?” I asked as I entered her domain.
“Why are you being nosy?”
“You’re going to wear a hole through the carpet.”
“Did you pay too much for it, too, like my desk?”
She wouldn’t be so mentally sharp if she was under the influence, would she? Lionel walked by, arms laden with take-out boxes.
“In here,” I called.
My assistant backtracked and set containers on her desk. I flicked on the SmartGlass for privacy after he left.
“What’s this?” Gemma took a seat.
“Lunch.” Might as well use some distraction techniques now that I knew she had a problem.
“For me?”
“For us. To celebrate getting Wilder to laugh today.”
She snorted, then sighed. “It smells divine.” She opened a box and gasped. “Shish Kabab House? Are you kidding me?”
I smiled. She hadn’t lied about liking Albanian food.
We spent the next half hour eating buffet-style as she explained what was in each dish and how to eat it. I’d definitely distracted her from whatever had been bugging her. Gemma was a serious foodie and relaxed the more she ate.
“How about a game before we get back to work?” I pulled a box of UNO cards from my suit pocket. Maybe that’d help her see I was on her side, that she could talk to me, if needed.
She laughed but caught herself. “Sorry. I know you hate my laugh.”
“What? I don’t hate your laugh. I actually love it.” I’d missed hearing her giggle.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You fired me for giggling.”
“Not because I hated it. I thought you were playing around on the clock. Your giggle is actually…charming.” I looked into her eyes to discern if she was clean. Her pupils weren’t dilated. Or red. My gaze strayed to her lips, and my body temp skyrocketed.
I looked away.
Gemma was not only an addict but a struggling single mother with an atrocious sense of style and a bad case of snark. Maybe in a hippy commune she’d be considered beautiful, but not in my world. She was uncouth, unpolished, and unorthodox.
So why was my heart pounding in such an odd way?
10
Saemira
Age 8 - Fushë Krujë, Albania
DIGNITY: feeling worthy, valued.
Bengalo sat across from Saemira at the kitchen table. She shuddered, his face reminding her of what happened to those who offended the gods. Maybe he didn’t steal souls, but he’d stolen Baba’s attention...and maybe her pretty-smelling soap in the bathroom.
Bengalo ate three helpings of Mama’s burek, thanking her with his mouth full. Baba waved away his thanks, saying God deserved all praise.
She would thank God when the cursed boy left.
Baba pulled out his sharkia. Mama closed her eyes and swayed, humming along as he played. Baba watched Mama, who watched something deep inside her head. Saemira watched Bengalo, who eyed Baba’s watch on the table. Before he could steal it, she snatched it away from him.
“What a wonderful idea, Saemira.” Baba stopped in the middle of his song and held out a hand. “A perfect gift for our guest.”
“No,” she started to say, but he took the watch from her.
“You are so good, princess.” He presented the watch to Bengalo. “For you.”
The boy gaped at him. She did, too. Had the boy somehow made him give it to him?
“As our honored guest, we will give you a new name as well. No longer will you be Bengalo to us. We will call you Engjell.”
The boy repeated the name which meant angel in English.
“Do you like?” Baba asked.
He pounded his chest. “Engjell.”
The boy left, holding his skinny wrist up to admire the new watch.
After the door closed, Saemira turned to her baba. “Why did you give him your watch? It was worth lots of money.”
“People are worth more. That watch gave Engjell dignity.”
“And the new name,” Mama said from where she sewed coins around the sleeve of an old dress.
Baba growled. “How could his uncle call him Bengalo? So cruel.”
“Why?” Saemira asked.
“It means devilish,” Mama said.
“What does dignity mean?”
“Feeling valued,” Baba said. “When a man, or a boy like Engjell, has dignity, he behaves as if he’s worthwhile.”
Mama smiled. “Your baba sees divinity in everyone, which is why I love him.”
“I just see what is already there, love.” He patted his lap. Saemira climbed up and snuggled against him. “Will you do an experiment with me, bijë?”
“Yes.” She grinned. Experiments were her favorite.
“Let’s study dignity. The problem, as I see it, is: What does Engjell lack that denies him dignity?”
“Clean clothes?” His were stinky.
“A good prediction.” Baba smiled. “But dig deeper.”
“An ear.”
He winced. “Those are physical deficiencies. Think of opportunities that you and I take for granted.”
“School?”
“Ah-hah. You nailed it. Our hypothesis will be: If we give a disadvantaged boy opportunities, he’ll provide his own solutions to his problems.”
“How will we test it?” That sounded different from their other experiments.
“I’ll provide Engjell education and see that his basic needs are met. You provide him friendship.”
“But the gods cursed him.” No way did she want to be Engjell’s friend.
“The Roma gods are nothing more than luck.” He winked at Mama. “No offense, love.”
She set down her dress and walked over to join them. “The gods would never curse such a sweet boy.” She rubbed Saemira’s head. “His hard life has been pure bad luck.”
“God’s given us two commandments,” Baba said. “Love Him and love our neighbor. Engjell’s our neighbor.”
“No, he isn’t. Mrs. Hoxha is.” She lived next door.
“Our neighbors are anyone we meet. Engjell will be our subject. I see great potential in the boy.”
Saemira only saw a hideous monster. But Baba had better eyes than she did. Maybe this experiment would help her see better so she wouldn’t get exploded by bad luck.
Gemma
The opaque glass gave me a reprieve from my boss’s prying eyes. Thank the gods. He always seemed to be watching me, waiting for me to screw up so he could judge me.
I crinkled Duke’s note that’d been taped to Fisnik’s window last night in the parking garage. The evil man had demanded five hundred more a month since I was, in his words, ‘fraternizing with the CEO.’
I kicked the bottom of my desk. How did he always know what was going on in my life?
A sharp knock startled me. “Miss Stone, would you...” Mr. M paused as I slipped the note beneath my leg and swiped at my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Besides needing to get a grip on my emotions. I pointed at my name plaque. “Like what I did with my name do-hickey?”
He took a seat and grunted. “Very bedazzling.”
“Was that a joke, Mr. M?”
He tilted his head and smiled. “It’s been known to happen.”
Be still my heart. That smile did things to my insides that were totally unprofessional. Good thing he didn’t smile very often.
“Expect a call from Mr. Wilder soon,” I said, hoping to spur him into leaving. “I totally lied about how awesome you are and how you were looking forward to speaking with him.”
“Sweet.” He propped a foot on his knee. “How’s Altin liking his new school?”
Freak. Why wouldn’t he go? “He doesn’t hold onto my leg and cry when I leave him.”
He grinned, and those unprofessional things happened inside me again. Grrr.
“What about the new place? How’s it working out?”
I adored the house he’d rented to us in the fancy neighborhood just up the hill. “It’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
Dang him. He wasn’t going to let me keep things light and fluffy. “It’s incredible. Thanks for everything you’ve done.” I owed him gratitude for pulling Altin and me out of the hood. My stress had nothing to do with him.
“Just part of what I’ll owe you for bringing Wilder to the table.”
“It’s looking hopeful.” I examined the bottom of his shoes. “Your footprint says, ‘I have absolutely no creativity,’ but your projects in development tell a different story.” He had the coolest inventions ever.
He set his foot down. “You’re not cutting into these.”
“Please?” I put my hands together. “I’ll have them back by morning.”
“Do you have any idea how much these cost?”
I shrugged. “Probably way more than they should, especially with such boring bottoms. Don’t you want some tread on them?”
“Don’t tread on me.”
I laughed. His dry sense of humor rarely surfaced, but he had one.
Still, the crumpled note beneath my leg reminded me why my boss was, and always would be, completely off-limits.
Joe’s office door was open. I headed there to say a quick hello and to tell my old manager he’d been right. I wouldn’t be returning to sales, though I’d miss him and my friends on the team.
Voices made me pause outside the door. Joe’s voice. And Lincoln’s. I should’ve done an about-face and returned to my office, but Joe said my name, and I leaned closer to eavesdrop.
“Admit it, Data-Link. You like Gemma. Why else would you care where she lives or where her son goes to school?”
They were talking about me? I pressed closer.
“She was living in freaking West Valley. I moved her strictly for business reasons. A dead Gemma is no good to EcoCore.”
Joe chuckled. “Don’t pretend you didn’t order lunch in for the two of you the other day. Gemma said you even played UNO with her.”
Duke’s note had freaked me out. Lincoln had calmed me with the lunch and silly game. Probably why I thought of him by his first name now instead of Mr. M.
“She was stressed out from Wilder. I had to do something.”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much.”
“Oh, get real, Joey. I could never like a girl like her.”
I reared back, holding onto Mama’s amulet. A girl like me? Hadn’t he had fun the other day? He’d laughed and said he liked the Albanian food.
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I was such a fool. He wasn’t my friend. I was just an
employee, and not one he even respected. Probably because of my skin color. Or low economic status.
I’d forgotten my place. He was right. A guy like him—white and rich—could never care for a girl like me, one who’d done terrible things that would shock him if he ever found out.
I vowed he never would.
11
Lincoln
The elevator doors opened, and I marched toward my office. The phone call with Wilder had gone far better than expected. Gemma had really softened the old guy up. Maybe too much. His last request still had me reeling.
Gemma was on the phone when I barged into her office and gestured for her to end the call. She gave me a dirty look and swiveled her seat so her back faced me.
I gritted my teeth. How would I pull this off? Gemma had made everything possible but she could also set everything to flames.
She didn’t hurry to end her call. When she did hang up, she turned and gave me a flat look.
“You could knock, you know?”
“Why? You saw me through the glass.” I flicked the SmartGlass to privacy mode and began to pace.
She opened a file folder. I reached over to close it. “I need your undivided attention.”
She leaned back in her seat. “What is so mucking important?”
“I just talked to Wilder.”
Her lips formed an O, and she straightened. This was what we’d been working toward.
“He wants to meet.”
“Yea!” She clapped. “That’s awesome.”
She had a soothing voice. I could use that. But her flower-child pants and fringed-buckskin top that resembled a mashup of Pocahontas and Forrest Gump’s Jenny had to go.
“Not exactly. He wants to meet with me...and you.” Lord have mercy. “Tomorrow night. I guess there’s a black-tie event he wants us both to attend.”
“I can’t go anywhere at night. Altin needs me.”
Of Stone and Sky Page 6