Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  You’ve not aged at all. May I be as gracious to myself? I will leave that to you to decide…I see myself only through the veil of a wealthy man’s pride. Our reconnection has refueled a sense of our early luster. Thank you for your discretion. Maybe returning to handwritten letters has value and not just virtue for these times?

  Always,

  Paulo

  I racked my brain. What had Cecilia originally said when she mentioned Paulo during our phone conversation? She had started her conversation backpedal…a habit I recognized from my many years of trying to get information out of her to write memos. The woman would provide the most intimate details of her love life to a complete stranger on the bus—well, in the first class section of the airplane—but would have to be coddled to provide basic work details. It was her way of control. If I, and later Rachel, knew nothing, we would look like idiots and she would look appalled at our incompetence. Her patterns sure were emerging during her absence. Either that or I was becoming wiser.

  That feeling I had in the pit of my stomach about talking to Blaine was now a very loud, all-out conviction.

  Thirty-Five

  “Do you still have your trip itinerary notebook?” Rachel asked while tossing a staple remover up in the air and catching it on the non-sharp side. Ever since she’d made her decision to exit, she was carefree, happy, and apparently eager to explore untapped talent. I tried not to hold it against her.

  “Are you going to mock it again?” I said this to remind her that she’d shown the book to Tara during a coffee break last year. They had leafed through my alpha-order printouts of country highlights, logical flight schedules, day trips, traditions of the locals, and area volunteer organizations to work with for short- or long-term missions/projects. They hadn’t laughed at the notebook, but Tara had commented how she would love to give her mother-in-law the gift of a trip to Mongolia to milk a yak for a few dollars a day or 5840 tugrik in Mongolian currency. Then they’d laughed.

  Rachel stopped tossing the red mechanism with metal fangs and looked at me, shocked by my accusation. “I never mocked the notebook. I recall saying you should work for a travel agency or a nonprofit. Your itineraries and information are incredible.”

  “And…”

  “Maybe I mentioned that it’s too bad you never go anywhere.”

  I pointed to my nose. “That’s it.”

  “I’d be honored to put your itineraries to the test. May I have the Bs and Ds?”

  “Ds?”

  “We are going to Denmark after our time in Barcelona.”

  I gave her a look that probably gave away my feelings of abandonment. The bright side was that after my talk with Blaine today, I’d probably have all the time in the world for world travel. Would I let myself do it? When I cleared away the excuses, did I have the faith and the courage to actually live out these inner longings?

  The locked file cabinet on wheels was below my cubicle desktop. We were always baffled by this clever invention. Wouldn’t a smart thief just wheel the file cabinet on out of here, should they desperately want the contents? I removed the key from my pen tray and opened the metal drawer carefully. I slid my finger along the notebook tabs representing places I’d only read about. I hadn’t looked at my itineraries in so long. I used to update them frequently with side notes and tips I discovered while reading travel books or magazines. Before Ariel started her secret hangout time with Ferris, she and I had watched cable travel shows at her place every week.

  I missed my friends. Once all this stuff with Hudson was over, I would plan a girls’ night. Or maybe we’d all get together soon for my “sorry you lost your job” party and they could fight over who got to house me once I couldn’t pay my rent. I took the A–E notebook out of its space in the drawer and handed it to Rachel, who immediately flipped through the divider pages.

  “Is this a new binder? I like it. These photo sleeves are a great idea.”

  “Thanks.” I could tell she was being extra cheerful to make up for my mood. “Sorry. I’m tired. I woke up around one and couldn’t get back to sleep last night.” I left out the fact that I’d been online researching Paulo Carrera and FreeTime records and the entire music industry until about an hour ago.

  “Is that why you’re winking at me?”

  I rubbed my right eye to see if the stinging would stop. It got worse.

  “If that’s the case, why are you here so early?” She flicked the wrist of her free hand and checked her red leather and sliver watch. “It isn’t even seven thirty. I’m in manic ‘Look at me. I’m leaving my job’ mode. What’s your excuse?”

  Look at me. I’m losing my job, I thought, but instead I offered up the actual reason for this extra strange working behavior. “Blaine comes back this morning.”

  “Ken comes back too. If Cecilia showed up it’d be like old home week.”

  “I don’t think that will be happening.”

  Rachel leaned in so that her head was well inside the privacy of my cubicle, “What do you know? I’m safe, remember. I take it all with me to Barcelona in a week.”

  I thought about telling her, but I’d gotten into this mess by going beyond the comfort zone of my conscience. I knew I had to come clean to Blaine first.

  “I think I can tell you more later. I’d best prep for Blaine.”

  Rachel nodded and then patted the notebook. “Thanks for this. Good luck today. You might position yourself to the left of Blaine until that eye can be taken care of. That is, unless you’re looking for a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  I laughed at this in spite of my fear of the upcoming session with my boss. Pure adrenaline raced through my body, vibrating my foot, my toes, my right thumb. Would this be the last time I’d sit here in this cubicle? I had become attached to its openness, accessibility, and easy exiting. I liked being able to stand up and survey the entire room from my own plot of land. I knew the ache in my gut wasn’t about these possible losses. It was about the certain loss of a relationship with Blaine. A working relationship based on mutual respect.

  Last night I’d seen a sad look on that good man’s face. Today I’d be seeing anger, hurt, and the expression of a man let down by one of his own. I stretched my arms high in the air, arched my back in, and then arched it out to loosen the tight muscles around my neck. My mind raced with possible ways to start the conversation. I didn’t know whether to begin by saying I care about him and that my first impulse when I saw him last night was to run and hug him or whether I should begin with “Cecilia is out to ruin a guy who goes by the name Hudson but is the Jude Shea and he’s been hiding in my apartment so that he can start over, but instead of having a second chance, he’s going to get the shaft from his label because the high-powered lawyer Paulo Carrera is in cahoots with Cecilia and there is some important deadline coming soon.”

  His cologne reached my nose before I heard his footsteps, not because it was overapplied, but because my nose was programmed to take in the scent of Blaine. I shuffled papers on my desk and tried to work up a facial expression which conveyed peace and okayness. My jaw was tight, so I opened and closed my mouth several times.

  “I do that during flight to ease the compression. Does it help with work pressure too?” He stood behind me and spoke in his usual friendly manner. I turned around and smiled up at him, but my lips felt lopsided, and I think my eye twitched.

  Blaine slanted his head to the side, obviously trying to decipher my new look. He seemed to give up, saying, “Great to be back. It’s a good sign that arriving in Seattle felt like coming home, don’t you think?”

  “I think.”

  “Did those letters get out?”

  “Yes!” I said a bit too loudly. His question had reminded me that I needed to get Cecilia’s original letters FedEx’d. “Your letters did go out. Do you have a minute? I need a minute…to do something, but then do you have a minute?”

  I could tell right now, sleep deprivation wasn’t going to help my cause.

  “A minute in
a minute. Got it. I could use a pop. Will you want one?”

  “I can go get them.”

  “I brought my own this morning,” he said, holding up a six-pack of grape soda. “Figured I’d need it. Couldn’t sleep last night. Around one I woke up thinking, brainstorming, worrying and couldn’t turn the brain off.”

  “Grape soda? Are we going on a fifth grade field trip?”

  Blaine laughed at that, and I took a better, deeper breath. I quickly pulled a FedEx envelope from the shelf above me, stuffed Cecilia’s letters inside, and jotted down the PO Box I had memorized. Per Cecilia’s instruction, I wrote VIP in place of her name. I stepped out of my cubicle space nonchalantly and sauntered over to Marsha’s outgoing mailbox. She had taken the week off to attend her sister’s wedding in Atlanta. I hoped the physical distance I was placing between me and the package would translate to personal distance between me and the entire situation. As soon as I stepped in to Blaine’s office I knew I’d be going the distance that only real faith could require and sustain.

  Blaine was on his second soda when I knocked on the frame of his office doorway. He motioned with the can for me to come in as though he were welcoming me from a corner table at a local restaurant. It made me feel worse.

  I sat across from him and placed the folders I had brought with me on my lap. I fingered the edges of them, and the resulting sound filled the first awkward moments of our unintentional stare down.

  “You probably have a lot for me to follow up on,” I said to begin practicing the task of making conversation.

  “Actually, the way we worked while I was gone was helpful. Most of the follow-up communication happened immediately, thanks to you.”

  Oh, boy. “Right, thanks to me.”

  “I was being sincere,” he said, interpreting my tone as sarcastic rather than ironic.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be sincere. I have something quite big to tell you. A lot of little things too. I’m not sure where to start because so much has happened in a short time.” With that I began the ramble I had hoped to avoid. Just because you have bad news doesn’t mean you can’t be professional. Be brief, Libby.

  Blaine reached out with a soda and I took it, opened it, and downed half of it. The warm, sugary liquid made me gag.

  “I forgot to warn you,” he said.

  I stretched my arm out to place the can on Blaine’s desk and sat back. “Warn is a good word. I’m here with confessions and warnings of my own. First, know that I understand the seriousness of what I’m about to reveal, and I understand there will be serious consequences for me and for others because of my choices.”

  Blaine sat up in his chair and watched me with a look of interest and encouragement. I looked at the files in my lap.

  “The first file contains printouts of communication I’ve had with Cecilia since she left the office under the auspices of working with an account and later under the assumption of her being at a recovery center. That last one is true, I think. But I’m not sure. You have trusted me with complete loyalty and opportunity, and I wasn’t satisfied. Cecilia offered me a chance to get the promotion I felt I’ve deserved for some time now, so I took that chance by assisting her…behind your back.”

  I looked up to check his emotions. He had a complete poker face. I bet he wished he could buzz a mentally stable assistant and ask her or him to send security to the office right away. But he was stuck with me, in the office, with the confession.

  “Here’s the short version,” I said, interlocking my fingers together like a child praying before dinner. “While Cecilia was away, she happened upon a very well-known and sought-after celebrity who has been out of the limelight, missing in fact, for quite a while. It turns out he wants to reenter the public eye. Cecilia offered her services—and, indirectly, mine—to accomplish this. She said it’d mean great recognition for Reed and Dunson, for her, and of course, for the sap who helped her.”

  “Sap,” he teased lightly.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “So your confession is that while I was gone you helped one of our top executives on a project that would bring business, money, and notoriety to this firm. Is that correct?”

  I replayed his description in my head several times. “That is a generous spin, but yes, that statement is true.” I paused and then added, “Or so I thought.”

  “This gets better?” Blaine asked. I noticed he reached for a pen.

  “Worse. While I thought Cecilia was working on a plan to save this celebrity’s career from afar, I’ve come to suspect that she’s really stalling in order to destroy the celebrity’s career. The helping her own career would still be true.”

  “And you know about this twist…how?”

  I reshuffled my folders. “File number two contains copies of personal letters sent to Cecilia from a high-powered attorney. These letters indicate that there is more to Cecilia’s tactics and more behind her intention than she let on.”

  “And you got these…?”

  I shook my head. I’d protect him from the sordid details.

  “Got it. Can you say what you think her plan is? Will it hurt the company?”

  I hadn’t considered this question before. If Cecilia set herself up with a fabulous new job doing public relations for singers, actors, and other social elite, it wouldn’t directly hurt Reed and Dunson. This wasn’t a positive revelation to me. Without Cecilia actually being a threat to this firm, nobody would do anything to stop her, and nobody would therefore save Hudson. “No, but she’ll hurt the client.”

  “Her personal client, really,” Blaine stated as he jotted down some notes.

  I started to panic. I didn’t want him to wash his hands of this. We had to do something. “But remember…” I stalled and then it came to me. “Remember that this client trusts her as a leader of this company, not as the free agent she aspires to be. He’s depending on her to make things right, and it isn’t just a PR move for him. He’s changed and deserves this second chance. So you see, by Cecilia representing us and betraying him, it would destroy our reputation!” I was thrilled that this conclusion would be my ticket to receiving help. It would also undoubtedly be the direct link between me and the conspiracy Ken Dunson would cite in my termination letter.

  Blaine put his pen down slowly and quietly. He looked out the window for a couple seconds, but I could tell his gaze stopped somewhere between his desk and the skyline. “Why do you think this celebrity deserves a second chance?”

  “He’s kind and intelligent. The guy admits to being a jerk before, but he’s ready to step up and take the blame, which I find admirable. He knows his career might not be the same; in fact, he hopes it’s different because he wants to regain his passion for music. He said…” I stopped speaking as I realized what Blaine had cleverly accomplished.

  “Have you had personal contact with him?” Blaine raised his eyebrows with amusement, but his emphasis on the word “personal” was less than jovial.

  “He’s been living with me.” I blurted this as if purging my darkest secret. Once the words were out, I questioned my logic and my sanity. My new vow of honesty needed to be tempered with better timing.

  Blaine’s jaw dropped. “It’s the guy from last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he was your boyfriend, the musician.”

  “No, no, no. It was Jude Shea…who could look like Angus a bit from the right side, but I think Hudson is overall more outstanding in looks…”

  “Jude, Angus, Hudson? Does folder number three have a flow chart of the men in your life?” Blaine asked, cutting me off. “You’ve paid them all a lot of attention.”

  My face grew hot, and I could feel the searing tingle of tears forming.

  Blaine looked upward for a moment and then let out a sigh. “Libby, I’m sorry. You’re telling me something related to this firm’s future, and I made it personal.” He sighed again and ran his hand through his hair a couple of times.

  Did the hand through the hair re
veal frustration with me, himself, or the situation? “I’m sorry,” I said to all of the above.

  “Is it personal for you, Libby?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding emphatically until I saw Blaine’s look of disappointment. “I mean, no. Not personal like that. I just feel responsible. I’ve been hiding this guy under the pretense of helping him. If I’m setting him up, I couldn’t handle it.” I was getting choked up. Guilt, fatigue, and confession melded into one insurmountable emotion.

  “I’m in. Give me your folders and a night to figure things out.”

  “What about the guy?”

  “Keep it for a while longer,” he said as if talking about a CD. “If that’s not too much of a burden?” he added with some uncharacteristic sarcasm.

  I stood up and handed him my stack of evidence. For a moment we both held on to opposite ends of the folders. I couldn’t seem to let go. My hesitation wasn’t because I didn’t trust him. It was because for once in my life, I completely trusted someone.

  Thirty-Six

  I opened the door for Rachel after hearing our knock.

  “I was really hoping we could have another closet meeting before I leave,” she said, both enthused and intrigued.

  The truth flashed before me. “I’m going to miss you so much. I didn’t realize it until just now.” I started to get teary.

  “Gee, thanks,” she teased. “Don’t tell me you pulled me away from the daunting task of cleaning my cubicle just to cry in private?”

  I returned to spy mode. “No. I have a serious question. Is there a way into Cecilia’s apartment other than through the front door?”

  Rachel thought about this for a mere second. “Yes. Should I ask why you ask?”

  “No. Are you sure there is a second way?”

  “I left the security badge at home one night and the queen’s guard wouldn’t let me through, even though we’d had a perfectly memorable conversation about the best places to eat calamari in Seattle the night before. So I circled the building, climbed up a trellis to the upper floor’s hallway through the residents’ garden deck, and took the elevator.”