by Anna Yen
Eeeek.
Scott seemed oblivious as he zipped up to the flat, circular portion of the driveway in front of our house. Christine stepped out of the car and yelled out to Ashley, who had appeared next to me just outside the front door, “Ashley, can you please see to it that Scott gets rid of this car? He drives like a maniac and is a danger to himself and everyone else on the road.”
Scott laughed. He was lighter and more relaxed than I’d ever seen. It was clear how smitten he was with his wife. He didn’t mind her being the boss.
I looked at Daniel, but he didn’t make eye contact with me. He was mesmerized, overcome by the Scott Spell. I turned my attention to Christine. It was the first time I had ever seen her. She looked like a supermodel plucked out of the wilds of Scandinavia, and, as if her beauty wasn’t enough, she had brains as well. Christine was an Ivy Leaguer who was “changing the world” in her own way, through the tremendous education programs she ran.
“Hello. You must be Sophia. Thank you for hosting us tonight.” Christine extended her hand gracefully toward me as she entered the house. “I’m sorry we’re late. Scott was helping one of the kids with his homework.” Smart, beautiful, four kids, and a husband who helps with the homework—I want your life.
I looked like the Cheshire Cat as I nodded at Christine, acting as though I could relate to what she said. An awkward moment of silence passed before I spoke: “Let me get this straight. We’re learning how to waltz tonight?”
“It’s always been a dream of Scott’s to host a party with guests Viennese Waltzing around a Christmas tree,” Christine explained, looking elegant even as she took off a camel cashmere coat that was the same color as her perfectly tailored trousers.
The visual of everyone doing some terrible version of The Nutcracker’s opening scene made me want to laugh, but I held myself together and introduced Daniel instead. Suddenly I saw movement out of the corner of my eye; Scott was heading up the three steps that led from the foyer to the living room on the left. And he’s off!
“That’s the living room, Scott.”
“Forgive him,” Christine said.
We walked together toward Scott, who was standing in the center of our stark white living room next to the two puzzle-piece-shaped stainless steel coffee tables. Except for the twinkling lights that shone from Silicon Valley, the floor-to-ceiling windows were dark from the night sky. Christine, Ashley, and the rest of the guests commented on the view—something I hardly appreciated anymore, but it was a sight to see. Scott looked deep in thought. He was always observing and storing things in his mind so that he could use them later. I knew his observations affected the way he wanted our slideshows to look, or how he wanted to phrase certain things. But how? And when? I wanted to learn, too, so I could be like him. And like Christine. I followed his gaze to see if I could figure it out now.
“What do your parents do?” Scott asked. He was wearing his usual outfit: jeans and a black T-shirt.
“My mom doesn’t work. Her job is to torture me,” I said, grinning. “Dad was an aeronautical engineer, but now he runs a medical device company. They design and manufacture commercial-grade electronic thermometers.”
Scott nodded.
The peaceful moment was interrupted by Mom yelling from upstairs.
“Who’s at the door?”
I felt awkward saying, “Scott Kraft is here,” so I answered, “It’s me, Mom.”
“Audrey?”
“No, me!”
“Which me?”
“Sophia!”
“Sophia, I thought you were home.”
“I am home, Mom.”
“Then why did you say Audrey?”
“I didn’t. You did.”
“Oh. Well, clean up your room if you’re home. Messy rooms lead to messy minds. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Okay, Mom,” I shouted back, fearing if I didn’t acknowledge her, she’d yell even louder. I was mortified, but accustomed to this type of exchange happening in front of my friends. We were a loud, direct family, and there was nothing I could do about it.
My guests started laughing and I nervously joined them. Dad must have heard our voices because I heard his den door open upstairs, then his footsteps crossing to the middle of the floating glass bridge so that he stood directly over our foyer.
“Sophia, do you have some friends here?” he called down.
“Yes, Dad.” I felt like a teenager whose parents were intruding. Still, I was happy that my coworkers were here to meet my dad. He was impressive, after all.
I heard Dad’s slippers shuffle the rest of the way across the bridge, then down to the landing in front of the kitchen. The shuffle got louder as they made their way through the marble foyer and up toward the living room, where we stood.
“Dad, this is my boss, Jonathan.”
Dad stood there in his pajamas and bathrobe. He secured the navy robe with its terry-cloth belt and chuckled. “Oh! Excuse me. I didn’t know she was having guests.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Young. Sorry for the intrusion. I’m Jonathan. This is my wife, Helena; Ashley and her husband, Chuck; Scott Kraft and his wife, Christine; and our two dance instructors.”
Thankfully Dad remembered me telling him that Scott didn’t like to shake people’s hands, so he just nodded politely toward everyone and said, “We love having young people in the house.”
You’re not that much older, Dad.
“You have a lovely home, Mr. Young,” Scott said.
“Did you decorate it yourself?” Christine added. “We’ve been trying to decorate our home for years, but Scott is quite particular so it still looks like it belongs in the seventies.”
“Ha. No. We have terrible taste. A decorator was recommended to us—Franck Falls. He did it. Isn’t it nice? Although I was shocked at the price of these couches.”
“Golly, it’s wonderful,” Scott said.
“Golly”? “Golly”? When did he start saying “Golly”?
“Here, let me show you guys around,” Dad said as he put his hand on Christine’s shoulder and guided her toward the other side of the house. I stayed put with Daniel, and as the guests walked away, I heard Dad say, “You know, I designed this myself for my wife, Mrs. Young. There’s a view from every single room in the house.”
Two weeks later, Daniel and I stepped out of a limousine and into the crisp December San Francisco air. We tilted our heads back so we could fully capture the sight of the three enormous wreaths that hung from the Edwardian pillars of the historic Palace Hotel. They were intricately decorated with hundreds of lights and rippling red ribbon; the sight of them nudged me into the spirit of the holidays—a spirit that had eluded me up to now, thanks to the whirlwind of the roadshow and ensuing post-IPO madness. Treehouse had become a Wall Street darling, though, and I spent every minute of my day doing everything I could to keep it that way.
Standing there curbside, Daniel looked handsome in a rented tuxedo, and I felt very elegant in a flowing, long black velvet dress. Not that Daniel has even noticed. He’d barely said a word to me during our hour-long drive. The twinkling white lights and bright red poinsettias that filled the impressive, bustling lobby put the pile of work on my desk and my hundreds of unanswered emails out of my mind for a moment. I followed Daniel as best as I could in my four-inch spike heels, but I couldn’t keep up. Daniel didn’t turn around, but clearly he knew I was falling behind because he slapped the back of his thigh twice, wiggled his fingers at me, then began snapping as though he were calling a dog. “Come on, Sophia.”
I stopped walking. Who do you think you are?
Daniel turned around, rolled his eyes, and rag-dolled his upper body in frustration.
“You know I hate it when you walk in front of me,” I said. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”
“Well, then walk faster,” he said.
“I can’t,” I complained as I lifted up my long dress to my ankles and showed him my heels.
Dani
el held out his hand but didn’t move any closer to me. It wasn’t the time to take a stand and pout, so I shuffled toward him, annoyed.
The beautiful Parisian-style glass dome of the Garden Court came into view, but that wasn’t what caught my eye. In the center of the room, beneath the dome, was a fifty-foot-tall Christmas tree that I would have assumed was fake had it not been for the scent of Douglas fir that filled the air. It was adorned with hundreds of unique Swarovski crystal ornaments. They magnified the light radiating from the rows of bulbs strung around and around the tree. A twelve-piece orchestra softly played classical music from the corner of the room, and my coworkers, usually dressed in crazy T-shirts and jeans, wore tuxes and floor-length gowns as they socialized with fancy drinks in their hands and nibbled on passed hors d’oeuvres.
Daniel led me toward the party. “Introduce me to your friends,” he said.
“You met almost all the people I know when we were learning how to waltz. I haven’t really met anyone else,” I said, grasping his hand tighter.
“What do you mean you don’t know anyone?”
“I mean I’m always stuck on my side of the office. Most of the company is creative and there’s no reason for me to mingle with them. Besides, I haven’t had time to meet anyone. I’ve been on the road for weeks, and the only people I really talk to are Jonathan and Ashley,” I said shyly. The insecurities I’d felt all my life—about not being interesting enough, about being damaged goods, about not being tall and blond—all came flooding back. All I could focus on was the large group of strangers in front of me engaged in animated conversations; they seemed so familiar and comfortable with one another. I was certain they were discussing topics I couldn’t contribute to—world affairs, politics. Their marriages and their children. What do I know? I’d spent the last two years of my life engrossed in legal transactions and then Treehouse’s IPO. That was all I’d had time for, all that I knew.
“What about the CTO, Matteo?”
“He’s not my favorite. And I don’t have much to talk to him about.”
“You know nothing about him at all?”
“I know he’s married with three kids.”
“Okay, that’s good. You’re great at talking to people about that stuff. What about Dylan, the creative guy? He seems interesting.”
“The only thing I know about him is that he’s a big supporter of the Juvenile Diabetes Association, but I don’t know why.”
“Well, that’s something to talk about! Does he know you’re a diabetic?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Sophia. Tell him you’re a diabetic! Let’s get a drink and then we’ll go talk to some people, okay?”
Daniel dragged me to the bar, where I gladly gulped down a martini. As I sipped on my second drink, absorbing my surroundings, I overheard Daniel talking to the stranger on the other side of him.
“Yeah, I have an idea. I think it’s going to be really hot. And listen, if you know anyone who might be interested in investing, let me know.”
I rolled my eyes and tugged on Daniel’s sleeve. When he turned to me, I glared at him and said, “Dude. Not cool.”
“What?” Daniel asked defensively.
Just then, waiters started ringing dinner bell chimes, politely asking the Treehouse group to kindly take their seats. And saving Daniel and me from a fight.
Just after dessert was served, the orchestra began to play louder—Mozart, Strauss, and Beethoven—and two by two, couples began gliding around the Christmas tree. It was such a memorable, breathtaking sight to see—not at all the bad version of The Nutcracker that I’d envisioned. Scott had such great vision, though, didn’t he? It was exactly as he’d dreamed so he wasn’t at all surprised that we looked like professional extras on the set of some costume drama, or that everyone was enjoying themselves as they quick-quick-slowed their way through the Viennese Waltz. His creativity and imagination were inspiring and mind-blowing. Who else would think of this? As Daniel led me toward the tree, I searched for Scott in the crowd and finally caught a glimpse of him standing by himself in the back corner. Ah, he looks so handsome in a tux. For a moment I felt angry with Christine for leaving him alone—wasn’t he her responsibility right now? But Scott didn’t have that sad, concerned look on his face that I’d seen so many times during the roadshow. Or his cerebral look, for that matter. Instead, he beamed as his employees waltzed past him wearing their finest attire. I could tell he was pleased with himself for orchestrating such a unique holiday affair; I was pleased with him, too.
The sound of Daniel quietly chanting “Om-pa-paah, om-pa-paah” helped me glide back in step as we twirled around the tree. We looked like the perfect couple, but I couldn’t help but notice how different we felt now compared to our first Sterling, Rich holiday party together. We’re just in a rut. An eighteen-month rut. I closed my eyes and forced myself to focus on the now.
Chapter 10
“You’re a terrible writer!” Scott grunted as he sat at his desk furiously flipping through the conference call script that Jonathan had asked me to draft. Treehouse’s inaugural earnings announcement as a public company was scheduled for February 17, and I knew Scott wanted it to be special. But “terrible”? That seemed a bit extreme. I was a lot of things, but a terrible writer wasn’t one of them.
“No, I’m not,” I insisted.
“Yes, you are.”
“Even the bit about—”
“I hate the whole script.”
The two of us sounded like fighting children.
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t, “but can you please be a bit more specific?”
“I just don’t like it.”
“Wow. That helps a lot. Such a man of details,” I said sarcastically, shaking my head.
“Just send me some bullet points.”
Jonathan broke in. “It may not be a good idea to wing it this first time, Scott. There will be hundreds of people and press listening in, and we’ll want to be sure to stay on message. We’ve still got two weeks. Let us take another stab at it.”
“No. I’m going to sound scripted.” Scott pulled at his socks through his jeans for the fifth time, then turned to address me. “Give me four bullet points you want me to hit, Sophia. Also, I don’t want the call to sound all muffled and scratchy like everyone else’s. You’d better check on that.”
Ugh. Such a perfectionist.
In those few seconds I was demoted from drafting one of Scott Kraft’s most important public speeches to checking the sound quality of the conference call lines. Excellent.
“Which teleconference service are we using?” Scott asked.
“Bridge,” I answered.
“No, use InterCall. Their sound quality is best. But even they aren’t that good. There’s got to be a better way,” Scott said as he struck the Thinker pose.
And we’re off on a tangent.
“InterCall can’t handle that many lines.” Then I had an idea. “How about I see if we can use the sound studio at KQED?” Our local National Public Radio station—Scott’s favorite.
“Great suggestion,” Scott said, his face lighting up.
Note to self: weasel our way into KQED.
This, of course, was before any of us realized our call wouldn’t sound any better unless we broadcast it over KQED’s radio waves. In retrospect, that should have been obvious, and I later felt like an idiot for even making the suggestion.
“Bullet points, eh?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s all I want,” he said. Then, earnestly, as though to make sure I wouldn’t forget this crucial detail, he added, “Trust me: you are not a good writer.”
Scott’s words ignited a ball of fire in my stomach. I’ll show you.
On my way home that evening, I stopped at San Francisco’s Ferry Building for a quick bite to eat with Daniel. “I have some great news! Let’s meet at the Mediterranean place,” he’d said just a few hours earlier. Given the day I was having, great news was just what I neede
d.
When I arrived at the eatery, I was relieved to see that it wasn’t completely full—just a lot of suits who probably worked in the offices upstairs enjoying happy hour cocktails and appetizers. A hostess led me to one of the communal tables overlooking the open kitchen and disappeared behind a silver beaded curtain. I felt as though I’d been holding my breath all day, so I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nose before slowly and gently letting the air out. Ahhhh. I opened my eyes again—no sign of Daniel, so I reached in my purse and pulled out the “terrible” earnings call script that had ruined my day. Might as well be productive while I’m waiting.
“Whatcha reading?” Daniel asked ten minutes later when he appeared at the table and bent over to give me a kiss.
“Oh, nothing. Just this earnings script I gave Scott earlier,” I said, putting the document back in my purse.
“Wow, you’re writing stuff for him, huh?”
“Not exactly. He hated it.”
It really was a piece of crap, I realized. It had a defensive tone and no spark; I knew I could do better.
“Ah,” Daniel said without prodding any further. I wanted him to be sympathetic, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he declared, “I have good news!”
Thoughts of work disappeared immediately. I sat forward, put my elbows on the table, and smiled with anticipation. “Very exciting! What is it?”
“I gave notice today. I’m quitting my job.”
I leaned back and picked up my water glass.
“Seriously? Why?” I asked, trying to hide my concern.
“I want to start my own company,” he said. “A tech company.”
It took everything I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“That’s great, babe. But most people don’t just quit their jobs to do that. They do it while they’re working. Isn’t that the smarter approach? You have student debt, don’t you?”
Daniel locked his eyes on mine. “I just feel like the train is passing me by and everyone else is on it but me.” I could see how serious he was about this and how badly he wanted it, but Daniel wasn’t startup material. He was too honest, not a salesman, and thought too much in black and white. He’d get eaten alive.