by R. S. Kovach
Her former sorority sister’s eyes doubled to twice their size in her escalating shock. “Don’t tell me you don’t even really know this hipster son of a bitch.”
It was cruel, but she was having too much fun with the pretense, so she continued. “We only met once.”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Shelby’s pitch elevated with each syllable, making several other patrons in the restaurant turn.
Ali touched her friend’s hand. “Yes, but it’s okay.”
“Have you looked in a mirror today?” Shelby leaned forward and whispered, “How are you okay right now?”
Ali began to laugh. “Relax, Shel. Seneca is a horse.”
By the time Ali had finished explaining the whole story, Shelby had forgiven her for the joke. They were having a great time catching up over the meal until her friend received a text.
“Oops, that’s Nick.” Shelby was already reaching for her purse.
“Hotter-than-humanly-possible Nick?” Ali judgmentally pursed her lips, recalling their recent conversation about Shelby’s boss.
Shelby smirked. “Gotta run.” Planting an air kiss on Ali’s cheek, she added, “Call me.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Nowhere near fit enough to get back in the saddle, Ali nevertheless planned on visiting her horse over the weekend. But when she arrived at the New Jersey stables, she was surprised to find that what was normally a simple and relaxing outing was not going to be the same since her accident exactly a week earlier.
The sights, sounds, and smells of the equestrian center mentally returned her to the unpleasant scene. For the first time in days, she felt nauseated and her head hurt as she forced herself to attend to Lippi. As soon as she was done grooming the gray Westphalian, Ali headed straight back home and climbed into bed.
After officially returning to work on Monday, Ali had a harder time readjusting than she expected. She broke down crying in her office after mistakenly referring to outdated financial figures in a staff meeting and caught herself studying the font on a draft report for twelve whole minutes before deciding it needed to be bigger.
She began purposefully holding back in vocalizing her opinion at meetings and spent most of the week in her office putting together a new investment plan. It was a foolproof scheme, she thought: securing Russian backing for a rubber factory in Michigan, which made sub-zero-temperature, industrial-grade radial tires. The proprietary manufacturing process couldn’t be exported, unlike the final product, which the investing partner could sell at a 200-percent markup to Siberian construction companies. It was a win-win for everyone.
But when it came time to present her recommendations the following week at the senior executives’ roundtable, Ali stood, pushed aside her thirty-five-page analysis, and regretfully announced that the endeavor wasn’t viable. She then neglected to elaborate that an article in the morning’s Wall Street Journal had planted the seeds of doubt over the soundness of currently doing business with Russia, and she couldn’t in good conscience back the deal.
She didn’t have a chance to wallow in the consequences, because in a few days Ali was on her way to Vermont. The trip was supposed to have taken place weeks earlier, but the German client had backed out at the last minute. After a successful tour of an abandoned ski resort with potential Canadian investors, she was about to informally seal the first phase of negotiations when her phone rang. Wolfhart Zehnder, chair of Brembau GmbH, was on the other end of the line, ready to take the deal they’d agreed to last month.
Ali paced on the coffee-stained, musty carpets in front of the empty hotel’s reception desk and listened to the man speak as if he still had a seat at the negotiating table. Baffled at his nerve, she stopped and stared out at the dry grass covering what had once been the beginner slopes. But then it hit her. Maybe Zehnder’s call wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe—just maybe—she could use it to her advantage.
Why would he call now, at the exact hour a potential rival was getting ready to make his deal? Surely Zehnder knew about the Canadians, which meant that his renewed interest was personal. And if there were now two interested parties, then Ali would have leverage over both.
She smiled to herself, and when the German paused long enough to take a breath, she jumped in. “Herr Zehnder, I’m very happy that you reached out to me, but I’m in the middle of another meeting. Let me see what I can do about the Killington deal and get back to you.”
Having bought a few hours, she pocketed her phone and began walking back to the equipment rental hall where she’d left the investors. When a squirrel ran across the hallway in front of her, Ali was so startled that she nearly screamed.
She paused and caught her breath as a realization hit her. That pesky rodent had to get into the building somehow, and if a squirrel could get in, there was also the potential for less cuddly vermin. The site-inspection report was now almost six months old, and if the deal wasn’t sealed with the Canadians soon, another one would have to be ordered. The current price had been set on the assumption that there weren’t any structural problems, but a new review could always overturn that.
By the time Ali reached the group talking among themselves next to rows of empty shelves in the equipment room, she was once again on the fence about Zehnder’s usefulness. In the end, she found it less risky to accept the Canadians’ offer than bargain with an unreliable partner. It was a less-than-ideal result, but it was the safe alternative.
Ali returned to New York that same night and hoped to finally hit her stride at the office the next day. But she’d only gotten halfway through her tall latte while catching up on the breaking news in the Financial Times when Nora stuck her head through the door. “Mr. Lassiter wants to see you.”
Ali’s heart rate skyrocketed. Aaron Lassiter was a big gun, one level above her direct supervisor. They’d only personally interacted twice before: when she was originally hired at Foxhall as part of the management trainee group and when she was eventually promoted to an assistant vice president. What did he want now?
Her palms sweated as she took the elevator up three floors. The executive assistant at the desk outside the office’s doors must have been expecting her, as she only gave a quiet nod for Ali to proceed inside. There—without offering her a seat or getting up from his own—Mr. Lassiter, in his impeccable suit and smart bow tie, proceeded to hand her a stack of papers and break into a harried monologue about procedures regarding employee well-being and mental health.
The exchange probably took less than five minutes, but it was the longest five minutes of Ali’s life, in spite of the fact that she was staring at Lassiter’s framed diploma for probably half of it. The object sat prominently above his head and directly in her sight line, and Ali briefly struggled to recall whether Howard University was in Atlanta or the nation’s capital. She would have been better served by paying attention to the topic at hand, though, and didn’t even really begin to comprehend the impact of the very one-sided conversation until she was back on her own floor, standing at Nora’s desk.
“What happened?” The older woman rushed to her side, directing Ali to a nearby chair.
She stared straight ahead. “I’ve been put on a mandatory leave of absence.”
Nora flinched. “On what grounds?”
“Medical.” Ali cleared her throat. “Apparently word spreads quickly when you make a few innocent mistakes,” she whispered, thinking of the previous two weeks’ events. The senior vice president had brought up not only her most recent missed opportunity with Zehnder—apparently the German had a direct line to Lassiter’s ear—but also the forgone Russian tire deal, as well as other recent, in her mind small, flubs.
“Can he do that?” The other woman drew back in surprise.
Ali blinked a few times before answering, “Supposedly there’s a federal regulation concerning the mental competency of individuals empowered to conduct high-liability transactions. F
oxhall is legally obligated to verify whether a person in my position is able to do her job.” She sighed, recalling her data gaffes and general indecisiveness. “And I guess they don’t think I can.”
“What? That’s preposterous.” Nora crouched beside her. “So they’re just going to keep you away until they deem you fit again?”
“Not quite.” Ali handed over the papers still in her hand. “They’ve been kind enough to book me a spot at this Pebble Creek Lodge place for the next thirty days.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.
Nora glanced at the e-ticket. “You’re leaving for Denver tomorrow?”
Ali sighed again. “Looks like it.”
“A first-class inpatient rehabilitation program in the heart of the majestic Rocky Mountains,” the woman read from the website printout. “Spa, stables, lakefront vistas, award-winning chefs, and highly trained therapists for a range of mental and physical needs.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Horses are probably the last things you want to see for a while, but other than that, it actually doesn’t sound too bad.”
Ali scoffed. “Sure, if you’re going there willingly. This isn’t a vacation, Nora. They’re having me sign forms to authorize my doctor to send this place my files, for god’s sake.”
“You’re right.” The woman pulled her lips into a line before standing up. “And you have no say in this?”
“Not if I want to keep my job.” Ali shook her head. “Or career, for that matter. If they let me go and word gets out about why, no one else in the industry will hire me.”
The air in the Mile High City was thinner than Ali was used to, and she was already short of breath by the time she got into a cab at the airport’s arrivals section. She still had an hour-and-a-half ride to her destination, but that was just fine with her: she wasn’t in a hurry to get there.
“You probably should have flown into Colorado Springs,” the driver noted, setting the meter before pulling away from the curb.
She sighed, thankful to at least be out of both the god-awful turbulence and the stale cabin air. “It was a last-minute trip.”
“Ah.” He nodded, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Lucky you. Couldn’t have come at a better time. The mountains are magnificent during the summer.”
“So I’ve heard,” she muttered before pulling out her smartphone.
The forced leave came with additional measures to guarantee Ali didn’t do any unauthorized work remotely. She was on the honor system regarding not contacting clients for the next month, but without access to the Foxhall network, she also couldn’t get into shared drives or emails. Instead, Ali focused on the news. After reading about an interesting merger announcement, she was debating whether to call Nora—technically another no-no if it wasn’t for personal reasons—when a unique triangle-shaped structure in the distance caught her eye. “What’s that?” she asked the cabbie.
“Oh, that’s the Air Force Academy,” he replied. “Their chapel, to be more precise.” As if on cue, a fighter jet roared overhead.
They left the highway soon thereafter, traveling the rest of the way on rural roads more fitting for a mountainside retreat. Tall pines stretched their evergreen needles toward the cloudless sky as the sun’s rays filtered between the gaps, and Ali let the warmth wash over her face. She closed her eyes to enjoy the last minutes before she arrived at the unknown, then opened them just as a large log building came into view.
With a rough-hewn stone base and walls made of weathered fir logs stacked horizontally, it would have passed for any other mountain cabin had it not been for its size. Emerging from the side of a steep slope and standing three stories high with numerous gables and balconies, Pebble Creek Lodge effortlessly blended into its surroundings. Its front façade was enclosed on three sides by tall pines, opening up just enough to allow for the private access road ending in a neat, circular driveway. Landscaped with tall ornamental grasses and colorful ground cover, the local flora added to the building’s rustic charm.
After paying and getting a receipt to submit for reimbursement later—her company credit card had also been frozen until her return—Ali collected her suitcase and sent the cabbie on his way. Fumbling with the bag’s handle with her good hand while juggling her purse over the opposite shoulder, she didn’t even notice she had company until a pair of round-toed leather boots stopped in front of her.
“I’d love to give you a hand with that.” A tall brunette woman in skinny jeans and a long-sleeved Henley flashed a sincere smile at her.
She was preparing to refuse out of habit, but a sharp pain in her wrist brought Ali back to reality. “Thank you,” she said reluctantly, grimacing at her cast.
“No need. It’s why I’m here.” The woman grabbed the suitcase, lifting it with ease and starting up the stone steps. “Well, that and pretty much everything else. I’m Elizabeth McGhee, owner, general manager, and all-around problem solver at Pebble Creek. But you can call me Liz.”
“Ali Barros.” She hurried to keep up. “Nice to meet you.”
Liz didn’t stop until they’d entered the lodge, where she stepped behind a long reception desk. Tapping away at a computer, she quickly pulled up Ali’s info. “Barros. Alejandra, right? You are going to be in room thirty-two, but if for any reason that isn’t suitable, please let me know immediately. We’re quite full, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks again,” Ali replied robotically, momentarily awed by her surroundings. The entrance hall was spacious and, like the outside, constructed of lightly varnished wood. It opened into a central sitting area, which had rows of windows on the far wall looking out on to a large lake. The soft glow of perfectly placed lighting and the rich reds in various textiles on the floors and walls made the place feel inviting.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as she feared, but could she really handle the country life—and being away from work—for a whole month?
“Here’s your key.” Liz placed the plastic card on the counter and slid it toward her. “It’ll open not only your room, but also the main entrance doors after-hours. We lock them to nonguests at nine for security reasons,” she explained. “Now, feel free to come and go as you please, but we ask that if you do leave the property you sign out first.” She tapped a clipboard resting on the counter at her elbow.
Ali furrowed her brow. “Is that really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so.” Liz drew her lips into a no-nonsense line before continuing. “Don’t forget: we may have a resortlike atmosphere, but this is a serious treatment facility. Our guests come here to get help with a variety of issues, and we need to be able to quickly locate any of them for their own safety.”
“Right.” Ali nodded.
“Thanks for understanding.” Liz smiled. “And lastly, I have to ask you to give me all of your medications—including prescriptions and over-the-counter—as well as your cell phone.”
Ali hugged her purse to her chest like a mother bear protecting her cub. “Why?”
“The meds are for licensing reasons. We’re an official treatment facility, so we have to monitor pharmaceutical usage the same way any clinic does.” Sensing Ali’s apprehension, she continued. “Don’t worry. We’ve already gotten your scripts from your doctor in Manhattan so your dispense schedule is ready to go.
“As for the cell, we can’t create a relaxing environment for our guests when they are constantly tempted with the irresistible distraction of being plugged in twenty-four/seven.” She paused, allowing Ali time to absorb all the information. “Of course, I can’t force you to give up your device, but if you’re committed to being here and are willing to trust our methods, I recommend you follow the policy.”
She sighed. “So I can’t get in touch with anyone while I’m here?”
Liz reached under the counter and pulled out another phone. “You can use this during your stay at Pebble Creek. It’s locked so that you can
only make or receive calls from approved numbers. We’ve preprogrammed it to include our administrative lines, and you can pick one or two numbers for the people you think you’ll need the most support from in the next few weeks. Once you decide who that should be, just let any of our staff know, and they’ll input them into the phone.”
Ali opened her purse and pulled out her cell. Taking a last, longing look at the sleek device that was her life, she shut it off and slid it across the counter. In return, Liz handed over the temporary replacement.
It took her longer to fish out the cylinders containing the stronger opiates and sleeping pills, taking care not to reveal the half-full bottle of her pain medication that was still at the bottom of the bag.
“If you have a tablet or laptop, you’ll notice we also don’t have open Internet access.” Liz returned to the scripted introduction after putting away the medication. “Our in-room entertainment, however, gives you a wide selection of choices, with the exception of news and general current events. Now, you’re just in time for lunch, and if you’d like, I can take you directly into our dining area. Don’t worry, I’ll have your bag delivered to your room,” she added with a wave of her hand.
Having traveled two hours against time zones, Ali’s body was already feeling like it was midafternoon and was more than ready for food. To make sure she paid attention to it, her stomach gave an unceremonious grumble at that exact moment.
“That would be great,” she said. Following the owner down a corridor, she soon heard the clatter of silverware and could smell the mouthwatering aroma of caramelized onions and garlic.
The dining area was on a mezzanine level and overlooked an open-air terrace. Chandeliers made of antlers hung overhead, and a long wooden bar stood adjacent to the entry. The opposite wall was lined with a splendid buffet and partly open to the kitchen in the rear. Chefs in crisp white jackets scurried back and forth, occasionally replenishing the chafing dishes and carafes. There were a dozen or so round tables with five chairs each scattered throughout the space. Liz led Ali to one in the middle where four guests were chatting.