by Ward, Deena
My shock only increased when, the next morning, our car pulled up in front of a massive oval-shaped, weathered stone and glass building at least twenty stories tall, and I learned that the entirety of the building was occupied by Roundtree Holdings.
The main offices for Linton Cosmetics were in a much larger building than this one, a 50-story skyscraper, but we only accounted for half of one floor of the building. I couldn’t begin to estimate how many employees were within the twenty-floor massive Roundtree headquarters.
A pleasant man named Parker met us in the reception area on the ground floor. He said he would be our guide for a short tour of the facilities and that he would deliver us to our temporary office space.
The reception area was lovely, clean but not sparse in design. The waiting furniture looked comfortable, but not overly-so. There was color scattered here and there, but not too much. The space was a study in balance.
The decor throughout the offices was similarly balanced. I made notes on a pad as Parker showed us around several floors of the building, trying to record anything I thought might be useful to Isabel.
I knew one thing that would certainly interest her: that this was not the Roundtree’s sole building. According to Parker, they had numerous offices around the country, and overseas. This building was generally thought of as the main administrative office.
When I asked Parker how many different businesses Roundtree oversaw, he answered a vague, “Oh, very many. I don’t remember the last count. We look at things by division, generally speaking.”
Gee, thanks for the non-answer, I thought.
He did tell us a little about how Roundtree was founded in 1995 by a group of like-minded investors. I thought that was interesting, since I had assumed Gibson started the business on his own. Apparently a mistaken impression.
Parker said that the business had been growing ever since and that they looked forward to an even more successful future under the guidance of brilliant businessmen like Gibson Reeves.
I asked him how he liked working for Mr. Reeves.
Parker grinned and said, “I’ve only met him once, but I see him around sometimes. He’s a great man. We all respect him, even if we don’t get a chance to socialize with him.”
I asked how long he had worked there.
He answered, “Almost six years now. I thought for sure when the big crash hit that I’d lose my job, since I hadn’t been working here long. So many people did, elsewhere. But not here. Mr. Reeves made sure everyone kept their jobs, and the biggest pay cuts were taken by the biggest earners. I’ll never work anywhere else, if I have anything to say about it.”
I knew that was something Isabel would want to know. Hell, it was something I liked knowing.
Soon, I filled many pages with hopefully-salient info for Isabel, and I was ready for a break when Parker led us into a large conference room on the sixteenth floor. He told us this would be our office space during our stay, so we should make ourselves at home.
We thanked him, and he no sooner departed than a brisk young man came in the room, introduced himself and asked if we wanted coffee or something else to drink. He took our orders then said someone would be with us soon.
We settled in around the polished cherry wood table, relaxed back into the cushioned chairs and smiled at each other. Not too shabby, was the unspoken thought we shared.
The next hour passed slowly, with a man and woman quizzing Terry and Sloan about details of our business and the cosmetics industry in general. I didn’t contribute much. When I thought they were thoroughly engrossed in their conversation, I mumbled an excuse about needing to use the restroom and slipped out of the room.
I knew where I was heading: the twentieth floor. Parker said the highest level executives had their offices up on the top floor, but that we didn’t have time to tour them. I had a hankering to see Gibson’s office.
What was the worst that could happen if I got caught? I’d just say I got lost. Maybe they’d actually believe that.
The elevator opened on the twentieth floor and I stepped into a space that was similar to the other floors, as nice as the others, not showy. I walked straight down a wide hallway, admiring the paintings on the walls. They looked like original oil paintings, mostly landscapes.
Open doorways on either side of the wide hall led to offices which led to other offices. I assumed the people sitting at desks inside were assistants to the executives housed farther inside.
At the end of the hall, two large desks flanked a massive pair of double doors. If I were a betting woman, I would have bet those doors led to Gibson’s office.
I would have won that bet.
The woman behind one of the desks, an older lady probably in her sixties, smiled at me politely and asked if she could help me.
I went all casual and said, “Oh, I was just looking around. I’m a visitor here today so I thought I’d wander around, check things out. You know.”
She didn’t appear impressed with my story, though she didn’t stop smiling. “A visitor?”
“Yes. I’m with Linton Cosmetics, we’re here ...”
She visibly relaxed. “Oh, sure, we were told you’d be around for the next few days. Where are the others? I thought there would be three of you.”
“They’re down on the sixteenth floor. They didn’t need me for what they’re doing. I thought I’d take a stroll.”
She stood up and said, “I’ve got a few minutes, if you’d like me to show you around the floor.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’m Mary, one of Mr. Reeves’ secretaries.”
I hardly had a chance to give her my name when the younger man sitting at the other desk, chimed in with, “For the millionth time, Mary, we are executive assistants. Not secretaries.”
Mary said, “I’m doing the same job right now that I’ve been doing for almost forty years. I’m a secretary, always have been one. Don’t see why we need to go changing the title of the job if what I do is the same.”
The man sighed and gave me a “what are you going to do” look. He introduced himself as Kurt, then tucked back into his work.
Mary held out an arm and led me back the way I had come. She pointed out several of the paintings as being fine examples of the White Mountain School of painting. She said they originally belonged in the offices of Gibson’s father, Henry Reeves. Gibson had them moved to Roundtree’s headquarters after Henry’s death.
Mary said as we strolled along, “No doubt, the younger Mr. Gibson enjoys seeing the reminder of his father here.”
As we turned a corner and headed down a smaller hallway, I asked, “How long have you worked for Mr. Reeves?”
“He brought me here after his father died, so about eight years now. I worked for the elder Mr. Reeves at HR Labs for nearly thirty years. I was his secretary all that time. Not his personal assistant.”
I grinned. “Then you’ve known the family a long time.”
“Oh yes, many years. Here we are.”
She led me into a huge conference room. “This is where all the executives have their meetings. It has a wonderful view over this part of the city. And you can see on the far wall there, the pictures of the Roundtree executives.”
I only glanced at the view out the plate glass windows spanning one wall of the room, and headed straight to the framed photos on the other wall. I scanned past the women, then past all of the men, too.
I said, “There’s no picture of Mr. Reeves here.”
“Have you met Mr. Reeves?”
“Yes, when he was in our offices three weeks ago.”
“Of course. No. There’s no picture of him up there. I tried dozens of times to get him pinned down, but he always missed his appointments. I’ve had photographers come here, too, but he always gets out of it somehow.”
I said, “I wouldn’t have thought he was camera shy.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think that’s it. He’s never been one for the limelight, that’s all.
I remember when he was a child and used to visit his father’s office. He never made any fuss, was always so polite and friendly, even when everyone was tripping over themselves to do for him and he could have gotten away with murder, being the owner’s son.”
I nodded to encourage her to tell me more.
“I kept peppermints in my desk,” she said, “and I never forgot to give him one when he visited, he seemed to enjoy them so much. I found out years later, when he was grown, that he didn’t like peppermints at all. The elder Mr. Reeves sent me shopping for some small gift for his son, and on a whim, I picked up a box of fancy peppermints. When I showed them to the elder Mr. Reeves, he said, ‘You’ll have to take those back, Mary. Swap them for spearmint, or something like that. Gibson hates peppermint. He won’t even eat a candy cane.’ You could have knocked me over with a feather.”
Her eyes had a distant and soft look about them. “Figure that. All those years, the young Mr. Gibson eating those peppermints in front of me, even though he didn’t like them. Well, that’s just how he’s always been. Probably didn’t want to disappoint me.”
That description of a young Gibson was nothing like how I had imagined him.
I said, “Do you like working for him?”
“Oh yes. I could retire if I wanted, but I’d miss him and this place, and being useful. Come on. I’ll show you his office if you want.”
“I’d like that,” I said, adding inside, you have no idea how much I’d like that.
She took a different path back to Gibson’s office, noting the offices of various executives along the way. I didn’t pay much attention, still thinking about the peppermint story.
Kurt hardly glanced up as we sailed past his desk. Mary flung open the double doors and led me into Gibson’s office.
The first thing that hit me was his scent. It was here, in this room, a lingering hint of his spicy cologne. Every part of me went on alert as soon as I smelled it. I almost expected to see him sitting behind his desk.
And it was a huge desk, made of rich, highly polished, dark wood. A big, high-backed, brown leather chair sat empty behind the desk. I could picture him sitting there, looking at the wide-screen monitor on the left side of his desk, making notes on the pad of paper I saw laying there.
It wasn’t a particularly large office. In fact, Frank Linton’s office was bigger than this one, but then Frank Linton’s office was as oversized as his ego.
Gibson’s office was richly decorated, elegant and manly, in dark woods and leather. The far wall was nothing but glass looking out over the city, just like in the conference room. There was a sofa and some comfortable-looking chairs arranged in one corner, along with a wet bar, and a door that Mary said led to his private restroom.
Kurt suddenly called out from the other room, “Mary, phone. Your daughter.”
Mary said, “Oh, I’d better get that. You can keep looking if you want. Just don’t go poking around in his drawers, young lady.”
She said the last with a wink before she rushed out of the room.
I fought back a nervous laugh at the idea of poking around in Gibson’s drawers. Been there. Done that.
I noticed a coat rack near the door. One of Gibson’s suit coats was hanging on it. I slipped over to it, and couldn’t resist holding a sleeve up to my nose. It still smelled like him. I dropped it as quickly as I had picked it up, fearful that Mary might surprise me with a speedy return.
While I had the chance, I had to sit in Gibson’s chair.
It was too big for me, the seat being too high off the floor, and the supports in the back hitting me in all the wrong places. This was a chair for a big man. Gibson’s chair.
I twirled around in it a few times, then sat there facing the dozen monitors set into the wall behind the chair. I supposed when he was here, all the monitors would be on, feeding the boss the information he needed to make his many important decisions.
I leaned back and crossed my hands over my stomach. What must it be like to be Gibson Reeves? So many people, so many lives depending on you, counting on you to do the smart thing, the best thing, the right thing. Your mistakes could impact how many people? Thousands, at least. I didn’t know how many, for sure. Too many for me.
How did someone stand that kind of pressure? I thought that if I were faced with such choices, I would be too afraid of screwing up to be able to do anything at all.
It took a special kind of person to run an operation like this successfully.
I sighed. Then heard a noise behind me. I thought Mary must have returned, so I swiveled the chair back around to the front.
It wasn’t Mary standing there, looking at me as if I had ten heads.
It was Gibson. In the flesh.
I said, “Oh.”
He said, “Oh.”
And we stared at each other stupidly.
Gibson had just exited the bathroom, I saw, had been in the process of rolling down his shirt sleeves when he saw me. His tie was loose and hung from an open collar.
So that explained why his jacket was on the coat tree, and why the office smelled like him.
And then I realized I was sitting in his chair. My face must have turned all sorts of red with the realization.
I jumped to my feet. “I’m so sorry. I ...”
He said, “I ...”
But neither one of us got a chance to finish because Mary rushed into the office. “Mr. Reeves! Kurt just told me you were here. I had no idea. I must have missed you while I was giving Miss Crawford a tour. Of course I wouldn’t have dreamed of showing her your office if I knew you were ...”
Gibson broke in and said gently, “It’s okay, Mary. It’s fine. I know Ms. Crawford. And I’m sorry I surprised you. I should have called ahead.”
Mary said, “It’s your office and I guess you don’t have to call ahead to see if it’s okay for you to come here. We’ll just leave you in peace, won’t we, Miss Crawford?”
I said, “Of course.”
I practically tripped I was in such a hurry to get out of there. I didn’t make it out, though.
Gibson said, “Go ahead, Mary. I’d like to speak to Ms. Crawford for a few minutes, please.”
Mary smiled and nodded at us both, then fled, shutting the doors behind herself.
I stood next to the desk.
Gibson stood in front of the bathroom door.
I mumbled, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you were going to be here today.”
He said, stepping forward, “No, not a problem. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I returned early.”
“Still, I probably shouldn’t have been sitting at your desk.” I gave a sheepish smile.
He said, all serious consideration, “You can sit anywhere you’d like.”
“Well, uh, okay. It’s um ...”
“How have you been?” he asked with a tentative smile.
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
I took a few steps toward the door. “I’m here with two other people from Linton. We were asked to come today. So, I came and ... I should probably be getting back.”
“Of course,” he said. “I suppose so.”
“Yes, so. It was good to see you.”
“And you.”
I gave an awkward nod and got the hell out of there before I said anything even more clumsy and idiotic than what I had already said.
I muttered a quick thanks to Mary for the tour and raced for the elevator. By the time I reached the sixteenth floor, I was so embarrassed and overheated that I had to spend a few minutes in the bathroom getting my act together before I could return to the conference room.
God, that was so dumb. My stomach was in knots, both from the thrill of seeing Gibson again and the horrifying realization that I had been caught sitting in his chair like a goofy kid. It was excruciating.
I shuddered to consider what he might be thinking right now.
I eventually returned to the conference room, where I was as mute and
unnecessary as I was before I snuck off to do my spy work. We all went to the building’s cafeteria for lunch, and I spent most of my time there not eating the rather good food and wondering where Gibson ate his lunch.
The afternoon dragged and it was around two p.m. when I realized I wasn’t doing what I had been sent there to do. I talked myself into being brave, reminded myself that Gibson wasn’t likely to be wandering the halls of the building, and I slipped away again.
I worked my way down the floors of the building, mostly hanging out in the break rooms, when I could find them, hoping to strike up conversations with anyone who happened to need a snack or a cup of coffee.
By the time I made it to the first floor and the reception desk, I had learned a few things, mostly that everyone was busy, had little time to socialize and were loyal to Roundtree and Gibson.
The receptionist at the front desk proved to be a good source of information, as receptionists generally are. She was a young woman, chatty and friendly, and after telling me what a great place it was to work, recommended that I visit the park behind the building and check out the big fountain there.
I followed her advice and easily found the doors that opened onto the park. I stepped out into the hot August air.
It was a large, lovely space, filled with shade trees and flower beds, wide stone-paved avenues that met in the middle of the park, a spot punctuated by a carved stone fountain that was probably twenty feet tall.
I took it all in. The park was ringed by four buildings, Roundtree on one side and three other similar-looking buildings on the other three sides. It was like a set, each piece complimenting another, all sharing access to the park.
A security guard was on post nearby and he smiled at me. He said, “Are you a visitor, Miss?”
“How’d you know?”
“The way you were looking around. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes. The park is spectacular. It’s huge.”
He said, “People enjoy it when the weather’s good. I hear there’s heavy competition for the offices that overlook it.”
“I bet. What companies are in the other buildings?”