“Fine, whatever, leave it,” Marbury snapped when she proved him wrong again by looking up the tax law on the Internet.
She was pleased, even if she was subjected to three minutes of Marbury leaning over her to read the three sentences that backed up her position and negated his. One full minute a sentence, a freaking eternity. “Anything else on the expenses?” she asked sweetly.
“No. Let’s move on to inventory valuation.”
He made her show him the bills of material and the process and routing system they used for calculating the labor involved in making the products. She and Erin had given him a demo when they first purchased the enterprise system a couple of years ago, so this was another of his intimidation tactics, trying to show her up.
He grunted. “All right, let’s go over the labor and overhead rates.”
Okay, this one she needed the spreadsheets for. So he could see her calculations in each cell. She’d written good footnotes, of course, but the actual calcs would make it easier. She slid her chair as far to the right as she could so that he could see the monitor without having him practically in her lap.
“I use the average hourly rate of the three techs and benefits,” she explained. “Plus Steve in QC.”
“He doesn’t add value,” Marbury said, his tone derisive. “He’s overhead.”
“Yes. But his cost can be more accurately applied on labor units. For every hour the tech spends assembling, he spends ten minutes testing.”
He leaned back in his chair, the seat bottom creaking beneath his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at her. “There’s no way you can quantify it that way.”
“I’ve done time studies on it,” she insisted.
They argued about it for five minutes and finally Bree said, “We’ve done it this way for the last five years.” This was the first time Marbury had even asked about the rate calculations. “Changing now,” she said flatly, though her palms were sweating beneath the desk, “would constitute inconsistency.”
“What-ever,” he snapped in almost two separate words. “Move on.”
Her stomach was churning, the air in the office was too close and muggy with his heavy breathing. How much longer? she wanted to shout at him.
“Overhead rates, then.” She opened the file, went over every detail with precision until her throat was raspy with talking. He just didn’t seem to get it. “Let me explain again, so you understand,” she said ever so politely.
He looked at her, his eyes suddenly beady and venomous. “I understand perfectly.” He stabbed a finger at the screen, his arm brushing her breast.
She almost screamed.
“This”—one stab—“is the most ridiculous”—stab, stab—“calculation I have ever seen.” His voice rose with every jab at the screen.
“It’s pretty simple—” she started.
“Don’t”—he stabbed at her face this time, just missing her nose—“ever interrupt me when I’m talking.”
Her legs started to shake uncontrollably, and she wasn’t even standing.
“Your tone has been patronizing during this entire discussion.” His spittle sprayed her cheek.
She didn’t know what had set him off. She hadn’t been snippy or mean or even condescending. “I wasn’t,” she said in the tiniest of whispers.
“You little bitch.”
She recoiled, grabbed the arms of her chair, tried to roll it back, but she was already too close to the wall.
“Don’t you try to make me look stupid.” His eyes seemed to bulge.
“I wasn’t,” she said again, but this time she couldn’t manage more than mouthing the words. You could never know, never predict what would set them off. And when they got angry, there was no stopping them, no stopping the punishment. She was trying to be strong—
The office door suddenly swung open, and Erin came in, her red hair flying behind her.
With a push of his toes, Marbury flung his chair back from Bree. He smiled. The only telltale sign of agitation was his florid complexion. “Erin.” Then he stopped as if he couldn’t think of another thing to add.
After the abrupt entry, Erin suddenly changed her style and sauntered into the office, her smile wide yet lacking in good cheer. Perching on the edge of the desk, she rummaged among the papers littering the surface without really looking at anything. “We have very thin walls at DKG,” she said, then picked up a folder and began slapping it against her palm.
Marbury cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Erin. Bree and I will keep it down. We were just having a lively debate about overhead rates, weren’t we, Bree?” He didn’t even look at her, just expected her to back him up.
Oh no, he would never do anything bad.
“Lively debate,” Erin enunciated sharply, “is one thing.” Then she leaned down, putting her face on level with Marbury’s, and added steel to her voice. “But don’t ever call one of my employees a bitch.”
He blustered, then finally stammered out, “Well—well, it was a slip of the tongue.”
Erin stood, ignoring his slip of the tongue. “You’ve got all your answers and all the documents you need to complete the audit. That’s your job, not Bree’s.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “The fact that you had any questions at this late date makes me wonder if you even understand our taxes.”
She was mighty before him. Marbury’s fleshy jowls wobbled. “It was just an update, to make sure we’re on the same page.” He stood and the chair shot back against the filing cabinet. “But we’re all set, so I’ll be off.” He looked around as if he thought he’d had a briefcase. “Thank you, Bree, for your time and effort.” Then he sucked in his gut and sidled past Erin.
“I’m sorry about that,” Erin said as they both watched the door hit him in the ass when he duck-walked out the front entrance. She turned back to Bree. “You don’t have to take that kind of crap from him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” Erin pulled over the desk chair Marbury had vacated and sat. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands, resting her forearms on her thigh as she leaned forward.
“That you had to come in here.” Bree’s stomach still felt queasy, and she was totally demoralized that her boss had to run to her defense.
Erin touched her hand. “I know things are really bad for you right now, but you don’t have to take that kind of abuse from people, Bree.” She sat back. “Maybe I overreacted, barging in here, but I’ve been worried about you. And you and I are going to start looking for a new accountant right now.”
“We need him to finish the audit. It won’t look good to the IRS if we change right in the middle.”
Erin regarded her a long moment. “Whatever you think is best, Bree. You’re my accountant, and I trust you to make that judgment.”
Her eyes suddenly ached as if she were about to cry. She should have been able to handle it herself. She should have told Marbury to fuck off. Instead, she just sat there and took it.
“Bree,” Erin said softly. “Tell me what to do for you. I’m helpless here.”
Jesus, she was actually going to cry. Swiping a finger at her eyes, she grabbed a tissue from the box in the bottom of her drawer. “I just need to work. I don’t want to be at home.” The only other place she wanted to run to was Luke’s office, but she’d done that on Tuesday. She couldn’t keep running to him. Or to anyone else.
God, it was freaking pathetic. Only wimps cried in front of their boss. You’d never see a man doing it.
“All right,” Erin said while all the thoughts whirled around in Bree’s head, “you work as long as you want. I won’t bug you anymore about going home. And forget Marbury. If he fails on the audit, I’ll sue his ass or something.”
“Thanks, Erin.” It was all Bree could manage. She started cleaning up the folders.
She was aware that Erin stood for another long moment watching her, but she pretended to be engrossed in her papers until finally Erin left. She didn’t go t
o her own office; she went to engineering where Dominic had his lab. They were going to talk about her, Bree knew it. Maybe they thought she was having a nervous breakdown.
“But I’m not,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. More than anything, she wanted to call Luke. But he had his daughter here. She’d probably stay through the weekend. Of course she would. It wouldn’t make sense to drive back to school until Monday.
You little bitch.
When Luke said it, she got wet. From Marbury, it was terrifying. It meant bad things were going to happen.
Oh God. Bree couldn’t catch her breath for a moment. She couldn’t call Luke, couldn’t see him. Her palms felt clammy, and her upper lip started to sweat. What would she do? She’d go crazy without something to blot out the morning with Marbury. Work would be fine, but tonight, God, what about tonight? She’d gotten so used to Luke being there, to seeing him when she got home, sitting across the table, eating dinner, making conversation.
Then taking her somewhere to make her forget everything but the feel of him.
Okay, calm down. It’ll be fine.
She thought about Luke, his touch, his voice. And tried to relax. Stretching out her fingers, she flexed them like a cat. Then she did what she always did, what she was so good at. She pretended everything was all right and she was perfectly normal. She’d done it so many times before. She could do it now.
31
STEPHIE’S PARENTS HAD FOLLOWED KEIRA BACK TO SCHOOL THIS morning. Luke couldn’t believe they’d waited instead of rushing to her aid last night, but at least they were going down to the university.
After the pep talk over their chai lattes, Keira had handled last night’s discussion with Stephie’s parents herself, keeping at them until they understood the gravity of the situation. Luke had simply been there as moral support.
Keira had called him in the afternoon, and Stephie was returning home with her parents. “She didn’t even put up a fight, Dad,” she told him.
Christ, he was proud of his daughter, his heart swelling in his chest.
Now all Luke could think about was getting home to Bree. He’d gone to her mother’s house so many nights in a row, it was starting to feel natural.
It was later than usual for him, close to six-thirty, but the driveway was empty as he pulled in. Bree wasn’t home from work yet. She’d had an important meeting, he recalled her saying last night. Perhaps it ran longer than she’d anticipated. He rang the bell.
Mrs. Mason answered wearing an apron over her flower-print dress. “Oh, Luke. Bree said you were with your daughter tonight, and that you wouldn’t be able to come over.”
“She drove back to school this morning.” He didn’t mention the reason for her trip.
“Oh, how nice. Come in. I’m not making anything special for dinner since I thought you wouldn’t be here.”
“You never have to make anything special for me.”
She flapped a hand at him. “I love having a man to cook for.” She wore the smile of a content woman without a care in the world. He didn’t understand her. It was as if sometimes she’d forgotten her husband had existed. She rarely mentioned him. She refused to have a service. She didn’t appear to be grieving in any way. It was pretty damn strange.
Unless she was happy he was gone.
“Whatever you cook is great,” he said, betraying none of his inner thoughts.
“Grilled ham and cheese. I haven’t had one in ages, and I thought I’d treat myself.”
“Sounds good. Especially since I’m inviting myself.” Maybe, over dinner, without Bree, he could finally learn a few things. He didn’t intend to ask any point-blank questions that were better left for a psychiatrist’s office, but maybe he’d find something to help him understand what Bree truly needed.
Mrs. Mason led him into the kitchen as she tutted away at him. “Don’t be silly. You’ve got a standing invitation.”
Everything was out-of-date, flat-cornered Formica countertops, brown appliances, brick-colored linoleum. As if everyone in this house had stopped moving forward, something holding them all captive in the past.
He spoke even as he observed her. “You’ve been baking cookies.” A rack of oatmeal raisin cookies were cooling, and the sink was filled with soap suds, a big bowl, and the tips of two beaters.
“I have to fill all my cookie jars,” she said as she pulled a frying pan from the drawer at the bottom of the stove.
Based on the proliferation of jars on the counter, that would be one hell of a lot of cookies. “They smell good.”
“Dessert,” she said. “Milk and cookies. Now go wash up while I fix the grilled cheese.”
He felt like a small boy as she shooed him away. She was an odd bird, and he was fast coming around to agreeing that Bree had good reason for being worried about her.
In the half bath off the laundry room, there was another cookie jar on the back of the toilet, this one in the shape of Dumbo the elephant. Cookies in the bathroom? Curiouser and curiouser. He took care of business and washed up. Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he realized he couldn’t resist. Retreating the few steps to the toilet, he lifted Dumbo’s tail.
He stopped. Stared. Okay, not possible. The contents looked like . . . ashes. Jesus God.
Luke carefully put the lid back. All right, he did not see that. Bree’s father’s ashes could not be in a cookie jar on the back of the toilet. No way. Maybe it was bath salts. Yeah, bath salts. That looked like ashes.
When he returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Mason was humming as two sandwiches sizzled in the frying pan.
“When’s Bree going to be home?” he asked. “We can wait for her, if you’d like.”
“Oh, she’s going out for dinner up in the city.”
His spine tensed. “What?”
She glanced up at the sharpness of his tone. “In fact, I thought she was with you. But then you showed up.”
“Why didn’t you say something when I first arrived?”
“I thought it would be nice if it was just you and me.” Then she totally contradicted herself. “She’s with girlfriends from work. They wanted to take her out and show her a good time with all this unhappy business lately.”
Unhappy business? This was just plain wrong. And after finding Dumbo in the bathroom, he had to call her on it. “That’s an odd way of putting it. Her father just died. That’s more than unhappy business.”
She flipped the sandwiches in the pan. “I know what everyone thinks. That I should be mourning and sad. But he was sick for a year and a half.” She shrugged. “I do feel a bit of relief. I’m not going to pretend I don’t.” She tamped the bread down with her spatula until cheese oozed out the sides.
In a way, he understood. After a long illness, there had to be some relief that the misery was over. But as he looked at her, his gut shouted that there was more to it, a lot more.
“Do you forgive me, Luke?” Though her hair was white, her eyebrows were still dark, with springy little hairs sticking out. They looked like slashes across her forehead as she raised one brow at him.
He tried to sound comforting. “Everyone deals with death and grief differently.” But he kept seeing Dumbo on the back of the toilet. They were ashes.
“Yes, they do,” Mrs. Mason agreed. “I cried for months after my mother died. I was eighteen. It was before my husband and I were married. She went in for a hysterectomy, and she died on the table. It was all so unexpected. My father never recovered.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But with my husband, it was different.”
“Yes. The length of his illness. Watching him go downhill.” But the ashes in the bathroom. That defied the pat explanation. “And Dumbo?”
She laughed, waving her hands, the spatula dripping grease. “Oh, that’s what this is all about. It’s just a little private joke. My husband always said he wanted to be one of my cookies in the jar so I could gobble him all up. I know it seems morbid, but . . .” She shrugged.
“To
each his own,” he finished for her. But it felt . . . wrong. She wasn’t stable.
She plopped the grilled sandwiches onto two plates, cut them in half, then carried both to the table in the nook. She’d already poured two glasses of milk.
“Which friends did Bree go to the city with?” The first bite of grilled cheese sat heavy in his stomach, but he ate because right now, he needed to figure out where Bree had gone, and this woman had the answer.
“She didn’t say.” Did that sound cagey?
Bree didn’t have girlfriends. That’s what bothered him. Even if the girls at the office—whom she’d never mentioned as being friends—had taken her out to cheer her up, they wouldn’t have gone all the way to the city. An evening in San Francisco was something you planned for and did on a weekend.
Unless you were going to a club. And if she was, she wasn’t with any girlfriends.
The sandwich congealed in his stomach.
“Is something wrong with the cheese, Luke?”
“No. It’s good,” he said automatically, but he was thinking. Bree wouldn’t do that. She would not go to a sex club without him. Not alone. That was stupid, and she was way past that kind of behavior. Wasn’t she? He reached for his phone, pulling it from his suit jacket pocket. “I’ll just call her and see how she’s doing.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m worried about her. She didn’t wake up easily this morning.”
The phone rang and rang, so at least he knew it was on. But her voicemail answered. He didn’t leave a message; she would see the missed call. “Are you sure she said she was going up to the city?”
“Yes.” But now she sounded uncertain, her forehead creased in extra lines.
“What exactly did she say?” His gut went rigid.
Mrs. Mason put a fingertip to her temple. “I can’t remember her exact words, just something about a club she knew up there.”
Goddammit. His pulse was suddenly racing, and his head began to pound with an ache behind the eyes. “What time did she call?”
“Just before you got here.” She gave him a wide-eyed look.
He no longer believed it was innocent at all. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me then?”
What Happens After Dark Page 24