by R. S. Lively
"Where was Gramps at this point? Had he gotten there yet?"
"Oh, he was there. He was standing at the bottom of the steps holding his hands out waiting to catch her."
"And how long did the sprinting last?"
"About seven or eight steps. Then she tripped, fell on her face, and slid back down right into Gramps' arms."
Esme snorts. "Oh, no. Was she alright?"
"She was perfectly fine. She scraped up her knees a little, but that's only because she had insisted on wearing her tourist shorts."
"Wait – if Gramps was there to catch her when she fell, who was taking all the pictures?"
"A terrified-into-paralysis tour guide who was no longer employed after that day."
"Perfect."
"But, see? That’s the kind of woman she is. She's not weak or feeble. She's always been too strong and eccentric for her own good, honestly. I can't think of her as some old woman rattling around in her empty old house by herself, and who's getting hurt just trying to do basic things like walk."
"To be fair, I've hurt myself going down the stairs."
I sag onto the bed.
"It's not the same thing."
"I know it's not."
Esme sounds sympathetic, and I feel the heavy emotions of the situation starting to settle in.
"I left her alone," I say. "I left her behind. I was all she had after Gramps died, and I up and vanished. I thought she was going to be fine. She always had stories about the ladies she spends time with and her most recent pet projects whenever she came to visit. I thought she had a more interesting life than I do. But she fell and now she’s hurt."
"You can't blame yourself for that," Esme says. "From everything I've heard about this woman, there's no reason you should have worried about her. It's not like she needs somebody there to take care of her.”
"Yes, she does. That's why she called me. Grammie said she can't do anything by herself and that I’m the only one who can help her recover. I should have been there for her."
"Fiona, you can't do that to yourself. You're an adult. Adults leave the nest. They get their own apartments, start their careers, and do things by themselves. I'm sure she's going to be okay. She'll probably only need you there for a little while because she's hobbling around in a giant cast, and it's too awkward for her to do anything."
"She asked me to stay as long as I can," I groan.
"What did Mr. Hansen say about it?"
"Oh, fucking-shit-fuck."
"I'm going to take that as your way of saying you haven't told him yet?"
"I completely forgot."
I rub my eye with the heel of my hand, internally spewing an even more creative stream of profanity. How could I have forgotten to tell my boss I'm not coming in tomorrow and I need at least three weeks off?
"Do you want me to tell him when I get in?" Esme asks.
"No. Thanks, but I should do it. He owes me vacation time anyway. And the man still treats me like I'm his secretary, so there's got to be some sort of equity built up there. I'll give you a call later. Sorry to wake you up."
"It's fine. You know I'm always here. Besides, you gave me enough extra time in my morning routine to shape my eyebrows. They thank you."
"Well, good. Tell them I said you're welcome. They're welcome? I'll call you later. Bye."
I end the call and take a breath to prep myself for calling Mr. Hansen. I am not looking forward to this conversation. The far-side-of-middle-aged man and the twelve dark blond hairs he keeps swept across his gleaming pink scalp, like they convince anybody, is a bit of a crapshoot. Sometimes he's a fantastic boss, showering me with praise and joking with everybody around the office. And sometimes he calls me Tina and asks why I haven't finished projects assigned to four other people. He always expects to show up in the morning to a box of donuts in the breakroom and me already at my desk.
And I do it.
Damn it all to hell, I do it.
Maybe I'm starting to see why I've spent more of the last two weeks spinning in my desk chair than actually working.
I give myself some time to prepare for what I know will be an unpleasant conversation by getting ready for the day. Leaving my suitcase only partially packed, I go take a shower and dress. I apply some basic makeup – foundation, mascara, and a nude lip – and sweep my long light red hair up into a bun in deference to the tremendous heat I know will be waiting for me outside. Finally, I can't put off calling Mr. Hansen any longer.
The sun is peeking through the blinds when I finally zip up my toiletry bag and pick up my phone from the nightstand. I dial Mr. Hansen and start to drag my biggest suitcase toward the living room so it'll be easier to load into the car when we’re done talking. After ringing for a dishearteningly long time, the phone finally clicks, and I hear a garbled sound. It takes me a few seconds before I realized it was Mr. Hansen answering.
"Mr. Hansen?" I ask.
"Fiona?" he mumbles. "What time is it?"
I put my phone away from my ear to glance at the screen.
"Almost 7:00.”
"What in the world are you doing calling me at such an ungodly hour?" he groans.
Even though I know he can't see me, I can't resist shooting a look of indignation at the phone.
"Usually at this time, I would be on my way to the bakery to pick up your donuts, so they are waiting in the break room for you," I point out.
There's a sprinkle more sass in my voice than I probably should have used, but in the two seconds we've been talking, Mr. Hanson has already aggravated me. This man owns the company I work for. He directly benefits from the four years of dedication, and donuts, I have brought the company. Even in the slump I've been in recently, I've put more into my career and found more success than most of the people who have been with him more than a decade. And finding out that he’s stretched out in bed, hours after the people whose work he takes credit for have gotten up to start the day, seriously pisses me off.
"Oh," he says, grunting and groaning like he's trying to struggle his way into a sitting position. "What's wrong, then? You didn't need to call me personally if you were going to be late this morning. You should have just called Stacey."
"I'm not calling tell you I'm going to be late," I say. "I'm actually not coming in at all today. I called to tell you I need some time off."
"You need to what?"
That seems to have cut right through his grogginess, and I expect him to call me Tina any second now.
"I need to take some time off. There’s been an emergency at home, and I need to take care of my grandmother."
"I'm not giving you any special treatment or arrangement, Tina."
And there it is.
"I'm not asking for a special arrangement," I say. "I'm not even asking for a leave of absence. I'm going to use the vacation time I had been planning on using for my wedding and honeymoon later in the year."
I hadn't exactly wanted to say that, but the conversation seems to be going poorly, and I feel I need every bit of leverage I can get.
"But I thought you weren't going to use that vacation time," he says, his voice creeping up higher as he begins to sound distinctly like a toddler preparing for an epic temper tantrum. "You're not even getting married anymore."
That's when I snap. I've always liked to think of myself as a person that has a bit more control over their emotions than most, but apparently, I overestimated myself.
"Thank you so much for reminding me," I retort. "If you hadn't been so kind as to give me that little reminder, I might have just forgotten that whole situation and showed up for my dress fitting. As it is, I'm not going to be around for it, so…" I let out a sarcastic exhalation like I'm deeply relieved, "really dodged a bullet on that one. I'm going to be taking the full three weeks of vacation owed to me considering I didn't take any last year. Esme is familiar with the bakery I use to get the donuts. I'm sure she can handle picking them up in the morning. I'll see you at the office in three weeks."
&nb
sp; I disconnect the call before he can say another word. An instant later, the conversation rushes back to me.
Shit.
I dial Esme as I drag my suitcase out to my car.
"I might have just volunteered you to pick up the donuts for the office while I'm gone."
I open my car door and even at this early hour, oppressive heat flows out toward me. Great.
"What?" Esme asks in an incredulous tone that’s almost a squawk. "Why would you do that? I barely have enough time to get ready in the morning and still get there on time. Now I'm going to have to try to go to the bakery, too?"
Reaching across the front seat, I shove my key into the ignition and turn it. Nothing. I wiggle the key and turn it again. Nothing. It doesn't even pretend to try and turn over.
"Shit. Shit, shit, damn it, shit."
"Ok," Esme says. "If it's that important, I can do it. I'll just do my makeup in the car. What kinds should I pick up? A few raspberry-filled, some custard-filled, a couple of lemon, some boring-ass glazed for the accounting department. Oooo, and an eclair. That's for me –"
I sigh. This day has already gone to shit, and the sun is barely up. Great.
"Esme. My car won't start."
"What?" Esme asks, snapping out of her sugar-inspired fantasy.
"My car," I repeat, gently banging my head on the wheel. "It won't start."
"Is there something wrong with your battery?" she asks. "Did you leave a door open or something?"
"I don't know," I say. "I don't think I did." I let out a sigh of exasperation. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? Grammie is waiting for me. She sounds really horrible, her voice was weak, and she was coughing a lot."
A few seconds of silence pass between us.
"Do people generally cough when they break their ankle?" Esme asks.
I think about it for a moment, then shake my head.
"I need to figure out a way to get out of here as fast as possible, and this car isn’t going anywhere."
Two hours later…
"You're not allowed to call me anymore for the rest of the week if you keep this up," Esme chimes as she answers the phone. "You're using up your call quota."
"I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to let you know I'm on my way to the airport."
"The airport?" Esme asks, sounding confused.
"Yes. I called the roadside assistance people to come out and test the battery, and it turns out the battery is perfectly fine."
"That's good."
"But the starter is not."
"That's not good."
"No. It's not. They say it can be fixed, but the shops around are all busy and won't be able to get to it until at least tomorrow. Then they have to see if there’s one that will fit and blah, blah, blah. In conclusion, I found a super cheap flight, called a cab, and Grammie is sending one of her friends to pick me up."
"You're flying two hours?"
"No, I'm flying about 45 minutes. But the airport is a good 40 minutes from the house, so it’s not really any better.”
"Are you sure you're OK? You seem frazzled."
"Honestly? I am frazzled. But I'm going to be fine."
"Really? I could come and get you. Just tell the cab to pull over."
"I'm already almost at the airport."
"Then wait at the airport."
"You have to bear the donuts. The responsibility has fallen to you. Thank you, though. I appreciate it."
"Of course. Let me know how everything goes."
"I will."
I hang up and tuck the phone into my carry-on. In the twenty minutes before the cab arrived at my apartment, I had frantically redistributed all the luggage from my car into one big suitcase and this carry-on so I wouldn't have to check more than that. Now I'm wondering if I have everything I'll need or if I'm going to have to shop for clothes as part of my new identity as a nurse.
The airport looms ahead of us, and suddenly I'm nervous. I don't know what's waiting for me at the house. Even if Esme is right, and Grammie only needs help while she gets used to a cast, I know there's more back home I'll have to face. The emotions I felt while walking away from that house for the (supposedly) last time were overwhelming. Soul-crushing. The worst thing is, I know those feelings are still there, patiently waiting for me. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to face them.
2
Cade
"What do you mean those permits still haven't gone through? … That's not good enough, Ian. I've given you plenty of time to take care of these things, and frankly, I'm sick of the delays. This isn't the first project I’ve done of this scale. I have successfully completed far more expansive projects, and I've never had to go through so much red tape. It's ridiculous. My time is being wasted, and my tolerance is growing thinner by the second. I suggest you figure out whatever has failed on your end, rectify it, and call me when you are ready to hold up your end of the agreement. Unless, of course, you would like me to terminate our contract and remove your company from the list of vendors Endeavor will partner with on future work… Goodbye now."
I end the call and throw the phone on the desk, pressing my fingertips to my temples and letting out a long breath. Squeezing my eyes closed, I do my best to not let the migraine prodding at the edges of my awareness take over. Unfortunately, that conversation was not the first I've had with Ian, the representative of the development company I’m working with on a large-scale commercial project. I had stared at the eerie stretch of what used to be apartment buildings every time I passed it for more than a year. At first glance, it looks like a wide field surrounded by segments of an old, abandoned chain-link fence. It takes a few seconds and a closer look to notice the overgrown sidewalks that weave through the grass, heading nowhere, and the short sets of cement steps leading up to doors long-since demolished along with the rest of the buildings.
Something about those lonely steps really affects me. Every time I see them, I feel a connection. This stretch that now looks like an empty field used to be a neighborhood. It was once filled with families, friends, and lives. Each of those sets of steps represents someone's home.
The overgrown sidewalks are where mothers strolled with their children, friends walked home from school, and countless other inconsequential moments happened over the decades the apartments stood. Each of those moments shaped this area, and now that even the buildings themselves are just memories, it's like I'm drawn to recreate the space. Leaving it empty almost feels disrespectful. I feel like I'm looking into the ghosts of those days, and the almost painful sense of nostalgia sends me back to the time before I sat in this office.
No one in the company has realized how personal this project is to me. They don't know how driven I am to take that space and revive it. Of course, most of my employees have no clue who I am. Most projects are handled through my assistant, who acts as my proxy for the majority of the day-to-day operations of the company. It's only when something is particularly serious that I get involved. Like now. We’re already days behind schedule, and I'm getting increasingly frustrated by this vendor. Without receiving the proper permits, and processing the paperwork they need to, we can't progress any further in clearing out the land. Weeks were spent finalizing plans, identifying the few sidewalks that would stay and marking what would be removed along with the steps and the foundations, and outlining the area I plan to develop into a recreational complex for the community.
The buzzer on my desk alerts me that someone has approached my office and I tap the button beside it. The door opens and Franklin steps inside.
"Are you ready?" he asks. "You're supposed to be there in twenty minutes."
"I know," I say, grabbing my jacket from the antique coat rack a few feet from my desk. "Calm down. We're going to make it in plenty of time."
"Not if we don't hurry."
Franklin is an exceptional assistant. He can make decisions in an instant and has a remarkable ability to shut down anyone who doesn’t understand why they can’t directly interac
t with the owner of Endeavor. The price to be able to maintain the fairly reclusive lifestyle I prefer and still run my empire, beyond the exorbitant salary I pay Franklin, is his high-strung personality. Just being around him for more than a few minutes when he thinks the day is getting off-track is enough to inspire urgency, and a sense of anxiety, in anyone. Sometimes, however, I wonder if this may be his biggest asset. The more on edge people feel, the more likely they are to do whatever is required to rid themselves of Franklin and his particularly shrill and tightly-wound brand of motivation.
"Franklin, we're going to the second floor. Of this building. Barring the elevator shutting down, I think we’re going to be just fine. And even if that happens, I'm fairly certain someone would come to pry us out pretty quickly."
His eyes widen slightly, and I realize I just put another frantic thought in his head. We walk out of the office and turn toward the elevator as I straighten the collar of my jacket.
"The principal of the school is already here. He was told an anonymous donor has endowed a new program for the school, with the stipulation that Endeavor is used as the source for training, materials, and course plans. He believes he's here to discuss the potential program with the person selected as the head of the project team."
"He believes that because it's true," I say. "I did donate anonymously. I do want the school to start this program. And I am the head of the project team." Franklin gives me a look like he's not sure if I'm joking, or if I'm somehow trying to mold his thinking. "It's going to be fine, Franklin. Come on."
The elevator doors slide open, and we step out onto the second floor of my main office building. There are several other buildings in the Endeavor network, most of which are specialized to specific subsidiaries or departments. This building is the headquarters, housing not just my personal offices, but also departments dedicated to the most important projects we're managing. The second floor is comprised of meeting spaces in a variety of configurations and sizes to make coordinating teams and interacting with clients simple and streamlined.