Roger stands and is the first to speak. “Olivia, I owe you an apology for yesterday. I got caught up in the moment and didn’t handle it well.”
“Me, too.” Tad’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t think you made the right call but I respect your effort. Sorry for being curt.”
There is a chorus of agreement and Tucker pushes a plate with a cookie toward me. “Macadamia nut. Your favorite, Kibble.”
I smile at Tucker and address the group. “Thank you, everyone. I wish there had been more time for us to talk the decision through.” Not that I would have been likely to change anything—not with what I knew in that moment—but I hope I would have at least listened to them.
And as I look around at their warm faces, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that I won’t be seeing this group after today. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you all,” I manage.
“Well, heck, honey,” Georgia says, “we might not be in the same office, but there’s no call to be sad. This isn’t goodbye.” She enfolds me in a giant hug.
I’m spared from having to answer by the sight of Yolanda striding onto the stage. This morning she is dressed in a wine-colored pantsuit, with lips and nails painted a matching color. As she fastens a lapel microphone to her jacket, we take our seats. A hush falls over the audience. Their faces are rapt.
“Good morning, everyone.” Yolanda begins by apologizing again for the delay on account of the fire. “As a matter of fact, I’m leaving in a few minutes to join our team in Corpus Christi. Rather than do an extensive debriefing, we’ll cut to the heart of the matter.”
As she explains to everyone about Georgia and Sam being part of the setup, and the audience reacts with comical disbelief, I scan the ballroom for Finn. I can’t see him anywhere. Is he leaving with Yolanda? Before I have a chance to say a proper goodbye? My stomach does an uncomfortable flip at the prospect.
You’re a dummy, I tell myself. What difference will a few hours make when you’ve already decided you can’t be with him?
“If you were made uneasy by yesterday’s exercise,” Yolanda says, leaning forward, “excellent.” She grins broadly as the audience laughs. “That discomfort is because we deliberately put the participants in a no-win situation. They could take care of their teammate, or they could pursue their goal. But the way the exercise was designed, they could not achieve both.”
She stretches an arm overhead. “Hands up if you agree with the white team that your teammate should come first.”
Besides me, a paltry three or four people raise their hand.
Yolanda nods. “The rest of you, take note. These are the few people in the crowd who’d have your back, no matter what.”
There’s a smattering of uneasy laughter.
“Hands up if you agree with the blue team that it’s more important to make your goal.”
No surprise, the majority of the room has an arm in the air.
“Excellent,” Yolanda says. “I bet you’re all fantastic at making deadlines, which means your managers probably appreciate you. But now—” She pauses with her hands on her hips and her eyes flash with excitement. “Now let’s make the situation a little more complicated. What if…” She walks a few steps. “What if…instead of giving you a teammate, I saddle you with a dead weight? Let’s say one of your members can’t help you out because they just shot up in the bathroom with a little somethin’-somethin’. Besides which, they don’t really feel like exerting themselves. Hands up if you want to stick with your teammate then?”
No one raises their hand this time, though Tucker gives me a look that makes me smile. He knows I’m actually thinking about it.
Yolanda nods as if she is unsurprised. “And what happens if I alter the reward? Let’s say yesterday, instead of making the prize a trip to Paris, I made it a trip to the local recycling center. How many of you goal-oriented folk would still fight to climb that rope?”
No one raises their hand.
Yolanda walks the length of the stage, her heels loud in the silence. “So what we have established,” she says, “is that yesterday, in the face of competing values, y’all made a subconscious calculation about where to draw the line between teammate or task. Agreed?”
She pauses for us to nod.
“And for most of you, I could shift that line with a teensy, tiny bit of conversation. So, if you had a disagreement within your group about where that line lay, it’s only because you plugged your equation with slightly different numbers.”
She pauses for effect. In the resulting silence, I can hear the hum of the AC.
“Well,” Yolanda says, “to my way of thinking, the problem isn’t the numbers; it’s that you need a whole different equation.”
From a wing of the stage, a woman attired in the resort’s uniform now wheels out a whiteboard.
“You all got yourselves pulled into a sideshow,” Yolanda says. “And that’s because I hijacked your brain.” She seizes a marker. “I know it’s been two days but does anyone recall the lessons from our very first exercise on the beach? The one with the sponges?”
A woman calls out an answer and Yolanda writes it down. “Right,” she says. “Number one: watch for default behaviors that are shaped by your environment.” Someone else adds a response and she nods. “Number two: always question your assumptions.”
She tosses the marker down and strides to the lip of the stage. “I used a number of environmental factors to shape your default behaviors and—this is very important—convince you that you were in a no-win situation. Who can tell me what those factors were?”
Within a few minutes, she has another list: that we were in a competition, faced with an intimidating task, fighting a ticking clock. And that the other team saw the same set of limitations so they couldn’t inspire us.
“What else?” Yolanda asks as the suggestions die down. She turns to look at me directly. “Liv? I think you know. Care to share with the group?”
I climb to my feet. “You were using symbols of authority, so it would be intimidating to confront you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Normally this is where I’d be feeling self-conscious, but that sense of freedom I was flirting with yesterday on the way to Finn’s? It is suddenly with me again. “You used a shrill whistle and had a clipboard. Sunglasses. You stood on a platform while we were seated below you. I remember thinking you were dressed like a drill sergeant.”
Yolanda beams. “Exactly the effect I was going for. Excellent.” She writes that all down on the board. I am about to sit when she says, “Okay, Liv. Let’s pull this all together, so everyone can see the default assumptions that were made. What else about how I was dressed?”
Silence drags while I shake my head. “I don’t—”
“Anything about the colors in particular, and how they differed from day to day?”
I close my eyes to gather the relevant images. On the beach, Yolanda had been a riot of color, making it comparatively easy to keep an eye on her location, whereas yesterday, she had been wearing only— “Oh, god,” I say as my eyes pop open.
Yolanda’s laughter is filled with delight. “I think Liv figured it out.”
“Well, explain it to me because I haven’t,” someone calls out.
I stand straighter. “On the beach, she was dressed like a rainbow—”
“Yup,” Yolanda says cheerfully. “Ten colors, as a matter of fact.”
“Ten colors for ten teams,” I say. “And yesterday, she wore only two: blue and white.”
“Yeah, so?”
“She wore the colors of the competing teams,” I say. “She was signaling that she was part of our team.”
Now the audience is collectively babbling and heads turn and dip in side conversations. I sit down and rub the goosebumps erupting on my arms.
“I love it when people catch on,” Yolanda says. “Olivia’s got it. The assumption made by both teams yesterday—the erroneous assumption—was that I was closer to being a
n enemy than a teammate. Ergo—” she winks at me “—that I wouldn’t be willing to change the rules.” She holds up a finger and waits for silence. “To win, all it would have taken was a single, rational objection to the rules and I would have changed them on the spot. Suddenly—” she snaps her fingers “—no more values conflict.”
“You’re saying nobody won,” Tucker calls out.
“Correct,” Yolanda says. “And before you get up in arms, teams have in the past, so it’s perfectly doable. But the good news is that both the white and blue teams qualify for the runner-up prize.”
She pauses for another few seconds to let us absorb it all.
“So let me break this down in plain terms,” she says, “because if there’s one message we want you to take from this retreat, it is this: Despite our best efforts, there will be times when Finn, or me, or your immediate supervisor, asks too much of you. Or times when we accidentally create an environment that ties your hands.” Yolanda places her hands over her heart and drops her voice. Her face takes on an expression of earnestness. “Though we will do our best to avoid that, we are human. We are fallible. And we rely on you to speak for yourselves and your vulnerable teammates.” She allows her arms to drop. “And now, with my sincere thanks for your effort, I declare the official part of this retreat to be over. Go forth and play, Wakefielders. You’ve earned the right.”
She bows as the crowd surges to its feet in applause. Then she is gone and I realize I lost my chance to say goodbye. Meanwhile, Finn still hasn’t texted me.
CHAPTER 23
LIV
F or their final blowout party, Wakefield hired a yacht. For the past several hours, we have been cruising around the island, pausing at strategic locations to take care of the sports-minded in the crowd. We are on the third such hiatus now, and from my position on the upper deck, I lean on the railing and watch the hum of activity below.
Surrounded by snorkeling gear and waterproof cameras, three dive masters prepare to lead eight budding oceanographers into the water. Meanwhile, one of two motorboats stands by, waiting to take on the adventurous souls who want to parasail.
Behind me, a reggae band plays while people dance in the sun or splash in the kidney-shaped pool. There’s a seafood buffet set up under a canopy and the booze flows freely. I don’t think the blenders have stopped roaring once. A few people are pretty deep in the sauce, and as long as they don’t drown themselves or start brawling, why not? There are no corporate types to take note, no one to judge since Yolanda is off on her flight and Finn never made the boat.
At least, I don’t think he made the boat. I can’t find him despite having walked the vessel a number of times.
In spite of the frivolity erupting around me, I’m having a hard time faking happiness on account of this last fact. We’re due to dock at seven, and from there, Tucker and I will proceed almost immediately to the airport. I haven’t changed my mind about anything Finn and I discussed. I don’t know why it matters to me that we won’t have time for a formal goodbye. All I know is that it does.
Tucker sidles up and hands me a Jamaican punch. He puts his back to the rail and turns his face to the sun as he takes a slug of his own beer. “You’re moody today. What’s going on?”
I take a sip of my drink. Earlier, when I thought I’d have this time with Finn and didn’t want to waste a moment in dealing with Tucker’s reaction—because there’s no doubt about it, he won’t take my jobless status with good grace—I had decided to tell Tucker everything on the way home from the airport. Maybe I should ease him into the news.
But to my left, someone states my name in a mellifluous voice I’d know anywhere.
“Reginald.” I straighten and my heart leaps at the prospect he’s come with news from Finn.
He inclines his head. “I’ve come to fetch you for your parasailing ride.”
“Oh.” I try not to look too deflated. “I didn’t put my name on the list.”
“Mr. Wakefield took the liberty earlier. For you both.”
At the mention of Finn’s name, Tucker’s eyes abruptly gleam with the light of competition. “Do something to earn special treatment, Liv?”
I decide to ignore him. “Will Mr. Wakefield be joining me?” I ask Reginald.
“Unfortunately, no. Work duties have claimed his attention. But he sends his regrets and hopes you will take this opportunity to have fun in his absence.”
I turn back to the railing. “Thank you, but I’m not in the mood.”
“Well, I am,” Tucker says to Reginald. “You’re set up for two passengers, right?”
Reginald doesn’t so much as blink but I sense he is taken aback. “Yes. Mr. Wakefield planned to go with Ms. Prosser.”
Tucker seizes my hand. “C’mon, Liv. I’ll keep you company. It’ll be great.”
Reginald’s nose elevates slightly. “I’m not sure Mr. Wakefield would approve. His instructions—”
“Well, he’s not here to object, is he?” Tucker says, and with that, he sets his beer on a nearby table and heads for the stairs. A few seconds later, he reemerges on the deck below and approaches the stationary boat, where he says a few words to the captain before hopping aboard. Tucker stretches out on a seat and looks up. When he finds me, he beckons impatiently.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Reginald. “I apologize for my friend’s bad manners.”
His eyes are kindly. “I’m not sure why you would. His behavior reflects only on him. Now please, my lady.” His hand sweeps toward the stairs. “Allow me to take care of you. Mr. Wakefield wanted you to end the trip with a memorable experience.”
I sigh and surrender to the inevitable. “Why not?”
I NOD a greeting to the captain of the boat when I climb aboard. He’s an older Asian man—mid-seventies, maybe, with a build that implies wiry strength.
Maybe it’s my glum mood, but the setup strikes me as odd. For one thing, both men are decades older than the crew on the other boat. For another, they seem mismatched to each other. Mr. Lee carries out his duties with an economy of movement, while Reginald has a dancer-like grace. And while Reginald’s ethos is one of refinement, Mr. Lee has a directness that reminds me of a friend’s father, a former detective for the Springfield PD. What would make a butler and retired cop work together to give parasailing rides in Jamaica?
Also, there is an odd moment when Tucker bends to remove his shoes and the two of them exchange a glance over his back. It seems conspiratorial and …self-congratulatory.
But Finn would never send someone he didn’t trust, and when the two of them go over safety procedures, they seem accomplished and knowledgeable, so I relax.
They explain that it’s unlikely we’ll go near the water other than to get sprayed incidentally when we’re first fed out on the cable, or upon our return to the boat. Nonetheless, Tucker and I strip to the essentials. I tuck my shoes, my purse and my beach wrap into a compartment in the gunwale. Under my life jacket, I’ll wear my tank top and boy shorts. They have me reapply sunscreen and braid my hair so it won’t get tangled, then take immaculate care while fastening the harness.
We pull away from the yacht. It isn’t long until Tucker and I stand on a platform at the rear of the boat as the sail billows behind us. Then the harness tightens and we are airborne, reeled out smoothly to ever greater heights above an ocean that’s reassuringly calm. The sensation pulls a gasping laugh out of me.
For a brief while, Jamaica is a green, picturesque land mass to my left. We pass by boats with colorful sails and houses with private beaches. Despite myself, my mood lifts and I grin at Tucker, who smiles back. He grabs my hand and kisses it briefly before letting go and pointing out a particularly gorgeous mansion.
If I can’t be with Finn, this makes for a pleasant diversion. I’ve missed this side of Tucker. He looks all of sixteen, and there isn’t a scrap of cynicism or shrewdness on his handsome face. This is the man I wish Finn could see so he could understand why I can’t cut Tucker loose, despite h
is many faults. This is the man who has been mistreated by his stepfather, yet still sends a check every month to his mom and younger brother. An ember of gentleness still burns within.
Below, Mr. Lee cuts a gentle curve out to the wide-open expanse of the sea.
I touch Tucker’s elbow. “I wish we were sticking closer to the land.”
He shrugs. “Less boat traffic.”
We float on, the hum of the engine far below, and while it’s beautiful, it’s also monotonous. Just when I’ve decided I’m done, that I’m going to signal I want to be pulled in and Tucker can continue on in solo flight, a land mass appears ahead and the boat alters its trajectory.
“Those are cays,” Tucker shouts at me when I point them out.
They’re like baby islands in a chain of diminishing size, habitation, and foliage. The last cay is little more than a sandbar with a few trees, a hut, and a bunch of seabirds who aren’t any too impressed with the motorboat. It’s picturesque, and I doubt many tourists have been treated to such a sight, but I’m relieved when the boat rounds the last cay and swings northward, all indications being that we’re retracing our path. Finally.
Only…Mr. Lee cuts the angle too tightly, and we’re suddenly losing altitude.
Tucker and I look at one another and simultaneously begin shouting at the boat. “Speed up, speed up!”
Reginald acknowledges us with a wave. He turns to speak to Mr. Lee in an alarmingly casual fashion.
The descent continues. If anything, the boat slows.
“What the hell? Old fools.” Tucker turns to me, his expression urgent. “Listen, Liv. I think we’re going down. Bend your knees when we land.”
I nod and grab his hand, holding on tightly. I can see what he sees—that we’re headed either for the small strip of beach or the shallows off the south end of the cay. I have time to think, God, I hope this won’t hurt. And then my feet strike the water.
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