“Trevor, do you have the agency packet ready for my presentation with 3M?” Emory asked. It should have been on her desk hours ago.
“I thought your appointment with 3M was next week,” her assistant said. He looked a lot like Bambi in headlights, but she didn’t care.
“They moved it up earlier today. I put it on my Outlook calendar. Didn’t you see it?” Emory dropped the 3M file on his desk with a thud. “I need you to keep up.”
He reached for the file. “I can have it ready for you in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t let this happen again. I don’t have time for your mistakes.” With that, she made her way back into her office and closed the door, hard. She felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at Trevor. She had high standards for her employees, yes, but it wasn’t her nature to level them so overtly. She brushed off her behavior as a symptom of the stress she was under and turned back to her monitor to strategize for her impending presentation.
Lucy Danaher entered her office at a quarter after twelve and perched on the side of her desk. “Hey, there. How’s that presentation coming?”
“It’ll get there.”
“Em. Em? Hello, I’m over here. Can we talk for a second?”
Emory paused, hating to kill the flow of her creative energy, but turned to face her friend and vice president of her company. “What can I do for you, Luce?
“You can tell me how you’re doing, to start.”
Emory shrugged nonchalantly and smiled. “I’m fine. If I could just close this deal, I’d be better.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes and stood, folding her arms and coming around the desk. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Emory, you just lost your mother. Are you sure you should be back at work so soon, guns blazing? This has been a difficult two weeks for you, and I know no one would think less of you for stepping away for a while. I can handle the 3M deal and we can filter down some of your smaller clients to the senior account execs.”
“Thank you, but really, I’m good. Getting back into the regular swing of things is what I need. I know you’re more than capable, but this one’s mine.” Emory relaxed into her chair then, a thought occurring to her. “There is one thing. Can you recommend a company to help with the house? You know, go through everything, box it up, and ship it out, that kind of thing? It’s going to be kind of a big undertaking, and I’m not up for it.”
“No problem. Let’s see…” Lucy thought for a minute, biting her bottom lip in a way Emory used to find very attractive when they were together. “My mother uses a company to clean her house twice a week, and I know they offer a lot of different around-the-house services. She thinks they’re amazing. I’ll give Trevor their number and he can set something up.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Luce,” Emory mumbled absently. She’d already swiveled back to her computer monitor, wasting no time refocusing on her project.
Lucy sighed in defeat. “Don’t I know it.”
*
It was eight a.m. on Tuesday morning, and Sarah managed to push open the glass door of the office with her foot, frustrated to hear the phone ringing and see the reception area empty once again. “Clarice, the phone is ringing!” In one hand, Sarah balanced a box of cleaning supplies and in the other a newly repaired vacuum cleaner to return to the supply closet. “Clarice! My hands are full. Can you answer the phone, por favor?” Realizing that Clarice was nowhere to be found, Sarah set the vacuum down, leapt across the counter, and answered the phone breathlessly. “Immaculate Home. How may I help you?” Dial tone. She sighed deeply at the thought of the lost opportunity. It was then that Clarice puttered in from the small kitchen adjacent to the reception desk, carrying a pint of ice cream, and licking the spoon.
“Good morning, Sarah, how are you today?”
“I’m great, Clarice, but I’d be doing better if we hadn’t missed a call. Try not to wander too far, okay?” She smiled at the elderly receptionist, who didn’t seem too concerned.
“Mija, is that you?”
Sarah smiled at her mother’s voice as she made her way down the short hallway to her office. “Hi, Mama.” She kissed her cheek before settling into the empty chair across the desk. “I picked up the extra supplies and had the sputtering vacuum repaired. How are things today?”
“Swamped.” Yolanda Matamoros gestured at the appointment book in front of her and sighed. “We’re completely booked, but I can’t stand the thought of turning away business. I think I might go out to Mrs. Jeffries’s myself and do her Thursday cleaning.”
Sarah nodded, not at all surprised by her mother’s dedication. It’s what had made the business what it was today, successful. This was her mother’s company and she was in charge, but that didn’t preclude her from rolling up her sleeves and going to work in the field whenever necessary. Sarah had worked for Immaculate Home since she was sixteen years old and took pride in the company and her mother’s leadership of it. “What can I do?”
“Let’s see.” She scanned the spreadsheet on her computer. “We did get a request for a home organization and clean out. You could take this one, mija. You’re incredibly good at organizing. It may take several days, though.”
“That’s okay. Grace has summer camp all week. My schedule’s free.”
“I guess with you gone, Clarice will have to cover the office alone. Lord help us. Here is the address.” She scribbled onto a Post-it. “The house is on Banning Street in La Jolla. The appointment is set for four this afternoon.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows and whistled low as she studied the address. “Nice neighborhood.”
*
Emory pulled into her mother’s driveway at 4:17 p.m. and stared up at the sprawling home before her. She hadn’t been back to the house since the day of the funeral, and then it had been full of people. It felt strange knowing that when she entered the home this time, there would be no Catherine Owen to greet her with an air kiss to either cheek or chat with her about the latest charity auction or eventful women’s brunch. The realization left her flat. She’d never been close with her mother, that much was true, but she never imagined a world without her either.
Further up the driveway, Emory spotted a red VW Beetle and assumed it must belong to the worker the service had sent over to assess the job. As she approached, a Hispanic woman exited the car and waited expectantly for her at the top of the drive. She had her hair pulled into a ponytail and wore jeans and a light blue cotton T-shirt. “Miss Owen?”
“Emory, please. And you are?”
The woman extended her hand and smiled. “Sarah Matamoros. I’m very sorry to hear about your mother. I hope we’ll be able to help.”
“Thank you. I hope so too.”
As they walked the long sidewalk leading up to the front door, Emory tried to get a feel for the kind of service the company could provide, and more importantly, their competence level. She had high standards. “So do you take on this sort of thing often?”
“On occasion,” Sarah answered. “It’s certainly something we’re capable of handling, but I have to be honest with you, Ms. Owen, this looks to be a rather large house. I hadn’t anticipated—”
“Where are you from?” Emory interrupted her.
“Um, Logan Heights.”
“No, I mean you have a very slight accent. Where are you from originally?”
“Oh. My family immigrated from Guadalajara when I was nine. English is my second language.”
“Well, you speak it marvelously. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Let’s go inside.”
When they entered the home, Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise. The house was beyond lavish. The entryway towered three stories in the air, and a grand staircase opened before them winding languidly up and away. An expansive living room lay ahead, decorated impeccably with fabrics, tapestry, and very expensive looking furniture. There were chandeliers, French doors, and all sorts of things she would tell Grace were on the do-not-touch list.
“I’m not sure how much your ag
ency told you, but I’d like to have the house empty and on the market next month. That means there’s a lot of work to do here.”
“I’d have to spend some time looking around before I could give you a quote, Ms. Owen. This seems like it could take some time. A month is—”
“Again, please call me Emory and money is not a problem. Send me your bill when you finish. How is this kind of thing usually handled anyway?” She strolled further into the house. “Do you just box it up and send it away?”
Sarah couldn’t help but notice the removed look in Emory’s eyes when she turned back to face her. Geez, didn’t she care at all? “The items you plan to get rid of, yes, but the things you choose to keep, we arrange to have picked up and then delivered to a storage unit or your home.”
“I can’t imagine there will be much like that. Family photos and an occasional piece of art, perhaps. The rest I plan to donate. I’ll try to stop by each day after work to check in with you.” She glanced at her watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I have a conference call at five. When can you start?”
Sarah shrugged. “Now?”
“Perfect. Here’s a key. I’ll have boxes delivered tomorrow. See you soon.” And with that, the attractive blonde in the perfectly tailored business suit was gone. Sarah found herself alone in what she could only describe as an honest-to-goodness mansion. Her first impression was how cold it felt in comparison to her parents’ small home. She wondered if Emory Owen had grown up here and if perhaps that accounted for the cool, aloof persona that seemed to match that of the house so perfectly. Sad, if that was the case. She rolled up her sleeves, smiled, and set out to explore her new project. She loved a challenge.
*
After work the next day, Emory opened the door to her mother’s house and was greeted by a sound she’d never heard in there before—rock music. Was that U2?
“Hello? Um?” Damn, what was the woman’s name? Sarah. “Hello, Sarah?” Emory called above the cacophony. “Hello?” When she wasn’t greeted in return, she dropped her attaché case at the door and followed the sounds of Bono to the kitchen where she found every cabinet standing open and packing supplies across the floor. In the midst of it all, there was Sarah, dancing around wildly with the freedom one only has when they’re alone. Her eyes were closed as she jumped up and down, shook her hips, and mouthed the lyrics of the song along with the radio. Emory was stunned by the display and all she could do was stare, unsure how to proceed. Eventually, as the dancing continued, a small smile crept onto her lips. The first smile in quite a while.
Sarah opened her eyes and nearly dropped dead at the sight before her. Ms. Owen—Emory—she mentally corrected herself, was standing right there in the kitchen, a perfect witness to her booty poppin’. If she could have paid the floor to swallow her up, she would have mortgaged her life away in a heartbeat. Her first action was to race to the portable boom box she’d brought with her and silence the blaring music. Next, she thought she’d better find a way to explain her behavior to her seemingly amused client. Wait, amused was good. So playing that card, she flashed her most winsome smile. “Sorry you had to see that. Sometimes after a long day, I cut loose for a minute. A dance break, I guess some might call it.”
“Not a problem,” Emory answered. The smile still touched the corners of her mouth. “I think I needed that, actually. How are things here?”
Sarah took this opportunity to dust off her clothes and moved quickly to the sink to wash her hands. Somehow, the visual of this perfectly pressed woman reminded her of the fact that she probably looked like a wild person after her day. It wasn’t so much that she was embarrassed. She was pleased with her work and the progress she’d made, but she could at least go to the trouble of making the effort. “It’s been a very productive day. Your mother must have been a very fascinating woman. I’ve come across some exotic pieces of china I thought you should take a look at, and there’s a crystal bowl in here that I thought you might also like me to set aside for you.”
Emory rubbed the back of her neck. “No, uh-uh. All of that can go. I told you, unless it looks like it has some family connection, you can get rid of it. It doesn’t matter how exotic or expensive. This whole house is exotic and expensive. If we played that game, we’d never finish.”
Emory’s frustration was apparent and Sarah felt the smile fall right off her face. “I’m sorry. I just thought when I—”
“It’s fine. I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve just had a rough day.” She turned then and made a beeline for the one cabinet that wasn’t open. The one that contained the liquor. “I’m going to have a drink. Join me?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Emory mixed herself a drink, Sarah caught the creases in her brow and could tell Emory was indeed upset, which was understandable given the month she’d had. “Is there anything I can, um…do? Do you want to talk about it?” It was incredibly forward of her and not at all her place, but Emory was a human being who was dealing with a significant loss, and she should be sensitive to that.
“I lost an account at work today. It was a project I’d been working on night and day for weeks, and it didn’t go through. It’s just…frustrating as hell.”
Sarah tilted her head to the side, understanding curiously that Emory was not upset about the loss of her mother, but instead about an issue at work. It didn’t compute, but she pressed forward. “What is it you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Emory leaned her hip against the counter and sipped her dry martini. “I own a newswire agency.”
“Like the Associated Press, you mean?”
“Kind of. We’re more of a wire for hire. Companies use our services to send out their press releases. Plus, the Securities and Exchange Commission requires all public companies achieve something called ‘simultaneous disclosure,’ which means any and all investor announcements must be sent out to a variety of news sources at the exact same moment. We’re able to satisfy that need at Global Newswire with a fleet of high-powered satellites.”
Sarah was intrigued. “So if AT&T lays off two thousand employees…”
“They’re required by law to report that to the public, and more importantly, their investors, all at the exact same moment. We make that happen.”
“I had no idea a company like that existed.”
“Most people don’t, but without us, the stock market would be a very different place.”
“Wow. Impressive. Maybe you can tell me more about it sometime.” She inclined her head to the door. “For now, I better head out. It’s time to pick up my daughter.”
“Oh, you have a child?”
“An eight-year-old, yes. She’s in summer camp and my father picks her up for me when I’m working.”
“You didn’t mention that when I hired you.”
“Is it a problem? I can have them send someone else if—”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry.” Emory straightened. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, I don’t mind.” She casually touched Emory’s arm as she made her way out of the kitchen. “I enjoyed hearing about your work. It sounds exciting.” And she genuinely meant it. She liked meeting new people and had a habit of making friends with the clients she worked for. It was yet another trait she’d inherited from her gregarious mother, an outwardly friendly disposition. Emory Owen, however, was an interesting departure from the upper middle class families that typically hired the agency. Her high-powered corporate lifestyle was fascinating, if not a little intimidating.
Sarah shrugged off thoughts of Emory as she opened the door to her apartment in the southern part of San Diego. Time to leave work at work.
“Mama!” Grace rounded the corner carrying with her a small shiny blue bowl. “Today at camp we made pottery and guess what?”
“What?” Sarah wrapped her up in a warm greeting and kissed her cheek about three dozen times before examining the bowl with e
xaggerated appreciation.
“We baked it in the oven to make it hard as a rock.”
“Wow, little monster, that’s crazy good. From the looks of this masterpiece, you might be a real-life artist.” Sarah held the bowl up in appreciation and watched as Grace’s eyes shone brightly at the thought.
“Do you think I could be an artist, Papi?” Grace raced back into the kitchen to get her grandfather’s opinion. Sarah followed just in time to hear her father’s response as he laid down the newspaper in contemplation.
“No question, Graciela. You could do it, if anyone could. You’re destined for great things.”
Sarah placed a kiss on his expectant cheek. “I agree. Now, if we can just get the aspiring artist to keep her room clean, we’ll be in business. Thank you for picking her up today. This job is going to take a little longer than Mama initially thought. You wouldn’t believe this place if I told you. It’s humongous.”
“Maybe your mother should send you some help,” he said.
“No, I can do it. Mama’s overloaded as is. What she really needs is to hire more workers, but she’s so particular about who’s good enough. It’s a losing battle with her.”
“She’s a stubborn woman. Just like her own mama and just like someone else I know, carita. See you tomorrow.” He bopped her on the head with his newspaper as he passed.
*
Emory sat in the darkness of her mother’s kitchen, nursing her second dry martini. The alcohol had loosened the pent up thoughts in her head. Alone in the house, she could feel the memories, or ironically, lack thereof, swirl all around her, and it was proving too hard to push them aside.
She’d not allowed herself to think much about her mother, not fully, and it had been a good decision. It was best to just move forward. If her mother were here, that’s what she would tell her, just as she’d told her when her father died sixteen years earlier. All emotion should be controlled, managed, minimized. But it felt increasingly like the night was closing in on her, and Emory finally gave in.
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