“So what do you think about Evan?” she asked Dr. Ahmet now. “For me, I mean?”
Two weeks before, when Rob told Lucy he’d e-mailed Evan, she’d said nothing about wanting to meet Evan herself (remeet him, rather). But the very next day, apropos of nothing, Rob blurted out, “Maddy is the love of my life, Luce. I know someone will feel the same about you.” His sentiment was so kind, Lucy forgave him for pointing out, again, that he was happily married and she was tragically alone. But then he added, “Evan called last night!” and this segue (however clumsy) did suggest he was thinking along the same lines: Evan and Lucy would be great together!
“Your thoughts, Dr. Ahmet?” Lucy repeated. “About Evan? Perfect, right?”
“As I have said: the blind fruited bat sees the sky only when the barn has burned down.”
“Which means what? Am I the bat or the barn?”
“You must think it through to its natural destination.”
As far as Lucy was concerned, Evan could very well be her destiny. They met right when she started at Ellery. At the time, he and Rob were trying to salvage their friendship after a failed business venture, and every few days, Evan stopped by the office. He was a relentless flirt, and the attention was intoxicating. Once he invited Lucy to get a beer, but Rob went too, and the evening proved awkward. The men were clearly on the outs, and she felt caught in the middle: so drawn to Evan she could barely speak yet aware Rob was a new coworker and friend. Finally Rob went to the bathroom, and Evan grabbed her hand. “Your mouth . . .,” he murmured drunkenly into her ear. “Your mouth is magnificent, Lucy Bender. Christ Almighty, I’d love to . . .” Pressed against his chest, Lucy felt warmth spread between her legs. “What?” she whispered back, imagining Evan’s long fingers sliding inside her, the wetness. “Tell me what you want to do.” But just as she leaned forward, Rob returned to the table. Red-faced, Lucy sat up. “It’s late,” she said. “I should go.” Very soon after, the two men stopped talking, and the ineffable Evan faded to black.
“Evan feels inevitable,” Lucy told Dr. Ahmet. “Like the universe wants us together.”
“So you must be open but protective, Lucinda. You do not know the man.”
No, she didn’t know Evan, but she knew all about Evan.7 It was perfect, right? A long-lost flirtation, a resurrected love triangle—these scenarios played out every day for other people. Why not her?
“Dr. Ahmet, does meeting Evan sound”—Lucy didn’t want to say plausible, which could raise more questions in the therapist’s mind—“healthy?”
“How can I know, Lucinda?” Dr. Ahmet’s laugh had the same rich melody as his speech.
Lucy was losing patience. He was the doctor. He should have answers. Years before, Leo from work had started dating a guy in IT named Horatio. It was only supposed to be a frivolous affair, but when it ended, Leo became so distraught he found a therapist named Dr. Saul. At first glance, Dr. Saul was a loon. Instead of using a chair, he would park himself on the floor and contort his body into complex yoga positions. Once Leo went to the guy’s house in Yonkers, where they baked a pie. But Dr. Saul did have great advice. He told Leo to move to Brooklyn, cut out grains, and stop texting Horatio ASAP. This was the kind of therapist Lucy wanted—someone decisive like Dr. Saul, someone who’d say, That Evan sounds dreamy. Go get him, girl.
“I know you think I’m deluding myself,” she blurted out, angry at this sinful waste of time. “But I’m still trying; I’m still getting out there. You know, Dr. Ahmet, I’m not sure this is working.” Although she preferred not to get emotional in therapy, there it was. She stood up; her ass hurt from the chair. “I think we’re done here.” She meant for good.
“So we will pick this up again next week,” Dr. Ahmet said, with finality.
6
Lucy was stuck. She’d left Dr. Ahmet’s office and arrived at her own, but now her keycard wasn’t working—again—and she couldn’t pass through the turnstiles. The Asian guy at reception offered to buzz her in, but she declined. She needed an ID card that functioned every day, and this was bullshit. Frustrated, she headed downstairs—again—to see Sanchez.
Lucy’s building had two security guards—the Asian guy and Sanchez. Sanchez used to man the reception desk, but then reception became the Asian guy’s domain and Sanchez moved down to the basement. Lucy and Sanchez started on the same day ten years back, and since then had exchanged polite nods in the morning and muffled good-byes in the evening. He never asked Lucy to present ID, and when she forgot her keycard, he buzzed her through the turnstiles and then rode with her up to nine and buzzed her in there. If, like today, her keycard malfunctioned, he’d fix it up, one-two-three. All this routine, such familiarity, and yet Lucy wasn’t sure what to call him. Sanchez was the name embroidered on his jacket, but she didn’t know if this was his first or last name, or, come to think of it, the name of the building. Consequently, Lucy never addressed him directly. Getting around his name took work, but to ask at this point would embarrass them both. “Can I help you, miss?” Sanchez asked when Lucy knocked on his door.
“My keycard,” she said, handing it over. “It’s not working again.”
Sanchez nodded solemnly. Lucy wondered how old he was. His eyes were bright and he had a full head of thick black hair, but his rugged face and weathered skin gave him the wise, weary look of an old-timey cowboy. It took only a minute to log in her number and reprogram the settings. Under the lights, his dark hair shone like patent leather. He presented the card with a flourish. “For you,” he said, so softly Lucy was forced to lean in. “Have a good day, miss.”
“Thank you . . .” The normal beat of conversation dictated she say “Thank you, Sanchez.” Instead she repeated, “Thank you.” She was rarely so thick tongued, but Sanchez’s reserve, which hinted at a sensitive inner life (or conversely, a deep dried-up well) made her bashful.
“You’re welcome, miss.”
“Well, have a good day.”
“You too, miss.”
Fearing their good-byes would go on indefinitely, Lucy broke eye contact. Sanchez saddened Lucy—no degree; some trade school; an esposa, niños, and an abuela to support; the drudgery of a minimum-wage job. This was only speculation; all she knew for sure was that he had coffee and a bagel for breakfast and, on occasion, subbed in a croissant. Once she mentioned Sanchez to Rob, but he had no idea whom she meant. “He’s worked here ten years!” she exclaimed. But when she pointed him out, Rob had shrugged. “I only know the Asian guy,” he said defensively. Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Rob, that’s so racist.”
With a working keycard, Lucy was up on nine in a flash. As she strode through the halls, she got a text from Maisie Fresh Butler, the empty-headed, untamed assistant she supervised: U HERE YET? At twenty-three, Maisie Fresh spoke in Facebook posts: Malia Obama’s poise (Like!), cheese enchiladas (Like!), or yeast infections (Dislike!).
Tapping keys as she walked, Lucy quickened her pace. Yes. I have arrived. Are you here as well?8 Rather than swing by her office, she headed to the conference room for Rosa’s senior staff meeting. But when her phone rang and she saw it was Valerie, Lucy stopped short. Her mother, seventy-six, lived alone in Redding, Connecticut, the rural town where Lucy grew up. She was a cancer survivor; her eyesight was failing. At her age, a phone call could mean anything—embolism, stroke, a fall down a flight of stairs. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
Valerie kicked off mid-sentence. “. . . so remember those waxy things on my face? Dr. Hineman . . .” Her voice was lost in static. “. . . biopsy . . .”
“Biopsy? Mom? I can’t hear you. What waxy things? Are they serious?”
“. . . surgery . . . wouldn’t say . . . serious . . .”
The connection died. “Mom!” Dialing her mother back, she stepped into the conference room and flicked on the lights. “Where are you? Are you at the doctor now?”
“I’m in Costco,” Valerie said, their connection restored. “And they have the cutest shearling vests. Calvin Klein! Twen
ty bucks! You need one? Should I send one to Willa?”
“Seriously, what’s up with your face?”
“They’re cysts!” Valerie’s voice boomed. “Dr. Hineman took them off, one, two, three. Lucy, these Costco vests are luxurious. Why are they so cheap?”
She hung up.
Lucy knew the closeness she shared with her mother bordered on unhealthy, but that’s what she got for not having a husband and children to absorb all her downtime. Three years before, when the old bird got cancer, Willa and her second husband were content to throw cash in Valerie’s direction while Lucy waded knee-deep into the suck. Truth be told, when brought to her knees, their mother preferred Lucy, not Willa, holding her hand. But according to Dr. Ahmet, this is what Lucy wanted, too. “You are full of resources, Lucinda,” the therapist liked to remind her, “full of hustle. If you wanted a family, you’d have one.” Lucy wasn’t sure if she wanted a family or not, although the idea of molding a child’s mind intrigued her. Mostly, she wanted to create something of her own, something enduring she could be proud of. Marriage and raising kids would satisfy this, but Lucy suspected she could be just as satisfied renovating a country home. She wanted to be in charge, but of what, specifically, was where it got murky. Having no choices, no agency, was a killer, but having too many was equally crippling.
Five minutes later, Rosa strolled into the conference room with a cheery “Hello, Lucy.” Lucy greeted her with a pleasant “Good morning,” which she repeated to Leo, and then Kenny, as they stepped through the door. Rob shuffled in last, eyes downcast. You okay? she mouthed, but he didn’t look up. God, he looked depressed. Not about Evan, she hoped.
Rosa settled into her seat at the head, shuffled her papers, and looked up. “Before we get going,” she said, glancing around the table, “I have an important announcement.”
In the past two weeks—since Rosa skipped their meeting with no explanation—tensions in the office had heightened. While Rosa’s calm demeanor gave nothing away, Lucy was sure more layoffs were coming. Or a merger. Or a sale. Coming from banking, she knew all the signs: strange men in dark suits wandering the halls, long-term projects (i.e., the engagement survey) put on indefinite hold, the boss having hush-hush talks behind closed doors and refusing to share details. In this way, Lucy wished she were more like Rosa—strong willed but levelheaded, focused, restrained. Look at her now, the perfect chief-in-charge with her St. John ensemble, polished pumps, and fresh lipstick. While HR was considered a soft spot in many companies, Rosa managed her staff with the highest rigor, pushing them to act as thought leaders and take on projects beyond their comfort zones.9
“This news will be made public in a few days, but I felt you should hear it from me first.”
“Hold on, Rosa.” Lucy looked around. “Shouldn’t we wait for Peter?”
“That’s what I have to tell you.” Rosa paused. “Peter is no longer employed at Ellery.”
Leo’s mouth fell open. “Why?”
“He’s no longer up to the job. Recently, there’ve been incidents where he failed to think through the consequences. I can’t tell you anything more. Peter is our coworker and he’s also an employee who deserves our discretion.” She cleared her throat. “Moving along . . . you each have a spreadsheet detailing your 2010 initiatives. Rutherford is cutting another ten percent of our budget, so I need to know which projects are mandatory and which can wait.”
Peter Dreyfus? While Lucy felt vindicated—she knew something was up when she saw him at Associated—she couldn’t believe it. Peter was a good man and a hard worker. As VP of operations, he single-handedly kept three facilities up and running. Of all Rosa’s senior managers, Peter was the only one who’d trekked into the office during last week’s blizzard. The guy wasn’t perfect, but his spotty memory and lousy communication skills were eclipsed by a herculean work ethic. Besides, he was only sixty-three. Certainly Rosa could have kept him on a little longer. What were a couple of years when weighed against a man’s self-respect?
Concerned, she texted Leo from under the table. Did you know about Peter? Across the table, his BlackBerry blinked, and she saw him glance down. Leo liked to pretend he knew everything, but this time he shook his head. No.
“Rosa, this is a big shock,” Lucy said. “Can’t you tell us anything else?”
Rosa considered this. “What I don’t understand is, who drives into Manhattan from central Jersey in the middle of a snowstorm? I had to pay for two nights at a hotel because he couldn’t get home.” She looked at Lucy. “Does he have no common sense?”
Lucy was stunned. Despite Rosa’s promises of discretion, not only had she just disparaged their favorite colleague but she had intimated he was too addled to do his job. “When is Peter’s last day?” Lucy asked bitterly. Business or not, Peter Dreyfus had been an Ellery employee for twenty years; he deserved better.
Rosa’s tone was curt. “That’s all being worked out.” Leftover gift baskets sat on the table; after examining their contents, she held up a box of stoned wheat crackers. “Anyone?” No takers. Next she found a tin of Godiva chocolates, and, after what looked like a silent debate over whether or not to indulge (she didn’t), passed it around. This time everyone else dug in. “So.” She pointed to Lucy. “Where’s my engagement survey?” As Lucy opened her mouth to remind her it was on hold, Rosa shook her head. “No excuses, get it done.” She turned to Kenny. “Salary projections?”
Kenny bit into his chocolate. “I gave them to Henley.”
Rosa’s jaw tightened. “I told you to give them to me. Let’s get one thing straight, guys”—she eyeballed her managers—“we are under major scrutiny. Not just HR, every business unit at Ellery. Your projects have to be completed flawlessly, and on time. I am trying to protect you, but my reach has limits.” She rummaged through a second basket. “Send me those projections, Kenny. Lucy, I need that survey. Please. I don’t want to ask again.”
Rosa’s BlackBerry rang, which was strange. She was a stickler for the house rules, which dictated that devices must be switched to vibrate—no rings, pings, or jingles. Stranger still was her distress. “They’re here now? Yes, I can join you.” She stood up to leave but didn’t move. “Excuse me,” she said absently, as if disoriented. “I’m sorry.” Then, snapping to attention, she walked out.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Rosa hadn’t returned.
“You really don’t know what happened with Peter?” Lucy asked.
“How would I?” Leo said.
“Rosa tells you everything, Leo.”
Empty Godiva tins littered the table. The crackers were gone, too, along with the mini salami packets, cheese spreads, and nuts. Lucy, Rob, and Leo were alone—Kenny had hit the road as soon as Rosa turned the corner. “This is the first I heard about the hotel,” Leo told her, wadding up a ball of salami wrappers. “I also have no idea where she went just now, though I assume it has to do with Peter.”
Lucy couldn’t remember ever seeing Oswald so rattled. Usually nothing fazed her. The phone rang all day. People showed up, unannounced. But she was the master of triage: Roger is at Lenox Hill with chest pains. Call Maureen at Cigna; our group number is 07042. Lindsey wants to lodge a second complaint about Sid. Tell Lindsey to stop by at two, but ask Dave Darnell from Legal to sit in. There’s mold in the supply closet. Should Peter call OSHA? Are you insane? Peter should go to the hardware store and buy bleach. Jeremy Flynn gave himself an insulin injection during a client meeting again. Oy vey. Once Lucy asked Rosa if she minded the chaos. “Mind?” Rosa had laughed. “I love it! I’m like the Wizard of Oz, handing out hearts, brains, and courage to people in need.”10
Ten years before, Lucy had been the one in bad shape. Kicked to the curb after seven years of exemplary service at JPMorgan, she came to Ellery for an interview feeling beaten up and unwanted. Rosa crowed over her education and experience and then hired her on the spot. As a result, Lucy devoted herself to her new boss. Along with Leo, Rob, and Peter, they built an HR infrastructure, impr
oved benefits, and implemented a competitive pay structure; they also developed performance metrics, revamped training, revitalized recruiting, and spruced up the office with artwork and greenery. Their days were long and intense, and Lucy relished coming to work. After a few years, however, she began to feel antsy, though this had nothing to do with Rosa, and everything to do with Lucy.
“Leo,” she asked again, “you really have no idea why Peter is leaving?”
“Maybe he drained the minibar at the hotel,” Rob interjected.
“That’s crazy.” Lucy changed the subject. “Did you and Evan make a plan?”
“Why are you bringing Evan up?” Rob cut his eyes at Leo, as if to say, Don’t discuss my private life in front of him!
“Why shouldn’t she?” Leo asked, scanning his phone. “We’re all friends here.”
Rob turned to Lucy. “You told him about Evan?”
Leo sighed. “Of course she told me, Rob. She wants you to go out with Evan so she can go out with Evan. Isn’t that obvious?”
“You want to meet Evan?” Rob looked shocked, which in turn shocked Lucy. How could he be so obtuse?
“Remeet,” she corrected. “I already met him, remember? We had drinks, all three of us. But sure, I’m curious.”
“It seems kind of weird to reintroduce you when I haven’t seen him in years myself.” Rob slumped in his chair. “As you know,” he added.
Lucy told him to forget it. “Dumb idea.” But in her mind, she was screaming. What the fuck, Rob? Don’t be selfish! Couldn’t he see she was desperate for a passion project, a new career, a new man—something? At work, she went through the motions (she was an A-plus student, after all), but until Rosa retired, Lucy would have to chug, chug along, with no heat, no energy, no va-va-voom. For the past decade, at least once a year, she got sick of all the bullshit and went on interviews, only to wind up more conflicted: How could she leave Rosa, the only person who’d offered her a job when she needed it most? Who gave her time off to care for her mother? No matter how high the pay or impressive the position, Lucy wouldn’t take it. Then the market crashed, and now she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to. Why pay Lucy one-sixty a year, when two younger, hotter eager beavers11,12 cost only fifty apiece?
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