“Leo is content where he is,” she told him. “Lucy is smart, but she’s not ready. You, Peter, are ready. You’re like me—we both came from nothing.” Peter Dreyfus was a scrappy kid; he came from a small town in Jersey; after high school, he’d worked on construction crews. He understood what it meant to leave home financially strapped and make your way in Manhattan. “While Ivy League degrees are nice, they’re not everything. Grit, hard work, and loyalty matter just as much. Oh, you still have to do all your facilities work; you can’t give that up yet.”
“As I said, Rosa, I will do my best to meet the demands of the position.”
Peter’s courtly manner always tickled her. He was the consummate gentleman, divorced and childless, devoted to his family, with a wallet stuffed with their pictures as proof. They had fun together; they laughed at similar movies and TV shows. Plus, he was so stable, so diligent—so much like her—she wasn’t concerned when she happened upon an invoice from Spring Cleaners for twenty-five grand. That’s odd, was all she thought. Didn’t Peter say the first payment was thirty-five? It seemed like a simple mistake, one easily explained, but when Rosa dug deeper, she realized it was neither simple nor a mistake. Although she was due in a senior staff meeting, the invoices took priority. Plus, she was too upset to face her people. So she left the office and went home, telling no one (a first), though she did call Leo, who brought over four boxes of files. Then she spent the entire day alone, combing through Peter’s contracts, invoices, and canceled checks. By tracking the paper trail, Rosa found that several vendor payments—cleaners, water delivery, travel agency—were each off by a few grand, going back at least eighteen months. All told, Peter had skimmed off close to a hundred thousand dollars—and God knows how much more when he renegotiated the lease in Raleigh.
Rosa knew Peter’s malfeasance wasn’t her fault, but she still felt responsible and she still felt duped. As colleagues, they’d shared many meals together (meals she enjoyed very much), during which she divulged more of her personal life than was probably appropriate. When Howard was still alive, she’d occasionally talk to Peter about him, not to disparage her husband but to get a man’s point of view. Confident in his own brains and background, Howard didn’t always grasp how challenging corporate life was for her, all the obstacles she’d overcome, why she had to keep fighting. (“It’s a C-level company, Rosie,” he’d say about Ellery. “Just give them C-level work.”) While Rosa admired Howard, she could relate to Peter, who was like a lot of the men she’d grown up with: not formally educated, but good at listening and skilled with their hands. After Howard died and Peter became her rock, she also felt a sparkle of romance. (Knowing Peter felt it too, she sometimes indulged in fantasies where they retired together and grew old as a couple. These she kept to herself, of course. Maybe someday; for now, though, their boundaries were set.) Peter was one of the dearest friends Rosa ever had, and along with Howard and her mentor, Al, one of the best men she’d ever known. His theft was terrible, yes, but what galled her wasn’t just the deception and betrayal; it was the inelegance of his scheme—so stupid, so easily detected. How could he could steal so brazenly? How could she be so blind, and for so long? How could he do this to the business they’d built? Was she really at risk, or was Chuck Mayfield taunting her?
These were the questions that kept Rosa churning long into the night.
“Oh, Howard,” she said sadly, still at her computer but no longer typing. “Oh, Peter.”
So instead of beginning the succession process, she had to call Peter on the road, and demand he fly back from Atlanta and meet her at Starbucks. When he showed up, disheveled and red-eyed, she gave him every opportunity to come clean; she even showed him the invoices she’d found. But Peter just shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that,” he kept saying, avoiding her eyes. In all the years Rosa had known Peter Dreyfus, he’d never given her any reason to doubt him, so she waited a few days, hoping he’d confess, or at least offer a plausible explanation. But at the same time, and despite how much it pained her, Rosa contacted Rutherford and then Ellery’s attorneys, who immediately opened their own investigation. When it became clear that Rosa’s instincts were correct, she called Peter into her office and fired him on the spot. Right before Christmas! She felt like a monster. As a first-time offender, Peter was able to bypass prison, but he had to return the money and was banned from the premises. The board and executive committee were both informed, and Rosa was forbidden from discussing it with anyone, including her staff, including Peter himself. So not only was he beyond her reach, she was forced to concoct a fake reason to explain his dismissal to her staff. Everyone knew how hard he worked, so she made up some story about a hotel room. As if she’d care about that! The whole situation broke her heart, particularly when she heard why Peter stole in the first place.
“My house,” he said sadly. They were seated across from each other at her small conference table. Again, Peter wouldn’t meet her gaze. “My brother’s house, too. I cosigned for him; now I’m underwater times two. I’ve never been good with finances, Rosa.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Rosa had been so angry tears stung her eyes. “You think I haven’t loaned money before? Just last month, I offered to help Rob buy an apartment!” (In truth, she’d offered to help Rob get his act together and felt sick when he misinterpreted. Oh, the look on his face!) “I thought we were friends, Peter. When Howard died, you came to my house. You brought me soup. You fixed my sink. I trusted you.”
“We are friends, which is why I didn’t want to put the money between us.”
“So instead you stole? Look at me, Peter.” She lowered her voice. “Instead you stole?”
Peter had started to cry. He cried so hard his shoulders shook. Frankly, it wasn’t manly, and it certainly wasn’t professional. Peter was an adult who had to face the consequences of his actions. He was her friend, but he was also a criminal. “I don’t want to turn you in, Peter. If it was just you, I wouldn’t. But it’s not just you. It’s Lucy, Rob, Leo, and Kenny. It’s the assistants and the payroll staff. It’s everyone at Ellery, the other five hundred and ninety-nine employees. If I protect you, I betray them. It’s five hundred and ninety-nine to one, Peter. I have no choice.”
Startled by Lucy’s voice outside her office, Rosa glanced up. Out in the hall, Lucy and Rob were standing side by side, heads bent, deep in conversation. Seeing Rob reminded her again of their loan misunderstanding. How could he be so foolish? He was in HR! Still, she wished she could help. Rosa was especially enamored of Maddy, Rob’s wife; she’d never forget how kind Maddy was to Leo during one of their holiday outings. (Drinks at Rockefeller Center in ’06 or booze cruise in ’07? Rosa couldn’t recall, but it had to be one or the other—in 2008, Rutherford put the kibosh on parties.) As usual, Leo had been distraught over Horatio, and Maddy spent the evening consoling him while Rob played with his BlackBerry. (Booze cruise—definitely. That same night, Lucy kept whining about being seasick to hide the fact that she and Kenny were drunk as skunks. The memory of Lucy and Kenny doubled over with laughter made Rosa smile.) Speaking of Kenny, it didn’t escape her that his wife had yet to attend a single Ellery event.
Rosa’s stomach growled. She checked her watch; it was after eleven. Where was Leo? She called his extension, but he didn’t answer. “Leo!” What was he doing that was so important?
You know what was strange, though? The money Peter stole was irrelevant. Nor did she care about looking like a hard-ass; as chief, she was paid to be the bad guy. What upset her was that even though Peter was a thief and a liar, she’d miss him terribly. Which was the sad truth about being the boss; you can’t always take people with you. Rosa had decades of best work friends, all of whom promised to stay in touch, meet her for lunch, see a movie. But how many of them did she actually speak to? Two, maybe three, every other year? That’s what happens when you leave a company. You cease to exist. The hole you once filled knits together, or someone else takes your place. S
oon the people who knew you go, and all that’s left of your presence is your slanted signature on yellowing invoices. Then those get tossed, too.
Rosa shouldn’t have called Peter weak. Stealing for his family didn’t make him weak; it made him desperate, and a lot of people were desperate these days. Who didn’t feel the ground shift underfoot while watching the news? If she could, she’d ring Peter up and apologize, tell him what he’d missed, air out all the feelings she’d packed away. But she knew it was a stupid move, legally, to try to make contact. Corporate America, Rosa always said, was so fucking unfair.
“Do you need something?” She looked up. Leo stood in her doorway. “When you called before? Did you need me?”
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” she replied tartly. “With milk. Which I know is three points, so don’t say it.” Why had she let Leo convince her to go on this stupid diet? He even hired a Weight Watchers person to lead meetings in the conference room, though Rosa refused to attend. “It doesn’t look right,” she told him, although, in truth, there was no way she’d ever discuss her body in public.
“Coffee from the kitchen?” Leo asked, turning to leave.
“I’d rather have Starbucks.”
Leo looked at his watch. “I’m finishing up the wellness proposal—”
“Well, that’s good, since I asked for it in October.” She bit her tongue. “I’m sorry, Leo. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just so upset about . . . about everything.”
Leo nodded. “I know, Rosa. It’s okay. Just a reminder: we have Katie Reynolds coming in at five. As soon as I distribute her résumé, I can run out.”
Katie who? Rosa searched his face.
“Katie Reynolds. We’re interviewing her to replace Cassandra. You need an assistant.”
“I know,” Rosa said, but in truth she’d forgotten, probably because she’d written the girl off once she heard the name Katie. It bothered her that a grown woman, an aspiring career woman, would call herself Katie. Even an assistant would earn more respect as a Kate or a Katherine. It was like the old adage about dressing for success: your clothing should reflect the position you want, not the one you have. Katie was a kid, but Katherine was a comer. “Don’t worry about Starbucks, Leo. I’ll go myself.” She smiled slyly. “I need a snack.”
“Rosa, it’s been two months! You’re doing so well. Don’t ruin all your progress.”
Two months on this diet, two miserable months, deprived of her beloved treats. Was this what was bothering her? Or was she upset because Peter, her potential number two, had stolen when he could’ve come to her instead? Or because Lucy was still mad at Rosa for calling her sloppy? “What do you mean by sloppy?” Lucy had snapped, whipping around so fast Rosa felt a breeze. “What do you think I mean, Lucy?” Rosa genuinely wanted Lucy to look like the executive she could be, which meant putting on lipstick and dry-cleaning her clothes, the way she did when she first got here. Why couldn’t Lucy see that the higher she rose, the more harshly she’d be judged? That people would say things to her and about her they’d never say to a man: Why don’t you have kids? Do you not like children? Must be great to only care about yourself. When are you retiring? You’re holding back the rest of us! Ha ha; kidding! Dye your roots, Lucy, Rosa ached to say. Trim your bangs. Christ, what Rosa spent on her own hair could feed a developing nation, but it was a requirement of her job, part of her uniform. Okay, maybe sloppy was the wrong word, but the idea was right and her intentions were pure.
Despite what people might think of her, no one could say Rosa Guerrero didn’t care. She cared deeply about her employees, the hundreds of workers whose lives she administrated from nine to seven every day. She cared about their medical benefits and bonus calculations, their professional courage and PSA levels. Rosa cared about Lucy, and though she knew she rode Lucy hard (Lucy, who still owed her an engagement survey), Rosa cared less about the survey than knowing Lucy had her priorities straight. If Lucy stopped mooning over Rob, who clearly loved his family beyond all measure, she could be chief one day.
Rosa also cared about Rob, who, sadly, was going nowhere fast. Someone had to say it: Rob Hirsch was a lousy recruiter. He was conflict-avoidant, lacked negotiation skills, and did his job on the fly. He forgot he worked for Ellery, not the candidates, so he empathized too much on their behalf and then gave away the store. Good man, yes, no question, but shitty businessman. This was why Rosa was trying to shift Rob’s focus away from recruiting and back to training; maybe by motivating people instead of rejecting them, he could motivate himself. Rob had to prove he was indispensible not to her or to Ellery but to Rutherford, who constantly pestered her, Cut staff, cut them all, I don’t care, just save money. Back in November, when she asked Rob to create a mentoring program, she’d handed him a lifeline, but 2009 ended and 2010 began, and still no proposal. Even so, did this mean she no longer cared about him? Of course not; if anything, she cared more. She’d fight harder, dig in deeper—whatever it took to save him.
If Rosa had one fatal flaw, it was that she cared too much about her people. She also cared what they thought of her. This latter fact humiliated her even as she admitted it was true. Rosa was craving a cheeseburger—a big juicy burger with extra pickles. If I could just have a cheeseburger, Rosa thought, this job would be so much easier.
STANDING IN STARBUCKS, Rosa was baffled by the crowd. How can these people lounge here like this? Don’t they work?
“Large coffee with milk, please,” Rosa said when she reached the counter. A boy wearing a ball cap repeated her order, using words she neither heard nor understood. “Yes,” she repeated politely. “Large coffee. Milk. Chocolate doughnut.” She shuffled down the line for her coffee, which another ball-capper handed her. “This is black,” she said impatiently. “I asked for milk.”
“Milk is over there,” the second ball-capper said, pointing to a far counter.
Since when did buying a cup of coffee become a three-act opera? Weaving through the crowd of customers, she ate her doughnut in two bites. At the milk counter, she tried to open a pitcher, but the lid was screwed on too tight. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Rosa got aggravated and smacked the pitcher against the counter, accidentally spilling someone else’s coffee, along with her own. Both cups splashed against her wrist as they fell to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Rosa said to the tall man whose coffee was all over his shoes. He bent down to wipe them. “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s fine. Life happens!” Hearing this, her eyes flooded with tears of embarrassment.
A hand, a woman’s hand, suddenly materialized and pressed a wad of napkins against Rosa’s wrist. Rosa wasn’t used to being touched, but the woman moved so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to protest. “Here,” the woman murmured. “Let me help you.”
Looking up, Rosa expected another ball-capper, so she was startled to see a girl in her twenties wearing a navy suit that didn’t fit right. The girl’s hair was cut short in a bob, and she wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Grabbing more napkins, the girl wiped off Rosa’s knit jacket and requested another coffee from the barista. “She’d like milk,” the girl said firmly.
“Please.” Mortified, Rosa spoke softly. “I’m fine.” Still, she was moved by the girl’s kindness.
“It’s okay,” the girl said, continuing to blot Rosa’s jacket. “Let me.”
She was just a kid, Rosa realized, seeing the spray of freckles across her nose. And yet she was tending to Rosa the way a mother cared for a child. This moved her too, how gentle the girl was, how capable; it reminded her, in a roundabout way, of her own mother, Anita. Rosa was only in her twenties when Anita was diagnosed with cancer. As expected, her care fell to Rosa, the eldest daughter, though none of her siblings had the means to help, even if they’d wanted to. Rosa moved back to her childhood apartment near the Grand Concourse, where she got up early, tended to Anita, worked all day, and then came home at six to relieve the nurse. She fed her mother, bathed her, and held her hand through the l
ong nights. “This can’t happen yet, Mommy,” she whispered as she cried. “It’s too soon. Please don’t leave me.” One year later, almost to the day Rosa moved in, her mother passed, curled on the bed, as weightless as a shadow. But Rosa’s responsibilities didn’t end there. In the intervening forty years, a sister, a brother, two nephews, and three nieces were on her (then her and Howard’s) payroll at any given time. It had been decades since anyone besides her husband took care of Rosa. Yet here she was in Starbucks allowing this girl, this stranger in pearls, to clean her up and fetch her coffee.
When Rosa bent down to retrieve a loose cup, she noticed the girl’s pumps. They were Prada. “I have the same shoes! Prada, right?”
“I wish.” The girl laughed. “They’re knockoffs from T.J.Maxx.”
Rosa liked her nonchalance about money. At that age, she had been far too self-conscious to joke about how little she had. “I enjoy T.J.Maxx,” she said, lifting the napkins off her wrist. “Lots of bargains.”
“Oh!” The girl looked closer. “Does that hurt?”
Rosa’s wrist was red, which surprised her. While she felt the splatter of wet coffee, the pain had only lasted a second. But now that someone was asking, Rosa nodded because it did hurt; it hurt very much.
“Excuse me,” the girl said to a ball-capper. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
The ball-capper scrambled to find the kit, likely inspired by the girl’s pretty face. The girl thanked him and turned back to Rosa. I was pretty like that once, Rosa thought.
“You’re still pretty,” the girl replied, scaring Rosa, who didn’t realize she’d said it aloud. Afraid it might happen again, she kept her mind blank and mouth shut as she watched the girl unscrew a tube of ointment and rub the soothing cream all over her reddened skin.
This Could Hurt Page 8