by Doxer, Debra
“What about them?” he asks, lowering his hands, realizing he can’t dismiss me quickly.
“Well, I read the specifications you wrote, looking for more details on the software features Rob wanted me to include. And either I couldn’t find any information on the features or the information I found was only partially what I needed. Do you have more specs you haven’t posted yet?” I ask hopefully.
His forehead creases. “What features are you referring to?”
I point toward his monitor. “I put the features in an email. Did you see it?”
He swivels back now, his hands racing over the keys, accessing his email. Peering over his shoulder, I spot my name in his Inbox on the most recent email I sent, and I point it out to him. Karthik opens the email and scans it. Meanwhile, I take a step back, careful not touch or brush up against a pile of paper or a soda can.
Karthik spends a fare amount of time reading the short email. Finally, he turns back to me with a strained look on his face. “Rob gave you these features?” he asks.
I nod.
“Is he in his office now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet today.” So far, this is not a good response to my initial question.
“We’d better go and talk to him.” Karthik unfolds himself from the chair, and with determination he leads the way back downstairs. I follow him. Karthik stops just outside and knocks on the open door. Rob is apparently in there.
I follow Karthik into the windowless office. Based on Karthik’s tight expression, there’s something going on here. It isn’t good and it isn’t my fault. The rising anticipation I feel is mainly due to the reluctant spectator status to which I am about to be subjected. Karthik is one of the most reasonable people I have ever dealt with, but Rob generally has a hard time making coherent conversation with anyone who doesn’t watch at least one reality television show a night.
“What can I do for you?” Rob asks, leaning back in his chair as we enter.
“Andrea sent me a list of features you gave her for the next release. I have to say, I was surprised to see that it was the original list you presented last year. The wish list you created before we culled it down.”
“It’s the list we all agreed to,” Rob says calmly.
Karthik runs his hand over the back of his neck. “No Rob, I have the email trail. I’ll send you the shortened list. Those are the only features we’re working on.”
Rob sits up straighter now. “You can send me whatever you like, but I have an email trail, too. It ends with the list I gave Andrea. The list everyone signed off on.”
“I never signed off on the list you gave Andrea.”
Rob stares at Karthik and then at me. I have no idea why. I have nothing to offer here. Next he opens a drawer, searches around for a bit, and comes up with a piece of paper. He hands it to Karthik. “You’re telling me you’re not working on the items on this list?”
Karthik studies the paper. He takes a pen from his pocket, sits down in one of the two chairs facing Rob’s desk, and begins putting checks next to items on the list. I take the other chair and watch. Rob is leaning over the expanse of his desk following Karthik’s pen. Karthik makes the last checkmark, efficiently returns the pen to his pocket, and turns the paper around toward Rob. “These are the features in your release.” From my upside-down view, I can see that roughly half of the items have checkmarks beside them.
Rob looks at the paper and frowns. “Well,” he says, leaning back again, “This is a problem. We’ve already told customers that everything on this list is in the next release.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell them that’s not the case. Or you can tell them that the release is delayed for another year while we work on the rest of your list.”
I wonder how Rob could have made such a monumental error. It’s not like him to make a mistake like this, but it is like him to purposely do something devious to get his way in the end. Perhaps he hadn’t liked getting his list culled. My suspicions are fueled when he says, “Delayed by a year. Would it really take another year to finish everything on this list?”
“I don’t know exactly, but we would certainly slip the end date by a good amount.”
“Could you get me an accurate time-frame on how long it would take?”
A look of disbelief crosses Karthik’s face. “We had to cut your list in the first place because it was completely unrealistic. We didn’t have the time or the manpower to even scope out all those features. Now you want us to stop everything and do that?”
“Well, you don’t have to stop everything, but I could put the word out to the field that we might not hit the release date. That would give you some extra time to investigate.”
The air in the room seems to radiate as Karthik stands up, his shoulders tense. “That makes it look as though we’re missing deadlines because of engineering. My guys have been working twelve-hour days to meet the target date. I won’t have you telling the field that engineering is delayed when you’re the one at fault for moving the goal line.”
When men argue, they often use sports analogies, I’ve noticed. I look from Rob to Karthik. Karthik is wound tight as a coil, but Rob seems his usual unflappable self. I do not belong here. I may have precipitated this, but I am not a part of it, nor do I want to be. But I don’t know how to make an appropriate exit; just standing up and dashing out might seem awkward.
“Well, the field is already out there selling this to customers,” Rob explains, shrugging.
“Then they’re selling vaporware!” Karthik’s volume increases.
“Look,” Rob says, his voice filled with calm and reason, “let’s just take a step back here. Why don’t you give me a rough estimate on the time-frame with the additional work, and we can figure something out. Maybe we can have a staggered release where we send out small releases every few months. There has to be a way to make this work. We’ve got the smartest engineers in the business here.”
Karthik takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. He glances from me to Rob. I can see understanding sinking in. Rob did not make a mistake. The tight lines around Karthik’s mouth slowly slacken. He has been outsmarted, and he’s not sure what to do about it. Karthik is undoubtedly used to being the smartest person in the room, but when it comes to deviousness, he cannot compete with Rob.
“We’ll need to have a meeting with Tom if you’re changing the release this way,” Karthik says. Tom is the department vice president.
“That’s fine. I’ll schedule it,” Rob offers graciously.
Karthik doesn’t respond. If that was a veiled threat to go over Rob’s head, Rob hasn’t flinched.
Karthik looks over at me now. “I’m afraid this doesn’t help you much, Andrea. At least, not in the short term.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, hardly believing he remembers my innocent inquiry that started all this.
“Make that meeting sooner rather than later,” Karthik tells Rob. Then he walks out.
I stand there and stare at Rob. He puts the list aside and looks at me, satisfaction on his face.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Did what?” he asks innocently.
I glare at him, hoping my eyes are conveying my disbelief and distaste.
“Hey.” He grins. “It’s not deception. It’s marketing.”
“It was an ambush.”
“It’s not lying through my teeth, it’s marketing,” he continues, enjoying his joke. “It’s not subterfuge, it’s…”
“I know.” I interrupt him. “It’s marketing on planet Rob.”
He grins, liking that as much as I knew he would.
I go back to my desk with my marching orders. I am to complete the write-ups for which I have engineering specs. The rest can wait until additional specs are ready. Rob is very confident that eventually, they will be.
Before getting started I pull from my backpack the crumpled notebook page with Ryan Miller’s name written on it. I am abou
t to find out if he’s given me his real telephone number.
“This is Ryan,” he answers after one ring.
So far, so good. “Hi. This is the person whose car you hit the other night. Hopefully, I was the only one, so there’s no need for further clarification.” I hear a soft chuckle in response.
“I’m afraid you, alone, hold that honor. Andrea, right?”
“Right. I got the repair estimate.”
“Wait, don’t tell me yet,” he says. “Okay, I’m sitting down now. Go ahead. What’s the bad news?”
“It’s not so bad really. Four-hundred and fifty including the car rental.” I decide to round it off.
“Under five-hundred then? I can manage that and still eat this month. So, they don’t have to replace the whole bumper. That would cost at least a grand or more.”
“Nope. Just some smoothing and painting, according to the estimate. I can fax it to you if you like.”
“Sorry, no fax machine yet.”
“Well, I could mail you a copy.”
“Actually, maybe we could just meet somewhere. You bring the estimate, I’ll bring my checkbook, and we can settle things.”
“Oh, umm…” I hesitate. Meeting isn’t really necessary. I recall his “looking forward to hearing from you” comment and start to think he may have ulterior motives. He isn’t bad-looking if you get past his disheveled, haggard appearance. Or with my luck, he probably wants to meet because he doesn’t have a mailing address. Maybe he lives in his car. I am way over-thinking this. “Okay,” I finally say.
“Great. Is this Saturday good for you?”
I remember the cake tasting. “Actually, Sunday is better.”
“Okay then, Sunday. I’m coming from Waltham. How about you?”
Waltham is about twenty minutes from my townhouse. “I can meet you in Waltham,” I answer, still being cautious.
“Are you sure? I could come to you.”
“No, Waltham is fine.”
He names a neighborhood brewery that I’m familiar with, and we agree to meet there Sunday afternoon. I hang up, not quite sure what to think. Probably best to think nothing, I decide.
five
The bakery is in Providence, Rhode Island which is about a forty-five minute drive south. Apparently, the prices in Providence are more reasonable than those in Boston. My sister had wanted to carpool down, but there was no way I was getting stuck there with no way to leave on my own. By the time I find parking and then locate the bakery, Laura and Mom are already there waiting. They greet me with the usual cheek kisses.
Because it’s another warm, sticky afternoon, I have on khaki shorts and a tank top. Laura is dressed much the same. We both have our hair pulled back in low ponytails since we each suffer from similar curl to frizz transitions on days like these. Laura and I have similar builds as well, tall and slim but sturdy, although she is about an inch taller than me. My mother, on the other hand, is quite short and she wouldn’t be caught in anything as dressed down as shorts and a tank top. Her make-up and her hair are done as though she’s heading out for a night on the town. She has on silk lavender pants paired with a beige blouse.
“They’re bringing out the samples now,” Laura says, looking excited for a change. I have brought my appetite, so I find myself excited, as well.
The bakery has display cases along a back wall and several small parlor style tables grouped near the entrance. I have a terrible sweet tooth. If I don’t exert strict control over myself, most meals would start and end with cookies and cake and maybe have some ice cream thrown in for variety.
“Dad didn’t want to taste cakes?” I ask.
“He’s playing golf,” my mother replies.
A woman in an apron emerges from the back carrying a tray. A hairnet covers her short blonde hair and her tanned, wrinkled face has the look of a beach lover.
“This is Andrea, my other daughter,” Mom says, gesturing to me.
The bakery lady offers me a friendly grin as she places the tray on one of the small round tables. “Here are samples from our strawberry grand marnier cake, lemon raspberry cake, cappuccino truffle cake, and our most popular one: hazel almond cake with dark chocolate ganache.”
The tray holds several bite-sized squares of each cake flavor combination. Laura and I sit down, pick up plastic forks, and dive for the chocolate ones.
“Oh my god,” Laura says as she licks frosting from her lip, “This one is so good.”
I nod in agreement as I savor my bite.
“Try it,” Laura prompts Mom.
Mom sits down with us and regards the tray. Then she samples tiny bites of each cake, with the chocolate one last. Laura and I try the other flavors, as well, but we agree nothing compares with the chocolate ganache. We finish every last bite of that one. The strawberry cakes disappeared quickly, too.
“I’m afraid there are a lot of people who don’t eat chocolate,” Mom tells the bakery lady.
Laura’s eyes cut to me. Uh-oh.
“Yes, not everyone is a chocolate lover,” our hostess agrees.
“And a lot of people are allergic to strawberries,” Mom continues. That one had been our second favorite. “Do you make one that just has yellow cake and white frosting?”
“Of course. That’s a simple one.”
Laura looks outraged. “I don’t want just a plain yellow cake. Who doesn’t like chocolate? She said it was their most popular one.”
“Sam can’t eat chocolate and neither can your Aunt Claire.”
Sam is our cousin and Claire is his mother. They are a branch of the family that we never see.
“So, we’re choosing a cake for them and not for me? It’s my wedding cake,” Laura says in a voice that is dangerously close to a whine.
This is all too predictable. Laura will never learn. I want to reach out and conk her on the head.
“Could we sample just some yellow cake with white frosting?” Mom asks, not responding to Laura.
“We don’t have anything prepared right now, but I have a nice buttercream frosting you could try,” the bakery lady adds helpfully. I wonder if she is used to cake choosing conflicts.
I think long and hard before piping in here. I turn to my mother and say, “I can understand your chocolate and strawberry concerns, but there must be some kind of cake we can agree on that has a little pizzazz to it. Don’t you think? Maybe some lemon or peach or something?”
“Maybe the lemon raspberry one without the raspberry,” Mom says thoughtfully.
“You have something against raspberries, too!” Laura shoots back at her.
My mother’s eyes harden. I know that look. She doesn’t like the tone Laura is using with her. “You know,” she begins calmly as she straightens creases in her shirt that aren’t there. “I don’t have to run around trying to make a nice wedding for you. You’re certainly old enough to do this yourself. I’ve been to enough events to tell you that I know what I’m talking about, but if you don’t believe me, or if you’re just not interested in hearing my opinions, you can make all the decisions and you can do all the planning without me. I have plenty of other ways to spend my time.”
Laura’s eyes quickly mist over. She glances up at the bakery lady as her face reddens with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just thought I should have a cake that I would want to eat.”
“I understand that,” Mom answers, softening a bit. “But you want all your guests to be able to eat it, too.”
In the end, Laura calms down, and Mom decides on the lemon raspberry cake, hold the raspberries. As we’re leaving, Laura ducks into bathroom to compose herself.
“Is it me?” Mom asks, looking for some commiseration once we’re alone.
“I think it’s both of you. She wants the wedding of her dreams, and you want to be practical. You’re working at cross-purposes.”
My mother purses her lips. “Maybe,” she says wearily. “This really is getting out of hand. If she is so set on having things a certain
way, she should just tell me to go jump in a lake.”
I laugh at her. “Like that’s gonna happen.”
She chuckles with me before putting her hand on my arm to make sure she has my full attention. “I have to finalize the numbers this week. Do you think you might bring someone to the wedding?”
She has already asked me this question several times. “No,” I reply, my smile evaporating.
“Are you sure?” Her subtext is Don’t you think you might be dating someone by then? Please, please.
“I’m sure.” The wedding is still nine months away, but I don’t plan to bring anyone. Bryn and Katie think I should scramble and do everything I can to get a date. They think it will be embarrassing for me to show up alone. I disagree, and also--I just don’t care. I’d rather get through the inevitable comments about my single status from well-meaning relatives with a clench-jawed smile, than have to fake an interest in someone so I can have a date for the wedding. I’m more mature than that. At least, I want to be.
My mother knows better than to question me outright about my dating situation. I erected walls there long ago to maintain my sanity.
“Well,” she says, patting my arm, “If you do decide to bring someone at the last minute, I’m sure we could squeeze one more in.”
As I point my car toward home, my cell phone rings. I study the caller ID with anticipation as I’ve done since leaving a message for Mr. Frameless Glasses. But it isn’t him.
“I can’t believe I cried in front of the bakery lady,” Laura says, preempting my hello.
My shoulders are tight with stress, and my stomach is queasy from sugar. “You either have to learn how to work with her or you have to plan your wedding without her,” I say calmly, refusing to be sucked into the wedding vortex.
“What was so wrong with wanting to have a wedding cake with chocolate? I have to please everyone else before I please myself?”
“You know what you have to do if you want keep the peace. It’s just one day.” I’m now readying myself for a response like, But it’s the most important day of my life! If she says that, I intend to hang up. But, thankfully, she doesn’t.