There was just the one dangling thread that she needed to tie up.
* * *
“Katherine?” Grace poked her head into Katherine’s office. Inside it were still three blank walls, alabaster white, without a photo or diploma to break up the sterile monotony of the place. Not unlike a mental institution.
“How you feeling?” Grace invited herself in.
“Physically? Fine.” Katherine squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “Emotionally? A bit mortified. A four-year-old’s birthday party.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Grace waved her away. “Don’t be. I’m counting the days until my breasts are free agents and I can consume all the alcohol I want at will.” She stared down at her boobs, which were already beginning to swell with milk. The countdown to the dreaded process of trapping herself inside the tiny cell of a room and strapping her chest back into the laboratory-like equipment started to tick silently in her head. Even though she’d replaced a session with a nap, she was still trying to stay committed to pumping. Committed to everything, really. To perfection. It was one minor slip-up. It wasn’t as if Grace had given Emma Kate a pacifier or anything.
“Hashtag-Free-Grace’s-Breasts,” Katherine said. “That should go on a T-shirt.”
“Hey.” Grace snapped her fingers. She actually snapped. Just like Ames. She clasped her hands together, controlling herself. “I meant to ask: Are you still staying at The Prescott?”
“No.” Katherine jostled the mouse and then leaned back in the ergonomic chair. Where Katherine was living somehow hadn’t come up this weekend and it seemed strange, now that Grace thought of it. “I just moved into my new place uptown. You … you should come over sometime.” Grace noticed that Katherine didn’t look at her when she said this, not until she finished asking the question and then, Grace could have been mistaken, but she believed Katherine was holding her breath.
“I’d love that,” said Grace quickly and meant it. Katherine’s smile was quick and fleeting. “Actually, though, I was wondering, who’d you say hooked you up with your room again? At … at The Prescott.” She was being obvious, wasn’t she? She felt obvious. But then, obvious about what? Nothing would be obvious if there was nothing there to hide. Grace relaxed.
Katherine returned her attention to the screen, sliding her chair back closer to the desk. “Just a friend. Why?” A quick flit of her eyes up to Grace and then back to the screen.
“Oh, um, no reason.” Grace never liked standing in someone else’s office, her back completely exposed to the gaping glass pane behind her. “I was just curious. Looking for a hookup, too, possibly. Nothing free, of course. What was her name?”
Katherine’s eyes drifted across the screen. Her mouth moved ever so slightly, silently reading whatever was there. “Alice,” she said. Another glance Grace’s way. “Alice Baxter.”
“Alice,” Grace repeated.
“But I don’t know if she still has a connection, you know.” Katherine stopped Grace as she turned to leave. “I can check for you.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
Grace saw her ghostly outline in the glass as she walked to the door and, moments later, she was back in her office—home base—where she could hide behind her own computer screen.
Alice Baxter. Had Katherine been telling the truth? Should Grace simply have asked Katherine point-blank: Was Ames Garrett paying for your room at The Prescott? No, that would have been rude.
She thought back to her own lie to Liam, how easy it had been to say that she’d had to work all night. Maybe women were just good at lying.
Grace sat, thought for a moment. Facebook was a blocked site on the Truviv computers, but she pulled out her phone and navigated to the app. She typed in Katherine’s name, searched for the correct listing and sent her a friend request. She was able to return her focus to work until fifteen minutes later, when her phone alerted her to the fact that she was now connected with Katherine Bell. Their friendship was official.
Grace swiped her index finger across the screen and pulled up Katherine’s friend list. It was short. Very short, for a woman her age. But there, at the top of it, was the name: Alice Baxter.
Grace set down the phone. There. It checked out. She felt better now. Conscience clean. Grace opened up the Word document, entered the date at the top of the screen, and soon began to type.
Deposition Transcript
27-APR
Ms. Sharpe:
State your name, please.
Respondent 3:
Grace Stanton.
Ms. Sharpe:
What’s your occupation, Mrs. Stanton?
Respondent 3:
I’m an attorney, part of the in-house team at Truviv. I handle regulatory matters, mainly SEC issues.
Ms. Sharpe:
How long have you worked at Truviv?
Respondent 3:
About six years.
Ms. Sharpe:
And to whom do you report?
Respondent 3:
I reported to Sloane Glover, SVP of North American Legal.
Ms. Sharpe:
What about Ames Garrett?
Respondent 3:
Yes, he was in my supervisor chain. The company’s General Counsel. Everyone in the legal department technically reported to Mr. Garrett.
Ms. Sharpe:
Did you know Mr. Garrett well?
Respondent 3:
I knew him professionally.
Ms. Sharpe:
Did Mr. Garrett ever sexually harass you, Mrs. Stanton?
Respondent 3:
Not me personally, no. My claim was under Title VII, based on an unsafe work environment.
Ms. Sharpe:
Yes, I’m aware of the legal basis of your claim. What I’m struggling with is the factual one. Mrs. Stanton, can you please cast your eyes over Exhibit 13, which I’ve now placed in front of you? I’ll wait.
Ms. Sharpe:
Did you write this letter?
Respondent 3:
I did.
Ms. Sharpe:
Can you, for the benefit of the record, describe this letter to us?
Respondent 3:
It’s a character letter, I guess you could say. A recommendation to the board of directors.
Ms. Sharpe:
A recommendation in favor of whom?
Respondent 3:
Ames.
Ms. Sharpe:
A recommendation—or character letter—in favor of Ames Garrett for the position of CEO of Truviv, is that accurate?
Respondent 3:
Yes, it is.
Ms. Sharpe:
You wrote, and I quote, “Ames Garrett has been a mentor. He is bright and ambitious and his door is and always has been open to me each and every time I’ve had a problem, whether personal or professional. I value my relationship with Ames and look forward to continuing it at Truviv in whatever role he may occupy in the future.” Those are rather glowing words for a man you sued not more than—what?—two weeks later.
Respondent 3:
I don’t believe the number of days or weeks matters as much as what happened during them, as well as why I wrote the letter in the first place, do you?
Ms. Sharpe:
Why did you write the letter?
Respondent 3:
I felt pressured to. I thought it would be good for my career to help him with this favor that he had asked.
Ms. Sharpe:
What exactly did he do to pressure you?
Respondent 3:
He asked. Because he was my superior, I felt the implication was that I needed to do as he’d asked. He had power over the trajectory of my career and my compensation.
Ms. Sharpe:
Are you in the habit of lying when under pressure?
Respondent 3:
No.
Ms. Sharpe:
How about to help your career?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
3-APR
Ardie had vowed to focu
s on work today. This morning, she left her house still looking as though a tornado had blown through it. Michael had spent the night with his father, so she hadn’t even had him as an excuse. It had rained and the remains of the cardboard city were dissolving into pulp in her backyard. She’d thought she might save them. She’d been so proud of the party on Saturday morning.
And then it was over. Tony had left, taking Michael with him to “give her time to recuperate.” There had been no one with whom to recap the success of the party or to talk about what Michael had done and said, what his favorite parts were, to laugh at the pictures of him shoving chocolate “cake cake” into his mouth, because he still called it that; had since he was a toddler. Saturday night she’d curled onto her king-sized mattress (Sell that bed, friends had told her after the divorce; she never had) and she hadn’t bothered to get dressed until this morning. It was a dreary Monday back at work.
Now there were new IRS opinions to review. There was language to interpret. Solvable problems to sort through. Ardie liked having her mind productively occupied.
A veil of gray hung outside her office window and spat rain onto the glass. When the wind blew, it sounded like bird shot peppering the pane. The office had a different energy when it rained and today it was subdued. Cooped up. Quiet energy. Vibrations shuddered through the floors with each roll of thunder.
At eleven o’clock, the landline rang with a local number and Ardie picked up the hand receiver. “Adriana Valdez speaking.”
“Ms. Valdez,” came a warm voice on the other end, “this is Tonya Loughlin calling from the Highland Park Independent School District. I’m calling to set up a formal interview with your client, Abigail Glover, regarding the recent harassment complaint you filed.” Fantastic, just the thing that Ardie was trying not to think about. Lovely timing. Ardie sat back and tucked her hand in the crook of her elbow as she held the phone. “You see, school policy requires that we arrange for formal interviews between all parties involved in the alleged misconduct. As the family’s attorney, you, of course, have the right to be present. Could you let me know of a few times that might work for your schedule?” The question dangled with expectation as Ardie moved to rifle through her desk for a notepad. She found one and flipped the sheet.
Ardie punctuated her resentment with a punch of the pen top, the inky tip knifing out onto the page. “Thank you, Tonya. I’ll speak to Abigail’s mother and get back with you on timing. Can I get your contact information, please?”
Tonya obliged and when Ardie had returned the phone to its cradle, she ripped the paper from its sticky seam and folded it with one sharp crease.
Over the weekend, Sloane had filled Ardie’s phone with an abundance of texts and voicemails, which Ardie had diligently ignored. It was exactly what Ardie expected from Sloane. Rushing her to get over it, to forget about this platonic fling that Sloane and Derek had apparently been carrying on with her ex-husband. And now, Sloane’s impatience to kiss-and-make-up had relegated Ardie to the position of grudge-holder. Sloane wanted to talk about it. But really, what did she expect her to say? Sloane, you hurt my feelings. They weren’t in kindergarten. Tony was an adult. Derek and Sloane were adults. They could associate with whomever they liked.
But, what a load of horseshit that was. Sloane should never have hung out with Tony and she knew it. Sloane should feel bad. Rotten, preferably.
Though she probably already did.
“Here, this is for you,” Ardie said when she had walked herself down to Sloane’s end of the hall and handed her the sheet of paper on which she’d neatly transcribed Tonya’s callback details. “It’s for Abigail. I’m not your secretary, by the way. Or your actual lawyer.” Oh yes, in addition to Tony, Sloane apparently also felt entitled to author a legal memorandum … In. Ardie’s. Name.
It wasn’t even good.
It was maybe a little good.
That was beside the point. Ardie had not even been given the courtesy of vetting it and Ardie didn’t play fast and loose. Sloane knew that.
Sloane stood and gingerly took the contact information. “Oh fuck, Ardie. I’m sorry, you didn’t have to—”
“Well, you’re the boss.” Ardie hadn’t actually wanted to say that out loud. It was mean. Damn. She didn’t want to sound mean. It made Ardie look small and petty. That was why she’d never said anything awful to Tony. The better she was, the worse he’d feel. “You know I love Abigail,” she added, pressing the pads of her thumbs together. It was a true thing, at least. She would have done anything for Abigail. How Sloane and Derek had raised such a beautifully odd kid, Ardie hadn’t the slightest idea, but Abigail was absolutely wonderful and Ardie would just as soon flatten any boy—or girl—who messed with her as Sloane would.
“Ardie, I’m sorry.” Sloane leaned on her desk, looking perfect in a geometric-patterned silk blouse that was most certainly designer. “I fraternized with the enemy,” she said, solemnly.
“I never said he was the enemy. It was that you lied about it.”
Sloane held up a finger. “Not technically.” Ardie lifted her eyebrows. “No. You’re right. I wasn’t honest. I kept meaning to find the time to tell you, but…”
“You didn’t,” Ardie completed the sentence.
“I didn’t,” Sloane agreed. “But I also haven’t gotten my car washed in nine months, so.” Sloane was a good negotiator. Always had been. She had that “attract more bees with honey” quality that made people want to agree with her. Grace had once asked Ardie if it bothered her that Sloane was promoted ahead of her, but it never had. Sloane’s position required her to be good with people, while Ardie wanted to avoid them at all costs. Ardie wondered if something was wrong with her. Some actual diagnosis. A personality disorder. Something more concrete than just: natural introvert. But, well, to find out, she’d actually have to talk to someone she hardly knew for an extended time period, which was out of the question.
Sloane pressed her hands to the desk, as though laying out her points. “Braylee is the worst, though.”
“No, she’s not,” Ardie said. No emotion.
Sloane’s mouth twisted. “You’re right, she’s not. Not in the traditional sense. But still.”
But still, what? Ardie wanted to know. It was a typically irritating Sloane way of finishing a thought. Was it, Sloane wanted to continue seeing Braylee, but still she wasn’t going to because of Ardie? Or perhaps, Sloane thought Ardie was being unreasonable, but still she would respect her friend’s feelings? Or, Ardie’s husband had left her for that woman, but still Ardie loved him.
That one was Ardie’s.
Last night, she’d pressed *67 and dialed Tony’s number. She had lain in bed with the phone pressed to her ear, listening to him say, “Hello? Hello?” as she held her breath. She’d hung up and called once more, then fallen asleep with the sound of her ex-husband’s voice freshly ringing in her ears.
“It’s fine.” Ardie lifted her fingers. Fine.
“It’s not.”
Okay, so it wasn’t, but Ardie couldn’t see the point in hashing it all out with Sloane. Ardie could either choose to get over it or not and, logically, she would have to choose the former. She and Sloane would be fine. Eventually. Mostly. Though she remembered there’d been a time when she’d thought the same about her relationship with Tony.
Sloane sighed. “Haven’t you ever done anything that you regret?”
Yes, Ardie thought at once. No. Had she? Yes. Once.
In either case, it wasn’t something she would—or could—share with Sloane.
On the way back to her office, she saw Katherine working behind the glass, head bowed over her keyboard. She almost walked by, but at the last moment, paused, remembering something in one big swallow. She rapped her knuckles softly on the open door and Katherine smiled up at her. A pair of reading glasses that Ardie hadn’t known Katherine wore reflected twin glowing screens.
“Katherine.” She tried to sound nonchalant. Not exactly Ardie’s strong suit. “I
was just thinking.” She shoved her hands into the copious pockets that her wide-legged trousers provided. Shoot, what all had she said to Katherine on Saturday? Grace had gone off to pump and, god, Ardie was so mad at Sloane. Blindsided by Braylee and she’d only just seen the email with the memo that she’d supposedly written and she’d just sort of snapped.
She faltered, awkwardly. “Would you mind keeping what we discussed after Michael’s birthday party—you know, about Sloane—to yourself?” Katherine’s smile slipped. “It’s just that … I was only venting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
3-APR
She was flirting. She was trying to sleep her way up the corporate ladder. We had known someone in college who had known her in law school who had said she’d done this sort of thing before. What type of thing was she doing, again?
She was in over her head. She was being preyed upon. She was a lamb in a lion’s den. She was a femme fatale. Affairs were a fact of life. We shouldn’t be so moralistic. We were being naïve. Plenty of legitimate relationships started at work. Couldn’t we have friends of the opposite sex? She was talented. She was compensating for a lack of talent. She was a slut. She was a tease. We liked her. We liked her professionally. Probably wouldn’t be friends with her personally. She was one of us.
Through all this, we’d heard that those who lived in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. But no one had told us anything about how to conduct ourselves within the display cases of crystal conference rooms and buildings constructed out of thousands of soulless glass eyes. Poised between our fingertips, not rocks, but the sleek weight of a brick-shaped smartphone. See and be seen. That was the nature of our particular glass house. And so accustomed were we to the glass cages that we distrusted anything that happened beyond the scope of our peripheral vision. Perhaps nosiness was a biological adaptation. Survival of the most informed.
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