“I’ll entertain you,” Chandler says, “but in exchange, you have to show me your scar.”
“Deal.” Carolina can’t stand one more minute at home. Only problem is she can’t drive with her knee in an immobilizer, and she can’t ask Queenie. She hasn’t been exactly easy to live with lately. All she wants is to do something or go somewhere, but he acts as if just walking from the couch to bed is going to tear her knee open. The surgery happened a week ago. Nurses had her up and walking, albeit with support, only a few hours later. Plus, she has crutches. All the world should be her stage.
Chandler doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be, anyhow. His kids are at school for the day, his wife is at the office, and his only job is overseeing the remodel of their house, which has been ongoing for more than two years. The extended timeline isn’t because he’s overly picky, though that could be part of the problem. It’s that he’s working with a trust fund money budget. He can afford the kind of remodel in which you debate whether to install an elevator. The permits alone probably cost more than Carolina makes in a year, and she’s Bay Area–comfortable.
She texts Queenie, who’s at the dentist for a cleaning. “Chandler’s taking me to lunch. Back in a bit.”
Chandler is illegally parked at the curb when Carolina gingerly exits the building. Just getting from the elevator to the front door feels as if it takes an hour, and the hobble to Chandler’s car an hour-plus. She hands him her crutches and slides the front seat all the way back to make room for her unbendable knee.
“So,” Chandler says by way of greeting. “The assistant. You think he paid her off?” He doesn’t need to say Carlton’s name. Chandler lived through the women’s turn of the century drama firsthand.
Carolina adjusts the air-conditioning vents to blow directly on her armpits. “She didn’t change her mind without significant coaxing. I just hope it hurt when he wrote out the check.” Carlton’s assistant has publicly withdrawn her accusations and is refusing to say why.
“Nothing hurts that guy. He’s too rich to feel anything but the feigning praise of his cronies.”
Chandler witnessed a lot back in the day, and he knows there’s one weighty caveat to his statement. A caveat that involves Carolina, Emma, Andi, and Fern. They can hurt Carlton, and he knows it.
“Where are we going, anyway? What do you feel like eating?”
“Nothing,” says Carolina. “You’re driving me to the office.”
Chandler is none too pleased, which he demonstrates by roaring the engine and taking a corner fast enough that Carolina has to grab ahold of the “oh, shit” handle.
“You dragged me halfway down the peninsula when you could have just taken an Uber?”
The idea of ordering a car hadn’t even occurred to Carolina. Her waistline and brain must be getting soft. “Fair enough. Lunch is on me. Then, you’re taking me to work.”
“Why do I have the feeling Queenie’s gonna kick my ass when he finds out?”
They eat vegetarian at an Indian place near the corporate campus. Between forkfuls of eggplant vindaloo, Chandler says, “You know he’s called me for campaign donations. It’s always him, and he always starts by saying, ‘Chandler, buddy!’”
Carolina thinks she might gag.
“The only reason I’d consider giving him money would be to speed up our building permits.”
“US senators don’t have any pull in city politics.” She doesn’t know if this is an overgeneralization, but it feels good to say. “Plus, he’s not going to win. Keep your money.”
“Probably not. But I doubt the allegations hurt him at all. If he loses, it’ll be because voters see that he’s a straight up dick of a human being.”
“Maybe you should say that to him the next time he asks you for a donation.”
After lunch, Chandler drops Carolina and her crutches at the front entrance of the building on campus where the MAVERIK team works. She hobbles inside shortly before two.
At 6:15 p.m., Queenie calls her cell phone.
“I hope you’re not where I think you are.”
“I swear. I’m out of here in fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.” The team had been in the throes of another data glitch when she arrived, and she’d lost track of time. It resolved within an hour or so, but since she was at the office...
To work effectively, she’d made a standing desk out of cardboard boxes from the mail room and set her computer on top. If she propped one of her crutches under her right armpit, she could lean on it enough to take nearly all the weight off her left leg. In fact, Queenie shouldn’t be scolding her; he should be praising her ingenuity.
“You’re on authorized medical leave, Carolina. Legally, I don’t even think you’re supposed to be there.”
Technically, he might be correct, but she’d scored significant points for showing up. Sandra actually did a double take walking by her office. “I’m impressed to see you.”
“Some things are better handled in person,” Carolina answered. “Data hiccup. We resolved it. Program’s back online. I’m waiting on one set of reports and then I’m calling a Lyft.”
She doesn’t share this anecdote with Queenie. He’s trying so hard to tamp down his frustration that he’s huffing. “Carolina, why take the leave if you’re just going to work, anyway? You’re a wreck about your running life being over, and yet you won’t even stop long enough to give your knee a chance to heal.”
An email from Sandra pops up on her screen. Subject: Excellent show of leadership today.
“Leaving in thirty minutes,” she says. “Promise.”