Patent work is like living in a pressure cooker. (Not that I’ve ever used a pressure cooker—I remember my mother’s ominous warnings, and I don’t think steaming artichokes warrants a risk to personal safety.) In the high-tech patent arena, everything is treated like it’s of international spy importance. Maybe it’s the way engineers liken themselves to 007. I don’t know, but after a few years of the same game, it starts to feel hilarious. Like you’re whispering, Trust no one.
It’s as if we’re all rushing around trying to stop the world from blowing up, when we’re really just creating a new software patent to make some gadget boy’s life easier. The worst that could happen is that someone else could get our process and make our money. Which will happen when we ship it to China to be built anyway, and send our stock price diving. But we act like the H-bomb looms with every new patent opportunity. Rather than admit to one another how stupid we look, we all play our parts.
I’ve finished Seth’s patent, and it’s in the pipeline, which should be enough for him, should it not? Must I actually have contact with him? He greets me at the door of Gainnet, and I’m half-expecting him to adjust a CIA earpiece.
“How long until we know something?” he whispers desperately. “About the patent,” he clarifies as though I’m slow.
“I know something right now. The Half-Yearly Sale at Nordstrom is coming up,” I say quietly. “Oh, and I stole the cookie from the cookie jar.”
He gets that confused engineer look. “Ashley, do you realize how often you make absolutely no sense?”
“No secret code, Seth; it was just a joke. For you engineers, that’s a process of comical importance that produces laughter.”
He’s looking at me like I’m slow again.
“The examiner’s office will get back to us when they know something. Don’t hold your breath, Seth. Just know I’ve checked every process related to ours, and you’re safe to manufacture the product. You were right. It’s an unknown process. Feel better?”
“Do I have your assurance?” he asks, like a soap doctor saying, “Has she awakened from her coma?”
“You do have my assurance,” I say with a salute.
“I heard you visited the singles group yesterday.”
“Yes, I did.” Word travels fast, does it not?
“You danced.” Poor Seth, he will forever be tainted for dating the off-color Ashley.
“I did, just like King David. Are you going to give me the Queen Michal speech about being undignified?” I cross my arms, and he just blinks. I guess he was going to give me that speech. Don’t you just hate it when someone sucks the wind from your sails? Tee-hee.
“Now I’m going to dance to my office and see what Purvi has up her sleeve today. Nice to see you, Seth!” I hum all the way to my desk, drawing the attention of many yet the surprise of none. It’s great to be weird, isn’t it? People don’t even bat an eye anymore.
As I get to my office, I see there are boxes lining the wall. Tracy has a look of abject terror, and she’s flitting about like a hyper hummingbird. The phone is ringing, but she doesn’t answer it.
“What’s going on?”
She just shakes her head and walks away, still ignoring the phones. I pick one up: “Gainnet, General Counsel’s office.”
“I need Purvi. Get her in here pronto.” I assume this is the CEO by his obvious rudeness.
“I’m not sure she’s in the office, but I’ll get the message to her right away.” I slam down the phone, not allowing for orders that I can’t fill anyway. I’m a lawyer, not an admin or a secretary. You want decent phone help? Avoid voice-mail systems doing the bulk of your customer service.
I look into Purvi’s office, and the cardboard boxes are in even greater supply. Purvi is once again wearing her Indian salwar and buzzing about her office, riffling through paper like it’s parade confetti. This is nothing like Purvi, who usually just reverts to a little vocal exercise (yelling at me) when she needs to accomplish more.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“I’m packing. I’m going back to India.” She slams a book on her desk. “Where did I put that file?”
“Shut up. What are you really doing?”
She looks up, obviously wondering if I just said what she thinks I did. “My husband is ready for us to go back. I’m getting as much done as possible, and I’m going to be interviewing and training your new boss before I leave. But you may have an extra load for a time. I’m sorry about that.” She pulls her hair away from her face with both hands. “Right before your wedding too. I’m sorry, Ashley.”
“An extra load? Purvi, I won’t be here. Remember my honeymoon? You can’t go anywhere. You just came on. I’m terrible at your job, remember? That’s the reason they hired you.”
“Ashley, what can I tell you? I’m leaving. You’ll figure it out. You’re much brighter than you give yourself credit for. Under that power-shopping facade, there’s a brain. Put it to good use.”
“You can’t leave. If I did your job well, you wouldn’t be here. I’m a grunt patent attorney. They know better than to have me do management’s job.”
“It will only be for a short time. You are not bad at it. You’re just too social and don’t like what the hours entail. If you spent more time in the office and less time in your convertible on the way to shopping sprees and stress-relieving spa treatments, you’d be fine.”
She has a point.
“Do you want to go back?” I can’t help it. I feel abandoned. Everyone I care about seems to flee to India. Which I guess makes sense, as India is definitely an Ashley-free zone. Taiwan, on the other hand . . . but I digress. Purvi is the only boss I’ve ever loved, even through the yelling. “Stop kidding me, Purvi. I’ll stop with the wedding plans. You’ve made your point.”
“Ashley, this isn’t a joke. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave, Purvi. You thrive on Silicon Valley’s pace. What will you possibly do in India?”
Purvi settles down into her chair. “I’m going to tell you something. You’re not going to like it, but someday you’ll say to yourself, Purvi was right all along. On that day, Ashley, you will appreciate me.”
“I doubt that, not if you’re still leaving me. I tend to hold grudges.”
“Marriage is not about a perpetual reign as princess. Marriage is about sacrifice. Sometimes it’s your turn. Sometimes it’s his turn. But you know what? It’s always someone’s turn. What unites you is that you don’t ever want it to be your child’s turn. So you go back and forth through life, taking turns. Or you end up in divorce court, and everybody loses.”
I ask her about India, and the marriage sermon is from where? I’ve never known Purvi to talk on such a personal level. I know it’s bothering her, but she’ll probably never admit it. She’s a martyr through and through. When Seth asked me to go to India, I think I considered it for two seconds. What if we had been married? That leave-and-cleave business the Bible talks about definitely would have gotten in my way.
“So are you mad you’re leaving? Sad? What?” I ask.
“Life is not all about feelings. Americans think everything should be determined by how they feel. The rest of the world doesn’t have that luxury. I’m open to what lies ahead. It’s my turn. Sagar’s been paying the price for two years now without his family. A boy needs his father, and it’s time we went back. We want Pushpan educated in India before he forgets his culture.” She goes about filing papers, ignoring me but still speaking. “It’s all about compromise.”
Whose?My own dilemma rises before me like a ghost. “So if Sagar wanted you to go to Philadelphia because he had a great job offer, would you go? Knowing you couldn’t work there with your degrees, and you might be watching Jerry Springer all day long?”
Her hands still, and Purvi looks me in the eye. “If it were the right decision for our family, as India is the right decision for us now, you can be sure I would go to Philadelphia. However, I can assure you I would not waste my time with Jerry Springer. That’s an American misfortune.”
This causes me pause. Not Jerry Springer, but her willingness to go. How can someone just give of themselves so completely and not question God’s will for her life? Where does it end? She’s already given up sleep and tons of free time. Now what? “Will you even be able to work there, Purvi?”
“I will not work for some time. Other than helping my husband with his business. I shall like the break.”
Break? Purvi wouldn’t know how to have a break if it came in the form of a shattered femur.
“You can’t be serious. You love this job, Purvi. I don’t believe you’re just going to abandon us.” I cross my arms.
“You don’t have a family, Ashley. You don’t understand.”
“What does a family have to do with abandoning your dreams?”
She laughs. “It has everything to do with it. There will be time for my dreams, Ashley. But I’ll never get another chance to raise my son in India, as his father wishes. You have to live with your choices, and this is one I wouldn’t get back. Pushpan’s childhood.”
“What if it’s the wrong choice?”
“Then I make the best of it, Ashley.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Purvi.” I walk back to my office with my head hung low. Tracy is still buzzing about, and there’s a mourning look that passes between us. It’s official. I am a jinx. Just when I think my life is completely in order, I watch everyone around me fall apart or exit the building. Let’s look at the evidence:
EVIDENCE THAT PROVES I AM A JINX
1. Cool-hearted Kay afraid to talk to Santa Claus.
2. Feminist-minded Kay willing to date sorry-doof who is Emily’s reject.
3. Purvi packing to go back to a foreign country for a husband I’ve still never seen any evidence of.
4. Seth, now not afraid of me yet still just as annoying.
5. Future SIL hijacking my wedding while I sit by idly.
6. Fiancé off interviewing in a town I’ve never visited. Heck, a state I’ve never visited.
7. My dream wedding turning into a battle tantamount to the Civil War.
8. My first wedding shower becoming a perverted peep show.
All these things only have one common denominator: Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale. I’m like a human Swiffer, picking up all the dust and junk accumulating in the world and wearing it proudly. I most definitely need to shop. I’m craving an Origins, with all its natural oils and scrubs. When I get home, I’ll exfoliate all my troubles away—with a soothing, scented candle, I muse as I stare, unblinking, at the piles on my desk.
“Ashley.” Tracy sticks her head in my office. “Heather at the bridal shop is on the phone.”
“You mean Hannah?”
Tracy whacks her head. “Yeah, that’s it.”
I pick up the line, certain that there’s something else to add to my “sky is falling” list. “Ashley Stockingdale, Disaster Attractor.”
“Oh, Ashley, that’s funny. It’s Hannah. Hey, I have a wedding gown here for you.”
“I’m not wearing Scarlett O’Hara’s gown, Hannah. Being arrested in it was quite enough wear for me.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I forgot about the alarm. Listen, it’s not that dress. It’s the Vera Wang gown. The order we canceled. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s here with your name on it.”
Suddenly, the sun has appeared from behind some very dark clouds. “The dress I ordered is there?”
“Paid for and straight from Vera Wang’s studios. There’s no card or explanation, just the gown.”
Now if I were Nancy Drew, I’d go looking for the sender. But I never did have much interest in mysteries. I always wondered about the girls who went inside those dark places, looking for clues. Hello? Just shut the door and walk away. There’s good shopping to be had up the street.
Vera Wang shantung silk . . . I just don’t see the need for questions at this point. Suddenly, my mood has drastically improved.