ALLISON WOKE THE NEXT MORNING long before the sun would crest the horizon, with an image of the journal filling her mind. She gritted her teeth. Couldn’t she get a few moments to wake up first without thoughts of the journal crowding her brain? Her mom would say it was God trying to talk to her. She wasn’t so sure. Allison shuffled past the den and glanced at the journal, which sat in the middle of her desk. She shouldn’t have glanced. Her mom’s words about writing in it flooded back in, and she had to make a conscious choice to push on toward the kitchen.
What was wrong with her? Why was the idea of writing in the journal so hard for her? Because it was someone else’s. Not a compelling argument, because apparently it was hers now, decreed by the very hand of God. How about because she liked her old journal better, and she always finished filling out an old journal before she started writing in a new one?
Lame. If God really was part of this journal, how could she turn down his invitation? The real reason came from the little voice inside. The one that told her if she went down this path, there was no coming back. That if she took pen to paper she would have to face things about herself she didn’t want to face. Truths a little voice said she’d be crushed under. Truths she couldn’t handle. And that, of course, was where the little voice inside made a mistake. Because as much as the idea frightened her, the part of her that refused to back down from a challenge was a fraction more persuasive.
After fixing herself coffee, toast, and two scrambled eggs, she went to the den, got the journal, then moved into the family room, where she snuggled up in an ultrasoft throw with a snowflake pattern she’d bought for herself last Christmas. She glanced at her watch. Almost five thirty. Had to get in the shower and get ready for work. Had to beat everyone in. Had to keep building her case for getting the partnership finalized soon. There was no time to write in the journal now. Tonight, however, she might, probably would, but certainly not until she took one more shot at finding Alister. But how? A Google search hadn’t shown her anything useful.
Allison arrived at the office at six sixteen—she even beat Linda in—and had made it through a complex set of drawings and was about to start another when Derrek knocked on her office door. Allison glanced at her watch. A few minutes past nine.
“Good morning, Allison.”
“Hi, Derrek.”
“I trust your weekend was refreshing.”
“It was all right, thanks.” She gave him a smile she hoped looked sincere. “Yours?”
“Fine, fine.” Derrek chuckled as if he’d just recalled a joke.
“Good.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.”
“I wanted to commiserate with you in regard to the Thompson project. I think it wise to set a target date for completing the first set of drawings.”
“I finished them a minute and a half before you walked in here.”
“Really.” Derrek glanced up as if counting the days in his mind. “That was extremely rapid.”
Allison pushed back from her desk as the scent of cinnamon rolls floated through her door. She glanced around Derrek and spotted Ellie scooting around her reception desk with a box of Cinnabons in her hands.
“Thanks. It came together well, I think.”
She had worked on the project over the weekend and put far more hours into it than she’d meant to, but it was a way to solidify her position and show Derrek her worth.
Derrek stepped inside her office, shut the door halfway, and lowered his voice.
“Have you called him yet, Mr. Thompson, told him the drawings have been completed?”
“No, not yet.” Allison pointed to her laptop. “Like I said, I just finished them. He did send an email about ten minutes ago asking how they’re coming along, and I just started a reply. Do you think I should call him instead to let him know we’re finished?”
Derrek reached over and eased her door closed.
“That course of action might not hold the maximum long-term benefit for us.”
“What are you saying? I should call, or I should email?”
“Neither. I’m saying do not call and don’t email. Not yet. At least not to tell him we’re finished.”
“Why would I put it off?”
“Let’s think through this, shall we?” Derrek stepped up to her desk and leaned against it.
“If you provide him the drawings this quickly, it will train him to expect this level of response every time. That is not to our advantage. This time we finished early. What happens next time when it takes longer, due to unforeseen impediments?”
Allison frowned. “If we give him a timeline and something out of our control happens, we call and explain it. He’s a reasonable man. He wouldn’t be upset.”
“Possibly.” Derrek glanced behind him. “But unfortunately, after the initial conversation, he would only remember that we didn’t deliver as efficiently as the time before, which could cause him to doubt our acumen. We have an opportunity to build in a cushion here for a time in the future when we might perhaps need it.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell him you’re working on it but have hit a number of complications that will take time to work through. But they are only minor delays, and we don’t see anything on the horizon that would prevent us from being finished in three or four days.”
Allison stared at Derrek and gave a tiny shake of her head.
“In other words, you want me to lie to him?”
“No, no, of course not.” Derrek chuckled and glanced at the closed door of Allison’s office again. “That’s not what I’m suggesting in the least.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“We tell the truth, of course. We say we’ve been working diligently on the project, that we are confident the drawings are going to be to his liking. That we are going through our five-phase process to make sure we have met all of his requirements. And that we will deliver them at the end of the week at the latest. None of that is a lie. It is all truth, and yet at the same time we take advantage of the opportunity to—”
“It’s still a lie, Derrek.”
“Let me ask you a critical question.” Derrek moved toward the door and placed his hand on the knob but didn’t open it. “Have you gone through the five-phase review process yet?”
“What five-phase review process? We’ve never talked about—”
“It’s a process we do on all projects. Apparently I haven’t gone over it with you yet.”
“No, you haven’t, but that doesn’t change the fact I’ve finished the drawings and—”
“If you’ve finished the drawings, then you’re through with the first part of the project. But since you haven’t gone through the five-phase review, then obviously you aren’t prepared to show them to Mr. Thompson yet. Are you?”
“Using that logic, no.”
“Good, good. I’m pleased that we’re in agreement.” A wide grin. “I’ll cover the review process with you in the next day or two; then, when you’ve completed it, you can send out the drawings.”
Allison stared at him, any coherent response gone from her mind. What could she say? You’re full of air so hot it would scorch the sun. She’d never heard of a five-phase review process till this moment, yet she’d had multiple projects go out the door. But this wasn’t the time to press the issue. After the partnership was sealed? Then she’d confront the man who had spin-doctoring mastered.
Allison made it to The Vogue by six o’clock and was thankful to find Mike and Janice, the owners, both in the shop. Marque could probably explain to them why Allison wanted to put up little flyers asking Alister to contact her, but it was better coming from her.
She was three sentences into her request when Mike held up a hand and she stopped. “Can’t do it,” he said.
“You have a policy against customers putting up flyers in the shop?”
“It’s not that,” Janice said and offered her a tender smile. “It’s that you don’t need to.”
Allison’s heart skipped. “You know who he is?”
“Nope. Neither of us has any idea,” Mike said as he wiped coffee grounds off the counter. “But we do have something to give you.”
Janice went to the shelf on the wall behind the counter and plucked up a small square envelope. She handed it to Mike.
Mike said, “The other day he comes in and hands the journal to me. Says it’s yours.”
Now Mike’s note made sense. Apparently this is yours.
“And then, after I take the journal, he gives you that note,” Allison said as she pointed at the envelope in Mike’s hand.
“Yes.”
Mike leaned his tall frame down, elbows on the counter. “Guy says his name is Alister, describes you, says when you come in next time to give you this.” He handed the envelope to her.
“What else?” Allison glanced back and forth between them. “Who is he? Did he give you any way I can reach him?”
“Nope,” Mike said, stood tall, and shuffled off.
“I did ask this Alister fellow who he was and why he’d given you the journal.” Janice patted Allison’s hand. “But he just smiled and asked if we could make sure you got the envelope. He was in and out in less than a minute.”
Allison turned the envelope over in her hands. Nothing on either side.
“Thanks.” She slid it into her back pocket. “If he comes in again . . .”
“I sure will.”
She waited till she got inside her car, then pulled the envelope from her pocket and tore it open. Before she slid the thick paper out, Allison asked God for the note to provide answers. God must not have been listening. Allison stared at the words till her eyes blurred.
Write in the journal. It truly is yours now. Write. Not for me. For you. Just write.
There was nothing else on the card. Fine. Tonight she would log her first entry.