Cara’s Rule for Success 2:
Never tell your boss he’s stupid…even if he really
should have
already figured that out for himself.
AS IT TURNED OUT, Howard’s dictum of “See me as soon as you get in” really meant, “Just so you know who’s top-dog now, see me after I’ve made you cool your heels for forty minutes. Then watch me take four phone calls before I stoop to acknowledge your presence.”
Through it all, Cara kept a pleasant smile on her face and mourned Howard’s premature baldness. Otherwise, she’d have scoured his office for a hair to use as a personal effect on a voodoo doll. According to her calendar of retribution, he was overdue for a freak sinkhole to open beneath his desk and swallow him whole.
When Howard finished his last phone call, he took off his glasses, held them up to the light and inspected for stray dust motes that might have had the gall to land on his lenses. Satisfied that he remained pristine, he slipped the titanium-rimmed, itty-bitty-to-the-point-of-ludicrous frames back on his face and finally focused on Cara.
“We have found Rory’s departure rather disturbing,” he said. “We trust that you have, too.”
Cara had never been sure whether Howard’s use of “we” was meant to be a Partnership We or a Royal We. All she knew was in her current stressed state, she wanted to blurt, “We, who? You and the rat in your pocket?” Sadly, she had never responded well to authority figures other than Rory. Saperstein wasn’t bad, either, but of course he was dead.
“Rory’s leaving came as a shock to me, too, Howard,” she replied.
“Really?”
Cara looked down at her hands. They had somehow knotted in her lap. Her knuckles shone white. She carefully placed one palm on each knee and adjusted her posture to a less defensive stance.
“I had no clue,” she said.
“That’s surprising. After all, there’s been no one in this firm closer to Rory. One might even say that the two of you were intimate.”
His implication was clear in the way he sounded out each syllable of in-ti-mate. Cara leaned forward in her chair and placed her hands on Howard’s desk; she knew he hated having his belongings touched.
“One had better think carefully before saying that. That is, if one isn’t up for some very unfriendly litigation.”
“Well, certainly I wasn’t referring to myself.”
At least he was rattled enough that the Royal We had disappeared. She watched as he straightened the stacks of paper she’d moved minutely out of place.
“For the benefit of the other partners who might be thinking those rather, um, incendiary thoughts, here’s the scoop, Howard. Rory and I have never had any relationship other than a business one. And obviously, even that didn’t run very deep.”
Howard had already recovered his cool. “We’ll withhold judgment on just how deep your relationship runs. We want you to know that for now, we’ll be checking your work and limiting client contact. Also, you will use our secretary, Jane—”
“Her name is Jan.” Howard went through secretaries the way a marathon runner goes through bottled water.
“Jan, then,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You will use Jan until such time as our confidence in you is restored, and we replace Leigh.”
“Re—replace?” she stammered. “She didn’t leave with Rory, did she?”
“If only she had. We were forced to terminate her.”
“Why?”
She could have sworn he shuddered before he said, “For matters that will not be discussed with other employees of Saperstein, Underwood.”
The bummer of it was that if she wanted to know what had happened to Leigh, her best chance of getting the real scoop would have been from…Leigh.
“Fine,” she said.
Howard’s phone rang. When he took the call, Cara stood to leave. Howard raised his index finger in a you-have-not-been-excused gesture. She sat, then waited through an interminable call conducted over the speakerphone as Howard and a car salesman debated the respective merits of parchment, ivory or sand-colored leather for Howard’s new Range Rover. The options hadn’t been so fine-tuned in her Saturn.
Finally, Howard hung up. He launched back into their conversation—if it could be called that—as though the ten minute delay had never occurred.
“The partners have decided that a weekend retreat is needed. We’ll be in Bay Harbor, and while we’re gone, we’d appreciate it if you would keep clear of the building. Your access card must be on my desk before five this evening.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“I never joke.”
He had that right. Only the fact that she could understand the tack he was taking stopped her from going for his throat.
Without her access card, once the front doors were locked for the night, she’d have a better chance of breaking into a bank vault. From the partners’ point of view, they were protecting firm assets—the remaining finance clients not lured away by Rory McLohne.
Still, her fury was a burning thing to swallow. She could remind Howard how she’d sacrificed long-planned vacations and more than one hot date for the good of the firm, and how, for the past four years in a row, she’d cranked out more billable hours than any other associate.
All of which would mean spit to him—especially the date thing, since he flirted with being genderless.
Wishing him an agonizing kidney stone before he fell into that voodoo sinkhole, she stood, smiled and said, “Anything you want, Howard.”
Which, based on Howard’s regal nod, was no less than the creep felt he deserved. When the phone rang again, Cara got out while the getting was good.
AT FIVE-THIRTY THAT EVENING, Cara walked down Royal Oak’s Main Street. In her left hand was a bag with a bottle of vodka and one of cranberry juice. In her right was a hefty box of espresso truffles from the totally decadent candy store one block west. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been out of the office this early, except when she’d had appendicitis.
Feeling like a tourist visiting an exotic port—or a zoo—she gazed into windows. People gathered in groups on the low couches in coffeehouses and crowded around bars. Couples stood close, with a comfortable intimacy Cara scarcely understood. Singles smiled and laughed. She couldn’t believe the sheer volume of humanity, or how damn happy everyone looked…as if they’d just been sprung from prison.
Actually, she was developing familiarity with the “sprung from prison” feeling; Howard had done everything but strip-search her for hidden files before she’d been permitted to leave the office for the weekend.
Before going into Retreads, her friend Brianna’s store, Cara took a moment to look across the street, for in that direction was Paradise. About six weeks earlier, she had placed a deposit on one of the new loft condominiums being built there.
“Keep your eyes on the prize,” she reminded herself as she picked out the long bank of windows on the sixth floor that would be hers. For this, there was virtually no limit to the crap she’d endure.
Feeling a glimmer of hope—plus awesome upcoming mortgage pressure—Cara pushed through Retreads’s door. Bri appeared startled to see her. Then again, she was surprised just about any time her shop door opened; Retreads did a bang-up business on the Internet, but had little foot traffic, except from the local drag queens.
Bri was wearing a classic red Chanel suit with an orange, belly button-bearing stretch top under the jacket. For some inexplicable reason, the combination worked. As far as Cara could tell, Bri O’Brien had never outgrown the “dress-up” stage. Back when they were seven years old and attending Longfellow Elementary School, they used to rummage through their mothers’ closets and see who could come up with the dumbest-looking outfits—admittedly no big task in 1980.
While Cara had slogged her way through law school, Bri had gone into fashion merchandising with a big department store chain and quickly moved into the ranks of the up-and-coming. Even while Bri scaled the heights of corporate America, she had kept her own sense of style.
Then, about two years ago, she had walked away and opened her own vintage clothing shop. While Cara simply didn’t get this abandonment-of-career-and-success thing, she had to admit that her friend appeared happier.
“Ready for a pity party?” Cara asked.
“Wait a minute,” Bri said, pushing a hand through her shoulder-length, curly blond hair. “This can’t be possible.” She walked to Cara, tentatively reached out one finger and touched her on the shoulder. “Okay, so I’m not hallucinating,” she said with a nod. “I can think of one other possibility.” She opened the door to her shop. “Hey, guys,” she called to a group of high-school kids in letter jackets. “Is this still planet Earth?”
“Yeah,” one of them shouted.
Bri ducked inside. “Okay, that takes care of the ‘sucked into an alternative universe’ scenario, which leaves the question…why the hell aren’t you at your office?”
Cara set her packages on the broad stainless-steel work table Bri had inherited from the now-closed restaurant next door.
“We’ll get to that in a minute. Just so you know I haven’t stooped to whining and mooching at the same time, I’ve brought all the necessary food groups for my party. Chocolate.” She held aloft the box. “Grain, or maybe this is starch since it started life as a potato,” she said, pulling the vodka from its bag.
Cara was fuzzy on this food pyramid thing. Her major requirements in food were that it came conveniently frozen and could microwave in less than five minutes. In the office kitchenette, of course.
“And fruits,” Bri said, completing the inventory as the cranberry juice emerged from the bag.
Bri went to her back room and returned with a couple of Mason jars that Cara recalled last seeing full of buttons.
“What, no coffee mugs or anything normal?” she asked.
“Since when do I do normal? Besides, these should work. I hope the juice is chilled because I don’t have any ice.”
“Just so happens it is,” Cara said.
“So, before we get down to some serious drinking, wanna tell me why we’re doing it?”
Cara gave her a brief of the situation.
“Rat bastard,” was all Bri said.
Cara didn’t bother asking whether she meant Rory or Howard, since the term applied equally well to both. “You know,” she said, “this day was fit for a visit from the do-over gods.”
“The who?”
“Those gods up there on Olympus or wherever, who keep us for their source of daily amusement.”
Bri opened the vodka and began mixing their drinks. “I think you’re messing with a few commandments, here. Normally, I wouldn’t complain, but with Seth’s and my wedding in August, I don’t want to be struck dead at the altar if God’s aim is off with that lightning bolt.”
Cara smiled. Bri’s world was always an entertaining place. “It’s not like I really believe they’re snickering up on Olympus, but on a day like this, a do-over wouldn’t be such a bad deal.”
She sat on the tufted, plush red velvet fainting couch—complete with gold fringe—that reminded her of a turn-of-the-century New Orleans cathouse.
Brianna deposited a drink in her hand. “Tell me if it needs more cranberry.”
Cara took a sip and winced as it burned its way down. “Perfect,” she wheezed. “Now if I could just mainline the truffles.”
She set the drink where it would be within easy reach, then toed out of her black pumps and lay back on the lounge. Frowning, she contemplated the black acoustic tile ceiling, complete with a spinning disco ball. Bri didn’t turn up her nose at any era, no matter how alien it had been.
Her friend’s face superimposed itself over the disco ball. Cara went a little cross-eyed watching as Bri bent over her and placed a neat row of truffles down the buttons of her wrinkled silk blouse.
“Eat your way through those,” Bri said, “and I guarantee you’ll feel better. I’ll be back. I just need to change the music.”
Cara popped the first truffle into her mouth. The rich, dark chocolate complemented the tangy cranberry of her drink, even as overpowered by vodka as it was.
After a moment, the sounds of The Clash gave way to Aretha Franklin. God, that woman could sing, Cara mused as she ate the chocolate from button number two. Bri reappeared and stole the sweet from button number three. Cara grabbed number four before her friend could filch it. She sat up, checked the level of her drink, and then lowered it.
On impulse, she asked, “If you could have a do-over of one event in your life, what would it be?”
“I don’t know. With the exception of the joy of making rent each month, I’ve been pretty lucky.” Bri popped a truffle, followed by a vodka-and-cranberry chaser. “Wait… Remember back in eighth grade when Robby Hanes stuck his hand under my skirt during assembly?”
“Yeah, you got suspended for two days and he got off scot-free.”
“Not to mention probably getting off,” Bri muttered as she tidied a rack of vintage bowling shirts. “If I had another chance I would have kept on slugging him—even after he blubbered about his stupid bloody nose.”
“Works for me.”
“Okay, so how about you?” Bri shot back.
“That’s easy. I wouldn’t have dumbed down for Mark Morgan.” Cara gave herself a mental head-slap when she realized what she’d said.
“Who?”
“This guy back in law school. I might have mentioned him,” she added as a way of covering herself, even though she knew she’d never spoken about Morgan to anyone—not even Bri. It was too damned humiliating, the way she’d flouted every one of her beliefs. Since she knew there was no way her friend was going to let her off the hook, she gulped a little more of her drink before continuing.
“We had this bizarre relationship…kind of a subliminal flirtation that verged on being more. Lots of verbal sparring in class… The kind of argument that can get you real hot—in more ways than one.”
Bri snorted. “Arguing about stuff like contract clauses? I’ll take your word for it.”
“Okay, so beneath this rumpled yet glamorous exterior beats the heart of a total geek. But, Bri, he was gorgeous.” She couldn’t help the easy smile sliding across her face at the recollection. “He had thick, dark hair, brown eyes and a smile that pretty much said he was going to give you the best sex of your life.”
“And you never even mentioned his name to me? What gives?”
“Well, as it turned out, I did get screwed, and it happened without him even touching me.”
Bri raised her glass in a toast. “Now that’s talent. How’d he manage it?”
“We were both being interviewed for editor-in-chief of the law review…the two of us in front of the current editorial board. Anyway, for the first time ever, I didn’t play at the top of my game. I kept looking at him and thinking… God, I don’t know what I was thinking except I wanted him to finally see me as more than the mouthy, smart girl in class.”
She hesitated before admitting the truth aloud. “I let him out-interview me. It was like I was hovering somewhere on the ceiling, watching and totally freaked out as someone else down there operated my voice.” Her sigh was powered by sheer disgust. “I rolled over and played dead.”
Bri’s green eyes grew wide and round. “Wow. Ms. High School Class President, college superstar and law school whiz? No way, I don’t believe it.”
“Trust me on this,” Cara said. She and Morgan had been a total train wreck, ending with one best-forgotten scene on the night after the Michigan bar exam. Enough soul-bearing was enough.
“So what happened to the guy?” her friend asked as she traced her fingertip over the raised lettering on her jar.
“The Shark became editor-in-chief, and I was thrown the bone of managing editor of articles. When the big firms came to campus to interview for summer associate positions, they were all over him. He landed a dream job in New York City…my dream job, to be exact. I settled in at Saperstein, Underwood for about half the pay Mark was getting, and took their offer of a job after graduation. In fact, I didn’t even bother to interview elsewhere. The law review screwup really spooked me.”
“You’ve done fine,” Bri consoled. “I don’t know anyone else among our friends who could afford a condo over there.” She hitched her thumb in the direction of Cara’s future three-thousand-square-foot home-sweet-home.
“It’s not the money. It’s knowing that I was less than I could be. I failed myself.”
She took the last sip of her drink, tucked the cup under the fainting couch, and lay back down. “And that,” she said, “is why I’m now officially applying to the do-over gods.”
“I dunno,” Bri replied. “I’m sure there are candidates with stronger cases. And what are these gods going to do, anyway? Spin the Earth backward until we reach that fated moment once again?”
Cara watched the disco ball glitter as it spun. “Feels like we’re doing that already.”
Bri hauled her up by the hand. “Stop watching that thing, you know it makes you dizzy. Now here’s the deal. Your do-over gods might be a little slow on the uptake, but I have just what you need.”
While Cara stood a bit unsteadily, thinking that lunch might have been a bright option, Bri hustled to the back room.
“These came in today,” she called from some muffled corner. “They’re the coolest ever.”
Eyeing a display of embroidered Chinese robes, Cara wondered what could be exotic enough to summon this level of enthusiasm in her friend.
Bri emerged with an armful of bright silk and satins. “Back in the early sixties, the lady who sold me these used to sing in the cocktail lounge at the Sands in Vegas. She said that Frank Sinatra thought the red one was real hot.” She thrust the dresses at Cara. “Come on, try them on. They’re going to take a skinny, leggy number like you to look good.”
“I really don’t—”
Bri planted a hand in the middle of Cara’s back. “This, babe, is your do-over. Do it or lose it.”
Cara looked around for a means of escape, but saw none.
“Don’t be a wimp,” her friend urged.
Grumping and moaning, Cara made her way to the dressing room. She caught her reflection in the narrow mirror and made a sound of disgust. Her blue eyes had picked up the faint purple shading of the shadows beneath them, and at some point when she wasn’t looking, she’d worked her way past pale and gone straight to pallid.
“Just do it!” Bri ordered from the other side of the curtain.
“You can be such a pain in the ass,” Cara groused, but began sorting through the dresses. Honestly, she doubted that trying on some old clothes was going to improve her mood, but hell, the chocolate and vodka were beginning to kick in, so why fight the buzz?
Like a modern-day and slightly slutty-looking Goldilocks, Cara worked her way through “don’t have the butt,” “too much on top,” and “white makes me look dead,” but then with a wiggle and a slight adjustment over the hips, found absolutely damn perfect.
“Are you ready for this?” she called to Bri. “Because it’s showtime!”
AT LEAST ROYAL OAK wasn’t country club territory, Mark consoled himself as he ushered two old friends down the sidewalk. But he knew he’d better work on his golf swing and get over this club phobia, because late this morning, he’d taken the offer from Saperstein, Underwood. And at S.U., he’d been told golf ruled.
Mark had spent the afternoon preparing for reentry into the Midwest. He supposed that his moving from New York to Detroit was kind of like the experience an astronaut had reacclimating to Earth after having experienced the wonders of space. There was so damn much he was going to miss. And so damn much he needed to accomplish to make this new life work.
When he’d contacted the management committee of his current firm, the conversation had gone well once he’d explained his family circumstances. Should he ever change his mind, a job awaited him in New York. Tempting, but impossible.
After lunch, he’d talked to some of the clients he’d lured to New York over the past several years. More than a few would actually benefit by having Michigan-based counsel, and most of them had agreed to move to Saperstein, Underwood with him.
Finally, he’d tapped his college pals to discuss prospects for new business, which was why he was about to have drinks and dinner with Bob and Trey.
“How long since you’ve been in Royal Oak?” Trey asked.
“About five years, I think,” Mark replied, trying to refocus his thoughts on his companions.
Bob and Trey slowed, then stopped.
“Five years ago, you wouldn’t have seen this,” Bob said in tones that could only be described as awestruck.
Mark glanced in the window where his friends had halted. When his gaze was captured by the same sight that held his friends’ riveted, Mark’s world was rocked once again.
In a man’s life, some females are never to be forgotten: first kiss, first breakup, first lover. Cara Adams was none of those women, but damned if she didn’t fall into the category of unforgettable, anyway.
Six years ago she’d been vibrant.
Now she was…
She…
Mark swallowed, trying to ease the cottony dryness that had settled in his mouth. He, king of the glib phrase, the subtle nuance, couldn’t summon a word sufficient to describe the incredible sight before him.
It wasn’t just the dress, though plunging black fabric with a sprinkling of what looked to be diamonds was admittedly out of the ordinary. She shimmered, and he didn’t think it was because of the disco ball.
Aretha Franklin’s unmistakable voice was belting out R-E-S-P-E-C-T with enough volume to travel through the thick plate glass of the window. Eyes closed, oblivious to her audience, Cara shimmied, shook and downright boogied to the beat.
After some indeterminate amount of time—an hour, a week, a full loop around the sun—his friends hauled him away from the window. It was then that the word he had been seeking came to him: elemental.
This morning, in a fit of self-delusion, he had signed on to compete against a full-out, red-haired act of God. And like any poor fool facing down a volcano, Mark knew that only some very fancy footwork would stop him from being cooked alive. Unfortunately, as a white-bread, country-club-bred boy, he couldn’t dance.
Which meant…
There was a distinct possibility that he was toast.