Hot Water (6 page)

But I know for damn sure he’s never considered what would make me happy.

In the morning, I wheel him behind his desk. He’s weak and drooping from the stroke, but what he lacks in physical ability, he makes up vocally. “You’re a fucking pansy,” he growls to me.

This is one of the milder insults he’s hurled me. Now, they bounce off me. This is what he does to toughen me up. And it’s worked. No doubt, I’m where I am because of the “tough love” approach. I triumph under adversity. Which is why the past three quarters, under my direction, have been some of Williams & Williams’ most successful. But does he notice? Does he say,
Good job, son
?

No. I get called a fucking pansy.

“I don’t see why it needs to happen right away,” I say, not backing down.

“Because you fucking take the bull by the horns and do it,” he thunders, banging the arm of his wheelchair. The stroke might have taken his ability to walk, but it certainly hasn’t taken away his stubbornness. I can argue this all day with him, but he’ll never budge. I can’t even remember what we’re talking about. Once he adopts a position on something, it’s his way or the highway. “Get the fuck out of here. Have Sally bring me my coffee.”

I do. I step into the hallway, and I can breathe. I can never breathe in his office.

 “Miss Baxter,” I say to the beautiful woman outside his office. “Coffee. Now.”

Sally up-and-scurries away in her too-short skirt. It’s a joke that we have the most beautiful women working here. They’re here because they make Williams and Williams look good. They’re also fun to screw around with. I know several of the men here do. But despite the fact that all of the male Williamses have always been adrenaline junkies, with an eye for the fairer sex, we do not.
Don’t dip your pen in the company ink
. It can get sticky, and above all, it shows weakness. And we do not show weakness.

I find my way to my own office. All the surroundings are the epitome of success, but I feel anything but successful. My entire life is exactly what he’s always wanted for me. But what do I want for myself? I’ve never even asked that question. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. All that matters is that Williams & Williams keeps thriving, and that the Williams dynasty is prolonged.

Andrea was the natural choice to keep the dynasty strong. The Finches are the biggest names in the Texas beef industries, and Williams has handled their investments for years. But Andrea’s not just a cute little rancher’s daughter. She’s made a name for herself in her own right. She’s smart, beautiful, and talented, which will assure us smart, beautiful, and talented children. Arranged marriages are a thing of the past, but Andrea and I have been put together so often by our respective families that it was more of an
assumed
thing. That once we got ourselves comfortably settled in our successful careers, we’d tie the knot.

Victoria, my receptionist, smiles at me as she brings my coffee. “Three weeks, Mr. Williams. Are you ready?”

I frown and say a curt, “That will be all.”

I’m not pleased. Victoria, another beautiful, stacked woman, has only been with me for three months, but she should know I don’t discuss my private life within the office. My personal matters are not open to discussion. Despite that, the papers seem to have no trouble finding out about them. The
 New York Daily
seems to love writing pieces on me. I don’t understand it. Does what I eat for breakfast mean shit to anyone? They’re also having a field day reporting on the wedding plans, so much so that its readers probably know more about what kind of tuxedo I’ll be wearing than I do.

Andrea and I have been dating two years. I’d pretty much pissed everyone off by waiting so long to propose. But I wanted to make sure it was right.

And it
was
right.

But that doesn’t mean that it still is.

Cicily

I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous.

I’d started out trying to get in the right frame of mind to enter the corporate world. I’d put on one of my mother’s too-big pencil skirts and silk blouse with a ugly floppy bow on it, to dress the part, even though I had to use safety pins to make them fit right. And I’d gotten a good night of sleep, though for the first hour I’d thought only about Angry Guy. I’d turned that look of disgust he’d given me around and around in my face until I resolved to let him go. To move on to the next adventure.

Though this stuffy-looking office building on the Upper East Side looks anything but adventurous.

My mother spent most of the trip telling me just about everything I needed to know about Williams & Williams. It’s the oldest wealth management firm in the country. Their clients are CEOs from all the most prestigious companies in the world. They are known for bringing a sophisticated, stately air to everything they do. That is probably why my mom made me wear panty-hose, though I haven’t worn them, really, ever. There isn’t a bare leg anywhere in sight. It’s a complete waste of my Brazilian wax.

She shushes me when we pile into the elevator with a bunch of sardines in suits. Everyone in the elevator looks like they’re going to a funeral, in black or various shades thereof. Even though it’s sweltering day in late June, the men, mostly old ones, are all wearing three-piece suits. The closed space smells like someone’s salami lunch.

There are windows all over the floor, but the office is dark because everything is mahogany and burgundy leather. My mother has a small office. She’s the Executive Administrator, and has been with Williams since just after I was born, years before the divorce was final. She started out young, too, though not as young as I am. I suppose she thinks I should feel blessed by this opportunity.

But right now, all I’m feeling is ill.

The place smells stuffy, like smoke. She sets her briefcase on her desk and says, “My job is to manage all the administrative personnel, and their duties. I am going to have Joely introduce herself. She manages the duties of the summer interns.”

“So, she’s kind of, my boss?” I ask, slumping down in the leather chair across from her desk.

“And I’m hers.” She shoves her hand under my armpit and pulls me up roughly. “Don’t slump. We
don’t
slump at Williams.”

I nod. My stomach grumbles. The train ride from Metuchen to New York was endless, and breakfast seems so long ago. “When is lunch?”

She sighs. “Cicily. You need to take this seriously. Hard work is what got me where I am, and if you expect to amount to anything, you can’t coast. Look around you. I didn’t get here by working half-days.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. I know. I will.”

She ignores my apology and jabs her finger toward the sea of cubicles outside. “There are plenty of people out there with fancy educations who’d kill for an opportunity like this. You have the ability, you just need to focus. Don’t let me down.”

“I
know
! I said I’m sorry,” I grumble, starting to slouch again. So this is how it’s going to be. The summer suddenly seems very long.

My mother plants me in a cubicle the size of a closet, outside her office. It’s dark, with drab walls, and it smells weird. I look around it, somehow thinking I’d
rather
be locked in a closet.

“Oh, stop it, Cic,” My mother says when she sees my face. “Everyone needs to get their head out of the clouds and grow up sometime. And I’ve let you slide for way too long. One day, believe it or not, you’ll realize that there’s more to life than surfing and tanning. And you’ll thank me.”

“Right,” I mutter, looking for something finely-sharpened, that I can use as a weapon, to shut her up.

She tells me she has to go and get someone’s something from somewhere, then disappears. I’m perfectly happy, slouching at my little desk, not having to listen to any more of the Graduation Speech from Hell.

Not ten minutes later, somebody whispers, very softly, over my shoulder. “Cicily?”

I turn around and see a pretty girl with a platinum pixie bob and huge Angelina Jolie lips. She’s impossibly skinny and probably not much older than I am. She looks around furtively and then says, “I’m Joely. Intern Coordinator. I’ve only been working here for a couple months, myself. It
sucks
.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, inspecting the girl as she comes around the wall and stands in the entrance. She’s wearing a professional suit, but there’s something a little sinister about her. For one, I can see a bunch of holes in her ears, where she removed her earrings. “Why does it suck?”

She snorted. “Look around you. It’s a boy’s club.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

She starts ticking off things on her fingers. “One, women don’t advance. Your mom is about as high as they’ll let any woman go. Two, the executives will call you sweetie and honey and whatever they want, and you have to call them Mr. So and So. Three, they still expect you to get them coffee and wipe their mouths. And some of the older ones will probably try to squeeze your butt.”

My jaw drops. For someone who is the Intern Coordinator, she really has a way of making the job sound attractive. I’m surprised she isn’t beating applicants away with a stick. “What?”

“It’s bad. I can’t believe your mom is letting you work here.” She bites her lip. “Of course, she’s older. They don’t really mess with her. So she probably doesn’t realize half of what’s going on. But let me just tell you . . . it’s bad. Williams Investments is not exactly a hotbed for the Women’s Lib movement.”

“Okay. Why are you still here, then?”

“The pay!” she exclaims. “They pay administrative assistants twice as much here as they do anywhere else.”

I gulp. Great. I’m an intern. I’m not being paid. Am I going to have to spend my summer fending off advances from men old enough to be my great grandfather, for free? “Shouldn’t Human Resources be able to—“

“The head of HR is the biggest perv there is. Constantly having you come to his office to ‘go over forms” and then looking down your blouse when you bend over his desk to sign your name. So they only hire the best looking women, too. You should see some of the floozies we’ve got.”

I sit back, dazed.
Fantastic
.

“Do you live in the city?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “We live in Metuchen.”

She tilts her head and wrinkles her brow. “Where’s that? I’m not from here.”

“Jersey. Where are you from?”

She rolls her eyes. “Iowa. Moved here after high school. I love this city.”

“You live here?”

“Hoboken. I’m going to college part time.” She smiles. If I have nothing else in this sea of sexism, at least I have someone who’s halfway normal to talk to.

She pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. “Every morning, I’ll email you this. It’s a schedule of where each intern should be, and what they’re expected to do. Don’t freak. The college interns have been here awhile longer, so I have them doing the harder things. You’re the baby, and you’re new, so I’m taking it easier on you.”

“I’m the baby?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. Your mom pulled a few strings. They usually don’t hire anyone without a Masters here, even interns, anymore. What can I say? The job market sucks.”

“Really? How old are you?” I ask. I’d assumed she was my age.

“Twenty-five. I know, I look younger,” she rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

I’m stunned, and I can’t hide it. “Oh. Wow.”

She shows me my schedule. “First up for you is the Partners’ meeting. They have it every Monday. All the executives. Breakfast just came. You just have to wheel in the coffee service and set the breakfast order on the table. Oh, and pour coffee for Mr. Williams and anyone else who wants it. You can do that, right?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Good,” she says, standing me up and pointing me in the direction of the conference room. I start to walk there, wobbling in my heels, when I feel a firm swat on my backside. I turn back to her, surprised, nearly falling off my feet. She reaches out to steady me, grinning. “Better you learn how to deal with it now, than when you have a hot pot of coffee in your hands and are leaning over the crotch of Mr. Williams.”

Oh yes. This is going to be a very long summer.

#

The conference room has big, double doors, made of heavy mahogany. No windows, so I can’t see what kind of wolf pit I’m getting myself into.

Do I knock, or just enter? I decide to go middle-of-the-road and knock once, then push the door open. I turn the brass doorknob, and push open a door that must weight twice as much I do, because I have to lean my full weight in order to get it open.

And holy hell. Either the room is on fire or there is some serious smoking going on. It’s cigar smoke. I stifle the need to choke, eyes watering, as angry words fill the air. Old men, blustering and arguing, trying to outdo one another. These are the kind of people I hate more than anything—self-important, stuffed shirts who my mother simply lives to serve. I’d expected as much, though I can’t really see them. All I can see in the haze is their executive suits, and a flash of white hair.

The door is the kind that automatically springs shut, so I have to hold it open with my foot while I reach into the hallway and pull the cart inside. It’s not exactly the easiest thing in the world, but none of the men attempts chivalry… they’re too good for that. They just keep talking. Angry talking. One guy pounds on the big executive table, making me jump.

I finally get the cart in and let the door sweep closed behind me, effectively sealing me into the shark pool. I blink a few times. Where the hell is the table I’m supposed to put breakfast on? My eyes are watering and itching and I can hardly see in front of me, much less across the room. I slowly wheel the cart to the right of the table. I pass about ten sets of perfectly polished wingtips, and then eureka! I find the table.

“But that’s over-importance! Over-importance! You’re just re-stating the fact!” An older man shouts, startling me. I think he might have a heart attack.

“No, no, no,” another says, “You don’t seem to understand what I’m saying.”