Just This Once
Just This Once
By Rosalind James
Text copyright 2012
Rosalind James
All Rights Reserved
New Zealand Map
Prologue
“Wow. Welcome to New Zealand.”
Hannah said the words aloud. There was nobody around to hear
her, after all. Despite the chill lingering in the morning air, she stood where
she was for a few seconds more. The turquoise sea beckoned, its border of golden
sand strewn with pale scallop shells left behind by the receding tide. It was
exactly where she’d longed to be, these past weeks. And it was everything she’d
hoped.
She dropped her towel and sandals and stepped into the cool
water. Aiming towards the point at the far end of the bay, she delighted in her
steady progress. Her mind settled down into the familiar rhythm, focused only
on her strokes and her breath as the minutes went by.
Looking up at last to check her position, she felt a twinge
of alarm. Had she not been swimming straight? The point was in the wrong place,
wasn’t it? She treaded water, turned in a circle. Realized with shock that she’d
come much farther than she’d expected. What had felt like her own fast pace had
in fact been a powerful current in the outgoing tide. One that was doing its
best now to pull her out to sea.
No need to panic, she told herself firmly. All right, she was
in some kind of rip tide. Now that she had stopped swimming, she could feel its
strength. But she knew what to do, didn’t she? She had to swim across it, that
was all. This happened to people all the time. She would aim for a course
parallel to the shore rather than trying to force her way directly back against
the current’s full power. Once she escaped the band of rip, she could turn back
toward shore again. Back to safety.
She changed directions deliberately, swam strongly and steadily,
working on maintaining her parallel course. Her progress, though, seemed
discouragingly slow. The rip was wider than she had anticipated. It might even
have shifted, a nervous little voice whispered in the back of her mind. She had
heard that could happen.
She forced that treacherous voice back with an effort. She
couldn’t do anything about it now, other than what she was already doing. Keep swimming
parallel, she told herself fiercely. She could swim for an hour without
stopping, she knew. That meant she could swim even longer if she had to. Eventually,
she would get out of this. Willing herself to stay calm, counting her strokes,
she made it to 100, then 200.
And felt the change as she was caught by another, stronger
rip. She had swum straight into it, and was once again being pulled out
inexorably with the current.
The first stirrings of real panic shortened her breath. She forced
the fear back, focused on breathing with her strokes, and began to count again.
100 strokes, she told herself. Count. Breathe. But as she counted off 60, then
70, she could feel herself tiring, and knew she was losing the battle.
Where were the people? She hadn’t seen a soul when she
entered the water. Nobody knew where she was, and there was nobody to see her
struggling. Nobody to help her. Nobody to save her.
How could this be happening?
All she had wanted was a vacation.
“I need a vacation.”
Hannah Montgomery blew out a frustrated breath on the words.
She was running late. And she hated to be late, hated feeling rushed and flustered.
The meeting started in half an hour, and she had planned to get there early so
she could review her notes beforehand.
She was ready, though. She had spent the entire previous evening
preparing her materials, after all. She took one last quick look in the mirror.
Professional and neat, check. Dark gray slacks, fitted blouse, heavy hair
subdued in its usual neat, braided coil. She looked fine. She
was
fine.
Grabbing her laptop case and double-checking that she had
all the files she needed, she headed for the car. The 15-minute drive across
Berkeley to her office would settle her down and help her focus on the day
ahead. She wasn’t going to be late, just not early. It was going to be all
right.
But her usual tools—the classical music on the car stereo,
yoga breaths, her morning run, even her pep talk—weren’t doing the trick this
time. Instead, she kept thinking back to the phone conversation with her sister
that had delayed her. And worrying.
If worrying were an Olympic sport, she thought ruefully,
she’d have at least one gold medal, for sure. But there was Kristen, rushing
into “love” with another guy, who had cheated on her and broken her heart.
Again. Well, she’d calmed Kristen down, and that would have to do for now. She’d
call tomorrow and see if she could help her sister make a plan.
Shaking it off and putting thoughts of Kristen firmly into
their designated compartment in her mind, Hannah took a few more of those yoga
breaths. Pulling to a stop in front of the large building that housed TriStyle
Woman’s offices, she gave herself a final onceover in the car mirror and headed
toward the conference room for The Ordeal.
Beth met her at the door. “I beat you today,” her
second-in-command teased. “First time that’s ever happened. Usually Miss
Prepared is here fifteen minutes early for these things, putting the rest of us
to shame.”
“Kristen called,” Hannah sighed. “Another breakup.”
Beth squeezed her arm in sympathy. “Well, you know there’s
nothing like The Ordeal to give you plenty of time away from your problems.”
“I know. I went for a run this morning, just to pep myself
up and put myself in a positive frame of mind.”
“Then I’ll be watching you, boss. I expect to see some of
that post-endorphin serenity.”
Hannah laughed and moved to set up her place at the
conference table. By the time she had her laptop, notes, and materials arranged
just as she liked them, the room was beginning to fill. And The Ordeal had
begun.
She couldn’t remember who had first named it The Ordeal.
Probably Emery. The irrepressible Product Director had a wicked sense of humor
that kept them all looking at the funny side of TriStyle Woman’s office
politics—and their boss, Felix Meister.
And speak of the devil, here was Felix now, his horns
practically showing. The Ordeal was his favorite time of the season. Emery
claimed that he enjoyed it because he knew how much they all hated it, but Beth
pointed out that Felix would have had to understand his staff’s feelings for
that to be true.
Ominously, he was carrying a stack of catalogs. Hannah
groaned inwardly. She knew what this meant. Another suggestion that they copy
another company’s product line. Reminding herself of those endorphins, she
waited to see what it was this time.
Felix didn’t disappoint. Two long hours into the all-day
product meeting, he launched into his latest brainwave.
“I was reviewing some other sportswear catalogs, and I
noticed they have a much larger swimsuit line than we do. Take a look at these,
and tell me what you think,” he began, pulling out catalogs and projecting one
website after another displaying slinky, sexy string bikinis and high-fashion
suits.
“I also looked at the fashion magazines,” he continued,
passing around a selection of magazines with pages marked. “With, as you can
see, the same results. If anything, even more emphasis on color and trim. And,
obviously, smaller, sexier suits.”
Finally, he produced the coup de grace—last summer’s
TriStyle Woman catalog.
“Compare the suits you’ve just seen to the ones we carry,”
he pronounced triumphantly. “Most of our suits are one-pieces, and the
two-pieces are so utilitarian. And we don’t have any bikinis at all. I did some
research, and found that bikinis are the most popular swimsuit style among
women 18 to 34. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you all that our average
customer age is 28. Lots of women buy a new swimsuit every year, and the
average woman has three swimsuits. Three!”
“So why,” he wound up for the big finish, “aren’t we doing
more in this market? Why is our swimsuit section so small and so boring? We can
change that, and we should. I’m thinking we double our swimsuit line for
summer, and make it much sexier. Double space in the catalog, double space in
the stores. Really make a splash, if you’ll excuse the pun.” He chuckled with
satisfaction and sleeked back his thinning black hair, looking around
expectantly.
Emery was, as always, the first to speak into the stunned
silence. “Could it be,” he drawled, “that we don’t carry tiny bikinis because
we’re a . . .
fitness
company? Do you think the models in the
Sports
Illustrated
swimsuit edition swam up to the beach in those suits? Is that
why they’re all wet and sandy?”
The two assistants sitting at the end of the table giggled,
and Felix flushed angrily.
Here we go,
Hannah thought. She stepped into the
breach. “I think what Emery is trying to say,” she began as she flashed a quick
warning glance at the Product Director, “is that the swimsuits you see in those
catalogs are certainly popular and attractive. But they’re not what our
customer is coming to our stores or catalog to find. The reason our swimsuits
all look so athletic is that you can’t do a serious swim in a string bikini or
a bandeau top. We know that our customer doesn’t necessarily do triathlons. But
she thinks she might train for one soon. And she’s buying our products for her
workouts, as you know.”
She adopted her best serious, diplomatic tone, while trying
not to sound patronizing. “But you have made me realize that we may be too
conservative with the cuts and colors we’re choosing. Emery and Beth, maybe you
could do a broader search and see what styles and brands we might add to give
more pop to our swimsuit line. I think Felix makes a good point. No reason our
customer can’t look good while she works out, right? And maybe she wants more
than one suit, one for her serious workouts, and another for when she goes on
vacation, with a little racier cut. Felix, could you leave us those magazines
for reference when you leave today?”
Felix looked mollified, Beth and Emery made a note, and
Hannah gave herself a mental thumbs-up. Another crisis averted. And how many
more to go?
Lunch, as always, was sandwiches brought into the room,
offering no chance for a real break. By five-thirty, Hannah had a pounding
headache behind one temple and was more than ready for the meeting to end.
Several more interactions had required handling with tact, but she thought she
had been fairly successful. Now, though, she just wanted to go home.
When Felix suggested she walk him out to his car, she knew
she would have one more chance to bring her diplomacy skills out for an airing
that day.
He didn’t waste any time. “I’m getting pretty tired of Emery’s
attitude,” he complained as they left the building. “Does he know who signs the
checks? I’ve been thinking of replacing him anyway. He’s awfully expensive. I’m
sure we could find a young person just out of school who’d be glad to grow into
the job, at a fraction of his salary. With the job market the way it is, there
are lots of hungry people out there.”
Hannah reminded herself that it was Felix’s ego talking.
Probably. She stood for a few seconds before responding, slowing him down and
forcing him to focus on her.
“Of course,” she answered slowly, “You’ll do what you think
is best for the company. And that’s your prerogative. But I should point out
that Emery is the best I’ve seen. You know our sales are up 34% since he joined
the company two years ago. I don’t think that is a coincidence, do you? Do you
have any problem with the job he does?”