Pink Slips and Glass Slippers (6 page)

Brooke bit her lower lip and sensed her father’s contemplation. The two remained quiet until they arrived at the pillared entrance of Myers Park Country Club.

“Here we are. I’ll drop you off at the front.” Always the southern gentleman.

Standing at the curb, favoring her good leg, Brooke marveled at the park-like grounds. Rolling hills met magnificent oak and maple trees, forming around the famous Briar Creek. She learned to swim, swing a golf club, and hit a tennis ball here. Happy times.

Brooke didn’t feel like Charlotte Country Club today and was glad that her daddy didn’t persuade her to go there. In Weston’s world, persuade meant demand. She didn’t want to watch him work the room. But, the real reason…the memories of her wedding were too much for her to handle today.

Weston grinned as he ambled up the sidewalk, nearing his daughter. She truly was the apple of his eye. Even in her thirties, she still resembled the seventeen-year-old prom queen. Another couple strolled within earshot of Brooke as Weston called out, “My, you are one beautiful girl.”

Brooke blushed, partly because both strangers glanced over their shoulders, but mainly because, even though she felt unattractive, her daddy made her feel good. As only her daddy could.

“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself—for an old man.” They both laughed.

Weston grabbed Brooke’s hand, kissed her cheek, and the two of them shuffled toward the door. “I think your leg’s healed. You walk better than me.” Weston smirked, then lunged ahead for the door. She smiled as she let go of his hand and entered, noticing her foot had improved.

The convivial Byron Nelson Lounge rekindled Brooke’s appetite. With the thoughts of mouth-watering barbeque still lingering from the drive, her stomach growled. They strolled across the stodgy room that resembled an old library more than a bar, settling on a table at the window. Her nose detected good grease, bringing her lips into a curl. Her daddy seated her.

A fifty-something career waitress weaved her way through the half – full lounge and approached. She forced a tepid smile that matched her weary eyes while she scribbled their matching drink orders—iced tea, unsweetened. Brooke felt like a margarita, but didn’t want the lecture about drinking and driving; Weston always waited until five o’clock for any alcohol.

Weston inhaled a deep breath and while exhaling, said, “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too. Sorry I missed last Saturday.”

“I understand. You’ve been busy and what, with the injury and all…What are you doing with your spare time, now that you can’t run?”

“It’s only a sprain. Even though it’s painful—more painful than any of my stress fractures in college, I’ll be running in no time.” She nodded toward her foot as her ankle started to ache.

“Well, don’t push it. Let it heal this time. Hey, this is one of the few times I could beat you in the mile.” He laughed at his own joke while Brooke smirked. Glancing out the oversized window wall, she spotted a few golfers on the putting green. She recalled her earliest memories of golf. Brooke and Billy would tool around on the practice green before daddy pulled up in the cart. Then, she perched on his lap as he drove them to the first tee. Though too little to play, her daddy let her putt on the real greens alongside him. From her early teens, they used to jog together. At first, it was around the block, then a few blocks, then around the neighborhood, until they would run for five miles. She still remembered beating him for the first time.

If it weren’t for her daddy, she never would have set records in cross country. Brooke had fond memories of running with him as she conditioned for a new track season. After running five miles at a brisk pace, they’d play a best-of-five tennis match—right outside where they were now seated. The courts seemed bigger then, but rekindled the same warm memories.

Weston surveyed the surrounding tables and nodded to a man nearby who Brooke didn’t recognize. Always working the room, Brooke thought. “How has your shoulder been?” Brooke drew her daddy’s gaze back to her.

“It still hurts when I swing a golf club.”

“That’s probably a blessing. Makes you slow down your swing…” They both laughed.

“How’s work?”

Brooke sighed, “I’m not sure.” Weston’s bushy brows furrowed as his dark brown eyes intensified.

“What do you mean?”

“I miss GenSense…this new place just isn’t right for me.”

“I warned you about Pharmical.”

Brooke hoped he wouldn’t do this. “No you didn’t.”

“You know I battled against that company.”

“Oh come on, it was what—four years ago?”

Weston Ingram represented three wrongfully terminated employees of Pharmical: a general manager fired two days after his sixtieth birthday, a sixty-two year old scientist, and a fifty-eight year old sales manager. None of them were “performance related”—like the company claimed. All three had been replaced by much younger outsiders. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Well, I’m not worried about age discrimination. I’m the youngest senior manager they have.”

“It’s not age discrimination. It’s the way they treat people. Pharmical just doesn’t follow the golden rule. They should have settled those cases out of court without smearing three good people in the process.”

“It’s a whole different company today.”

“Not as long as that CEO is still there. That guy could scare a great white out of the water.”

Brooke’s eyes widened. First, his college buddy called him a snake and now her daddy called him a shark. She’d perceived an entirely different side. Now’s not the time to defend Chase Allman, she decided. “Look, I’m their youngest vice president, they pay me a ton of money, and though it’s not my dream job, it could be worse.” She couldn’t believe she was now defending the company she loathed. Daddy could draw her into any debate.

“Excuse me, are you ready to order?” Weston shifted his eyes from Brooke to the waitress.

Ordinarily, Brooke would have asked the waitress to come back later, but she was thrilled by the interruption. “I’ll have the Reuben.”

“Would you like to substitute a salad for the fries?”

“No, I’ll have the fries. And, can you bring ketchup?” The waitress smirked as she jotted on the small pad. Weston frowned.

“I’ll have the blackened grouper with rice. And, can you bring me an ice water with a fresh lemon?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Hungry? Thought you had breakfast.” Weston raised one eye brow at Brooke.

“Actually, I’m starving. I haven’t been eating right lately.”

“You’ve got to take better care of yourself.”

Here we go again with a food debate. “How come you never order a Reuben?”

“Well, I don’t like corned beef or Swiss cheese. And sauerkraut gives me gas.”

“Ewww. Too much information.”

Weston chuckled, then eased into a fatherly grin, “Well, you asked. Don’t expect me to misrepresent myself.”

Brooke glanced away.
Does he always have to sound like Perry Mason?

Weston continued, “You never told me about your visit to Elmwood Cemetery.”

I can see why he is so good in court—he’s relentless. “Actually, I’m glad you asked. For the first time, I feel like I’m ready to move on.”

“That’s great. Are you seeing someone?”

“No, Daddy, I’m not.” Brooke’s lips pursed like she bit into a lemon.

“Well, it’s been long enough. It’s time you dated.”

“I’m not going through this with you again. I’ve
been
dating.”

“You’ve never dated anyone more than once.”

“Sheesh, enough already. It’s not like flipping a switch and voilà, there’s Mister Right at my doorstep.”

“You’re not even trying though.”

“Look who’s talking?” Brooke paused and bit her lip as her father’s expression darkened. She gritted her teeth, wanting to retract her lack of tact.

“I’ve been meaning to say this to you since Tanner died.”

Brooke’s eyes widened, mouth opened. She wished her sandwich would arrive right now. It didn’t. Weston continued, “The day your mother died was the saddest day of my life,” he paused, having to breathe, “if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have ever made it.” His voice cracked. She understood what he meant all too well.

Weston closed his eyes tightly, then popped them open, “But there’s a reason for everything. We all die. I just couldn’t figure out why God had to take my Mary when He did.” He swallowed hard, “But, I knew you were His gift in return. I wallowed for a long time, then I poured everything into you. I tried to be your mother and father all in one. Sometimes, I failed, but I kept on trying. You turned out okay. Hell, you turned out better than just okay. But, now I see so much of myself in you. It’s almost like you’re me thirty years ago. I shut down then. I wouldn’t let anyone in. There were plenty of chances, but I didn’t take ‘em. Now, I’m an old man without a partner to share life with. Don’t make the same mistake I made.”

Brooke gulped so hard she almost choked. She’d never heard her daddy ramble like this. She almost didn’t recognize him. The usually stoic facade had cracked, leaving only his heart. He glanced away, chin wobbling. Brooke widened her eyes as tears clouded the already dim room.

After a long pause, imbued with emotions that swirled like a hurricane, Brooke said, “I won’t—”

The clanking dish startled father and daughter. “Reuben for the young lady. With fries. I brought you extra ketchup.”

Brooke’s appetite had gone from unquenchable to invisible in a matter of seconds. She stared at the Reuben she had so craved as if it was suddenly covered with mold. The fries she would have killed for earlier now smelled repulsive. She sipped her iced tea, then eyed her daddy. He cut a piece of his fish and forced it into his mouth. He reached for his water and gulped. She could tell his mouth was too dry to eat properly. Just like hers.

Neither one of them spoke while they struggled to eat. Brooke managed to consume half the sandwich and hardly touched her fries. For the first time in as long as she could remember, her daddy left food on his plate.

“Would either of you care for dessert?”

Both Brooke and her father replied in unison, “No.” Weston said, “Please just charge this to my account.”

“Right away, Mr. Ingram. Have a nice day. Hope to see you soon.”

During the short drive back, with the air conditioning still blasting in her face, neither of them spoke. As Weston pulled into the driveway, he said, “You wanna come in for a while?”

“Not today, Daddy. I have a long drive and my foot’s hurting.”

Weston shot a look of dejection, “At least let me grab you a fresh bag of ice.”

“Sure.” As much as Brooke just wanted to bolt out of there, she had to allow her daddy to be the gentleman. And, her ankle throbbed.

After Weston shuffled into the house, Brooke stepped out of his Cadillac. She hobbled over to her car, jumped in, and started the engine. Within a minute, her daddy emerged from the garage carrying a gallon-sized cellophane bag packed with crushed ice. As he handed it to her, he said, “Are you sure you have to leave so soon?”

So soon?
The last hour felt like an eternity. She wanted to say something wise like, it’s Saturday, Daddy, how am I going to meet a guy hanging out with you, but instead, “Thanks for lunch, Daddy. I’ll see you soon.”

“Remember what I said.”

“I will. Don’t worry about me. Take care, love you.”

Driving away, Brooke felt drained. Her emotional tank ran dry. Visiting Tanner’s grave, Todd moving away, the job she dreaded, and her aching ankle, all descended on her like a landslide. Between Shane, Todd, and her daddy, she had plenty of advice about life. She realized they were all right—in their own ways—but, she also understood life had to be on her own terms.

It’s not that I don’t want a man—it’s that Mister Right is my boss—and he’s already taken.

Chapter 7

The shrill ring startled her. Her office landline still sounded foreign to her. And Monday mornings were never Brooke’s
high achievement intervals
as her life coach liked to call them. She had been thinking of calling Shane and hoped it was him, but caller ID revealed a local number. “Hello, this is Brooke Hart.”

“Good morning, Miss Hart. It’s Ruth Shelby from Chase Allman’s office. Do you have a moment?” Brooke shot upright in her chair. She hated being called Miss Hart, but thought against arguing.

“Yes, of course. Hi Ruth.” Brooke almost called her Miss Shelby but bit her lip instead.

Bypassing the return hi and small talk that usually ensued, Ruth said, “Mr. Allman would like to schedule a meeting with you today.”

Big gulp, thinking
why? Am I getting fired?
“I’m free most of the afternoon.”

“Mr. Allman has an available time slot at 2:15 p.m. Does that work for you?” Brooke sensed it was a rhetorical question since her company outlook was blank all day.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, he’ll see you at 2:15 p.m. sharp.”

“Ruth?”

“Yes, I’m here. Do you have a question?”

“What is the purpose of the meeting?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Allman.” Ruth sounded like the wicked witch in
The Wizard of Oz.

“What should I prepare for the meeting?”

“I don’t know…prepare to answer his questions. You may want to bring a progress report on Integrated Client Services.”

Brooke wanted to slap Chase’s surly guard. “Thanks for your help,” Brooke said with saccharine coating, “I’ll be there at two-fifteen.” Right after hanging up, Brooke said, “Beee-atch.” She ducked her head into slumped shoulders and hoped nobody heard.

Peering out her fifteenth floor window, Brooke’s pulse pounded. Adrenaline surged for him as hackles rose from Ruth. Her petty insolence reminded her of the
bitches and backstabbers
in high school. And, it all stemmed from jealousy. She wondered why Ruth felt threatened. Is it because I’m younger? Or because I’m a vice president? Or, is it something else?

GenSense never had a real pecking order. Everyone felt important. It extended far beyond the company-wide profit sharing—people just followed the golden rule and worked with a sense of purpose. Pharmical was too big and profit hungry. Perhaps, not sharing equitably in the wealth created a monster. Whatever the case, she sensed Ruth couldn’t be trusted.

A tendril of panic formed in Brooke’s stomach—how am I ever going to prepare a
progress report
for a division that had made little or no progress since I joined?

***

“Excuse me…Chase.” He dropped his hands from the back of his head and gripped the sides as he spun around on his ergonomic leather chair.

“Hi Ruth.” He smiled that warm smile that made her melt.

“Brooke Hart is scheduled for 2:15 today.”

“Great, thank you.”

“Oh, and she was all worried about the purpose of the meeting.” Ruth raised her eyes.

“She shouldn’t be. What did you tell her?” Chase hoped Ruth didn’t press him. The fact of the matter was he couldn’t shake Brooke from his mind. He used the ankle injury as an excuse to see her.

“I said you just wanted to have an informal discussion.”

“Perfect, thanks. Can you shut my door on your way out?”

Chase waited until Ruth settled her petite torso at her cubicle. With the door closed, she would hold his calls. He thought, I’m lucky to have Ruth. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

He lifted the telephone off the receiver—the actual landline. This call couldn’t be made from his unprotected cell or office speakerphone. He had used speakerphone on so many conference calls lately that the real phone felt strange. It matched his insides.

He answered on the second ring. Chase lowered his head almost between his legs, and said, “Can you hear me, Max?” The call lasted less than a minute—nothing new to report, as Chase had feared. Listening to the gruff private eye, Chase questioned Max’s competency. This was different than chasing around a philandering spouse with a high-powered zoom lens. If exposed, Chase Allman stood to lose it all.

Chase had been dreading the next call. But, he didn’t dare ignore him. Nobody blew off
The Butcher.

***

Brooke scrambled to pull up and print reams of reports. She had a tough time asking Cheryl, her shared assistant, for help—Brooke still didn’t understand the inner workings at Pharmical; plus, it wasn’t in Brooke’s nature. Back at GenSense, she had served as her own assistant—answering her own calls, drafting her own letters, even getting herself her own iced tea. She wondered if Chase treated Ruth as his coffee gopher. As much as she loathed Ruth, Brooke hoped he wasn’t
that guy
—the one who thought his time was more important than someone else’s. CEO or no CEO, he was no different than another human being.

Though hunger pangs growled, Brooke had no time for even a drive thru. And she couldn’t imagine asking Cheryl to fetch her a Chef Salad, without croutons, and no-fat dressing on the side.

At 2:06, panic extended well beyond tendrils. She drew a deep breath and said, I don’t know what I’m doing…and I don’t even care. How much could he expect me to know? Is he following up on my injury? What was he really interested in?

Another deep breath. Time to find out.

***

Though the ankle still ached and, carrying a full briefcase didn’t help, she advanced without wincing. Brooke had always had a high threshold for pain. She followed orders, icing it at nighttime—when it hurt the most—and attempted to stay off of it. The whole experience actually helped her avoid unnecessary tasks. She sensed this meeting would be anything but unnecessary.

Entering the elevator, she felt a whisk of relief as she slinked inside without incident. It was empty and she rested on the wall while pressing the button for the top floor. She laughed, thinking she didn’t even know which office was his—or if it was on the top floor. Hey, maybe he’s not the guy who has to play king of the hill at the top of the corporate kingdom. She doubted it—he wasn’t the communal, cubicle type.

The elevator bumped to a stop and the door slid open. She stood for an awkward moment, then lunged forward, feeling lost. This floor didn’t resemble hers—it was much nicer. Pharmical had its own C-floor—so unlike GenSense. Like walking into a Hyatt from a Holiday Inn. Her face scrunched into a sour expression.

Brooke strode to the double glass door and nearly rammed right into it. The door failed to open like every other door in the building. She spotted a mini box that required a card. She cupped her hands and peered inside through the darkened glass. Brooke spotted a receptionist several feet away, engrossed in her monitor. Brooke waved. Nothing. She knocked. Nothing. Growing impatient, Brooke knocked harder. Still nothing. Finally, she noticed Miss Screensaver broke her trance and glared her way. A buzzer sounded and the door whisked open.

Brooke shook her head while stepping inside. She felt like she was on the set of
Star Trek.
She half expected to see guys with pointed ears running around. She laughed as she visualized dukies at a basketball game, bouncing up and down in their courtside seats—with Spock ears and their little Blue Devil shirts.

Brooke plodded toward the desk of the C-floor gatekeeper. Nope, her ears were normal. “Hi, I’m Brooke Hart. I’m here to see Chase Allman.”

“Where’s your tag?”

“I work here.”

“Where’s your tag?”

Brooke frowned, “I don’t have one.”

“And you work here?”

“Yes, I’m new…vice president of Integrated Client Services.”

“I’ll phone Mr. Allman’s administrative assistant.”

“Thank you.” Brooke sighed.

After speaking into her headset, the gatekeeper glared at Brooke and said, “Ruth—Mr. Allman’s assistant is on her way. You really need to carry a pass for security purposes.” Not,
I’ll get you a card of your own.
So much for southern hospitality on the C-floor.

Brooke spotted Ruth and was mildly surprised she could travel without a corn broom. She guessed Ruth was in her late forties, with a weathered face but a nice figure. Brooke was puzzled by Ruth’s jealousy. Ruth scurried right in front of her and in a voice much too loud for the short distance, said, “Well, I can see you’re walking just fine. I guess the injury wasn’t so bad after all.”

Brooke forced a smile, “It’s still a little sore, but I’m much better, thanks.” Brooke thought, sheesh, how about hello…or, would you care for some iced tea? Was Ruth this pathetic? What’s Chase doing with a witch like her?

“Chase is still on an important call. It should end soon. Follow me.”

Brooke struggled to keep up, and hoped to slow her by asking, “How long have you worked here?”

Ruth peered over her shoulder, turned her chin upward, “I’ve been with Chase for six years now.” Ruth’s tone rubbed Brooke the wrong way, almost sounding possessive. Is she attracted to him?

“Well, I’m sure you’re good at what you do then.” No response. Even to a compliment. Brooke tried hard to connect with this woman, but she seemed more distant than the North Pole—and twice as cold. Shane’s psychological profile tabbed Brooke as having “predominant interpersonal skills.” Or, in plain speak, a people person. But, Brooke wondered how Shane would characterize Ruth—probably suffering from interpersonal setback.

Brooke shifted gears, and asked, “How long have y’all been in this building?” Brooke didn’t mind that she let another
y’all
slip—aloof to the impression it left with Broom-Hilda.

“As long as I’ve been with Pharmical. I moved to the top floor with Chase three years ago. I can still remember the day we were promoted to CEO.”

We?
Okay, I give up. This woman’s got some Chase issues, Brooke thought. Ruth could outdo Kathy Bates’s character if they ever filmed a remake of “Misery.” Brooke followed without uttering a word. Ruth bee-lined to the corner of the floor and asked Brooke to take a seat in yet another boardroom, adjacent to what she guessed was Chase’s office. Settling in to the expensive-looking leather chair, Brooke heard Chase’s voice. She guessed he was on the phone. Even muffled, he still delivered a manly radio announcer’s voice. She blushed, then repeated to herself
married, married, married.

After what sounded like a phone slamming, Chase’s door flew open. Brooke thought she heard Ruth say, “Miss Hart is in the conference room.”

“Hi there.”

Once again, with back turned, Brooke missed another dramatic entrance. She spun the chair and he stood right in front of her like a Greek god. He reached out his hand. Brooke lost control of the chair and it spun, inches away from hitting him where it counts. Red faced, she struggled to gain her balance—and keep her legs together. “Hello again.” He eyed her carefully.

Still seated, Brooke grabbed his hand—firm, yet not overbearing, matching his grip. She hated people who gripped too tightly or offered the limp hand. Or, people who held on too long—but she didn’t want to let go.

With a look of genuine concern, he gazed deep into her eyes and asked, “How’s the ankle doing?”

Brooke felt a hot flash. She thought, if I were a teenager, I’d scream. And, if I didn’t fall off the chair on my own, his eyes alone could knock me to the ground—I had forgotten those lashes. She inhaled his fragrance and felt tingly. Brooke managed, “It doesn’t bother me much. I’ve been staying off of it.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re staying off it now. I’m sorry—I should have met with you in
your
office. That was inconsiderate of me.”

“It’s no problem. It’s not like you made me run up the stairs. I took the elevator—and didn’t even fall...”

He laughed, then grabbed her briefcase, handling the overstuffed bag with ease. He offered his upturned hand, and said, “Let me help you into my office.” She almost said, I’m fine on my own, but the urge to touch him again overwhelmed her. Then, as his hand met hers again, a buzz flowed through her. She thought, if I melt anymore, I could just flow into his office like a stream. She stood up and he grasped her shoulder the same way as before. They shuffled a few steps, until just past the door. Brooke saw Ruth and could almost smell her stink eye. Chase was oblivious, focused on Brooke and her sweet fragrance.

Brooke glanced away but could feel a burn from Ruth’s searing eyes as she strolled with Chase. Passing through the door, her eyes widened. In addition to an impressive view from two window walls, it looked presidential. Mahogany plaques and picture frames matched his oversized desk. On a table, a picture of him arm-in-arm with George W. Bush, flanked by two other guys she didn’t recognize. They were each holding putters in their white gloved hands. Just as she tabbed him a right winger, she surveyed the adjacent picture—Chase and Bill Clinton, again arm-in-arm. Brooke caught Chase viewing her out of the corner of her eye, and said, “Impressive company you keep.”

“That’s no big deal.” Brooke faced Chase, who smirked and said, “This is the one I’m most proud of…”

Chase lifted a picture from the front of his desk: Duke Basketball Coach Mike Krzyzewski shaking Chase’s hand. Brooke said, “I hope you washed your hand after that one.” Above his autograph, Coach K scribbled, “Dear Chase, Thanks For Your Support.”

Brooke hated to admit she was impressed, so she said, “Oh God, I better sit down before I get sick…” They both laughed.

Brooke followed her own cue and while easing onto one of the two chairs in front of his desk, she asked, “Where’s the one with you and Michael Jordan? Or Dean Smith?”

“In the dumpster.” They laughed again, his noticeably louder.

Brooke surveyed all of his artwork…a Duke University painting, a blown up shot of an aircraft with Chase and a small boy—a son? Another Duke Basketball picture, and a plaque:

People have to be given the freedom to show the heart they possess. I think it’s a leader’s responsibility to provide that type of freedom. And I believe it can be done through relationships and family. Because if a team is a real family, its members want to show you their hearts.