You Can't Hurry Love (11 page)

“Excuse me?”

She hesitated for only a moment, waiting until she could say what needed to be said without her voice quavering. “I quit. I'll draw up the standard two weeks' resignation today—”

“Don't be rash, Caron. You're not in high school anymore.”

High school.

With those two words, her father reduced her to a seventeen-year-old with streaks of vivid pink in her hair.

“I'm not being rash.” Caron maintained eye contact. “I'm making a wise business decision. For me.”

Now was the time for her father to tell her that she was too valuable an employee to lose. Maybe even put his arm around her shoulder in an all-too-rare display of affection. Insist they both calm down and talk this out, Hollister to Hollister.

But instead, her father nodded again, his face devoid of any emotion. “You do recall you signed a contract stating that when you leave here, any and all deals in process revert back. That your commission drops down to fifty-fifty, even if you are making a larger commission at the time. I will not make an exception for you, daughter or not.”

Of course he wouldn't.

“Understood.”

“Fine. You've got until the end of the month under my name. Your MLS access shuts off in two weeks.” Her father's words were automatic, as if he was checking off a list. “I'll waive the two-week resignation period. And Caron, don't be foolish enough to think there'll be a job waiting for you here when you realize your mistake.”

“I won't.”

“You can clean out your desk immediately.”

And that meant she'd skip the champagne and cake, too.

• • •

What had she done?

Caron sat at her desk, the stillness seeming to crawl up her skin. Everyone else was in the main conference room. Celebrating. Toasting her father's brilliant business venture.

And she . . . she had just thrown away the only job she'd ever wanted. And her father hadn't stopped her. Hadn't done one thing to keep her as an employee, despite praising her less than an hour ago.

Why?

Caron closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands, fighting the increasing desire to burst into tears.

Not here. Not now.

Why didn't her father insist she stay? Was she nothing more than a quarterly statistic that benefited his company? Why didn't he at least try to discuss things with her? Why didn't he . . . understand?

With hands that shook, she moved one of the empty computer-paper boxes from the floor to the top of her desk. Slid open the middle file drawer, the scrape of metal against metal severing the suffocating silence. Within minutes, she'd transferred her transactions in process and future-leads files to the box. Farther in the back she found the folder of thank-you notes from clients, depositing those into the box, too. Sliding the drawer closed, she opened the bottom drawer, where she kept her stationery, a backup makeup kit, a small hairbrush, and a bottle of her favorite hair spray, along with a bag of cashews and another of golden raisins.

Next—the top desk drawer.

Paper clips. Neon Post-it notes. Pens with the company logo, which her father would be changing. A pack of breath mints.

She slammed the drawer shut. She didn't want, didn't need, any of it.

The pen engraved with her name that her parents had given her when she'd passed her real estate license exam lay on top of the desk. Caron balanced it in the palm of her hand, tempted to leave it among the other pens in her desk drawer.

No. She was still a Realtor, albeit an unemployed one. And she didn't have the energy to be petty. Her father likely wouldn't even notice she'd left the pen behind.

Her desk lamp. The chargers for her iPod and iPhone and the speakers she'd brought in so she could listen to music while working. The photo calendar on the wall Vanessa had made her for Christmas, filling it with family photos and pictures from Logan and Vanessa's wedding and photos of Caron and Alex. Of course she'd take that, and the framed photo of Alex and her, taken on her last birthday.

The two watercolors of Destin—one of pale-green-and-gold sea oats, one of a purple-and-orange-tinged sunset—wouldn't fit in the boxes. She'd just carry them out to her car, then come back for the boxes.

On her return, she dumped her business cards in the box, so that they tumbled, helter-skelter, like oversize confetti. Tossed in her datebook. The small glass jar of bright red Hot Tamales she kept on the edge of her desk. Only a few pieces of candy remained inside. She'd meant to bring in a bag to refill it this week.

And that was that.

All that was left of her time here.

She'd have to call her clients, let them know she was no longer working for Hollister Realty.
Correction.
No longer working for Hollister Realty Group. She would try to find out who would be handling their closings. But she'd make those calls from home.

Caron stood in her office doorway. Did she want to wait, take the time to explain to Jackie? To say goodbye to everyone? Make the rounds of the other offices? Hug the receptionists?

No.

She needed to leave with her dignity intact. No wobbling chin, no blinking back tears.

She could always send e-mails or make phone calls later. Maybe bake brownies and drop them by in a few weeks—or better yet, have something delivered.

As she entered the building after depositing one box in her car, people had begun to return to their offices as the celebration broke up. She needed to be done. Gone, before anyone tried to engage her in conversation. She wasn't a coward, but one confrontation was enough for this Tuesday.

• • •

She was no better than a thirteen-year-old, running home to her mother, expecting her to dispense just the right amount of love, listening, and momma-wisdom to make everything better.

She'd left her father's office with no real idea of where she was going. She'd driven over the Mid-Bay Bridge, ending up at the Donut Hole, in a booth with a glass of sweet iced tea that the waitress kept refilled and a salad that ended up in a to-go box. And despite several hours at the restaurant, going over listings, trying to create a semblance of order to her life—the life she'd wrecked of her own free will—she was still lost. Now she was driving back across the bridge to her parents' house, just wanting to be with her mom.

Not that Caron expected her mother to fix anything. She couldn't. And most of all, she didn't want her mother caught between her father's red-letter day and her unemployment announcement.

But Caron still wanted to tell her mother herself what had happened—what she'd done—before her father did. She needed to be an adult. First she'd tell her mother. Then she'd tell Alex that his girlfriend was now unemployed. And then, after conquering those two hurdles, she'd start sifting through the shambles of her life tomorrow.

Caron swallowed back the sour taste that filled her mouth, pressing the palm of her hand against her stomach. Right behind the looming question “What had she done?” lurked the question “What was she going to do?” Work for another realty company? Go independent? Or maybe she'd surprise everyone and do something else. Go sell Hawaiian shaved ices in one of those little trucks along the beach in Destin.

Caron shut the front door of her parents' house, kicking off her high heels and heading for the kitchen, the plush carpeting soft on the soles of her feet. “Mom? It's me.”

Where would she find her mother? Caron never stopped to consider what her mom did during the day. The house was always immaculate and her mother refused to let her father get a maid service. She nurtured the mini-jungle of plants growing in the sunroom, belonged to a book club, attended a women's prayer group. She planned dinners for her husband's business colleagues—the consummate hostess, Dad always said.

The kitchen smelled of chocolate and vanilla and peanut butter, and a quick glance at the red KitchenAid mixer on the counter—with remnants of cookie dough in the silver bowl and a black wire rack with cookies cooling alongside it—proved that her mother had decided to bake. She couldn't be that far away.

Sure enough, Caron found her mother sitting on the family room couch, her laptop balanced on her knees, a pair of bright fuchsia readers, embellished with gold filigree, perched on her nose.

“Hi, Mom.” Caron offered her a small wave from where she stood in the archway separating the two rooms.

“Caron!” Her mother started and then smiled. “I didn't hear you come in, honey.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. What are you doing?”

“Nothing important.” Her mother moved the laptop aside, shoving her readers on top of her head. “I'm surprised to see you in the middle of the day right after a holiday weekend. The office is usually so busy—”

“I know. Usually.”

“Do you have time for some lunch?” Her mother transitioned into the kitchen, offering Caron a quick hug that was like a soft kiss on her bruised emotions. “I have leftovers from Sunday, or I can whip up some tuna salad. It won't take long.”

“I'm not that hungry, but some iced tea would be nice.”

“Coming right up. I've got it sweetened, just the way you like it.”

Unexpected tears stung Caron's eyes, but she blinked them away. That was her mother—always taking care of her and everyone else, too.

“Listen, Mom, something happened at work today and I wanted to tell you myself . . .” Her voice wobbled like a kid's bike with only one training wheel.

“Oh?”

Caron scooped the side of the mixing bowl with the plastic spatula, savoring the leftover cookie dough. “Did you know Dad was going to partner with Nancy Miller?”

Her mother stilled for just a moment, then resumed removing two tall glasses from a cabinet. “Yes. He's talked about it for months.”

“Mom . . . you know he's always said Hollister Realty is a family-owned business. His company. Why would he suddenly partner with Nancy Miller?”

“Caron, I don't tell your father how to run his business. Yes, he discusses things with me, but in the end, he makes the decisions.” Her mother stopped talking for a moment as she filled the glasses with ice. “I do wish he'd told you before today, but he prefers to keep family and business separate as much as possible. And I respect that.”

“Well, there won't be any problem with that now.”

Her mother carried a plastic pitcher of tea to the kitchen counter. “What do you mean?”

“I quit.”

The pitcher hit the counter with a dull thud. “Caron! Why would you do that?”

“How can you even ask that question, Mom?” Caron abandoned the mixing bowl and held the glasses steady as her mom filled them with tea. “You know my dream has always been to be more than another one of Dad's employees. I wanted to inherit the business one day. By partnering with that woman, he's made it very clear I don't fit in his plans.”

“I know that's been your dream. And I know your father's decision is a shock.” Her mother paused, seeming to debate her words. “But Caron, have you ever asked yourself if being with Hollister Realty is the right dream for you?”

“Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved going with Dad when he viewed houses, prepped them for showings. I worked in his office during the summer. All I've ever wanted was to be a Realtor—”

“I know that—”

“I kept waiting for him to see that even though Logan didn't want to follow in his footsteps, I did.
I could.
” Caron closed her eyes, resisting the urge to stomp her foot on the tile floor. “And what good did it do me? He joins forces with Nancy Miller.
And now I don't have a job.”

“Caron, if you really want to be a Realtor, I'm sure your father will understand you were upset. Go back and talk with him—”

“Haven't you been watching me for the last four years, Mom? Or listening to anything I said? I
am
a Realtor.” Now Caron did stomp her foot. “And I'm not asking for my job back. Dad may think Hollister Realty Group is the future of the company, but I don't want to be a part of it. I was working for my future—what I hoped would be my future. I made the wrong assumption. I'll figure out something else.”

“Well then, I won't try to talk you out of your decision.” Her mother slid her readers off her head, setting them on the counter. “You're an intelligent woman, Caron. Your decision to quit may have been sudden, but that doesn't mean God isn't in it. I once heard someone say an unexpected bend in the road can lead right to God's next blessing for us.”

God.
Right. He was probably standing back and watching her tear her life apart, wondering why she hadn't asked for his help, his direction, when she was upset. Caron sipped her tea, but the sweetness didn't alter her attitude in any tangible way. She didn't have the right to throw a temper tantrum and blame anything on God. Her earthly father had hurt her, not her heavenly one. But right now her emotions were as shattered as if she'd dropped her glass of iced tea on the kitchen floor.

She wanted to blame somebody for the mess her life was. Her father for not making the decisions she wanted. Nancy Miller for being an interloper.

“So, what can I make you for lunch?”

“Mom, I didn't come here for you to fix everything. Or to fix me lunch. I just wanted you to hear about my decision from me, not from Dad.”

“Making you something to eat doesn't mean I'm fixing anything—”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm just not very good company right now.”

“Tell you what.” Her mother wrapped her in a loose hug and the faint scent of vanilla. “How about you go swim a few laps? That used to work when you were in high school and you were stressed out about exams or a basketball tournament.”

“Leave my troubles in the deep end of the pool, right?”