I held up my hands and lowered my voice as he paced the wall of windows overlooking the city. It was a remarkable view when not bisected by a furious man. "First off, they aren't handling any confidential—"
"I know what I saw," he yelled.
Oh, wonderful. Let's introduce everyone to Ash's tyranny right off the bat.
I cleared my throat. "The identifying information is blacked out. I redacted everything before preparing those performance tasks."
This did nothing to assuage his anger. "Why are they doing performance tasks with redacted client files, may I ask? And who are they and where did they come from? Or are these questions I'm not allowed to ask now that you've decided you run the joint?"
"Don't be belligerent." I crossed my arms, watching while he continued pacing. "You told me to close your job postings. I did—and I selected a handful of applicants for on-site interviews and brief work samples to get a true sense of their skill level."
He stopped pacing, peered at me, then rubbed his temples. "Since when are you qualified to evaluate that?"
An acidic laugh sounded in my throat.
It was funny how those words would've leveled me before leaving Denver. Funny in the way I'd allowed others to distill the value of my contributions down to tiny nuggets of nothing. Funny that I'd believed it, I'd bought into it, I'd sold my hopes of geeking out over pre-Columbia North American burial traditions down the river over it. Funny in the way it wasn't funny at all but if I didn't yank a bitter, burning laugh up from my depths, I'd cry.
And there was no way in hell I was going to cry. Not over this.
"You're right, boss," I said. "I can't evaluate the nuances of accounting work well enough to spot the tiny errors that make all the difference. But you know what I can do? I can cull through the applications and line the bench with viable candidates. Then I can call them in and verify their résumés aren't loaded with marshmallows and gum drops. I can check their references and confirm they didn't embezzle from their last employer. And the other thing I can do is whittle down the vetted prospects to a small, manageable number and let you use all your qualifications to evaluate them. That way, you can confidently delegate and buy yourself the time necessary to meet the needs of your clients and your dad's too. Did I mention I have candidates who can work remotely or out of the New Bedford office? Yes, I do, because that would help alleviate the backlog of work from there and also minimize your dad's concerns about shipping the work off, away from the home base of those clients."
Ash stared at me while he gripped the back of his desk chair as if he meant to dismantle it with one quick snap. Then, "You should've told me before you did all this." He waved at the wall shared with the conference room. Thank god it wasn't like most of the glass walls in this office but a solid slate of whiteboard on both sides. "You can't go and—and do whatever the hell you want. We aren't doing tarot card readings here."
"What did I tell you about fighting fair?"
"Then don't keep secrets from me," he roared.
"That's not how it works. You fight fair all the time, even when it's inconvenient." I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back against the door. "What are you actually upset about right now? Because I've already explained that the docs are redacted and your NDAs are safe. There's nothing outrageous about calling people in for an interview. Worst-case scenario, I reach out to them tomorrow and tell them we've decided to go in a different direction. Nothing tragic there. So, what's your real problem?"
His whole body got in on the action of being affronted—rolling the eyes, shaking the head, cocking the hip, fisting the hands on the waist. If I wasn't mistaken, there was also a snicker or two.
"I expect you to keep me updated. For reasons I cannot comprehend, you let this initiative fly undetected all week. You didn't mention it to me once, Zelda, and you sprang this maneuver the minute I was out of the office for more than a few hours."
"Can't comprehend?" I echoed. "How about the micromanaging tyrant who likes to come out and play whenever things don't meet with his fanatical expectations?"
"Have you considered the possibility it's important for this work to meet my expectations? Or, I don't know, those of the Internal Revenue Service, the Securities and Exchange Commission, any of the states in which my clients operate? That this matters beyondme? That this might not be about me at all?" He reached for the laptop bag and suit coat he'd abandoned on his desk. "I have a meeting on the other side of town," he murmured. "I'll be out of the office the rest of the day."
"A meeting? Where? With who? There's no meeting on your calendar."
He shrugged his bag over his shoulder, avoiding my eyes, and said, "Guess I'm not the only one who can keep a secret."
I watched him leave, all bluster and bullshit. I banged out a quick email before returning to my interviews. This man didn't make it uncomplicated for anyone, least of all himself.
* * *
Mr. Santillian,
Despite the fact I'm currently living out of your guest room and sleeping with you most nights, I am writing to announce my resignation effective two weeks from today.
In other words, I'll locate someone who is both obscenely overqualified and willing to devote their days to the handful of tasks you are able to wrench from your perfectionist, micromanaging grip. It may be difficult to find a Nobel laureate genius looking for basic filing work on such short notice, but I'll do my best.
Don't worry about your sister's wedding this weekend. I still plan to attend as your date, assuming you've finished hating me by then.
Thank you in advance for your understanding.
Zelda
20
