“Well. Thanks for asking,” I replied. Then I got right to it, didn’t want to spend time on idle chitchat knowing what had to come next. “This isn’t easy for me, Greg, because I’ve loved working here. And I wanted to tell you directly because you’ve been a great mentor to me over the years.” Without another word I handed him the envelope, which he opened, unfolding the letter inside. I watched his face as he read the short note, which I had signed only minutes earlier, hoping I was doing the right thing.
“I have another copy for HR, which I’ll drop off to Susan after we’re done here,” I said. Greg folded the letter and nodded. “I also wanted you to know I’m not leaving Jameson Porter for another firm. This isn’t about me being unhappy with my job, or this place.”
“And I don’t suppose I can change your mind?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I appreciate you’d even try,” I said. “I know it’s been difficult, having me out for so long and then only back for a couple of weeks.”
“Is there anything we could have done differently, Lucy?” I suspected a similar question would come from Susan, but the tone would be different. From Greg it was meant as an almost-apology—the timing of my resignation so close to my return, he was concerned they had let me down by reintegrating me too quickly. But Susan would be worried I had already had an informal conversation with an employment attorney.
“Nothing at all. You’ve all been wonderful,” I said. “And not just recently. For the past four years, too.” I stood and held out my hand, which Greg shook warmly. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Thank you, Lucy. We’re going to miss you around here. Especially me. No one writes up a report quite like you do.” He smiled.
“Well, you still have me for two weeks, so it’s not goodbye yet.” I returned his smile. “I do have a couple of suggestions for who might be a great fit for the job. And Brooke will be a fantastic resource for whomever you choose. You’ll definitely want to keep her where she is. I would have been lost without her help these past couple of months.”
“That’s good to hear,” Greg said, and if he sensed anything other than my absolute support for Brooke, he didn’t show it. “And I agree. Why don’t you put some thoughts together and let’s have lunch later this week to discuss. Sound like a plan?”
“It does,” I said, thanking him again before leaving his office and heading to Susan’s. After I gave her the other copy of my resignation letter—Susanwasglad to hear I didn’t have any formal grievances to file—I went back to my office, smiling at Brooke when I stopped by her door.
“Hey, Brooke, thanks again for handling that release for Greg the other day. Glad we caught it before the outlets turned it around.” I cringed for effect. “It would have been a nightmare.”
“No problem at all,” she said. “Happy to help.”
Then I frowned, gave her a confused look. “But the strangest thing about that. It was a duplicate. For some reason a few of my recent releases all had old client names in them, and I found two versions of each. Any idea what happened there? I mean, youwerethe one who sent it to Greg for me, so I thought maybe you might know.”
“I have no idea,” she said, her frown matching mine. I could tell she knew I was onto her, but was working hard to hide it. “That is strange. Maybe it was a program bug?”
“Maybe.” I waved my hand, as if shelving my concern. “But no worries. I figured it out and fixed them, and explained everything to Greg and Susan. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, let’s hope not.” She looked somewhat stunned, which, I have to say, made it even easier to smile.
“See you for the meeting at three?” I said, and she nodded mutely, realizing she was being dismissed. I felt great as I settled back into my office—I was liking this new, in-control Lucy and considered maybe it was some sort of electron magic from my mini earthing experiment—and then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Excited (and nervous) that Matt had finally gotten back to me, I grabbed for my phone and read the message. But it wasn’t from Matt; it was from Daniel.
I need to talk to you. Please come over tonight—9:00 p.m. I’m here alone.
He had written his address and closed the message with two simple words.
Please come.
And though I knew I shouldn’t have gone, I found myself standing outside Daniel London’s house and ringing the doorbell at 8:58 p.m.
43
As soon as the front door opened I knew I’d made a mistake.
“Hi again, Lucy.”
At first I was too shocked to say anything. Stood statue-still on Daniel’s front porch—a swing full of nautical-themed striped outdoor pillows (nicer than the ones on my couch at home) to my left, a large urn filled with winter greenery and white sparkling orbs on the right. It was a small house but gorgeous—the kind you’d find in aHouse & Homemagazine, the clear touches of a skilled designer visible everywhere.
“Margot. Oh. Hi.” My mind raced for a way to explain why I was here, on Daniel and Margot’s front porch, late on a Monday night. I came up blank. Margot stared at me, unsmiling, and I wondered if I should turn around and walk away. But then she smiled and seemed to come out of the trancelike state from a moment earlier. “Come in, come in,” she said, ushering me inside.
If I thought the house was beautiful from the outside, I was in awe of its interior. Sweeping ceilings, intricate crown molding, beautiful art, everything in its place. Definitely magazine-spread-worthy. “Your home is stunning.”
“Aw, thank you,” Margot replied, glancing over her shoulder as she hung my coat up on one of five antique brass hangers by the door. “Daniel and I did almost everything ourselves.” I hadn’t meant to give her my coat—had no intentions of staying—but was still in shock from finding Margot on the other side of the door, and my reaction times were off. “I baked some buttermilk blueberry muffins. Cravings.” She smiled again and rubbed her stomach, then gestured for me to follow her into the kitchen.
For a moment I stood by the front door, unsure what to do, but then I quickly unzipped my boots and followed her. The kitchen was clearly the central spot of their home—a large square island of white marble right in the middle, reclaimed wood stools lining one side. Two dozen muffins—striped and spotted where deep purple blueberry juice had oozed out during baking—sat on cooling racks on the island, and the sink was full of neatly stacked dishes yet to be washed. Margot took two plates from the cupboard and set a muffin on each one, handing me a plate even though I didn’t say I wanted a muffin and was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to eat it.
