My life for a quality caffeinated beverage.
She picks up her pace, and she’s almost at the elevator when she catches up to Fran.
“Ms. Lee?” she says. “May I have a moment?”
Fran keeps walking, “Is it about the Game? Silly question. It’s that time again, meaning no one just stops me to chat. Let me guess—you’ve received a little white envelope. You’re concerned. You’ve heard rumors. You look around at your options to determine who best to speak to. Fran Lee. It’s always Fran Lee. Poster child for the horror that is the Game. What is it they say? That the Gamebrokeme. Yes?”
When Vivienne doesn’t answer, the white-haired woman stops and turns. “Well, speak up, girl. If you’re executive material, you’d better put some steel in that spine and some snap in that tongue or those old boys will roll right over you.”
“Yes, that’s what they say.”
The old woman snorts. “Bullshit is what they say. You want the truth, girl? Here, unvarnished truth from one professional woman to another. Being made anexecutivewon’t solve all your problems. It just might make them worse. But it’s the job that does it, not their foolish Game. Do I look broken to you?”
Vivienne looks into Fran’s deep-set dark eyes and thinks,Yes. In those eyes she sees exactly what she searched for but didn’t find with Erika.
How had she mockingly put it when she’d studied Erika?
The haunted emptiness in eyes that have seen too much, reflecting the memory of a horrific choice she’ll regret to her grave.
Vivienne can tell herself she’s being foolish, but that’s what she sees in Fran’s eyes.
What Vivienne says, though, is, “No, of course not,” and Fran sniffs.
“Exactly. What you see is a tough old broad. Cranky? Yes. Unpleasant? Sure. But broken?” Another sniff. “People believe what they want to believe. How’s your marriage, girl?”
“My—?” Vivienne blinks at the change of subject. “Fine. Great, actually.” Which it is. A child’s death can drive a couple apart, but in their case, it brought them closer—in shared grief, shared support, and shared determination to be amazing parents to their two living children.
“Be careful, then.That’sthe danger you face. You’ll be raised up when he wasn’t. Some men can’t handle it.”
“That isn’t an issue with us. I’ve had a better job for years.”
“Good. But keep your eye on it. Worry aboutthat, not some silly game.”
The elevator arrives and Fran steps on without a goodbye. Vivienne watches the doors close. Then she pushes the cell phone button, makes the call.
Viviennereads to Grace and Jamie that night. One full story each. When she gets back to the living room, Marco is hard at work coding, but a glass of Scotch waits at her end of the couch. Fingers and gaze still on his laptop, he swings his legs down to make room for her. She smiles, takes her spot and tugs his feet onto her lap. Then she sips her drink and waits. When the tap-tapping of the keyboard pauses, she says, “I have sent my regrets.”
“Hmm?” He glances up, gaze distant, still lost in the labyrinthine terrain of his code.
“I refused the invitation. I said thank you, but I’m happy where I am.”
“Yourefused?” He swings his legs down. “What did they say?”
“They reassured me that my decision doesn’t affect my life insurance policy. I’m still fully covered with double indemnity for accidental death. I’m not sure why they mentioned that, but it seemed important.”
“Ha-ha. So they were okay with it?”
“Well, not exactlyokay. I said I was still recovering from Hannah, and I didn’t feel I could take on an executive position at this time. I need to focus on my family. There wasn’t much they could say to that. They tried. Maybe a job change is exactly what I need, etcetera, etcetera. I politely but firmly declined, and in the end, they said I would be considered next time. No guarantees, but I’ll be considered.”
She puts down her Scotch. “I don’t want to be here next year, Marco. That’s really why I decided this. I don’t want an executive position. I want to leave. To start over.”
He exhales. “So do I.”
“And…” She twists to face him. “I know it might be too soon, but I’d like… I’d like to try again. For another baby. If that’s okay with you.”
He pulls her into an embrace. “That is absolutely okay with me.”
Vivienneis being punished. With each new e-mail that hits her inbox, each new folder that’s dropped on her desk—all of it containing fresh work, due ASAP—she knows what’s happening. She’s being buried under an avalanche of corporate minutiae,pointless little tasks that have her working through her breaks, through lunch, into the evening, with little hope of making it home at any reasonable hour.
