“Good, good. And how about our…little problem?”
“I think the annual retreat will be a good time to figure out who’s behind it. We’re setting a trap, basically—getting some loyal employees in place to tell us who’s asking them to sign cards.”
Oh shit, the union—the retreat! I have to warn them.But when I pull out my phone, I have no bars out here.
“You’ve arranged everything?” Erickson presses on.
“Got some of our most ambitious employees together, coordinating in a private Slack channel. Promised them promotions if they participate.”
“Good, good,” Erickson says, and there’s a sound like he’s thumping Mark Winterson on the back. “Very organized. But watch out for your paper trail.”
He’s doing this all in Slack? So Mom might be able to see?
“Should we head back?” Erickson asks.
Oh fuck!I hadn’t quite considered that stalking them into the hedge maze might involve them chasing meoutof the hedge maze at some point.
I kick off my shoes so I can run ahead, bare feet in the Napa Valley soil, heels dangling in one hand and the other hiking up my dress, making snap decisions about what direction to take at each fork I hit because I can’t remember the way we came in. Their voices get fainter and fainter, and eventually I realize I must have lost them, but I also seem to have run deeper into the heart of the maze.
There’s no Google Maps to help me, but with some trial and error, I manage to find my way to an exit on a different side.
I wedge my feet back into my shoes and head through the gardens toward the sound of the party, past a topiary elephant that’s giving me a judgmental stare. And when I round the corner to get back to the lawn, I practically collide with Mark Winterson.
“Hey, there you are!” He slips an arm around my shoulders, and I want to sink into the earth. “I was looking for you.”
“And this is…?” Erickson’s standing a couple feet away, swirling a glass of some dark brown spirit.
“This is Ruby Ocampo—she works in Marketing.”
The image of a business card flashes through my mind:
Ruby Ocampo from Marketing
Not a Model, Not a Fling
“She’s second-generation TKCORP.” Mark Winterson lets me go and lifts his glass in a jaunty toast. “Her mom worked here too! For almost thirty years.”
“Is that right?” Erickson sounds disinterested.
It hits me in the face, right then—how Mom threw her whole mind and body at this job, and to the people at the top, it barely registered.
“Yes, she loved this company. She really—” I swallow hard, trying to stop my voice from wavering. “She really gave everything to it.”
“Oh.” Erickson’s salt-and-pepper brows push closer together. “Oh God, do you mean the woman who died? I saw the GoFundMe. Carmela?”
“Adela,” I snap. She worked there for nearly two-thirds of her natural life—and is still trapped there—but this man doesn’t even know her name.
I look at Mark Winterson for help, but he’s staring at me like I’mbeing a problem.“Excuse us a moment,” he says, taking my arm and tugging me off to the side.
“Hey,” he whispers sharply in my ear. “The last thing I need is for you to make a scene right now. Don’t be so sensitive.”
And wow, this tells me everything I need to know. I changed my mind. Now I don’t feel guilty for a single thing.
I peel off for the bathroom again at the soonest opportunity, lock myself in a stall, and open Signal. And I see that Greg’s messaged me a bunch of pictures from the wedding.
There’s Adam dancing with his new wife in the middle of the floor; all the accountants sitting around a table, doing shots; Sarah next to them, leaning her head on Grace’s shoulder and flashing the camera a peace sign.
There’s Al and Morgan, line dancing. There’s Carol, looking absolutely sloshed, pink in the face, laughing with Sam from Sales. There’s Greg, mouth open like someone grabbed his phone from him, and he’s asking them not to take a picture. His tie is loosened, knot sitting low under his collar.
