“What?”
“His exact words were, ‘all his personal belongs in a cheap box from a discount warehouse’?”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not?” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “Because it would be cruel, right?”
“No!” Actually, it’s pretty brilliant. “Because Declan’s on his honeymoon right now. He won’t be back for a week. Tell Dad we have to wait until then.”
Hah. This just gets better. I get Grace, and Dec gets all the luxuries removed. It’s like Christmas and Easter rolled into one.
“You want me to tell Mr. McCormick—senior—that you agree with the edict, but just want to delay it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that kind of mean?” Is she sniffling?
Gina’s not going to last long.
“And should I let Grace know?”
“God, no!” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out Declan’s resignation letter. Smug. He was so smug, handing over this thin piece of paper that contains words that unravel parts of my professional life. Terry bailed on the family business ages ago, for reasons he and Dad still won’t talk about.
Declan can’t leave, too. Without him, there’s no buffer.
Just Dad and me.
Bearing the brunt of The Full James McCormick isn’t fair.
Fair.
There’s a loaded word.
If Grace knows what’s coming for Declan, she’ll move heaven and earth to protect him. Besides, I need to get to her before Dad. I know she’d sooner eat live cockroaches than work for my father again (her words, not hyperbole), which means she’ll definitely come work for me, if I make sure the price is right.
“Gina, I’ll speak with my father. What else do I need to tackle today?”
“Your calendar has all your meetings in it? You’re booked solid in person or by phone for forty-six of the next sixty-three hours?”
“Is that a question, Gina?”
“Is what a question, sir?”
Sigh. “Thanks for giving me time to sleep and shower.”
“Actually, you’re double-booked for an entire hour in there, but I couldn’t help it? Someone from a place called Consolidated Evalu-shop insisted on a meeting?”
“Greg?” I fumble for his last name. That’s a detail admins should handle, damn it.
“Um, someone named Amanda Warrick? Just got off the phone with her? She said it involves confidential FCC filing information and requires that you clear your schedule for two hours straight?”
“Excuse me?” Gerald got me a coffee for the ride over here this morning. A double breve. That’s Amanda’s favorite, but whatever. I’ll take all the caffeine I can get. I start drinking as I listen to Gina’s explanation and look outside my window, the expansive view of the financial district rolling out to the seaport. I can see my building from here, along with a large tourist ship making its way to the Harbor Islands.
“She did this for today and again for Friday? I know Anterdec is acquiring Consolidated Evalu-shop, so I assume she needs to go over every detail of how to merge?”
And the window gets sprayed with coffee.
“What?”
“Did I explain this the wrong way?” Gina’s voice goes up even more when she’s worried. If this continues, she’ll sound like she’s sucking on helium all day.
“No, I got it.” And I do. Amanda is grabbing chunks of my schedule in advance.
She’s a fixer, all right. Saving the date in my professional calendar for sex?
Damn, she’s good.
“Let Ms. Warrick know that the merger talks may go on longer than two hours. Better plan for three.”
“That would bump your daily meeting with your dad?”
I smile. “Even better.”
“Mr. McCormick—senior—also made a requisition for a change in corporate policy regarding pets at work?”
“A what?” Oh, God. Now I’m doing it. I need a declarative statement to purge this vocal tic. “Please explain.”
“He wants Fridays to be Bring Your Pet to Work Day?”
“Fine.” No harm in it. “Anything else, Gina?”
“No, sir?”
“Please call me Andrew. All my admins do.”
“Yes, Mr. McCormick?”
Click.
I finish my lukewarm coffee. Weed through more than a hundred email messages that Gina already triaged. These are the truly urgent ones. I pare them down to eleven that are impossible to solve in my first full day back.
By the time I’m in my spin clothes, my trainer, Vince, has arrived. He’s carrying a glass bottle filled with limp, brown seaweed and a foil packet.
“Here’s your kombucha,” he announces, handing me the seaweed.
“I’m not drinking that crap, Vince.”
“It’s fermented! It’s good for your gut.”
“Beer’s fermented, too.”
He shoves the foil pouch in my hand. Vince has long hair, thick and braided, with a clean-shaven, wide face and a nearly hairless body. In spite of his enormous size, he cycles competitively and does private training for a few CEOs in the area.
He’s also merciless.
Which is why I hired him.
“What’s this? Kelp botanicals in a druid-tear solution?”
“MCT oil.”
“Isn’t that illegal everywhere except Colorado and Washington?”
“It’s medium-chain fatty acids, not marijuana.” Vince begins reciting all the health benefits. It’s easier to eat it than to argue. I rip open the top of the packet and suck it down.