Twice, his phone rang. Twice, the party outside his office stiffened, only to exchange frustrated glances when Tony rushed the callers off the phone and slammed it back onto its cradle.
At eleven-forty-five, Garrett arrived. He looked irritatingly relaxed, but when he saw Rachel his expression tightened. He’d been distant—even more distant than usual—since she’d pushed him into going to the sonogram with Stephanie.
“I’m guessing there’s no news,” he said.
Tony’s assistant shook her head.
“Ah, well, you know what they say about no news.”
“Which has no logical application in this situation whatsoever,” Rachel pointed out. “No news is simply no news.”
“Maybe they’re running late,” Helen said.
Jonathan Key’s assistant hollered across the room. “Just got a call from a friend at JWT. They got four noms.”
Someone groaned. There’d been no delay in the announcement process that might explain Tony’s silent phone. It also meant there were four fewer nominations available for KBC.
“Six at Saatchi,” Jonathan’s assistant called—she’d had another phone call.
Clive grimaced. His Special Olympics campaign was up against a particularly strong Saatchi campaign.
Marnie Bream, the firm’s only female partner, stuck her head around the door of her office, next to Tony’s. “Publicity Partners got one for the Kool Water billboards.”
Publicity Partners was a tiny agency. It was normal for a few barely-knowns to make the list.
“That’s nice for them,” Rachel said. Then she realized.
“Tony’s on the phone,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T
HEY
’
D
ALL
BEEN
SO
CAUGHT
up in the news from other agencies, they hadn’t noticed Tony had picked up his handset. Now they turned in unison to stare through the glass.
Tony was grinning into the phone. This was The Call. Sensing their scrutiny, he glanced up, scanned his audience. His smile widened; he flashed a thumbs-up.
At who?
Rachel couldn’t tell who was the clever creative director who’d been short-listed. All the facts and figures she’d memorized about the CLIO—especially the one about fewer than ten percent of the submitted campaigns qualifying for the short list—flew out of her head, to be replaced by rampant longing.
It’s my turn. Let it be me.
At last, Tony hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, beaming.
Clive took a long stride to the door and pushed it open. “Get out here, Tony, and tell us who got it.”
Tony’s grin widened as he made a show of a very leisurely walk to join them. “Congratulations…” he drew out the suspense “…Clive.”
Garrett thumped Clive on the shoulder with what looked like genuine pleasure; Rachel stretched her arms around his massive frame and hugged him. “You deserve it, Clive,” she said, and almost meant it. Later, she
would
mean it, but right now there was the sting of disappointment that Tony hadn’t said her name. Mingled with an uncharitable relief that he also hadn’t said—
“But wait, there’s more,” Tony said, in his best imitation of a home shopping network salesperson. “Congratulations to you, too…” again the pause “…Garrett!”
The bottom fell out of Rachel’s stomach.
“Woohoo!” Clive shared the love, shaking Garrett’s hand and clapping him on the back.
Rachel had to hug him. To hug Clive and not Garrett would look like sour grapes. Besides, if she didn’t hide her face from him, he would see her disappointment. It would only take one mocking Garrett-quip for her to dissolve into humiliating tears.
“Go, Garrett,” she said brightly. Too brightly—Tony’s assistant winced. Then, before Rachel could make her move, Garrett hauled her into his arms.
Several thoughts struck her, swimming in her dazed, disappointed mind. One, Garrett smelled fantastic—he
so
was wearing cologne. Two, although she’d kissed him, he’d never held her in his arms before and it turned out his arms were strong and sculpted…he must work out. Three, he was saying something against her hair, something no one else could hear. It sounded like, “Sorry, Rach.”
He’d broken his vow of silence because he felt
sorry
for her?
Nothing could have worked more effectively to dry her eyes and snap her out of her funk. She stiffened her backbone and pulled away. “Great job, Garrett. Good luck at the awards ceremony.”
It occurred to her that maybe Tony would now announce that she, too, had finaled.
But he didn’t break off his animated chat with Clive, and then Helen said, “The list is up on the website.”
They crowded around her monitor to see who else was up for a prestigious gong. Mostly familiar names, the best of the best. Rachel strove for the right blend of surprise and interest in the other short-listed campaigns, to hide her devastation. She was aware of Garrett standing close behind her, the prickling of the hairs on her nape.
Garrett’s cell phone rang. Surely he would remove his disturbing presence to take the call?
He did. She sensed his departure. Then she heard him say, “Mark, hi, how are you?”
Mark? As in Mark Van de Kamp, their client at Brightwater Group? Tony and Clive assumed the same, going by the way they turned to watch Garrett.
“Thanks, yes, I was thrilled.” Garrett was obviously accepting congratulations. “Yeah, that would make nine in total, but obviously there’s a good chance I won’t win gold.”
Rachel rolled her eyes.
A minute later: “I’m pretty sure someone else out there must have won nine,” Garrett said modestly.
For crying out loud!
After he ended the call, almost before he’d stashed his phone in his pocket, Clive’s cell rang. Clive glanced at the display, nodded at Tony to confirm it was his turn to hear from Mark. He moved away to take the call.
The significance of what had just happened wasn’t lost on Rachel. One, the client had been watching for the CLIO announcement with as much anticipation as any ad agency. Tony was right—clients cared about awards. Two, although Garrett’s campaign was listed beneath Clive’s on the website, in alphabetical order by client name, Mark had chosen to congratulate Garrett first. Any analyst of consumer behavior knew that kind of choice was neither random nor meaningless. Even if Mark didn’t know it himself.
More than ever, Rachel felt her lack of a CLIO; she felt as if everyone was staring at her, pitying her. When her own cell phone rang, she snatched it from her pocket. Even though there was no chance it could be a forgotten CLIO call…was there?
The display read
Mom.
Rachel assured herself it was unlikely her mother had been monitoring the CLIO list and was calling to commiserate. Her parents used the internet at the local library once a week.
“I need to take this,” she said to no one in particular, pleased to have an excuse to break away from the chattering crowd. Tony had retrieved a bottle of champagne from his office. Helen lined up flutes on her desk. Over by the elevator, Rachel pressed the button to answer her phone. “Hi, Mom.”
She wanted to talk to her mother, she realized. Wanted to hear loving words from someone who knew there were more important things in life than CLIOs.
“Hi, sweetheart. What’s new?” It was her parents’ stock greeting, a subconscious acknowledgment of how they thrived on change.
“Nothing much.” Rachel was never more aware of how true her standard answer was.
I’m a CLIO finalist
would sound so much better. “How about with you guys?”
“Funny you should ask,” her mom said. And Rachel knew instantly she wouldn’t find it funny. Nora took a deep, audible breath. “Your dad and I are thinking about moving to Dayton.”
“Dayton, New Jersey?” Rachel asked, ninety-nine percent sure there was no town of that name in the state.
Her mom chuckled. “Dayton, Ohio. There’s a new stadium going up there. Your dad has an idea for a fast-food concession—Burt’s Brats. This could be a great opportunity.”
Inside Rachel, something snapped.
“A great opportunity for what?” she demanded. “To spend money you don’t have, setting up a hot-dog stand in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Rachel!” Her mom stopped. It had been so long since Rachel had called them on their constant moving, it seemed she didn’t know what to say.
Rachel pushed her guilt aside. “Come on, Mom, you know that’s what’ll happen—or something like it. Why can’t you stay where you are? Why should LeeAnne have to move again? The girls are starting preschool in September—ask her, she’ll tell you she wants to stay.” Her sister might not quite have reached that stage in her thoughts… . Then again, maybe she had.
“I know this is a sore spot for you,” her mom said. “But your father and I are adults who can make our own decisions.”
Not
good
decisions, they couldn’t. “Can’t you just commit to one thing?” Rachel asked. “One place?”
She wanted to run out the door, rent a car and drive to Freehold. To beg her sister to be strong, to shake some sense into her parents. But she couldn’t afford a day away from the office at this stage of the Brightwater pitch. Couldn’t afford to blow any chance to keep her job.
“Your father and I have been happily married for thirty-two years—how’s that for commitment?” A short sigh. “Let’s talk about this when you’re feeling calmer. Now, dear, how’s your work going? How are you getting along with that private-college pitch?”
Tears spurted to Rachel’s eyes—anger at her folks, mingled with disappointment over the CLIOs and the very real fear she was about to lose her job.
“Oh, Mom, I—” To her horror, just as those tears spilled over, Garrett materialized in front of her, carrying two glasses of champagne.
“Here, Rach, you may not feel like this, but there’s a lot to be said for the numbing effect—” He stopped, his expression horrified as he realized he’d just gotten embroiled in an emotional meltdown. That right now, Rachel was
needy.
Would he run for the hills, or stick around to mock her? Either way, she couldn’t bear for him to see her so defeated.
“Rachel?” her mom asked down the phone. “Are you okay? You sound upset.”
“I’m upset,” she improvised madly, “because you guys refuse to come in here for a focus group, no matter how often I ask you. This is the biggest pitch of my life, Mom.” Not a bad effort for someone who wasn’t good at spur-of-the-moment. She sounded a little wild, but not pathetic. Not a total loser.
“Honey, of course we’d love to come in.” Her mom’s rapid response was the only hint of any sense of guilt about their plans to uproot the family once again. “Just name the day.”
“Uh…” Rachel didn’t actually have a focus group planned. And the main reason she kept inviting her parents to attend—because the payment might help keep them from looking for new opportunities to make money—now seemed like a thumb-in-the-dike attempt at stopping them from making yet another move. Still, according to legend, a thumb in the dike had once succeeded in holding back an inevitable flood. If Mom and Dad came into the city for a focus group, she would have a chance to talk them out of this dumb idea. “Next Thursday,” she said.
Yes, that could work. She took a glass from Garrett and gave him a brilliant smile. “Mom, I have to go. There’s a bit of a party going on here. I’ll call you later with the details.”
“Phew,” she said, as she slipped her phone back into her pocket. “The lengths I have to go to to convince my parents to come into the city. Luckily, they fall for the fake tears every time.”
She saw blatant disbelief in Garrett’s eyes. To her surprise, he didn’t call her on it. “Parents,” he agreed. “Who’d have ’em?”
Which must mean—ugh—he felt sorry for her.
Garrett glanced at Tony and Clive, still clinking glasses and assuring each other they were the best.
“So, you’re doing a focus group?” he asked. Was that a clumsy attempt to distract her from her woes? “Aren’t they a bit old-fashioned?”
Just the kind of idiotic comment she’d love to tackle.
“A well-run focus group is one of the most effect research tools around,” she said, reviving the ghost of her fighting spirit. “I have the stats to prove it. Personally, I find they spark my creativity.”
Garrett grinned. “Sure they do.”
Tony’s assistant had started taking photos of Clive and Tony. Clearly Garrett would be next, and there was every chance Rachel would get dragged into a shot, required to look thrilled for him. This morning had drained her limited acting talent.
“I’d better get back to work.” Rachel raised her glass and her voice. “Cheers, everyone.”
As she headed for her office, she told herself she was walking away on her own terms, as Garrett would say. For the first time, she could see why that mattered.
* * *
I
T
WAS
PAST
NOON
, and most people had gone to lunch, which meant Rachel didn’t need to fend off inquiries about the CLIOs. When she reached her office, she set down her champagne glass without bothering to walk around her desk and, still standing, picked up the phone. She dialed her sister’s cell. LeeAnne answered on the second ring.
“LeeAnne, how are you? The girls okay?”
Her sister began a description of some new game the twins had invented.
“Sounds adorable,” Rachel interrupted. “Did you know Mom and Dad want to move to Dayton?”
“No. When? Why?” There was a huff, as if LeeAnne might have sat down suddenly.
Rachel repeated the gist of what her mom had said.
“So, it’s not definite yet?” LeeAnne asked, with a lack of enthusiasm that gave Rachel hope.
“It wasn’t fifteen minutes ago,” she said drily.
“I’d better start collecting boxes from the grocery store,” LeeAnne said.
“Or,” Rachel said, “you could tell Mom and Dad you don’t want to go.”
A short silence. “I don’t think they’d stay, not if they’ve got their hearts set on this hot-dog stand.”
“You could stay anyway,” Rachel said. “Send the girls to that nursery school you like so much.” It would be wonderful to have family nearby on a permanent basis.
“I don’t know… . I want to be close to Mom and Dad.”
LeeAnne’s hesitation spurred Rachel on. “Lee, maybe it’s time for you to settle in one place, even if our parents can’t. Now that the girls are heading toward school, wouldn’t it be great for them to have some stability?”
“I know you always think that,” LeeAnne said. “And I can see some benefit to what you’re saying.” That alone was quite an admission, Rachel thought excitedly. “But the twins adore Mom and Dad.”