An hour later, Rachel loaded her overnight bag into the trunk of a rented Ford Focus, along with a supply of Aunt Betty’s Apple Pies, courtesy of her
very appreciative
client—how many bottles of Calvin Klein fragrance had Garrett been given, huh?—and joined the weekend crawl out of Manhattan. Once she was through the Holland Tunnel, she stuck to the toll roads, and the traffic thinned right out.
It was only eleven o’clock when she pulled into The Pines Mobile Home Park in Freehold, New Jersey. She followed the loop road, if you could call the vaguely circular stretch of gravel a road, around to her parents’ trailer.
Her mom must have heard the crunch of her tires, because the door of the double-wide opened before Rachel switched off her engine.
“Hi, Mom,” Rachel called as she grabbed her bag from the backseat. She loaded up an armful of pies, then closed the door with her butt.
“Honey, did you tell us you were coming—oh, yum!” Nora Frye’s eyes lit up at the sight of the red-and-white pie cartons.
Rachel kissed her cheek and handed over the booty. “Kind of a last-minute decision—is that okay?” Cell phone reception wasn’t great here, and it was always a hassle to phone the trailer-park office and hope they’d get a message to her parents.
“That’s fine, though I guess we’ll have to cancel our trip to Paris,” her mother said gaily, leading the way inside. As she crossed the threshold, she raised her voice. “Burton, Rachel’s here!”
“Did he work last night?” Rachel asked. Her dad’s burly build meant he easily found a job as a security guard whenever her parents’ other schemes fell through.
“Got to bed at five,” her mom confirmed, “but he can wake up for you.”
Rachel followed her mom to the small kitchen area. While Nora filled the kettle Rachel had given her last Christmas and set it on the stove, Rachel dug in her purse to produce a pack of real coffee. Her mom set the jar of instant she’d been opening back on the shelf, and reached high for the French press, covered with a film of dust.
“So, what’s new?” Her mom squirted detergent into the press and began to wash it.
“I made the partner short list at work.”
Her mom gave a little squawk. “Hon, that’s fantastic!”
“I know. Thanks.” Just thinking about it had Rachel grinning. She pushed aside the “I might get fired” aspect as she found some scissors in a drawer and snipped the top off the coffee pack. When she was certain her mom wasn’t watching, she tucked a folded twenty-dollar bill in the back of the drawer.
By the time they’d carried their cups over to the table by the window, Rachel’s dad had emerged from the bedroom. He hugged Rachel before he pulled out one of the nonmatching chairs and sat. “That coffee for me, Nora?”
Her mom slid the third mug toward him. While she fussed with cream and sugar, Rachel took the opportunity to stuff another twenty down the gap between the seat pad and the back of the built-in banquette she occupied. Anything more than twenty and her parents would get suspicious.
Her dad took a sip of the hot coffee and let out a satisfied sigh. “Home is where the coffee is, right, Nora?”
“That’s right, hon.” Nora blew him a kiss.
Rachel tensed. Comments like that made her want to chime in with something like, “Home is where you put down roots. Where you decide to stick it out, no matter what.”
Rachel blew on her coffee so she wouldn’t meet his eyes and feel compelled to disagree. Pointing out their fundamental differences in philosophy only led to circular arguments that, despite being right, she never won.
“I’m hoping I can pick your brains,” she said, changing the subject. Her family came in very handy when she wanted to run ideas by them or have them try out a new product. It was her mom who’d said, “This is better’n I make, don’t you think, Burton?” the first time she’d tried an Aunt Betty’s apple pie.
Which had inspired the eventual slogan “As good as Mom makes.” Aunt Betty’s had seen a nice upturn in sales as a result of that particular piece of creativity.
In the past, Rachel had offered to pay them to be her own private focus group—it would help them financially, and she’d assured them KBC would pick up the tab—but they wouldn’t hear of it.
“I’m pitching to a group that’s taken over a bunch of private colleges,” she said. “They’ll be rebranding and relaunching them, along with a finance company offering student loans. But we’ll just talk about the academic side today,” she added quickly.
She’d learned not to discuss anything financial with her parents, however gently couched.
I don’t think this email is actually from the president of Nigeria’s largest bank, Dad.
Or,
A hundred percent interest over three months implies a higher investment risk level than you might want to take.
Instead, she tried to hide enough twenty-dollar bills that they could afford a few small treats. Hoping it was enough to stave off the need to pursue instant riches.
“Sure, we can talk about that,” Burton said. “You want to start now?”
“No hurry. I’ll stay over, if that’s okay.”
“Great,” her mom said. “When I’ve finished my coffee I’ll wander out to the road—” where the cell phone signal was stronger “—and call LeeAnne. She’ll want to see you.”
Good thing Rachel had plenty more twenties in her purse. Her younger sister, LeeAnne, was the mother of three-year-old twins. The twins’ father had taken off before they were even born, so LeeAnne depended entirely on her parents for backup. She usually tried to live within a few miles of Nora and Burton. Though as Rachel often pointed out, part-time work that paid a decent wage and allowed her time with the kids was hard enough to find without the added complication of moving so often.
LeeAnne always agreed, but she still packed up and moved each time.
“Seen any good ads lately?” Rachel asked her father.
Her dad rumbled on about a Toyota truck commercial—TV with radio and print backup—that Rachel also considered pretty good. “But my favorite is that Lexus ad with the bridge,” Burton said.
Rachel stiffened. “Really? You like that?” It was one of Garrett’s campaigns, the first one he’d done at KBC. “You don’t think it was bit over-the-top?”
“Over-the-top!” her father scoffed. “It’s sheer genius.”
Rachel grunted. A sound that reminded her of Garrett, as if she needed to think of him.
“It sure would be convenient if you could win a beer company as a client, hon,” her mom joked. “Your dad won a gas grill in a raffle at work, so we thought we’d get some friends over to christen it. A few freebies wouldn’t go amiss.”
Her parents had been here long enough to make friends to invite over. Could they actually be settling down? Rachel treated it with a healthy dose of skepticism, but, still, it was a tantalizing thought.
Rachel’s childhood was a blur of different homes—cheap apartments, trailers, the occasional small house. Sooner or later, the Fryes had left them all, most with a cheery toot of the horn to the neighbors, a few in the dead of night in the hope the landlord wouldn’t chase after them.
It was amazing none of those landlords had tracked them down and taken them to court…but then, her folks were nice people who always meant well. Their creditors always seemed to end up excusing them.
Rachel excused them, too. They were loving parents, and if she’d had to be particularly tenacious to burrow herself into each new school and earn the grades she wanted…well, that was character building. And it wasn’t as if Mom and Dad didn’t work hard or try to get ahead.
The problem was their method of doing so.
For as long as Rachel could remember, they’d been suckers for the promise of good times around the corner. Over and again, they’d uprooted themselves so Burton could chase after an exciting new job. Or borrowed more than they could afford to invest in a “sure thing.”
Just once, they’d had a great return. They’d lent a thousand bucks to a guy who’d patented a new can opener, and got three thousand back. Other than that, to give it the most charitable interpretation, they were the unluckiest investors in the world.
Rachel had long ago agreed to disagree with her parents. She loved them, but she didn’t want their lives, and she couldn’t share their excitement about the Next Big Thing. And they’d had enough of what they called her cynicism.
They talked about harmless subjects until LeeAnne and the twins, Kylie and Dannii—named after the Minogue sisters—arrived for lunch. After they’d eaten and cleared away the dishes, the girls stayed at the table with crayons and coloring books, while the adults spread out in the living area, ready to bend their brains to Rachel’s latest problem. Her family treated it like a game, and with them it felt like one.
As opposed to feeling as if her life was on the line.
“So let’s talk about how people without a college background choose a college for their kids,” she said. “I’ve been trying to remember the discussions we had when I was in high school.”
“You girls could have gone to college,” Nora said. “You were both bright enough.”
“We looked into the whole student loans thing,” her father reminded Rachel. “But you said you didn’t want to go.”
They’d had no way of funding a college education beyond massive loans. And Rachel had seen firsthand the consequences of excessive borrowing; she’d wanted nothing to do with it.
“I’d love it if Kylie and Dannii went to college,” LeeAnne said wistfully. “Maybe they’ll end up in these schools you’re advertising and really make something of themselves.”
“They already are something,” Nora scolded. “They’re the two most adorable girls that ever lived. After you and your sister.”
“There is that.” LeeAnne smiled.
Threads of ideas began to float in Rachel’s mind. She knew better than to try pinning them down when they were this ephemeral. If she let them float a while, they might coalesce into something solid.
Solid.
That’s how Tony had described her work. She needed better than solid.
“Takes four years to get a degree,” Burton warned LeeAnne.
“I know.”
“I guess we have a few years to come into some money,” Burton joked.
Oh, boy. Rachel hoped her sister had more of a plan than that. Maybe Rachel could start a college fund for her nieces.
They talked for a while longer. Then LeeAnne glanced at her combined watch and pedometer, which sported the name of a well-known cereal company, one of Rachel’s clients. “I’d better go, I’m trying to get the girls into more of a daily routine before they start nursery school. It’s time for their nap.”
Rachel walked her sister out to her rusting Toyota. They each held one of the twins by the hand.
“So this routine thing is new,” Rachel said as she buckled Dannii into her car seat.
“Yeah, I sound almost like you.” LeeAnne flashed her a grin and clipped Kylie in.
“Don’t knock it—it works.” Rachel kissed Dannii, then closed the door, stuffing a twenty into the door pocket as she did so. “So they start nursery school in September?”
“Yep.” LeeAnne climbed into the driver’s seat and lowered the passenger window so they could continue talking. “There’s a great school right near us. I hope we’re still in the neighborhood.”
Had her sister ever expressed a desire to remain in one place before?
Rachel leaned in through the window and said casually, “You could stay. If Mom and Dad move, I mean.”
“You know I need to be near them. I couldn’t raise the girls without their moral support, not to mention Mom’s babysitting.” LeeAnne looked in her rearview mirror, back at the trailer.
“Dad’s work is steady, right?” Rachel asked. “There’s no reason to move.”
“Only if something too good to miss comes up somewhere else.” LeeAnne let out a breath that was almost a sigh.
“Maybe if you refused to go with them, Mom and Dad would stay put,” Rachel suggested. LeeAnne had grumbled a bit when they were kids, but she’d never been upset by their constant moves as Rachel had. Maybe, at last, she was developing an interest in stability.
Her sister looked skeptical. “I’m not sure that’s what I want. Moving can be exciting. Though maybe not as often as we do it,” she admitted.
“You should think about staying. For the twins’ sake.” Rachel figured she’d better not push her luck. She stepped back and patted the side of the car. “Off you go, sis.”
She watched until the Toyota turned out onto the road. As she headed back inside, a couple of images that might work for Brightwater Group flashed in her mind. Rachel picked up the pace and ran to make notes. If she was going to be number one with the client on Monday, there could be No Idea Left Behind.
CHAPTER FIVE
R
ACHEL
TOOK
A
TRAIN
to Princeton, New Jersey, where Brightwater had its headquarters, presumably so some of the luster associated with Princeton University might reflect on its private colleges. Smart strategy.
She arrived in plenty of time for the meeting. Before her colleagues. If punctuality was a deciding factor for the KBC partnership, she would ace the promotion.
Since the morning was sunny but not too hot, she stood outside to wait. Tony and Clive were next to arrive. They’d caught the same train and shared a cab from the station. Coincidence, or clever planning by Clive? She didn’t think of him as a schemer—six foot four, slow-moving and good-natured, he was the epitome of a gentle giant.
There was no sign of Garrett. Dared she hope that he’d thrown in the towel?
“Good weekend?” Rachel asked Clive, trying to gauge how much time he’d spent reading up about private colleges.
“I had my in-laws staying,” he said. “They’re helping us paint the apartment.”
“How nice.” Didn’t sound like he’d been able to work. She checked her watch…oops, she wasn’t supposed to be doing that so often. Three minutes past nine. Garrett couldn’t be coming; even he wouldn’t dare to be late today. “Shall we go in?” she said cheerfully.
Tony scanned the parking lot. “Any idea how Garrett’s getting here?”
He’d barely finished speaking when a black BMW M5 roared into the lot.
“I think,” Rachel said, “he’s driving.”
Garrett parked right in front of them, in a space that wasn’t strictly a space. He got out of the car empty-handed. No briefcase. No notepad.
Rachel felt suddenly weighed down by her tools of the trade. Un-nimble.
At least I was here on time.
She waited for him to apologize for keeping them waiting.
“Hi,” he said to Tony.
Tony nodded and glanced at his watch.
“Is that peanut butter on your tie?” Garrett asked Clive.
“Probably,” Clive said equably.
Garrett’s gaze skimmed over Rachel’s black silk blouse and dropped to the hem of the
Pick me, I’m the best
cerise skirt that ended just above her knees.
“Love the pink, Rach,” he said, his voice deepening. “Your legs aren’t bad, either.”
Good grief, the guy had a career death wish!
That was fine by Rachel. Tony opened his mouth to object to Garrett’s comment, but she held up a hand to tell him she could deal with it.
“Cerise,” she corrected Garrett coolly. “And it’s Rach
el
. I don’t expect my legs to affect the outcome of this meeting.”
How pathetic did he think she was, to fall for another attempt to disconcert her?
He peered closer. “Don’t underestimate yourself—they’re damn good.”
“That’s enough, Garrett,” Tony snapped.
Garrett shrugged. A twinge of envy surprised Rachel. When she’d let herself think about it, KBC’s decision to fire two creative directors filled her with fear and anger. Consequently, she was on her best behavior. Garrett’s don’t-give-a-damn attitude spoke of a courage she didn’t have.
In their meeting, Mark Van de Kamp, Brightwater’s marketing director, seemed excited about the level of creative talent he was being offered. He gave them a more in-depth briefing about the new colleges—actually a bunch of existing colleges the group had acquired—and their target market. Rachel managed to slip in a couple of what she considered insightful comments.
“Any questions?” Mark asked at the conclusion of his presentation.
Clive jumped in, showing a good grasp of the issues. Some of them, at least.
Rachel stepped up to the plate with one he’d missed. “Mark, there’s been a suggestion that companies like Brightwater exploit the low-income families they claim to serve, encouraging them to take out loans they can’t afford to pay back. How worried are you that what you’re doing will be seen in that light?” With her own nieces in mind, she’d spent half of Sunday researching issues surrounding low-income families and college fees.
Garrett looked surprised—whether at the information or the fact she’d come up with such an unexpected question, she wasn’t sure. Tony seemed intrigued. All in all, Rachel felt as if she’d made a strong attempt to step outside the box.
“Good question.” Mark smiled at her. “Those other organizations have typically offered punitive loan conditions and poor academic quality. Our loan rates will be competitive, and we’re currently lining up endorsements by Action Against Poverty and the NAACP in support of the quality of our programs.”
“Sounds good.” Rachel made some notes on her legal pad.
Logic dictated it was Garrett’s turn to ask the next question.
She set down her pen so she could observe The Shark in action.
For long seconds silence reigned.
“So tell me, Mark,” Garrett said, “If Brightwater was a fruit, what fruit would it be?”
What?
Clive glanced down at the peanut-butter stain on his tie, so Rachel couldn’t read his expression. Tony froze in his seat. Garrett was straight-faced, totally relaxed.
“Hmm.” Mark propped his chin on his hand. “That’s very interesting, Garrett, very interesting indeed.”
It’s a crock! He’s kidding!
Both Tony and Clive took their cue from the client, and nodded.
Excuse me? Am I the only rational person in this room?
Garrett’s glance flicked toward her, as if he could read her thoughts. She couldn’t suppress an eye roll. His eyebrows rose in spurious inquiry.
“I think I’d have to say…a melon,” Mark said.
“Cantaloupe or honeydew?” Garrett shot back.
Oh, puh-lease.
“Cantaloupe, definitely.”
“I see,” Garrett said. “Thanks, Mark, that’s useful.” He smiled at Van de Kamp, and it was such a rare thing, it was as if the sun had come out from a cloud. Rachel could practically see the man basking in its warmth.
* * *
G
ARRETT
OFFERED
THEM
ALL
a ride back to the office. While Tony and Clive were signing out at the reception desk, Rachel caught up with him on his way to the parking lot.
“What was that about?” she demanded.
“What?” He sped up, forcing her to almost jog.
“Melons,” she said.
He didn’t slow, but his gaze flicked down over her fitted blouse. “No comment, though I’m sure they’re very nice. I’m more of a leg man.”
She sputtered a laugh…and realized he was paying her legs some considerable attention. “Garrett, be serious. You can’t tell me that’s how you normally take a brief.”
“Oh, dear, have you been doing it wrong all this time?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, I have not. But I don’t get what you—” She stopped. “You’re quitting. Aren’t you?”
He walked faster. “What do you mean?”
“Those comments, way too outrageous even for you. You’re leaving KBC.” She was unable to contain a triumphant grin as she kept pace.
“No, I’m not,” he said, annoyed. Totally unconvincing.
“Hey,” she said, “I don’t blame you. You could get any job you want. Why would you hang around here?”
They’d reached his BMW. Rachel set her overprepared, overloaded briefcase on the pavement.
He stared down at her, her high heels making no impression against his height. “Maybe you’re right.”
Before she could encourage him further, Tony and Clive joined them. Garrett pressed the remote unlock on his key chain.
Rachel clambered into the back of the M5, her shorter stature demanding that she cede the more spacious front seat to Clive.
“Nice car,” Tony said as he settled in next to her.
“So, Garrett,” Rachel said, as he reversed out of his space, “if this car was a fruit, what fruit would it be?”
His gaze met hers in the rearview mirror. “A banana, of course.”
“Useful insight,” she said. “Thanks.”
His dark eyes gleamed.
“You do that fruit thing, too?” Tony asked. “What the hell is that about?”
No one does the fruit thing. It’s Garrett’s idea of a joke.
“I used to do it,” she said. “It’s a bit passé.”
A snort from the driver as he turned out of the parking lot onto Brunswick Pike.
“Guys, I want to give you some feedback on today’s meeting,” Tony said.
He was certainly taking this reality TV–style evaluation to extremes.
“Rachel, Clive, you were both great.”
“Thanks, Tony,” she murmured.
I guess that means Garrett goes home.
“Garrett, you engaged well with the client. I admit, I don’t get the fruit thing, but it certainly snagged Van de Kamp’s interest. If you can deliver on that stuff, I’m all in favor.”
“I’ll deliver,” Garrett said.
Huh? Shouldn’t he be quitting right about now? What happened to
Maybe you’re right?
Rachel tried to catch his glance in the mirror, but he wasn’t looking.
“But you were late arriving,” Tony said, “which made us all late for the meeting. And your comment about Rachel’s appearance was out of line.”
“It was a joke, Tony,” Garrett said. “Rachel knew that.”
It wasn’t a joke, it was a sabotage attempt mixed up with Garrett’s professional suicide.
“Did you take it as a joke, Rachel?” Tony asked.
Industry old-timers like Tony were known to suffer the odd lapse in judgment themselves; Rachel figured he was following up more because he had responsibilities under the New York City Human Rights Law than out of genuine disapproval.
She opened her mouth to say,
Of course, no problem.
Because she was a team player, and this wasn’t about her, and anyway, she knew Garrett was playing some game of his own.
But what game was that, exactly? She needed him to quit.
Inspiration struck, inspiration she could only credit to the presence of the man who’d accused her of being unable to seize the moment.
“Actually, Tony, I was uncomfortable,” she said. She stifled a twinge of guilt at the lie. Garrett was the guy who’d told Piers she was trading sex for no breakup, who’d lied about his mother’s death for competitive advantage. If he needed a push to leave, she was happy to help. Who said she couldn’t think on her feet! Feet that happened to be attached to “damn good” legs.
“What the hell?” Garrett’s outraged expression showed in the mirror.
Even Tony looked taken aback. It wasn’t as if she was a powerless junior; he knew she relished fighting her own battles.
“I’m not saying I feel sexually harassed,” Rachel assured her boss. “Not exactly.”
“Good, good,” Tony sputtered. “Not that I’m trying to discourage you from making a complaint if that’s what you want,” he added, in a confused but valiant attempt at political correctness.
“For Pete’s sake!” Garrett wrenched the steering wheel to the right as he twisted to glare at Rachel. Clive murmured a protest. Garrett cursed and returned his focus to the road.
“Oh, no, definitely not,” Rachel assured her boss. “I think it’s just that Garrett has trouble relating to women. Part of his team skills problem.”
“I don’t have trouble with women,” Garrett said ominously.
“Just last week Natasha was in the washroom in tears after Garrett told her off.” Rachel didn’t mention Natasha had stuck her mascara wand in her eye at the same time as she mentioned her run-in with Garrett. She was pleasantly surprised how easy it was to be devious when you had the right inspiration.
Garrett said, “Natasha left the office to check on her boyfriend’s broken foot—”
“Torn Achilles tendon,” Rachel interrupted.
“—and completely forgot about the Sheraton pitch,” Garrett growled.
“On Friday, after our breakfast, Garrett touched Julie on the shoulder,” she reported to Tony. “I could see she was confused about what it meant.”
“You’re evil,” Garrett said conversationally.
Rachel picked up on the underlying anger and felt almost sorry for him. But she’d done that once before, in the elevator, and look how he’d played her. And the catchphrase of his…
Do it on your terms…
No way would he consent to what she was about to suggest. He’d be out the door, voluntarily, before she could say
chicken.
She smiled beatifically at Tony. “So I’m offering to educate Garrett.”
“You what?” Garrett snarled.
“I’m willing to make time to get involved with Garrett’s team,” she said. “To monitor his interactions, particularly with female staff, and advise him how to handle situations better.”
“She’s kidding,” Garrett said.
Rachel rather liked that edge of desperation. She knew Garrett would hasten his inevitable departure, rather than have her overseeing him. She’d observed his natural abhorrence for authority.
Quit, Garrett, quit.