Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 15 - Alex

"Come in, Alex."

Robert stood and walked around his desk. He had spotted her through the glass, loitering in the hall, second-guessing every word she had rehearsed in the rideshare from the airport. Her gaze tracked beyond his slight frame, to the skyline—the Hancock, One International Place, the Fed, rising up as the sun stumbled back into the harbor.

"I know it's late," she said. "You probably want to get home."

He motioned for her to sit. In past conversations, he might have said always time for you or we'll get some Pad Thai and make it a work session. Today, it was a curt, "No problem."

Alex settled into one of two orange upholstered chairs facing his desk. Once, she had sat in this precise spot for her interview. The dark hue reminded her of a flesh wound; the chrome arms were cold, dotted with the fingerprints of others. Beneath enormous black-and-white framed photos, too overblown for a downtown office of its size, Robert posed with the indigenous people of Central America. Their stares pressed against her.

"Sir—"

"It's still Robert, Alex. That hasn't changed."

Suggesting something had....

Robert didn't return to his side of the desk but perched at the corner, half-leaning, half-sitting—orchestrated body language meant to convey we're confidants and I'm on your side. For the first time, she spotted the bullshit inherent in every manufactured psychological tactic they had used to collect high-profile clients.

"What has changed?"

"I went with Diana for VP."

Like that. As if he had picked up the phone and said "I'll go with Som Tam and spring rolls." No leading-up. No sugar-dusting. Pieces of her composure plummeted to her lap, crumbled away like bricks on the buildings assembled behind him.

"Diana, as in how-do-I-unzip-a-file, Diana?"

Alex's voice was distant. She might as well have been standing—shouting—from the Prudential Tower rooftop over his right shoulder.

"She's run a company before."

"For four months before it merged and disintegrated."

Now Robert did retreat behind his desk, constructed a wall.

"Your math, your ideas, are strong, Alex. But part of leading this company into the next phase means meeting clients where they are, not ten steps ahead, leaving them behind. And the follow-through has to be solid."

More bricks picked away. "My mother died, Robert."

"I understand—"

"And before that? I didn't take a day of vacation in five years. Nights. Weekends. Five years, Robert."

Longevity, dedication, just like Jonah and his sunflower seeds.

She warmed, despite the advanced chill of the room, of Boston.

"It comes down to working smarter, not harder," said Robert.

"And Diana is the smarter choice?"

"For our vision? Yes."

"That leaves my team one person down."

Robert scratched at the bridge of his nose. "I'm afraid it's not your team anymore."

He reached into his desk and passed her an envelope. Clement Grant, Esquire, all over again, only this time fingerprints marred every surface. She couldn't open that envelope, Alexandra scrolled in her daddy's script, and she refused to open the blank one set before her now.