TWO #5
So funny that she called my boss by his first name. I could never do that. It wasn’t respectful enough.
“Jory, sweetie, please.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. Didn’t she know that reasoning with Dane Harcourt when he had his mind made up was like reasoning with a hungry grizzly bear?
“If anyone can get him to come around, it’s you, Jory.”
Why did everybody always say that? Why, when Sherman wanted something, did he come to me to break the ice for him first?
Sherman Cogan and Miles Brown had been in business with Dane Harcourt from day one, and yet they still walked around on eggshells with him.
One of the men was a high-profile interior designer himself, with years of successful multimillion-dollar projects to his credit, the other one of the top landscape architects in the country.
Yet they both worshipped my boss because he exclusively worked on residential homes.
Apparently, that was where the big bucks really were.
I had thought that commercial buildings were where the money was, and I was right, but big-ticket contracts were harder to come by than society homes.
And I had to admit that it was the name Harcourt that brought most people through our doors after they’d seen his work in Architectural Digest or Sunset or other magazines.
The name recognition belonged to my boss.
When I first came to work for him, almost five years ago, I had no clue who Dane Harcourt was.
All I knew was that his firm had advertised for an assistant and I needed a real job.
After being in town for a year, and starting school, I was tired of having five part-time jobs at once.
Living off and on at the YMCA and different hostels was wearing on me.
I wanted to start paying rent. I had three days to figure everything out before I would be living on the street.
I had applied practically everywhere, and the panic was starting to set in.
I had shown up, with at least fifty others, and many internal applicants, to fill two positions at the design firm of Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan.
It was time, apparently, that each of the partners got their own assistant.
The support staff had been doing well, but more structure was needed, and playing musical chairs with assistants wasn’t working.
Each principal architect needed one dedicated person, and so the call went out.
I figured since typing speed hadn’t been a prerequisite for the job, I could apply without making a fool of myself.
I was wrong.
They made us all take a typing test. I failed miserably.
But I was allowed to return the next day because I got a perfect score on the vocabulary and spelling portions of the test, as well as knowing my stuff in the graphic design area.
Not that I was a pro or anything, but the entire Adobe suite and I were very close friends.
The problem was, the next morning I found a puppy—a Siberian husky mix, the vet said later—walking around on the street on my way over.
I tried to get rid of him, but the little bastard followed me for eight blocks.
He was tenacious, and when he almost got run over darting across Michigan Avenue after me, I broke down and scooped him up.
The whimpers of joy melted me right there.
The dog and I bonded. I told him he was lucky he had a heavy coat because we’d be living outdoors in the very near future.
He gave me the angled head tip that dogs do when they’re not sure what’s going on with you.
Since I figured I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting the assistant job anyway, I took my new puppy with me to the second interview.
Needless to say, I was the only one who arrived with a barking dog in a cardboard pet carrier.
Jill Kincaid asked me to leave just as Dane Harcourt walked out of his office.
Everybody smiled except us. I grimaced, and he scowled.
I was invited into his office, and I sat down in front of his enormous antique wooden desk.
His office was dark, with a polished hardwood floor that made one think an English scholar lived there instead of an architect.
Bookcases took up almost all of the available space that wasn’t occupied by a floor-to-ceiling windows, and several oil paintings that looked like they belonged in museums hung on the walls.
In one corner were several large plants, and in another, next to the largest window, were two huge wingback chairs and a small coffee table that was inlaid with tile.
When I asked about it, I learned that each of the tiles was hand-painted and fit together perfectly to make a picture of a peacock.
It had been his grandmother’s table, and it made him feel good to have it in his office, close to him.
It made him feel like he still had a piece of her with him.
After several minutes, he stopped talking and looked at me.
Like he was surprised at himself for explaining.
But everyone shared with me. It was a gift.
He asked me about my qualifications, and my brand-new puppy started to howl.
I answered as best as I could, and he seemed genuinely impressed that I was planning to pursue a degree in fine art, until he started grilling me about what I was going to do with it once I had it.
I told him I didn’t know. I explained that I was going to major in it because I liked it and that was all.
I was unsure what I really wanted to do with my life.
He replied that he wanted someone who was sure of their career choice, not some fly-by-night person who could be there one day and gone the next.
I had just denied that would be the case when my puppy let out a bloodcurdling cry.
“What the hell’s the matter with it?”
“He,” I emphasized, “is just scared. He doesn’t know where he is, and I’m sure it’s frightening.”
“May I ask a stupid question?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“You know perfectly well what,” he snapped, but then he smiled, and I knew I could like the man. “Why did you bring your dog to this interview?”
“Because I just found him this morning, and I didn’t have enough time to take him back to the Y, or else I would have been late to see you, and I can’t really leave him in my room alone anyway. I mean, I’ll have to sneak him in tonight as it is.”
“You found him today?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I hate the word yeah. Say yes instead.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, because who hated the word yeah? “Yes.”
“When?”
“On the way over here.”
“You found him just now.”
I shrugged. “At least I stopped to get a carrier for him. I didn’t want him taking a dump in your office.”
“Very thoughtful of you.”
I sighed deeply. This was a disaster.
“You found a dog on your way to this interview,” he repeated, like he was trying to get it to sink in.
“Maybe it’s a good omen.” I smiled wide.
He stared at me. “Big believer in signs, are you?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” I stated, using the word he preferred that time.
“Why not just take him to the pound?”
I squinted at him. “How is that hopeful?”
“And are you always that way? Hopeful?”
“I try to be,” I said honestly. “Don’t you?”
His eyes were locked on mine before he cleared his throat. “You know, your dog is loud. Good luck sneaking him in anywhere.”
“He’s just noisy because he’s stuffed in a box.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s test your theory.”
“Pardon me?”
“Let’s see him.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” Dane got up, walked around his desk, and sat on the edge of it. “If you don’t let him out, it sounds like he’ll die or something.”
I leaned over and opened the top of the cardboard carrier, and Shiloh stopped howling and sat down.
He looked up at both of us and started to wag his tail.
I was about to pick him up when Dane bent down and scooped him out of the carrier.
My little puppy immediately started licking his face and then shoved his wet nose into the man’s eye.
“Sorry,” I half laughed. “He’s just happy to see you.”
“He’s really cute.”
“I know. And I can already tell he’s gonna be a real pain in the ass.”
Dane put him down, and Shiloh proceeded to run circles around the room. “Tell me, Mr.—” He stopped and looked up at me. “Keyes, is it?”
“It is,” I answered, reaching unsuccessfully for my dog as he ran under my feet. “But you can call me Jory or J or whatever. I don’t care.”
“Tell me, Mr. Keyes, what do you think is more important, loyalty to me or loyalty to Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan? Are you a team player or more inclined to support the individual?”
I thought for a minute, calculating what I thought he wanted to hear, but decided to just go with my gut. What could it possibly hurt? “If I work directly for you, Mr. Harcourt, then that’s where my loyalty lies. I would be your personal assistant, no one else’s.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Keyes. We’ll be in touch.”
I thanked him and would have left then, but it took the both of us in a team effort to catch Shiloh and put him back in the carrier. Once we did, much whimpering and howling soon followed.
“He’s such a faker,” Dane stated, smiling broadly, and his eyes gleamed. “He’s going to be quite a handful.”
I nodded. “I know, but imagine the fun.”
“Imagine the fun,” he echoed, his voice warm.
I looked up at him and smiled. “You’ve been really great about this.”
“What are you going to call him?”
“Shiloh.”
“Civil War fan, are you?”
“No,” I said flatly. “Neil Diamond.”
“Oh.” He was at a loss for words, and I laughed. He was okay.