24. Charlie
Charlie
I nventory reports swim before my eyes, numbers blurring as my mind drifts back to Tess. Her text earlier was frustratingly brief and I’m dying to hear the details of her audition.
Seattle's skyline gleams behind me, afternoon sun bouncing off glass and steel. Usually, this view from my corner office at Emerald City Coffee headquarters energizes me and then helps me focus better, but today it’s not doing it’s magic.
I've reread the same paragraph three times when my phone finally buzzes.
Tess's name lights up the screen, and I snatch it up before it can ring twice.
"Hey," I say, leaning back in my leather chair. "I've been waiting to hear how it went."
"Hi." Her voice sounds thin, distant. Not the voice of someone who nailed an audition.
"You okay?" I straighten up, alert now.
"The audition itself went really well," she says. "Honestly, they loved it. Maestro Cortez said I was exceptional."
I exhale, relief flooding through me. "That's fantastic. I knew you'd kill it."
"Yeah." A pause. "But there was this reception afterward."
Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten. "What happened?"
"There was this woman. Barbara Carlton? Apparently, she's on the board or a major donor or something." Tess's voice catches. "Cortez introduced us, and she..." Another pause, longer this time. "She basically said I only got the audition because of my connection to you."
White hot rage rushes through my body. "She said what?"
"She implied I wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t personally made a call to make it happen." Tess's voice breaks on my name. "God, Charlie, it was so humiliating. Everyone heard. She completely dismissed my talent, my years at PacWest, everything."
I close my eyes, trying to control the anger building in my chest. Barbara Carlton. I know her—a trust fund baby whose family has been in Seattle high society for generations. She sits on half a dozen boards, flaunting her inherited money and acting like she earned it herself.
"I'm so sorry," I say, keeping my voice even. "That's completely unacceptable."
"Did you?" Tess asks suddenly. "Make a call about my audition, I mean?"
The question stings, though I understand why she's asking.
"No. Absolutely not. I mentioned to Cortez at the charity gala that PacWest was having financial issues and that you were one of their most talented musicians.
That's it. He asked if you might be interested in auditioning if a position opened up, and I said probably.
That was three weeks ago." I take a breath.
"I would never try to influence the process, Tess.
I know how important it is for you to earn this on your own merit. "
I hear her exhale shakily. "I didn't think you would do that, but...the way she said it made me doubt myself. Like maybe I didn't deserve to be there."
"That's exactly what people like Barbara want," I say, anger threading through my words. "They want you to question yourself because they feel the need to tear people down." I take my sportscoat off, suddenly feeling constricted. "Listen to me, Tess. Nobody on that board cares what she says."
"She seemed pretty influential," Tess counters, her voice small. “A lot of people were listening in on our conversation.”
"Barbara Carlton throws money at arts organizations to feel important, but the musicians and directors know she couldn't tell Bach from Beyoncé.
" I smile when I hear Tess's quiet laugh.
"Everything Barbara has is because her parents handed it to her on a silver platter.
She married into even more money, divorced, kept half, and now thinks that gives her the power to say whatever she feels like. "
"You know a lot about her," Tess observes.
"Our families have moved in the same circles for years. My mother can't stand her." I lean forward, elbows on my desk. "She's not the one making hiring decisions, Tess. Cortez is. And from what you said, he was clearly impressed."
"He did seem to be," she admits. "And he defended me when she made that snarky comment."
"See? That's what matters." I swivel my chair to face the window, watching a ferry crawl across Elliott Bay. "Cortez knows talent when he hears it. They'd be absolute idiots not to hire you."
"I just hate that now, if I do get the position, I'll always wonder if it was because of you." Her voice sounds stronger now, but tinged with frustration.
"You won't have to wonder. When they call with an offer, it'll be because you played circles around every other cellist who auditioned."
"I really needed to hear that," she says, her voice sounding lighter. "Thank you."
"I mean every word." I hesitate, then add, "And just so you know, if Barbara Carlton ever says anything like that to you again, you should absolutely tell her exactly where she can stick her opinion."
Tess snorts. "I'll keep that in mind."
"How are you feeling otherwise?" I ask, shifting topics. "Did you take your iron supplement this morning?"
"Yes, Dr. Astor," she teases. "And I had spinach with lunch. The twins and I are well-nourished."
The casual mention of the twins sends a now-familiar mix of terror and amazement through me. "Good. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"
"Please. I need something to take my mind off today."
"I'll pick up Thai on my way over. And I’ll make sure it’s cashew free, obviously."
"Perfect." I can hear the enthusiasm in her voice now. "I should go practice. I have a student coming at four."
"I'll see you tonight, then." I pause, then add, "And Tess? You're fucking incredible. Don't let anyone ever make you doubt that."
After we hang up, I sit motionless for a moment, anger still simmering beneath my calm exterior.
Barbara Carlton. I make a mental note to mention this incident to my mother, who serves on several of the same boards as Barbara.
Bev Astor doesn't put up with those kinds of people, especially ones who attack people she cares about. And if Bev Astor isn’t happy with you, you’re going to know it.
I turn back to my computer screen, but I still can’t focus. My mind keeps circling back to Tess's voice—how small it sounded when she repeated Barbara's words, how the hurt vibrated in her voice.
My protective instincts are in overdrive. I want to fix this for her, make it right. But I know that's not what she needs. She needs to win this position on her own terms, with her own talent. And she will. I have absolute faith in that.
Hours later, I toss my pen onto the desk and rub my eyes, fatigue settling in my shoulders after a long day of work.
The office has emptied out, my employees escaping into the evening while I remain, tying up loose ends before heading to Tess's place.
My phone lights up with "Dad" on the screen, and I consider—just for a second—not answering.
But Bill Astor isn't a man you ignore, not if you want peace at the next family dinner.
"Bill," I answer, keeping my voice neutral. "What's up?"
"Charles, we need to discuss this paper supplier situation."
I stiffen, already defensive. "The price increase? I was going to call you tomorrow about it."
"I shouldn't have had to hear about it from Jess in accounting," he says, his tone clipped. "A fifteen percent increase in sleeve costs is significant, Charles. That's thousands of dollars quarterly across all locations."
"I'm aware of that." I lean back in my chair, bracing for the lecture. "I've already scheduled another meeting with them for next?—"
"You should have shut it down immediately," he interrupts. "This kind of thing happens when suppliers think they can take advantage of you. You give them an inch, they take a mile."
I take a deep breath. "I wasn't giving them anything. I was gathering data on alternative suppliers before our next negotiation."
"That's not how business works." His voice holds that familiar edge, the one that implies I've failed yet again. "You don't wait, you don't research while they're gouging you. You tell them to back off or you walk. Period."
"Times have changed. We can't just bully suppliers anymore. We need to maintain relationships, especially with the supply chain issues everyone's facing." I try to keep the frustration from my voice, but it seeps through anyway.
"Relationships." He spits the word like it's distasteful. "Is that what they're teaching at business school these days? How to make friends instead of profits?"
The familiar sting of his disapproval burns in my chest. "Our profits are up eighteen percent from last year. The board is thrilled with our performance. This one issue with paper costs?—"
"Is a symptom of a larger problem," he cuts in.
"You're soft, Charles. Always have been.
You think everyone can be reasoned with, that business is about finding win-win scenarios.
" He gives a short, humorless laugh. "It's not.
Business is about winning, period. Your job is to ensure Emerald City Coffee comes out on top, not to make sure some paper supplier feels good about their “relationship” with you. "
I press two fingers against my temple, where a headache is blooming. "I'm handling it."
"Not well enough." The bluntness of his assessment shouldn't surprise me after all these years, but somehow it still does. "You've got to toughen up, son, or you're going to run this business into the ground."
His words land like a blow. Despite the company's growth, despite the accolades from industry publications, despite the expansion plans that are proceeding right on schedule—none of it matters in the face of this one issue that, in his mind, proves my fundamental weakness.
"I'll take it under advisement," I say stiffly.
"Do more than that. Fix it." The line goes dead.
I set my phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. Thirty-eight years old, CEO of a thriving company, and still chasing my father's approval like a kid trying to put a trophy on the mantel that he'll actually notice.
The drive home is a blur of stoplights and frustrated thoughts. By the time I unlock my door, my jaw aches from clenching it.
Hans greets me with his whole body wiggling, tail working overtime as he skitters across the hardwood floor. I drop to one knee, letting him climb into my lap and lick my face with frantic enthusiasm.
"What a good boy," I murmur, scratching behind his ears. His warm weight against my chest helps loosen the knot that's formed there.
I set my keys in the silver dish by the door and shed my jacket, leaving it draped over the back of a chair.
The living room wall is made entirely of glass, offering a panoramic view of the city lights coming alive as dusk settles.
Usually, it calms me—that sense of Seattle spreading out below, the evidence of life and movement.
Tonight, it just makes me feel isolated, watching the world from too high up.
Hans follows at my heels as I move to the stereo system and pull up my Sinatra playlist. The opening notes of "Fly Me to the Moon" fill the room, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting Sinatra's smooth voice wash over me.
I wander into the kitchen, Hans's nails clicking on the tile behind me. Even though it's way too late and I know better, I reach for a coffee mug. The familiar ritual of grinding beans, measuring water, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe—it settles me, gives my hands something to do.
When the coffee's ready, I pour a generous mug and add sugar—one spoonful, then another, then a third. The memory surfaces unbidden: my father watching, eyebrows raised, as teenage me doctored my coffee at the breakfast table.
"Christ, Charlie, why don't you just have a milkshake? You're ruining perfectly good coffee."
I stir the sugar in with more force than necessary, watching it dissolve into the dark liquid. I've never developed a taste for the bitter brew my father prefers, never learned to appreciate the subtle notes and complex flavors that he and other coffee purists discuss like sommeliers.
Ironic, isn't it? The CEO of Emerald City Coffee takes his with enough sugar to make a dentist wince.
I carry my too-sweet, too-late coffee to the couch and sink down, Hans immediately leaping up to settle against my thigh. Sinatra has moved on to "The Way You Look Tonight," his voice wrapping around each syllable like silk.
The coffee's warmth spreads through me, and I try to let go of the conversation with my father. Tomorrow, I'll call the paper supplier and deliver the ultimatum Dad wants. I'll be tough, uncompromising. I'll win.
But right now, I just want to sit with my dog and my coffee and Sinatra, and wonder why, after all these years, my father's approval still matters so damn much.
I'm successful by any objective measure. I have the successful company, the penthouse, the respect of my peers, and now, unexpectedly, Tess and the twins on the way. Yet one phone call from Bill Astor can still make me feel like I'm coming up short.
Hans nudges my hand with his nose, demanding attention. I smile despite myself, setting down my mug to scratch his belly.
"You're right," I tell him as he stretches in contentment. "He's just one person. What does he know?"
Hans looks at me and perks his ears up slightly. I swear this dog understands every word I say…
When I’m done with the coffee and the love fest with Hans, I change into something more comfortable before I head to the Thai restaurant to pick up our to-go order. I feel like a different person than I did when I walked in here thanks to Hans, Frank Sinatra and some damn good super sweet coffee.