Chapter 20Hazel
Chapter 20
Hazel
I swipe through the photo album on my phone. The screen fills with a close-up of Chester the Sea Turtle, buggy eyes, saggy neck, bald head, and all.
“Remember how I told you there were turtles at the resort?” I ask my mom, who’s seated on the couch beside me.
It’s Sunday night, and I’m still jet-lagged from my flight. My mother picked me up from the airport hours ago and brought me here, to the house I grew up in, so I could visit and pick up my car. I haven’t made it to my apartment yet.
Out through the living room’s picture window, I see the flurry of snow falling past the porch light. A fire’s blazing in the hearth.
My dad headed to bed a half-hour ago. I’ll do the same soon. My car is parked out front, which is where I left it while I was away. I hope it doesn’t have too much snow on it by the time I get out there to clear it off.
I tuck my leg up underneath me and inch the phone closer, hoping she can take in the intricate pattern on Chester’s shell.
“Mm-hm, lovely.” She sips her tea. “Show me more of Matt. I’d love to see more of the two of you since you didn’t send as many as I hoped. Not to nit-pick or anything. I know you were busy having fun.”
I will tell her.
Soon. Maybe even tonight. I haven’t quite figured that out.
A happy thrill of anticipation zips through me. I have a boyfriend.
A real boyfriend. Not a fictitious one.
Goodbye, Matt.
Hello, Jack.
I smile to myself and swipe to the next photo: another Chester shot.
I’m stalling because I don’t know how she’ll take it. Of course, she will be happy to hear that I’m dating a guy. Will she also be upset about my fib? I don’t know how rocky this traverse will be, so I’m bracing for the worst.
The worst won’t be that bad. A few snippy comments. Maybe a guilt trip about all the details I made up, like the dumb shoe store and how he attended Brown University.
I slide my index finger over the screen again, and yet another photograph of Chester pops up—this one even closer. “Whoa, okay, another one of Chester.”
“You sure took enough of him, sweetie. Let’s skip ahead.”
“The Turtle Ambassador program that the resort is part of is making a big difference,” I tell her as I skim past about twenty more images of the green sea turtle. “They used to be endangered, but now that this program is up and running, the numbers of healthy adult turtles are way up. When these guys are fully grown, they can get up to 350 pounds. Isn’t that wild? A groundskeeper there, this sweet guy Akoni, told me all about it.”
“Mm-hm, how about that,” she mutters, totally uninterested.
Then, “Oh! There he is!” She’s perked up now as if I just told her the resort was in the midst of saving thousands of endangered species.
Nope.
She’s just excited to spot her own favorite creature in the wild.
This one is my man, with his sea-breeze tousled hair, washboard abs, and low-slung boardshorts. In the image, he’s walking toward me. His chest is lit up with golden afternoon sunlight. His calves bulge, and his bare feet disappear into the sand.
He’s looking at the camera—and at me, I remember—with adoration.
His smile was for me.
I remember that when he lay down beside me, he made me put my phone down.
“No more photos.”
“But I want to remember this.”
“I’ll give you something better to remember…” Then he kissed me.
I smile again, thinking of it.
“Just look at him!” My mother snatches the phone from my hands and brings it closer to her face. She drops her reading glasses off the top of her head so they’re perched on her nose.
Now, she examines him like I wanted her to examine the turtle shell.
“Well, I can tell he’s a keeper,” she announces after a few minutes of peering at the screen. “It’s just like when I watch political candidates on the TV. There’s just something about seeing a person that lets you know. This Matt fellow is one of the good ones.”
“Mom, um—I should probably tell you something.” I try to get my phone back, but she’s holding it tight.
Also, she’s not listening to me.
She’s too darn excited that her baby girl has a ‘keeper’ on her hands. “You took this photo of Matt, didn’t you? This was with your phone, right?”
“Um, yeah.” And his name’s not Matt.
We didn’t meet at a coffee shop in Rhode Island five weeks ago. He’s not thirty-five. He doesn’t own a shoe store.
“Well, it’s all there. Written on his face. He’s positively enthralled by you, sweetie. Just look at the way he looks at the camera! He’s smitten , and that’s just what you want. Now, if he comes here for Easter, I’ll cook up a nice honey ham, the way your grandmother used to do it, basting every twenty minutes. It sure makes for a long day, but it’s necessary so that it comes out nice and juicy.”
“Mom, Matt isn’t coming here for Easter.”
She pulls off her reading glasses. “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re going there. What are your father and I going to do?”
“Mom…” I take a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you. I actually made up that story about Matt.”
“What on earth are you talking about? You mean, how you two met at the coffee shop? Oh, honey, phooey .” She waves her readers at me. “You don’t have to worry if you actually met him at a bar. I don’t drink these days, but I’ve got nothing against establishments that serve alcohol.”
My phone, still in her hands, starts to ring.
She looks at the screen. “Devina. Hrmph . Isn’t she your manager? Why is she calling so late?”
The cold chill of dread slithers down my spine.
Why is she calling so late?
My meeting with Fabian Lucien looms in my mind. I’m supposed to chat with him on Google Meets tomorrow morning.
I reach for the phone. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
I hold the thing like a ticking time bomb until it stops ringing. The nervousness turns to something more serious when I see she left a voicemail.
“Can you excuse me for a minute?” I ask my mom.
I feel bad. I haven’t seen her in a week, and now I’m that family member—the one who sneaks out on visits to take work calls.
If things weren’t so topsy-turvy at work, there is a chance I’d wait and listen to this voicemail twenty minutes from now when I’ve made it out to the privacy of my car.
But I don't think I can wait that long to hear what she has to say.
My nerves would eat away at me by the minute, so waiting’s out of the question.
I pace to the far side of the room, by the picture window, and pull up the message.
Ew . There’s a half-foot of snow piled on my car. I don’t even have gloves with me, so I’ll have to borrow a pair of mittens from Mom.
“Hello, Hazel,” Devina’s message begins. “I assume your flight landed despite this abysmal weather hitting New England. Please give me a call; I have something to discuss with you.”
She sounds pleased with herself.
Smug.
She’s delighted, and with Devina, that usually means something awful is happening to someone besides her. I’ve never met someone who loves seeing others fail as much as Devina.
What’s she so pleased about?
Even as I wonder this, a text comes into my phone.
It’s from her.
No words—just an image.
My stomach drops when I look at it. It’s the photograph Jack and I took on our first night on the island—the one he posted to his social media accounts.
No!
A pit forms deep in my gut.
She did see it.
But it’s worse than that. She saw it, and she saved it.
Now Devina has a saved photograph of me and Jack, cheek-to-cheek… Our ‘happy couple’ pose.
My hand trembles as I return her call. “H-hello…? Devina?”
I can hear the smug smile on her lips over the phone line. “Ah ha, Hazel. Wonderful. So, you should know that I’ve heard all about it.” Her voice is loud and brash, as always. There’s background chatter audible, along with music, which makes me wonder if she’s out at a restaurant or bar. She might even be on her way to getting drunk if the hint of a slur in her words is an indication.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Oh, puh-lease! Don’t even . I’m talking about the little meeting you have planned with Fabian. I already heard from Fabian’s VA that you two are all set to chit-chat about you taking my job. I got her that job, by the way, so she tells me everything that she sees in his emails. Ev-er-y-thing.” She pronounces each syllable. She loves punching up the drama factor when she can.
I wince.
In my ear, she carries on. “I know Fabian wants me out, and he wants you in my position. Honey, you can’t handle the heat. You gotta have tough skin to do the work I do.”
As far as I know, being a manager shouldn’t be about being tough. If I provide good, steady, trustworthy leadership to my team, I won’t have to defend myself against attacks.
Being ‘tough’ might be Devina’s leadership stance, but it won’t be mine.
“Mm-hm,” I say. If my answer is vague, maybe she’ll move on.
Nope .
“You think you could’ve handled it when Rochelle and Martin ganged up on me last year and tried to take me down? Uh-uh. You’d have retreated, but I didn’t run and hide. Heck no. I held my own ’cause I have people in this company who have my back.”
We’re not at war , I want to tell her.
“Devina, I know this must be tough for you.”
Oops . That was probably the wrong thing to say. I meant to sound nice, but it came out condescending.
“Oh, nuh-uh!” she barks. “I will not sit here and listen to you look down on me. If you think I’m going down without a fight, you got that all kinds of wrong. No way I’m letting you sneak behind my back and take my job. You can keep your sneaky tactics to yourself and use ‘em on some other boss, in some other job, because?—”
“I don't think we should be having this conversation. It’s not up to us.”
“It is now,” she says.
I hear glasses clinking. A dozen conversations unfold in whatever establishment she’s in. The background music sounds loud and grating.
She’s letting this pause drag out, and it’s bugging me.
“I have to go,” I tell her.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m going to do with that photograph of you and Mr. Morgan, all snug-as-bugs-in-a-rug?”
Out through the window, the falling snowflakes are getting fatter. They drift lazily down from the heavens.
I scrub my brow. “I’m really exhausted. I just got in a couple of hours ago. Can we talk in the morning?”
The truth is, I don’t want any part of whatever this is.
At best, I’ll survive the conversation. At worst, I’ll let something slip that I shouldn’t.
I would hang up on her if I had the courage.
But I don’t.
“I sent it over to Fabian’s VA,” she hisses. “That’s what I did with that photo. Oooh, honey, you gotta watch your back when you play games like you’ve been playing. She’s a good, good friend of mine, and she’s already promised to bring it to Fabian’s attention first thing in the morning. Hazel, you messed with the wrong woman.”
I may try to avoid conflict, but I refuse to just lie here while she walks all over me.
“Devina, honestly, this isn’t personal between you and me. I’m not playing games, and I’m not trying to steal your job. I’m sure the higher-ups have their reasons for asking you to move on. And it might even be good for you. You could do something you enjoy more.”
“Ha!” she snorts.
I hear ice rattle as she sips whatever cocktail she’s clutching. I imagine her stooping over the bar, stewing in her anger.
“You play innocent all you want,” she seethes, “with that nice act of yours. You have fun with that. Meanwhile, I have my boxing gloves on, so watch out for my next right hook.”
Then, she hangs up on me.
I watch snowflakes dance and drift.
I don’t want to be in a boxing ring with Devina.
Apparently, I am. At least in her mind, that’s what’s happening. We are going to spar. Tomorrow is going to be a rough day.
“Is everything okay?” my mom calls from her spot on the couch.
No.
Not at all.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I need to get some sleep, though. I have a big meeting in the morning. Could I borrow a pair of mittens?”
“Of course.” She gets up with a groan and presses both hands to the small of her back.
She gives me a feeble smile when she hobbles to me with a pair of hand-knit mittens.
“You know, sometimes I just think how lucky I am to have you.” She presses the mittens into my hands, then kisses the top of my head. “You’re my sunshine, sweetie. My whole world. You drive safe, and I hope that meeting goes well.”
We’ll see, I think as I head for the door.