On Island Time

1. Marnie

CHAPTER ONE

Marnie

I’ve thought about punching the man across from me on more than one occasion. Vividly. Many times, in fact, over the last few weeks.

Unfortunately, I don’t think punching out the competition would bode well when you’re up for a promotion. Would it bring me great satisfaction, though? Absolutely.

When I agreed to after-work drinks with Gwen, having our girls’ night crashed was not exactly what I had in mind.

Even worse is that it was crashed by John—my arrogant coworker and the bane of my existence—who is now droning on about how he is the reason for our newest exhibit’s success.

He’s like a bad cold that you just can’t shake.

Annoying, inconvenient, and always popping up at the most inopportune times.

Tonight is my first night off in weeks, and the last thing I want to do is discuss work.

Before I could tell him to fuck off, Gwen gestured for my attention and quietly whispered that we could use this as an opportunity to see if he’s heard anything about the promotion, so I reluctantly agreed to let him take the empty seat beside my best friend.

Gwen pushes back from the table. “You two keep discussing the exhibit, I’ll grab some drinks.”

Stale air fills my nostrils, along with the scent of peanuts that John is cracking open at the end of the table, making a mess with the shells.

I lean back in my seat and peer out the window, attempting to drown out the nasally sound of John’s voice.

Just a regular Tuesday in Boston, the city humming to life as the evening rush hour commences.

The sun is beginning to set, casting a warm glow through the windows of the half-full bar.

I watch the cars passing by, waiting for Gwen to return with our drinks, just hoping she ordered me something strong.

A flash of movement reflects off the glass, and I tilt my head to spot Gwen returning with a beer clutched against her chest under her left arm, and two glasses of what looks like an iced tea with a lime on the rim in her right. She seriously didn’t get me an iced tea, right?

Gwen reaches the table and begins passing out everyone’s drinks.

“Irene said it was one of the best turnouts we’ve ever had,” John boasts, leaning forward to take the beer bottle. “Some of my finest work to date.”

Gwen notices my death grip on the glass as I pull it toward myself, then makes eye contact with me. I read the silent plea to play nice, as hard as that may be, so we can extract information from him.

If I said the word, I know she’d subtly knock his drink into his lap while reaching for a handful of peanuts, or step on his perfectly polished shoes while adjusting in her seat in a heartbeat like any true friend, but we are on a quest for answers.

So instead, I turn my attention to the cocktail in front of me.

“What is it?” I say, lifting the glass to inspect it.

“A Dark ’n’ Stormy,” she replies, taking the seat next to mine.

Looks like the Dark ’n’ Stormy from the sitcom she’s been quoting all week made it into the rotation, the same way she is single-handedly keeping her hairstylist in business.

Gwen showed off her new shag cut at the farmer’s market over the weekend, returning to her natural light blonde color to match the show’s main character, but choosing to forego the bangs.

She was surely a Hollywood actress in another lifetime with the way she seamlessly adopts different personalities and wardrobes based on her latest hyper-fixation.

The irony of this being the drink Gwen selected for us tonight is not lost on me. Between this last exhibit and awaiting news on the promotion from Irene Campbell, the chief curator at the Boston Historical Society, I’ve been on edge all week.

I finally take a sip from the tall glass, savoring the kick from the rum as it slides down my throat, and try my best to tune into the conversation unfolding before me only to find myself questioning how the hell John made it this far into the application process.

John coasted through Boston College’s history program with minimal effort and was all but handed this internship because his father had a connection to someone on staff.

Meanwhile, I finished at the top of my historic preservation cohort at Boston University and fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to intern with Irene Campbell.

It’s honestly infuriating to think that I’m working myself to death while he’s just relying on his last name.

But despite having to work so closely with an entitled manchild, I love my job. I’m fascinated by the way history can unite people. How you can take a time period, an event, a cultural phenomenon, and tell a story that both captivates and educates someone.

Growing up with two parents in academia meant family time was not spent on a beach or on a cruise or in a sporting arena.

Instead, we toured art exhibitions, attended book readings, and visited historical landmarks.

While I was jealous of my classmates when I was younger, as I got older, I developed an appreciation for how I connected to centuries of cultures, ideas, and stories.

Thus, my love for museums was born.

That’s just about all I can thank my parents for, and they’ve never let me forget it. They spent years trying to mold me into exactly the kind of daughter they wanted, checking off each one of their boxes, and our relationship has suffered because of it.

But despite how demanding my job can be at times, knowing that I might inspire the next generation’s love of history, creativity, and learning makes it all worth it.

Gwen gets it, too.

We met freshman year during our intro history lecture. Our professor paired us together for a partner project, and we discovered that we lived just down the hall from one another in one of the high-rise dorms.

That one project turned into late nights at the library writing papers, getting pizza at T Anthony’s before hockey games, studying on the quad that overlooks the Charles River with lunch we picked up from Faneuil Hall. And the rest is history.

She once told me that “every blonde needs a redhead best friend,” and although I don’t think that was the exact saying, I didn’t care. I finally felt like I had someone who understood me and who I could share everything with, both academically and personally.

“So, John,” Gwen pries. “Have you heard anything from Irene? About the promotion?”

“No,” he replies before taking another sip of beer. “Just feedback on the exhibit.”

Jealousy washes over me at the thought that he got feedback before I did, but I force my features to remain neutral. This is exactly why we are tolerating him crashing our night out—to gain information.

“And what did she say?” Gwen encourages.

“Irene said the Boston Marathon exhibit drew in record visitors. I assured her it would. That’s why I put so much time into it,” John brags, taking another long pull from his beer.

My neutral expression falters and I roll my eyes, physically biting my tongue to hold back my retort. I’m the one who put in all the work on that exhibit, and I am especially proud of the results.

“Well, I knew it would, too,” I finally reply. “The exclusive interview lineup I secured with various division winners was a massive draw. Especially the panel with Katherine Switzer.”

“And the racecourse maps,” Gwen chimes in, crediting me. “You had copies of every map since the marathon’s inception strewn all over the dining room table for weeks while you studied them.”

I give her a grateful smile for coming to my defense and she winks in response.

“I still can’t believe The Boston Globe never credited me in the story they published,” John complains.

“Because you didn’t do any of the work that mattered,” I mutter under my breath.

The Globe ran a feature on the exhibit that coincided with this year’s marathon, covering the history and origins of one of the most prestigious races in the world. All aspects that I contributed to.

So, if anyone would’ve been credited in the article, it should have been me. He thinks because he was responsible for the flashy parts that he did more work, or that it was somehow better than mine. Hence, the arrogance.

It didn’t help matters when Irene always put us on different projects, ensuring our exhibits were always competing.

She told us that competition promotes innovation.

New ideas. Better exhibits. As long as they launched smoothly and made her look good to the board of directors, that was all she cared about.

Until she announced her intention to create an assistant curator position to take off some of her workload.

Then she started putting us on the same projects. And scrutinizing everything we did.

John doesn’t collaborate or share ideas. He interjects and takes over. He’s pretentious, and he’s always been that way, which makes it incredibly difficult to work with him. I can’t even stomach the thought of working for him.

John clears his throat to steer the focus back to him. “I still don’t know why I have to apply for the promotion. Everyone knows I’m going to get it. Probably just a formality. But I’m sure we can find something for you to work on, Marnie.”

There’s an annoying smugness radiating off him. I resist the urge to roll my eyes a second time and take another slow sip of my drink, wincing slightly now that I’ve reached the bottom of the glass where the liquor has settled. The glass shakes beneath my grip as I squeeze it tighter.

Maybe I could get away with a good, solid kick instead. It would be subtle, and no one could say for sure that it was me. His shin is right there. It would be so easy.

I shake the thought away, not willing to stoop to his level just yet.

This position is everything I’ve been working towards since I started college, and I’ll be damned if John gets it over me.

Irene met with us before our last exhibit unveiled, telling us the board had reviewed all materials and planned to make their announcement within the next few days.

That was a week ago.

As if this conversation summoned her, the table vibrates and my phone screen lights up from an incoming text message. With the low lighting of the bar, it draws everyone’s attention.

When I see the sender, my heart stops, which is now my usual response to seeing her name flash across my screen. Sometimes good news, usually bad news, always anxiety-inducing.

Irene Campbell

The board reached a decision. Meet me in my office first thing in the morning. Don’t be late.

My stomach flips. Irene is always direct, to-the-point, no bullshit.

I still wish she would’ve led with the decision first, but maybe this is how the process goes and she has to tell me in person.

Why else would she tell me not to be late?

Maybe members of the board will be there, or maybe there is a ton of paperwork to sign with HR before it becomes official.

John catches the message from across the table before the screen goes dark and scowls. He downs the rest of his beer, clearly suppressing some choice words.

In any other scenario, I would be mad that he read my text, but I can’t help the smirk threatening to make an appearance. Good, I think. Let him stew on it.

Seconds later, his phone buzzes, too. He quickly snatches it off the table and holds it up to his face so no one else can see the screen. His eyes dart back and forth several times, carefully scanning the text, but his face gives nothing away. For once, he’s at a loss for words.

It tells me that this meeting tomorrow just might go my way.

Maybe he’s thinking the same.

Then, without warning, John slams his bottle down onto the table and his chair screeches under the force of him standing abruptly. He silently stalks out of the bar, shoving open the door hard enough to draw the attention of the tables around us.

Once he’s out of sight, I flip my phone around to show Gwen the message. She lets out a small squeal and we high-five across the table. “Celebratory round?”