Chapter 3
Three
Trish Rutledge-Brady looks more like a first-grade teacher than a woman with a corner office in a Chicago high rise.
At fifty-eight, she’s pretty enough, but with her greying brown hair pulled back in a headband, a little extra weight, and a somewhat dated pantsuit, she screams low maintenance.
Underneath her disarming exterior, she’s smart as hell.
She isn’t showy about it, but when she looks at a potential investment, she knows how to ask the fewest questions to get the most information then come to a sound conclusion.
She’s efficient and decisive, qualities most people don’t appreciate as much as they should.
“Reese,” Trish says in a warm tone when I step into her office. “Have a seat.”
She sets a cup of tea in front of me before circling her desk to take a sip of her own as she settles into her chair. I take a seat and a sip; it tastes like gardening soil that spent the last six years marinating in a sewage pipe.
“Delicious,” I say. “Thank you, Trish.”
Despite the pisswater, I’m almost giddy. I smooth my skirt and don’t let my excitement show. It’s not a power play; I’m proving I’m not emotional. It’s a weakness at this level, especially for women, and I’ve become a master in concealing mine.
“It’s made of hawthorn leaves,” she explains. “Supposed to help with heart health.”
“To heart health, then.” I raise my mug in mock cheers before taking another sip.
I’ve spent the last two hours pacing my office—Mom’s surgery hasn’t had any other issues, meaning my focus has fully been on this meeting and next steps.
I’ll drink three cups of this tea if I have to.
I just want Trish to give me the good news; I don’t care what flavor it comes in or what lies I tell to get her there.
A loud silence follows that pulls the background noise to the front. Muffled laughs float through the walls from down the hall combines with the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of a jackhammer from construction on a nearby building.
I’m mid-sip when she says, “Speaking of health, how’s your mom doing? You visited her on vacation earlier this summer, right?”
I choke on my tea. Trish knows a little bit about my mom because I went home after we found out about the tumor and she and my sister, Rue, let the antique store they own go to hell in a handbasket.
Trish wanted me to take the whole time off, but I insisted on working remote.
She would die if she knew Mom was currently in surgery while I’m sitting here.
Which is why I didn’t tell anyone.
“That wasn’t a vacation,” I correct. “I worked remote so my sister could go on a treasure hunt—” I scoff. “Can you imagine?” I laugh; Trish doesn’t; my laugh falls to the floor and dies. “But Mom is . . . fine.”
She nods, taking a short sip of her tea.
“Who did you want to be?” she finally asks. “When you were younger, I mean. Childhood. College.” She makes a nonchalant gesture to nothing in particular. “Before all this.”
“Um.” I clear my throat. What the hell is this?
“I . . . wanted to be successful—which I am—and . . .” I blow out a contemplative breath.
For the most part, high school Reese wanted everything forty-year-old Reese has: the job, the money.
On a corkboard in my childhood bedroom is a list seventeen-year-old me wrote that confirms this.
Sure, I don’t have the personal life I thought I’d have—the perfect husband or kids—nor did I retire at the ridiculous age of thirty-five then move back to Fontain.
But the na?ve teenager that wrote that list had no idea how all-consuming being successful would be and how hard it is to jump from this train once it starts moving.
How that first win leads to a domino effect of chasing every win that follows.
I’ll get to a personal life and retirement and Fontain later, right now I just want Fizz Co.
“And be better than my sisters.” I smile brightly. “Lucky for me, that started at birth.”
“I see.” Trish’s tone isn’t amused. She’s clearly never seen Rue’s overalls. “And what do you do when you aren’t working?”
I snort a slight laugh. “We’re supposed to do something other than work?”
She swats a playful hand through the air with a chuckle. “I’m serious. You can’t just work to work—we work so we can do the things we enjoy and be with the people we love.”
She can speak for herself—I love my job.
I care about my job—it’s who I am. Who I’ve always been.
From an early age, Rue had antiques, Remy had books, and I forged my path by winning—at everything—and haven’t stopped since.
I’m sure some quack therapist would say I’m a classic middle child driven by the need to stand out, but lucky for me, I don’t believe in therapy.
I also don’t think that’s the answer Trish wants, so I say, “Um.”
“Any hobbies?” she presses. “People you spend time with?”
I’m expecting her to say because we need to start planning how you’re going to win over the execs at Fizz Co to bring this deal home, but she doesn’t.
I set my mug on her desk and clear my throat. Again. “I . . . walk to work.” She blinks, so I add, “In pumps.” Then: “Eleven blocks one way.”
“I see.” Her slow nod leads me to believe my joke didn’t land. “Anything else?”
My phone, that son of a bitch, dings from my purse. I can’t not look at it. I told Rue when I last talked to her to only text me if the status changed—the status must have changed.
Trish’s brows raise and I smile apologetically. “Sorry,” I murmur, setting it to vibrate at the same time I scan the text. Everything went well and they’re closing her up. My nerves are fried. An exhale of relief gushes out of me along with a whispered, “Hallefuckinglujah.”
Trish chuckles. “Good news?”
I place my phone screen-side down on the edge of the desk and give her my full attention. “Yes. Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Again. Where was I?” My mind sprints around until it lands back on our conversation. “Right. Hobbies. I—”
The phone vibrates enough it dances across the edge of Trish’s desk. I don’t look at it because I don’t need to. If they’re closing my mother up, nothing bad is happening.
Unless she started bleeding.
Or had a stroke.
No—there’s only a one percent chance of that.
“I own rental properties that I manage under an LLC.” Apex Properties isn’t really a hobby because I use a property management company to run things, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She also doesn’t look impressed.
Dammit.
“In the summers, I like to—”
The next vibration causes me to glare at the phone.
The one percent exists because people have to be in it—Mom could have had a stroke. Someone has to have the stroke. I’ll call Rue and Remy as soon as Trish tells me I got the committee’s approval to move forward with the deal.
“Do you need to answer that?” Trish asks.
“No.”
It vibrates again and her brows lift.
And again.
And.
Again.
I release a sharp breath and grab the phone. “Yes.”
Rue: Really? You have an overpriced ballpoint pen up your ass when we tell you news you don’t like and now that we tell you everything is fine you vanish? You’re impossible. Then the next one: You better respond or Remy’s pulling out the big guns.
Then from Remy: A.
And: B.
And: C.
As the rest of the alphabet comes through, my initial relief of nothing being wrong is replaced by full-blown annoyance. Some of us are trying to work, assholes. I’ll call you later.
Trish watches me as I turn my phone off and set it on the floor, screen down, under my chair. “Sorry.” I force a laugh. “Again.”
The line of her lips forms an angle I can’t decode.
“You’re distracted,” she says simply.
“No.”
A yawn chooses that exact moment to barrel out of my mouth.
Before I can apologize, Trish adds, “And tired.”
“Not tired.”
Her gaze drops to the coffee stain on my shirt then her lips pinch with a wordless bullshit.
“A little tired,” I admit. “But not distracted. Today was—” I do not want to talk about my personal life. “Overbooked.”
“How did you say your mom was doing?” she asks.
“I didn’t. But good.” I pause, hoping that’s enough, but when Trish dips her chin in a way I know means go on, I relent to the truth. “She had surgery today, actually.”
The look she gives me is the exact reason I haven’t told anyone: She’s concerned.
Or horrified. I don’t want people thinking I can’t get the job done because I’m dealing with my mother’s health.
I’m forty, dealing with aging parents is part of the gig.
Plus, inferior as they may be, my sisters are there.
People work through personal problems all the time.
People just like me. I’ve been logging the same hours—maybe more.
Sure, some of that time has been spent watching five-hour long videos of craniotomies and I’m so tired I’d like to sleep for three straight years, but I also did all the due diligence required to put today’s pitch together, and that was a solid fucking pitch.
I don’t know how to explain that without sounding like a whiny bitch, so instead I say, “My phone going off was my sisters texting me updates—they have no sense of efficient messaging.” I pause to let her agree with me—she’s the most efficient woman I know—but she doesn’t.
She simply looks at me in a way that makes my mouth keep moving.
“And that’s what today was. I normally wouldn’t have my phone, but they can’t be trusted.
But from now on?” I mock salute. “Reporting for duty with no distractions. And regarding Fizz Co—”
Trish holds up a hand. “Your mom was having brain surgery during the meeting?”
I don’t like her disbelieving tone.
“Um.” I clear my throat. “Technically now, too.” Her eyes widen as she straightens. “But she’s getting closed up.”
“Why didn’t you reschedule?” She’s stunned. “We could have pushed it back. Or had one of the associates lead the meeting in your stead. Or Matt. He clearly knew the account.”