Chapter 2
JULES
Wendy returns from lunch with Jeannie in tow for her daily “tea time.” She gossips about our boss, Chief Executive Officer Frank Andresen, and how he’s grooming his son to become the VP, never mind that he probably isn’t qualified.
I can imagine the system collapse when a guy who has no idea how to run a business like this drives it into the ground.
I said I hate Frank Andresen, but I never said he wasn’t exceptional at elevating Meridian Holdings into a multimedia empire—ownership and management of prestigious art auction houses, rare book publishers, museum consulting firms, and digital art platforms.
It’s a hybrid of the Smithsonian’s research power with Disney’s marketing reach. Give the devil his due. Frank Andresen runs a tight operation.
Maxine Drecken, his acting COO, is no different—cut from the same corporate mold—execs who treat their employees like bots.
I return to my computer and work on transcribing the slanted script dated June 1726—this very month, but hundreds of years ago. These are the names and records of real lives, real people inked in time. How could I not be fascinated?
Carmen gets back from lunch with what should be a butterscotch-pudding smile. Instead, she looks frantic. Talking a mile a minute, she says, “Did you see the interdepartmental memo that just came through?”
Wendy’s head telescopes out from behind her computer screen like an ostrich. “Just got it. We have a mandatory meeting with Executive Operations for a special announcement.”
Carmen wipes perspiration from above her upper lip. “You know what this meeting means. Restructuring.”
Abruptly, the temperature in the room seems to change.
Wendy joins in the panic. “Code for layoffs.”
“I didn’t hear about a merger.” My pulse accelerates.
They’re both pale from the kind of nervousness that suggests I’m not the only one who needs to keep this job.
We could close off from each other. Send discreet emails to connections in the company to ensure we remain employed.
Instead, the office girlies and I gather in a circle.
Carmen, our matriarch, leads us in a quiet prayer.
Before she concludes, Wendy adds, “And if we’re going to get bad news, please include catering from Flour Hour, the bakery and sweet shop that opened two blocks over. If I’m getting the axe, I need a cinnamon roll to stem the pain.”
We chuckle, but really, this isn’t a laughing matter.
For the last year, these women and I have become a well-oiled machine.
We can’t claim that we keep the business afloat, far from it, but we do our jobs without any wheels coming off.
Not only that, but we’ve been through real life together—the birth of Wendy’s son.
Carmen’s husband having shoulder surgery.
We’ve gone to Cubs games and cried together when the final episode of “The Sweetheart Report” aired. I cannot believe Jenessa chose Colin!
We spend the next hour speculating about the meeting. Did someone finally get caught stealing the vanilla bean coffee pods? Carmen is convinced we’re being sent on a mandatory team-building adventure retreat, which sounds like my personal nightmare—I’m a homebody.
To Frank Andresen, everything is urgent.
The way I see it is that art and documents have endured for hundreds of years.
Some for thousands. What’s the rush? We’ll get everything cataloged, insured, and properly accounted for.
No need to strike fear into us employees that if we don’t get things done yesterday, the world will end.
From across the room, Wendy gasps. “Juliana, remember, you applied internally for the job of research associate. Maybe the position opened up and you’re getting it.”
Doubtful, but I flash an appreciative smile. Moving up in Meridian is an impossibly slow climb—apparently, Frank’s hurry has its limits. Plus, I don’t really want anyone making inquiries into my educational background or work history. Shh.
As the afternoon creeps by and the clock clicks down to the meeting time, our nervousness turns into grasping at optimism. What’ll follow is scared silence, but we’re not quite there yet.
“If you could have any job, what would it be?” Wendy asks.
Carmen’s nostrils flare. “I’d be the axeman. I’ve always wanted to tell Hershel in the mail room, ‘You’re fired!’”
“Because he asked if you’re single?”
“I’m sixty!”
“And a foxy lady.” Wendy shimmies her shoulders.
It’s true. Carmen is gorgeous and has the classic good looks of a star of the silver screen.
As a rule, I don’t follow modern celebrity stuff.
Mom raised me with the belief that if it didn’t happen while Elvis and Marilyn Monroe were alive, it’s not relevant.
She says those were the days of true glamor.
The kind I aspire to, never mind that most days I feel like a raccoon—a nighttime bandit with dark crescents under my eyes from taking on too much work.
People think I’m a pushover, but really, I just want to learn every aspect of this business and prove myself.
(And maybe, deep down, if my fake diploma is discovered, I’ll be granted clemency since I’ve made myself indispensable.)
Whereas Carmen is classic elegance and Wendy is modern trends, I’m somewhere in the middle, usually adding a little splash of flair to my humdrum work attire—sparkly heart earrings today.
“What about you, Wendy?” I ask.
“I’d be a stay-at-home mom.”
“Solid dream job,” I say without irony.
My mother was a Las Vegas showgirl when—surprise!—I came along. She’d have preferred not to work two jobs so she could spend more time with me.
“Your turn, Juliana,” Carmen says.
“My dream job at the moment is research archivist. I love the stories old documents, manuscripts, photographs, and artwork tell.” I gave up on that a few weeks ago when HR didn’t so much as acknowledge my submission.
“You’re such a romantic.” Wendy smiles.
We continue to play the “Disract each other from the pending meeting” game.
“Any big weekend plans?” Carmen waggles her eyebrows at me since I’m the only single one of our bunch.
“Going out with Oly tonight.” My best friend insists on being my flirting sherpa, guiding me through the wilds of the dating world.
“I thought she was recently married,” Wendy says.
I nod. “Nate is out of town this weekend.”
Looking forward to getting dressed up and gabbing like old times with my bestie over a platter of appetizers, then singing karaoke is the only thing that’s keeping my mind from doom-obsessing about the upcoming meeting.
After we close out our tasks for the day, we march to the assembly room downstairs. A heavy sense of foreboding accompanies my every step. I wonder if this is a before moment and whatever comes after will change the trajectory of my life forever.
Wendy looks like she might cry when she doesn’t see the sideboard populated with pastry boxes from Flour Hour. Carmen, stone-faced, is prepared for war.
In short order, the meeting is as corporate as they come, but swift.
There aren’t any layoffs. Phew.
Meridian did not buy the Louvre. Wendy is disappointed.
Nor did they accuse anyone of stealing those little instant coffee pods—Carmen suspects Hershel and has him locked in her crosshairs.
What happened is that Andresen announced the appointment of new managers to oversee the expanding digital archive project, to coordinate between our physical and virtual collections and to oversee cross-departmental integration.
I tune out the corporate jargon. New managers, same grind. At least I still have a job.
The relief has me sailing buoyantly home rather than sulking on the bus, followed by the train, while sidestepping what looks like—but does not smell like—mustard on the platform.
No sooner am I through the door of my Logan Square studio than my phone rings.
Oly makes an exaggerated Ooh sound that can only mean one thing. She’s canceling. I’m a sinking ship. The shore is far away. Goodbye, cruel world.
“I’m so sorry. Nate’s trip was scrapped because he was laid off.”
Sympathy quickly replaces disappointment. I’d tell her about my day and the near layoff scare, but she has to console her husband, so we’re off the phone in record time.
I don’t mind being alone, but sometimes silence can almost be louder than a summer concert in the park.
Guess it’ll be me, a girl dinner, and a rerun of “The Sweetheart Report.” Before I put on my quitting-for-the-day clothes, I check the Meridian Holdings employee app to make sure I didn’t miss anything important—like I was actually let go and can go commiserate with my best friend and her husband.
I want to keep my job, but Friday nights at home, when I’ve been anticipating fun plans all week, can be their own kind of reality check sandwich.
The little red dot indicating I have a Meridian app message glows. I read the email from HR detailing that I’ve been transferred to the thirty-ninth floor with the title “Special Projects Assistant.”
This must be a mistake. I reread the message while the neighbors with whom I share a wall argue as usual. Screechy and Grumbly bicker about replacing the toilet paper roll.
If only they had real problems.
Like the error HR made.
To my neighbors, I holler, “Guys, the solution is simple. Rock, paper, scissors.”
Screechy and Grumbly are quiet for a moment as if contemplating my advice.
I follow up with, “But only paper wins.” It doesn’t follow any logic, but neither do their arguments.
I don’t want to be single forever, but if that’s what being in a relationship is like, they can keep it and their TP. However, I do want romance. The love song kind … or even a love letter.
Not likely.
I check my employee profile in the app. Sure enough, my job title has been changed. I’m now a Special Projects Assistant. It sounds innocuous enough, but the thirty-ninth floor is the shark tank. Way up there is where the executives lurk—the Franks and Maxines of the world.
The message doesn’t give specifics, only that I have to report to L. Sullivan. He’s probably another stiff in a suit who thinks the words please and thank you are optional. I have a feeling I’m going to hate him, too.