Another week.I knew every tone in my husband’s arsenal, and that had sounded like an ultimatum.
CHAPTER 8
NEENA
If my job had been solely in Marilyn Staubach’s hands, it would have been doomed for failure. I studied the petite woman carefully, looking for some tell that could unlock her motivations, and was grateful for the grenade I’d found, one currently tucked into the side pocket of my jacket.
She stared back at me, then opened her mouth in a yawn. From the back of her mouth, I saw the silver glint of a filling.
“Why did you originally start working for Winthorpe?”
“Money,” she said flatly. “And I’ve decided I’ve had enough of it.” She lifted a delicate dark wrist and examined the face of a chunky plastic timepiece, one I’d considered buying myself—the built-in GPS an interesting but fairly useless feature.
“Well, surgeons make good money.” I drew a tiny dollar sign in the first bullet point of my notepad. “You could certainly go back to working in the field.”
She looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Thank you, Neena. Excellent career advice.”
“The stress rate of cardiac surgeons is one of the highest out of all the surgical specialists,” I pointed out, my cheeks burning at her sharp remark.Stupid Neena,my father used to say.Shut up, Neena.It’d been twenty years. Would I ever stop hearing his opinions? “Would you gauge your stress level to be higher or lower during your time at WT?”
“It feels like these questions could all be answered through an exit survey.” She changed the cross of her leg, and I watched the pale-blue scrub lift to reveal a functional white tennis shoe and ankle socks. I had to remember what she was. A lamb/owl, if I went off Charles Clarke’s personality profiles. Caring. Exacting. Detail and numbers oriented. She wouldn’t have put in her notice without researching other options and doing an extensive pro/con list.
“They could be.” I aimed for a demure smile. “But an exit survey can’t negotiate.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “Negotiate with what?”
“FDA approval is almost here,” I pointed out. “You’re talking about a seven-figure bonus that you’re walking away from. Help me understand what is so terrible about staying here for another three or four months.”
“You’re new.” She sniffed. “You don’t know what it’s like. The men are pricks. The women are catty, and William—” She arched a brow in my direction. “That man has spoken to me as if I was a piece of toilet tissue on the terminal floor at LAX. Granted, he’s an asshole across the board, so at least it’s not a racial thing. But I’m too old for that. I’m getting seven-figure offers shoved in my face every time I turn around. My life is too short and my 401(k) is too padded to accept working for William.”
She was right. I was new, but two weeks here had been enough for me to understand exactly what she was dealing with. The affable gentleman by Cat’s side had a temper. During this morning’s team meetings, he’d destroyed any warm emotions I’d nurtured in our opening meditative affirmations when he’d ripped the newest testing report into pieces and addressed the group as “a bunch of overpaid morons.”
“What if I kept William away from you?” I suggested. “You can skip the team meetings. Complete your final action items on your own. Work from home two days a week.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re going to keep William from speaking to me? Impossible.”
She was probably right, but I plowed ahead, ready to use the thin envelope in my jacket pocket if necessary.
Maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe this alone would be the key to getting Marilyn to stay. I hoped it would.
She was already shaking her head, as if she could hear my inner monologue. “My decision is made. I’m leaving in a week. He’s lucky I’m sticking out my two weeks.” She pushed to her feet. “I have to get back to my work.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the envelope. “I have one more thing to discuss.”
“Like I said, my decision’s made.”
“Marilyn.” I met her eyes. “Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.”
“Spit it out, Neena.”
“I know about Jeff.” Four short words that tasted so good on my tongue. I had practiced different ways to deliver the blow and heard the ring of victory in my response despite my best attempt to keep it out.
She didn’t move. Didn’t slump with defeat or stagger back to her chair. She didn’t blink or quake or react in any way at all. Her gaze swung toward me with the slow and practiced control of a woman who had been through it all. “Jeff’s dead,” she said.
I met her eyes squarely. “I can attest from my visit with him yesterday, he’s not.”
Forty-five minutes later, I watched as Marilyn revoked her resignation via email, the “Send” button clicked with a hostile amount of contempt. I didn’t care. I had secured my job, and her four kids and husband would continue thinking that her fifth son had died in early labor and wasn’t living in a convalescent home, blowing out the candles on his thirteenth birthday cake without a single family member in sight.
I brought the paperwork to William, quietly entering the sleek and sophisticated space that showed a sliver of the ocean. Everything was glass—the door I pushed to come inside, the walls between us and the adjacent office, the floor-to-ceiling windows that separated the room from a fifty-foot drop. There would be no quickies on the desk in this office, not unless he wanted the entire team to watch.