The Promise of Change Page 5

  Bullied? There’s the pot calling the kettle black.

  “Let me just put it this way, if you’re having an affair with your assistant, then I’m telling you to break it off immediately. If you’re not, then no harm done.” She gave a little shrug, as if she’d accused Sarah of eating the last cupcake instead of having an illicit office affair.

  “Let me put it this way.” Sarah rose from her chair as she spoke. “I am not having an affair with Carlos, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make such false accusations in the future. And you’re wrong. There is harm. You’ve harmed not only my name and reputation, but Carlos’ as well.”

  “I’m not going to tell Carlos about this. It would be humiliating to him,” Sarah continued. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to him or to anyone else in the office. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d like to get back to work.” Not waiting for a reply, Sarah turned on her heel and left.

  Sarah closed her door and slumped into her chair, her hand pressed to her stomach. She couldn’t believe she just chewed out her boss. Never mind that she hated the woman. She’d never even considered speaking to a supervisor in that manner.

  Her father taught her and Becca to respect persons in positions of authority. Even when you disagreed. You politely spoke your mind, judiciously argued your point, and if they still disagreed, at least you’d spoken up.

  Sarah also knew that letting people push your buttons only gave them power over you, especially people like Patricia, who were always looking for a chink in your armor.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and slowly exhaled, vowing she would remain in control of her temper the next time she had an encounter with the devil made flesh.

  Things in the office stabilized. Sarah was able to get back into a routine, albeit a new one, which included a heavy dose of avoidance—avoiding the Bitchkrieg, avoiding private meetings with Carlos where possible, and more importantly avoiding thoughts of her own unhappiness.

  Nevertheless, even avoidance was good when it was part of an overall routine. Routine brought comfort, stability, even if it also brought with it monotony.

  Amidst the almost constant upheaval caused by the family moves required by her father’s naval career, Sarah’s mother worked hard to establish routines, so that no matter where they lived, there would be little constants.

  Mornings were for family breakfast. Afternoons were for homework, chores, and athletic training. Evenings were for family dinners, movie time, or curling up with a book.

  Sarah’s participation in athletics kept her life regimented, and of course, as a military man, her father lived and died by schedules.

  So was it any wonder that she sought predictability in her life? Still, predicting the next lottery winner would have been easier than predicting what her erratic boss would do next.

  The intercom on Sarah’s phone buzzed, making her jump.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Sarah, but Patricia would like to see you in her office first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve cleared your morning.” Sarah could hear the sympathy in Carlos’ voice.

  Sighing, Sarah said, “Okay. Thanks.” So much for avoidance.

  Sarah sat across the desk from Patricia, trying to hide her dismay.

  From Sarah’s perspective, the meeting was going worse than all her previous meetings with her boss. She’d been given two options, neither of which she liked.

  After tucking a silky brown strand of hair behind her ear, Patricia folded her hands in front of her on her desk and smiled. The disingenuous smile never reached her glacial gray eyes.

  “Well, Sarah, I’m sure I’ve given you a great deal to think about. But please, take the weekend to consider it.”

  Her supercilious attempt at graciousness set Sarah’s teeth on edge. The Bitchkrieg knew she’d placed her in a difficult position, and clearly she reveled in it.

  “Thank you, but I don’t need time to think about it, Sarah said, as she looked into Patricia’s triumphant face. “You leave me no other alternative.”

  Chapter 6

  Sarah, Ann, and Becca walked on the beach in a rare summer nor’easter, bundled in rain slickers and galoshes.

  The rain had stopped, but the dark, scudding clouds turned the ocean gun-metal gray. The gusty northeasterly winds churned the water like a washing machine and filled the air with the briny scent of the ocean. Clumps of foam rolled along the beach like tumbleweeds, and Sarah could feel the salt spray coating her face and wind-tangled hair.

  “You did what!” Becca and Ann exclaimed simultaneously. Under other circumstances, Sarah would cry ‘jinx,’ but now was not the time.

  “I quit my job,” Sarah said, as she shrugged. She had to speak loud to be heard over the wind and crashing waves.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” Becca asked. “And without taking the time to find another job first?”

  “I had a meeting with the Bitchkrieg this morning.”

  “What did she want? Was she going to fire you, so you quit first?” Ann asked, hopeful that would explain Sarah’s drastic actions.

  “She wanted to talk to me about her personnel changes for the office,” she said, her fingers making quotation marks around ‘changes.’

  “Uh oh,” Ann said. Whether it was in response to her story or having to dodge the erratic wave that crashed onto the shore, Sarah couldn’t tell.

  “Yeah,” Sarah responded flatly. “She’s equating changing titles with promotions, and has plans to change our titles to ridiculously long, over-important ones. None of us ever cared what we were called. We were well-respected by Ken and our clients, and we were well-paid for our efforts.”

  Seagulls hung in the air overhead, interrupting the conversation with their cries, as if cursing the forces of nature that made their flying so difficult today.

  “She’d reviewed some of my work and spoken to my clients, and although she didn’t completely agree with some of my advice,”—Sarah rolled her eyes—“she could see that I was a good lawyer . . . the best in the office.”

  “How dare she! Of all the nerve,” Becca said, tongue in cheek.

  “I could do without your sarcasm.”

  “But that’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. “So how did you go from that to quitting?”

  “It gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view. She told me she needed a deputy and offered me the position of Assistant Vice President and Deputy General Counsel.”

  “Wait a minute. She planned to promote you and you quit?” Becca threw her hands up in disgust. “You’re right. This does get worse.”

  “Becca, you don’t understand. Not only did she tell me I had to cancel my trip to England, but one of my first duties was to fire Katie. Coward.”

  “What?” Ann asked, the shock evident on her face.

  “Yeah. She wanted me to do her dirty work. It was a test to see if I could become one of her trusted henchman.” Sarah picked up a shell and tossed it forcefully into the roiling waves. “She said she had an excellent lawyer who could start in the office right away, someone she’d worked with in her previous firm.”

  “That is low,” Ann said.

  “Really low,” Becca added.

  “In the end, when I said I wouldn’t fire Katie, the Bitchkrieg gave me an ultimatum: cancel my vacation and fire Katie, or resign. She gave me time to think about it, but I didn’t need it. I told her she would have my resignation by the end of the day.”

  “Oh my God, Sarah. How did she react?” Ann asked.

  “I think she was stunned. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but she’d offered no other more palatable options. I went to my office, closed my door, and began packing my things. My resignation was on her desk by five.”

  “I sent e-mails to everyone to tell them. I know,” Sarah said, holding up her hands, “that seems cowardly. But I knew if I told them in person, I would get emotional, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Everyone h
as arranged to meet for drinks on Monday.”

  “How are you going to support yourself?” Becca asked.

  “Becca, the house is paid for, and I have the divorce settlement and the small trust fund from Mom. I’ll be fine.” For a year, maybe longer if she quit eating.

  “Yes, but you’ll blow through your savings faster than you think. I know you hated her, but at least you had a job. It’s easier to find a job when you have a job. Now you have nothing.” Becca’s tone was like that of a mother scolding her irresponsible teenager. “And the longer you’re out of work, the harder it will be for you to find a good job. You’d better start looking right away.”

  “Honey, I know the last two years have been a mostly-downhill roller coaster ride for you, but during all of that, at least you had a good, steady job . . . ” Ann’s tone was more conciliatory.

  “Hey. The two of you have been telling me to shake things up a bit—that I needed a change. Isn’t that the reason you persuaded me to go to England?”

  “Yes, but by change we didn’t mean committing professional suicide. Jesus, Sarah, this is crazy and irresponsible—” Becca argued, arms gesturing emphatically.

  “I know. Everything I’m not.” She sighed. “Look, I love you both, and I appreciate your concern, but really, I’m going to be okay.” She smiled reassuringly. In reality, she wasn’t as confident as she sounded.

  Tea cup in hand, the bar journal opened to the classified ads, Sarah picked up her red pen prepared to circle potential jobs that would mean a fresh start for her. At least that was what she tried telling herself.

  So much for her moratorium on impulsive acts. Quitting her job had to be the dumbest impulsive act to date.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at the want ads. Probably not since high school when she’d been looking for a job to pay for the car insurance her parents said she had to be able to afford before they would get her a car.

  Boutique law firm seeks associate attorney to handle health care collections. Five years experience practicing law.

  Collections work, Sarah thought. Only if I was starving and my kid was barefoot.

  Healthcare firm seeks healthcare attorney to join practice. Must have over five years of solid health law experience and be a member of the Florida Bar.

  So far so good. Sarah took a sip of her tea and continued reading.

  Successful candidates must have significant experience in various aspects of healthcare law, including contract drafting, contracting, joint ventures, reimbursement, fraud and abuse, Stark and managed care. Litigators need not apply.

  She snickered at the last sentence. Circling that ad as a possibility, she moved on.

  Experienced, highly competent corporate attorney wanted for small, active transactional firm.

  Transactional attorney. Not really her cup of tea, but . . . she continued reading.

  Successful candidate will have seven to ten years of transactional experience, as well as excellent analytical and legal drafting skills.

  She had the transactional experience, and the drafting skills.

  Successful candidate will be a self-starter and a team player, and will be able to manage other lawyers and staff. Bilingual ability in Spanish.

  So much for that. If they ever needed a bilingual with French, she’d apply. Next.

  Work from home. Legal drafters needed. Provide legal research and writing support for law firms. Legal memoranda, briefs, contracts, plus some editing work all on an assignment-by-assignment basis. Qualified candidates must have excellent legal drafting skills, and a minimum of five years practicing law, including legal drafting experience.

  That intrigued Sarah. Flexibility. Work from home. And better yet, no bitchy boss.

  Circling that one, she picked up her now-cold cup of tea. Only two potential jobs out of the whole classified section. What if she had to move? What if she had no other choice?

  She thought about Sam and the job in New York. Assistant literary agent or something like that. But was she ready to give up on her legal career? Would they hire her without any experience, recommendation from Sam notwithstanding? Moreover, could she live in New York?

  Looking around her cozy, comfortable home, she didn’t think she could give it up for a postage-stamp-sized apartment that would likely cost more than her monthly salary.

  No. There had to be something she could do and still stay put.

  She couldn’t sleep. Looking at the clock for the umpteenth time, Sarah finally got up to explore the thing that kept nudging her, like a persistent, nagging voice foiling her attempts to sleep.

  She woke up at two a.m. thinking about her old manuscript. Wondering where it was, wondering if she still had it, and wondering if it was any good. After all, she’d written it almost eighteen years ago.

  Now, two hours later and still in her pajamas, she pulled down the attic steps, hoping not to hear any scurrying in her wake.

  After yanking the cord, the fluorescent lights flickered and slowly came to life, revealing stacks of dusty boxes, some labeled, some not. At least no unwelcome critters were there to greet her. She shivered as she thought of that possibility.

  Heaving a sigh, Sarah’s first thought was that it was hopeless. It could take a month of Sundays searching through the multitude of boxes, and she could still come up empty-handed. She didn’t even know if she still had it.

  But, she had nothing but time on her hands, and clearly her bout of busy-brain-syndrome wasn’t going to let her get back to sleep, so she might as well get started.

  She needed a plan of attack. Dividing the attic into three sections, she would systematically go through the boxes.

  She already knew that many of the boxes stacked to her right were Christmas decorations, so those were quickly eliminated. The boxes to her left mostly contained old household items she’d been meaning to donate to the local charity thrift store, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  It was the third stack, directly in front of her that posed the greatest challenge. Unlabeled, she had no idea what they might contain.

  Dragging up an old chair with a missing rung, she pulled the first box off the stack and sat down. Dust floated up to tickle her nose and the smell of musty old books assaulted her, making her sneeze.

  The box contained her high school yearbooks, some old, worn paperbacks from her childhood, and even some term papers from her high school days. She thumbed through a yearbook before reminding herself that this wasn’t a walk down memory lane, but a quest for treasure.

  Discarding the box, she wished she’d thought to bring a marker up to not only label the boxes, but also to mark them as searched.

  The next box revealed old photos, and the one after that, old tax returns. When she opened a box containing some of her college textbooks and papers, her pulse quickened. At least she was getting warmer, but no manuscript.

  It was nearly six a.m. when she opened a box that held no promise whatsoever that it would contain a manuscript. Digging through old athletic uniforms, trophies, awards, and other miscellaneous and sundry items from her days on her college crew team, she found it.

  At the bottom of the box, bound in rubber bands that had long since lost their elasticity, she lifted the bulky stack of yellowed pages. The cover page read: The American Heiress by Sarah Anne Edwards. Holding it to her chest like a long-lost friend, she nearly wept with relief. And fear. What if it really sucked?

  Chapter 7

  “Any luck with the job search?” Ann asked. “Way to go, Lily!”

  They sat on bleachers in the scorching summer sun watching Ann’s daughter’s soccer match. Lily ran down the field after scoring a goal, arms raised in triumph. The goal put her team up one-nothing.

  Rob, Ann’s husband, let out a shrill whistle, followed by a loud woohoo!

  “Nothing terribly promising.” Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun as she followed Lily’s progress down the field. “I’ve got a phone interview next week with a company that hir
es independent legal drafters for law firms.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. She pulled out the sunscreen and slathered more on her nose.

  “We’ll see . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What if I have to move, Ann? What if I can’t find anything here?” She looked at Ann, tears in her eyes.

  “Oh honey. We’ll cross that river when we come to it, and hopefully we’ll never come to it.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes at Ann’s muddled cliché.

  “That’s right,”—Rob reached over and patted Sarah’s leg—“no sense borrowing trouble.”

  Ann jumped up when Lily got tangled up with another player and fell.

  Rob grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. “She’s fine,” he told Ann. “Shake it off, sugar,” he yelled to Lily.

  “Ann, do you remember that manuscript I wrote back in college?”

  “Yeah, I wondered why you never did anything with it. You always were a good writer.”

  “Well, I’d forgotten about it until Sam reminded me of it when she was here last weekend. I found it, and you know something . . . it’s not half bad.” Sarah smiled as she thought about how she’d read through it after a sleepless night. She couldn’t make herself put it down. She’d sat right there in the attic and read at least the first hundred pages, before her stomach spoke up, reminding her that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

  “I think I’ll work on it again, maybe clean it up, try submitting it. Sam said she’d thought it was good back in college, and it’s something I can do while I’m looking for a job.”

  Ann’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s a great idea. You could be the next Jane Austen.” She wore an impish grin. “But if you want my advice, I think you should spice it up with a bare-chested hunk or two . . . and a lot of rowdy sex.”

  Sarah had her head in a tall cardboard box when the doorbell rang. Who could that be?