Between Here and the Horizon(8)
What the hell did he think I was going to try and do, break in here later and try to steal his confidential files or something? Ridiculous. I arranged my face into what I hoped looked like professional gratitude, but on the inside I was burning with disappointment, alongside a splash of anger. Getting to my feet, I hoped he didn’t notice the identical flushed, red spots coloring my cheeks.
“Thank you, Ronan. I’ll make sure I do that.” I didn’t offer my hand out to shake his, even though I knew I should. It would be ill advised to leave the interview on an awkward or discordant note, and yet I couldn’t get myself to toe the line.
I felt naked for a moment, then collected my purse that I’d sat at my feet. I felt foolish as I turned away from Ronan Fletcher and walked quickly to the same elevator I came out of only a short while ago.
I almost expected the man behind me to call out to me, wish me a safe flight back to Los Angeles or something equally as polite and measured, but he didn’t. He didn’t speak another word. As the elevator doors closed, his figure was silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun blazing through the high windows behind him, and I couldn’t see his face. I would always remember it, though. I would never be able to forget.
CHAPTER FOUR
Patience
“The Causeway? That doesn’t sound in the least bit exotic at all. Sounds cold if you ask me.” No one had asked my mother, but that never seemed to matter to her. She’d always been one to voice her opinion, solicited or otherwise, and woe betide the poor bastard who ever disagreed with her. In light of this, I nodded sagely from the bussing station at the entrance to the kitchen while Mom shouted to me from the meat section, where she was cooking a pair of steaks. Dad was nowhere to be seen, as usual.
“It’s a part of Maine, Mom. I don’t think it’s ever particularly warm there.”
“And this Fletcher guy was rude to you?” I’d mentioned that Ronan hadn’t exactly been warm in welcoming me or making me feel at ease, and she hadn’t been able to let the matter drop. For three days I’d been telling her the same story over and over again, and her outrage hadn’t dissipated a single iota. “And after that ridiculously long flight, too. I tell you, these big business guys in big cities, they’re all the same. They must be the absolute worst in New York, though. The height of arrogance. Never mind, baby. You’ll find work closer to home. You’ll be able to come back to the South Bay in the evenings. And your father and I will be just fine, don’t worry about us.”
I was worried, though. I’d been worrying non-stop for the past year and no amount of plotting and planning appeared to be helping the situation. I’d seen the stack of envelopes on the kitchen counter this morning, all marked with “Final Notice” or “Passed Due.” Mom had swept them deftly into the cutlery drawer when she noticed me helping myself to cereal, but she wasn’t that stealthy a woman. There had been at least four envelopes there.
“I know, Mom. It’s not a big deal. I would never have cut it on a tiny island, anyway. I would have gone crazy, especially if I couldn’t even call you guys whenever I wanted to. The time difference would have been awful.” It was only three hours, but with their busy schedule and my own, I would have missed my opportunity to talk to them most of the time.
“Ophelia?” Mom called. “While it’s quiet, would you mind running upstairs to the office and seeing if there’s any word from Waylan’s? We were supposed to get a delivery this morning and nothing’s shown up yet.”
“Sure thing.” Aside from the couple sitting at the table by the window, the restaurant was empty and lunch service was over. I had a few minutes to leave the floor, so I did as she asked, jogging up the stairs to check the online bookings and listen to the messages on the answering machine. There were seven new messages waiting. I hit the play button, sitting myself down in front of the prehistoric computer my Dad refused to get rid of, and the entire time the machine clicked through the messages (a call center, wondering if we want to renew our home owner’s insurance; Aunt Simone, wanting Mom to call her back when she had a second; croaky, hoarse sounding old Mr. Robson, confirming the table for tomorrow night that he and his wife always reserved on a Sunday) I was holding my breath, waiting to hear that cool, calm voice with the strange lilt to it, telling me in no uncertain terms that I hadn’t gotten the job, and I needn’t bother googling Causeway Island anymore.
The message never came, though. That was probably the most frustrating part. I knew I hadn’t gotten the job, but it would have been nice to be put out of my misery. It seemed highly irregular that Ronan Fletcher hadn’t even had one of his receptionists call or even email to let me know that someone else had filled the position. I didn’t care. I didn’t. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. If I didn’t recite to myself constantly that I didn’t need that particular job, then my heart rate kept accelerating at the prospect of earning a hundred thousand dollars in a short six-month period, and I was on the verge of weeping at the missed opportunity. There were no messages in the email from Waylan’s about our missing delivery. While I was there, I checked my personal email account to see if I had actually received something from the Fletcher Corporation there, but my inbox was notably empty.
Well, shit.