Georgia on Her Mind(62)

The rest of my meetings go well. I talk with a guy in marketing, a woman in sales and two people from the customer support team. They are a young, eager group.

“What are the goals for the Midwest office?” I ask Steve as we wind our way through the halls back to reception.

“Get our Web products in the hands of every person who uses the Internet. We want to take the fear out of using the Web and creating Web sites. We want our product in every small business in America. In the hands of the housewife who keeps the family newsletter, or the grandma who wants to put her grandbabies’ pictures on the Web for her friends. If you can type, you can use E-Z-Web. No XML, no HTML, just our fine Web processing software.”

Cold chills prickle over my scalp. Those words are replicas of Casper’s W-Book marketing pamphlet. Almost exactly. Now I know why a jeans-clad girl gets a nod for a Myers-Smith director position.

They don’t want me. They want Casper. Not my abilities, leadership or experience. Run the show? Ha! They want someone intimately acquainted with the competition.

Steve stops in front of the elevator. “Ready for lunch?”

“Sure.” I force a smile. This is unbelievable. What do I do? I would love to stick it to Attila the Hun and Casper for treating me so callously, but deep down I don’t want vendettas to govern my life.

But this is a career move, right? Myers-Smith knocked on my door first.

Steve tells me a little about Chicago on the ride down to the first floor, where the limo waits for us. Steve directs the driver to take us to a swank restaurant on La Salle Street as he retrieves the Tums tube from his vest pocket again.

A little heartburn, Steve? I ask a few questions about the Chicago office, hoping I don’t sound as befuddled as I feel, wondering about their motive for hiring me. That glance between Paul and Steve was more than Is she having a nice day?

At the restaurant I excuse myself for the ladies’ room and talk to God while freshening up.

“What do I do?” I powder my face and reapply my lipstick. “Do I join Casper’s competition?”

My reflection in the mirror tells me I’ve returned to my savvy businesswoman appearance. The Chico’s tunic and slacks are slimming and sleek. Even the right-cheek blemish has dissipated.

This is the Macy Moore I know and love. But I’m so conflicted. My thoughts are in disarray. Myers-Smith is offering me the job of a lifetime. They are picking up where Casper left off. I think I can do the job without disclosing Casper secrets, but you just know that’s exactly what they want from me. I lean toward the mirror and shake my head. “They want you for all the wrong reasons.”

I hurry back to the table where Steve waits. “I ordered you a glass of wine. Thought we could celebrate.” A tall glass of milk sits in front of him, next to the wine.

“None for me, thanks.” I spread my napkin across my lap. “I’m strictly a Diet Coke girl.”

“My apologies.” He motions for the waiter. “Cancel the lady’s wine and bring her a Diet Coke.” He glances at me. “Twist of lime?”

“Sure, why not?” I smile, but my insides tremble.

The waiter trots off and Steve zeros his energies in on me. “What do you think?” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a packet of Tums.

I lift my hands, searching for words. “It’s a fantastic job.” I mean, right or wrong, they are offering the position to me.

He pops two tablets into his mouth and washes them down with a sip of his wine. “I’d love to phone New York with your acceptance.”

Such a simple statement packs so much pressure. I stall. “Steve, what is the final offer?” He’s painted a picture for me with broad strokes, mentioned a potential salary when we talked on the phone and baited me with a fabulous office, but…

He pulls a proposal package from his attaché case. “Here’s the complete package. Salary, bonus, benefits, vacation and terms of employment.”

My eyes stumble over the numbers and words on the page. My head spins. Almost double my Casper salary with a signing bonus. Add to that a 401K plan with 5 percent matching, stock options and a gracious three weeks of vacation for the first three years, then it bumps up to four weeks.

Unbelievable. I regard Steve, searching his face for the layer beneath. What’s the true offer, the true catch?

“We feel we get what we pay for,” he says as if reading my expression.

Ah, there’s the catch.

Woo the client knocking their socks off, then work them to death.

Lunch is ordered and I review the package one more time and pretend I could actually move in next to Oprah.

“Do you have any questions?” Steve asks over our salads.

I shake my head. “I’d like some time to think about the offer.” I sip my soda.

Steve holds out his hands and shrugs as if I’m an idiot. “You shouldn’t pass on this opportunity. Casper would never give you the chance we are, Macy. Join us. Show them what they let go.”

Okay, there it is, just as I suspected. Myers-Smith wants Casper and I’m just the pawn they need. Yet, isn’t this business? Isn’t that how empires are made? How empires are crumbled?

Right in the middle of our main course and discussion of Myers-Smith, the ma?tre d’ approaches.

He stoops over and says my name with a French accent. “Miss Moore?”