With my self-issued marching orders in mind, I leave a message for the last person on the reference list, Bliss Donahue.
Less than a minute later, my phone rings. “This is Max Hartley.”
“Mr. Hartley, this is Bliss Donahue. You just left me a message?”
“Yes. Thanks for getting back to me.”
I explain the project without referencing that it’s connected to a position Lina’s interviewing for. “So what I’d love to hear from you are your general impressions. Anything you wish she’d done differently? All in all, would you recommend her?”
“Oh, wholeheartedly,” Bliss says.
There’s conviction in her voice, and that’s good to hear.
“Lina knows what she’s doing,” Bliss continues, “from the big stuff, such as venues, to the small stuff, like which rental folding chairs are least likely to pinch your guests’ fingers. It’s dizzying the amount of information she has a handle on. She didn’t stifle me. I wore a green dress despite what I’m sure were Lina’s many misgivings about it. In the end, my day was just what I wanted. Well, except for my husband’s shaved eyebrows.”
“What’s that, now?”
Bliss lets out an exasperated sigh. “His groomsmen shaved off my husband’s eyebrows the night before our wedding. I swear, they’re like extras from The Hangover. You know, that movie with Bradley Cooper? Anyhow, Lina handled it like a pro. Somehow he had eyebrows for the wedding.”
“This is really helpful. Anything else?”
“Well . . .”
“It’s okay, Bliss. My goal is to help Lina, so if there’s something that would have made your experience even better, we’d love to know.”
She releases a breath. “Okay, it’s just . . . I’m not necessarily entitled to this, but I kind of wish that Lina were more enthusiastic about weddings. I don’t know. I wanted her to squee with me when I found the perfect flowers. Or when Ian and I practiced our vows. I got the impression that Lina isn’t a big believer in happily-ever-afters. It never affected her work, but it was something I picked up on. Don’t hate me for saying so, okay?”
“No, no. I asked you to give me your honest opinion, and you did. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me.”
“Sure,” she says in a bubbly voice. “Good luck with the project.”
And there’s the information I was hoping for. An aspect of Lina’s brand that could be affecting her success. A part of her business model that I can potentially affect in a positive way. Helping her play to her strengths also means discovering her perceived weaknesses. But I’m also wondering if Bliss is right. Maybe Lina’s experience with Andrew left her jaded. Or maybe she was jaded even before she met Andrew? Everywhere I turn I find another mystery about Lina I’d like to unravel.
My mother’s signature rat-a-tat-tat alerts me that she’s making her weekly rounds. She pokes her head in. “Got a minute?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
She lowers herself onto one of the guest chairs and sweeps her gaze over the walls, my desk, then me. “I just wanted to check in with you about the Cartwright account. Since you and Andrew aren’t working together, I can’t call you both in for a meeting. I don’t really have a handle on what’s going on, and I’m finding that unsettling.”
My mother never owns up to feeling anything less than fully confident. It’s what I love most and least about her. Her admission loosens the tension in my shoulders.
“We’re at the information-gathering stage,” I say. “I’m checking references. Getting a feel for what the wedding planner does for her clients on a day-to-day basis. Doing some research on the target customer as well.”
She nods approvingly, then knits her brow. “Your brother’s former fiancée was a wedding planner. Carolina.” My mother’s face takes on a wistful quality that I’m not used to. “I wonder what she’s up to now.”
I shrug. I’m not saying a word in response to that. A bolt of lightning would strike me on the spot.
“What kind of pitch are you considering?” she asks. “Mixed media?”
I’m eager to move the conversation along, so I dive into my preliminary ideas. “We haven’t gotten that far yet, and I’m taking my cues from her. But I’m going to suggest a video component and—”
The intercom buzzes, and my assistant’s voice echoes in the room: “Max, Patrice Bell is on line one. Says she’s returning your call about a reference for Carolina Santos and Dotting the I Do’s. Are you free?”
Why, God? Why?
My mother’s brows snap together and she leans forward in the chair.
I clear my throat. “Sammy, please tell her I’ll ring her back in a minute.”
“You got it,” Sammy says cheerfully, unaware of the years she’s just shaved off my life.
My mother rubs her temples and stares at her lap. “Let me see if I have this right. The wedding planner you’re working with is Carolina Santos?”
“Yes.”
Her head shoots up and she scrunches her face. “And neither you nor your brother thought it was appropriate to share that tidbit?”
“We didn’t want to worry you.”
That gets me an icy look. “Why would I be worried?”
“Because we didn’t share that tidbit with Rebecca Cartwright, either.”
Silence can be as intimidating as a Mob gangster. This moment is proof of that. If I can figure out a way to black out now, I’ll avoid the excruciating conversation to come. I look around my office for an object heavy enough to engineer a nonfatal blow. But after several more seconds of silence, and much to my surprise, my mother merely rises from the chair and shakes her head. “I’m disappointed in you both, but I’m not going to get in the middle of this. I’m not going to tell you what to do, nor am I going to sweep in and save you. But keep this in mind. If you want more responsibility here, you need to earn it. And if you screw this up, you and your brother should polish your résumés.”
She’s not joking. With that scathing soliloquy behind her, she strides out of my office and turns right. There’s just one office down that hall. Andrew’s. I could warn him, but I won’t. He deserves to be the target of her wrath, too. I mean, c’mon, Lina’s his ex-fiancée. I’m just an innocent bystander. Sort of.
I can’t say that I blame my mother. If another employee pulled the shit we’ve pulled, they’d be out on their ass if they didn’t fix their mistake. I knew when I came here she wouldn’t coddle us. But more to the point, she’s right. If I want more responsibility, I do need to earn it. And I will. No more distractions. No more detours. No more games.
* * *
Thursday evening, I drive to Wheaton to meet Lina at her family’s grocery store. At her suggestion, we’ll travel together from there to her client appointment. After parking in the strip mall where the store is located, I walk to the entrance and pull on the door. Nothing happens—because the door’s locked. The lights inside are on, though.
I lean against the door, poised to pull out my phone and text Lina, but then the woman of the hour appears on the other side of the door and unlocks it.