Some of my co-workers I like better than others. I soon learn that as Mara’s assistant, I sign off on donated hours – which are degree requirements for many of the interning law students. Curiously, this translates into my having to turn down numerous ‘gifts’ and dinner invitations. In fact, by the second week, I take to wearing my grandmother’s wedding band at work to avoid the topic of dating the male law students altogether.
Though Scott is happy that I’m enjoying the challenges of my new job, he isn’t thrilled with the need for the ring or with the amount of hours I’ve been putting in. But I grew up watching my dad work more than a hundred hours a week. I understand how the salary system works. And if my sending another email at the end of an exhausting twelve-hour day helps to coordinate decent temporary housing for one more family, who am I to argue?
I’m five weeks into my twelve-week probationary period when things take an unforeseen turn. It’s after seven and the office is almost empty for the day. Since Scott won’t be over until around 8:30 or 9:00 after the girls are in bed, I decide to clear out my email inbox, or at least form a plan of attack for tomorrow.
I smile to myself when I see the name of Mara’s boss’s boss as one of the senders. I’m moving up in the world, even if I’m only CC’d. I click on the email and read about the annual report that Mara will be contributing to. As her assistant, I’m sure I’ll be compiling a lot of the information for her so I go through the email carefully. I’m about to move on when a name in the long list of CC recipients catches my attention.
mccarthy_richardmccarthyholdings
I stare at it for a long moment, a furrow forming between my brows. Why would Scott’s grandfather be receiving information about the Settlement Project? Because it’s definitely him. Though Scott wasn’t interested in learning anything about the man, when Richard McCarthy started contacting me, I went through everything I could find online. I know he’s the largest stakeholder in McCarthy Holdings. I also know the company contributes to many non-profits, but I don’t recall the Settlement Project being one of them. Plus, my pre-interview research on my employer didn’t turn anything up either, because obviously, that would have stood out to me.
So, why? Why am I looking at Richard McCarthy’s name?
It’s a coincidence I tell myself. He’s an extremely wealthy man. I’m sure he has his hands in a lot of different projects that aren’t included on his company’s website.
Why, then, is my heart thumping painfully in my chest? After all, this can’t have anything to do with me, I’m just a lowly administrative assistant . . . an administrative assistant who didn’t have any prior experience, one who’s being overpaid, one who didn’t even apply for the job.
My insides start gymnastics-worthy contortions. If it’s too good to be true . . .
No, no, no.
I’m being utterly self-involved. I have to be. And there’s a very easy way to find out one way or the other. I reach for the mouse and click on the man’s email address. I’ll ask him outright. But then my fingers hover over the keyboard. Ask him what? Did you make an anonymous contribution to the Settlement Project to provide me with a job? That sounds completely asinine. Clearly I’m overtired, so I shut down my computer for the night.
On the drive home, though, the idea sits in the back of my mind and festers. Every instinct I have is telling me that something isn’t right. And on top of everything, it’s dark and raining and traffic is a total bitch.
By the time I drag my weary ass out of my car and make it inside, Scott is already here.
“Honey?!” he calls and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “Are you home?”
Despite my grumpiness, I feel my lips forming a smile as I turn the corner and find him rummaging around in the fridge. Letting my purse, slide off my shoulder to the floor, I lean on the island to watch him. With the trash can beside him, it would appear he’s doing a fridge clean-out.
Pulling his head out, he turns to me with an old takeout container in his hand and a wry expression on his face. “Woman, is this the Indian food we ordered like two weeks ago?” He chucks it in the trash. “If you didn’t have me, you’d have to call in a hazmat team twice a year.”
“Oh, probably.”
Flipping the fridge door closed, he saunters over, giving me a head-to-toe once over as he approaches. Silently, I thank the powers that be that his mood is the exact opposite of mine.
His hands settle on my waist before he leans in to kiss me. Of course, what begins as an innocent peck heats up and all thoughts of Richard McCarthy are eliminated in favor of nothing but lurid notions involving his grandson. That is until my stomach grumbles loudly.
Our lips freeze and we laugh.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me toward a bar stool at the counter. “Let me feed you.” He gets a plate out and fills it with something from a Tupperware container on the counter. “My abuela made bisteces a la Mexicana with her secret-recipe rice,” he says, giving me a meaningful look. “We both know that shit’s the bomb.” He shoves it in the microwave. “Oh, and the girls wanted me to give you this.” He pushes a large sheet a paper toward me along the countertop and then turns back to hunt for a fork.
The paper turns out to be folded several times and when I’ve got it fully extended, it’s the size of a small poster. “Oh, wow.” It’s a giant peace symbol, and each of the three sections it creates has been filled by one of the girls with the things they like to draw and color, like hearts, stars, animals, etc.
“Pretty cute, right?” Scott says, coming to stand next to me. “Mari helped with the idea of giving them their own space because the first one they worked on ended in some serious bickering.”
“I love it,” I whisper.
Probably responding to the unwarranted amount of emotion in my voice, he asks, “Hey, you okay?” He puts a finger under my chin to examine me more closely. “You haven’t said much. Did something happen at work?”
His eyes drop to my left hand, but there’s nothing to see because I leave my grandmother’s ring locked in my desk at work. I shake my head in mild irritation at his assumption that my bad day has something to do with a male co-worker.
“No. Nothing happened,” I say with a ghost of a smile, but then I sober. “Well, I don’t think anything happened. It might be nothing . . . it’s probably nothing.”
“But you’re going to tell me about it anyway.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, the bossy man.
“Yeah, I’m going to tell you anyway.”
The microwave beeps but he ignores it, his gaze concerned.
“It’s nothing bad,” I begin, re-folding the poster and setting it aside. As I recount the tale, I realize how little substance there is to it, and his lack of reaction except for the momentary dip of his eyebrows at the mention of his grandfather is telling.
When I finish, he just gets my dinner out of the microwave and sets it in front of me. “You should eat something.”
I shake my head. “I can’t eat anything until I hear what you think.”
“I don’t think anything, El. I’m not even sure what your point is.”
If he mocks me in my current state of mind, I don’t think I’ll take it well. But I confess anyway. “I think your grandfather got me my job.”