Page 24 of Holding On

“That’s so sad.”

“I know, but it’s better that they don’t suffer.”

I agree. “Sometimes, I think we treat our dogs better than we treat human beings.” My voice catches, and I can feel his stare. I sigh. “My mom. When she . . . when she passed away, they gave her liquids, even though it was written all over her chart not to. She lived two weeks longer than she should have, and she was in terrible pain.”

“You’re right.” He touches my shoulder with one of those hands, and the heat immediately spreads across my cool skin. He rubs it with a thumb and takes his hand away. I can still feel his touch, though. Right through to my crotch.

For the first time, I allow myself to be unsettled in his gaze. I stare into his eyes. They’re a gorgeous light brown and flecked with gold. They remind me of tiger’s eye, my favorite stone when I was a little girl.

“And they love us unconditionally,” he says. “They’re faithful. And you know the best thing?”

“They’re furry and soft?”

“They don’t know how to lie.”

That’s when I have to look away.

***

Two hours later, I keep glancing at my watch. There’s the ding! of the elevator, which sounds like a real bell and not a recording. I’m in the older, turn-of-the-century building, wearing the same pencil skirt from yesterday, a crisp, white cotton shirt, a short-waisted black jacket, sheer hose (which I can’t stand), and flat-black Mary Janes. The doors slide open, and I stride purposefully down the hall, past Audrey’s door.

Turning the corner, I take a deep breath and knock three times on a door. From behind it, a woman’s voice commands, “Come in!”

Sitting behind a very large oak desk, seemingly alone in the room, is a finely dressed elderly woman. Her gray hair is tidy and pulled back into a thick, short ponytail with a wide crimson bow. Though her light blue eyes are magnified, her gaze is obliterated by trifocals. Pearly white fingernail polish dots her fingers, and a cameo keeps the frocked collar in place at her neck. I have no idea what her skirt or shoes look like, but they’re probably equally reserved.

Her desk blocks a second door immediately behind her—no doubt her boss’s. The message is loud and clear: to get to him, you have to go through her.

“Good morning,” she says. “And you are?”

I clear my throat. “Maya Williams,” I say.

“Oh, yes. The intern. I’m Gretchen Caudwill. He’s expecting you.” She moves toward her computer and adds, “It’s surprising you’re on time.”

Instantly, I’m on alert. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Those indirect eyes look at me, but I can’t really see her. “Well, interns, dear. They’re notorious for being late.” She goes back to her screen.

I don’t know where to begin processing—with the ‘dear,’ or the innuendo that people who look like me are always late. Because I know that’s what she meant. Her intern line was too smooth. There was no stumbling over herself, no apologies. No self-awareness about how the whole sentence sounded.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Thank you,” I say, then I walk past her desk and rap on the door.

The “Come in,” is muffled, avuncular.

The office inside is laid with thick plush carpeting, and it’s hard to push the door open. The sweet smell of half-spent cigars is lodged in the corners of the room.

“Come in, come in,” says the man sitting behind a glossy, dark wooden desk “You can shut the door behind you.”

This makes me uncomfortable, but I do it. I shut the door behind me and take several steps forward. The jacket pinches my shoulder blades. I shift my briefcase to my other hand and offer my right. We shake and his grip is warm, tight, and firm. He’s large but not tall. Round but not soft. He’s built like a wrestler. No wonder Audrey told me to wear flats. Between the carpet and my instinct to run, which is fully engaged, I would have tripped in heels.

A full head of brilliant white hair is the only cue to his age. His skin is almost wrinkle-free, and his eyes are large, blue, and oddly cool. He wears no glasses, so I receive the full intensity of his gaze as he sizes me up.

He’s got a firm jaw, high cheekbones. He’s wearing nice, expensive black pants, pleated and with a sheen, black suspenders, and a bright red bow tie.

The cologne that wafts from him rolls off in cool waves of lime and astringent, stating this is a practical, no-nonsense man. A man of business is what it says. A man you don’t fuck with. Everything about him is crisp, clean, and controlled.

He casts a glance in my direction. “Maya Williams,” he says. “Very lucky to have you. You hail from Los Angeles via Chicago? Do I have that right?”