Page 3 of This is a Kissing Book

Why is this my life?

My job in the Collections Processing Department of Meridian Holdings isn’t the worst. However, I didn’t expect to be working in an entry-level position as a cataloging assistant, doing the drudge work of digitizing documents, basic data entry, organizing files, pulling materials for senior researchers, and performing preliminary research inquiries.

Then again, logistically, legally, technically, I’m not supposed to be here.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing facsimiles of old texts and pieces of art the public hasn’t laid eyes on in hundreds of years feels like Christmas morning for a history nerd like me, but it’s not quite where I saw myself as an enterprising college student. Then again, I never quite made it to graduation day. For all intents and purposes, Meridian Holdings believes I graduated from the prestigious Sierra Institute with a major in art history and a minor in museum studies.

While the office girlies, Wendy and Carmen, enjoy BLTs from the Tasty Trolley, complete with complimentary butterscotch pudding cups on Fridays, I pull out my tomato and mayo sandwich from my soft-sided lunch box. If only I could afford the B in a BLT.

My father had some rough dealings, and his debt was passed on to me. I’ve always been just behind the eight ball—scrambling to catch up. A day late. A dollar short. Or in this case, 26,000—ironically, my age minus a few zeroes.

I’d rather his legacy didn’t include his counterfeiting expertise, but when you inherit both daddy issues and really good forgery tools, I couldn’t very well not take the lemons I was given and make lemonade, er, a fake document.

We’ll overlook that I may have committed a felony. I’m more than capable of doing this job, so it’s not like I took it from someone more qualified. Nor am I a nepo baby. More like a repo baby, since my father’s vehicle was repossessed the week I got to his house.

I just hope the world I’ve carefully curated never collides with the reality of my past. Though I wouldn’t mind meeting the guy who was accidentally patched into my phone extension.

2

JULES

Wendy returns from lunch with Jeannie in tow for her daily “tea time.” She gossips about our boss, Chief Executive Officer Frank Andresen, and how he’s grooming his son to become the VP, never mind that he probably isn’t qualified. I can imagine the system collapse when a guy who has no idea how to run a business like this drives it into the ground.

I said I hate Frank Andresen, but I never said he wasn’t exceptional at elevating Meridian Holdings into a multimedia empire—ownership and management of prestigious art auction houses, rare book publishers, museum consulting firms, and digital art platforms.

It’s a hybrid of the Smithsonian’s research power with Disney’s marketing reach. Give the devil his due. Frank Andresen runs a tight operation.

Maxine Drecken, his acting COO, is no different—cut from the same corporate mold—execs who treat their employees like bots.

I return to my computer and work on transcribing the slanted script dated June 1726—this very month, but hundreds of years ago. These are the names and records of real lives, real people inked in time. How could I not be fascinated?

Carmen gets back from lunch with what should be a butterscotch-pudding smile. Instead, she looks frantic. Talking a mile a minute, she says, “Did you see the interdepartmental memo that just came through?”

Wendy’s head telescopes out from behind her computer screen like an ostrich. “Just got it. We have a mandatory meeting with Executive Operations for a special announcement.”

Carmen wipes perspiration from above her upper lip. “You know what this meeting means. Restructuring.”

Abruptly, the temperature in the room seems to change.

Wendy joins in the panic. “Code for layoffs.”

“I didn’t hear about a merger.” My pulse accelerates.

They’re both pale from the kind of nervousness that suggests I’m not the only one who needs to keep this job. We could close off from each other. Send discreet emails to connections in the company to ensure we remain employed. Instead, the office girlies and I gather in a circle. Carmen, our matriarch, leads us in a quiet prayer.

Before she concludes, Wendy adds, “And if we’re going to get bad news, please include catering from Flour Hour, the bakery and sweet shop that opened two blocks over. If I’m getting the axe, I need a cinnamon roll to stem the pain.”

We chuckle, but really, this isn’t a laughing matter. For the last year, these women and I have become a well-oiled machine. We can’t claim that we keep the business afloat, far from it, but we do our jobs without any wheels coming off. Not only that, but we’ve been through real life together—the birth of Wendy’s son. Carmen’s husband having shoulder surgery. We’ve gone to Cubs games and cried together when the final episode of “The Sweetheart Report” aired. I cannot believe Jenessa chose Colin!

We spend the next hour speculating about the meeting. Did someone finally get caught stealing the vanilla bean coffee pods? Carmen is convinced we’re being sent on a mandatory team-building adventure retreat, which sounds like my personal nightmare—I’m a homebody.

To Frank Andresen, everything is urgent. The way I see it is that art and documents have endured for hundreds of years. Some for thousands. What’s the rush? We’ll get everything cataloged, insured, and properly accounted for. No need to strike fear into us employees that if we don’t get things done yesterday, the world will end.

From across the room, Wendy gasps. “Juliana, remember, you applied internally for the job of research associate. Maybe the position opened up and you’re getting it.”

Doubtful, but I flash an appreciative smile. Moving up in Meridian is an impossibly slow climb—apparently, Frank’s hurry has its limits. Plus, I don’t really want anyone making inquiries into my educational background or work history. Shh.

As the afternoon creeps by and the clock clicks down to the meeting time, our nervousness turns into grasping at optimism. What’ll follow is scared silence, but we’re not quite there yet.