It’s Kim O’Neill.”
“Oh . . . hi, Kim.” She didn’t sound pleased to hear from me.
I decided to skip the pleasantries and get right down to pleading. “Dawn, I really need the money Hardcover owes us.”
“Well . . . I don’t know what to tell you because—”
“Please, Dawn, I’m begging you,” and I began to cry again.
“But I really don’t make any of the decisions—”
“Please, don’t do this!” I wailed uncontrollably. “Make out a check and I’ll come pick it up before he gets home from work. I’m begging you!”
In the long pregnant pause that followed, I aged at least ten years. She finally responded, “I’d better give you cash. That way, he can’t stop payment on the check.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’ll give it to me in cash?”
“How soon can you get here?” she asked worriedly.
“Now!” I answered, drying my tears. “I’ll be right over!”
“Okay . . . but hurry. He usually gets home about three.”
I looked at my watch. It was just after two, and they were on the other side of town. “I’ll be there right away! Dawn, I’ll never be able to thank—”
“Just hurry up! If he comes home early, I won’t be able to give it to you.”
Racing to their house, I could have broken Indianapolis 500 speed records. I worried about what Chuck Dugan would do if he found me on his doorstep. I got there at 2:45 p.m. I jumped out of my car and ran up the stone steps that flanked the entrance of their palatial home. I tripped, fell, ripped the sleeve of my white silk blouse, and bloodied my knee, but I had so much adrenalin pumping through my veins that I didn’t even feel it. I frantically rang the bell. Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding.
The door quickly swung open and there was Dawn, holding a large Neiman Marcus shopping bag. She was obviously surprised by my tear-stained, disheveled appearance. Worriedly looking up and down the street, she shoved the bag at me, obviously concerned about her husband finding out about what she had done.
I grabbed the heavy multi-colored bag by the handles, looked inside, and gasped. I had never seen so much money before. Rubber bands held stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills that appeared to have been hurriedly assembled and stacked.
“I counted it twice,” she assured me. “It’s all there. I’ll just tell him that I ran out of shopping money.”
I looked at her in astonishment, my eyes wide, mouth open. Shopping money?
“Well,” she said, reading my mind, “I have to have something to look forward to in this fucking marriage. Now GO!” She quickly shut the front door.
Limping, I scurried back down the stairs, opened the car door, threw the bag inside, and was on my way. When I got to the four-way stop at the entrance of the affluent subdivision, I saw Chuck Dugan driving past me.
I rushed to the bank. I wondered about the impression my appearance would make—a woman with red, teary eyes; a bruised and bloodied leg; and a soiled, torn blouse—holding a Neiman Marcus shopping bag loaded with $80,000 in cash. I had never made such a substantial deposit, and I was surprised that the teller didn’t bat an eye—until she presented me with the deposit ticket, and I held it to my heart and began to cry. I felt like someone who had just survived a natural disaster.
Rush hour slowed my progress, so it was after 4:30 p.m. when I finally reached my office in the congested Galleria area. I didn’t want to take the time to go home and change my clothes because the staff was waiting for me. I called Shirley from the car to let her know that I was minutes away.
The glass and steel mid-rise office building was a welcome sight as I swung my car into the multi-tiered parking garage. I pulled into my space, turned off the car and stepped out. My leg was now throbbing; I realized that blood had glued the pantyhose to my knee, which by this time also sported a swollen purple bruise. I grabbed my purse and briefcase, hobbled into the building, and got on the elevator. A man who owned an insurance company down the hall joined me just before the doors closed. He regarded my appearance with a startled expression.
“Typical Monday,” I said.
The bell finally sounded, the elevator opened, and I limped down the hall toward the office. An ornate gold plaque inscribed Advertising & Design, Inc. hung outside the double glass and mahogany doors. I walked into the agency’s large reception area and found Shirley hard at work behind the circular desk that served as her base of operations. The reception area was appointed with buttery-soft leather furniture and chrome and glass tables. The walls were lined with numerous framed ad campaigns that we had created, and we also showcased all of the design, advertising, and public relations awards that had been presented to us by our peers in the industry. Special lighting produced a soft glow that made the cavernous space appear like a warm, soothing, enveloping cocoon. Instead of feeling pride with what we had accomplished, I felt nothing but knee-buckling, gut-wrenching, mind-numbing stress each time I walked in the front door.
The moment she saw me, Shirley jumped out of her chair as though she had been shot out of a cannon. In her sixties, she was nurturing, stoic, capable, and able to thrive on stress. She had been with us since we opened our doors.
“Thank God you’re back!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”
“I’m fine. Where is everybody?”
“They’re all waiting in the conference room. You have a slew of messages,” she announced, holding up a handful of pink While You Were Out slips with my name on them. “Want them now or later?”
“Later—we have to get going on the pitch.”
She bent to examine my knee. “Ouch! I’ll get the Bactine—I have some in my desk.” Shirley was always ready for anything. “You’re gonna need some aspirin, too.”
“Thanks, Shirley.”
“Kim, before you go back there, I need to share something. David has someone—”
“Did he finally come back? Good of him to join us. Call Star Pizza—”
“Done,” she quickly replied. “Should be here any minute.”
“Great! Bring the pizzas back when they’re delivered. And would you make some good strong coffee?”
“Just finished brewing,” she assured me. “I’ll get you a cup. And the aspirin. You’re going to need it.” She then hurried through the reception area and across the threshold that led to the labyrinth of offices, the conference room, the file room, and the full-service kitchen. I limped behind her to my office, tossing my purse and briefcase on my desk. I grabbed the thick file I needed to create the proposal and hobbled down the long hall to the conference room where the staff had already assembled.
The door to the conference room was open, and I could see the seven staff members all sitting around the
