Design, dragging two large shopping bags along with her. If this day got any worse, she wouldn’t be able to stand it.
She’d realized this morning as she was leaving for work that she really could use a couple of new sweaters and a few other things if she intended to go to a ski resort for the next four days. So she’d ventured out for an early lunch hour, fought the crowds at both Ann Taylor and Express, stood in line next to a woman with a screaming baby, paid far too much for everything because she had no time to shop for a bargain, then took a cab back to her office driven by a guy who didn’t know the meaning of the word brake.
But at least now she was ready for the retreat. Four days of skiing in Silver Springs, courtesy of the big boss, Walter Davidson. The man liked to promote a “one big, happy family” feeling among his employees, and occasional employee/spouse retreats were his way of making that happen. Rachel had never been very comfortable in social situations, particularly those which she was forced to attend, so she wasn’t looking forward to this one. Unfortunately, turning down such a generous invitation would make her look ungrateful. And with the new project manager position opening up, she definitely didn’t want to appear that way.
The receptionist, Megan Rice, an animated little redhead with big brown eyes, peered over her desk.
“Hey, Rachel. Have fun shopping?”
“Not in the least.”
“Aw, come on. It’s always fun to spend money.”
Not for Rachel. Saving money was fun. Spending it was painful.
The phone trilled. Megan punched a button on her console, answered it, then routed it with another touch of her fingertip. Most companies had done away with call-routing receptionists and gone to voice mail. But Walter Davidson insisted on maintaining the personal touch, and Megan manned the central nervous system of Davidson Design with astonishing proficiency. She greeted visitors, did overflow word processing and generally took up slack wherever she found it. But despite her obvious competence, there was something about her that had always made Rachel feel just a touch uneasy.
Maybe it was the barbed wire tattoo on her upper arm that occasionally peeked out from under her sleeve. Maybe it was the glint in her eyes that said she always knew way more than she was saying. Maybe it was the phone calls she made sometimes to somebody named “Blade.” But for one reason or another, Rachel had come to suspect the truth: lurking behind those big brown eyes was the heart of a hell-raiser.
And now the hell-raiser was smiling at her.
Under normal circumstances, Megan’s smile was just a smile. But today was Rachel’s birthday. Megan was the self-appointed celebrant of all birthdays on the premises, and she accomplished that duty in ways that struck fear in Rachel’s heart. Rachel hated people making a fuss over her. But when it came to birthdays, Megan went beyond fuss and edged right into human torture.
A bouquet of black balloons.
Candles that wouldn’t blow out.
A six-foot rabbit belting out a singing telegram.
A T-shirt that read, I’m Not Old, I’m Chronologically Challenged.
“Any messages for me?” Rachel asked.
“No,” Megan said with a smile. “But I have something for you.”
Oh, no.
Rachel glanced quickly over one shoulder, then the other. She saw nothing suspicious, but that didn’t mean a thing. It could come from anywhere at any time, so she had to stay on her toes.
“Please, Megan,” she said. “I know it’s my birthday, but—”
“Hey, calm down, will you? It’s no big deal.”
That hardly made Rachel feel better. Megan thought a dancing chimpanzee was no big deal.
“Please,” she said imploringly. “Just tell me…” She took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Just tell me it’s not a stripper.”
Megan looked horrified. “You’re kidding, right? A stripper? Would I do something like that?”
The answer was an unqualified yes. A stripper. A guy with a boom box and a G-string beneath his tearaway pants, ready to bump and grind his way through a routine that would make Madonna die of embarrassment. Everyone would come out of their offices to watch the show, and she’d have to tolerate it or look like a bad sport.
That Walter allowed such behavior amazed Rachel. But it was just one more expression of his core ideology: the employees who played together stayed together, and if a few practical jokes masquerading as birthday surprises enhanced that mood, he was all for it.
Rachel sighed inwardly. What had happened to workplaces where people were stuffy and uptight and gave out birthday cards with rhyming verses that weren’t dirty limericks?
Then Megan reached for something underneath her desk, and Rachel braced herself.
“Here you go,” Megan said, and set a cupcake on the counter. Rachel held her breath, eyeing it warily. A cup-cake? Surely there was more to it than that.
“Lighten up, will you?” Megan said. “It’s way too small for a stripper to jump out of.”
True.
Rachel let out the breath she’d been holding. Well. That wasn’t so bad. A nice, conservative cupcake topped with white frosting and a single pink candle. That she could deal with.
“I know you said you didn’t even want a cake,” Megan said, “but everybody needs a cake on their birthday. Even if it’s a little one.”
“Well…thank you, Megan. I appreciate that.”
Megan motioned to the end of the reception desk. “And those roses are for you, too. They came while you were out to lunch. Aren’t they something?”
Ah. The flowers. They’d arrived. And they were something, all right. Just the kind of flowers sent by a man crazy in love with his wife.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Jack is very sweet. I’ve told him time and time again that flowers are a silly waste of money, but he won’t listen.”
“Too bad he couldn’t make it back to town for your birthday.”
“He tried to catch a flight out, but he couldn’t. It’s along way from South America, you know, and the access is pretty bad. He has to take a flight whenever he can get one.”
Megan rested her chin on her hand. “Wow. It must really be tough to have your husband gone all the time.”
Rachel let out a theatrical sigh. “I do miss him.”
“Easy to see why,” Megan said with a smile. “He’s gorgeous. Well, his picture is, anyway. Are we ever going to get to meet him?”
“Sure. Someday soon. I promise.”
Actually, the real answer to that question was Not in a million years. But Megan didn’t know that. Neither did anyone else at Davidson Design. And they never would.
Megan
