I nodded.
"Good." He leaned back in his chair, fingers tented at chin level. "You'll write a report, of course."
"Of course."
"Then we'll talk."
I nodded.
"Good!" His smile broadened. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Brad."
Brad touched his forehead in mock salute. "I knew you'd want to know."
Garvin shook head slowly from side to side. "You get up in the morning. You think you know what you're going to be doing. Damn!"
Donna Hudgins stood, adjusting the cuffs of her jacket. "Will that be all, Harrison?"
It was. In less than thirty seconds we'd said our thank-yous and good-byes. In the hallway outside Garvin's office, Brad shook my hand and asked me to keep him in the loop.
A few minutes later I was trailing off to Personnel with Donna. Even from behind, I could tell her jaw was clenched. It would take a miracle for me to get on the good side of Victory Mutual's head of Policyholder Services.
When we stepped off the elevator on three, she spun around to face me. "You know I'm only doing this because Garvin ordered me to."
I grinned toothily. "I suppose this means we won't be sharing fashion tips over turkey roll-up sandwiches any time soon?"
As I turned and pushed my way through the door marked HUMAN RESOURCES, I thought I caught her smiling, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Over the next few days I didn't have time to worry much about strategies for softening up Donna Hudgins. Paul came home early on Friday evening with lust in his heart and his head full of sea stories. First, we took care of the lust.
On Saturday evening Daddy invited us over after dinner to see the slide show he'd rigged up on his computer, so between Paul and my father, I was ODing on pictures of mountains, cacti, sand, sea, and sky. If you've seen one cactus, you've seen them all. Ditto seagulls.
On Monday, I reported to Victory Mutual bright and early-stepping off on the right foot, I hoped-and was through security and waiting for Donna next to the potted palm outside her office when she arrived promptly at eight.
"You're early," she said, fumbling for her keys.
"I didn't want to waste your time, Ms. Hudgins."
"I appreciate that," she said, pocketing her keys. "And please, call me Donna."
Donna opened a drawer on her filing cabinet, tucked her purse inside, then slid the drawer shut. "Mr. Garvin means well, Hannah, but I don't think he truly appreciates how much work there is. Coffee?"
I nodded, pleased at the apparent thaw in our relationship.
Donna showed me where to find the mugs, waited until I'd filled mine with coffee from a large urn, then filled a mug for herself. She opened the fridge and took out a pint carton of half and half. "Cream?"
"Thank goodness! I thought I'd have to use this stuff," I said, picking up a cardboard container of nondairy creamer and rotating it until I could read the ingredients. "Soybean oil, mono and diglycerides, dipotassium phosphate… yum yum."
Donna smiled. "This is my private stash." She poured cream into my mug until I held up my hand, then returned the carton to the fridge. "Next time," she said, "just help yourself."
"Thanks, I will." I added sugar to my mug and stirred. Perhaps a future biographer would write that our friendship had been cemented over a carton of half and half.
Soon my coffee and I were installed in a cubicle that belonged, if the decorations on the walls were any indication, to someone named Mindy who enjoyed trading recipes, had a thing for Brad Pitt, and occasionally rode motorcycles.
"Mindy's on maternity leave," Donna explained. She sat in Mindy's chair, powered up the computer, assigned me a logon and a password, then left the cubicle for a moment. When she returned, she carried an oversized, fat printout spring-bound in black plastic, which she plopped onto the desk to the right of the monitor. "Data fields," she said. "More than you ever wanted to know."
"Thanks," I said.
"Call me if you need anything. My extension is 1412."
"I'll do that."
I spent the first several hours perusing the printout, familiarizing myself with Victory Mutual's databases and trying to determine what information I would be able to extract from them.
Around ten I took a break and went for more coffee. Since my last visit to the staff lounge, some angel had set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table with a sign reading "Help Yourself." As I wound my way back to the cubicle balancing a homemade cookie on top of the steaming mug, I thought I could get used to this (again!). I was enjoying being back in an office environment: the clack of computer keyboards, the intermittent warble of office telephones, the low hum of business conversations punctuated by laughter drifting out over the sound of a radio, turned low, playing soft rock several cubicles away. I even savored the smell of Magic Marker and the way the Xerox toner stung my nose. It was like being back at Whitworth and Sullivan in the halcyon days pre-cancer, pre-RIF, but without the commute.
Reenergized, I returned to my desk and dove back into the printouts. I decided to limit my search to the last five years and to look for changes in the field having to do with reassignment of ownership. Among those, I'd look for ownership changes that went to a business or organizational name. Once I sorted those results, it would be easy to see if one particular organization name stood out.
I was jotting down my search strategy on a pad of paper and was about to try it out when Mrs. Bromley surprised me by ringing through on my cell phone.
"Hannah, could you meet me for lunch?"
I checked my watch. Eleven o'clock. I'd forgotten to ask Donna how much time Victory Mutual allowed their employees for lunch. Forty-five minutes? An hour? As a consultant, I wasn't exactly punching a time clock, but still, I didn't want to create a bad impression, especially on my first day.
I was about to beg off, but some urgency in Mrs. Bromley's voice made me hesitate. Could you meet me, is how she phrased it, not would you like to meet me. "I've just started a new project," I explained, "but I suppose they'll let me take a break." I suggested we meet at Macaroni's, a local branch of the popular Italian restaurant chain. It was just across the road, on the fringes of Annapolis Mall. "I can be there at noon."
"Wonderful!" She sounded so relieved I felt guilty about my initial lack of enthusiasm. "What's your new project, Hannah?"
"It's related to that insurance thing," I told her. "I'll fill you in over the linguini."
Perhaps it was just my cell phone, but her laughter rang hollow. "See you soon, then. And, thanks, Hannah."
At 11:55, I took my life into my hands and dashed, on foot, across six lanes of traffic on Jennifer Road, weaving my way through a long line of vehicles waiting to turn left into Sears. From there it was just a short walk across the parking lot to Macaroni's Grill.
Mrs. Bromley was waiting for me inside, near one of the deli cases that flanked the door, where fresh meat and vegetables were displayed in orderly rows. She was gazing into the case intently, as if she expected the sausages to leap up and start dancing, like the Radio City Rockettes. When I touched her shoulder, she flinched. "Hannah!"
"The very same," I said, kissing her cheek. "You look nice," I said, and she did, wearing black slacks and a peach-colored short sleeve blouse, open at the neck. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."
"No, no. I just got here."
We presented ourselves to the hostess, who grabbed a couple of menus and escorted us past the wine and dessert islands to a table for four, covered with white paper, near a louvered window at the back of the restaurant. We had just settled into our seats and were reading the plastic tent card detailing the specials when our waiter appeared.
"Hello, my name is Davon and I'll be your server today." Using two crayons held closely together-a red and a blue-he printed his name upside down on the tablecloth.