Malory pays the bill, as she always does, and we head back to the office.
Exiting the elevator, I see the display of white roses taunting me, reminding me of Alexander Asher. They are still thick and blossoming, yet more plush and rich.
Walking over to them, I put my nose to their soft white petals. They smell delicious. My eyes widen at the scent… tobacco and vanilla.
The hair on the back of neck stands on edge.
He’s here.
My spine stiffens at the thought of seeing him again but I turn around to confront the man who has me on pins and needles. Looking about the space of white and mahogany I see there is no one seated in the waiting area and Trish isn’t at her desk. She’s probably in Heather’s office.
Malory has gone straight down the hallway, heading to a meeting, so it’s just me alone in the lobby. Asher is nowhere in sight.
Continuing to look around the room, I follow the scent back to its original location. The flowers. The scent is on the flowers. They smell like him in the most bizarre way.
It is quite possible I am going insane.
Gabriel and I made plans to go to the exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art on Wednesday since he’ll be working this weekend and traveling the next. We hope he’ll be able to sneak out of the office at a reasonable hour.
We haven’t had a date night in months. Any free time he has is always spent with Jackson. I get it. Gabriel’s top priority is his little boy. I love that about him.
We had a great weekend despite my meddling mother being there, but I’m excited to spend some alone time with him.
Holding my phone up to my ear, I talk to Carmen to check on Jackson, when there is a soft rap at the door. I peer up to see Trish wearing an orange-and-blue striped skirt with a schoolboy shirt buttoned to the neck. Her hair is fastened into an adorable fishtail braid that cascades down the side of her head. She’s holding two coffee cups in her hands.
“Coffee break?” Trish asks, and I motion for her to come on in as I hang up the phone.
Today, I dressed in a blue, cap-sleeved wrap dress and nude heels. Dressing up makes me feel like another woman. Much nicer than the ripped jeans I wore this weekend.
Trish places one of the coffee cups on my desk directly in front of me. It’s black. She remembered. And then I remember she was front and center last week for my Asher incident.
Tucking one leg underneath her butt, Trish takes a seat in the chair in front of me, making sure her skirt doesn’t ride up.
“You spoil me,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. If Trish wants to deliver coffee to me every day, I won’t discourage it. The brew is delicious. When you drink it black like I do, the quality of the bean really counts. Gabriel could drink gas station coffee, while I’m a Starbucks girl. I like my coffee strong, not any of that watered-down nonsense. Trish has gotten the blend just right.
“Anytime!” Trish has an energy about her you can’t help but want to match. “There’s a commercial-grade coffee machine down the hall. It takes seconds. Anytime you want a jolt, just holler.” She’s swinging her free leg back and forth, her back straight at attention. Her free hand plays with the tail of her braid.
“How much coffee have you had this morning?” I ask, questioning her boisterous mood.
She relaxes her shoulders, trying to appear more composed. “Sorry, I’m a naturally fidgety person.” She raises her cup toward me. “This is my first one.”
My shoulders rise as I let out a chuckle. The kid is funny. I guess I could call her a kid. She’s only a few years younger than me, but I feel as if I’m much older. The adult in the room.
“Feel free to enter with cups of Joe anytime,” I say.
Looking over the files on my desk, I know I have a lot to get started on. Where last week I was at a standstill waiting for Heather’s cooperation, this week I can get started on my event. I need Erik’s permission, of course, but now I can actually get to production. No more sitting around and waiting. Once the musical guests are booked and the network requirements come in, I’ll be slammed. There are so many aspects of the event I can work on now.
And luckily, I feel more in control of the situation. I have my head wrapped around the task at hand. I can do this.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“So,” I ask Trish, “how’s day one working with Heather?” I wanted to refer to Heather as “the ice queen,” but I think better of it.
Trish nods her head enthusiastically. “It’s great.” Her voice squeaks a little. “It’s actually day four. Friday, after you left, Heather called me in.” She looks down and puckers her brow as if recalling the memory. “Just as I was about to leave, in fact. My boyfriend and I were going to a concert, but I had to cancel on him last minute.” Her mouth turns into the slightest of frowns before she lifts her head quickly and waves off the notion. “But that was fine. I mean this is my big break, you know.” Her eyes are opened so wide I can see the whites.
“Sounds like you have a great work ethic.” I raise my coffee in the air in a cheers motion. There’s no way I would have stayed on Friday night. There couldn’t have been enough for Heather to do to have to keep Trish.
Placing her braid in her mouth, Trish nibbles on it for a second and drops it down on her shoulder. “I hope she recognizes that. I was here all weekend, working, compiling lists of music schools around the country and calling up the families of musical savants. I also went through hundreds of YouTube videos of kids playing instruments and made a file for Heather to review. That’s what she’s doing right now. Watching my videos.”
I respect Trish’s go-getter attitude. It’s inspirational.
I cross my legs and swivel my chair to open my desk drawer to grab my notepad. She just reminded me about my idea from last week. I should present it to Erik this afternoon. Or am I supposed to bring it to Asher?
Shaking my head, I shake the idea away. I’ll go to Erik. Asher doesn’t want to be bombarded with every silly idea I have. More importantly, I have no desire to work with the man directly.
Work first, worry later.
“I’m so happy you said that, because you just reminded me of something.” I flip the notepad over to a clean page and grab a pen to jot down some ideas.
Trish continues. “Awesome. Glad I’m here to help!” She’s holding on to her coffee mug with both hands, as if trying to keep warm. While I write, Trish continues with her story, rambling a little. “It’s a pretty awesome project Heather has me working on. She is going to have children, like really young kids who are these incredible piano players and guitar players and drummers, play onstage with each musical guest.”
I must have pushed down hard on the pen because it runs away from me on the page, making a deep blue gash across the paper.
That bitch.
Not Trish. She’s lovely. She’s just doing what she was told to do.
Heather.
She stole my idea and she is going to take all the credit! Last week she pretty much told me my idea was crap. No sooner does she separate from me as co-producer and goes ahead and decides the idea is awesome… which it is… and moves ahead on it. She didn’t even wait a minute before setting the wheels in motion. I have to talk to Erik about this. I have to tell him.
Listen to me. I sound like a child. What am I going to do, stomp into his office and temper tantrum? Erik is the last person who would want to hear that kind of nonsense. He’s a “we’re all a team” kinda guy.
Taking a moment, I think for a second.
It was a good idea. A freaking awesome idea, and I’m happy it’s getting done. And let’s face it; it’s more appropriate for the Central Park event anyway. The talent will be bigger and there will be more opportunities to showcase the kids. The exposure at that event will be greater as well. We can’t do the same thing at both events, so as much as I’d love to do it at the gala, the park is going to be a concert of epic proportions. I’ll just have to come up with something new.