Who's on Top? Page 17

  “Dominic, let me speak!”

  “I’m through with listening to you speak. You are one sad sack of a woman, General O’Toole. You just go back to manipulating your father, your brother, your cousins. You just retreat to your behavioral psychologist’s throne—pass judgement on men for the rest of your lonely life. You’ll never be able to share that life with a man until you wake up and decide to respect one!”

  Jane felt an almost physical pain in her chest; she found herself unable to speak.

  His gaze focused on her mouth, which began to tremble, to her mortification. “I do respect men,” she finally whispered.

  “No, you don’t.” His voice was flat and final. “It’s the ultimate irony, Jane. You were brought in to judge me for not respecting women. You came on board to fix me or toss me out on my ear. Well, you’ve tossed me. And I don’t need fixing. But I think you do.”

  Dominic took a last long look at her face. Then he turned and left.

  JANE TOOK WOBBLY STEPS backward until her spine hit her office wall. Then she slid down it inch by inch until her bottom rested on the floor. She stared straight ahead at nothing.

  Her first conscious thought was that Shannon and Lilia had heard every word without even trying. No cups or intercom eavesdropping necessary. So they knew that she’d slept with a Finesse client…and worse, the part about the multiple orgasms. Shannon would be merciless on that score.Then she thought about his accusation that she didn’t respect men. That hurt. And when she took a good, hard look at herself, the charge held some validity. She’d gone poking into Dom’s past, but she’d carefully avoided scrutinizing her own—and what it said about her. Did she insist on mothering her dad and Gilbey because she didn’t respect their choices in life? What was this overwhelming need to fix them? Did it stem from a fear of not being able to fix herself? Why did everyone have to be perfect, anyway? Weren’t they just as lovable flawed?

  It’s because I want them to be happy, she told herself. But the truth…the truth was that it was easier to worry about them than to examine her own issues. Like not being able to admit weakness or defeat. Did she have such an ego that she had to control a Jane O’Toole fiefdom? Was that why she scrubbed baseboards with a toothbrush when she got mad? Anger felt out of control to her…so she controlled the dirt in her apartment as a swap?

  She’d studied psychology in a desperate bid to understand and control her own emotions. That was understandable in light of her grief over losing her mother. But was it healthy to use her profession in order to curtail the confusion of falling in love?

  Admit it, Jane. You couldn’t handle the idea of being vulnerable to Dominic. Being in love with him means exposing your underbelly. Being in love with him means risking loss again—loss and grief. You helped everyone else get over the loss of Ma. Did you ever deal with your own devastation?

  Jane sat against the wall for a good hour, vaguely surprised when Shannon didn’t come barging in to demand the “scoop.”

  The scoop was that somehow, despite all of her rationalizations and careful analysis, she had fallen in love with Dom. She just hadn’t been able to admit it before he did. And now it was too late.

  Finally what she should have wondered about first hit her: how had Arianna used her evaluation to fire Dom when it had been positive?

  A nasty, niggling suspicion formed in the back of her mind. Had the vice president, left with no alternative, rewritten it herself?

  JANE EMERGED FROM HER OFFICE prepared to be flayed by Shannon’s acerbic wit. What had she said a couple of weeks before? That Jane had been close to humping doorknobs since Dom had shown up? She cringed.

  And now both of her business partners had overheard intimate details. Her face heated up as she rounded the corner into the kitchenette for some coffee. She’d rather have a cosmo—or five—but the clock read only one p.m.Neither Shannon nor Lilia seemed to be in the office, but on the little tiled table sat a box emblazoned with familiar flowing script, and it smelled like pure heaven. Krispy Kremes!

  Jane opened the box and found a note from Shannon inside. “We thought you could use these. One dozen cream-filled, your favorite. Milk in the fridge. Love, S.”

  Jane’s eyes filled with unwelcome tears, and a lump formed in her throat. Damn it, I am not going to cry.

  She reached for the fattest, most icing-washed doughnut in the box—just to help her swallow the lump. She ate it in three bites and grabbed another while walking to the fridge for the milk. Sugar and vanilla and fat partied on her tongue in mild hysteria before diving down her esophagus, seeking her thighs. Her head swam with the flavors and utterly ignored the protesting squeaks of her conscience.

  Funny, but five doughnuts and a quart of milk later, the lump was still there and tears poured down her face in a steady stream.

  Jane never cried. She got a little misty-eyed during sad movies or particularly manipulative long-distance telephone commercials, but she did not boo hoo over spilled milk. She generally just mopped it up and got on with life.

  Now she was drinking the milk, binge-eating—she undid the top button of her trousers and grabbed yet another doughnut—and sobbing in her office over a stupid man. This undignified, destructive behavior was all his fault. And she did, too, respect him. She respected him enough to strangle him immediately, with her bare, icing-encrusted hands. And after she strangled him for thinking she was such a low-life, she’d…she’d…

  Jane gazed for a long moment at the backward gold script that spelled out F-i-n-e-s-s-e on the glass door. Something crude, unladylike and unprofessional rumbled at the back of her throat. Jane tried as hard to stifle it as she tried to repress her emotions, with equal success. Finally she gave up and emitted an almighty burp.

  When Lilia and Shannon walked in a half hour later, she was splayed on the office couch clutching her stomach.

  “Murderesses,” she moaned.

  “Well, if it isn’t Little Mary Sunshine,” Shannon exclaimed in overly bright tones. “What’s the matter, did you eat the whole dozen?”

  “Five,” Lilia predicted. “She’d be kissing porcelain if she ate them all. And remember, five is her special number.”

  “I hate you both,” said Jane with her eyes closed. “Even though I love you. Thanks.”

  Shannon called from the kitchen. “No way! She ate six. She’s getting over her five compulsion. Our Jane is blossoming.”

  “Then these are appropriate,” said Lilia.

  A clonk sounded in front of Jane—something being put on the coffee table. She reluctantly opened her eyes to see what it was.

  Lilia stood there fluffing a flower arrangement. A silk one. Yellow roses.

  Jane started to laugh. “You guys are the best.”

  Lilia held up her hand, palm out. “Wait!” She handed Jane an elaborately wrapped package, tall and skinny with a monstrous shiny gold bow.

  Jane’s brows rose. “What is this, booze?” She pulled off the bow and tore at the paper, anticipating a nice liter of vodka. They’d make some cosmos right here in the office, she didn’t care what time it was.

  The box did not contain vodka. Instead it held a spray bottle of silk-plant cleaner.

  Lilia smirked at her expression. “I just couldn’t give you flowers without a way to dust them.”

  For the second time that day Jane burst into tears, she couldn’t say why. They stemmed from a weird gratitude—a thankfulness that Shannon and Lilia understood her and loved her in spite of her flaws. And maybe a little bit because of them.

  As she, the CEO, sat there honking like a goose and leaking like a faucet, Shannon’s arms came around her and Lilia stroked her hair. “It’ll be okay, Jane. We’re going to get to the bottom of all this. That witch obviously forged your report. And we think Dominic loves you almost as much as we do—otherwise he wouldn’t be so mad.”

  22

  JANE AIMED A DANGEROUS SMILE at Arianna’s assistant, Delores. “Of course I understand that she’s busy and can’t work
me in today. Why don’t we look at her schedule for tomorrow.”

  Delores shifted in her chair, blushed and kept her fingers wrapped around Arianna’s appointment book.This told Jane everything she needed to know: the poor girl had been instructed that Jane be denied access to the vice president.

  “Well, uh, Ms. DuBose is booked tomorrow and traveling all next week. And then the next week she’s…on vacation.”

  “Is she?” Jane stared down Delores, who shifted again and began to pick at her cuticles. “Well, then—tell you what. I just need the tiniest moment of her time. I’ll wait until her current meeting is over.”

  Delores gulped. “It’s going to be a long one.”

  “That’s quite all right. I brought some paperwork with me and I’ll just sit here and work on it until she comes out of her office.” Sooner or later, the witch would have to use the ladies’ room or leave for lunch.

  Outmaneuvered, Delores just blinked at Jane as she made herself comfortable in a chair and dug into her briefcase.

  The intercom on the girl’s desk beeped, and she picked it up. “Yes, Ms. DuBose? No, ma’am, I haven’t had a chance—um, sure. Uh, Ms. DuBose? Jane O’Toole is here to see—yes, ma’am, but she said she only needs a moment of your time and she’d wait….”

  Jane got up and strode to the vice president’s door.

  “Ms. O’Toole! You can’t—”

  Oh, yes I can. Jane opened the door and walked through to face an outraged, solitary Arianna. Delores came running, but Jane simply shut the door in her face.

  Without preamble Jane said, “Dominic Sayers paid me a visit yesterday.”

  Arianna just glared at her.

  “I thought I should tell you that I’ve sent copies of my evaluation to Zantyne’s president, your regional H.R. manager and your national H.R. manager.”

  “You what?”

  “I thought I’d spare you the trouble. It’s part of Finesse’s commitment to customer service to take care of little details like that.”

  “I never authorized you to do such a thing!”

  Jane walked forward and placed her palms flat on Arianna’s desk. “And I never authorized you to falsify my report and use it to fire Dominic Sayers.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. My research and analysis indicated that Sayers is perfectly well-adjusted, despite a rocky past with an unstable mother. It’s actually surprising how well-adjusted he is. Now, I can only surmise the interaction between you two, but he does not display general indications of chauvinism or hostility toward women. Sayers certainly has a healthy temper when provoked, but I reiterate that it’s healthy. I suggested in my report that he is a valuable asset to this company—highly intelligent, skilled and well-respected. I recommended that the only action Zantyne might consider taking is a transfer, as you and he do not seem to work well together. At no point in my analysis did I suggest he be fired.”

  “How dare you barge into my office and make these outrageous accusations! Sayers picked a fight with me and quit. I didn’t fire him.”

  “That’s not what he told me.”

  “Then he’s a damned liar!”

  “Or you are.”

  “Get out,” Arianna snapped.

  “I’ll be happy to leave when I’m finished. You never thought he’d show up at my office and confront me, did you? You thought he’d just storm out, and I’d never know the truth. Let me warn you, Arianna, that if you have falsified my report, I will take legal action. I will see you in court. And I will not keep quiet about this, either. Do you understand?”

  The vice president looked at her with loathing. “I’ll ruin you.”

  “More threats, just like the ones you made at Finesse when I refused to rewrite the evaluation. By the way, Arianna—did I mention that I’ve been taping this conversation?” Jane pulled a minirecorder out of her purse.

  “A copy of the tape goes to Sayers. Other copies can be mailed to Zantyne’s president and H.R. people.”

  Arianna lunged for the recording device, but Jane sidestepped her. “Pull yourself together, Arianna! What are you going to do, mug me in your office, knock me out and throw me in the Connecticut River at midnight?”

  Though Arianna looked very much as if she’d love to do all of those things, she dropped into her chair, her mouth working.

  “Woman,” Jane said to her, “you are an embarrassment to the female sex. Backstabbing and sleeping your way to the top is soooo passé. Women do things right these days. They deserve their promotions. They have self-respect. If anyone around here needs behavioral analysis, it’s you.”

  She exited Arianna’s office for the last time and noticed that the intercom-eavesdropping trick seemed to be well-known. Delores was hunched over her desk grinning like a monkey, and she sure wasn’t reading a comic book.

  As Jane left the ugly brown Zantyne building for the last time, a weight shifted and toppled from her shoulders. She’d done the right thing and she’d seen it through. Not only had she done right by Dom and gotten her integrity back, she’d also gotten some revenge against the woman who’d jeopardized it. And bottom line, it would mean a lot more to her to see Finesse succeed without a corporate crutch.

  BACK IN HER OWN OFFICE JANE made several copies of both the taped conversation with Arianna and her report. She sent one set to her attorney. She kept one for the Finesse files. And she packaged a third set for Dominic.

  Her hand shook as she wrote his name and address on the mailing envelope.Did you tell Arianna how you came apart in my arms? Did you tell her that I fell for you, Jane? That I was half in love? Is all of that in your friggin’ report?

  You used psychobabble on me to justify your exit strategy….

  His words came back to haunt her again as she slipped the tape and report into the envelope.

  I did. I used my profession to keep my distance and mask my fear. But I never betrayed you—not the way you think. I betrayed myself and my own needs…and I suppose I betrayed the gift of love. I looked it in the mouth and found the teeth too scary.

  How do I say I’m sorry now? Is it too late?

  Should she write him a note, enclose it with these materials? No! As usual, Jane found it hard to apologize.

  I’m the injured party here. He thinks I’m snake enough to sell him out for a consulting contract.

  Jane’s chin went up, her shoulders went back and she stapled closed the padded envelope.

  This is apology enough. Isn’t it?

  SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT AS SHE traveled the aisles of the grocery store with a cart, looking for food to take over to her dad and Gilbey’s. For some strange reason, neither of them would be in town on Sunday—their usual family dinner night—so they’d rescheduled it for tonight, Thursday. They’d been very mysterious about it over the phone. Jane smelled news and wondered with a sigh if Gilbey had, amazingly, found another job without her help. She doubted he’d sent out the slides to galleries.

  Stop it. You’re doing it again. Being superior—and not respecting him. He’ll do things in his own time.Jane tossed two fat yellow onions into the cart, along with enough broccoli to feed three families of four. She’d make her mother’s broccoli-cheese casserole and some baked potatoes, and Dad could grill some steak.

  From the frozen-food section she added a ready-made apple pie and some nondairy whipped cream. The pie could bake right along with the potatoes.

  She arrived at Dad’s house to find a strange car in the driveway and two beat-up suitcases of Gilbey’s in the front hallway. Even more peculiar, excited conversation and laughter emanated from the kitchen. Gilbey’s voice, sounding…animated? And Dad…chuckling? And a woman? What was going on?

  “Hi, everyone,” she said, walking in and dumping the groceries on the counter. Her eyes went immediately to the handsome woman in her early fifties near the sink. “You didn’t tell me we had company.”

  “You must be Jane!” The woman surged forward and took her h
ands in her warm ones. “I’m Abigail, a friend of your brother’s—and now your father’s.” She smiled at him.

  Jane looked at Dad’s face, amazed to find him blushing. “Oh. Nice to meet you, Abigail.” Her eyes took in four champagne glasses—on doilies, no less—and a bottle of bubbly in a silver ice bucket. Things had certainly gone upscale around here. Where was the Miller Light?

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked, unloading her grocery bag.

  “Perhaps we should let Gilbey tell you.”

  Her brother cleared his throat. “Abigail is a gallery director in Boston. I sent her slides of my work. My, uh, sculptures.”

  “So I came to see them in person. They’re spectacular! On the cutting edge…Gilbey is a postmodern, conceptual Joseph-Stella-meets-Charles-Sheeler-in-Fred’s-Auto-Garage!”

  Jane blinked. Whatever the heck that meant. “He is?” She looked at Gilbey, whose normally dull eyes were bright with pride.

  “Yes!” Abigail clapped with enthusiasm. “And we’re going to give him his own show. In three months. And I’ve arranged for him to be an artist in residence at Boston University for the summer, not to mention that he’ll be included in Henry Weston’s upcoming book on outsider art! Your brother is a genius.”

  Jane stared at the broccoli, because right now it made more sense to her than Abigail’s announcement. Then she stared at Gilbey again. He stood straight and tall and his shoulders looked broader somehow.

  A smile spread across her face. “All those hours you spent building weird stuff in the barn, and the chaos you caused when you put things together backward on the assembly line—it was all for a good cause, huh?”

  He nodded.

  She threw her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you. Congratulations.”

  As her father opened the champagne behind them, Gilbey rubbed his gym shoe back and forth across the kitchen tiles. “You’re proud of me? I always thought…I kinda thought you didn’t respect me.”