Blue-Eyed Devil (12 page)

But the real surprise was Jack, the brother I’d never gotten along with — the one who’d given me a bad haircut when I was three, and scared the wits out of me with bugs and garden snakes. The adult Jack turned out to be an unexpected ally. A friend. In his company I could fully relax, the haunted, anxious feeling burning away like water drops on a smoking griddle.

Maybe it was because Jack was so straightforward. He claimed to be the least complex person the Travis family, and that was probably true. Jack was a hunter, comfortable with his status as a predatory omnivore. He was also an environmentalist and saw no conflict in that. Any hunter, he said, had better do his best to protect nature since he spent so much time out in it.

With Jack, you always knew where you stood. If he liked something, he said so without hesitation, and if he didn’t, he’d tell you the truth about that too. He stayed on the right side of the law while admitting that some things were just more fun when they were illegal. He liked cheap women, fast cars, late nights, and hard liquor, especially all together. In Jack’s view, you were obliged to sin on Saturday night so you’d have something to atone for Sunday morning.

Otherwise you’d be putting the preacher out of business.

After Jack had graduated from UT, he’d gone to work at a small property management company. Eventually he’d gotten a loan, bought the company, and expanded it to four times its original size.

It was the perfect occupation for Jack, who liked to fix things, to tinker and problem-solve. Like me, he had no interest in investment lingo and all the sophisticated financial strategies that Gage and Dad so relished. Jack preferred the nuts-and-bolts issues of working and living. He was good at backroom deals, cutting through legal bullshit, talking man-to-man. To Jack, there was nothing more powerful than a promise made over a handshake. He would have died — literally chosen death — before breaking his word.

In light of my hotel experience at the Darlington, Jack said I’d be perfect working for the residential side of his management company, which was headquarters at 1800 Main. His current on site manager was leaving on account of pregnancy — she warned to spend the first few years of her child’s life at home.

“Thanks, but I couldn’t,” I said when Jack first broached the idea of my taking the job.

“Why not? You’d be great at it.”

“Reeks of nepotism,” I said.

“So?”

“So there are other more qualified people for the position.”

“And?”

I began to smile at his persistence. “And they’ll complain if you hire your sister.”

“See,” Jack said easily, “that’s the whole point of having my own company. I can hire Bozo the fucking clown if I want.”

“That’s so flattering, Jack.”

He grinned. “Come on. Give it a shot. It’ll be fun.”

“Are you offering to employ me so you can keep an eye on me?”

“Actually, we’ll hardly see each other, we’ll both be so damn busy all the time.”

I liked the sound of that, being busy all the time. I wanted to work, to accomplish things, after the past couple of years of being Nick’s personal slave.

“You’ll learn a lot,” Jack coaxed. “You’d be in charge of the money stuff — insurance, payroll, maintenance bills. You’d also negotiate service contracts, purchase supplies and equipment, and you’d work with a leasing agent and an assistant. As the on-site manager, you’d live in a one-bedroom unit in the building. But you wouldn’t be stuck in the office all the time . . . you’ll have a lot of outside meetings. Later, when you’re ready, you could get involved in the commercial side of things, which would be a help since I’m planning to branch out into construction management and then maybe — ”

“Who’d be paying my salary?” I asked suspiciously. “You, or Dad?”

Jack looked affronted “Me of course. Dad doesn’t have shit to do with my management company.”

“He owns the building,” I pointed out.

“You’re employed by me and my company . . . and believe me, 1800 Main is not the only client we’ve got. Not by a long shot.” Jack gave me a look of exaggerated patience. “Think it over, Haven. It’d work out great for both of us.”

“It sounds great,” I said. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But I can’t start out at the top, Jack. I don’t have enough experience. And it doesn’t look good for either of us, for you to give me a job like that when I haven’t paid any dues. What if I start out as the manager’s assistant? I could learn from the ground up.”

“You don’t have to pay dues,” Jack protested. “You ought to get something for being a Travis.”

“Being a Travis means I should pay extra dues,” I said.

He looked at me and shook his head, and mumbled something about liberal Yankee shit.

I smiled at him. “You know it makes the most sense. And it’s only fair to give the manager’s job to someone who’s really earned it.”

“This is business,” Jack said. “Fairness doesn’t have crap to do with it.”

But he relented eventually, and said far be it from him to keep me from starting at the bottom, if that was what I really wanted.

“Hack it all off,” I told Liberty, sitting in her bathroom, draped in plastic. “I’m so sick of all this hair, it’s hot and tangly and I never know what to do with it.”

I wanted a new look to go with my new job. And as a former hairstylist, Liberty knew what she was doing. I figured anything she did to me was bound to be an improvement.

“Maybe we should go in stages,” Liberty said. “It may be a shock if I take too much off at once.”

“No, you can’t donate it if it’s less than ten inches long. Just go for it.” We were going to give the foot-long rope of hair to the Locks of Love program, which made wigs for children who suffered from medical hair loss.

Liberty combed my hair deftly. “It’s going to release some curl once I shorten it,” she said. “All this weight is dragging your hair down.”

She plaited it and sawed the entire length off at the nape. I held the braid while Liberty brought a Ziploc bag, and I dropped it inside the plastic pouch and sealed it with a kiss. “Good luck to whoever wears it next,” I said.

Liberty spritzed my hair with water and moved all around my head with a straight razor, slicing off angled pieces until there were heaps of hair on the floor. “Don’t be nervous,” she said as she caught me examining a lock that had fallen onto my plastic-covered lap. “You’re going to look great.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said truthfully. I didn’t care how I looked, as long as it was different.

She blow-dried my hair using a round brush, ran her fingers through it to make it piecey, and beamed in satisfaction. “Take a look.”

I stood and got a mild shock — a nice one — at my reflection. Liberty had given me long bangs that swept across my forehead, and a short layered bob, the feathered ends turning up gently. I looked stylish. Confident. “It’s flippy,” I said playing with the layers.

“You can turn the ends under or out,” she said, smiling. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

Liberty turned me around so we could both see the cut in the mirror. “It’s sexy,” she said.

“You think so? I hope not.”

She smiled at me quizzically. “Yes, I do think so. Why don’t you want to look sexy?”

“False advertising,” I said.

The manager that Jack brought over from the other office was named Vanessa Flint. She was one of those highly groomed and put-together women who had probably looked thirty-five when she was twenty-five, and would still look thirty-five even when she was fifty-five. Although she was only medium height, her slimness and good posture fooled you into thinking she was a lot taller. Her face was fine-boned and serene beneath a sweep of ash-blond hair. I admired the composure she wore like a high-buttoned blouse.

There wasn’t much substance to her voice, which was crisp and soft, like ice wrapped in velvet. But somehow it forced you to pay more attention, as if you shared in the responsibility of Vanessa making herself understood.

I liked her at first. At least, I wanted to like her. Vanessa was friendly, sympathetic, and when we went out for drinks after our first day at work, I found myself confiding more about my failed marriage and divorce than I should have. But Vanessa had recently been divorced too, and there seemed to be enough similarities between our two exes that it was a pleasure to compare notes.

Vanessa was frank about her concern over my relationship with Jack, and I appreciated her honesty. I reassured her that I had no intention of coasting by, or running to Jack just because he was my brother. Just the opposite, in fact. I was going to work a lot harder, because I had something to prove. She seemed satisfied by my earnest declarations, and said she thought we would work well together.

Vanessa and I were both given apartments at 1800 Main. I felt a little guilty about it, knowing that no other manager’s assistant would have gotten an apartment, but it was the one concession I’d made to Jack. He had insisted on it, and the truth was, I liked the security of living so close to my brother.

The other employees lived off-site and came in each day, including a petite blond office manager named Kimmie; the leasing agent, Samantha Jenkins; the marketing agent, Phil Bunting; and Rob Ryan in accounting. We contacted Jack’s commercial office whenever there was a need for legal resources, tech questions, or something we weren’t equipped to handle on our own.

It seemed that everyone who worked for Jack at the commercial office had acquired his personal style . . . everyone was relaxed and almost jovial, in comparison to our office. Vanessa ran a tighter ship, which meant no casual-dress Fridays, and a “zero error tolerance” policy that was never exactly spelled out. However, everyone seemed to regard her as a good boss, tough but fair-minded. I was ready to learn from her, follow her example. I thought she was going to be a great new influence in my life.

But in a matter of days, I realized I was being gaslighted.

I was familiar with the tactic, since Nick had done if a lot. A bully or someone with personality disorder needs to keep their victims confused, off balance, perpetually unsure of themselves. That way he or she could manipulate you more easily. Gaslighting could be anything that made you doubt yourself. For example, a bully would make a statement about something, and when you’d agree with it, he’d disagree with his own original statement. Or he’d make you think you’d lost something when you hadn’t, or accuse you of forgetting something when he’d never asked you to do it in the first place.

What worried me was that I seemed to be Vanessa’s only target. No one else seemed to be having a problem with her.

She would misplace a file and tell me to get it for her, turning up the tension until I was scrambling to find it. If I couldn’t come up with it, she accused me of hiding the file somewhere. And then the file would turn up in some weird place, like beneath a plant on top of a cabinet, or wedged between the printer cart and her desk. She gave people the impression that I was scatterbrained and disorganized. And I had no proof of her mischief-making. The only thing that kept me from doubting myself was my own shaky sense of sanity.

There was no predicting Vanessa’s moods or requests. I learned to save everything, after she asked me to write three different drafts of a letter and then decided on the first version after I’d deleted it. She would tell me to be at a meeting at one-thirty, and when I arrived, I was a half hour late. And she swore she’d told me one o’clock. She said I must not have paid attention.

Vanessa let it drop to me that she’d had an assistant named Helen for years, and she would have brought Helen with her to the new job, except that I’d already been given the position. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would have broken up a long-running professional partnership, and robbed someone of a position they deserved. When Vanessa had me call Helen, who was still at the old office, to find out the name and number of Vanessa’s favorite manicurist, I took the opportunity to apologize to Helen.

“God, don’t be sorry,” Helen said. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I wanted to quit right then. But I was stuck, and Vanessa and I both knew it. With my skimpy resume, I couldn’t quit a job right after starting one. And I didn’t know how long it would take me to find something else. Complaining about Vanessa was out of the question — it would make me look like a prima donna, or paranoid, or both. So I decided I would stick it out for a year. I would make some contacts and dig my own way out.

“Why me?” I asked my therapist, Susan, after describing the situation with Vanessa. “She could focus on anyone in that office as a target. Do I give off ‘victim’ signals or something? Do I seem weak?”

“I don’t believe so,” Susan said gravely. “In fact, it’s most likely that Vanessa sees you as a threat. Someone she has to subdue and neutralize.”

“Me, a threat?” I shook my head. “Not to someone like Vanessa. She’s confident and put-together. She’s — ”

“Confident people aren’t bullies. I’ll bet Vanessa’s apparent confidence is really nothing but a front. A false self she’s constructed to cover her deficiencies.” Susan smiled at my skeptical expression. “And yes, you could be a big threat to an insecure person. You’re bright, educated, pretty . . . and there’s the little matter of your last name. Conquering someone like you would be a big bolster to Vanessa’s sense of superiority.”

My first Friday after starting at Travis Management Solutions, Jack came to my cubicle carrying a large shopping bag tied with a bow. “Here,” he said, handing it to me over a mountain of paper on my desk. “A little something to celebrate your first week.”

I opened the shopping bag and unearthed a briefcase made of chocolate-colored leather. “Jack, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re coming out with me and Heidi tonight,” he informed me. “That’s the other part of the celebration.”

Heidi was one of a virtual harem of women that Jack dated interchangeably. Since he was so open about not wanting to be tied down, none of them seemed to expect any form of commitment from him.

“I don’t want to be a third wheel on your date,” I protested.