The Life List (5 page)

W
hen the alarm clock buzzes Wednesday morning, I wake to a blissful oblivion of yesterday’s nightmare. I stretch and throw my arm over the bedside table, blindly groping for the obnoxious little beep. Silencing the alarm, I roll onto my back, granting myself one more moment of shut-eye. But suddenly it all comes flooding back. My eyes fly open and a net of dread ensnares me.

My mother is dead.

Catherine is head of Bohlinger Cosmetics.

I’m expected to dismantle my life.

The weight of an elephant plops down on my chest and I
struggle to breathe. How can I possibly face my co-workers, or my new boss, now that they know my mother had no confidence in me?

My heart races and I prop myself up on my elbows. The drafty loft has the crisp feel of autumn and I blink several times, adjusting to the darkness. I can’t do this. I cannot go back to work. Not yet. I collapse against the pillow and stare up at the exposed metal ducts in the ceiling.

But I have no choice. Yesterday, when I didn’t show up for work after the meeting with Mr. Midar, my new boss called, insisting we meet first thing this morning. And as much as I wanted to tell Catherine—the woman my mother believed in—to go to hell, without an inheritance, I need my job.

I throw my legs over the side of the bed. Taking care not to wake Andrew, I peel my terry-cloth robe from its hook on the bedpost. It’s then that I realize he’s already gone. It’s not even five
A.M
. and my incredibly disciplined boyfriend’s already up and running. Literally. Clutching my robe, I pad barefoot across the oak floor and lumber down the cold metal stairs.

I take my coffee into the living room and curl up on the sofa with the
Tribune
. Another scandal in City Hall, more corrupt government officials, but nothing distracts me from the day ahead. Will my co-workers sympathize with me and tell me how unfair Mother’s decision was? I turn to the crossword puzzle and scramble to find a pencil. Or did the office erupt in applause and high-fives when the news hit? I groan. I’ll have to square my shoulders, hold my head high, and make everyone believe it was my idea that Catherine run the company.

Oh, Mother, why have you put me in this position?

A lump rises in my throat and I swallow it down with a gulp of coffee. I don’t have time to grieve today, thanks to Catherine and her damn meeting. She thinks she’s being coy, but I know exactly what she’s up to. This morning she’ll offer me a consolation
prize—her old position as vice president. She’ll make me second in command in exchange for her amnesty and my obedience. But she’s delusional if she thinks I’ll accept without some serious demands. Without an inheritance, I’m going to need one heck of a raise.

My pout softens into a smile when Andrew breezes through the door, damp with sweat from his morning run. Clad in navy shorts and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt, he studies his black runner’s watch with furrowed brows.

I rise. “Good morning, sweetheart. How was your run?”

“Sluggish.” He removes his ball cap and rakes a hand through his short blond hair. “You taking the morning off again?”

Runner’s guilt punches me in the gut. “Yeah. I still don’t have the energy.”

He bends down to untie his laces. “It’s been five days. Better not wait too long.”

He turns in the direction of the laundry room while I retrieve his coffee. By the time I return, his lean body is sprawled on the sofa. He’s wearing a fresh pair of warm-up pants and clean T-shirt, working the crossword puzzle I’d just started.

“Can I help?” I ask, coming up from behind and leaning in over his shoulder.

He gropes for his coffee cup without looking up from the puzzle. He writes
birr
in twelve down. I check to see the clue. Ethiopian currency. God, I’m impressed.

“Oh, fourteen across …” I say, excited for the opportunity to display that I, too, have a modicum of intellect. “Treasure State capital … that’s Helena, I think.”

“I know.” He drums the pencil against his forehead, deep in thought.

When, exactly, did we stop doing the crossword puzzles together? Sharing the same pillow, we’d work the puzzle and sip our coffee. And every now and then, when I provided an especially
hard answer, Andrew would kiss the top of my forehead and tell me he loved my brain.

I turn to leave, but stop midway to the staircase. “Andrew?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you be there for me, if I need you?”

Finally, he raises his head. “Come here.” He pats the spot beside him on the sofa. I make my way to him and he drapes an arm around my shoulder.

“You still upset I missed the funeral luncheon?”

“No. I understand. That trial was important.”

He tosses the pencil onto the coffee table and grins, exposing the adorable dimple in his left cheek. “I have to admit, when you say it like that, it sounds lame, even to me.” With his eyes locked on mine, he turns serious. “But to answer your question, of course I’ll be there for you. You never have to worry about that.” He grazes his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, but you’ll make one helluva CEO, with or without my guidance.”

My heart speeds. When Andrew came home last night toting a bottle of Perrier-Jouët champagne to celebrate, I didn’t have the heart—or the guts—to tell him I was not, and never will be, president of Bohlinger Cosmetics. The man who rarely gives compliments was practically gushing. Is it too much to want one more day to bask in his approval? Tonight, when I can soften the blow by telling him I’m the new vice president, I’ll come clean.

He smooths my hair. “Tell me, boss lady, what’s on the agenda today? Looking to hire any attorneys in the near future?”

What? He can’t possibly think I’d go against my mother’s wishes. I play it off as a joke, forcing a chuckle from my parched throat. “I don’t think so. Actually, I’m meeting with Catherine this morning,” I say, letting him think it was me who called the meeting. “We have some issues to discuss.”

He nods. “Good move. Remember, she’s working for you now. Let her know you’re calling the shots.”

I feel blood rush to my cheeks and pull myself from the sofa. “I better shower.”

“I’m proud of you, Madame President.”

I know I should tell him it’s Catherine who deserves his pride, that it’s Catherine he should be calling Madame President. And I will. I absolutely will.

Tonight.

D
espite the clicking of my heels against the marble foyer, I manage to scurry across the lobby of the Chase Tower without being noticed. I ride the elevator to the forty-ninth floor and enter the posh headquarters of Bohlinger Cosmetics. Pushing through the double glass doors, I head straight for Catherine’s office with my eyes downcast.

I poke my head into the corner office that was once my mother’s and see Catherine behind the desk, perfectly groomed as always. She’s on the phone but waves me in, lifting an index finger to let me know she’ll be with me shortly. As she wraps up her call, I wander around the once familiar space, wondering what she’s done with the paintings and sculptures Mother adored. In their place she’s positioned her bookcase and several framed awards. All that remains of Mother’s once sacrosanct office is the breathtaking cityscape and her nameplate. But upon closer inspection I see that it’s not my mother’s nameplate, after all. It’s Catherine’s! The same font and brass and marble now reads
CATHERINE HUMPHRIES-BOHLINGER
,
PRESIDENT
.

I seethe! Just how long had she known she was Mother’s heir apparent?

“Okay, great. Get me the numbers when you have them. Yes.
Supashi-bo, Yoshi. Adiosu
.” She hangs up the phone and turns
her attention to me. “Tokyo,” she says, shaking her head. “The fourteen-hour time difference is a bitch. I have to be here before dawn to catch them. Lucky for me, they work late.” She points across the desk to a pair of Louis Quinze chairs. “Have a seat.”

I sink into the chair and run a hand over the cobalt-blue silk, trying to remember whether Catherine had these chairs in her old office. “Looks like you’re all moved in,” I say, unable to resist my inner snark. “You even managed to get your nameplate in … what? Twenty hours? Who knew it could be made so quickly.”

She rises and comes around to my side of her desk, positioning the matching chair so that she’s facing me. “Brett, this is a hard time for all of us.”

“A hard time for all of us?” My vision blurs. “Are you serious? I just lost a mother and a business. You just inherited an absolute fortune and my family’s company. And you, you set me up. You told me I’d be CEO. I worked my ass off, trying to learn the ropes!”

Looking as composed as if I’d just told her I liked her dress, she waits. My nostrils flare and I want to say more, but I don’t dare. She’s my sister-in-law after all—and my damn boss.

She leans in, her pale hands folded on her crossed leg. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I truly am. I was as shocked as you were yesterday. I made an assumption last summer—a colossal mistake, to be sure. I fully expected you to receive your mother’s shares, and took it upon myself to groom you, without first consulting Elizabeth. I didn’t want her to think we’d given up on her.” She covers my hand with hers. “Believe me, I had every intention of working for you for the rest of my career. And you know what? I would have been proud to do so.” She squeezes my hand. “I respect you so much, Brett. I think you could have made it as CEO. I really do.”

Could have? I scowl, unsure whether this is a compliment or an insult. “But that nameplate,” I say. “If you had no idea, how come you already have the nameplate?”

She smiles. “Elizabeth. She’d ordered it for me before she died. She had it delivered and on my desk when I walked in yesterday.”

I drop my head in shame. “That would be Mother.”

“She was remarkable,” Catherine says, her eyes glistening. “I’ll never fill her shoes. I’ll consider it a success if I can simply squeeze my toes in.”

My heart softens. Obviously she, too, grieves the loss of Elizabeth Bohlinger. She and Mother formed a perfect partnership, Mother being the elegant face of the enterprise, and Catherine her tireless, behind-the-scenes assistant. And looking at her now in her cashmere dress and Ferragamo pumps, her smooth ivory skin and sleek chignon knotted at the nape of her neck, I can almost understand my mother’s choice. Catherine looks every inch a CEO, a natural to be her successor. But still it hurts. Couldn’t Mom see that with time, I could have developed into a Catherine?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. It’s not your fault that Mom didn’t see me fit to run BC. You’re going to be a huge success.”

“Thanks,” she whispers, rising from her chair. She squeezes my shoulder as she passes behind me to close the door. When she returns to her seat, she fixes her gaze on me, her eyes alarmingly intense.

“What I’m about to say is very difficult for me.” She bites her bottom lip and her face flushes. “I want you to prepare yourself, Brett. This will be shocking.”

I laugh nervously. “My God, Catherine, your hands are shaking! I’ve never seen you so anxious. What’s going on?”

“I have one order from Elizabeth. She left a pink envelope in my desk drawer. There was a note inside. I can get it if you’d like to see it.” She starts to rise but I grab her arm.

“No. The last thing I need is another note from Mom. Just tell me.” My heart is galloping now.

“Your mother instructed me to … she wants me to …”

“What?” I nearly scream.

“You’re fired, Brett.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I
have no memory of driving home. I only remember staggering into the loft, stumbling up the stairs, and falling into bed. For the next two days I repeat a cycle of sleeping, waking, and crying. By Friday morning, Andrew’s compassion is waning. He sits on the edge of our bed, impeccable in his charcoal suit and crisp white shirt, and smooths my snarled hair.

“You’ve got to snap out of this, babe. You’re overwhelmed with this promotion, so naturally you’re avoiding it.” I start to protest, but he silences me with an index finger. “I’m not saying you’re incapable, I’m saying you’re intimidated. But, hon, you can’t afford to be away for days at a time. This isn’t your old advertising job, where you could slack off from time to time.”

“Slack off?” I feel my hackles rise. He thinks my old position as director of marketing was insignificant! And what’s worse, I couldn’t even keep that job. “You can’t imagine what I’m going through. I think I deserve a couple of days to grieve.”

“Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just trying to get you back in the game.”

I rub my temples. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just not myself these days.” He rises but I grab hold of his coat sleeve. I need to tell Andrew the truth! My plan to come clean Wednesday night was thwarted when my mother fired me, and since then, I’ve been mustering the courage to explain.

“Stay home with me today. Please. We could—”

“Sorry, babe, I can’t. My client load is insane.” He wriggles from my grip and smooths his coat sleeve. “I’ll try to get home early.”

Tell him. Now
.