The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (30 page)

“Gosh. I've got to be getting back to work,” I mumble, backing to the door. “Sorry we had this little misunderstanding. Hope you feel better soon. Bummer of a nose job. I'm telling you it's not so bad.We should get together for a drink. . . .”

Per usual, Alice doesn't wait to be invited.Throwing open the door, she bypasses Connie and targets me.

“Bill. He just finished with Kara Wesko's parents and he wants to see you, pronto.”

My heart clenches. “How mad is he?”

“Babe, you don't know. I've never seen him this way before. It's scary.”

I can practically hear Connie silently howl with vengeful joy.

Chapter Twenty-five

Bill's humongous office is an impressive false front of leather couches and black wooden director's chairs imprinted with Thoreau's crest. Books abound, as do high mullioned windows facing the green quad where industrious and not-so-industrious summer students engage in the exchange of high ideas. (A euphemism for all sorts of activity.)

His mahogany desk looks to the fireplace that is always lit during the fall. It's what parents see when they enter the main hallway—Bill's fireplace with its antique gold mantel clock ticking steadily. The burnished autumn leaves fall from the oaks outside his window.

This is the New England collegiate atmosphere parents yearn for their children to experience. Many a tuition deposit has been written on his couch. Bill is a master in manufacturing image, which is why he always keeps his door open.

This afternoon, however, Bill's door is closed.

This is so not good.

Alice holds up a finger for me to wait as she buzzes him. Not for him is the knock-three-times-and-barge-in treatment.

“He's ready.” Pressing her lips thinly together, she leads me to the door as if I am a dead admissions counselor walking.

I can honestly say that I have never so dreaded anything as much as I am dreading this meeting with Bill. I hate being in trouble. I go out of the way to avoid it at all costs. I pay my parking tickets as soon as I get them, my bills by the first of the month. I don't speed or drink and drive. Never cheat on my taxes. I've been pulled over once by the cops for a faulty taillight and I was so sick about it, I actually threw up on the officer's shoe.

And now, just because I gave Kara Wesko a bit of guidance, told her to ease up on the I've-got-to-be-married-by-thirty plan, I'm in boiling hot water. Because Kara Wesko (and her wealthy parents) are exactly the kind of people we in Thoreau Admissions are supposed to be courting.

Not frightening.

“Remember,” Alice says, “whatever happens is always for the best. Now breathe deep and good luck.”

I breathe deeply.

Bill is standing at the window in a blue oxford-cloth shirt, his hands clenched behind his back. Oh, super. Hand clenching.That's it. I'm fired. Bill never clenches and unclenches his hands unless he's really, really pissed.

It's so bad, whatever humiliation I've inflicted on Kara Wesko, that he doesn't bother to turn around or tell me to sit. He just asks me how long I've been working at Thoreau.

I can barely do the calculations in my head, despite endless nights lying in bed asking myself why I still work in the same place after fifteen years.

“Fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years.” He shakes his head as if this is an amazing feat. “I hate to lose you after fifteen years.”

Oh, please. Please no. I can't stand the prospect of being fired. The rejection. The explanations. Having to go down to the unemployment office and lie about searching for a job. Afternoons lying around the house watching
General Hospital.
Well, that's not so bad....

“But that's what's going to happen if I don't do something right now. Lose you. It's happened in the past. Not that it was easy to let them go.”

Think fast, Genie. This is your opportunity to save your job. Give him five good reasons why he shouldn't can your ass right now.

That's exactly what I'll do. I'll tell him that I meant well and that I was only trying to encourage Kara to enjoy life. Don't want superstressed kids throwing themselves off the top of libraries and all that.

“Then, years later”—Bill is rocking on his heels, staring out that stupid window—“you ask yourself,
‘whatever happened to so-and -so.'
Wonder if they landed on their feet. If there could have been a way other than letting them go. . . .”

“There is a way!”

Bill turns to face me. “You're right. There is. Which is why I'm offering you Kevin's position.That is, if Hugh and you haven't already made plans to move on.”

This is definitely a new low, even for Bill, who often mistakes his cruelty for cleverness.You know, nothing awful. Just the personal jab about Alice's white pumps being the first sign of spring or Kevin striking out on a date with Lafonda James, the hottest fund-raiser at Alumni.

“I understand your hesitation. I'm sure a decision like this needs to be talked over with Hugh. Heck, that's what I would want my future wife to do.”

Hold on. Is he serious?

“Bill?” My voice is suddenly so hoarse, it sounds like a scratched record.

“Yes?”

“May I sit down?”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Please . . .” He gestures to the chair.

I sit and massage my temples, willing my brain to stop acting crazy. “This isn't one of your attempts at humor, is it?”

He leans over his desk and frowns to show this is not his attempt at humor. Though he's rumored to be sixty-seven, he's in very good shape. He could work as a model for Viagra ads. Lots of snowy white hair and a cleft chin. “You've known me for long enough now, Genie, to recognize when I'm being serious. I want you as my right-hand, um, woman.”

He really is offering me Kevin's job. I can't believe it.

“You've paid your dues. You know the ins and outs of the admissions game.You're good at it.You select candidates who do well, who thrive, and you have helped to build a diverse student body. That said, I'll be honest and tell you that you were not my top pick.”

Typical Bill to mix a bit of vinegar into the honey.

“There are other people here with more leadership potential. I'm sure you know who they are.”

Connie.

“And, let's face it, you've never really set this office on fire.

That is, until this summer.” He walks around the desk and props himself on its corner, a position that is both casual and authoritarian. “I don't know if it's your engagement to Hugh Spencer—I mean, that's the only change in your life of which I'm aware—but you have suddenly blossomed into a bright, confident admissions officer, Genie, exactly the kind of person who should be the first contact for our higher-caliber applicants—and their parents.”

My throat is so dry now I can't speak. Seeing my distress, Bill gets up and personally gets me a cup of water from his water cooler. I have never known that to happen before. Bill never does anything for anyone else.

“Thanks,” I say, downing it all.

“It was the end-of-month meeting that caused me to reevaluate your potential. Your speech defending Hob Cooper was articulate and insightful, containing just enough ardor supported by facts to win over even me. And, frankly, I was ready to can the kid, Mormon or no Mormon.”

Bill is smiling and I smile back as I begin to develop a sense of pride in his words. He's right. I
was
really insightful. (Even though I was totally preoccupied with the erroneous revelation that Connie was Hugh's mystery fiancée.)

“And then there was your handling today of Kara Wesko. Her parents were just as impressed as I was by your directness. How did they put it?” He taps his chin, remembering. “Oh, yes. They wanted to thank you for doing what they and three psychologists had not been able to do—lift the lid on the pressure cooker. I guess Kara needed to hear it from another woman in your position that she didn't need to do it all.”

I'm not so sure. Possibly, I dashed her dreams.

“I wouldn't be surprised if Kara takes a year off between high school and college. It'd probably be the best thing for her. And I also wouldn't be surprised if she ended up at Thoreau, a vibrant and happier student, thanks to you. Especially after the check her parents just wrote in gratitude.”

Shoot. I'm near tears. These are the nicest things any boss has ever said to me.

“Now, I know that Hugh's career is taking off and that's great for you and, fingers crossed”—Bill crosses two fingers—“that'll be great for Thoreau, if we can talk him into staying here.

“But because of your special circumstances, the dean has authorized me to offer you a salary increase to one hundred thousand dollars, plus six weeks vacation and full health benefits. I hope that's enough to convince you to take the job and to persuade Hugh not to leave the area for Baja, or wherever it is successful writers go.”

The numbers don't make sense. I've never made money like this. I've never even considered I'd make money like this. Six figures! And why? Not because I diligently punched the clock every day, but because, in a fit of pique, I mindlessly—yet, forcefully— delivered a powerful argument for some kid in Utah who flunked badminton.

“I'll take it.Thanks so very, very much.”

Bill reels back, startled. “You don't need to talk to Hugh?”

Hugh. Right. Naturally, I'll be needing to talk to Hugh.That's what a really engaged woman would do. “Sure, I'll talk to Hugh. We'll discuss it tonight and then I'll give you an answer in the morning.”

“Why wait that long?” Bill, jolly as all get-out, snaps up his phone and presses a button. “Alice, get me the dean.”

The dean?

He covers the mouthpiece with his hand.“Hugh popped over for a visit to see Bob. You know how those two get. Talk, talk, talk.” Then, getting back on, he says, “Hugh! Great to hear your voice. Say, I wonder when you're done over there if you wouldn't mind stopping by. There's a little lady you might know who has some very exciting news for you.” He winks at me.“Five minutes? Super. I'll tell Genie to expect you then.”

Oh, God. He's actually here.

I should be scared. I should be dreading his reaction when he finds out I've been spreading rumors that we really are engaged.

But that's how the old Genie would have reacted.

I'm the new Genie now. I'm in shape. I'm being promoted. I own my own home and, best of all, I am no longer dependent on Hugh for my future happiness. Moreover, I've been dreaming of this moment for weeks, planning and scheming exactly what to say.

Bring him on.

Chapter Twenty-six

Because I am Nancy Michaels's daughter and have been raised to know that “sweat happens,” I always keep a white button-down shirt in my office closet. I need this shirt. The one I wore to work this morning has been totally pitted out from my confrontation with Connie and my job offer from Bill. The only solution may be to burn it.

After changing my shirt, running some Ban under my arms, freshening my makeup, and downing a half a box of Altoids, I try the window in a last-minute urge to escape. It is nailed shut against the air-conditioner. I won't have this problem when I take over Kevin's job.There are three windows in that office. Also, because I won't be working here—not after Bill discovers I've been lying to his face.

There is a mild commotion downstairs heralding Hugh's arrival. Alice is shouting “Congratulations” at full volume and Brandon the handyman is saying something about “better you than me, buddy.” Karen and Margery are screaming for him to sign copies of their books.

Guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I blow on my ring and give it a polish. Best $24.95 I ever spent.

Before I can figure out how to ideally position myself (on the desk with my legs crossed versus with my back to him, my legs propped on the bookshelf) the door opens and in walks Hugh.

For a moment my heart leaps as it used to, largely out of habit. Even after years together, his self-deprecating grin and sparkling eyes never failed to send a charge through my body. I used to sigh and marvel that a man so handsome, so witty, so debonair could find something of interest in little ole me.

Boy. Did I have that backward.

"Hey!” I sit up and give him a big smile, as if we are, and have always been, hunky-dory. "You're back!”

"I'm surprised this comes as a shock to you.” With his trademark meticulousness, he carefully hangs his navy blazer on the back of my interview chair. (He'd actually had it slung over his shoulder.) Then, affecting a pose straight out of
GQ,
he shoves his hands in his khakis, his white shirtsleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, and studies me. “You look good, Genie.Very good.”

If I were one of his students, this would be the moment I'd melt, because Hugh is giving me his I-know-what-your-heart's-desire -is stare, the one that's supposed to bore into my soul.

“And you've got mustard on your shirt.”

Hugh falls for it, immediately inspecting his collar for the nonexistent stain. This is what happens when you go to an all-boys academy. He wouldn't have stood a chance at your average American elementary school.

“Gotcha.” I shoot a finger at him.

He groans and rolls his eyes. “You may look different, but you haven't changed a bit.”

That's what you think, pal. “Have a seat. Tell me what you've been up to.” Poor choice of words. Next I know, he'll be rattling off his sales numbers and where
Hopeful, Kansas
is on the
USA Today
bestseller list and what miniscule European monarchy wants to buy the rights to Dick and Dora's sappy love story now.