When You Fall... (4 page)

She would not show that it bothered her, but it was painful like you wouldn’t believe, watching yourself make a fool of yourself over and over and over again. Then to read some of the comments that followed the videos and those left on her Facebook page. Yikes. People were harsh, bordering on cruel.

A new e-mail appeared in her inbox. Only one, thankfully, since tax season was over, the flow of work e-mails had slowed from an avalanche to a trickle. She opened it, noting the sender’s address. It was from the big boss, an unusual occurrence for sure.

She scanned the contents quickly. He wanted to see her after lunch; 1:00 to be exact. She closed the e-mail and sat back in her chair wondering what this meant. She knew—more fallout.

#

“Hi Carter,” Shannon, her immediate manager, said. She was standing outside of the main office—the swanky part of the accounting operations. It was five minutes to one.

“Hi Shannon. What’s going on?” Carter said, giving Shannon one of her best efforts at a smile.

“This will all work out for the best,” Shannon said.

Wasn’t that helpful, Carter thought.
“Okay,” Carter said, hiding her panic underneath the smile she gave back to Shannon. Inwardly, her heart sank. This firm was a very strict place to work. Most of corporate America had moved into this century, become flexible in their work place attire and attitudes. Not here. Her place of employment, Johnson and Sons, a locally owned accounting firm run by a family of accountants from the old school of bow ties, suits, stern expressions, and abacuses. It was major work on her part,
daily major work
to fit in here.

She followed Shannon through the executive outer offices. She gave another smile to the receptionist and took a seat on a small couch set up for guests.

Mr. Johnson’s office door opened and he stepped out.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said, dressed in a grey wool suit, white starched shirt, black bow tie. He was conservative from his wing tips up to his short military-style hair and clean-shaven face. He moved aside to let them enter.

His office was about the same size as Carter’s apartment. All of it. A desk with two chairs sat in the middle of the room. A small grouping of chairs were situated to the right of it and a large conference table sat to the left.

“Let’s have a seat at the conference table, if you wouldn’t mind,” Mr. Johnson said, closing the door behind him, moving to take his place at the head of the table. A manila folder rested on the table in front of him.

Carter walked around to one side while Shannon took the chair opposite her.

“So, Carter, let me get straight to the point,” he said, looking at her. Not a smile was in sight.

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling brightly back at him, hoping it would be enough for the two of them.

“I’ve reviewed your records,” he said. He opened up his folder and scanned the document inside.

“Let me be honest and upfront with you. It has come to our attention that your outside activities have followed you into the office. Some of our most important customers have called us regarding your recent behavior. Behavior that has not reflected positively on you, or the firm,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “Personally, I like you Carter. I hired you amid my many doubts and concerns about your academic record. My misgivings were slightly assuaged by the many references and testimonials of your professors attesting to your solid work ethic. Added to that was my relationship with your father, whom I’ve known for a very long time. We started our business careers together. He is a fine man,” he said, peering at her over his glasses.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“So as to our current predicament,” he said, sitting back. His fingers made a steeple at his chest. “You intentionally interrupted the wedding of one of our most prominent customers—a current and potentially lucrative relationship for our firm—as well as disrupting one of the Lord’s most holy sacraments—marriage.”

“Mr. Johnson, if I may say something in my defense,” she said.

He raised his hand, cutting her off. “If it were only this one event, we might consider riding this thing out. But that’s not the case, is it Carter?” he said, sitting forward again, glancing down at the folder that lay on the table in front of him.

“This event has called into question your prior work performances, and some of those have been less than stellar,” he added, pushing the folder away, sitting back in his chair.

“You’ve left me and the firm with no other choice,” he began, waiting until her eyes met his. “Carter Woodson, effective immediately, your employment with Johnson and Sons has been terminated. You will receive two weeks severance plus any vacation time accrued. Shannon will see you back to your desk to retrieve your things and escort you from the building. I wish you luck in your future,” he said standing up, putting an end to the meeting.

Okay. This was bad. She’d been fired. She sat for a moment, letting those words settle into her brain. Then she stood, joining Shannon, her feet moving obediently as they followed the senior Johnson to the door. He gave her a small head nod as they passed by.

“Thank you, ladies,” he said, closing the door behind them.

“Carter?”

“It’s okay. I can do this alone,” she said as they exited from Mr. Johnson’s outer office.

“I have to follow you,” Shannon said, catching up to Carter. “I have to walk you out. It’s company policy, unless you would prefer a security guard.”

“No. No security guard,” Carter said, walking back to her cubicle. She pulled her purse from her drawer. A cardboard box had been placed on her desk. She threw her purse in, added the pictures of friends and family, a few other personal mementos and headed for the elevator with her trusty sidekick, Shannon, to make sure she didn’t do the firm any more harm.

The elevator was making its descent as they approached. The door slid open just as they reached it; even the elevator conspired to make her departure easy. She and Shannon stepped inside, joining an elderly woman already on board.

It was quiet for the first two floors down. Carter felt the eyes of the elderly woman staring at her. Another spillover from her breakup attempt and the YouTube video which had also played on the local news. It seemed there was always a desire for comedy. As a result, people stared, gave advice, and often made wisecracks. She kept her eyes facing forward.

“Could I pay you to break up my son’s wedding?” the woman asked. Carter didn’t respond. The older woman touched her shoulder. “He’s about to marry this awful woman,” she said, taking in Carter’s fixed forward expression. “Don’t look so shocked. You
are
Crazy Carter, aren’t you?” the woman asked.

“I don’t think so,” Carter said, eyes still facing forward.

“Humph,” the woman said, irritated by Carter’s lack of response. “It’s never good to seem desperate, hon. But you know, you can’t tell this generation anything,” she added, turning to face Shannon. “In my day, the men did the work. Women made it difficult, but not anymore. That’s all gone. Now it’s all barely-there clothing, friends with benefits, pole dancing, dropping it like it’s hot—whatever that means—and breaking up weddings,” she said, tilting her head in Carter’s direction.

Carter had tuned her out, as much as she could. She’d become inured to people giving her their opinion of her actions—at the grocery store, in the parking lot, standing in line for her favorite brew. Strangers who thought they knew the whys and whats of Carter.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, they reached the ground floor. Carter stepped out of the elevator, waved goodbye to Shannon and headed to her apartment, wanting nothing but to be alone.

#

Friday

Carter rounded the bend in the road, smiling to herself as the Woodson family ranch and homestead came into view. Carter’s great-grandfather, an ex-slave turned ranch owner and horse trainer, had built it. He’d made becoming a landowner his lifelong goal and spent his life working to fulfill his dream, leaving behind this legacy to his heirs. It had been his pride and joy and a testament to what dedication, commitment, and hard work could do to make a dream come true.

It was dusk when she’d left her apartment and almost completely dark by the time she’d pulled off the main road and onto her family’s smaller drive. The drive forked 200 yards off the road. If you went right, you’d end up on a circular drive that dropped you off near the front porch of the house. It overlooked the Guadalupe River and was in the middle of Hill Country, about an hour and a half west of Austin.

She’d spent many a night sitting on the porch with her great-grandfather, listening to what life had been like for him, and why this place was so special. Her decision to come home now had been a wise one. She’d felt this rush of homecoming running through her body, removing the tension and stress that had become her constant companion of late. She took the left fork, taking her to the back of the house and to the garage, which was a separate structure from the main house.

Except for the stars and moon overhead, there wasn’t much by way of light in the country. She parked her car, turned off the ignition and sat for a minute, staring at the house, familiarizing herself with it.

She had spent the early part of her life here. It was a place where she’d felt at home amid the horses, the land, her great-grandparents, grandparents, her mother and father, for a while. They’d been one big happy family, full of love and laughter. Her great-grandfather had started out with an acre or two in 1932, the year before his only son was born, and over his lifetime had managed to accumulate about a hundred or so acres of prime Hill Country land. Her great-grandfather had wanted his family to live with him—all future generations—so he’d built his home large enough to accommodate them.

Hopefully here she would leave all that had transpired since her attempted break-up of Bentley’s wedding and her subsequent firing behind. Had it just been a week? Not even. Tomorrow would mark the one-week anniversary of her public crash and burn.

And what a week it had been. Monday and Tuesday had been filled with people blowing up her cell, and a million drive-bys from people checking out the home of one Crazy Carter. And all the YouTube videos, her short stint on the local news station—where she’d been the butt of the nightly news jokes. Her place in infamy now was forever secured.

Wednesday and Thursday she’d spent huddled under a blanket, on her couch, parked in front of the TV. She didn’t answer her phone. Mr. Johnson’s words had swirled around and around in her head. Had she been that bad of an accountant?

By Friday, she’d had enough of herself. She’d started to lose track of time. Nights had turned into days. Her sleep—fitful at best—left her tired, cranky, and depressed. The idea to leave town had caught hold in her mind and gained traction the more she contemplated it. It wouldn’t be considered running away, either. She would go down to check on the family property to make sure it was in good shape. She was being a good great-granddaughter, and that was her motivation. She was definitely not running away.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been here, and realized how sad that was. A place that had meant so much to her deserved much more than she’d given. Her memories of the happy times growing up with her great-grandfather included scenes of a very different girl—miles away from the woman she was now. Those thoughts had her near tears, purging her closets and packing suitcases. Maybe this was fate intervening, an opportunity for her to make peace with her past before she had to part with it. The ranch was going to be sold.

It had been decided a few weeks back. It was final; no more discussions. Her stepsisters—
sisters—
she corrected herself, needed the money. She hadn’t voted. She would have been the only “no,” so what was the point. Plus, her father had called her beforehand, and asked her personally to cooperate. He had abstained. Of course he had. It wasn’t a good thing to appear too partial to one’s flesh and blood child. It could make the new wifey and sisters angry.

“Let it go, Carter,” she said out loud.

There had always been talk off and on of selling the ranch, but the recession had apparently impacted everyone. Madison, the stepsister just below her in age, had pushed hard for the sale. Carter guessed she needed the money the most, although her other sisters seemed to be just as needy and ready to sell, too.

The thought of letting go of what had once been her refuge, made her stomach heave. She loved this place. And it still rubbed her raw that her great-grandfather had included her stepsisters in his will. Some leftover familiar regret on his part.

“Let it go, Carter,” she said to herself again.

She put the combination into the keypad of the garage, hoping it hadn’t changed. It worked. The garage door opened, creaking and moaning like an old man getting up in the morning. Her great-grandfather’s old truck was still there—a 1950s version of a pickup, which probably was not in working condition. It sat next to her grandfather’s somewhat 1980s younger model. There wasn’t any room for her car, so she left it parked just outside the garage.

She lowered the garage door to the same creaking and moaning, and followed the path to the house—a large, two-story Tudor-styled home.

She opened the back door with her key. All the family members had one, although most rarely used them. The back door opened into a large kitchen and breakfast area. The floor was littered with stuff –junk, papers, and magazines. The old wooden kitchen table could easily seat 20 people, and in its glory days was packed with family and friends. It now stood covered with the same mess that was on the floors.

What the hell
, was her first thought followed by,
What is that smell
?

She walked through the kitchen, flipping on the hallway light. She made her way toward the front, taking in the grand, square-shaped foyer and staircase that followed the wall leading up to the second floor. It was free of junk up here at least. She sighed at the dust that covered everything, and at the signs of the house’s aging. When had it fallen into such disrepair?