Georgia on Her Mind by Rachel Hauck
Chapter One
To: ALLCasper&Co.
Re: Reorganization
I skim the e-mail from Casper & Company’s director of operations and my boss, Veronica Karpinski.
In order to streamline our work flow…blah, blah, yadda, yadda. I scroll down farther.
Reordering of departments…
Hmm, she never mentioned that to me. As manager of customer service, I’m usually privy to such upheavals.
Starting Monday, Mike Perkins will assume manager of customer service responsibilities…
What! Mike Perkins? I reread. Starting Monday… Each word zaps me like an electric shock. In a panic, I snatch up the phone and autodial Lucy O’Brien. My hands shake. My stomach curdles.
My friend’s phone rings a hundred times, or so it seems to me. “Come on, Lucy, pick up!”
I can’t hold my tears back any longer. But I must. Crying women, crying managers of customer service, are not highly regarded.
“Unprofessional displays of emotion,” is the actual phrase our CEO, Kyle Casper, used in a staff meeting after Marcia Carter lost it when she didn’t get promoted to senior administrator, again.
These are the worst kind of tears—tears of frustration, tears of anger. Tears that take forever to stop once they start.
“I can’t believe this place,” I mutter, gazing again at the e-mail, enduring another ring on Lucy’s end without an answer.
What is it—ten-thirty? The day has barely begun and already it’s one of the crummiest of my life.
My call to Lucy bounces to voice mail. “You’ve reached the desk of Lucy O’Brien. I am unable—”
I bypass the message by pressing the number one.
“Lucy…” My voice quivers, so I halt for a steadying breath. “It’s Macy. Call me, please.”
I slap the receiver onto the cradle and pace the length of my corner window office. What is going on? What is Roni up to now?
Outside my office window, dark blue storm clouds swell and move across the Florida sky and I catch my reflection in the glass. Leaning in for a closer look, I give myself the once-over. Ann Taylor suit, Gucci boots, face dusted to perfection with Bare Escentuals, my shiny brunette hair grazing my shoulders. I am the picture of a twenty-first-century businesswoman.
I’m exactly where I thought I’d be at this stage in my thirty-three-year-old life—until that obnoxious morning e-mail.
I stride back to my desk, kick the chair out and sit down, hard, trying to balance the juxtaposition of emotions. Confusion mingled with anger, tears of weakness mingled with stubborn resolve. I thought I’d outgrown these moments.
It’s going to be a long day.
“Macy?” My department’s admin, Jillian, lurks outside my door.
Snapping out of my sulk, I pretend to be busy by reaching for my computer mouse. “What can I do for you, Jill?” I jiggle the mouse to wake up the sleeping laptop screen.
“You okay?”
I force—I mean force—a smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Am I yelling? ’Cause it sounds to me as if I’m yelling. I clear my throat and lower my voice. “Anything else?” I jiggle the mouse again. The screen wakes up.
The horrifying e-mail screams at me. Loser!
Jillian lowers herself into the cushioned chair across from my desk. “I saw you come in this morning. New boots?”
“Yes.”
“They’re gorgeous.”
“Gucci. Bought them on my trip to Manhattan.”
“How much?” Jillian doesn’t mess around.
“Your week’s wages.” I don’t mess around either. “Did you really come in here to talk about my boots?”
“Y-yeah, sure.” Her cheeks turn a deep shade of pink.
“You know you blush when you lie?”
“Attila sent out the new organization chart,” she blurts out, tossing a copy of the new org chart on my desk.
Attila is our code name for Veronica Karpinski. Short for Attila the Hun. I inadvertently labeled her with the moniker several years ago when she was an up-and-comer, bustling around the office commanding and conquering. To my chagrin, the name stuck. To my good fortune, no one remembers where or when it originated.
“So I see.” I duck behind my laptop.
Jillian stretches toward me, whispering. “You’re reporting to Mike Perkins now.”
Truly, I want to scream. I can read e-mail. The tears surface again and I’m sure if I blink, even once, they’ll spill over.
I click on an old e-mail from Lucy to get the horrid, I’ve-been-demoted e-mail off the screen.
“Anything else I can do for you, Jillian?” I ask, ready for this exchange to be over. The pressure beneath is about to cause an explosion and I can’t be responsible for Jillian’s safety.
“What is Attila thinking? I mean, everyone loves you. Mike is so—”
“She knows what she’s doing.” As angry as I am at Roni right now, I cannot be drawn into idle talk with Jillian Holmes, resident Gossip At Large. Anything I say can and will be circulated around the office.
“Well, if there’s anything—”
I stand, cutting her off. “I’m good. Thanks.”