She turned around and walked away, and I tried to calm my racing mind.
Was this a ploy between him and his lawyer? Was he the one that had told her to order the flowers? What if he wasn’t? Wouldn’t it be strange if I went to deliver the flowers and he didn’t know anything about it? Wouldn’t I be unwelcome? Perhaps he didn’t even want me to know anything about him beyond what he’d revealed on our date.
I pushed these thoughts out of my mind, and went on with my work. A few minutes later, Sandra called out to me. “I’m done with the arrangement.”
I ignored her, but when I didn’t hear anything else from her after about fifteen minutes, I went out front and saw the bouquet sitting next to the cash register while she lounged behind the counter, smiling at something on her phone. She hadn’t even put the flowers in the cold room.
“What are you doing?” I scolded. “Those flowers are going to wilt.”
She didn’t even bother looking up at me. “I said I wasn’t going to go and I meant it. Anyway, I couldn’t go even if I wanted to. I have a severe headache. I’m sorry, boss, I can’t help you today.”
She giggled then at something she saw on her phone.
Defeated, I sighed and went back into the office to pick up my purse.
I was wearing a pair of shorts and a simple white t-shirt, which although quite casual, I deemed decent enough to go on the errand with. I ran a brush through my hair, reapplied my pale pink lip gloss and slung a satchel purse across my shoulder. Then went back out to the floor. “Where’s the address?” I asked, avoiding her eyes.
“All the details are on the envelope by the bouquet’s side,” she said, laughter in her voice.
With a glare at her, I went over to the bouquet filled with daylilies and carnations. It was a beautiful bouquet, but it needed something more to really lift it. I headed over to the table and added some purple statice and green pitta negra.
After including them, I stood back to judge the completed work.
“And that is why I do repotting and you are in charge of flower arrangements,” Sandra called quietly from behind the counter. Her voice was no longer fake-strict or mocking.
I glanced back at her. “Are you sure it doesn’t need anything else?”
“Nope. It’s absolutely stunning. Perfect, in fact. I think we should take a photo of it and add it to our Collection Album,” she said with a smile.
19
Caleb
There was a brief knock to my door, before it was pushed open. Without looking away from my computer screen I could tell by the hurried, heavy footsteps that it was the new derivatives portfolio manager I’d recently hired, Maxwell Garrett.
“Here they are,” he said excitedly as he dropped a stack of papers on my desk. “The S&P 500 price return histories for the last five years, as received from Citigroup. I sent the rest of the data from 1926 to your email so it should be in your inbox by now.”
I gave the stack a glance. That was going to take me all night to get through. “Thanks.”
“Why do you still insist on me printing these out. It would be so much easier to handle them digitally, would it not?”
“I’m using both mediums, but physical copies help my focus.” I did not bother to mention how drastically the world had changed while I was locked away. All I had in the prison was one old computer, which I had gotten quite attached to. This dizzying array of new technology was as foreign to me as Chinese or ancient Greek.
“Okay, I also came to remind you that the second round of interviews for the senior investment officer position will be starting in ten minutes. Would you like me to give you a call when we’re ready so you can make your way over?”
“No need,” I replied as I flipped to the next page. “I’ll be there.”
He went out and I buried myself in numbers again. I was good at this. This was the only thing that could take my mind off Willow when I was inside. Knowing these numbers would one day be the passport to giving Willow the life she deserved.
Ten minutes later I got up from my chair and without bothering with my suit jacket, I picked up the files of resumés, and was out of the office. When I arrived at Anne, my secretary’s table, I found her signing for a huge bouquet of flowers. She looked up at me with a vague smile.
“This came for you. It’s from Marie Spencer,” she said, but my gaze and senses were completely riveted by the woman standing next to her who was refusing to look at me. My heart lurched.