Once submerged, the hot water bakes my skin and the steam fills my lungs. My breaths are shallower than normal and there’s a hint of tightness in my chest, which tells me I’m getting anxious.
This always happens before I start a new job. I just want everything to go well. Better than well, actually. Perfect.
Today, I’ll try my best to settle in and relax. Tomorrow I’m to report at ten AM to WellesTech headquarters uptown.
I slink down in the water, my back sliding against the white acrylic, and with eyes closed I attempt to pull in the deepest, hardest, fullest breath I can muster.
I can do this.
I can do anything—even things that, to the core of my being, feel like a bad idea.
I PRESS THE ELEVATOR call button for the fifteenth floor against my better judgement.
My blood alternates between fire-hot and ice-cold.
Five suits and ties pile in, and I step aside to make room. Two of them make small talk before getting off at the next stop, and another eyes my ripped jeans and cotton Henley ensemble. Their Armani suit existence would bore me to tears. They’re basically prisoners, their suits their orange jumpsuits and their corner offices their cells.
But whatever makes them happy …
We stop at floor fifteen, which looks exactly like it did last time I was here nearly a decade ago. Same trickling fountain. Same marble floors. Updated seating in the lobby—russet leather instead of decorator plaid—and looks like he sprung for a fancy little coffee bar complete with a real barista and everything.
“Hi, can I help you?” A girl not much older than me bats her lashes and half-stands from her desk.
I check my watch as I stride closer, and when I glance up at her, I catch the recognition playing out on her expression in real time.
“Oh. You’re … yes, hold on.” She’s hunched over her desk now, papers shuffling before she grabs her receiver and presses three buttons with a taupe-painted fingernail. “Mr. Welles’ son is here to see him. Yes. I will.” She replaces the receiver. “If you want to head down this hall to your left, you can check in with Marta and she’ll take you to … your father’s office.”
I see her swallow, the ball in her neck rolling up then down, and she stares at me as if I’m some mythical unicorn she never knew actually existed until now.
I nod a silent thank you and head down the left hall.
Two days ago I was in Telluride minding my own business when I got the news that my father is dying, and now here I am, granting a dying man’s wish.
That’s got to make me worthy of some kind of sainthood, I’m sure.
At the end of the hall is a half-circle desk the color of rich espresso, where the top of a platinum blonde head of hair peeks out.
She must hear the gentle pad of my sneakers on marble because she looks up, smiles, and rises.
“You must be Calder,” she says as she comes out from around her desk with her right hand extended. “I’m Marta.”
And I’m … wrong to assume she was a Midwestern grandmother.
So wrong.
Marta is mid-thirties at most. Platinum hair cut into an angled bob, and she wears a tight navy pencil skirt and white button down—buttoned low enough to show a hint of her generous, too-perfect-to-be-real cleavage. Diamonds dangle from her ears. I’m willing to bet they were gifts from my father for “administrative assistant’s day.”
Clearly he didn’t hire her strictly for her pleasing “phone voice.”
That’s what I get for thinking my father just might be capable of changing his stripes.
I can’t help but wonder what his current wife—Lisette—thinks of his assistant. I couldn’t begin to speculate seeing how I’ve never met Lisette, but I’ve seen her in pictures and she’s exactly what I would expect my father to marry for his fourth go-round.
“I’m so glad you could make it.” Marta smiles wide, and I spot some red lipstick on the sides of her teeth, but I don’t want to embarrass her seeing how her voice is all breathless and shaky. “Your father has been preparing for this all morning. He’s very excited to see you. Would you like a coffee? I can send for one.”
“No, thank you.” I clear my throat and peer down the hall where I spot the infamous twelve-foot double doors he had imported from Italy one summer. The WellesTech Media logo centers each door—hand-carved by some Parisian artisan of course—and the Welles family crest is displayed on the gold door hardware.
“Sure, all right.” Marta smiles again, and the red lipstick has morphed into smeared pink. At least it’s less noticeable. “I’ll walk you back.”
I keep a few steps behind her, my hands in my pockets as I stride down the marble hall, past oil portraits of my father over the years.