Page 121 of Holiday Hopefuls
Hopping into the closest elevator car, I stare straight ahead as if I’ve been with them all along, doing my best to ignore the only two people who bother to notice my sudden appearance. While the building only has four floors, that’s four more than I know how to navigate. I make the executive decision to exit when everyone else does. But I also manage to move to the side just enough so that everyone else will have to get out before me. This way they don’t know that I have no idea where I’m going.
That’s the right choice, as it turns out.
“Did you push the button?” one woman, probably forty and all business, asks another.
Her colleague, a woman older by a few years with a sharp bob cut and sharper suit, nods. “Yes, we’re on the expressway to the morgue.” The older woman gives a dark chuckle.
A worried-looking man next to me in his mid-thirties in desperate need of antiperspirant visibly shivers. “The morgue?” He looks up at me and I have the sudden urge to cover my shoes in case he gets sick right here and now.
I only shake my head and pray to Callie’s hot chocolate gods that he doesn’t ask me a direct question.
The older woman gives him a skeptical look. “You’ve never met the partners, have you?”
He wipes a sweaty hand on his cheap blue suit. A tic he probably developed from an overly aggressive father who liked to regularly berate him. “Only de Luksa. Just once during some litigation. He wasn’t bad, just really serious.”
The woman scoffs. “He’s the nicest of the partners. Everyone calls the floor with all the partner offices the morgue, because they’ll work themselves to death if it means they’ll win their cases.”
Mr. Sweaty Hands gulps right as the elevator dings to announce our arrival.
The group shuffles out of the car, and I follow them out into a much warmer version of the downstairs lobby. Instead of bright whites and frigid blacks, sunny golds and calming greens cover every surface. Where tile lines the floors downstairs, expensive carpets cover the walkways here, deadening the clacks of each skyscraper heel being worn by every woman in the building. The smell of disinfectant lingers in the air and fresh flowers wait to be admired on a round glass table just outside the elevator doors. No receptionists wait to assist anyone here, but it doesn’t take long to discern in which direction Ira Rutherford’s office waits.
Just follow the constant trembling and ever-present look of nausea.
Several associates and paralegals work tirelessly at desks covered in meticulously placed stacks of folders, typing as iftheir life depends on it. Some rush past me with arms full of loose papers, while trying to not spill overly full mugs of stale coffee. Others look like they slept in their clothes and haven’t showered in two days.
The farther I walk, the higher my stomach lurches into my throat and the weight of what I’m doing begins to sink in.
But I know I’ve reached the point of no return when a striking Latina woman in her mid-thirties looks my way. “Can I help you?” she asks. Her soft features don’t match the sharp tone she offers, keeping in line with the all-business blouse and skirt combo she wears. Dark brows raise when I don’t immediately answer. Equally dark eyes follow my gaze over her head, right to the giant office waiting behind her.
The office of Ira Rutherford.
The man himself sits behind an obnoxiously large mahogany desk in an oversized black leather chair, talking animatedly on the phone as he stares at something on his desk.
She turns back to me. “Are you here to see Mr. Rutherford?”
“Sorry, yes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Um, no. Sorry,” I say again.
The woman doesn’t waste her time with any kind of empathetic expression. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Rutherford only sees people by appointment. In any case, he has a full schedule today.” With that, she turns back to her computer, ultimately dismissing me.
“Look,” I say, leaning onto the desk, “I really need just a few minutes with him. Then I’ll go away. Promise.”
She slides annoyed eyes back my way, not bothering to hide any ill feelings about me. “Like I said before, Mr. Rutherford is completely booked.”
“I understand that,” I say, doing my best to not let frustration seep into my tone, “but I need to talk to him.”
“Make some time in my calendar, Lucy.” The sound of Callie’s father drags my attention from the unhelpful woman. Ira stands in his office doorway dressed in pristine black slacks and a white dress shirt, arms crossed and looking like someone just spit in his coffee.
Lucy’s eyes widen, glancing back at her boss. “But sir, you have a meeting at nine with Carlton.”
“Move it.” Ira’s voice is unyielding as he continues staring at me during his conversation with someone else. “I’d like to hear what Dr. Rhodes has to say. Oliver.” The man nods toward his office, signaling me to enter the dragon’s lair.
I stand back to my full height, sending an automatic “thank you” to the rude assistant.
Ira turns and heads back into his office, not waiting to see if I follow. Taking a seat behind the gargantuan desk, he leans back in the expensive and ergonomic chair.
