The First Call

Naomi called at eight seventeen the next morning.

I was still wearing yesterday's shirt. My mother had put toast beside me, and I had been staring at a piece of it long enough for the butter to turn pale.

"Belle, I'm so sorry about yesterday."

"Are you?"

The question came out before I could soften it.

She drew a breath. "I didn't know she was going to do it like that."

"But you knew she was going to do it."

"Vera told us Friday. She said the decision was final."

Friday. While I was arguing down a clause that would have exposed Westbridge to an expensive delivery commitment.

I remembered calling Vera that evening. She'd told me to keep pushing.

"What do you need, Naomi?"

"The Henderson implementation meeting is this afternoon. Minka can't find the exception schedule. We thought you might remember where you saved it."

Of course.

Not a call before the bags. Not a box. A question about a file.

"The client project folder has the handover index," I said. "IT can help you find it."

"We looked. There are several versions, and Vera says—"

"I'm no longer your colleague."

She went quiet.

I could hear an office printer in the background. The sound brought back a sickening physical memory of sitting at my desk before sunrise, trying to finish things before everyone arrived with more requests.

"I know," she said. "I just thought you could help us out."

"Yesterday, I asked you for a box."

There was no answer to that.

"I hope the meeting goes well," I said, and ended the call.

My mother lowered her newspaper.

"That toast has done nothing to deserve the way you're looking at it."

I laughed, unexpectedly and badly. A little butter landed on my sleeve.

She pushed a clean napkin toward me without smiling too much.

My mother, Ruth Carwin, had built a sewing business after leaving a marriage and a country with one suitcase and a little girl. She understood the danger of making yourself useful enough to be needed and agreeable enough to be ignored.

She had also raised me to believe work would protect me.

Neither of us mentioned that contradiction over breakfast.

By noon, I'd applied for three jobs and deleted two cover letters that sounded like apologies. Then a number I didn't recognize appeared on my screen.

"Is this Belle Carwin?"

"Yes."

"Calvin Henderson. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

I straightened in the kitchen chair.

On Saturday, this man had looked across a conference table in Phoenix and said my revised rollout plan was the reason his board had finally agreed to sign.

"Of course not, Mr. Henderson."

"Calvin, please. I tried your office number. They sent me to three people before someone explained you no longer work there."

"That's correct."

"Vera said you accepted another position."

I stared at the little scratch in my mother's tabletop.

"She said you left without notice," he continued. "I wanted to hear it from you before making any assumptions."

My fingers curled around the phone.

There had been something bearable, barely, about losing my job. Hearing that she was dismantling my reputation after she'd done it made me feel physically cold.

"I was terminated yesterday morning," I said. "I arrived from Phoenix and found my belongings packed in the lobby."

For several seconds, I heard nothing.

"After I specifically requested you as our implementation lead?"

"I wasn't aware you'd made that request."

"In writing. On Sunday."

I shut my eyes.

That explained the timing better than anything Vera had said.

"Did you receive any notice?" he asked.

"No."

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have repeated her version if I'd known."

His apology was direct. No discussion of how difficult this must have been for everyone involved. No request that I understand the other side.

I had to swallow before answering.

"Thank you for checking."

"There is another reason I called. We had an introductory discussion with your replacement this morning. Our distribution director asked how the regional exceptions would be handled. She said she'd get back to him."

"There are some complex dependencies."

"Belle, she asked what a regional exception was."

I pressed my lips together.

"I'm in Dallas through Friday," he said. "Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I'd like to discuss a possible consulting arrangement."

I reached for a pen, then stopped.

"I need to review my contractual obligations before discussing work connected to Westbridge."

"Good. You should. My team can coordinate with your lawyer if necessary."

Not my old boss. Not a recruiter calling about a lower salary in a smaller office.

The client himself wanted to talk.

We arranged a time. When the call ended, I wrote Calvin Henderson in my planner, on a clean line beneath a meeting Vera had canceled without telling me.

Then I called Ezra Brooks.

We had met in a college library when he accused me of stealing his only functioning highlighter. He was now an employment lawyer, although he still believed I owed him the highlighter.

I gave him the shortest version I could.

"Send me your original employment agreement and everything they sent yesterday," he said.

"I haven't signed the separation packet."

"Good. Don't. Not until we've read it."

"There may already be a client restriction in the old agreement. I can't remember the wording."

"Then we start there. We don't pretend an unsigned new document makes an old one disappear."

I opened the folder where I kept my own employment records. For once, the careful habit Vera used to call excessive might actually help me.

"Ezra?"

"I'm here."

"I don't want to lose this opportunity because I'm afraid of her."

His voice softened.

"Then let's find out what you can do. Fear isn't a contract."

After we hung up, I walked into the sewing room.

My mother sat beside the window, pinning a hem. The rescued succulent stood on her worktable in an old teacup, its leaves no longer touching the floor.

"The Henderson man called," I told her.

She looked up.

"He wants to hire me."

For the first time since Monday morning, saying the word hire didn't mean begging someone to give back what I'd lost.

It meant somebody had noticed what Vera had thrown away.