Eileen had told her. “’Specially those who need it most.”
Brian said, “I like math a lot, myself. My degree’s in economics, and I’ll have my MBA soon. Do you plan to go to college?”
“I hope to.”
“Terrific.” He clapped his hands, an exclamation point. “We like our people to be motivated beyond all this marble and brass.” He stood and offered his hand. “It’s great to have you here. I know Belinda’s waiting for me to turn you back over to her, so I’d better let you go.”
At first Meg thought she’d rather be cleaning toilets; working as a teller meant being visible, presentable, and this was a challenge for a girl whose best clothes were jeans and T-shirts without patches or stains. She and her mother scoured the thrift stores for decent professional wear with some success, but being dressed up in skirts and heels every afternoon was like wearing a costume. A costume that wasn’t quite as nice as the ones the other tellers wore. Brian went out of his way, though, to help her feel like she was a valuable part of the Hamilton team—that’s how he always talked about the tellers, as a team. If her white blouse was dingy because they’d run out of detergent, he overlooked it. If the fake leather on the heels of her shoes was peeling away, he overlooked that too. Was she good with people? Was she careful with procedures and funds? Those were the things that mattered. By the time school started again, her senior year, she’d been converted to permanent employee status, which Belinda said was “super high praise.”
Brian made a point to befriend her. He would find her during her breaks, ask the occasional question about their farm or her family, her boyfriend, her aspirations in life. She thought he did this with everyone—they all talked about what a hands-on manager he was, how he was destined to be a big success—and only learned later that he’d singled her out. Sometimes he joined her and a few of the other employees at the Trough, after work—a treat she allowed herself only every other Friday. Carson never went. “Too many guys with ties,” he joked. She went anyway, wanting to fit in if she could. They all talked about their career goals, and once, she admitted that her dream job wasn’t in finance at all, but in medicine. Maybe veterinary, maybe human, she wasn’t sure. “I’m used to doctoring everyone and everything already,” she’d said. “My sisters, the horses, our cats…. I’ve helped with foaling—and I even gave our pony stitches once.”
Brian slapped the tabletop. “Then do it,” he said, surprising her. “Figure out what you want and how to make it happen, and do it.”
But surely he knew how impossible that was for her, for any Powell girl. Every paycheck she earned went to her parents, to help pay for groceries. Trying for medical school of either type was as futile as trying to use her arms to fly.
Brian. He’d known so well how to play her, when the time came.
Nine
A T THEIR N ETTLE B AY VILLA , C ARSON WATCHED V AL AND M ARIE -L OUISE, the ambitious French real estate agent Val had picked, pore over photos and property fact sheets on the patio’s café table. He knew he should be as immersed in the activity as Val, knew by the way she kept looking over at him, sitting on the rattan chair to her right, that she thought the same thing. And he
wanted
to be. He wanted to be fully focused on ideal elevation, proximity to the best surf, amenities such as built-in pools and spas and breeze-catching screened rooms. But his seditious mind kept moseying back in time, to the evenings when he and his father had sat at their square kitchen table and sketched out plans for a very different new residence, one he’d share with a very different girl.
He could see it, as clear as if it had happened last week instead of twenty years ago: his dad looking young and capable in the heavy twill pants and cotton button-up shirt he always wore to work in the
Brian said, “I like math a lot, myself. My degree’s in economics, and I’ll have my MBA soon. Do you plan to go to college?”
“I hope to.”
“Terrific.” He clapped his hands, an exclamation point. “We like our people to be motivated beyond all this marble and brass.” He stood and offered his hand. “It’s great to have you here. I know Belinda’s waiting for me to turn you back over to her, so I’d better let you go.”
At first Meg thought she’d rather be cleaning toilets; working as a teller meant being visible, presentable, and this was a challenge for a girl whose best clothes were jeans and T-shirts without patches or stains. She and her mother scoured the thrift stores for decent professional wear with some success, but being dressed up in skirts and heels every afternoon was like wearing a costume. A costume that wasn’t quite as nice as the ones the other tellers wore. Brian went out of his way, though, to help her feel like she was a valuable part of the Hamilton team—that’s how he always talked about the tellers, as a team. If her white blouse was dingy because they’d run out of detergent, he overlooked it. If the fake leather on the heels of her shoes was peeling away, he overlooked that too. Was she good with people? Was she careful with procedures and funds? Those were the things that mattered. By the time school started again, her senior year, she’d been converted to permanent employee status, which Belinda said was “super high praise.”
Brian made a point to befriend her. He would find her during her breaks, ask the occasional question about their farm or her family, her boyfriend, her aspirations in life. She thought he did this with everyone—they all talked about what a hands-on manager he was, how he was destined to be a big success—and only learned later that he’d singled her out. Sometimes he joined her and a few of the other employees at the Trough, after work—a treat she allowed herself only every other Friday. Carson never went. “Too many guys with ties,” he joked. She went anyway, wanting to fit in if she could. They all talked about their career goals, and once, she admitted that her dream job wasn’t in finance at all, but in medicine. Maybe veterinary, maybe human, she wasn’t sure. “I’m used to doctoring everyone and everything already,” she’d said. “My sisters, the horses, our cats…. I’ve helped with foaling—and I even gave our pony stitches once.”
Brian slapped the tabletop. “Then do it,” he said, surprising her. “Figure out what you want and how to make it happen, and do it.”
But surely he knew how impossible that was for her, for any Powell girl. Every paycheck she earned went to her parents, to help pay for groceries. Trying for medical school of either type was as futile as trying to use her arms to fly.
Brian. He’d known so well how to play her, when the time came.
Nine
A T THEIR N ETTLE B AY VILLA , C ARSON WATCHED V AL AND M ARIE -L OUISE, the ambitious French real estate agent Val had picked, pore over photos and property fact sheets on the patio’s café table. He knew he should be as immersed in the activity as Val, knew by the way she kept looking over at him, sitting on the rattan chair to her right, that she thought the same thing. And he
wanted
to be. He wanted to be fully focused on ideal elevation, proximity to the best surf, amenities such as built-in pools and spas and breeze-catching screened rooms. But his seditious mind kept moseying back in time, to the evenings when he and his father had sat at their square kitchen table and sketched out plans for a very different new residence, one he’d share with a very different girl.
He could see it, as clear as if it had happened last week instead of twenty years ago: his dad looking young and capable in the heavy twill pants and cotton button-up shirt he always wore to work in the
Similar Books
