I dread going back to the office. For once, I'm not angry at the elevator stopping on every floor. I'm deeply lost in my thoughts. I still remember my last conversation with Stewart. The words keep looping over and over in my head, Elizabeth, I have been offered a job at Mass General. I'm so sad that I won't be able to see you again.
On one hand, I was pleased that I hadn't cracked under the onslaught of his five-month charm offensive. On the other, I wanted to grab his head, slam it against the table, and keep slamming until there was nothing left but goo. The nerve of that fucker! Instead, I acted sad and pretended that I would miss his company.
And Bethany. That smirking cunt. The fact that I'll have to smile and pretend everything is fine and dandy while working alongside her for God knows how long doesn't improve my mood. Marjorie was right. Spending my days next to her while knowing exactly who she is is going to be difficult. I would have been better off ignorant. But that can't be helped.
I had a surprisingly relaxing vacation despite my misgivings. I visited mom and her new husband, Miguel, in Tampa. She's pregnant. Again. The fact that her last two pregnancies ended in miscarriages hasn't dissuaded her from trying to give me siblings. There should be some law banning 50-year-olds from getting pregnant.
But Miguel seems decent and he makes her happy. It's a little weird that he isn't that much older than me but I suppose no one would bat an eye if a 50-year-old man married a 37-year-old woman.
After four days in Tampa, I went to Virginia and spent the rest of my vacation in blissful solitude at grandpa's cabin near Appomattox. He left it to me in his will but I haven't gotten quite used to thinking of it as mine. It will always be grandpa's cabin to me.
I spent my days painting and drove to Lynchburg every few days to lay fresh flowers on his grave. I talked to him sometimes. I know the dead can't hear us but it was therapeutic. In the evenings I would take his trusty old Remington into the backyard and shoot soda cans. He had taught me to shoot with that gun. He took me hunting with him, taught me how to track animals, fish, skin a deer, ride a bike, drive...
I love the cabin. All of my happiest childhood memories were made there. I wanted to stay with Grandpa full-time but mom wouldn't allow it so I only got to see him in summer.
"Miss, are you going down?" A man's voice interrupts my reverie. I failed to notice the elevator come to a halt on the 59th floor. The top floor. There's a 60th floor where Aaron lives but the only elevator that goes up there requires a passcode. The stairs leading up to the 60th floor are also blocked off by a heavy metal door.
"No," I say to the man as I step off the elevator. The clickety-click the heels of my pumps make against the marble floor fills my head as I walk down the hallway. Visions of strangling Bethany with my bare hands swim in front of my eyes as I approach my workstation. But she's not there. It's only Dwayne.
He stands when I walk in. His fashion sense has improved considerably. "Elizabeth. It's good to have you back. You look good," he greets me cheerfully. The awkwardness is completely gone.
"Thank you. Where is Bethany?"
"Mr. Waller fired her. Apparently," Dwayne's voice drops down a few octaves to a very conspiratorial whisper, "She was a corporate spy! They installed a new computer system and it flagged Bethany for copying sensitive internal documents. She got shitcanned on the spot."
Huh. No shit. "Really?" I try to hide my joy.
"Yes." Dwayne's tone goes back to normal, "Anyway, Mr. Waller wants you to go see him immediately you come in. And bring some gift-wrapping paper, he said."
That's a weird request. Nonetheless, I dig through the stationery cabinet, retrieve a roll of wrapping paper, and make for Aaron's office. The door opens as soon as I knock. He's bent over something in the corner by the window, soldering gun in hand. He turns as I enter and puts the soldering gun down.
"Elizabeth. Welcome back. You look well. That vacation was good for you." Aaron is almost friendly. Too friendly. And he doesn't do small talk. Why is everyone so bloody cheerful today?
"Thank you, Sir"
"Sit," he replies.
I comply wordlessly. This is only the second time that I've sat in this office since he took over. All our conversations usually involve me standing and never last more than a few minutes.
He sits down opposite me looking as sharp as usual in his uniform: black suit, white shirt, no tie. His eyes are like lasers, his gaze intense and unwavering. I feel like he can see through me. He's the very image of the man I envision in my fantasies. His perfectly sculpted face could be described as handsome if it wasn't so bloody ferocious. My stomach twists, knots, and does plenty of other weird things. I burned the old portraits I had made of him but only ended up painting new ones. Could it surely be true that he has no balls? He looks so… masculine.
I swallow and stare at his Adam's apple to avoid his gaze. He hands me a rectangular box. "Wrap this for me," he commands. It's the size of an encyclopedia but fairly light. There's something inside.
I'm aware of his gaze as I wrap the box. It makes me feel a little self-conscious and my heart rate picks up for no discernible reason but I focus intently on the task at hand even as my palms start moistening.
After fumbling with the box for what feels like an hour, I finally manage to make it look presentable and hand it back to him. My arms are shaking slightly at this point and I can feel some sweat pooling in my armpits. My heart is thudding so loudly I'm afraid he might hear it. You did it wrong! You bungled it! Why do you always have to act like a fool around him? My internal voice scolds me.
Aaron inspects the box intently, turning it around in his hands. "Excellent handiwork," he intones. "I was never good at such fine motor skills. Clumsy fingers." He holds his left hand up to illustrate that last point. His fingers look fine to me. Long, lean, and strong. It doesn't help that I've entertained fantasies of those fingers stirring up my twat.
He puts down his left hand, holds the box with both hands, and gives it back to be. Our fingers brush for just the slightest moment as I take it from him. They're firm and warm. "Happy birthday, Elizabeth," he adds with a tiny half-smile as he pulls back. That floors me.
I'm at a loss for words. First, it's the first time I've seen him smile. He's gorgeous. Second, it isn't even my birthday. Yet. And of course, he made me wrap my own gift.
"But Sir. My birthday… "
"Isn't until the day after tomorrow. I know. But I wanted to jump the queue. And there are other considerations. Open it," he urges.
Wordlessly, I obey. I slowly unwrap the box I had been wrapping just a few minutes before. There is a leather binder inside the rectangular box. I take it out and open it.
It's a job offer. From the Houston Museum. If I accept, I would become Deputy Vice President of Exhibitions. The title comes with a nice pay bump and some very generous benefits.
"Well?' Aaron asks.
"Sir, this is too generous," I protest weakly.
"Not particularly," he counters. "The museum had a vacancy."
"And you made them offer it to me?"
"Not really. Technically, Karen Strauss-Klein did that. She sits on the museum's board."
"So, the museum would just make me a deputy vice president without any experience?"
"The museum employs 25 deputy vice presidents in the exhibitions department alone. Every department head is a vice president over there and everyone working under them is a deputy vice president. The titles are mostly worthless. I thought you would like the job."
I want to keep seeing you. I missed you while I was away. I have to run this by my boss at the CIA. "I do… It's just so sudden."
"Go think about it. But don't take too long. The museum has to fill the position tomorrow." He points at the door as he says this.
"Thank you, Sir," I squeak as I stumble out. Working with art has been my dream job. I wanted to major in Art History but grandpa suggested I take it as a minor and pick a major with better job prospects. He was paying my tuition and was the only person I ever listened to anyway so I did as he advised. It always saddens me that he died before I graduated. I was the first Heaton to go to college. He would have been so proud.
Yet I'm not too excited about this job. Probably because Marjorie might not approve. There's no point getting my hopes up. My assignment was here and they won't let me leave. I want to hail Marjorie immediately but it's a little early in the day for another meal so I wait until 10 before going to Ziggy's Deli for a tuna sandwich.
I pretend to eat it just in case anyone is observing me and it's just as bad as I remember it. My cellphone vibrates as I'm squirreling the sandwich away in my desk drawer. A different number from the one Marjorie used last time. I pick up.
"Hello Miz Heaton, Maggie here from Flair by Jenna. I'm calling to remind you of your appointment today. You still Ok with 5.30?"
"Yes, I am but I would like a house call. Do you do those?" I ask
"House calls are extra. And the stylist might be late. Traffic."
"That's not a problem."
"Can we have your address Miz Heaton?"
I give Marjorie my address even though I know she already knows where I live. I gave her my address when I moved to Houston.
"Good day to you Miz Heaton. Expect the stylist by six. Have a great day."
"You too Maggie."
I unlock my door with a gun in hand but it's only Marjorie in a police uniform. The hat shades her face and hides her features but it's her alright.
"What's with the gun?" she asks as she pushes in.
"A black family moved in next door so a bunch of yahoos in trucks came to express their displeasure. Of course, being complete morons, they got the address wrong and burned the cross in my driveway instead. I shot off a tire and restrained two of them but the rest got away. Dale and Carla are pretty shaken. I had to lend them one of my shotguns."
"Yea, an officer is taking their statement right now."
"Wait, were you behind that whole thing?"
Marjorie has the grace to look embarrassed, "I am a known CIA operative. I can't just walk through your front door. Someone might be watching."
"So you got a bunch of hillbillies to burn a cross in my driveway? Do you know how callous that is to Dale and Carla? They're genuinely afraid for their lives."
"What they don't know won't hurt them. A friend in the bureau is in deep with a gang of white supremacists. He did me the favor. In about a week they'll round up the whole lot of them and your neighbors will get justice. Everyone wins."
"So the FBI is inducing a bunch of uneducated hicks to commit hate crimes and you don't see any problem with that? Would these rednecks even do half the shit they're gonna get arrested for if your friend wasn't egging them on?"
"It doesn't matter Elizabeth. What is done is done. You wanted a house call, you got one. Hurry up, my partner thinks I'm a real cop taking your statement."
I hand her the contract from the Houston Museum. She reads it in silence. I wait anxiously. "Did Waller give this to you?" she asks after she's done.
"Yes." How did she know? "A birthday present, he said."
That makes her smile. "Who got you the job? Was it him or Karen Strauss-Klein?"
"He said Karen got me the job but I got the impression that it was his idea."
"He probably thinks it was his idea. You'll take it," Marjorie stands up as she says this.
"Why?"
"Because the agency wants you at the museum," she adds dismissively.
"So the agency got me the job?" This is confusing.
"Not exactly. The agency pulled a few levers but it's best if your two bosses think it was their idea."
"How did you accomplish that?"
Marjorie sits down with a sigh, "A farmer fails to lock the door of his chicken coop. He goes about his business and only remembers his mistake at sundown. By this time, one chicken has already wandered out after the door was blown open by a gust of wind. The farmer then goes to bed.
Locked out, the chicken finds a bush to shelter in for the night but gets startled by a stray cat. It runs towards the nearby road. Now, there are two drunk men on the road.
One is walking, and the other is driving. The drunk driver swerves to avoid hitting the drunk man who just staggered onto the road, but he swerves too hard because he's drunk and ends up running over the chicken. Tell me Elizabeth, who is truly responsible for the death of the chicken?"
"The farmer," I answer without hesitation.
"But do the two drunks know that?"
"No. They blame themselves," I reply. Too late, I realize.
"Exactly," Marjorie sounds very pleased with herself. So the agency somehow managed to trick Aaron and Karen into thinking getting me a job at the museum was their idea. How the agency pulled that off I have no idea but Marjorie's use of analogies to explain it is proof enough that they don't plan on telling me the details. And I hate being the chicken in the analogy but I refrain from complaining.
"What do you want me to do at the museum now? Was the operation at Strauss successful?"
"The operation at Strauss has been a smashing success. I will be putting a commendation in your file and the agency will give you a raise. At the museum, your brief will be the same. Observe and report. We would like you to keep an eye out for certain art dealings. I'll have to give those cases to the FBI though. Once the timing is right, we will bring you back in-house. I will contact you to arrange new field communication protocols."