What Eyes Can't See, page 5
The monotony left my mind free to daydream about Barbara. The caress of her lips on mine left me craving more. She was a rare find, and I couldn't wait to see her again. Time would tell if her longing simmered as hot as mine.
Chapter 7
Barbara
My Uber pulled up to the curb in front of my building. Saul, the doorman since I was in high school, scurried around back to meet the opening trunk. He took one look and went to fetch the luggage cart.
Completing my digital transaction with a tip, I emerged as Saul returned.
“Miss Barbara! Have a good time on your vacation?”
“I did, thanks. You’ll send the bags up?” I was already walking into the building.
“Yes, Miss. Right away.”
I removed my sunglasses so my eyes could adjust to the interior lighting. A honey glow reflected off the inlaid wooden paneling of the lobby, lining the cream marble floors toward the elevator.
The arrow indicator slowly arced its way from the tenth floor to the ground floor. Walking into this building filled me with a mix of warmth and regret. It was a happy place to grow up but moving back home screamed failure. The same defeat my dad never let cross the threshold, moved in via a truckload of U-Haul boxes. They not only stacked in my bedroom, but in my brother Brian’s as well. Like an adult, he was off on his own living in Boston. I’d have to figure something out soon or Dad would get used to having me home and make leaving difficult.
Loving, but imposing, Dad usually got his way. In work, life—and with me. How could I be so strong with everyone, but snap like a cheap pair of stilettos with my dad? At work, I laid them all to waste. They’d take one look at me and underestimate the Black girl. Maybe it was time for me to up my game with Dad as well.
The elevator door opened, and I pressed our floor—12A. It was really the 13th floor, but pre-war apartments like ours skipped the bad-luck number and went straight to 14. Our odd-numbered floor might have been the only reason they let a Black family move into the building at the time. Few others wanted to live in an unlucky apartment, which made ours unusually large and the mirror of our one neighbor’s.
A hand slid into the gap to reverse the elevator door before it closed completely. My fellow 12A neighbor, Mrs. Finkle. Now 78, she lived alone since her husband died twenty years earlier. I remembered going to the Jewish funeral and wondering where all the flowers were. I later learned about the quick-burial custom, which made the historical masking scent of flowers unnecessary. Such a fascinating faith. I ended up taking a class on Judaism in college.
Mrs. Finkle was busy rummaging in her purse when the door fully opened. She took one look at me, and reflexively halted. For a millisecond, her eyes darted sideways, before plastering on a smile that didn’t read true.
She didn’t recognize me. My heart sank that a woman I’d known my whole life looked visibly uncomfortable in my presence.
“You okay, Mrs. Finkle?” I asked.
She inspected me, and her expression changed.
“My! Barbara! It is you.” She shuffled in and faced forward. “You seem to visit a lot lately. Your father well?”
“Yes, busy as ever.”
“He’s an important man. Always worked too hard, if you ask me. I know your mother worried about him. Good he has you to look out for him, though.”
Her buttery-soft hand patted my arm.
Guilt bubbled in me, but there was no point in me explaining the last month of my life to my elderly neighbor. How it was Dad helping me, not the other way around. To do so would taint our family reputation with failure, and I had no intention of doing that. Save face at all costs.
The door opened, and Mrs. Finkle exited. “Have a nice evening, dear. Tell your father hello.”
“I will. Take care.” I watched her shuffle away before turning to open my door.
Our apartment looked shockingly grand compared to the small cabana I’d been in for days. Our entryway opened into a large living room at the center of the apartment, with all rooms exiting into it along both sides like the hub it was. A huge oriental carpet covered the entire 30-foot space, from the sitting area near the door to the green leather sectional in front of their never-used fireplace at the far wall. The ornate carved mantel with leaves and filigrees held our family pictures, flanked on either side by two curtained windows standing guard like sentries.
I glanced into the kitchen to the left, but it was empty. “Dad?”
I navigated into the room and noticed his book bent open on the sofa. His study door was closed, as always.
Unless the door was ajar, he was not to be disturbed. Which was just as well. The squeak and rumble of the luggage cart signaled Saul’s arrival.
After tipping Saul, I lugged my bags into my bedroom on the right, rolling them one by one through the connected bathroom into my brother’s room. With him living in Boston, it’d become my temporary closet.
Now was as good a time as any to pick my work outfit for tomorrow. I rummaged through six wardrobe boxes of suits, but all paled compared to the navy silk one I saw in W Magazine on the plane ride home.
I checked my watch. I knew I’d never sleep if I didn’t buy that damn suit to wear to work. The last thing I needed was to arrive groggy to Morning Meeting on the biggest day of my career. I navigated to the favorites in my phone, pressing Amelia, my Bergdorf Goodman concierge. Within minutes, I’d ordered my navy suit and a darling pair of Saint Laurent blue silk stilettos to match. Amelia would have it steamed and messengered to me by 8 p.m. tonight.
Now I could breathe easy. Moments like this were why I tipped Amelia well at holiday time. It also saved me from wandering around the store being shadowed by security. Their necks craned to observe everything I touched. I shuddered at the memory and returned to unpacking.
After transferring my clothes into the wardrobe boxes, I returned to my bedroom. The one unchanged since childhood. The walls were still pink, and the white Queen Anne furniture with gold trim remained annoyingly in good condition. My parents donated the matching canopy bed to charity when I turned 16. That’s when I got upgraded to a queen-sized mattress. Small blessings. Coming home to a twin would’ve made this move more humiliating than it already was.
I undressed, tucked my hair into a terry cap, then a shower cap, before hopping into the shower. After dressing, I was midway across the living room to the kitchen when my dad stepped out of his study, grasping his chest.
“Good God. Didn’t realize you were home.”
“Your study was closed...”
“Yes, of course.” He waved, remembering his own protocol. “How was the wedding? Evelyn said it went well, so I skipped calling.”
I planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’m fine, Dad. The wedding was beautiful, and I had an unexpected adventure of my own.”
The corners of my mouth curled into a smile, so I flattened them. But not before Dad noticed.
“You met someone,” he said.
“I did. He’s completely unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Well, not completely. He’s a lawyer.”
His countenance softened. “Really? He from around here?”
“He lives…” I stopped before admitting it was Alphabet City. Dad always forbade us from going into that neighborhood. I presumed he was exaggerating the danger and sneaked over to a bar during college and was stunned to find pockets worse than he described. I’d no clue what it was like now or why Sebastian still lived there.
“Where?”
“Here in the City. Not exactly sure where,” I lied.
He nodded, satisfied, and returned to his book on the sofa.
Hiding my face, I made for the kitchen. “I’ll make us some dinner. I picked up some interesting spices on the trip.”
Anything to take my mind off work tomorrow. And Sebastian.
Chapter 8
Barbara
The subway train the next morning wove along the tracks, gently jostling its crammed cargo of passengers. Bodies pressed together, the air hung heavy with warring grooming fragrances: florals, musks, and BO from those who seemed to think soap was optional. I squeezed down the car between travelers, getting a whiff of someone drinking a Grande double cappuccino with hazelnut. I’d know the scent anywhere. It was Joe’s caffeine beverage of choice. He’d walk in with his nutty indulgence, and hand me a cup of black coffee, chiding me for not having something more elaborate. Wasn’t I worth it?
Ironic. I was worth better coffee, but not his fidelity. I blinked the thought away and continued down the car. If I didn’t get to “my door” before the stop, I’d be stuck behind the crush of bodies squeezing out like toothpaste escaping a tube.
I side-stepped between two men, accidentally stepping on someone’s foot.
“Excuse m—” I started, but the guy cut me off.
“Watch it!” The man snapped, before eyeballing me and rolling his eyes.
Like his pasty bald head was anything to write home about?
I ignored his angry Mr. Potato Head eyes and moved along to the pole near my preferred door. A woman standing there made space. She wore a yellow blouse and black slacks beneath braids that coiled around her head like a crown. She caught me staring and smiled. It was the first smile of my otherwise hostile commute.
As much as I relished my choice to skip the braids for a romp in the ocean, inside I knew the truth: I feared getting braids more than having sex with Sebastian. And while I’d always wanted them, I wasn’t convinced the world wanted me to wear them. Or more specifically, the corporate world, who still viewed Black women in braids as trouble. A woman who proudly owned her Blackness and her space at the table? We’d long since been labeled “angry.” A thinly veiled “othering.” Someone to be tolerated, but not fully seen or included.
As much as I loved the stylistic statement, Dad’s words of caution about braids were a powerful deterrent. Your career will suffer. The last thing I needed was for colleagues to view me as unprofessional after building my reputation on being a commensurate pro. The dependable one. The person who had the answers when others didn’t. Trust would be everything in the role I was about to start. As much as I hated my cowardice, I’d never regret choosing the safer path.
Mind elsewhere, I mis-timed my exit and got stuck jostling for position out of the car. The bad juju was strong today. Maybe I should cross the platform and hop a train back downtown? Tempting, but that’s not who I am. I’m the same Barbara Washington who nailed my interview for General Counsel. I deserved this promotion.
As the crowd shimmied up the stairs, I peeked at my phone. There were six emails from my boss, each sounding more urgent than the last. Shit. Suddenly, unplugging seemed like a catastrophically bad idea.
I hurried the three blocks to my office building on Lexington Avenue and took the elevator to the 34th floor. When the doors opened, my boss’s hulking 6’4” frame hogged the reception area. Mr. Barr leaned on the white enameled desk Yvonne called home. She was a Black woman in her early 60s who’d been with him forever. She traveled with Mr. Barr through his two prior companies, always keeping his offices running. She deserved sainthood for that kind of longevity. Or free health care for the battle scars.
I hadn’t seen my boss linger at reception for more than a quick handshake with arriving clients. A former lacrosse player in his youth, he looked the part. Graying blond hair and a trim frame that towered over everyone. He kept fit in adult leagues, a fact he let no one forget. The sport was as foreign to me as his perpetually nasty attitude. It made me wonder if he was born with his sharp edge, or honed it on purpose. I pictured him sharpening it on a millstone in a musty suburban basement. And despite his aged frat boy looks, the tiny gaps in his teeth gave him a predatory vibe.
He shot me a frosty glance before resuming his conversation.
Guess I was next on the menu.
I approached the gallows. “Good morning.”
He did a faux double take. “Ms. Washington. You saw fit to join us today.”
What was that supposed to mean? It was only 8:00 a.m. Sure, I usually arrived by 7:00, but that was not mandatory. Since when had he adopted the “to be on time is to be late” mantra?
“My brief vacation was very enjoyable. Thanks for asking,” I said.
He bristled at the change in topic. He knew workers needed time off, and even bragged about benefits at investor meetings. But he couldn’t help rapid-firing off emails while you were away in case you checked. When you didn’t, he “volunteered” staff for lame assignments that made you regret taking vacation. I was about to learn what sort of retribution he’d cooked up for me over the weekend.
“We need to talk. Walk with me.” He started toward his office, darting glares at me along the way.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
“I tried to reach you. For days. The board chair insisted we introduce the new General Counsel to staff today before the board meeting tomorrow.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. I wasn’t ready to address a crowd of colleagues fresh off my island adventure. Damn my stupid email blackout. If I’d only known, I could have prepared remarks.
“Well, I’ll just have to do the best I can on short notice.”
We entered his office, and he closed the sturdy wooden door behind us with a click. “I’m sorry, Washington. The board urged me to look for someone from outside the company.”
His words swirled around me like a cloud, not quite registering.
I’m sorry.
The board urged me.
Someone from outside the company?
My spine went limp, my leather briefcase slipping through my loose fingers onto the floor. It toppled sideways. Just like my career.
“I didn’t get it?” I said out loud to myself. However, Mr. Barr took it as a conversation starter.
“You were a strong candidate but—”
“I was the best candidate. Still am. I don’t understand. I thought this role was mine. I’ve earned it.”
“Washington, please—”
“I’ve busted my ass for this company. You know more than anyone that I’ve been General Counsel by proxy for two years. Meanwhile, Randall was off God knows where. This is wrong.”
“Look,” he said, walking close to don a syrupy grandpa voice. “Your time will come. There’ll be other opportunities.”
“When? There’s nowhere for me to grow. You just passed me over and gave our top legal position to a person who knows nothing about how our company operates. You promised. You said—”
“I made no promises,” he lied, blood blushing his face. “This was not my decision to make. I had influence, of course, but the board overruled me. In the end, I answer to them.”
I’d officially entered a parallel universe. I got two emails from board members saying how impressed they were by my stellar interview. The choice was down to me and Elizabeth Chen, another qualified internal candidate. Though to be fair, I had more experience, instincts, and moxie than my rival had in her pinky. Plus, the staff liked me way better than Chen. Evidently, none of that mattered to those in power. They skipped us both—two capable women—for a shiny new object.
I hated that the decision was finalized before I could plead my case. “Did they say why they chose the other candidate?”
“There were many factors. The new GC brings more experience with venture capital, mergers, and a few other intangibles. In the end, they felt more comfortable going with him.”
Him?
“Intangibles?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not getting into this.”
“Is being a man one of them? He definitely has that over me,” I said.
This was a load of crap, and he knew it.
“Give us some credit. We’re not that superficial.” Mr. Barr moved to his chair and sat to open a drawer and rummage. But I wasn’t letting him off this easily. I’d worked too hard and deserved more of an explanation.
I leaned on his glossy wooden desk with both arms. “I handled two acquisitions for us, nearly single-handedly since Cooper’s wife had surgery and we hadn’t yet hired Chen.”
He continued to open file drawers, disconnecting from our conversation. No wonder he wanted to tell me over the phone. Cowardice was his go-to instinct. But glimpsing my reflection on the shiny surface below made me wonder if my new boss’s “intangibles” were way more superficial than he was letting on.
“Marshall.” I yelled to get his attention. “I just want to understand where I fell short. M&A can’t be it. They never even brought it up in my interview.”
He slammed a drawer shut with such force, I jumped back.
“Drop it. What’s done is done. He’s been hired. The man is here to be introduced and I expect you to make the best of it. I know you’re disappointed, maybe even insulted. But it’s time for you to slap on a brave face and move on. Let’s make a good impression.”
He stood and, with two strides, crossed the room and exited, leaving the door wide open behind him. I teetered, jaw clenched at his outburst, facing his empty chair.
How could I go play nice with the man who stole my promotion out from under me? I wonder if he even knew? General Counsel jobs didn’t grow on trees. Meeting him would be super awkward, especially since I’d had zero time to process.
I bent to retrieve my dropped briefcase, then turned toward the door where a stream of employees was filing by for Morning Meeting. I was nearly at the hall when Chen walked by. She took one look at my dour expression and began smirking. She was obviously elated that if she didn’t get the job, at least I hadn’t either.
But who got it?
“Figured it was you,” Chen whispered under her breath.
I wasn’t sure I could speak without crying. Typically, Chen and I barely exchanged a word outside of meetings. She’d picked the worst moment to become chatty.
