It Takes a Rebel. Stephanie Bond
brother is gone, but I f—” He swallowed at the disapproving look the woman shot him. “I mean, I messed up royally.”
“How’s that?”
He quirked his mouth from side to side. “A woman IRS agent was supposed to stop by, so when this gal showed up a while ago, I assumed she was here for the review.”
“And?”
“And instead she was here about a huge account I’m supposed to pitch tomorrow—Tremont’s department stores.”
“And?”
“And, let’s just say I downplayed the success of the business a tad—not the impression I was aiming for.”
“So, who was she?” She leaned against the desk and studied her nails, obviously unaware of the significance of doing business with the southern retail chain.
“Alexandria Tremont. She must be related to the man who owns the place—”
“Daughter.”
Jack stopped. “You know her?”
The woman ran a finger along the desk, then blew a quarter-inch of accumulated dust into the air. “I know of her. My son works in menswear at their store on Webster Avenue. Says that Tremont miss is a real go-getter.”
“More like a real ball buster,” he muttered to himself.
“Uh-huh, and not too bad to look at, if I recall.”
“A little too skinny, if you ask me.”
“And single, I think my boy said.”
“No wonder—she’s as cold as a freaking statue.”
Her eyes didn’t miss a thing, bouncing from an unturned calendar to a lopsided lamp shade to the silent computer. “Uh-huh. She’s rich, too, I’ll bet, and re-f-i-i-i-ned, with a royal shine.”
He smirked, remembering that on top of everything else, Princess Tremont had caught him ogling a naughty magazine. “Well, she wasn’t that impressive.”
She glanced at his bare feet and lifted a long yellow nail. “As opposed to you?”
Jack frowned. “I don’t make a habit of trying to impress people.”
The woman crossed her arms over her matronly bosom. “You married?”
“No.”
“Now there’s a surprise.”
“But my brother is,” he added, as if Derek’s goodness could atone for his own sins. “In fact, he’s away on his honeymoon.”
She sniffed. “When’s he due back, your brother?”
“In another two weeks.” Jack rubbed his temples as he picked up his earlier train of thought. “And Derek will kill me when he hears I’ve bungled this opportunity with Tremont.”
The woman leaned over and walked her fingers through the mail pile, then harrumphed. “First, he’d have to find you in all this mess. Where’s your office manager?”
“We don’t have one.”
“I’ll take it,” she said matter-of-factly, plucking her paper hat from her head and dropping it into the trash can.
Jack blinked. “Take what?”
“The job,” she said, her voice indignant. “You get back to whatever it was you were fixing—I hope it was the sign on the door—and I’ll get things organized in here.”
“But there isn’t a position—” The phone rang, cutting him off.
The woman yanked it up. “Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?”
She had spunk, he conceded. And a decent telephone voice.
“The overdue invoice for Lamberly Printing?”
She glanced at him, and he shook his head in a definite “no.” The company simply didn’t have the money.
“A check will be cut this afternoon,” she sang.
Incredulous, Jack could only stare when she hung up the phone. Then he spat out, “We can’t afford to pay that invoice!”
“I said a check will be cut, I didn’t say for how much.”
Jack pursed his mouth—not bad.
She picked up the greasy bag of food and shoved it into his hand. “Looks like you’re having a working lunch.” Dismissing him, she turned back to the mound of mail and began to toss junk letters into the trash.
He gaped. “Wait a minute. Who the devil are you?”
Without glancing up, she said, “Tuesday Humphrey, your new office manager.”
He wondered if the woman was unstable, but her eyes were intelligent, and her hands efficient. Exasperated, Jack lifted his arms. “But we’re not hiring an office manager!”
“I know,” she said calmly. “Because the position has been filled.”
The phone rang again, and she snapped it up. “Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?” Her voice smiled. “Mr. Stillman is in a client meeting, but just a moment, and I’ll check.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Alexandria Tremont’s secretary confirming your appointment at the Tremont headquarters at ten in the morning.”
Jack squinted. “But she just canceled the appointment.”
Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “It was Mr. Stillman’s understanding that the appointment was canceled. No? Hold, please, while I see if his schedule will still allow him to attend.”
She covered the phone. “It’s back on—are you in?”
He nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief.
Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “Yes, ma’am, please tell Ms. Tremont that Mr. Stillman is looking forward to a productive meeting. Thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and returned to her sorting task. “Guess you still have a chance to impress the Tremonts.”
“Guess so,” he said, his mind racing.
“Well, get moving.” She snapped her fingers twice. “We both have a heap of work to do.”
Jack hesitated. “An IRS agent is supposed to come by.”
“You already told me, remember?” She flung a water sports equipment catalogue into the trash.
His hand shot out in a futile attempt to retrieve the catalogue—he could use a new water ski vest. But at the challenging expression on Tuesday’s face, he emitted a resigned sigh. The crazy woman couldn’t do more damage to their business or reputation than he had. They had no money to steal, no trade secrets to pilfer, no client list to filch. And at least he wouldn’t have to answer the damn phone. “Knock yourself out,” he said, splaying his hands. “But I can’t pay you.”
He stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind him to tackle the lopsided sign first. Within a few moments he’d rehung the smooth plaque of walnut upon which their father had painstakingly lettered and gilded the words “Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency” nearly twenty-five years ago. Without warning, grief billowed in his chest as his father’s easy grin rose in his mind.
At his wife’s encouragement, Paul Stillman had abandoned his modest home studio to become an entrepreneur when the boys were pre-teens. Jack had viewed the move as an act of treason against his father’s natural calling. He’d admired his father’s independence, his ability to adequately, if not luxuriously, provide for the family with the lively paintings he sold to local designers and businesses. He hadn’t wanted to see his father saddled with overhead and commuting and sixty-hour work weeks, but his father said the earning potential was better, and he owed their mother a retirement fund.
Indeed,