“I know Mike Caldwell, the guy you pitched to. He’s tough,” my father said, a look of pride on his face.
My father was head of Grayson Development, a real estate development company operating in the five boroughs. He’d moved into Brooklyn ahead of the renovation curve twenty years ago, and could have retired long ago based on that building boom alone. He developed some commercial, but he mostly concentrated on residential. Occasionally high-rises, but mostly prewar conversions in the smaller buildings. He loved a brownstone.
“You could have asked me for an introduction, Natalie. I would have been happy to put in a good word for you and MCG,” he said.
“I know that.” And while he would have called up this client in a heartbeat, he also knew that I didn’t need him to. Which made him even more proud. Which in turn made me all preeny. From the beginning, my father had instilled in my brother and me that you carve the path you wanted, and then you work like hell until you get it. Not that he’d ever be opposed to offering a helping hand, as in introducing me to Mr. Caldwell. But I was proud knowing that I’d gotten where I was in life on my own. “I did kind of kill it in the pitch,” I said with a quiet smile.
“Of course you did!”
My mother came into the dining room with the bagel platter then, and all shop talk ceased as brunch continued. Where my father instilled the “get where you need to go on your own” mentality, my mother instilled the other half of my “take no prisoners” attitude. Family first, but never sacrifice yourself in the process. She was already an up-and-coming artist when she met my father, and in the middle of their whirlwind romance they had an unexpected surprise: my brother. She could have set her own life aside to make a home for my father, but they were equals in every way and they made sure neither sacrificed more than the other.
As I watched them move around our dining room, each perfectly complementing the other, I sighed in contentment, knowing that no matter what happened outside these walls, my mother and father would be inside, keeping it together.
Brunch continued, plans were discussed for the upcoming week, and other than an occasional look from my mother that told me she definitely knew something was up but was biding her time, I managed to keep my dairy fantasies to myself until I got home.
When I got in bed that night, however, I let them fly.
Chapter 3
“Okay, team, did everyone bring their agenda with them?” Dan asked the assembled group, and was greeted with the usual acknowledgments. Monday-morning meetings were early, they were efficient, and they were murder without coffee.
One of the reasons I chose Manhattan Creative to begin my career was their fine reputation, their wide network of colleagues across the country—the globe, really—and their barista-like coffee bar on the forty-fourth floor.
The president of MCG worked his way through college at a tiny old-fashioned coffee shop, and prided himself on having only the finest coffee products for his hardworking team. It was a perk, pardon the pun, to an already incredible job.
Over the weekend, a burst water pipe on the forty-fifth floor meant the coffee bar was no longer. They’d found beans down on twenty-seven, or at least that was the word on the street. Intern Rob had been sent down to bring back Starbucks for everyone, but until he arrived, those not smart enough to bring their own brew from home were struggling this morning.
Not Dan. Dan was one of those herbal-tea people. He brought his own bags with him to work, even had a teakettle in his corner office, and therefore felt none of our pain this morning.
“Let’s have another round of applause for Natalie’s team. Ms. Grayson managed to bring in the T&T Sanitation business with an . . . let’s say interesting . . . presentation late Friday evening. For those of you who didn’t check their email over the weekend, it was a success; we are now officially peddling shit!”
“Hear! Hear!” a voice called out, and I stood to curtsy and wave à la prom queen.
“Also, for those of you who didn’t check their email over the weekend, I’ll need your resignation on my desk by 5 p.m. today,” he finished, the twinkle in his eye missed by the very green and very young Edward, a junior copywriter who wore a look of panic and was slinking lower in his chair by the minute.
“Easy, Eddie, he’s teasing,” I whispered, nudging him back up higher into his chair. “But way to call yourself out. Nice poker face.”
“But I—”