I followed Vicky’s eyes across the room to the waiting area, where Olive was once again chewing on the leg of one of the waiting room chairs. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but all the furniture did seem to be covered with little nibble marks. “Wow. She’s made quick work of the furniture in there,” I said, crossing the room and shooing her away.
“The problem is,” Vicky continued, “Ms. Duke doesn’t realize how much time a dog like Olive needs. I’m sure, with the right amount of attention and training, Olive would make someone a very fine pet. But Ms. Duke is always on the go, traveling here and there, out meeting with people or off with clients. Her lifestyle simply isn’t suited to a dog like Olive.”
She was right, of course. I knew Bentley truly cared for Olive, but was she the best owner for Olive? It had to be a two-way match, didn’t it?
Vicky went on, “And she’s dumped all the responsibility on me: walking the dog, running to the pet store for more doggie treats, watching the dog while she’s at the expo . . . It goes on and on. I don’t even have time to take care of my real duties.”
“That is a problem. Have you explained all this to Bentley?”
“I tried. She didn’t seem to take my complaint seriously, though. Thinks her precious Olive is no work—well, she isn’t work for Ms. Duke when she’s left the work for me! That’s why I’m turning in my letter of resignation this afternoon. Of course, I’ll give appropriate notice and be on hand to help train someone new, if that’s what Ms. Duke wants. It saddens me, but I feel my talents as an office manager are being belittled by the additional tasks of pooch wrangler and poop scooping. I’m sorry, Lila, but it’s obvious: I’m simply being taken advantage of, which I won’t tolerate. Eliot and I must move on.”
“Let me talk to Bentley before you make any rash decisions. It would be a shame for you to leave us over something like this. You’re the best office administrator this place has ever had, and we’d miss you.”
Two small pink circles tinged the top of her cheeks. “Thank you, Lila. But if Olive stays, I go. It’s as simple as that.”
*
THE IDEA OF Vicky leaving Novel Idea weighed heavily on my mind a couple of hours later as I maneuvered my Vespa along the cobblestone side street leading to Machiavelli’s, being extra careful to avoid the leftover patches of oily slush that threatened to throw me off balance. It was good to be back on my Vespa, the cool air whipping at my cheeks and the joyful feeling of being in commune with nature—seeing, smelling, hearing things I never notice when I’m in a car.
Still, thoughts of Vicky’s pending resignation invaded my bliss. Not that I could blame Vicky for wanting to leave the agency. What started out as a good idea—a companion and source of stress relief for Bentley during this difficult week—had ended up bringing nothing but stress to Vicky. We’d all overlooked how taxing Olive’s rambunctious personality had been for her. Something had to be done. I tossed around several ideas in my mind, before finally deciding the best approach was to simply confront Bentley with the truth—despite all good intentions, she was not a suitable match for an active dog like Olive. I hated to see Olive go back to the pet store. The poor thing had been through so many owners already. But I didn’t see any other choice. By the time I reached Machiavelli’s parking lot, I was determined to set this thing straight, for Vicky’s sake, if not the agency’s. As soon as possible, I’d have a heart-to-heart with Bentley. In the meantime, I needed to focus on helping Lynn get through what was sure to be a difficult morning.
Even though the restaurant didn’t open until eleven, I found the front door unlocked. Inside, my nose was treated to the tangy aromas of garlic and basil. No one was in the dining area, but I could hear the sound of clanking pots and pans coming from the kitchen. I moved across the room and pushed open the door leading to the kitchen area.
“Trey?” I called out.
“Back here, Mom.”
Trey was bent over a long stainless steel prep table, chopping onions and peppers with a huge knife. For a second, I was mesmerized by the speed and dexterity of his movements as he expertly diced the vegetables. When had he learned to use a knife like that? “I’m here to trade keys,” I said, my eyes roaming the expanse of the kitchen with its streamlined design and state-of-the-art appliances. Every single surface gleamed with cleanliness.
“Okay, great,” he replied, barely looking up from his work. “I’m running a little behind with prep. My car keys are on the desk in the office. Would you mind getting them for me? Just leave the Vespa keys. I’ll drive it home this afternoon.”
“Perfect. The helmet’s on the back grille,” I said, heading for the office. I turned back and added, “By the way, Trey. Sean and I had some of your shrimp scampi last night. It was wonderful.”