Before he could answer, Jonathan Everett sauntered up to us as if he were trailing a voice-over announcing his arrival. Jonathan was the “yin” to Hardy’s “yang.” As Houghton’s chief financial officer, he always commanded attention with his “cash is king” vibe, salt-and-pepper stubble, and horn-rimmed glasses. He had an annoying habit of always looking down at his Rolex, in the hopes that other people would too. He constantly threw around words like deep dive and the optics of a situation to make people think he was smart. A lot of women in the company found him attractive. I didn’t see it.
“Congratulations, Ellice,” Jonathan said.
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me. I gotta go make a phone call. Ellice, let me know if you need anything else,” Hardy said with an annoyed expression before he rolled his eyes at Jonathan and hustled off. Jonathan neither acknowledged Hardy’s presence nor batted an eye at his departure. Odd.
“So . . . you getting all settled in?” Jonathan asked.
“I am.” I slid my hands inside the pockets of my dress. “I’m looking forward to working on Twenty.”
“We’re looking forward to it too. Now, I hope you’re not planning to run a department of no like your predecessor. We’re expecting big things out of you.”
A department of no? What the hell? Maybe the rumors were true about this guy being a jerk. Before I could respond, Nate walked up from behind me and shoved a champagne flute in my hand, despite the fact that I don’t drink.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt you two. Ellice, come with me. I want you to meet some folks.” Judging from Nate’s unusually loose manner and the pungent smell of bourbon on his breath, he had started partying long before I arrived. He swiftly ushered me through the room with promises to the people we passed that we’d be back later for formal introductions.
“I want you to meet these two board members in particular. They can be a little stodgy, and I want them to think as highly of you as I do.”
We stepped out onto the deck where a smattering of guests mingled about. The southern Georgia temperature was warmer, a refreshing change from the frigid Atlanta winter weather. The deck spanned the entire length of the building and seemed to beckon the soft tumble of waves and sea foam dancing against the beach below. The ocean air gave me a rush and, under ordinary circumstances, I might have relaxed a bit to enjoy the atmosphere. But this was a work event and, despite the enticing surroundings, work was work.
Nate escorted me over to a couple of graying men huddled together in quiet conversation.
“Gentlemen,” Nate said. “I’d like to introduce you to our new chief legal officer, Ellice Littlejohn.”
Both men immediately rose to their feet. Old school. I liked that.
“Ellice, I’d like you to meet Newt Harris and Denmark . . . Denmark . . .”
“Ealy. Denmark Ealy.” The man shook his head and smiled at Nate. “Pace yourself on the Jack Daniels, huh?”
All three men laughed. “Sorry about that, Denny,” Nate said. “These two fellas are board members on the Finance Committee.” I smiled and offered my firmest grip.
Nate patted one of the men on the back and politely excused himself. The older of the two men nodded and gazed at me with a frozen, uncomfortable smile. His receding hairline revealed a haphazard pattern of age spots and a kidney-shaped mole he probably needed to keep an eye on. The other man looked so weirded out, I thought he would piss his pants or have a heart attack right in front of me. We stood there facing one another, all three of us quiet. I noticed their identical lapel pins, a red heart sitting across two intersecting gold flags.
I tried to knock off the awkwardness of the moment with a stab at small talk. “That’s an unusual pin you’re wearing. What does it mean?”
The older man gave a stiff smile that barely flexed a muscle in his face and gently patted the pin. “Oh, just a little club we belong to. So, Ellice Littlejohn . . . now what kind of name is that?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Littlejohn? I mean it’s not very common. What kind of name is that? Where d’ya come from with a name like that?”
Was this guy serious? I glanced around the deck, stunned and offended at the same time. Half the Black people I know can’t trace their lineage past their great-grandparents. Who are my people? My people are his ancestors’ chattel. “Well, I haven’t done my Ancestry.com research, but I suspect my name comes about much like yours. From our shared ancestors, huh? I would love to hear about where your ancestors immigrated from, but maybe we can do that another time. Would you excuse me for a moment?”