Jonathan responded, “I tried to tell Nate this was all a bad idea. I’ll have to fix it myself. And take off that fucking pin!”
Their voices lowered. I tiptoed inside the bathroom and closed the door to a crack. And I waited. A moment later, Jonathan stormed from the room with Max Lumpkin, the executive vice president of Operations, in tow behind him.
*
I stood in front of the Altamonte Club waiting for the car service to shuttle me back to the airport. All I wanted was a shower and my own bed. The next time Nate invited me to one of these creepy, racially nondiverse parties at his old boys’ club, I would have an ironclad excuse for not attending at the ready.
A couple minutes later Maxwell Lumpkin strolled up beside me. Max was in his midsixties, a short, mousy sort of man with a passable comb-over and the extraordinary ability to blend into the wall of any room he entered. I hadn’t even realized he was at the party until I saw him following Jonathan. He wore a suit jacket and sported the same lapel pin as the board members. Not surprising since Max looked like he could easily belong to the same lily-white country club as those dusty old board members.
“Hey, Max. I didn’t know you were flying back tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ve got church in the morning.” Max’s voice carried the kind of short staccato southern accent that reminded me of a calloused thumb plucking a banjo.
We stood there, the splashing water fountain the only sound between us. Max finally broke the awkward silence.
“Look, Ellice, I’ll be straight with you. I liked Michael. He was a smart guy, but I’ll admit I don’t know much about you. A company like Houghton can throw a lot at you, which means it takes a lot to be up for the task. I’m sure you’re a fine person, but I won’t sacrifice the safety of Houghton’s employees for novice advice.”
I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. It was one of those moments where saying the perfectly right comment to put him in his place was beyond my grasp and would only come to me hours later. My first inclination was to rattle off my résumé to convince him I was perfectly capable of doing my job, that I belonged in the executive suite too. But I knew he’d already made up his mind about me. All the code words from Max’s comments came in loud and clear. Translation: Michael was a white male like me. He was smart. I don’t think you are smart even though I don’t know a thing about you. I will not send work to you if I don’t have to. Racist? Maybe. Ignorant? Definitely.
The two of us flew back to Atlanta on the corporate jet—me sitting in the front, him in the back—in total silence.
Chapter 9
The slow, peaceful current of the Chattahoochee River swept me away without an ounce of effort or concern. My rowboat drifted farther from the shore as I dipped my fingers over the side into the water. A small splash echoed across the river. The ripples of water from my fingers fanned across the surface. Beautiful white swans drifted pass me. It was like they were smiling at me, if that were possible. I couldn’t remember how long I’d been in the boat, but I wished I could float like that forever. And just when I thought this slow river ride couldn’t get any better, I began to rise from the boat, a slow weightless rise over the lake. I was enthralled by my ability to lift myself so high. Higher. Higher. Suddenly, without warning, I started to plunge toward the river. The surface of the water racing toward me. I yelled for Sam to help me. But he didn’t answer. A knot of fear rose up in my chest. I hit the murky black water with a hard force that took my breath away. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. As I struggled against the muddy river coffin, faint soft bells tinkled in my ears. The bells grew louder. I opened my eyes, almost gasping for air.
Daylight beamed through my bedroom window.
My doorbell.
Someone was at my door. I sat up in bed and glanced at the clock: 8:17 A.M. Who the hell was laying on my doorbell at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?! I shook loose the dream and scampered out of bed.
I opened the door. “Grace? What are you doing here?”
“I knew if I called, you’d blow me off. Ellice Littlejohn, you’ve been hiding from me.” Grace was a petite, fair-skinned Black woman with a dotted map of red freckles across her entire face. Even after we moved into our forties, she still sported the same fresh-faced glow and ponytail she’d worn since the day I met her freshman year at Georgetown.
She was dressed in a bright red coat, jeans, and a pair of suede booties that slipped her the extra inches her DNA had neglected.