Family Pieces (3 page)

“Isn’t he going to the funeral with you?” Hanna asked.

“Well…uh…no. He wanted to,” Karsen fibbed. Her voice struggled not to crack. “It’s just that…he just started his graduate classes and with his work, it’s hard for him to get away right now.”

“Right,” Brad said sarcastically. The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it. He didn’t intend to cause Karsen more grief under the circumstances. He just didn’t understand what his sister saw in him.

“Brad, give him a break. He’s under a lot of stress right now,” Karsen fired back defensively. Her insides twisted into a knot as the words passed her lips. For the first time, Karsen had to admit her own disappointment in James.

Just as he did most nights, James had arrived at her apartment after work the night before. Letting himself in, he barely noticed that she didn’t get up to greet him. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had,” he said heading straight to her fridge to grab a beer.

She sniffled.

“What’s wrong with you?” His tone was less than sympathetic.

She didn’t speak.

“Karsen,” he set his beer down and sat beside her. “Really, what…did you get a B on a test or something? It can’t be that bad.”

“My mother…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“What?”

She sat silent. Realizing how upset she was, he put his arms around her and pulled her closer. “What, hun?”

“My mother’s dead.”

“Oh God, K. I’m so sorry.” She rested her head against his strong chest.

“She was in a car accident. How could this happen?”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say.” He held her, shocked himself at the news.

“Why? Why now?”

“Oh, K. I wish I could say something that would help. I just don’t know.” He was, for once, at a loss for words. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re flying back tomorrow. Brad booked tickets for us, but I need you there. Please come.”

“Karsen, I can’t.”

“James, please. I need you. I can’t get through this alone.”

“You’re not alone. Brad and your dad will be with you.” “But I want you there. Please. The funeral isn’t until Saturday. You won’t have to miss much work; you can fly out Friday afternoon.”

“I just…I just can’t ask for time off. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you when I came in, but I’m just about to land a client that will almost guarantee me a promotion to district sales manager. I can’t leave right now.”

Karsen pulled back and glared directly into his deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry my mother’s death didn’t come at a more convenient time for you.”

“Karsen, truly, you’re being emotional.”

“Of course I’m being emotional. My mother was not supposed to die.” She couldn’t believe during this period of greatest need he would not even ask for the time off work to be with her.

“You know I would go. I just can’t leave town. Not this weekend.”

Rather than force the issue, Karsen bit her tongue, telling herself that his focus and determination would be the driving force to secure their not-too distant future together.

The fact that Brad was upset about James didn’t surprise her. He never hesitated to show his disapproval of his sister’s relationships. It was no secret he didn’t care for James. In her mind, this would have to change if he was going to be his brother-in-law someday. She once welcomed her ever-protective big brother’s concern. Now she wished he’d simply give James a chance.

The car fell uncomfortably silent as they drove. Karsen and Brad were both lost in grief, a pain Hanna couldn’t even imagine and didn’t want to.

For the remainder of the drive, Karsen watched without seeing as the familiar Arizona landscape passed by through the window. She held her necklace tight as she searched to make sense of it all. Nothing could have prepared her to lose her mother. She felt as if a piece of her was missing.

2

A
ddison Reynolds’s blood pressure rose as she scanned the ad on page thirty-two. As CEO of
Urbane
, one of the world’s top fashion magazines, she had walked into her Manhattan office this Friday morning to an urgent – and angry – message from one of her largest and longtime advertisers, George Montague. “This is unacceptable! Pull all my ads, NOW!”

She scanned the advertisement apprehensively. At first glance everything appeared accurate. Then she saw it. There, in the services list, in black, bold letters: “Brow, Lip and Chip Waxing.”

Addison cringed at the now obvious typo that would be seen in this month’s issue by over a million avid readers. “What the hell is a ‘chip’? It’s chin!” she muttered to herself in exasperation. Not the most popular service by any means, but still – ‘chip’ waxing? How many staff members had missed it in proofing the ad of one of her most important clients?

She hit the all-page button.

“Jacob! My office.” Her tone meant pronto.

Addison’s new junior assistant, Jacob, appeared in a flash. She didn’t even give him time to shut the door behind him.

“One letter. Do you realize one letter could cost me millions?” Addison snapped.

His perplexed facial expression told her he didn’t.

“How did this happen?” she demanded, pushing the magazine across her desk toward Jacob, her highly polished nail pointing to the word ‘chip’ on the page.

Like a deer in the headlights, Jacob stuttered, knowing the question was strictly rhetorical. He had been thrown into the fire when Addison’s senior publishing assistant went on maternity leave prematurely, and had not yet gotten a clear read on Addison’s opinion of his capabilities. Although his credentials out of college were glowing, he lacked the practical experience one obtains on the job. He consistently felt as if he should be updating his resume. The one positive characteristic he had going for him was he was willing to work long hours to get the job done. But no matter how many hours he worked, no matter if terrorists had held the staff hostage, or aliens abducted them before proofing, there was no acceptable explanation to make the terrible typo tolerable.

Impatiently, Addison held her hand up for him to stop before Jacob uttered an entire sentence.

“Never mind. Never mind. I don’t want to hear an excuse. Just come to me with a solution. One hour,” she ordered, waving him out of her office. Jacob did not delay. Shaking, he was out the door as quickly as he had appeared.

Sitting back, her head resting against the chair, Addison stared at the ceiling. She didn’t mean to belittle Jacob. But mistakes at this level are catastrophic. Like your husband getting caught in the shower with the nanny, the trust between two parties completely ruined. Work was her marriage. If she failed, she had nothing. Or so she believed.

Breathe
. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Exhale – hoo. Inhale – exhale - hoo. All too often, she felt the stress within her boil to where she thought she would explode. She knew it was unhealthy yet she couldn’t seem to curb her behavior. By definition, she was a classic workaholic. She spent thirteen-, sometimes fourteen-hour days at the office, then ventured to evening press outings and charity events. She didn’t consider it a sacrifice. This was her identity. Her choice since she had taken over the magazine’s day-to-day operations upon her father’s retirement four years ago. On the outside, her life looked like the picture of success. But lately, on the inside she felt as though something was missing. She wondered if she were having an early mid-life crisis or if she were truly in over her head.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of her administrative assistant on the speakerphone. “I have Mr. Montague on line one,” reported Marjorie.

Addison thanked her and inhaled one last, deep cleansing breath. She visualized a peaceful conversation. In her most professional but sincere voice she picked up the line.

“Mr. Montague. I received your message and before we begin, let me apologize profusely. The mistake is unacceptable. We are working on a solution to rectify this immediately...”

“Mistakes did not happen when your father was in charge,” interjected the voice on the other end of the line. “I was afraid of this.” Montague’s thick, Italian accent dripped with disdain. Addison inwardly boiled at the insult. It had been four uneventful years since she took over the reigns of
Urbane
from her father, and now one mistake and she’s suddenly incompetent?
How easily clients forget
, she thought. She pushed her own irritation into the pit of her stomach and buried it there.

“Please understand, Mr. Montague. This was a one-time oversight. Obviously, we will make all necessary strides to see that it does not happen again...”

“My reputation cannot allow that chance,” Montague interrupted. “You do realize there are competitor magazines vying for my business every day. ‘Chip waxing.’ What the hell is a chip? I’ll be the laughing stock of the industry!” His voice rose again.

Remaining calm, Addison said empathetically, “Mr. Montague. I understand your frustration. I’ve been there, too. But from my experience, if you allow us the opportunity to resolve the issue, we can move forward with a clean slate. You have a history here. Trust me, I will not allow the reputation of my father’s magazine to be tarnished.”

Silence.

“Mr. Montague?”

“Fine. I’ll expect a phone call tomorrow.”

She heard the phone disconnect. She’d bought a little time, but found no comfort in his tone. They needed a solution. Fast.

“Addison,” Jacob barged through the door to her office unannounced.

“Shit, Jacob!” She was pulling her shirt overhead. The photographer for her new editorial photo would be there momentarily. Jacob turned, averting his eyes. “Don’t you knock?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, but we have an idea,” he replied excitedly, his hand shielding his eyes.

“Great. Let’s have it. You can uncover your eyes now.”

He looked directly at her, trying to portray a renewed sense of confidence. “A two page, comp advertorial. One side describing the spa’s latest treatment, the other page, in bold print, “If you can tell us what your ‘chip’ is, we’ll wax it for FREE.”

Jacob waited, trying to control his belabored breathing. His palms trickled with sweat.

Addison’s response was not immediate. She hated giving anything away, but circumstances warranted it. The concept itself was unique, she thought, using humor to diffuse the error. While there was always the risk that acknowledging the mistake would bring more attention to it, she figured it was one worth taking. She could sell it to Montague because it would double the exposure for the spa in the magazine and build a new clientele for a lesser-known service.