How to Score (23 page)

The next day, Sammi stood in front of twelve graphic-arts students from Tulsa University who were clustered around a display of black-and-white photos in the museum carriage house.

“As you probably know, the art deco movement started in Paris in 1925 at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels,” Sammi said, pointing to a daguerreotype of what looked like an old World’s Fair site. “The style incorporated lots of influences. One of the biggest ones was the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

Sammi’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the number, and briefly closed her eyes. Ms. Arnette—calling from the main house, yet again. The woman had been constantly on her case for the past two weeks.

“Excuse me,” Sammi said apologetically to the group. “I have to take this. Go ahead and browse through the photos, and I’ll be back to answer any questions in a moment.” Sammi hurried out to the rose garden and opened her phone.

“Sammi, please come to my office,” Ms. Arnette said, using that imperious tone that set Sammi’s teeth on edge.The woman never bothered to ask if she was busy or in the middle of something; she just expected Sammi to drop everything at her slightest whim.

When Ms. Arnette had first returned to work, Sammi had tactfully suggested that they set a time each week to go over their calendars.

Ms. Arnette’s eyes had widened, as if she were appalled. “Whenever Mr. Phelps needed me for something, he didn’t make an appointment or ask if I was busy. I worked for him, and you work for me.”

Actually, I work for the board,
Sammi had wanted to say but thought it wise to keep her mouth shut.

“I have a college class touring the art exhibit,” Sammi told Ms. Arnette now. “I’ll be free in about twenty minutes.”

Stony silence reigned for a full ten seconds. “If that’s the best you can do, well, I suppose I’ll see you then.”

Sammi hung up the phone and blew out an exasperated breath. The woman had always been difficult, but she’d gotten worse in the last few weeks. She badgered Sammi about little things, interrupted her constantly, and questioned her every move. Sammi suspected she was trying to get her to inappropriately explode or resign.

Well, Sammi had no intention of doing either. She’d simply grin and bear it and wait the woman out.

Her life coach had advised her differently last night. Sammi watched a bee hover above a white rose as the conversation replayed in her mind.

“Sounds to me like you need to talk to the museum’s board of directors,” he’d said. “After all, they hired you.”

Sammi had gazed out her living room window and watched the wind blow the star-shaped leaves of the large tree in her front lawn. In the last week, the tips of the leaves had started to turn gold. “I don’t want to cause Ms. Arnette unnecessary trouble.”

“That’s very nice, Sammi, but nice is not always the way to go.”

“I know, but this is a special case.”

“I have a feeling that you think everyone is a special case.”

“Yeah, well, everyone is.”

“That’s what makes
you
special, Sammi.” Maybe it was just his lingering cold, but his voice had come out low and husky, and the tone had seemed fond and familiar and almost, well, intimate. It had made her heart quicken.

The bee floated to another rose, and a gust of wind blew Sammi’s hair across her face. She pulled it back, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

She needed to get back to the tour, then go see what Ms. Arnette wanted this time. Jamming her phone in her jacket pocket, she turned and headed back into the carriage house.

Arlene glanced up as Sammi entered her office twenty minutes later. Usually she rose whenever someone came in, but it was important to keep Sammi in her place.

It was becoming more and more difficult to be around the young woman. Arlene found it almost physically painful to look at her now. Young, eager, and educated, Sammi was everything she was not.

“Have a seat, Sammi.”

Sammi perched on the edge of an armless chair, her back erect, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a navy pantsuit today, and her blondish-brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. It was hard to find fault with her appearance, although Arlene wished she could.

She tapped her fingers on the paper in front of her. “It’s time for your job performance review.”

Sammi’s eyebrows rose. “I thought they were done annually. And… ”

“Yes?”

She hesitated. “Actually, I thought the board would do mine.”

Arlene stiffened. “Well, you thought wrong. I’m the senior curator, and I do the reviews of everyone on the museum staff. And I’ve decided to start doing them semiannually.” She pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it across her desk.

Sammi’s forehead creased as she looked at it. “These are awfully low marks.”

“Yes, well, your performance has been less than stellar.”

Sammi’s frown deepened. She looked up at Arlene, her hazel eyes troubled. “But I handle all of my responsibilities.”

“You handle the responsibilities that interest you. You don’t satisfactorily do the things I request.”

“Give me an example.”

Arlene bristled. “When I asked you to come in here just now, you told me you were busy and would have to come later.”

“I was conducting a scheduled tour.”

“You ignored my direction.”

“What did you want me to do? Just bail on them?”

“There is no need to talk to me in that tone.” Arlene tapped her desk with her finger. “This right here is an example of your bad attitude.”

“I don’t have a bad attitude!”

“Now you’re being argumentative.”

Sammi drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. She looked like she might be counting to ten. “Ms. Arnette, I’m doing my best. Could you please tell me how I could improve?”

You could quit
. But she couldn’t say that. No, in this day and age, you had to have a paper trail documenting everything before you could fire someone.

Sammi leaned forward. “I understand that you’re not a fan of some of the new programs, but the board approved them and supports them.”

That’s because you pushed them through while I was out. And now I’m having to go through Justine’s things, and I hate it so much that just the thought makes me nauseous.
Arlene lifted her chin. “I don’t appreciate your insolent attitude.”

“With all due respect, this isn’t about attitude. This is about you not making a place for me here.”

That’s because there isn’t a place
. Arlene hunched forward on her desk. “The board hired you because they thought I wasn’t coming back, and now that I am, you need to accept that you’re in a subordinate role.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. But if I’m to be a subordinate, you have to be a leader, and that means you need to embrace the new programs.”

Arlene’s jaw clenched. “I don’t have to do any such thing.”

Sammi closed her eyes again. When she opened them, they were disarmingly filled with sympathy. “It must have been awfully hard on you, coming back and discovering I’d been hired to replace you.”

Arlene jerked her gaze away, oddly rattled by the warmth in Sammi’s eyes. “You will never replace me. You may have the job, but you will not replace me.”

“No. I’m sure that’s true.” Sammi’s voice was calm and soft. She leaned forward. “Ms. Arnette, may I ask you a frank question?”

As if I could stop you.
“Of course.”

“You seem to dislike me. Have I done something to offend you?”

Yes. You exist. You’re eager and bright, and you make me feel old and useless
. Arlene twisted her fingers together. “You’re being ridiculous. This is a matter of performance, not likes and dislikes.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Take your review and look it over. If you have any comments, write them on the form.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good. I’ll expect it signed and on my desk before I leave for the day.”

Sammi’s eyes rounded. “But it’s twenty minutes before closing time.”

“Well, if you’d come in here when I requested it, you’d have had plenty of time.”

Sammi unfolded from the chair, stiff as an ironing board. Her footsteps clicked angrily on the granite floor as she headed out of the office.

As the door swung closed behind her, Arlene turned toward the window and caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her forehead was pulled in a frown, and her lips were puckered in displeasure. She looked like a bitter old shrew.

She sank her head in her hands.

Oh, God—when had she become such an awful person? This wasn’t the woman she’d dreamed of becoming when she’d so eagerly left her parents’ farm as a young girl.

With a heavy sigh,
she tried to turn her attention to the papers on her desk, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything. Guilt burned in her stomach like an ulcer.

She was only doing what she had to do, she told herself. Hadn’t Chandler taught her that it was a dog-eat-dog world, and you had to protect your turf? She’d certainly seen him do it enough times. That time the receptionist with the blond beehive hair had started gossiping about them and he’d let her go with no notice. The time the company vice president disagreed with Chandler and ended up transferred to Alaska. The time Chandler’s accountant had questioned some of his expenditures and found himself terminated.

Why, Chandler had been defending his turf against a rival oil company the very day Arlene had met him. She’d been all of twenty-one years old, but it seemed like just yesterday.

He’d been seated behind his desk, the phone to his ear, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He’d looked like a movie star, and for the first time, Arlene knew what it meant to go weak at the knees. Broad-shouldered as John Wayne, handsome as Cary Grant, and tough-talking as Lee Marvin, he’d been in his early forties—all-powerful, sophisticated, and worldly.

“That oil lease is ours, Harry,” he’d barked into the phone as the personnel manager had steered Arlene to the door of his office, “and Extech is not going to get it away from us. Get them on the other line and double the offer. Do it now. I’ll wait.” He’d looked up, the phone still to his ear, and motioned them in.

“Mr. Phelps, this is Arlene Arnette,” said the personnel manager, a stumpy woman with helmet hair and cat-eye glasses on a chain around her neck. “She’s applying for the secretarial position.”

Chandler’s gaze had raked over her, starting with her borrowed navy pumps, moving to the stockings she’d bought for graduation from stenography school the week before, up to the blue serge suit she’d sewn herself on her mother’s old Singer. When his eyes met hers, she’d felt like she was plunging down the hill on the state fair roller coaster—thrilled, excited, and afraid she was about to be sick.

“Do you take shorthand?” he’d asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Type?”

“Yes, sir. Sixty-five words a minute.”

He’d held up his hand and turned his attention back to the phone, apparently listening to the party on the other end. “What? Hell. Didn’t you tell him you’re my authorized agent?” He paused a moment, then blew out a hard breath. “All right, then. Tell him I’m on my way.”

He’d pressed the lever on his phone, then punched the interoffice button. “Helga—who’s the pilot on call today? Well, find the hell out, and have him meet me at the airport. I need to go to Houston. When? Now, dammit!”

He’d slammed down the phone, risen from his chair, grabbed his jacket, and fixed Arlene with his brown eyes. “Ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“To some godforsaken hellhole of a town outside of Houston. I can dictate some letters to you on the way.”

“You-you mean I’m hired?”

“If you’re ready to start right now.”

“How-how long will we be gone?”

“Well, if we can track down this jackass and get him to sign the papers, we might be back by evening. Otherwise, we’ll have to stay overnight. ”

“Overnight? I-I don’t have anything packed.”

“You can get anything you need once we get there.” His eyes held a challenging glitter. “You coming, or not?”

He didn’t think she’d do it. She didn’t think so, either. Her parents were expecting her back at their Okfuskee farm by evening. How could she just up and go to Houston with a strange man?

On the other hand, how could she not? She longed for a life beyond picking bush beans, attending covered dish dinners at First Baptist, and marrying one of the pimply-faced local boys from her rural high school.

Here was her chance. Another opportunity like this wasn’t likely to come along. She’d lifted her chin and met Chandler’s gaze dead-on. “I’ll need a steno pad.”

His lip had curled into a grin that made heat pool low in her belly, and from that moment on, she’d lived her life on Chandler time. Whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, she’d been up for the challenge. She’d been ready for anything.

Anything, that was, except the plane crash that had killed him and Justine twenty-seven years ago. She hadn’t been ready for that.

And she wasn’t ready for retirement now. She leaned back in her office chair and sighed. The museum board president had called again yesterday to ask about her plans.