Sometime Soon (5 page)

Karthik’s clipped dark hair is
graying at the temples. I can’t recall the grey being there when I first met
him three years ago. He eyes me expectantly, his hands still poised in the air,
ready to swivel back to his keyboard and pick up where he left off.

“I need to talk to you about the
feature descriptions for the marketing white papers,” I say, as though I
haven’t already sent him a handful of emails on the subject.

“What about them?” he asks,
lowering his hands, realizing he can’t dismiss me quickly.

“Well, I read the specifications
you wrote, looking for more details on the software features Rob wanted me to
include. And either I couldn’t find any information on the features or the
information I found was only partially what I needed. Do you have more specs
you haven’t posted yet?” I ask hopefully.

His forehead creases. “What
features are you referring to?”

I point toward his monitor. “I put
the features in an email. Did you see it?”

He swivels back now, his hands
racing over the keys, accessing his email. Peering over his shoulder, I spot my
name in his Inbox on the most recent email I sent, and I point it out to him.
Karthik opens the email and scans it. Meanwhile, I take a step back, careful
not touch or brush up against a pile of paper or a soda can.

Karthik spends a fare amount of
time reading the short email. Finally, he turns back to me with a strained look
on his face. “Rob gave you these features?” he asks.

I nod.

“Is he in his office now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him
yet today.” So far, this is not a good response to my initial question.

“We’d better go and talk to him.”
Karthik unfolds himself from the chair, and with determination he leads the way
back downstairs. I follow him. Karthik stops just outside and knocks on the
open door. Rob is apparently in there.

I follow Karthik into the
windowless office. Based on Karthik’s tight expression, there’s something going
on here. It isn’t good and it isn’t my fault. The rising anticipation I feel is
mainly due to the reluctant spectator status to which I am about to be subjected.
Karthik is one of the most reasonable people I have ever dealt with, but Rob
generally has a hard time making coherent conversation with anyone who doesn’t
watch at least one reality television show a night.

“What can I do for you?” Rob asks,
leaning back in his chair as we enter.

“Andrea sent me a list of features
you gave her for the next release. I have to say, I was surprised to see that
it was the original list you presented last year. The wish list you created
before we culled it down.”

“It’s the list we all agreed to,”
Rob says calmly.

Karthik runs his hand over the back
of his neck. “No Rob, I have the email trail. I’ll send you the shortened list.
Those are the only features we’re working on.”

Rob sits up straighter now. “You
can send me whatever you like, but I have an email trail, too. It ends with the
list I gave Andrea. The list everyone signed off on.”

“I never signed off on the list you
gave Andrea.”

Rob stares at Karthik and then at
me. I have no idea why. I have nothing to offer here. Next he opens a drawer,
searches around for a bit, and comes up with a piece of paper. He hands it to
Karthik. “You’re telling me you’re not working on the items on this list?”

Karthik studies the paper. He takes
a pen from his pocket, sits down in one of the two chairs facing Rob’s desk,
and begins putting checks next to items on the list. I take the other chair and
watch. Rob is leaning over the expanse of his desk following Karthik’s pen.
Karthik makes the last checkmark, efficiently returns the pen to his pocket,
and turns the paper around toward Rob. “These are the features in your
release.” From my upside-down view, I can see that roughly half of the items
have checkmarks beside them.

Rob looks at the paper and frowns.
“Well,” he says, leaning back again, “This is a problem. We’ve already told
customers that everything on this list is in the next release.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell them
that’s not the case. Or you can tell them that the release is delayed for
another year while we work on the rest of your list.”

I wonder how Rob could have made
such a monumental error. It’s not like him to make a mistake like this, but it
is like him to purposely do something devious to get his way in the end.
Perhaps he hadn’t liked getting his list culled. My suspicions are fueled when
he says, “Delayed by a year. Would it really take another year to finish
everything on this list?”

“I don’t know exactly, but we would
certainly slip the end date by a good amount.”

“Could you get me an accurate
time-frame on how long it would take?”

A look of disbelief crosses
Karthik’s face. “We had to cut your list in the first place because it was
completely unrealistic. We didn’t have the time or the manpower to even scope
out all those features. Now you want us to stop everything and do that?”

“Well, you don’t have to stop
everything, but I could put the word out to the field that we might not hit the
release date. That would give you some extra time to investigate.”

The air in the room seems to
radiate as Karthik stands up, his shoulders tense. “That makes it look as
though we’re missing deadlines because of engineering. My guys have been
working twelve-hour days to meet the target date. I won’t have you telling the
field that engineering is delayed when you’re the one at fault for moving the
goal line.”

When men argue, they often use
sports analogies, I’ve noticed. I look from Rob to Karthik. Karthik is wound
tight as a coil, but Rob seems his usual unflappable self. I do not belong
here. I may have precipitated this, but I am not a part of it, nor do I want to
be. But I don’t know how to make an appropriate exit; just standing up and
dashing out might seem awkward.

“Well, the field is already out
there selling this to customers,” Rob explains, shrugging.

“Then they’re selling vaporware!”
Karthik’s volume increases.

“Look,” Rob says, his voice filled
with calm and reason, “let’s just take a step back here. Why don’t you give me
a rough estimate on the time-frame with the additional work, and we can figure
something out. Maybe we can have a staggered release where we send out small
releases every few months. There has to be a way to make this work. We’ve got
the smartest engineers in the business here.”

Karthik takes a step back, crossing
his arms over his chest. He glances from me to Rob. I can see understanding
sinking in. Rob did not make a mistake. The tight lines around Karthik’s mouth
slowly slacken. He has been outsmarted, and he’s not sure what to do about it.
Karthik is undoubtedly used to being the smartest person in the room, but when
it comes to deviousness, he cannot compete with Rob.

“We’ll need to have a meeting with
Tom if you’re changing the release this way,” Karthik says. Tom is the
department vice president.

“That’s fine. I’ll schedule it,”
Rob offers graciously.

Karthik doesn’t respond. If that
was a veiled threat to go over Rob’s head, Rob hasn’t flinched.

Karthik looks over at me now. “I’m
afraid this doesn’t help you much, Andrea. At least, not in the short term.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say,
hardly believing he remembers my innocent inquiry that started all this.

“Make that meeting sooner rather
than later,” Karthik tells Rob. Then he walks out.

I stand there and stare at Rob. He
puts the list aside and looks at me, satisfaction on his face.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Did what?” he asks innocently.

I glare at him, hoping my eyes are
conveying my disbelief and distaste.

“Hey.” He grins. “It’s not
deception. It’s marketing.”

“It was an ambush.”

“It’s not lying through my teeth,
it’s marketing,” he continues, enjoying his joke. “It’s not subterfuge, it’s…”

“I know.” I interrupt him. “It’s
marketing on planet Rob.”

He grins, liking that as much as I
knew he would.

I go back to my desk with my
marching orders. I am to complete the write-ups for which I have engineering
specs. The rest can wait until additional specs are ready. Rob is very
confident that eventually, they will be.

Before getting started I pull from
my backpack the crumpled notebook page with Ryan Miller’s name written on it. I
am about to find out if he’s given me his real telephone number.

“This is Ryan,” he answers after
one ring.

So far, so good. “Hi. This is the
person whose car you hit the other night. Hopefully, I was the only one, so
there’s no need for further clarification.” I hear a soft chuckle in response.

“I’m afraid you, alone, hold that
honor. Andrea, right?”

“Right. I got the repair estimate.”

“Wait, don’t tell me yet,” he says.
“Okay, I’m sitting down now. Go ahead. What’s the bad news?”

“It’s not so bad really.
Four-hundred and fifty including the car rental.” I decide to round it off.

“Under five-hundred then? I can
manage that and still eat this month. So, they don’t have to replace the whole
bumper. That would cost at least a grand or more.”

“Nope. Just some smoothing and
painting, according to the estimate. I can fax it to you if you like.”

“Sorry, no fax machine yet.”

“Well, I could mail you a copy.”

“Actually, maybe we could just meet
somewhere. You bring the estimate, I’ll bring my checkbook, and we can settle
things.”

“Oh, umm…”  I hesitate.
Meeting isn’t really necessary. I recall his “looking forward to hearing from
you” comment and start to think he may have ulterior motives. He isn’t
bad-looking if you get past his disheveled, haggard appearance. Or with my
luck, he probably wants to meet because he doesn’t have a mailing address.
Maybe he lives in his car. I am way over-thinking this. “Okay,” I finally say.

“Great. Is this Saturday good for
you?”

I remember the cake tasting.
“Actually, Sunday is better.”

“Okay then, Sunday. I’m coming from
Waltham. How about you?”

Waltham is about twenty minutes
from my townhouse. “I can meet you in Waltham,” I answer, still being cautious.

“Are you sure? I could come to
you.”

“No, Waltham is fine.”

He names a neighborhood brewery
that I’m familiar with, and we agree to meet there Sunday afternoon. I hang up,
not quite sure what to think. Probably best to think nothing, I decide.

The bakery is in Providence, Rhode
Island which is about a forty-five minute drive south. Apparently, the prices
in Providence are more reasonable than those in Boston. My sister had wanted to
carpool down, but there was no way I was getting stuck there with no way to
leave on my own. By the time I find parking and then locate the bakery, Laura
and Mom are already there waiting. They greet me with the usual cheek kisses.

Because it’s another warm, sticky
afternoon, I have on khaki shorts and a tank top. Laura is dressed much the
same. We both have our hair pulled back in low ponytails since we each suffer
from similar curl to frizz transitions on days like these. Laura and I have
similar builds as well, tall and slim but sturdy, although she is about an inch
taller than me. My mother, on the other hand, is quite short and she wouldn’t
be caught in anything as dressed down as shorts and a tank top. Her make-up and
her hair are done as though she’s heading out for a night on the town. She has
on silk lavender pants paired with a beige blouse.

“They’re bringing out the samples
now,” Laura says, looking excited for a change. I have brought my appetite, so
I find myself excited, as well.

The bakery has display cases along
a back wall and several small parlor style tables grouped near the entrance. I
have a terrible sweet tooth. If I don’t exert strict control over myself, most
meals would start and end with cookies and cake and maybe have some ice cream
thrown in for variety.

“Dad didn’t want to taste cakes?” I
ask.

“He’s playing golf,” my mother
replies.

A woman in an apron emerges from
the back carrying a tray. A hairnet covers her short blonde hair and her
tanned, wrinkled face has the look of a beach lover.

“This is Andrea, my other
daughter,” Mom says, gesturing to me.

The bakery lady offers me a
friendly grin as she places the tray on one of the small round tables. “Here
are samples from our strawberry grand marnier cake, lemon raspberry cake,
cappuccino truffle cake, and our most popular one: hazel almond cake with dark
chocolate ganache.”

The tray holds several bite-sized
squares of each cake flavor combination. Laura and I sit down, pick up plastic
forks, and dive for the chocolate ones.

“Oh my god,” Laura says as she
licks frosting from her lip, “This one is so good.”

I nod in agreement as I savor my
bite.

“Try it,” Laura prompts Mom.

Mom sits down with us and regards
the tray. Then she samples tiny bites of each cake, with the chocolate one
last. Laura and I try the other flavors, as well, but we agree nothing compares
with the chocolate ganache. We finish every last bite of that one. The
strawberry cakes disappeared quickly, too.

“I’m afraid there are a lot of
people who don’t eat chocolate,” Mom tells the bakery lady.

Laura’s eyes cut to me. Uh-oh.

“Yes, not everyone is a chocolate
lover,” our hostess agrees.

“And a lot of people are allergic
to strawberries,” Mom continues. That one had been our second favorite. “Do you
make one that just has yellow cake and white frosting?”

“Of course. That’s a simple one.”

Laura looks outraged. “I don’t want
just a plain yellow cake. Who doesn’t like chocolate? She said it was their
most popular one.”