The Storm (Fairhope) (24 page)

You have no idea.

I was oblivious to Andrew’s heavy footsteps as I sat with my knees hugged to my chest, staring at the final reminder that my career as a medical device rep was over. “Don’t even think about it. We made our decision.” He was gentle yet firm.

I rose carefully off the floor. “I know. It’s—just so real now.”

He aided me to my feet, cupped his hand under my chin, and tilted my head so that we were eye to eye. “I know you are scared. But you agreed to trust me to take care of you. You know in your heart you cannot let this go.”

“I know. Giving up the money is tough. And—now that I’ve lost Grace … none of this matters right now…”

The pain of losing her sliced through me all over again.

“I know, Jana. I can’t believe she’s gone, either.” He swallowed back his tears, trying to be strong for me.

I couldn’t speak.

“You can’t put a price on standing up for your rights. Jana, you are strong, and just the person to give those assholes a dose of what they deserve.” He paused. “I called several agents yesterday. I’m getting quotes on individual health insurance policies.”

He was on top of things, as usual. “Thank you, baby.”

“This may sound cliché, but you have the opportunity to make history. I know you would not have chosen this, but maybe
this
is part of your calling. Don’t second guess your decision not to sign that piece of paper.”

I leaned against him, giving into the need to feel protected, and let him hold me.

“I can’t take away your heartbreak over Grace’s death. But when you think you can’t go on, I will wipe away your tears and replace them with a smile.” He kissed the top of my forehead.

With his encouragement, something powerful stirred inside of me, a renewed vigor. A strength that came from somewhere deep revived the determination I once had. Grace would have wanted me to do it. She would have been my biggest cheerleader. I lost her, but I refused to lose the battle against Covington. I was certainly no feminist. But, I refused to let them off the hook for flushing my career down the toilet, undeserved. I would destroy the assumption that a pink slip was a ticket to domestic bliss for little mommies who would happily accept their fate with an apron and a mop.

I never asked for this, but I would play the cards I was dealt and pray my hand was the grand prize winner.

Jack Singleton’s office was dark and unorthodox. The long drive was exhausting, but I arrived forty-five minutes early, too much time for my wheels not to turn. His office was tucked neatly in an almost unidentifiable downtown crevice. I never would have guessed he was such a hotshot. As I nervously waited in the cold lobby, I clutched all of my documentation while beads of sweat threatened to blur the ink on my papers. It was probably eighty degrees inside.

Playing private detective, Andrew and I thoroughly researched Jack Singleton. His reputation was flawless, and his references were spectacular, one stating that his integrity and skill were unmatched among fellow attorneys. My father-in-law grilled everyone he knew, offering his seal of approval for Jack and his co-counsel.

“Jack will be with you shortly,” the sweet receptionist assured me, noticing my anxiety with a concerned lift of her painted-on eyebrows. She smiled softly, patting her silver bun. “You are from Fairhope, right? That’s quite a long drive.”

“Yes,” I agreed, my eyes scanning the walls. “I used to live here.” I looked over my favorite tan suit that I rescued from rotting in my closet, scanning it for McDonald’s hamburger crumbs. None. Thankfully, they missed me and joined the stray Doritos trashing the cup holders.

The walls in Jack’s office were covered with multi-colored murals, splashes of mahogany, hunter green and deep blues. The artist in me sat gaping at their uniqueness, thinking they were weird but somehow enticing. “This art work is … interesting.”

“Don’t let the eerie paintings fool you,” the receptionist chuckled in response. “Jack is the nicest man you will ever meet. He simply has a fondness for oddness.”

“I want to be an artist when I grow up.” I winked, stealing some of my other half’s flirty charisma. Wow, an attempt at humor felt
good.

“Go for it!”

I smiled thoughtfully, my eyes lifting to the brilliant yellow-orange sun etched on the ceiling. “You know, life is short. I think I will.”

Mr. Singleton—Jack, he would soon be to me—opened the door to his office, motioning me in.

Oh, please, take my case!

I bit my lip to prevent my mouth from falling open in surprise. Jack was tall and slender, but other than that, not what I pictured. He wore dark-rimmed glasses and had thick brown hair laced with silver. Distinguished, he wore a sharp black suit, maybe Armani, completed with a neatly pressed blue silk tie that contrasted his catlike green eyes that were identical to Sadie’s.

“Jana Cook, I presume?” he inquired in a deep voice, offering a firm, confident handshake.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I appreciate your taking the time to meet with me.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” he assured me, waving me toward his office. “Sadie thinks a lot of you, and she’s not an easy person to win over. I’ve been looking forward to learning more about your situation.”

We sat down in his comfortable brown La-Z-Boy recliners, separated by an antique glass table. Tentatively, I placed my files on the beautiful table, feeling a bit scared I might break something in this eclectic room.

He whisked the file into his calloused hands. “Jana, tell me your story,” he instructed, peering over his glasses at my severance agreement. “And call me Jack.”

From top to bottom, I hashed it out. Jack listened attentively, staring me directly in the eyes as I spoke. I sensed he was analyzing me.

After I spoke my last word, he nodded slowly.

“Sadly, this tale is not uncommon, although it’s extremely rare that anyone does anything about it. This must be very difficult for you.”

“Yes,” I agreed, gulping. “I loved my career and never thought this would happen to me.”

And I never thought my best friend would commit suicide at the same time.

A comfortable silence settled over the room as he dove into the emails, performance reviews, and other pieces of documentation I had salvaged. I already liked this Jack.

“You contacted human resources about this, and nothing was done?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes and no. Kevin Matthews, the representative, never called me back with a report.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that. In reference to those who kept their positions, how did your performance rank against theirs? Sales, performance reviews … if you have knowledge of that information.”

“As far as sales, me and the territory manager who I worked under in Birmingham won President’s Circle the past two years. I doubt that’s beatable.”

“How many women on your team—remaining—have children?”

“None.” A light bulb went off in my head. “In fact, no women were left on my team at all.”

“Was your position eliminated?”

“No. They gave it to a man who lives outside the geography, and he’s never won a thing.”

Jack’s line of questioning continued, and his interest peaked with my responses. His rhetoric defined my case; he spun my nightmare like a Grammy-nominated script. I hung on every word, captivated by his speech; he romanticized my victimization in a way that surely could not fail to grip a judge or jury’s emotions.

A judge or jury?
Suddenly, the reality of what I was thinking about doing hit me like a ton of bricks. I could see Jeff’s scowl, hear Brooke dripping her lies … no way. No way!

“Now, don’t expect a courtroom full of jurors. In these types of cases, it typically becomes apparent that the plaintiff cannot win or they settle.”

Oxygen returned to my brain again, the fear of facing my Covington opponents draining out of me as I processed his words. “Thank God.”

He held up his hand, as if to say
wait.
“You will most likely want to be present during depositions. That is when witnesses on either side are questioned.”

I clenched my fingers.
You can do this. You can do this…

One hour later, after lengthy conversation, he made up his mind.

“I have not seen a potential case this solid in years. Despite your performance, you were replaced by an individual not in a protected class. The criteria used for selection was undeniably subjective and easily manipulated.” He leaned back in his chair. “However, you absolutely cannot sign this severance agreement. Most of them will hold up in court, despite how unfair that seems. I can’t take your case if you sign it.”

I could feel Grace beside me, urging me to commit. “I won’t sign it.”

We continued to discuss the steps of the process, starting with filing with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission of Alabama, and Jack’s contingency fee, which was shocking to me at a steep forty-five percent. We would seek damages worth four to five times my annual estimated pay as a territory manager, which would still make it worth my while to sue verses giving in and signing the severance agreement.

That is …
if
I won.

I left reeling in a shocked daze. Jack Singleton, one of the most well renowned employment discrimination attorneys in the South, wanted to take my case. I still wished it were anyone but me facing this future … but now I felt a glimmer of hope, welcomingly familiar from a past filled full of it.

Even though I spent tearful hours organizing pictures of Grace and me, I dreamt without my Lunesta that night, sleeping in the whisper’s peace. I asked for a sign, and God gave it to me, through both Sadie and Ashton. Jack Singleton was the answer to my prayer.

I felt Grace’s spirit tug at my heart, hugging me and blowing a kiss over her shoulder. If only she were here tonight to see that I was strong enough. I hoped that somehow she knew.

The ceremonious burning of my severance agreement took place on my birthday, the first Saturday night in June. A cool breeze decided to take a rare vacation in Southern Alabama, allowing pleasant weather for a small outdoor gathering. Daddy picked up Calla for bonding time, and after enjoying steaks at Tamara’s downtown, Andrew and I headed home to start the last year of my twenties with nothing less than a serious bang.

The streetlights faded as we cruised out of downtown, the breeze flowing through my window as I reminisced over my childhood. Addicted to iced coffee from Page and Palette, I spent my teenage Saturday mornings sipping down my dose of rich caffeine while I flipped through the books in the shop. I wandered through the local art shops in pure amazement like a kid in a candy store. On a first name basis with the owners, my wide-eyed appreciation was obvious and flattering.

“Your paintings will be famous one day, Jana,” the owner of a local gallery often told me with a twinkle in his eye. “Paint what you see in your heart.”

As Andrew’s Tacoma veered down our street, my childhood memories faded when I noticed the familiar cars lining our driveway. “Andrew? What’s going on?”

“Surprise!” He grinned boyishly. “Your mom and I decided you were in serious need of a party. Happy birthday!”

I nearly shrieked and leapt into his arms after he opened the door for me.

Andrew slipped his arm around my waist, and we strolled to the backyard together. I beamed graciously as my family and friends yelled, “SURPRISE!” Mama, Julianne, my mother and father-in-law, Holly and her family, Grace’s mother … even Gavin was there, his gorgeous face tainted with dark bags.

The deck was beautifully lit with white Christmas lights that we left up year round, and our fire pit, the steel sides carved with Bama symbols, sat in its place of attention in the center. All eyes were on me expectantly.

“Wow,” I said finally. “I’m speechless. Thanks to all of you.” My welcome was met with sweet smiles and a couple of birthday cards.

Gavin approached me tentatively, his hands buried in his pockets. “Good luck, Jana. I know this is what Grace wanted for you. If she were here, she would probably be loaded by now, screaming for Covington to kiss your ass.” We both laughed at his accurate portrayal of her behavior, but within seconds our laughter turned to tears. My crowd of supporters sniffled as we embraced, hanging on to what we had left of her.