Turnabout's Fair Play (3 page)

“I hope so, Darrell.” Jamie pressed his lips together and drew in a slow breath through his nose. “I hope so.”

Approaching footsteps on the tile floor alerted them a few seconds before two more of their team rounded the corner. Both tall and blond, the junior account executive and administrative assistant stopped, not needing a lot of imagination to figure out what Jamie and Darrell had been discussing while standing outside the vacant director’s office.

“Today’s the day, huh,
Boss?”
Wade asked, flinging his surfer-boy hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head.

“Don’t jinx it.” But Ainslee didn’t look at all worried. “I have the requisitions for your new nameplate, business cards, and letterhead all written up and ready to go to accounting as soon as we get out of the meeting, Jamie.”

Wade nudged the former women’s college and professional basketball player with his elbow. “And for yourself with
Junior Account Executive
on them? And me with
Senior Account Executive
?”

Ainslee shrugged, her brown eyes twinkling. “Maybe.”

“I hope you wrote up a set of requisitions with Mitch’s name on them, too, just in case.” Glancing toward the corner that joined the department to the main corridor, Jamie ushered his team—minus Mitch—toward the common area at the end of the short hall. Ainslee dropped her giant purse on her desk. The two graphic designers, whom she shared the large space with—which also contained the couch and chairs that made up their brainstorming area—hadn’t made it in yet, apparently.

“Didn’t you guys hear?” Wade glanced over his shoulder.

“No, what?” Ainslee and Darrell turned. Gossip was more virulent than Ebola in this office.

“Apparently Armando and Mitch got into it at the clubhouse yesterday afternoon.” Wade picked up a foam basketball from the wire in-basket on Ainslee’s desk and tossed it toward the hoop hanging on his office door. It bounced off the rim and rolled under one of the designers’ desks.

“How? They weren’t even on the same team.” Darrell once again jerked his chin in Jamie’s direction. “And I was surprised you weren’t with Armando’s group—but I guess he didn’t want to tip his hand about the big announcement.”

No lover of golf—proficient, though, from years of hosting clients at Armando’s biannual golf invitationals—Jamie was glad he hadn’t been on Armando’s team. The ad agency’s owner took the game far too seriously.

“Dunno.” Wade tossed another foam ball at the hoop. “But probably blew his chances.”

“Maybe he pressed Mr. Gregg for an answer and didn’t like what he heard.” Ainslee lobbed a small plastic football toward the hoop, over Wade’s head, and it swished through. She raised her arms in triumph. “Nothin’ but net.”

Growing uncomfortable with the topic—and worried Mitch might arrive and overhear them—Jamie glanced at the large wall clock with the minor-league baseball team’s logo in the center. “Eight o’clock. Time to get to work.”

Ainslee tossed one more ball toward Wade’s door, which also swished through the small hoop and net. “Yes, Boss.” She winked at him and then crossed the room to start the coffee as the two graphic designers arrived and started up their computers.

Jamie opened his office door and snapped the light on.
“Boss.”
A chill crawled over his shoulders and down his arms. No one here could ever know what he’d talked about until two this morning with the only person privy to the private life of James Clarence O’Connor III.

He closed the door and pulled out the electric razor he kept in his credenza for days like today. Stepping up to the mirror hanging on the back of the door, he grimaced. Though not nearly as red as yesterday, this sunburn would start peeling in another day or two. At least with the holiday, he wouldn’t be seeing clients until Tuesday.

The electric razor intensified the irritation in his skin. He stepped back when Ainslee opened the door to hand him his coffee mug.

“T minus forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks.” He closed the door behind her and finished shaving before moving on to checking his e-mail and appointment calendar. Only some phone calls to make this morning and then he could concentrate on catching up on his paperwork and month-end reports.

Time ticked by in an eternity as call after call ended with him leaving messages for his clients and prospects, but finally Ainslee knocked on the door.

“Ready, Boss?”

He shrugged into his navy sport coat. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that until it’s official.”

“It’s got to be.” The administrative assistant—who would indeed be promoted to junior account executive if Jamie got the director position—fell in step beside him. Darrell, Wade, and the two designers rounded the corner into the main hall ahead of them, merging with the flow of dozens of others from all departments of the largest independent advertising agency in Nashville.

“I wish I had your confidence.” Jamie held open the door of the theater-style conference room for Ainslee.

She paused halfway through, towering over him. “No, it’s
got
to be you. Mitch never showed up this morning,” she whispered.

“What?”

A loudly cleared throat alerted them to the traffic jam behind them. Jamie took Ainslee by the elbow and pulled her into the room. “Mitch isn’t here?”

She grinned and shook her head. “And the penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct goes to …” She waggled her eyebrows.

He followed her to the row where the rest of the team—dare he think of them as
his
team?—sat.

As soon as Armando Gregg walked into the room, all chatter—mostly about plans for the holiday weekend—ended.

The normally well-groomed and laid-back forty-five-year-old looked harried and stressed. Not like someone about to impart good news. But Jamie didn’t let that worry him. Good news was good news whether Armando was stressed or not.

Would his promotion to Sports Marketing director really be good news, though?

A middle-aged woman stepped up onto the platform to join Armando. While everyone else in the room wore the casual Friday standard—a variation of chinos and an open-collar, button-down shirt with a blazer—the woman who stood beside Armando wore a severe, dark-gray business suit. And her expression made an even more somber statement than her clothing did.

Armando set the papers he carried in with him on the podium, looked at the woman to his left, licked his lips nervously, and turned to look around the room without actually making eye contact with anyone.

“As some of you may have already figured out, the Gregg Agency was struck pretty hard by the recent recession. I know I pushed all of you harder than I ever did before over the last couple of years, but I did not want you to know just how dire circumstances had become. When it looked like I might have to shutter the agency forever, I was approached by Hampton, Dixon, and Holcomb Marketing Solutions out of Memphis about a partial buyout and partnership. After six months of negotiations and business model development, I’m pleased this morning to announce that as of June 1, our name is officially changing to Hampton, Dixon, Holcomb, and Gregg—HDHG Marketing Solutions.”

Armando turned the meeting over to Ms. Gray Business Suit, who gave a little history of the Memphis agency that had just bought out Armando’s pride and joy. After boring everyone to tears, she turned the meeting back over to Armando.

“So what does this mean for us?” Again, Armando looked around the room without focusing on anyone. “The most important thing to keep in mind is that this partnership allows us to stay in business. But it also means that between the two locations—here and Memphis—we now have some redundancies. There are certain divisions that we need in both locations, such as graphic design and editorial. However other departments will be affected in both places. Major Accounts, for example. Account executives in both locations handle the same clients. Fortunately we do have some open positions that we can begin the eliminations with….”

Jamie tuned the boss’s voice out when a new idea struck him. What if Armando was going to announce that Jamie would be the director not only of Sports Marketing here but also over the department at the Memphis office? The magnitude of that kind of responsibility made him a little queasy.

“Unfortunately, it isn’t just open positions that we’ll be eliminating. And we’re telling you all this at the same time so there will be no misunderstandings—I wish we could have met with each person individually first, but confidentiality needed to be maintained.” Armando took a deep breath, his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “The biggest and hardest cut that we’ve had to make is eliminating the Nashville Sports Marketing Department and transferring everything over to the larger and better-equipped Sports Marketing Department in Memphis. We’re also cutting …”

Beside him, Jamie’s coworkers reacted in not-so-hushed tones and words of disbelief. But Jamie couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t comprehend …

He’d shaved for this?

Chapter 2

A
t the sound of a car in the driveway, Maureen stood and brushed the dirt and grass off the knees of her floral-print, rayon pants. She left the garden and made her way around the corner of the house, tucking her gloves into the short tool apron she wore.

She stopped at the gate, the air suddenly going chill. “Jamie?”

Her grandson looked exactly the same as he had at his thirteenth birthday party when the paramedics declared his father dead.

She flung the gate open and rushed to him. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why are you here at ten o’clock in the morning?”

“I …” Jamie’s slate-gray eyes remained fixed at a distant point.

She grabbed his arms and shook him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I lost my job.” His eyes came into focus, and he finally looked at her, seeming surprised to see her. “Cookie, I got laid off.”

“You…but what about the promotion? Last night, you were so certain—”

“There never was a promotion. The presentation wasn’t an interview. It was so the department in Memphis would be able to do our jobs for us.”

Maureen rubbed his hand between hers. “You’re not making any sense. Memphis?”

“Our new parent company. Armando sold us out. So much for rewarding loyalty.” Jamie pulled away from her and began pacing the sidewalk between the driveway and front porch. “The whole department—and not just us, but a lot of other people, too. But is anyone in Memphis losing their jobs? No! Of course not!”

Maureen’s concern for her grandson grew along with his agitation.

“Let’s go inside and talk about this.” She led him around the house, through the back door, and to the kitchen.

Jamie sank into one of the dinette chairs and dropped his head to the table so his forehead, nose, and chin were pressed against the polished, dark wood surface. His arms dangled at his sides.

Maureen’s heart wrenched.

He muttered something, but it came out garbled.

“What’s that?” She wrapped one arm around his waist and caressed the back of his head with her other hand.

He turned so his cheek pressed against the tabletop. “Thirteen years. I worked there thirteen years. And just like that”—he raised his right hand to shoulder height and snapped his fingers—“no more job.” Turning, he pressed his face to the table again.

Maureen couldn’t stand it. She turned and raised her eyes.
Why him, Lord? What has he ever done that deserves what he’s gone through in his life?

She filled the kettle and put it on the stove to heat and then opened the plastic container holding the cookies she’d made for game night at church. She had plenty of time to make something else, and Jamie’s need outweighed the time she’d spent with the new recipe. She put four on a plate and then set the plate and a tall glass of milk on the table.

“Sit up.”

“I don’t want to.”

She almost smiled at his petulant tone. It’d been a long time since she’d heard it. Instead, she placed both hands on his strong shoulders—shoulders that had already borne more than most men twice his age—and pulled.

He gave another mild protest but then sat up. He pulled the cookies and milk closer, and Maureen returned to the stove to make a cup of tea for herself. After setting the cup and saucer on the table—along with the container holding the rest of the cookies—she sat down beside him. “Tell me what happened.”

Never one to recoil from detail, Jamie took his time, starting with waking up late, his double-espresso latte, the encouragement from his coworkers, and his boss’s unwelcome announcement. “A couple of Major Accounts reps are losing their jobs, a few designers and editors, and some department directors are being demoted back down to account executives.”

“But your department was the only one cut in its entirety?”

Jamie broke off a piece of the cookie he’d been turning over and over in his fingers as he talked. “Yep. Just us. And you know what? That’s the worst thing of all. Ainslee just finished her MBA. She’s been slaving away as an assistant for years now on the promise that as soon as a junior account exec position came open in our department, it was hers. And Wade was ready to be promoted to senior account exec. And Darrell…no one was better suited to do this job than him. What are they going to do now? It’s not like there are a whole bunch of sports-marketing jobs available here. Ainslee’s master’s degree is
in
sports management for crying out loud!”