“I’d like to pursue other opportunities,” he said. “We have another manager here who’s perfectly capable of following this plan.” He motioned to the papers spread out between them, one of which had gotten too close to the pastry tray and picked up a jelly stain.
The assistant stopped scribbling, chewed on the tip of her pen, turned to her boss.
Steve shook his head. “What do you mean? I can’t—”
“You’ve met Heather Cummins. She knows this business inside out. She’s damned smart, a hard worker, and a complete slave to policy and procedure.” Compliance had always been a prized trait in the banking world.
Brewster leaned across the table to close the deal. “Here’s the best part. Heather’s a player. If there’s a problem, she won’t come whining about it. She’ll fix it for you. Every time.”
The gears in the banker’s head started turning in a more favorable direction, judging by the hint of a smile on his face. Brewster could easily guess his thought process. Heather might be valuable in more ways than one. She’d do all the heavy lifting and keep Steve out of the day-to-day decision-making. If things went well, the banker would find a way to grab the credit and bask in the kudos. If Crestview’s new business plan tanked and caused good money to be thrown after bad—money Steve’s bosses wouldn’t be happy about losing—Heather could take the fall as scapegoat.
The banker picked a donut from the platter, took a bite out of it, chewed, swallowed, and finally spoke. “I’d rather keep you.”
If only. But the time had come to move on. “That’s not gonna happen.”
Steve motioned to the spreadsheets. “Does she understand the lending approach you’re proposing here?”
“She’s the one who came up with it.”
Steve stared into space. “I’m remembering something unconventional about her appearance.”
“Heather? No way.”
“Maybe I’m thinking of somebody else.”
Brewster pushed away from the table. “Heather’s a straight arrow. Hell, I’m pretty sure she votes Republican. I’ll send her in.”
He left the conference room and found the architect of Crestview’s new business plan in her office. Heather sat at her desk, busy as usual and dressed conservatively in blouse and skirt—nothing unconventional in her appearance, from just below the butterfly tattoo on her neck, anyway. He came in and closed the door behind him. “You’re the new boss.”
The brunette dynamo, tamer of problems, handler of any situation that might come her way, looked up at him with Bambi eyes. “What?”
“I’m quitting.”
The same expression flashed across her face he’d heard earlier on the phone—equal measures of anger and panic. “That’s it, huh? Things get a little tough and you just walk away. People here have families, babies—”
“Look, I can’t explain my reasons for leaving, but we both know you can do my job in your sleep.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, and I’m just a phone call away if you ever need advice.” Presuming he stayed out of jail. But he refused to let his mind go there. “Undo your ponytail and let your hair down. That’ll make you look a little older.”
“Older?”
“More mature.” Brewster bid a silent, sad farewell to the tattoo on her neck. “The man’s an old-school creep. The only symbols he wants to see are dollar signs.”
“Fine.” She reached behind her head and unbraided her hair.
“It’s a small price to pay, Heather. That guy’s dying to have somebody turn this company around for him. You’ll be a star.”
“Yeah? Who’ll get the credit?” Heather was nobody’s fool.
“Who cares? Just march into the conference room, say yes to as many questions as you can, and ask for a raise at the end.”
The prospect of higher pay worked wonders on her frown, almost turning it into a smile.
“That’s right, a raise,” he continued. “Then you can move your stuff into my office and put your feet on the desk.”
“You mean after I kill you?”
He knew she’d be fine once she plunged into the job. Heather had come up with a solid business plan, and she was tough enough to see it through. She had no qualms about saying no most of the time, perhaps the single most important characteristic for somebody tasked with the responsibility of making proper loan decisions. If Brewster had said no a little more often, the company wouldn’t have needed a turnaround plan in the first place.
He swept his arm toward the conference room. “Go get ’em.”
Heather started away.
“Wait. Where’s my trucker and his girlfriend?”
“In your office.”
Brewster swallowed past a lump in his throat as he turned to leave. He’d just taken his first tentative step off the grid, leaving no small portion of his self-definition behind. Unless he succeeded in changing the past, he might never find his way back.
But he’d done something fantastic just now. He’d found the courage to turn his back on the false god of a poorly earned paycheck by stepping down. Heather was capable of rescuing a fine team of employees from the unemployment line. He hadn’t been.
Maybe he didn’t have a spring in his step as he walked out of Heather’s office, but he had no problem holding his head high.
He went into his own office, closed the door behind him, and smiled at a scruffy poet-trucker and his raven-haired girlfriend. “Thanks for waiting. I’m hoping you can help me with something.”
Igor Tesfaye extended his hand. “We have your back, my friend.”
“Thanks.” Maybe the two of them could find a way to pull Gabriella’s knife out of it. He shook Igor’s hand and turned to Kara Danahey.
She looked
