The Plan Read online

  “Very well, sir.”

  His jaw is still set, and a little bulge at the hinge flexes. Then he shifts away from me and presses his index finger near his ear. Cabin pressure is affecting his ears. Jury is still out on the other issue.

  “Gum?” I offer him a stick.

  He straightens—seems surprised—but reaches over and takes the proffered gum. It’s wintergreen.

  Hopefully acceptable. Cinnamon is a deal breaker.

  I get the universal guy nod as substitute for an offering of thanks.

  Roughly five dozen chews into the gum and the atmosphere is full-fledged awkward. Quiet. Unsettling.

  Weird.

  He begins sifting through the in-flight magazines. I dare say he looks lost without his omnipresent phone.

  “Have you had a chance to read this yet?” I hold out the book I purchased for him yesterday. I feel confident he hasn’t read it; it just came out.

  It is a Kodak moment, tired phraseology be damned. This might be the closest I ever get to seeing Alaric Canon at a loss for words. Taken aback. Discombobulated.

  Well, no. Not quite that far.

  But he is surprised and surprised enough to not completely mask it. There is an adorable twinkle in his eye. Or the reflection of the emergency exit lights. Whichever.

  He takes it from my hand slowly, almost like he can’t believe it’s not booby-trapped. He looks at it for a moment then lifts it up in a strange salute to me before he starts reading.

  That’s all right. Just go ahead and be above verbal expressions of gratitude. I will get you to say the words someday, you ungrateful mother…

  The pilot has long since turned off the seat-belt sign, but I’m not certain that I’m free to move about the cabin. Upward of a gallon of coffee has gone down Canon’s gullet without a single bathroom break. Inhuman.

  I, however, do not have a retrofitted industrial bladder.

  I touch his armrest in hope to get his attention. His eyes flash to it, then me. I gesture toward the restroom. I tell myself that this is out of courtesy, but I feel pretty sure he thinks he’s granting permission. I’m not going to trifle, to split hairs. I just need to survive this trip.

  Close this deal. Last a week, or a month if I can.

  I can play. I can deal.

  Perfect. Quiet. Docile. Opinionless. Sterile.

  Act as if the COYA file created me in a lab.

  Whatever it takes. Whatever he needs.

  30 days. At most.

  An Emma-ectomy.

  That is the new program.

  I have a new plan.

  9:45 p.m.

  * Location: Hyatt—Top floor. Room 928. Across from Canon’s.

  * Room: Could not be more beige.

  * Laptop: Charging.

  * Suitcase: Unpacked.

  * Bath: Drawn. And cold.

  WHY IS MY BATH COLD? Because I, purchaser of sadist shoes, needed to soak after wearing cheese graters on my feet yesterday and then traveling and walking and sitting through meetings and touring facilities and impersonating a pack mule today. ’Twas not meant to be.

  Instead I have spent the last two hours typing up messages as Canon rattled them off in rapid succession.

  He asked for bar charts. I generated them while he shaved.

  He changed his mind to line graphs. I converted them while he took a phone call out in the hall.

  He complained that he had left his blue tie at home. I produced the spare one I’d brought from the office.

  Ten minutes ago, he’d loosened his tie, wrung his hands, and made an aside that he couldn’t relax. I prepared a cup of chamomile tea and texted Clara that I owed her big time for all the ridiculous stuff she packed. He began drinking it and asked why I was still in his room.

  You’re welcome.

  “When would you like the day to start tomorrow?”

  “Their offices open at eight. We will get there at seven.”

  No fashionably late for that guy. I tried to cover my surprise but failed.

  He explained, “It’s best to see who arrives when, who’s dedicated. Actions over words.” His fingers twisted and pulled free the already loosened knot in his tie. His upturned chin and neck stretched above the shirt collar. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing smoothly. I swallowed too.

  I nodded and gathered my things. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Canon,” I said, turning to face him from his doorway.

  He tilted his head almost like a dog that is pretty sure you have something behind your back. “Good night, Ms. Baker.”

  Now I’m draining the tub while I hang the rest of my clothes. The cocktail dresses go in the bathroom in the hope that steam will help with the wrinkles. Suits go to the closest.

  While the tub refills, I place our breakfast orders. The hotel supplied coffee is a total loss, as they really don’t have a large selection. I order the cream and sweetener anyway. Because my middle name is Prepared, I brought a bag of his coffee. Muffins and eggs and some type of pig. I have no way of knowing if he is a protein or carb morning person, so I’m covering all the bases. Orange juice for him. Grape, apple, and cranberry for me in case he hates OJ.

  They send up the in-room coffee pot, and I consider brewing a practice pot, but I don’t want my whole room to reek of it.

  I bring my cell into the bathroom because I just have a feeling.

  The psychic network needs to recruit me because about three-point-five minutes into my well-deserved bath, he calls.

  “Hello.” I hold still, trying not to slosh water. I have suddenly become conscious about the drawbacks of being in the tub.

  Tub means nude.

  “Why would you take the second quarter P&L with you?”

  “I didn’t, sir. It’s in your case, behind the personnel lists.”

  “If I had it, I wouldn’t be calling you.”

  “Everything is in alpha order in your case. It’s been in there all evening.”

  “I need it.”

  “Fine. I will be there in under ten minutes.”

  “That is an especially long time to walk across the hall. No matter. It is not here.”

  “I will look through my things and call you back, sir.”

  “I will wait.”

  “Oh, surely you have better things to do than listen to me look for papers. I will call you back in a few minutes.”

  “Are you unable to interpret certain social cues, Ms. Baker? It should be obvious to anyone that I am irritated, and yet you persist.”

  Sigh. I look at my bubbles. So long bubbles.

  I learned this on the day I took this position, didn’t I? Do what he wants when he wants it even if it doesn’t make sense.

  “Of course, Mr. Canon,” I acquiesce…

  …and then stand right the fuck up in the bath, water sloshing and splashing and then gurgling loudly when I hold the receiver down near the drain. With a metallic thump, I flip the lever so the water starts to go down.

  I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder while I dry off. The terry is soft, but it still rustles against me. I might’ve made sure it brushed across the phone a couple of times, too.

  “Ms. Baker, um, I will check here again. I will call back if I find it.”

  “As you wish, sir. I will finish looking here, and then, if need be, come to your room,” I say, and smile what is probably a very wicked smile before adding, “as soon as I get dressed.”

  I throw on the first thing I find and get myself into his room almost immediately.

  The file is there. Slipped down in his case. It actually is hard to see, and I’m a bit panicked as I first begin to look.

  Not sure what he expected me to show up in when I went to his room, but I don’t think it was pajama pants and a tank. He’s still in his slacks and dress shirt. I think he might sleep in them.

  Hell, he may not require sleep. The advances of cyborg technology and all that.

  Day of Employment:

  376

  4:45 a.m.

&nbs
p; * Bedspread: Back on bed.

  * Coffee: Set to brew in one hour.

  * Clothes: Yoga pants and Mr. Bubbles T-shirt.

  * Location: Hotel fitness center.

  I’M WONDERING WHAT cosmic missteps I’ve taken to now find myself perpetually awake before God.

  I have committed myself to making personal progress. Hitting the gym early enough to be done and leave it before the sun cracks over the horizon tests my resolve.

  Further, the object of my resolution, the point of it, was to get Canon to notice me. That boost of confidence that puts a spring in one’s step. The positive aura that translates as sex appeal. That is what I was going for.

  It’s all for naught now. Reminding myself that I was merely trying to garner his attention for motivational purposes—that it would be really sick to otherwise hitch my star to such a dysfunctional wagon—is getting harder to reconcile when the alarm goes off.

  How did it come to this? To this point of a desperate, pitiful, embarrassing type of thing you would only admit to yourself and the last amber drops echoing in a bottle of what used to be Jack?

  Memory blocks rearrange and stack as I recall my initial time at the company, time when I was centered and the existence of one Alaric Canon was comfortably part of the vast unknown. Surely I was not so transfixed immediately. Surely not…

  Day of Employment: 1

  7:55 a.m.

  * Bag: Wallet, picture of best friend and self, makeup, notepad, lunch, hairclip.

  * Clothes: Red wrap dress, red pumps.

  * Hair: I don’t even want to talk about it.

  I LEFT TWENTY MINUTES early today. That should’ve been plenty of time for normal traffic and most emergency circumstances.

  But no.

  The lot was scraped down to glaring ice. The windshield would not defrost. Time out in the wind has taken a toll on my hair; it is now inexplicable. Everyone drove too fast or too slow. Hit every light. Encountered a school bus route that I didn’t know about during my route test run yesterday.

  I should learn not to even bother with being prepared.

  The best laid plans oft go awry. Oft? What the fuck is oft all about? Too much going on to finish the entire word?

  That’s all just a nice way of saying one is screwed regardless.

  Life’s a bitch, and she has several sisters.

  Now I’m riding the elevator while it stops on nearly every floor. People file in and out.

  One person gets on and rides it up one whole level. I suppress a scream.

  Some guy behind me huffs irritably. I keep my eyes trained on the numbers. Climb. Stop.

  We’re over capacity at one point, I’m certain of it. I feel my backside get pressed into the person behind me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “Not your fault.” A deep voice. A soft reply. The flesh behind my ear tingles. Instinct, for reasons I don’t want to examine, tells me to fold into the man behind me.

  Then I realize that this man is probably getting a face full of my frizzy hair. Mortifying.

  The doors open for my floor and I bolt, never looking back.

  10:11 a.m.

  “THIS IS THE BREAK ROOM,” Madeline states the obvious. I don’t mind. It’s comforting.

  “The coffee is on the honor system. There’s usually a fundraiser for someone’s school children if you want snacks, otherwise the vending machines are here to price gouge you.” Madeline goes on explaining and tosses a handful of change in the collection jar next to the coffee pot.

  “The refrigerators are cleaned out every Monday,” she says and begins to pour a coffee from one of the pots. “You can get some really nice st—”

  A blond woman with a severe look barrels through the room toward where we stand. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, clearing a path for her, but conversation continues without pause. Madeline stands to the side, holding her coffee pot aloft and smiling cryptically at me. I’m sure I look confused.

  The blonde reaches for a pot with a masking tape ring on the handle, pours a cup swiftly with one hand while adding what looks to be specially reserved creamer and sweetener. She turns, lips pursing tightly, and heads out of the room.

  “Damn it!” The blond woman switches the cup to her other hand and sucks her now free—and probably scalded—hand into her mouth, then shakes it off, all the while walking swiftly away.

  My hands float out, a silent request for explanation.

  Madeline, smiling, resumes pouring her coffee. “That is Mr. Canon’s assistant.” She pours in enough sugar to trigger early onset diabetes and leans back on the counter. “Well, for the moment.”

  “Oh, has she been having trouble?” That explains why she seemed so nervous, why everyone got out of her way.

  “Heck, no. She’s doing exceptionally well. She’s lasted for almost a month. May even set a record.”

  I decide I need to stay far, far away from this Canon person.

  2:58 p.m.

  “PAY UP.” A thin young man leans over Madeline’s cubicle wall with his palm up.

  “Hold your horses there.” Madeline is chewing on a marker and looking over a colorful chart. “Yep, it is you.” She looks up at the guy and then hands him an envelope from her desk.

  I do my best to acclimate myself to this new computer program, but their exchange has definitely piqued my interest.

  “Sweet!” He fist pumps and then looks back at me rather shamefacedly. “Oh, you must be Emma. I’m Bert Stiles.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. “You also must think I’m terribly morbid, benefitting from the misfortune of others.”

  My mouth opens, but I don’t really even know what to say. Out of the loop here.

  Madeline rolls closer to me and whispers conspiratorially, “We have a betting pool for how long Canon’s assistants last.”

  My head pulls back. That is rather cold-hearted. Bert fans through several large bills.

  Cold-hearted…and profitable. I have loans to pay. Shoes to buy.

  Heels on Deals. Pumps before Chumps.

  “How does this work?” I ask, but suddenly everyone seems to have heard some cue that I’ve missed. They straighten and begin a flutter of activity.

  Self-preservation instincts are not kicking in; I stand up to see what’s going on. I imagine that I stick out like a sore, red thumb over the tops of everyone else.

  That is when I see him.

  Whoever he is.

  Except, I know.

  I just know.

  Oh, my good God.

  There are not enough words.

  Beautiful.

  Ineffable.

  Utterly F-able.

  He’s a few feet from a set of large, dark wooden doors in the far corner. The desk outside that office is empty. He moves smoothly past it and scans the room.

  His eyes fall on me. I’m incapable of movement under his gaze. Held. Matador. Bull.

  He straightens his collar, never falters in his long strides. Looks away from me.

  And then he’s gone.

  Everyone resumes their normal lives and conversations, and I’m left standing still and dumbstruck while the world happens around me.

  SHAKING FREE OF THE MEMORY, I speed the treadmill up.

  I will feel better for this. Definitely. Maybe. Definitely maybe.

  I sit at work all day and study all night. It’s not going to do me any good to finish school if I keel over dead.

  Runs in the family.

  This is the problem with treadmills. Too much time to think.

  6:00 a.m.

  * Breakfast: Arrived 15 minutes ago. Gone.

  * Hair: French twist.

  * Clothes: Beige suit. It’s like keeping a little piece of my room with me all day.

  * Coffee: Blue Mountain Jamaica. Freshly brewed. Go, me.

  CANON’S BREAKFAST ARRIVES as I exit my room. The server smiles at me; he knows he’ll be getting a stellar tip for splitting the delivery.

  He knocks, and the door opens as if by m
agic. I duck in behind the cart, hot coffee in hand. Not that I have to sneak in. I have a key.

  Clangs emanate from the bathroom while the table is set up, and I make quick work of the sugar and cream.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” The server speaks loudly to a closed bathroom door.

  Canon dismisses him with something muffled I can’t quite make out. There hasn’t been any water running. I don’t really know what I will encounter when that bathroom door opens. He may be fully clothed.

  He may regenerate suits like a T-1000.

  But the distinct possibility he may appear in some stage of undress exists.

  Alaric Canon. With skin exposed.

  Must focus.

  Focus, focus, focus.

  He said to be here at 6:00 a.m.

  I’m here at 6:00 a.m.

  Do what he says when he says. Even though it doesn’t make sense to me.

  Some items still need packing up. Chargers and files. His laptop.

  Not a chance in hell I’m going to do that now and rob myself of something to concentrate on when he walks into the room.

  Be calm. Cool.

  Cool as a cucumber…which sets my mind skipping down a dirty little path…

  Sweet Baby Moses in a reed basket, it’s happening now. The door is opening, and I don’t know whether to sit or stand or turn around or look away or jump out the sliding door and hole up in a log cabin in the hills.

  Calm. The. Fuck. Down.

  This might be the closest I will get to the upper hand.

  You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Canon. You don’t tolerate mistakes, Mr. Canon. When you set a time, it’s not an approximation, Mr. Canon.

  I breathe. Deeply.

  It’s like a dance, but I’m leading this one. I know why I’m here. I’m justified in being here.

  One long leg breaks the threshold. I force myself to turn at what feels like half-speed. I’m ramped up on nerves, and moving too quickly will show it.