Making the First Move Read online

  Then a miracle occurs. The right corner of Damien’s mouth curls up in what I can only assume is an attempt at a smile. He doesn’t do it often, so the muscles on the left side of his face don’t appear quite strong enough to join in.

  Jane launches into a closed-mouth, throaty laugh. I join in with a subdued laugh of my own. When someone like Damien Jasper makes an attempt to be a decent human being, you have to reward his effort.

  “I’m glad you mentioned the candidates,” Damien says with a look Jane and I both know signals the end of the laughter. “Your work with the larger accounts has been impressive. Yet you still manage to give each candidate personal service.” He nods toward Jane.

  She turns to me, waving a thick green file folder with my name—Gordon, Melanie—typed on the label. My employee file. “I’ve gotten emails from several candidates you’ve placed. This is my favorite.”

  Jane pulls out an email and hands it to me. It’s from Edmond Bennett. His health has improved. He’s dropped twenty pounds now that he’s not in such a stressful environment. His family life is happier. He spends more time with his wife and children.

  Melanie saw what I brought to the table—not the fact that I am an older, overweight man, he writes. The headhunters I dealt with before her were unable to see past that.

  Heart soaring, my mouth stretches into a grin that tightens every muscle in my face. Making the perfect match for a candidate gives me the same satisfaction the typical busybody gets from matching a homely, bucktooth cousin with a Sports Illustrated model. Not that my candidates are bucktooth or homely. For the most part.

  “This makes it all worthwhile for me.”

  “More than the money?” Damien peers at me as if I’ve uttered complete heresy.

  I sense an opportunity. “The money is important. But making a difference to our clients and impacting the lives of our candidates brings me the greatest satisfaction.” I sit back and cross my legs.

  He seems pleased with my answer, as does Jane.

  “Well, Ms. Fisher and I have been discussing your future here at Jasper & Graevel.”

  He has my complete attention. I’ve worked my ass off the past five years for an opportunity like this. My dad was the president of a major personnel firm by the time he was thirty-five. He started his own firm with a friend five years later. It may take me a little longer, but I plan to do the same.

  A hefty raise would also mean I can finally afford to move from my tiny one-bedroom apartment into a two-bedroom condo.

  “You’ve done excellent work during your tenure with Jasper & Graevel. And I see you spent two years managing a smaller executive search firm in Ohio,” Damien continues. “We don’t want to risk losing you to one of our competitors. Besides, superior work should be recognized and compensated.” He nods toward Jane as if they have this speech synchronized.

  Jane places her cold, bony fingers on my forearm. I shiver at her touch, icy as a doctor’s stethoscope against my skin. I suck in a deep breath and hope for good news.

  “We believe you’re ready for promotion,” she says, then smiles, “to regional talent acquisition manager.”

  Impressive title. Does it pay any more than my current position?

  “Wow! I can’t believe it.” I place my hand to my chest. “I’m thrilled you’ve selected me for this new position. What will the job entail?”

  Is this more work, but the same dough?

  Damien’s nostrils flare, his lips drawn into a tight smirk. “It will mean a substantial raise for you and an increased percentage of your placements. You also get your own office.”

  Now he’s talking. Even Jane only has a glorified cubicle. I look around and begin imagining drapes. “Where?”

  “Cleveland,” Jane announces in a voice that would be far more appropriate had I won a million dollars or at least a new car.

  I cover my mouth and cough. “Ohio?”

  Jane nods. “You’re going home.”

  “I didn’t realize we had a Cleveland office.” Panic rises in my chest.

  Jane’s face beams with the pride of an Ivy League valedictorian’s mother. “We’re starting from scratch. You’ll be in charge of setup—including hiring your own staff. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “It is.” My heart tap-dances in my chest. “Is there any particular reason this region was selected?”

  “I can understand your concerns. But let me assure you, we wouldn’t be expanding there if exciting opportunities weren’t on the horizon.” Damien’s tone is confident. “We’ve closed deals with three mid-sized firms moving into the area within the next eighteen months. The details are still confidential right now, but they’re major players.”

  “And we’re in negotiations with several smaller firms ready to expand,” Jane adds.

  “So this plan has been in the works for some time.” I need to convince myself I’m not being sent to the J&G equivalent of Siberia over the elevator incident. “Has a site been selected?”

  A slight frown furrows Damien’s brow. “It has. Sorry you weren’t part of the selection process, but I’m sure you’ll love the new space.”

  “I don’t remember seeing this job posted.” I grin inwardly as I imagine how Priscilla will take the news. She’ll stage a protest of some sort, I’m sure, but a hunger strike is out of the question. She subsists on roots and twigs as it is.

  “We didn’t think anyone within our organization was ready for the challenge. But in light of recent events, Jane believes you’re ready to move into management.”

  “We’ve been watching you for the past month,” Jane confesses. “You’re perfect for this position. You know the company, our methods, how we deal with our clients. Plus you’re native to the region. You have local contacts and past management experience.”

  I’m lost in thought as I calculate the number of personal calls I’ve made, the lunch hours that were closer to an hour and fifteen minutes, the copies I made after-hours for my friend, Raine, and the number of J&G office supplies that may or may not be in my apartment.

  “Are you with us, Ms. Gordon? I’m sure this is a bit overwhelming,” Damien says.

  “But not unwelcome,” I interject. “There’s just a lot to process. The promotion, a new branch of J&G, the idea of going home. I hadn’t anticipated moving back to Cleveland. Ever.”

  “I see.” His mouth twists in a frown. “Well, if relocation is a problem—”

  “It isn’t,” I say quickly. “In fact, my mother will be thrilled,” I add through clenched teeth.

  “Good.” Damien leans forward on his elbows, rests his chin on clasped hands and looks me squarely in the eye. “Let’s talk dollars and cents.”

  He pushes a large envelope with my name on it toward the edge of his desk. Jane walks over, picks the envelope up and hands it to me.

  I take a deep breath and visualize the salary I’d like to see before I open the envelope and read the offer letter. I gasp. Damien and Jane chuckle. It far exceeds my expectations. They’re offering a sizable compensation and relocation package.

  Jane and Damien sit patiently as I review the letter carefully then read it again.

  “Is everything to your liking?” Damien asks.

  “The offer’s quite generous.” I restrain an overwhelming desire to break into a dreadful version of the Running Man. “There is one thing missing, though.”

  “What’s wrong? What did we miss?” Panic grips Jane’s face. Of course. She has a nice, fat bonus riding on this, not to mention her reputation with Damien.

  “A pen. I can’t sign the offer without one.”

  “I’ve been very remiss.” Damien smiles again. This time the other side of his mouth joins the party. He takes a Mont Blanc pen out of his suit pocket, walks around his desk and hands it to me.

  My hand trembles a
s I sign the offer letter. I’ve worked hard for this, but the thought of going home is unnerving. “What a gorgeous pen.” I extend it toward him. “It writes beautifully.”

  “Consider it my gift to you.” He waves me off and heads toward the door.

  Rejecting his gift doesn’t appear to be an option. I follow him to the door, shiny new pen in hand. “Thank you—both of you. I’m grateful for the tremendous opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  “See to it that you don’t,” Damien says.

  “I’m sure you know not all of your workmates will be pleased with your good fortune,” Jane whispers in my ear as we trail behind him. “A few will be eager to see you fall flat on your face.”

  “I know.” I think of Priscilla and her cronies. “I’ll work hard to prove I’m worthy of the faith you’ve put in me.”

  “I know you will.” She smiles.

  Damien makes a right at the end of the hall, in the opposite direction from HR. I turn to Jane. She smiles as we follow Damien into the conference room, where Marilyn is stacking plastic cups and fussing over a sandwich tray.

  Our entire division is squeezed into the conference space. A table is filled with cold cuts, crudité and desserts.

  Damien gives a short speech about our new initiatives and the decision to open an office in Cleveland.

  “Ohio?” a few people ask in disbelief.

  “Yes, Cleveland, Ohio,” Damien says firmly. Then he forces a smile. “Help me congratulate the regional talent acquisition manager for our new Great Lakes branch—Ms. Melanie Gordon!”

  Our group of twenty-five or so applauds. Priscilla is among the crowd, face pinched, cheeks reddish purple. There’s a good chance she’ll pop a blood vessel any minute. Her hands come together in a stilted, off-beat half-clap as she bores a hole in my forehead with her evil stare.

  I smile. Today I’m not intimidated by Priscilla Cohen. Today I feel invincible. Nothing she says or does can bother me.

  I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. It feels too good to be true. Like I’m floating, looking down on someone else’s life. Things this amazing don’t happen to me.

  This incredible feeling lasts eight hours, thirty-five minutes and seventeen seconds. It ends when I pick up the phone to call my mother and tell her I’m coming home.

  Chapter Two

  I spend an hour straightening my apartment, as if my mother will be able to see it through the telephone. After some quiet meditation—and half a berry wine cooler—I’m ready to make the call.

  “Melanie?” My mother has been practicing her “feigned surprise” act. It’s more convincing than ever.

  “I know it’s been a while.”

  “It’s been two and a half weeks.”

  I cringe. “It hasn’t been that long, Mom.”

  “It was your father’s birthday.”

  So maybe it has been a while. And she’s right; I should’ve called. It’s been six years since Dad died. Mom gets a little depressed in the weeks following his birthday. I inhale deeply then force the warm stream of air through my nostrils, careful not to let her hear it. “Sorry. Things have been crazy at work, but I have great news.”

  “Oh?” Her voice softens.

  “I got a huge promotion today. I’m in charge of a new branch we’re opening soon.”

  “Congratulations, honey! That is wonderful news,” she says. “But I guess we’ll hear from you even less now.”

  “Mom...”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I miss you. We all do. I wish you’d visit more often.”

  A smile spreads across my face.

  “So, where is this fancy new office you’re opening? I can’t wait to tell the ladies at the senior center.”

  “Cleveland.”

  “You’re...coming home?” The words trip over her tongue.

  I smile. It’s rare to elicit such a response from my mother. “By the end of the month.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!” Her voice is unsteady. She sniffles. “And your timing is perfect.”

  “Because you get sad around Daddy’s birthday?”

  “No, dear. Because you aren’t getting any younger. Maybe now that you’re coming home you’ll finally settle down.”

  My mother has the skills of a CIA operative trained in psychological torture. Moments ago we were celebrating a milestone in my career. We’ve quickly returned to the familiar discussion of my failed love life.

  I bury the pain of my fractured heart and crushed dreams of marital bliss beneath a stack of manila folders at the office. Between episodes of How I Met Your Mother. At the bottom of a pint of Häagen-Dazs. I don’t appreciate my mother’s insistence on pulling out a pick axe and shovel every time we talk.

  Heat rises in my chest as I pace back and forth in my tiny kitchen. “Can we just enjoy my good news?”

  “Of course, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy.” My voice remains calm even through clenched teeth, though my hand is balled into a fist so tight my nails dig into my palm. “What I want is for you to be proud of me.”

  “Of course I’m proud of you.” Her voice turns somber. There’s an agonizing silence that’s all-too-familiar. “I only wish your father was here to see it.”

  “Me, too.” My voice breaks. “I’ve been preparing for an opportunity like this my entire career, but I’m scared. I cannot screw this up. I wish Daddy was here to hold my hand and tell me everything will be okay.” I was Daddy’s little girl and the son he never had—all rolled into one. Dad played basketball in college. I practiced shooting jumpers in the driveway for hours to impress him. My father held prestigious positions at executive search firms. I’ve spent my entire career climbing the ladder at talent management firms. Dad died of a massive heart attack six years ago. Whenever I think the wound has healed, moments like this split it open again.

  “I miss him.” I open the fridge in search of something comforting and sweet.

  “You two were so close. Your sister and I were always a little jealous,” she says quietly. “I know your father was your hero, Melanie, but you can’t replace him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your relationships don’t work out because you’re waiting for a miracle that’s never going to happen.”

  “Like what?” My forehead is tight. The muscles of my face contract into a scowl.

  “You’re waiting for someone as perfect as you think your father was. That’s why you’re always disappointed.”

  I slam the refrigerator closed. A half-full bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream falls over. There isn’t much to cushion its fall. “That’s ridiculous.” My hands are clenched at my sides. My voice is strained. “I’m not trying to replace Dad. I simply know what I want and I won’t settle for less.”

  “Still searching for that perfect man?” She sighs.

  I look at the tattered list on my refrigerator, enumerating the characteristics of my ideal man. It reads like a detailed job description. My cheeks burn. I don’t respond.

  “Then you’ll never settle down because no one is perfect, honey, not even you.”

  “This is your issue, Mom, not mine,” I say, chin raised, arms crossed. “I’m perfectly content with my life.”

  And I am. Sort of. My career is going better than planned, but at the expense of my personal life. Finding the perfect match for my clients is a cinch. My perfect match has been as elusive as peace in the Middle East. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve given up trying.

  I’m selective, with good reason. I can’t endure another relationship like the four years I spent hopelessly in love with Jaxson Payne. He had all the power; I ended up with all the pain.

  “I don’t
believe that,” Mom says. “I hear the loneliness in your voice when you call. I hear it today.”

  I nearly drop my cell phone, cradled between my ear and shoulder, into the sink as I fill the teakettle with water. “I’m not lonely. I’m alone by choice. It’s not the same thing.”

  “They aren’t the same thing. But you, my dear, are both.”

  I grit my teeth as I reach for a packet of chamomile tea.

  “Don’t grind your teeth, sweetie, and please don’t be angry with me. I just want you to have everything you deserve. A husband who adores you. A beautiful family. Don’t you want what your sister has?”

  The teacup I’m holding falls from my hand. I pull my bare foot back a millisecond before it crashes to the floor. It’s Corelle. It will survive. I’m not so sure I will.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Everything’s fine.” I stoop to pick up the teacup and place it in the sink. “I do want to be happy. But whether or not I achieve it is up to me, not some guy who may or may not exist.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t find a measure of contentment without someone special in your life. But remember how thrilled your sister was when she got married? And then when the boys were born? I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you traded all that for a corner office.”

  “That was then. What about now? Maybe she wishes she hadn’t traded her career for a husband and kids. Maybe she’d trade places with me in a second.”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  Nothing would make me happier than to prove my mother’s theory wrong. I could cite all the times Mimi has called in tears about something my brother-in-law has—or hasn’t—done like earn a living. Or I could recount the times she’s called frustrated, with peanut butter stuck in her hair and jelly stains all over her pants. I could tell her that Mimi wishes she’d become an interior designer first, then had her kids.

  I won’t betray my sister’s confidence to win an argument with my mother who’s twenty-five hundred miles away.