The Last Man on Earth Page 11

  The telephone rang, startling her. She picked up the receiver and listened to the dark velvet of Zack’s voice wash over her, warm and soothing. “Am I calling too late?” he asked.

  “No. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

  “Worrying about tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “You did the right thing, Madelyn. It’ll be okay.”

  “Will it? I’ll be sure to note that on my résumé under the word ‘fired’ when I’m out looking for a new job next week.”

  “They aren’t going to fire you.”

  “Demote me, then. I’ll probably be doing layout illustrations for laxative and suppository ads. Boy, will those be fun.”

  “Well, somebody has to do them.”

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Zachary Douglas. It isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t, but you are. You want me to put on my trench coat and fedora and sneak over to cheer you up?”

  “No, since I know your cheering-up method will guarantee I don’t get any sleep tonight.”

  “Ah, but think how much you will have enjoyed your sleepless night.”

  “I am not going to let you tempt me,” she told him firmly.

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a smidgen.”

  “We could talk dirty instead.”

  “Zack!”

  “Hey, it was worth a shot. Did you enjoy your visit with your family?”

  After that non sequitur, it took her a moment to regroup. “I did, very much. Birthdays are always fun.”

  Are they? Zack thought. Maybe for Madelyn.

  His he remembered differently. Such as the year his mom had flown into a rage and thrown his birthday cake across the room at his dad, smashing it against the kitchen wall. And afterward how he and his little sister crouched on the floor to eat a few forkfuls from where the cake had shattered in upside-down chunks on the aged linoleum.

  Or the birthday he’d turned sixteen, split a keg of beer with a quartet of rowdy friends, and wrapped his dad’s beaten-up Buick around a sixty-foot oak tree on the outskirts of town. He still had the scar just up under his hairline from the gash he’d received, along with the memory of the night he’d spent in jail.

  Yeah, birthdays were always fun.

  “Your sister enjoyed herself?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was a wonderful party and she received so many lovely gifts.”

  “What was her favorite?”

  The pearl necklace from James, she thought, but she couldn’t tell Zack about that. Somehow she didn’t think he’d be happy to hear she’d seen her ex-lover at the party. He’d be even less pleased to know she’d patched up her friendship with him and that James had asked her to marry him again.

  On the other hand, maybe Zack wouldn’t care, as long as he knew she would still make herself available to him for sex on an exclusive basis, for as long as it suited them both. The idea that one day it might not suit him anymore started a funny little ache in the center of her chest.

  She rubbed the heel of her hand over the spot and drew a silent, calming breath. “It was the easel and set of oil paints my parents bought her. Ivy’s a very talented artist.”

  “As are you. So will you be okay?”

  His question started a fresh rush of nerves. Did he know what she’d been thinking, feeling? How could he?

  “What do you mean?”

  “About tomorrow and work,” he said. “What else did you think I meant?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I guess I’ll have to be.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Red. Now, quit worrying about it and get that sleep you won’t let me disturb.”

  “I thought I told you not to call me Red.”

  “That’s right, you did. Sleep tight, Red.” He hung up the phone.

  “Sleep tight, Zack,” she replied to the sound of the dial tone.

  She fluffed her pillow and prepared to deal with a long bout of insomnia, then, with a sigh, rolled over and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The fine hairs on the back of Madelyn’s neck stood up when she received the midmorning summons.

  She’d expected her supervisor, Larry Roland, to be the chosen bearer of bad tidings. She’d also expected him to put off the actual delivery of said tidings until the end of the day, since he was a master of avoiding confrontations for as long as he possibly could.

  So when she received word that she was wanted in one hour, not in Larry’s office, but in the executive suite on the top floor, her heart plunged straight to her stomach. It had to mean she’d been selected for a special dressing-down. Perhaps worse, she was going to be made an example of within the company before she was told to pack her things and go. Why, oh why, hadn’t she just kept her big honest mouth shut?

  She’d seen Zack first thing this morning in the otherwise unoccupied break room. On the pretext of reaching for the sugar, he’d squeezed her hand and whispered a few words of encouragement into her ear, then given her one of his warmest smiles, the kind that could turn an entire polar ice cap into slush, instantly.

  At least it turned her to slush.

  Luckily, she’d made it back to her office alone and unobserved, since her heart must surely have been shining in her eyes.

  Fortunately, Zack had gone into a meeting shortly before she’d received her summons—otherwise she would have given up the game by running straight into his office to have a good cry on his shoulder.

  Instead she’d headed for the ladies’ room to indulge in a solitary cry inside one of the stalls.

  Now, only a few minutes before the inquisition was scheduled to begin, she made a return visit to the ladies’ room to freshen up her makeup one final time. She took a hard, considering look in the mirror, confronting the fear that showed in her eyes.

  Graysons are not cowards.

  She repeated the phrase in her head. No matter what happens, she told herself, no matter how dreadful things might seem, she would be fine. Stiffening her spine, she smoothed the skirt of her green wool dress, straightened the cuffs of her half-length jacket, and took a deep breath.

  Graysons are not cowards.

  It was her mantra as she rode the elevator to the top floor, and as she perched on a plush leather armchair in the executive reception area, notebook teetering on her knees.

  “Ms. Grayson? Mr. Fielding will see you now.” Tall, beautiful, and brunette, the executive assistant walked to a set of massive oak double doors. She opened the one on the right.

  Mr. Fielding?

  Lord, it was worse than Madelyn had imagined. She’d assumed she would be meeting with one of the vice presidents, not the CEO himself. The orange juice she’d drunk earlier that morning suddenly turned to lava in her stomach.

  Her misery only increased when she entered the room and saw all of the men seated around a large table in the center of the room.

  She recognized three of the four men present. Besides Harold Fielding, there was Stan Lindley, senior vice president and creative director for her department. He frowned through the pair of thick-lensed, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his long, thin nose.

  Next to him, looking as if he were in danger of being strangled by his own tie, sat her boss, Larry.

  She didn’t know the fourth man, but she had her suspicions. In his fifties, he was thick chested, with wavy iron gray hair and broad, hard-looking hands. His chin was as pugnacious as a mastiff’s, his metallic gray eyes every bit as fierce.

  Fielding rose and stepped forward. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

  Madelyn sat down at the table, folding her hands in her lap.

  Fielding took his seat. “Ms. Grayson . . . Madelyn . . . you’re probably wondering why we’ve asked you to join us here this morning.”

  Graysons are not
cowards.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” she said.

  “It’s come to my attention—well, to our attention”—he signaled toward the assembled men—“that there’s been a bit of a dustup concerning the latest product offering from Carmichael Foods. Your account, I believe?”

  “For this one product, yes, sir, it is.”

  “Why only this one product?”

  “Mark Stinson usually handles the art direction for Carmichael. This portion of it was recently assigned to me.”

  Fielding tossed a questioning look toward Stan, who in turn looked at Larry for the answer.

  Larry squirmed in his chair. “Overloaded, too much work. We passed it on to Madelyn here. Didn’t want Carmichael Foods getting short shrift.”

  “Um, yes.” Fielding tapped a single finger on the polished wood-grain conference table. “Apparently there was a meeting last week between you and representatives from Carmichael?”

  “There was, yes.”

  “And in this meeting you were supposed to outline proposed design concepts, packaging, media coverage, that sort of thing. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Instead you arrived empty-handed and proceeded to tell the client that you would not be able to execute an advertising campaign for the product.”

  “No, sir, I told the client that although I could produce a design concept for their product, it would not be advisable for me to do so, not at this time.”

  Fielding scowled. “And why is that?”

  Madelyn wanted badly to shift in her chair, much as Larry had done a short while ago. She resisted the impulse, stiffening her back and lifting her chin. “Because I believe the product to be flawed.”

  “Flawed?”

  “Yes, sir, flawed.”

  “On what basis?”

  “On the basis of palatability.”

  “Palatability?”

  “Yes, the um . . . the product . . . a potato chip . . . is not exactly, well, it doesn’t . . .”

  “Yes,” he drawled.

  “The product doesn’t taste good.”

  “Really? The reports I have don’t concur with that opinion. In fact, product testing shows a marked liking for the new chip. Focus group research also shows a high consumer preference for the new product when matched against the leading competitor’s brand.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir. However, I’ve personally tried the product, as have trusted members of my team, and I can’t agree. Not to offend anyone, but frankly, it’s inedible. Which is the reason I felt it necessary to urge Carmichael to rethink their decision to put it on the market. Proceeding at this point would be a huge waste of resources, time, and money, for both of our firms. In my opinion, until the product is redesigned, any ad campaign, no matter how brilliant, would be doomed to failure.”

  “In your opinion. And is your opinion always so accurate?”

  “Not always, sir, but in this case it is.”

  “Oh, so all the reports, the other people who’ve promoted this product, even the consumers, they are all wrong and you’re right? Is that the way of it, Ms. Grayson?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. . . .”

  “Wouldn’t you?” he barked. “Are you wrong or are you right?”

  Realizing they’d obviously decided to hang her, Madelyn decided she might as well keep her pride and step off the gallows herself. “I am right.”

  A look of satisfaction, even admiration, sparkled in Harold Fielding’s eyes as he leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers, his words quiet. “Yes, Ms. Grayson, you are.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

  “We know all about it and we have you to thank. I apologize for not introducing you earlier and for putting you through such an intense line of questioning, but, well, Patrick and I had our reasons.” He gestured toward the gray-haired stranger who’d been stoically silent up to now. “Madelyn, this is Patrick Carmichael, owner and president of Carmichael Foods.”

  Madelyn nodded, not entirely certain what was going on. “Mr. Carmichael.”

  Carmichael nodded in return, a small smile lightening the severe angles of his face.

  Fielding continued. “Patrick here heard about your meeting and the ensuing fireworks. He decided to do some investigating of his own. Well, perhaps I should let him explain the rest.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” Carmichael continued. “Ms. Grayson, it’s a great pleasure to meet you. It’s not often I encounter someone with your sort of honesty and integrity. Refreshing these days, especially in light of recent events. When I heard about your refusal to proceed with the advertising design, I was astonished, and then perplexed. Why would a woman in your position do such a thing? You must be either a lunatic determined to ruin your own career . . . or a person who believes she’s right.”

  Carmichael drew a breath, then continued. “I’d let my lieutenants handle this product. Usually I keep my fingers in all the new pies, if you know what I mean, but in the last couple years I’ve been cutting back, taking more time for myself and my family. Wife’s been complaining I spend too much time at the office.”

  He circled a hand in the air. “Anyway, I decided to look into the matter and actually taste the product myself. It wasn’t easy to get hold of an actual sample, but once I did . . . Well, let me say that your description of it is kind. Those chips are crap. I’ve never tasted anything so awful in all my days. And to think we were about to unleash them on the American public. It took a little more digging, but it led me to uncover a deception that’s been taking place in my own company.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “A deception?”

  “Yes, I am sad to say, a cover-up perpetrated by several key people in my organization. I won’t go into exact amounts, but suffice it to say a significant portion of the R and D budget was spent on the development of this product. When it became clear the formulation was less than the unqualified success hoped for, a decision was made, without my knowledge, to launch the product anyway. Steps were taken to falsify documentation, testing, and so forth.”

  He leaned forward, smiling. “If it weren’t for you and your integrity, Madelyn, my company would have wasted millions of additional dollars on a product that was a guaranteed disaster. There’s going to be a big shake-up at Carmichael Foods, I’ll tell you that. Several upper-level executive positions will be opening up soon, I guarantee. If you’d like one of them, just say the word. We could use more people like you.”

  Before she could respond, Fielding interrupted.

  “Oh no! You’re not stealing her away from us, Pat Carmichael. We can’t have our best and brightest employees jumping over to your side of the game. Besides, she’d be bored inside of two months. A brilliant creative mind such as hers trapped inside a world of snack cakes and cheese zoodles. No, the best we can do is let her take charge of all of your advertising. What do you say, Madelyn? Think you can stand to take on Carmichael here?”

  Stunned and elated, she said, “Yes, sir, of course, I’d be delighted to. But what about Mark Stinson? He—”

  “Stinson’s busy; Larry said so. This will help reduce his burden,” he finished meaningfully.

  Madelyn hoped she hadn’t just made a lifelong enemy of Stinson, but she didn’t have time to worry about it now.

  Fielding continued. “And not to let you think hard work only gets you more hard work—which of course it does—you’ll find a nice bonus in your next paycheck. Stan? Larry? You’ll see to it.”

  In unison, perched next to each other like a pair of myna birds, they squawked, “Yes, sir.”

  Fielding glanced at his watch, then rose from his chair.

  “Gentlemen. Madelyn. It’s lunchtime and I’m famished. What do you say we continue this over a meal?” He turned to her with a warm smile. “I have a very tolerable chef. French.
Other than an occasional heavy sauce, Jacques’s dishes are quite delightful. Pat, you can stay, can’t you?”

  “If Jacques made chocolate éclairs like the last time, I can.”

  Fielding laughed. “I’m sure he has something to tempt even your discriminating palate.” He turned to await Madelyn’s answer.

  “Lunch sounds wonderful,” she said.

  She fought the urge to pinch herself, just to see if she was dreaming. Not only had she not lost her job; she was slated to receive a bonus, an important new account, and to top it all off, an invitation to enter the career-affirming inner sanctum of the executive dining room.

  In her imagination, she did a jig worthy of a Riverdance troupe and let out an earsplitting whoop. She couldn’t wait to tell Zack; she wished she could hurry back to their floor now and share her fantastic news.

  Instead, she reined in her excitement and joined the men as they all walked sedately down the hallway.

  Fielding drew her slightly aside. “Madelyn, there’s one other matter, and if I’m stacking your plate too high, just let me know. We’ve got a new luxury auto deal coming in—full-spread television and print ads with a major budget. Normally I’d be letting Zack Douglas steer that particular ship. He’s a good man, Zack, don’t get me wrong, and I still maintain every confidence in him. He’s no suck-up and I can always trust him not to put on a dog and pony show with me. He’s got spine and integrity, same as you. However, I’d like you to take on this car deal.”

  She blinked, not sure she’d heard him right.

  Then Fielding continued. “I’m interested in seeing how you run with a new ball, and whether this one will suit your interests. We need more women on the automotive side of the playing field. It’s much too male dominated, and you just might be the perfect match. What do you say?”

  What do I say? What other answer is there but yes?

  Still, as great as this new opportunity undoubtedly was, she found herself hesitating. The news wasn’t going to sit well with Zack. Not only would he be angry, but there was a very real possibility he might feel betrayed. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him. She loved Zack. But she’d be a fool to turn down this chance; she’d worked too long and too hard to let sentiment stand in her way. Hadn’t she? If the situation were reversed and Zack were in her shoes, she knew what his answer would be. Surely he would understand. After all, wasn’t he the one who always said that business was business?