If I Were You(29)

“How was your coffee, Ms. McMillan?”

I snap my attention from the painting to Mark, wondering how he manages to make a question sound like a demand. Don’t play his game and he can’t beat you at it. Chris’s words repeat in my head and they resonate within me but I feel trapped. I cannot be fired before I find out what happened to Rebecca.

“My coffee was excellent, and thank you for the second cup. It certainly helped clear the fog of too many wines and not enough time.”

“Sit and tell me what you studied and what you learned.” He motions to the brown leather chairs in front of his desk, indicating he wants me to sit in the one to his right. My urge is to claim the one to his left, all too aware this action would displease him. I am clearly conflicted over this man. I want to please him. I do not want to please him. But experience with overbearing men such as Mark prevails and I choose to do neither. How high I jump now will determine how high he expects me to jump later.

When I don’t move, he arches a brow. “Am I so intimidating, Ms. McMillan, that you do not want to sit?”

My chin lifts and I meet his steely gray eyes. “As much as you try to be, Mr. Compton, no, you are not. Your tests, however, are. I’d prefer to wait to be drilled on my knowledge until I can adequately impress you. I do not, however, want to wait to work the sales floor until such time.”

“We do not always get what we want, Ms. McMillan.” His expression is inscrutable, but his voice is lower, velvety, and not for the first time today, I’m not sure we are talking about my job. “Everything I do is calculated and with purpose. You’ll learn that sooner than later. There’s a wine tasting here on Friday night. The attendees are not high school students. They’re wealthy, refined customers, with refined tastes. I need you ready for them. I need you focused on preparing for that event.”

Refined. There was that word again and it bites with insult; be it real or imagined, it has the same effect on me. A sense of inadequacy fills me, a long lost enemy, threatening to bring me to my knees. Anger flares its ugly, unexpected head, and it’s far easier to embrace. “Then I guess I’d better get home and study.” Somehow, my voice is steady.

His eyes narrow and darken, and I’m pretty sure he knows he’s hit a hot spot with me. I’ve got to learn to control my reactions, and put on a game face.

“Are you aware that Riptide hosts a variety of wine tasting events in conjunction with some of the top wine producers in the world?”

I blink. ”No. I am not.”

“Are you aware that we hold an annual charity event in conjunction with the Siberian Orchestra?”

My stomach falls to my feet. Why didn’t I do my research? “No. No, I am not.”

“Then I’m sure you’ve now realized that I am only trying to help you, Sara,” he says. “I see something bigger than a few weeks on my local showroom floor for you. If that’s not what you want, then by all means, I’ll set you free in the gallery tomorrow to sell to your heart’s content.”

My anger transforms into near panic. “No. I don’t want that. I want to do more. I can do more.”

“Then trust me.”

I swallow hard, taken aback by his words. “Yes. I...okay. I’ll learn what you need me to.”

His eyes light with approval. “Good. I’ll give you a reprieve tonight. Go home and study. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll test you to see just how far we are from where we need to be.”

It is a dismissal confirmed by his reaching for his phone.

“Thank you,” I murmur, and head for the hallway in a blur of confusion. It baffles me how I’ve let a summer job become a plea for a new life but it has, and there is no looking back. To work for Riptide, even through this gallery, would be a dream come true. I want this as I have not wanted ever in my life.

I pass my door and scent the roses from the hallway. Back stepping, I realize I’ve left the candle burning for all these hours. I’m eager to escape this place, to get home and try to analyze what has happened to me today, what has happened to me since the day I began reading Rebecca’s journal.

Quickly, I blow out the flame and note a letter sized envelope on my chair with my name scribbled on it. I recognize the handwriting. I’ve studied his signature, his script. Rounding the desk I snatch the envelope and rush for the door. I do not want to stay here and open it. I want to be alone before I dare a peek.

Finally, when I am locked inside my car with the engine running, I stare at my name on the yellow paper, not sure what I am waiting for. In a frenzied rush of movement, I unseal the flap and pull out a piece of drafting paper and gape.