Read Online The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Disilverio
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running the city doesn’t grind to a halt when one of the small cogs goes ‘poof,’ does it?”
She sounded like she was quoting someone, probably Clay Shumer, the city’s CFO, whom Ivy had worked for. I wasn’t sure if I was more offended by the idea of Ivy reduced to a “small cog” or the dismissal of her death with a casual “poof.”
I bit down hard on my lip to keep from blurting something impolitic and then said, “Ivy didn’t get a chance to give me the details on the offsite. You’re only talking about one day, right? July twelfth? I’ll need to know how many people you’re expecting, what kind of a budget I’mworking with, whether you need me to hire a facilitator, and whether you’ve already got a venue reserved or if you need me to find something.”
We settled into the comfy padded chairs at the oval conference table and spent a good hour hashing through the details for the offsite. Kirsten was surprisingly efficient and I thought sadly that she would take over Ivy’s duties and slide into her job, and after a week or two no one would notice that Ivy was gone.
“My caffeine-low light is on,” Kirsten said, pushing away from the table. “Want some coffee before we finish up?”
“Sure.” I rarely said no to coffee. In the hallway, we passed a restroom and I told Kirsten I needed to duck inside. She pointed out the break room, two doors up on the left, and said she’d meet me there. The bathroom smelled heavily of an aerosol “freshening” scent that made me cough. Holding my breath, I peed quickly, barely flicked water on my hands, and pushed out of the two-stall restroom. I was halfway down the corridor before I realized I’d turned the wrong way. The name CLAY SHUMER engraved on a brass strip beside a barely open office door made me recognize my error. I turned. As I did, an angry voice issued from inside the office.
“. . . not my fault! I think she copied . . . my . . . assistant, for God’s sake. How do you expect—”
Another voice rumbled over Clay Shumer’s defensive words. I couldn’t make out what the new speaker was saying. The timbre of his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Realizing I was eavesdropping on what mightbe sensitive city business, I was turning away when one of the men in the office pushed the door closed. The wooden smack made me jump, and I hurried down the hall to find the room Kirsten had pointed out, feeling like I’d been sneaking around where I had no business, even though all I’d done was get turned around. I took a deep breath before walking into the break room, where I found Kirsten watching coffee drip into a carafe.
“No one in this frigging office ever makes a new pot when they empty the old one,” she fumed. “And they must all think their moms work here, or the cleaning fairy, because they never bother to clean up after themselves, either.”
She ripped a paper towel from a dispenser and began a furious assault on the coffee spills and grounds on the Formica counter. A shelf sat above it, lined with mugs I assumed belonged to people who worked here, some whimsical, some plain. I made a silent bet with myself that the plain gray mug with “I’ll try to be nicer if you try to be smarter” written on it was Kirsten’s. A refrigerator hummed from the end of the counter, with a microwave beside it. Two large cans of coffee sat beside a small stainless-steel sink, one regular and one decaf, and a container of nondairy creamer and a bowl of sugar were pushed against the tile backsplash. Beside them was a white ceramic canister decorated with ivy vines.
My eyes fixed on it. “Pretty,” I said, sure I knew whose canister it was.
Kirsten followed my gaze. “Yeah, that’s Ivy’s special tea. Was. Lipton’s wasn’t good enough forher.” I thought I heard a hint of snideness in her voice, but then she said, “Although I will say she was the only other one in this office who bothered to clean up after
She sounded like she was quoting someone, probably Clay Shumer, the city’s CFO, whom Ivy had worked for. I wasn’t sure if I was more offended by the idea of Ivy reduced to a “small cog” or the dismissal of her death with a casual “poof.”
I bit down hard on my lip to keep from blurting something impolitic and then said, “Ivy didn’t get a chance to give me the details on the offsite. You’re only talking about one day, right? July twelfth? I’ll need to know how many people you’re expecting, what kind of a budget I’mworking with, whether you need me to hire a facilitator, and whether you’ve already got a venue reserved or if you need me to find something.”
We settled into the comfy padded chairs at the oval conference table and spent a good hour hashing through the details for the offsite. Kirsten was surprisingly efficient and I thought sadly that she would take over Ivy’s duties and slide into her job, and after a week or two no one would notice that Ivy was gone.
“My caffeine-low light is on,” Kirsten said, pushing away from the table. “Want some coffee before we finish up?”
“Sure.” I rarely said no to coffee. In the hallway, we passed a restroom and I told Kirsten I needed to duck inside. She pointed out the break room, two doors up on the left, and said she’d meet me there. The bathroom smelled heavily of an aerosol “freshening” scent that made me cough. Holding my breath, I peed quickly, barely flicked water on my hands, and pushed out of the two-stall restroom. I was halfway down the corridor before I realized I’d turned the wrong way. The name CLAY SHUMER engraved on a brass strip beside a barely open office door made me recognize my error. I turned. As I did, an angry voice issued from inside the office.
“. . . not my fault! I think she copied . . . my . . . assistant, for God’s sake. How do you expect—”
Another voice rumbled over Clay Shumer’s defensive words. I couldn’t make out what the new speaker was saying. The timbre of his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Realizing I was eavesdropping on what mightbe sensitive city business, I was turning away when one of the men in the office pushed the door closed. The wooden smack made me jump, and I hurried down the hall to find the room Kirsten had pointed out, feeling like I’d been sneaking around where I had no business, even though all I’d done was get turned around. I took a deep breath before walking into the break room, where I found Kirsten watching coffee drip into a carafe.
“No one in this frigging office ever makes a new pot when they empty the old one,” she fumed. “And they must all think their moms work here, or the cleaning fairy, because they never bother to clean up after themselves, either.”
She ripped a paper towel from a dispenser and began a furious assault on the coffee spills and grounds on the Formica counter. A shelf sat above it, lined with mugs I assumed belonged to people who worked here, some whimsical, some plain. I made a silent bet with myself that the plain gray mug with “I’ll try to be nicer if you try to be smarter” written on it was Kirsten’s. A refrigerator hummed from the end of the counter, with a microwave beside it. Two large cans of coffee sat beside a small stainless-steel sink, one regular and one decaf, and a container of nondairy creamer and a bowl of sugar were pushed against the tile backsplash. Beside them was a white ceramic canister decorated with ivy vines.
My eyes fixed on it. “Pretty,” I said, sure I knew whose canister it was.
Kirsten followed my gaze. “Yeah, that’s Ivy’s special tea. Was. Lipton’s wasn’t good enough forher.” I thought I heard a hint of snideness in her voice, but then she said, “Although I will say she was the only other one in this office who bothered to clean up after
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