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CHAPTER 1
Pete
Why I’m clapping just because everyone else is should tell me how far I’ve fallen down the black hole of corporate misery. Preston Rodgers. They gave the promotion to Preston-fucking-Rodgers. I’m not even surprised. The guy’s been here a year and worked at a Saab dealership before Randy got him a job at Fairway.
Scanning the seats at the end of the conference table, it’s a veritable army of Randy Fairway’s buddies or relatives. The only way I’m getting promoted is if old man Fairway has a long-lost daughter who falls head-over-heels for me, or I sell my soul and befriend Randy. Considering all my relationships were disasters, and Randy hates me as much as I hate him, I’m pretty much capped out at Fairway Foods.
Stop clapping, Pete. They can’t fire you for not clapping. You basically run Fairway Foods no matter how many sons, cousins, or dickhead friends in the state of Washington step over you like a speed bump.
Tugging my cell out of my jacket pocket, I have every intention of appearing to attend to urgent business until the backslapping and speeches are over. I do have urgent business, and I’m now an hour behind because of this farce of a meeting.
The first unread message isn’t even a message or work-related, yet just the sight of the photo my mother’s texted hikes my blood pressure. The image of the apple in her hand, no message attached, might as well be a ransom note. Round, red fruit should not be a trigger.
One could assume it’s just a picture from a sweet baby boomer, sharing her joy over the fruits of my family’s labors. One could also assume it’s simply her way of including me in the daily happenings on Carver’s Orchard. One would assume wrong, especially considering the internal dilemma it sets off inside of me.
I left. I’m the only one of my siblings that left the family business and moved to the city. I’m also the only one who doesn’t get excited over maturing fruit, harvest season, pruning trees, and basically everything else that goes with running an orchard. I couldn’t care less about the orchard, save for the comfort of knowing my family has a reliable livelihood.
She’s not asking for me to come home and help. She wouldn’t. Mom was supportive of my career choice and always tries to take an interest in my job. Even Dad musters a hint of enthusiasm whenever I discuss a new line that Fairway’s acquired. All I see in the image of my mother’s palm, however, is a ticking time bomb.
Jonagolds. One of their biggest sellers. Prolific growers. Last time I was home, the trees were so loaded down with them that we had to add support beams to the branches to keep the trees from splitting. From the look of the flesh, the hint of brown on the stem, and my catalog of useless apple knowledge, I know they’re on track for being ripe enough to pick in about four weeks.
I just finished getting the stains off my cuticles from my visit home last weekend from mulching the new saplings with Dad. I don’t need a repeat this soon. I’m not going.
Nope.
Nice try, Mom.
Damn it.
Of course, I’ll go.
Jesse, my little brother, will be his usual cocky self and rib me like I’ve forgotten how to do anything. Miranda, my older sister, will ramble on with her perpetual zeal about her growing family—building a third generation of orchard hands that won’t go the way of Uncle Pete. After the harvest, we’ll all sit down to dinner where my family will discuss local people I haven’t interacted with in fifteen years, further proving that I’m a stranger to everyone. In short, it will be hell, but of course, I’ll fucking go. I have to. If I knew how to turn off whatever it is that makes me feel like I have to, I would. Escaping the guilt of abandoning my birthright is as simple as getting promoted at Fairway Foods.
The closing of notepads pulls my gaze from the Carver’s Most Wanted image on my phone. Thank fuck it’s over and we can get the farts and coffee breath circulating out of this glass prison. My colleagues are barreling out of the door like the conference room is a sinking ship. Middle management. Every single one of them. What was even the point of this rigged dog and pony show except for us to supply an audience and share germs?
Gathering up my padfolio, I wait for Trisha to get her shit together as she blocks my path to escape. She’s moving with the gusto of a sloth, no doubt as enthralled as I am about the latest realignments. She’ll have to work directly under Preston since his sham of a promotion is for the head of her department.
At the doorway, I catch Mark Greer, one of the other subsidiary managers, shooting me a dubious brow lift as if to say he’s as thrilled as the rest of us. A single head shake as my nostrils flare has him snickering over my reaction to the news before he walks out with the hoard. Misery loves company, I guess. Guaranteed, he’ll give me an earful that I don’t want later. He’s afforded the luxury of overseeing only one of FairwayFoods’ subsidiaries, while I oversee three, giving him ample time to complain. It should be unheard of for one person to manage three accounts, but the Fairways have no problem overloading some to alleviate any actual work for others.
By some small grace, the elevator doors close just as Trisha and I approach, saving me from sharing air in a small space. I won’t have to be subjected to listening to everyone’s gripes about this morning’s hubbub now, either.
A snotty suction noise has the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. Trisha. She’s sniffling.
Her watery, red-eyed gaze connects with mine, confirming my suspicions. Aw, hell. That’s a loaded look if ever I saw one.
It means I need to put on the third hat I wear, one I consider worse than orchard guilt or pulling the weight of six employees on my own—emotional support co-worker/worker.
I don’t consider myself an overly affectionate person. Just ask my family and any of my exes. Why in God’s name everyone comes to me with their problems, I will never understand.
Yesterday, Miles Bleeker asked me what he should get his wife for their tenth anniversary. Last week, Linda in accounts payable vented to me about the new voucher system. I’ve never been married, and I don’t deal with paying vendors. I cannot possibly be the only person in this building to ask for advice.
Sighing, I hit the down button and assure Trisha, “It’ll be alright. I’m sure Randy will bring Preston up to speed.”
Lies. All lies.
Randy doesn’t know the first thing about Hartford Green, the subsidiary that Preston was just appointed to run. A hundred bucks says neither he nor Preston care to either. Why should they when everyone knows Trisha can run it for them?
“I’ve been covering down for five months since Wade went on medical leave,” Trisha points out, glancing over her shoulder as we step inside the elevator.
