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“Now would be great,” I say, glancing out the window at the veritable parking lot on the freeway. “Traffic is bad. I have plenty of time.”
“Perfect, sir,” she says, before proceeding to fill me in on a couple permitting issues that could use some massaging with my contacts at city hall and minor HR issues that seem to be well in hand.
“I’ll reach out to my city hall contacts on Monday, before my flight in the afternoon,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Yes, actually,” she says. “Mr. McMillan plans to give you a comprehensive overview of the situation tomorrow, but I know you don’t like surprises. Especially bad ones, so I thought I should give you a heads-up. It’s about the Coney Island project.”
I sigh. This project has been one headache after another—from permit issues to zoning confusion to doing battle with the district over an additional parking structure for the office building we’re transforming into full-time living spaces—but I keep reminding myself that it will be worth it in the end.
New York has had an affordable housing crisis for years. These units will help with that, while creating an eco-friendly building that won’t add to pollution or the city’s carbon footprint. The grocery store on the ground floor will provide fresh fruits and vegetables to an area that’s on the verge of becoming a food desert and a childcare center will make things easy for commuting parents.
It’s going to be a great win for this community…if we can ever get it finished.
“The contractor is still pushing back on leaving the two lowest levels empty,” Betsy says. “He thinks at least part of the parking could be shifted there, freeing up the money he needs to update the windows in all the units.”
“I’m assuming Mitch and the team managing the project reminded him that storm surges happen all the time down there these days?”
“Yes, Mr. McMillan did,” Betsy says, “but the contractor says it’s the only way for him to stay on budget. He mentioned that any resident cars parked down there would be insured, so he didn’t think it would be a big deal if there were a surge and people had to file a claim or two.”
“A claim or two?” I echo with a humorless laugh. “Last time the building flooded, there was water up to the ceiling on the first floor. That’s why we’re using polished concrete in the retail spaces, to make cleaning up after another event quick and painless. If there were cars parked in the subterranean areas, every one of them would have been totaled.”
“I know,” Betsy says. “And insurance companies never pay what a car is really worth. It’s a bad idea, but he’s threatening to quit over it and we’re already over budget and behind on this project without needing to find another contractor. Mr. McMillan thinks he can make him see reason when he visits the site on Wednesday, but this might need the Gabaldon touch.”
I smile. “Are you calling Mitch a hard-ass?”
“Of course not, sir,” she says. “I have the greatest respect for Mr. McMillan’s talents, but he’s loud and looks angry, even when he’s not. You, on the other hand, look calm, even when you’re not.”
“Are you calling me boring, Betsy?” I tease, surprised when she says, “A little bit, sir. I mean, you do live in Vermont. But you’re boring in a good way, in a way that could help smooth this situation over without changes to the plans or the contractor.”
I hum beneath my breath, mentally flipping through my calendar. “All right. Pencil me in for the meeting on Wednesday, and I’ll look into changing my return flight. I don’t think there’s anything going on at the Burlington office that can’t wait until the following week.”
“I’ve already looked at flights, sir,” Betsy says. “I can get you on a five-p.m. flight Wednesday evening. Would you like me to book that for you?”
“Yes, please,” I say, relaxing back against the seat and reaching for my sandwich. “You’re the best, Betsy. You’re going to be running this company someday. Mark my words.”
“Oh, I plan on it, sir,” she says, surprising me again. “I believe in what G.P.G. Green is doing so much. I want to be a part of the team for the long haul.”
“I’d like that, too,” I say, signing off with a tight feeling in my chest.
Another impressive young woman kicking ass in her career, while my son refuses to get a job or pay his own bills. I would wonder if it’s a male vs. female thing, but dozens of highly motivated young men from the UVM business school apply to be interns at my company every year.
It’s not young men in general; it’s my young man, in particular.
In my gut, I know the way Angela raised Adrian—to reject my love and my presence, while still feeling entitled to unfettered access to my resources—is a big part of that. But plenty of kids have problematic mothers and grow up to be amazing people.
Sydney didn’t even have a mom past the age of thirteen…
I unwrap my sandwich and take a massive bite, focusing on the explosion of tangy banana peppers, high-quality salami, and freshly sliced provolone cheese.
I will not think of Sydney, and I certainly won’t call her while I’m here.
Yes, I’m going to be in town longer than I expected, but it’s still only five nights. Then I’ll be back in Burlington for the rest of the year. My life is there, hers is here, and our immediate futures aren’t any more compatible than they were a month ago.
The New York office practically runs itself. The staff in Burlington still needs me there at least three days a week. Besides, I couldn’t stomach traffic like this every day. Or the noise or the frenetic pace or all the ghosts that haunt me in the Big Apple.
The ghost of toddler Adrian grinning at me from the swings in Central Park, of our family getting rainbows painted on our faces at the Brooklyn Pride Parade, of Angela and I dancing to music from our cell phones in our tiny living room after the baby went to bed… For a few years there, I thought Angela and I might be able to make it work. That we would beat the odds and our teenage love would last forever.
But nothing lasts forever.
