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Sabrina stepped into the conference room, strolling over to the head of the elegant teak table and simultaneously assessing the new management team of Office Perks, a Boston-based accessories-for-the-workplace company.
The composite of the group was pretty standard. Eight executives, five men, three women. Most in their mid-thirties, a few in the forty to forty-five range. That included Robert Stowbe, the company's newly appointed chief executive officer, who was forty-four and at the helm following a large, heavily publicized merger. He'd handpicked his new department heads. And, as Sabrina's research had confirmed, he'd done a pretty good job. Edward Rowen, the chief financial officer, had done a decent job of increasing profits at his previous position; Harold Case, the VP of sales, was a shrewd cookie who knew his clientele; Lauren Hollis, the VP of information technology, was a workhorse, if a bit lacking in creativity; Paul Jacobs, the VP of strategic planning, had vision and initiative; Lois Ames, the VP of marketing, was well connected and open to new ideas; Jerry Baines, the VP of research and development, had a good track record but was a bit of an autocrat when it came to running his department; and Meg Lakes, who promised to be a perky, energetic VP of human resources.
Now came the hard part. Taking a talented, aggressive bunch of people and transforming them from a collection of ambitious individuals into an integrated management team.
Making that happen was Sabrina's job. Whether or not she was successful, only time would tell.
After spending four years as a management consultant—three in the big leagues and one right here at CCTL—Sabrina had learned that no team was standard, few transitions took place without a snag, and nothing should be taken for granted.
Still, her track record was pretty damned good. Which was why so many corporations that were either expanding or needed a jolt of adrenaline to get them back on track sought her out.
"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe," she began, intentionally staying on her feet even though everyone else was seated—a routine ploy aimed at retaining control of a meeting. "As you know, I'm the president of CCTL. I won't waste time spouting my background and credentials, since I'm sure you've done your homework and know all about my reputation, and CCTL's. So I'll just invite you to take full advantage of our facilities—for recreational and mental health, as well as for professional growth.
"Plan on being busy over the next four days. We'll be holding frequent team meetings. Workshop times are listed on the agendas you received with your registration packs. That having been said, you'll also notice we left chunks of unscheduled time. That's where your mental recharging comes in. We cover both ends of the spectrum: unwinding and pumping up. For starters, our staff offers stress management and yoga classes. We also have a state-of-the-art health center—you'll have full use of that. And, last but not least, Lake Massabesic is right at our doorstep; it's great for sailing, canoeing, or hiking. Do whatever moves you."
Sabrina gauged the attention span of her audience. Time to talk food.
"On to meals."
Everyone sat up a little straighter. Not a surprise. Food did it every time.
"Our chefs are unbelievable," she continued. "They've been recruited from top restaurants worldwide. So don't expect to lose weight. You won't. Unless, of course, that's your goal. If you do have specific requests or dietary restrictions, be sure to let them know. They'll be happy to work with you."
Sabrina's fingers swept over her cranberry silk blazer and slacks. "Dress at team meetings is business casual. The last thing we need is constrictive ties and waistlines. I'm convinced that anything that inhibits breathing, also inhibits creativity."
A few smiles.
Time to allow for assimilation of information.
"I'll get into the specifics of our team meetings later, after you've had a chance to settle in," she concluded. "For now, let me assure you of this: My staff is exceptional. Put yourselves in our hands, give us your all, and we'll send you home ready to take on the world and win."
11:15 A.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Dylan gulped down the last of his coffee, crumpled the Styrofoam cup, and tossed it in the garbage.
The past sixteen hours had been a surrealistic blur.
The ER. Then the OR. Carson had been in there for ages, undergoing extensive surgery to repair organs and suture blood vessels. Now he was in the ICU, stuck with tubes and IV drips, hooked up to all kinds of monitors, and with no definitive assurances of recovery.
Christ, what a nightmare. Dylan shut his eyes, massaging the throbbing sockets to ease a headache that wasn't about to go away. Not without food, sleep, and results. He'd made the necessary phone calls, set in motion what needed to be done. But there were so many damned loose ends to connect....
"I can't take this uncertainty much longer. Not knowing, not hearing a word—I'm losing
my mind." Susan Lane jumped up from the waiting room chair, her entire body taut with worry. She raked her fingers through her sleek frosted-blond hair, rumpling it even more than it already was. It occurred to Dylan that he'd never seen Susan so disheveled. At forty, Carson's significant other looked thirty, and was always impeccably made-up and dressed. Not this morning. After a night of pacing, she was definitely the worse for wear. Then again, so was he.
"Why don't they tell us something?" she demanded.
"Probably because there's nothing new to tell," he replied. "Carson came through the surgery. He's a fighter. He'll make it."
"He has to." Susan sounded as if she were trying to convince herself rather than Dylan. She started pacing again, her voice choked as she remembered aloud. "I had a feeling something was wrong. He was very late, even for Carson. This wasn't a boring dinner party, it was a night at the U.S. Open. I should have listened to my instincts. I should have called."
"It wouldn't have mattered, so don't beat yourself up. The match started after seven. Carson was shot before six."
"Right. And you didn't call me till almost ten," Susan reminded him, pain and accusation lacing her tone. "When I was sitting in Carson's courtside box with my cell phone turned off."
"I called you as soon as I could think straight." Dylan felt as if he were talking about something that had happened a year rather than a night ago. "I'm sorry you had to hear about Carson through voice mail. I'm sure my message shocked the hell out of you." He blew out a weary breath. "Frankly, I don't remember much about those first few hours."
