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Emma chuckles at his comment, and she suddenly feels better. Maybe she’s simply overreacting, jarred by her interactions with Kyle and Addison and by Dunne’s sober tone.
The rest of the day goes better for her. She and Tom read in the den, sometimes sharing bits and pieces, and later she reviews the quarterly presentation she’ll be doing at Halliday the next morning. Dinner, unfortunately, proves a bit challenging. Tom serves a delicious pasta feast as promised, but Brittany, up to her usual tricks, focuses almost totally on him. The only time she speaks to Emma is when she asks her to pass the bottle of sparkling water.
“Is there blue cheese in this?” Brittany quizzes Tom at one point.
“That’s right. It’s really a basic alfredo sauce but with some gorgonzola added.”
“If you weren’t busy running a company, you could host a cooking class from your kitchen,” Brittany gushes. “I love the way you designed it, by the way.” Once again she manages to imply that it’s Tom’s house, not both Emma’s and his.
But Emma lets it roll off her back because she’s trying to hold on to the good feeling of the afternoon. Tom has managed to tamp down her fears and help her see that it’s silly to worry. No one’s actually given her a reason to—at least not yet.
The next morning Tom and Brittany leave together for Halliday, but Emma’s talk isn’t scheduled until ten thirty, so she stops by the studio first to review her schedule quickly with Dario. His typically cheerful demeanor adds to her good mood. On her way to downtown Westport, she picks up a boxof croissants for the attendees, having learned that almost all presentations are improved by the addition of free food.
By ten fifteen she’s in the Halliday glass-walled conference room, pulling up the PowerPoint on her laptop, when she hears Tom’s voice from somewhere down the hall. He mostly skips her talks because he senses his staff feels more free to ask questions when he’s not in the room, so she knows she won’t see him in the audience today.
Out of the corner of her eye she catches a flash of red and turns to see that Justine Carr, Tom’s number two, has stuck her head in.
“Morning, Emma,” Justine says, smiling in that slightly enigmatic way of hers. Justine’s an attractive, arresting-looking woman, with flame-colored hair, green eyes, and creamy skin. And though she’s always cordial, Emma’s never quite sure of what she’s thinking.
“Oh, hey, Justine. I’m so glad you can make it today.”
“Actually, I only popped in to say hello. I’m slammed this week and won’t be able to attend.”
Makes sense, Emma thinks. She’s probably still sorting out the problem from Saturday, though Tom hasn’t brought up the subject again.
“Totally understand,” she says. “If you get a chance to read the report and have any questions, just shoot me an email.”
Justine places her hands on her hips. “Will do.” She’s wearing a sleeveless, moss-colored dress that shows off her perfectly toned arms, and she comes across today as confident and gutsy, the version of the woman Emma’s most familiar with. There’s no sign of the “deer-in-the headlights” expression Tom described after the Chicago trip.Why thediscrepancy?Emma wonders. Maybe there’s some problem in her personal life that rears its head once in a while. “And I wanted to say sorry for stealing Tom away on Saturday.”
Emma smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I had plenty to do on my own.”
No sooner has Justine departed when other people begin to file in, thirty or so employees from both the creative and account sides of the business, as well as Taylor Hunt, Tom’s chief of staff. Unlike many professional people with that title, Taylor’s not particularly ambitious career-wise, but she’s superefficient and goal-oriented. She previously assisted a colleague of his, and when she approached Tom after the job opened up several years ago, he figured it could work if he rethought the role. She monitors his schedule in a more global way than his assistant, Janice, does, keeps tabs on interdepartmental communication flow, and makes certain everything in the Halliday office is humming along.
The presentation goes well. Emma elaborates on the findings in the most recentHawke Reportand then opens it up for discussion. The attendees pepper her with thoughtful questions right up until eleven thirty. After she wraps up, they thank her enthusiastically, some grabbing croissants before they disperse.
As Emma’s unhooking her laptop from the large-screen monitor, Taylor strolls to the front of room. She’s a thirtysomething Westport native with stick-straight blond hair cropped at her chin, dark blue eyes, a small, delicate mouth, and a preppy style, including pleated skirts, collared shirts, silk designer scarves for every season—some even by Burberry and Ferragamo—and suede headbands.
“Terrific job,” she tells Emma in her clipped, precise way.
“Thanks, Taylor. I appreciate you showing up.” There’s no real reason for her to come to these talks, but Emma assumes she does so to stay in the loop.
“Well, I always learn something new. And it’s the only time I see you anymore. By the way, I heard about your trip to Napa Valley in August. It sounds fantastic.”
“Yes, we can’t wait. What about you? Any special plans this summer?”
“My parents have a house in Maine, and I’m going there for ten days, but other than that, it doesn’t look very exciting.” She sighs. “It’s hard to be single.”
“Well, maybe you’ll meet someone this summer.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Dubious. Every guy my age in Westport seems to be taken.”
“What about trying a dating app like Tinder or Bumble?”
“Ugh. Didn’t you just tell the group that people are getting tired of swiping and want to meet romantic partners in real life?”
“From what we’re seeing, yes, but I can’t knock dating apps, either. A decent percentage of married couples meet that way.”
Taylor tucks a piece of hair behind an ear. “Right, but I really want the real-life thing.”
