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SAWYER
What is taking her so long? What kind of hotshot is she supposed to be that she can't be bothered to answer a simple email in a timely fashion? I should have called her in the first place—that was my fault. I should have gotten her on the phone and told her the story first hand rather than turn my emergency into just another email she can discard.
That, and the other three messages I've sent this afternoon alone. I need her to understand how vital it is that we get this taken care of immediately. I would call her now, but I'm too busy having my ass handed to me in an emergency board meeting.
Quickly I type out one last Hail Mary of a message and send it before I can talk myself out of it. Please, Ms. Anderson, I am ready to do whatever it is you think is best, and money is no object. I'm in desperate need of your help.
Because what's the use of posturing? I'm on the verge of losing everything that's ever mattered, so why not throw my pride in on top of everything else? It isn’t like I have much left, seated before a board comprised of men my father’s age, all of whom stare at me with the same look of disapproval.
This is my club, damn it, yet they behave like they own the place. I practically grew up inside these walls, playing beneath the very conference table around which we now sit. Doesn’t that count for anything?
No—in fact, I get the feeling my history at the club might work against me. They still see me as that little kid, not as the man I’ve grown into. And they’ve been waiting for the opportunity to express their opinions without Dad around to temper their reactions.
“Sawyer, this is extremely disappointing.” Michael Harris, one of Dad’s oldest friends, sits to my right. He might be the most sympathetic of all of them, and still his comment stings. Maybe because I can easily imagine those words coming from my father if he were here.
“As I've already expressed, I accept full responsibility for what happened. I was unaware there was someone recording my conversation, but it's no excuse. I should have been more discreet.”
“You should have kept your mouth shut,” fires back good old Nathan Fields, the board's Chairman, who glares at me from the other end of the conference table. “It was a damn childish thing to do.”
Someone needs to remind this man that just because he's known me since I was a child gives him no right to speak to me as if I were still wearing braces. “Respectfully, are you speaking for yourself right now, or for my father? Because I can already imagine very clearly what he'd have to say if he were here.”
He grumbles, shaking his bald head. “After all the work your family has put into this club.”
“Not to mention the damage this will do to your reputation in town,” Michael murmurs, far kinder but no less serious. “A business like this relies on goodwill more than nearly anything else. You are the symbol of the club. A jovial, welcoming host. A friend.”
Nathan pounds the side of his fist against the heavy table at which he’s sat for countless meetings over the years. “Yes, and who wants to be the friend of a man who looks down on them and considers them uncultured, uneducated?” There's a lot of grumbling, and I have to wonder if these men took it personally. I wasn't speaking of any of them in particular, but a hit dog will holler. They clearly took it hard, imagining I was talking about them.
“When your father decided to step aside and put you in his position, I have to admit, I had my reservations.” Nathan’s observation is met with soft muttering from the others, who may not have agreed at the time but will certainly pretend like they did now that it suits them.
If I grind my teeth much harder, they'll crack. “I understand.”
“But he assured me,” Nathan continues as if I never spoke, “that you were mature enough and responsible enough to take this on. He told me you understood the weight of this role, that you were keen on continuing the family's legacy.”
“And he was right.”
“I have to wonder now.” He sits back in his chair, shaking his head once again. Much more of that, and he’ll end up with a crick in his neck. “If you were older, I might be able to more easily understand how you could be so irresponsible.”
“I'm not sure I know what you mean.”
Waving a dismissive hand, he explains. “Those of our generation aren't so accustomed to people around them holding recording devices at all times. Now more than ever, it's vital to be aware of your surroundings and to know how easy it is for everything you say and do to become fodder for gossip and speculation.”
This gets worse by the minute. Meanwhile, my phone has not so much as buzzed to announce a new message. Come on, Willow. There are other PR firms in New York, of course, but she's the one with the proven track record. I don't have time to interview others, to ask around about their results.
Meanwhile, the men seated before me expect me to continue groveling until it suits them. “The only thing I can offer is, it was a mistake. And I'm doing everything I can to rectify the situation.”
“Exactly what are you doing?” asks Paul Snyder, sitting at Nathan's right hand. I've always thought of him as a stuck up little yes man, the sort of guy who trails around in the shadows of bigger, more confident men.
“Yes,” grunts Frank Bruno, seated across from Paul and staring through me with eyes that seem to burn. “What are you doing? Is there a plan in place?” Considering this only broke hours ago, he's asking for a lot.
“I am...” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check just in case but am disappointed once again. It takes effort to hide my reaction in front of a hostile crowd. “I’m currently in talks with a handful of public relations firms in the city. I should have something in place by the end of the day.”
“Oh?” Nathan asks, sitting up straight again. “Who did you have in mind? I'm familiar with a few of the firms out there.”
My stomach sinks while the eyes of every other man in the room bore holes into me. It takes everything I have not to squirm visibly under their scrutiny.
“It doesn't matter,” Paul interjects, sparing me the agony of trying to come up with a response. After all, there's only one firm I'm interested in, and I doubt anyone would be impressed if they knew I haven't cast a wider net. “What could you possibly do to make up for this? You should have sent out a statement this morning as soon as that damn video circulated.”
“I would rather not take a step like that until I have a professional’s advice,” I counter. “I don't want to make any further missteps.”
