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Addison brings me a beer and starts making plates for us. She hums a song I don’t know as she scoops fish and rice onto plates. She slathers a slice of French bread with butter for each of us. I could have paid a chef to make this same thing, but it wouldn’t bring me so much happiness.
Because food is a part of her.
“Yeah, the fish is a little dry. Which is disappointing, but it is what it is. Maybe you could text me when you’re getting close to finishing up at the office so I can start cooking then.”
The aroma of crispy chives, thyme, parsley, and a hint of basil fills the air. Bits of parmesan stick the breading and herbs to the fish, and I can’t help but grin. “You definitely missed your calling. This looks and smells incredible.”
“That means that you either didn’t read my book, or it’s terrible. I’m kind of hoping it’s the first, but I’m guessing it’s the second.”
Of course, she’s going to bring up the other thing that will be a difficult discussion. Not because the book is bad, but because she’s so sensitive about it. Hell, reading it was one of the highlights of my day.
She stares at me and sighs when I don’t respond to her comment. “Fine. Eat the damn fish. But then we’re going to talk about a lot of things.”
“I’ll be happy to,” I say as graciously as possible. All I really want to do is eat this fish and drink this beer, though.
I wait for her to cut into her tilapia before I move my silverware. It’s a silent nod to the fact that I’m grateful for her efforts. I’ve gone most of my life without home-cooked meals, and I never want her to think that I take them for granted.
The first bite makes me sigh. “You’re wrong, Addison. This is perfect.”
She almost seems surprised at my praise. “Thank you,” she says sheepishly. “You know,” she says after a moment, “I was wondering if your mom made dinner for your family. You never talk about her, but I always imagine her cooking big dinners for you and your brothers.”
I shake my head. “No, my father had a personal chef come cook dinners for us every night. I think my mother could cook, but she never did. Now that you mention it, I don’t know why she wouldn’t. From what I remember, she always had time.”
Addison frowns. “Would your father have cared if she worked hard to make food? I wouldn’t cook if you didn’t care. I’d just let you buy it.”
Now that she says it, I remember her cooking one time for a birthday. “No. He didn’t. I don’t think he even ate dinner with us very much. He was always working.”
Addison shrugs. “That’s probably why.”
We eat in silence, and I think back on my childhood again. The nights I didn’t even see Father. How everything revolved around his schedule. We had plenty of money, but we never traveled. We never did anything except a few trips to parks or that little vacant lot down the street.
I think we made the best of things, and we were happy, but we should have been happier. It should have been the best childhood imaginable. Instead, we were nearly prisoners. I’m not even talking about myself. My brothers were just as trapped. They just didn’t have the same expectations put on them.
I slide my plate forward and lean back in my chair when my food’s gone. “You really are an amazing woman,” I say, feeling so much better now that I have a full stomach and I’m staring at Addison.
She grins and takes one more bite of her fish before doing the same. “Now, can we talk about something? I’ve been going crazy all day waiting to talk to you.”
I nod. “Which topic first?”
“The work thing. Everyone’s pissed, Phillip. Not just a few people. Everyone. Why didn’t you just hire more people? The entire office thinks that you’re just being stingy and expecting them to work for free. They’re talking about leaving and going to other publishing houses.”
I sigh. This is the same thing that I’ve dealt with all day, and the words come easily. “Everyone’s contracts state they should expect to work up to fifty hours per week without any extra pay. We’re in a bind, and we need people to work a little more for a while. Plus, we’re giving bonuses because of it. I know that it’s more work than they’re used to, but we need our veteran employees to work on these other projects. Not new employees.”
“But you want them to be excited about the new projects, right? Why not just keep track of their hours spent and pay them extra on their paychecks like they were hourly workers?”
I shake my head. “That would increase the cost of an already enormous expansion. If we did that, we’d have to make serious cuts in other areas, most of which would piss people off even more.”
Addison frowns. The look on her face tells me she’s not sure if she should say what she’s thinking. “Phillip, can’t Loughton House handle a loss for six months while you expand? Isn’t that a normal thing in business? I mean, I’m not you, and I haven’t spent my life managing a multi-billion-dollar business, but that was my assumption about how expansions work.”
Andrew and I briefly discussed that possibility, but it was almost immediately pushed aside. I take a sip of my beer and wish we were talking about her book instead. “In almost sixty years, Loughton House has never had a single month with a loss. My father made sure that we made money every single month. Would you want to work for six months without getting paid?”
She squints. “But you make a paycheck too. Loughton House is a company, right? Profits don’t go straight into your bank account. You wouldn’t be working for free.”
My jaw tightens as I feel the frustration welling up inside me. “Yes, I earn a paycheck just like you, but it’s nothing compared to bonuses that are based on company profits. I’d say that ninety percent of my income is in bonuses. Six months without a profit would mean that I’d make roughly half what I would normally make in a year.”
Addison sighs and doesn’t look happy with my response. I don’t understand. She doesn’t think the employees should have to fulfill the requirements in their contract, but I should basically work for free for six months?
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like I’m an idiot?” I finally ask.
