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“Mr. Power.”
He turns to face me.
“May I?” I point to the wall where a dozen or more plants are arranged, from a giant African milk bush whose pot is on the floor and reaches inches from the ceiling to a chrome-and-glass table covered in a variety of leafy green gorgeousness.
He waves. “Be my guest. Espressos will be a minute or two.”
“Babies, look at you. Oh my goodness, aren’t you beautiful.” I take a broad leaf of the croton and run it between my fingers. It doesn’t feel supple enough. I poke at the soil. It has a hard crust on top. Not good. I run my fingers across the leaves of several plants, barely touching them, making note of their colors and letting them know I see them. I notice a gap in the coverage and push some leaves aside to find a small pot with a hibiscus struggling for sun and air.
“Oh no, what’s happened to you, Hibbi? Someone forgot you down there. Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out. You’ll be OK. I see you now.”
I hold the struggling plant up to the window and pinch its browning leaves.
“Ahem?” A voice from across the room draws my focus away from the plants. Mr. Power has moved to his desk. Two small espresso cups sit in front of him.
“Oh! Sorry. I forgot you were there … I get kind of … yeah.” I take the sickly plant to Mr. Power’s desk. “She needs space, light, air, and attention. She’ll do better here, but she really needs some direct sun, which she can’t get in this office. None of your plants—”
“That dress.” He interrupts, pointing to my body and spinning his finger.
I wait, but it appears that’s all he’s going to say.
“Mr. Power, if I may say, you make it extremely difficult to follow your advice when having a conversation with you.”
“Which is?”
“Oh, thank goodness! I thought you were testing me.” I realize I’ve just said what I should’ve only thought. And then I reinforce my goof-up with a grimace. So I do a pirouette to reset and start over. “Which is … to only speak when answering questions. You say, and I quote, ‘Leaders do not fill the air with mindless babble.’ So, when you point at me and state a fact, I’m not sure what to say or do.”
“Have you memorizedallof my pithy pull-quotes, Ms. Beach?”
“Maybe. Thatwouldrequire a test to find out.”
He actually smiles. “Your dress is quite something. Am I correct in believing you have taken the jacket I wrapped around the”—he smacks his lips—“outstandingcostume you wore to my seminar and had it tailored into this?”
Although I want to argue that my beloved dress is not a costume, I simply say, “You are.” I want to say more. To tell him I was afraid he’d sue me if I tried to sell his jacket. To let him know this dress resulted in a copycat commission for my sister. More than anything, I want him to know I am a trainable vine and he should therefore allow me to stay in the Power Broker Program, so I keep my answer short.
He motions for me to take the chair across from his desk and pushes one of the tiny cups toward me.
“Why did you turn my tailored jacket into a dress, Ms. Beach? Was it not clear that I was simply making a point, that thenormalthing to have done would have been to return it?”
My stomach twists. I’ve screwed up, but I’m not going to let him know that. I mirror the position of his head, tilted just a little toward his shoulder, and say with the cockiest confidence I can conjure, “I did not return the jacket because that’s not what a smart businessperson would do. You told me that I needed to dress for success, and then you handed me the tools to do so—a Power suit, so to speak, so I embraced what you gave me.”
I smile.
He scowls.
I cringe, realizing I’ve irritated him with the play on his name. I understand, having spent the last dozen years enduring jokes about what area of myself I most recommend for a memorable dining experience and what time the family-friendly activities make way for the adult-only experiences on Virginia Beach.
“I apologize. Poor choice of words.” And damn it, I feel myself blush. A dead giveaway that he’s in control.
“Did you tailor it yourself?”
“No. My sister did.”
“Talented family.” He sips his coffee.
I smile to acknowledge the compliment and mirror his action, raising my cup for a drink.
“Ms. Beach, how did you get into the Power Broker Program?”
