Josh and his confusing scent stepped toward me, which had me scrambling back toward the door. “I don’t think that’s the way Ray intended for us to do this.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I called over my shoulder.
• • •
A few hours later, Vaughn and I discovered that we had creative chemistry, like bleach and ammonia. While I had more of an open-flow creative process, drawing inspiration from random images and word-association games, Vaughn’s thinking was very linear. He went from point A to point B with no side trips.
I tried to play up the humor of the encampment. I suggested taglines like, “Ground your kids back to the nineteenth century” and “Embrace a simpler time, which required a minimum of ten layers of underwear.” Vaughn was more focused on “heritage” and “honoring the past” as his message, which was boring as all hell. But I had to admit that he’d found some great stock photos from previous encampments—happy families sitting around their campfires in their old-fashioned clothes and long rows of precisely lined-up reenactors with clouds of blue smoke billowing from their rifles.
He refused to consider my suggestions and I scoffed at the very idea of presenting a summer activity as exclusively educational. The meeting ended on an abrupt sour note when I suggested using a puppet dressed in a Union uniform to narrate an Internet video, emphasizing the event as family friendly. I even pulled up a YouTube video of a puppet type we might use, a freckle-faced redhead with yarn hair wearing a farmer’s hat and playing “Goober Peas” on the banjo while footage showing dairy cows played in the background. It was adorable and if we put our version together quickly, we could distribute it to schools to drum up student interest before kids were released for summer break. I had absolutely no malicious intent when I started the video. But it seemed to send Vaughn into some sort of fit, scrambling back in his chair as if Farmer Ben were going to reach through my laptop and grab him.
“So what do you think?” I asked him carefully.
“That’s just . . . awful,” Josh wheezed, turning a bit green as he stood, knocking over his chair, and practically bolted from the room.
“What just happened?” Kelsey asked, staring after him.
“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Which is a problem, because now I can’t duplicate it.”
She shook her head. “That is a man who does not like puppets.”
I pursed my lips, considering how this information might be useful. “Very interesting.”
• • •
The office became oddly polarized after the YouTube incident. Josh and I were still the key aggressors, but our staff members were slowly drifting to their chosen sides and giving support in upsetting and unprecedented ways. With Vaughn refusing to hear my suggestions and treating Kelsey like a barista/lackey, she was less than inclined to do any copying or faxing he needed before 4:30 p.m. And I suspected Theresa the IT gal’s hand in Vaughn changing my e-mail password. I spent the better part of a day trying to figure out why the image of a screaming zombie popped up every time I tried to open my Internet browser. The good red pens mysteriously disappeared from my desk drawer. Work orders got lost on the way to printers or suppliers so often that we eventually started hand-delivering the paperwork. And I couldn’t be certain, but I thought my M&M jar was emptying faster than usual.
Never had the office seemed so divided and disconnected, not even during the great “Kelsey Purchased Decaf Instead of Real Coffee” Scandal of 2010. This tension came to a head at the monthly staff meeting, when Ray asked us for a progress report on our project and we had very little to show him except that we’d agreed on which shade of blue we would be using for the brochure text.
“You’ve been working on this for more than a week and all you have to show me is royal blue?” Ray said incredulously.
“It’s closer to a peacock blue, really,” I observed just before Vaughn elbowed me in the ribs.
“What exactly is the problem?” Ray asked. “Because I am almost certain I could turn this over to the interns and they could have something back to me in a few days.”
Jordie the Good Intern from Transylvania University frowned at the implication, while Michael the Idiot Intern smirked like he’d been paid a compliment.
“There’s no problem, Ray, just a difference in opinion,” I told him. “Mr. Vaughn seems to think we can attract people to a new and exciting event by making it look like every other historical event held in every other state. There’s no reason to take pains to attend said event because if they miss it, they can always go to the next one in Tennessee or Virginia.”
“Yes, I suppose that does seem disturbing to someone who wants to draw in a crowd by making the encampment look like some sort of National Lampoon’s Vacation,” Vaughn spat.
I stood, knocking my chair back. “Would I give people the impression their family might risk having fun? Yes, I would!”
Vaughn stood and slapped his hand against the table. “Of course you would! Because you believe in wacky sentimentality over proven marketability. And not just for this project. It’s evident in everything you do.”
“Because proven marketability is boring! It’s proven because it’s been done before. You’re not creating anything new, you’re just regurgitating some old idea.”
“Okay, let’s talk about new growth. Delacour Jewelers is building a fabrication plant here. Kentucky would be home to one of maybe three places in the world where they make their jewelry. Why can’t we draw some attention to that? The jeweler’s public relations rep told me she’d contacted you three times and you never picked up on any of the announcements she sent you.”
I threw up my hands. “Oh, sure, let’s campaign for a store where maybe ten percent of our state’s population can afford to buy so much as a key chain. A store that already has a substantial advertising budget and doesn’t really need our help.”
“I like their ads,” Kelsey mused. “You don’t see enough male models rolling around on piles of loose diamonds, in my opinion.”
Ray sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Kelsey.”
“I say we let Kelsey talk,” Michael said, holding up his hand. “Kelsey, are there naked girls rolling around—”
“Michael!” Ray barked. “Look, Sadie, Josh, let’s all calm down.”
Vaughn ignored him, throwing his arms up in the air. “And building a little goodwill with a multimillion-dollar corporation would just be tragic, wouldn’t it? You think I haven’t met hacks like you before? You put together your adorable little campaigns that make people laugh, but never manage to nudge them off their couches. You love the underdog, which is easy because everybody loves to root for the underdog. The problem is that the underdog is usually under for a reason. And you can’t build long-term success on adorable!”
“Well, I think the Snuggle Bear, the Cadbury Bunny, and that little girl who bared her ass for Coppertone would probably disagree with you!” I snapped, leaning toward him. I would not be intimidated by this guy just because he was using his “big boss” voice on me. I could be just as loud and authoritative and I didn’t need a retro skinny tie to do it.
“You know, if this is how you behave in a meeting, I don’t know why you’re even bothering with this ‘competition’ thing,” he sneered. “You’re not prepared to do the job. You’re not going to come up with a better idea than me. It’s cruel that Ray put you in this position in the first place. And frankly, I think it’s ridiculous that I have to participate in this competition at all. I just want to do the job, put in a few good years as director, and open my own marketing firm. I figured this would be a good place to develop contacts, not be tormented by some vapid, crazy cheerleader with an axe to grind.”
I made an indignant squawking noise. He was putting me through this and he didn’t even want the damn job? He’d turned my office into a feuding war
zone for nothing? He saw my dream job as a stepping stone to something better? Suddenly a very dangerous idea formed in my head. I crossed my arms over my chest and tilted my head. And there, in the conference room, I made a vow that I would destroy Josh Vaughn. And his little suits, too.
Or at least I would make his life very difficult.
“I’m a cheerleader?” I scoffed. “So you’re not intimidated by me at all?”
He gave me a head-to-toe scan that lingered a bit too long for professional behavior. “Not a bit.”
“So I guess you wouldn’t mind a little side wager?” I slid to a sitting position on the table, my skirt riding up ever so slightly on my thigh. Vaughn’s eyes were trained on that tiny expanse of tanned skin and I raised an internal cheer. A distracted man was a man prone to making stupid promises. “Oh, come on, Vaughn. There’s no chance of me winning anyway, right? What do you have to lose?” I grinned. “We get through this Civil War plan with as little fuss as possible. I’ll make my best effort to hold myself back from my usual snarkiness and do my utmost to be a team player. But all gloves are off for the state fair campaign. No holds barred, full-on marketing mayhem. If your campaign is judged better than mine, I will come to work the following Monday in a cheerleading outfit. UK blue. Pom-poms and all.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he said, “I’m not really seeing how this would benefit you at all.”
I hopped off the table and stepped closer. For once, Vaughn was the one to back up. I beamed at him, sickeningly sweet. “Because if I win, which I will, you will come to work the next Monday in a cheerleading outfit. U of L red. Pom-poms and all.
“And not the male cheerleaders’ outfit, either,” I added. “You will wear the tiny skirt and everything.”
“And this is a very professional example in front of our coworkers—” He turned toward the table, where he’d expected to find the rest of the staff. But the room was empty. Our coworkers and the interns had crept out of the room while we were arguing, and we hadn’t noticed.
“That seems like an overreaction,” I said, chewing my lip. “Oh, well. Do we have a wager?”
“You’re nuts,” he exclaimed.
I made none-too-subtle clucking sounds under my breath.
“Fine!” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”
“You’re going to look stunning,” I promised him just as Ray appeared in the doorway. I whispered, “I’ll get a pretty red-and-black bow for your hair and everything.”
“You two,” Ray growled, with no trace of the playful, fatherly voice to which I was accustomed. “My office. Now.”
In Which I Push a Colleague out of a Metaphorical Lifeboat
4
Ray was not pleased with us.
I refused to relay the details of our meeting, even to Kelsey, but I will say that phrases like “squabbling children” and “unprofessional, shrieking fishwife” were used. But he was looking at Vaughn when he said “fishwife,” so I can’t actually be sure whether he was referring to me. I think at one point he threatened to ground us.
According to Ray, we were ridiculously lucky that the commissioner was not in the building during our blowup and if we ever did anything like it again, being named director of marketing would be the least of our worries. We were told to shake hands and behave civilly, which we managed to do without squeezing each other’s fingers too hard, and then we slunk back to neutral corners.
Through the miracle of e-mail, we came up with an idea for the Columbus-Belmont summer boot camp without actually speaking to each other. While he conceded that a fun, musical video would be appropriate for students, Vaughn suggested we also use era-appropriate military imagery aimed at adults. So Dorie Ann, our graphic designer, drew what looked like a circa-1860s recruiting poster, encouraging people to enlist in “basic training.” I changed the tagline to “Step into the past, make memories for the future.” We were only waiting for approval from the state park staff.
In the meantime, Kelsey and I introduced Vaughn to the wonders of our annual Kentucky Derby party. The tourism commission helped organize several events over the course of Derby weekend, including a party at the track for high-ranking state employees, politicians, and members of the press. We tried to lure the horse owners in, but while the locals usually made a polite appearance, the rest tended to shy away from our domestic booze and room-temperature cheese. The main goal was to remind all parties involved how important tourist dollars were to the overall health of the state’s economy and how the track played into that. And to remind the politicians that we were perfectly nice people who deserved our jobs, and they might keep that in mind when they were passing the next budget.
That year, the first Saturday in May dawned bright and clear and cool. I put on my trim yellow suit with a creamy linen picture hat from Macy’s. The hat cost more than the shoes and the suit combined. But Derby regulars could spot a cheap hat from miles away, and it was better not to subject inferior headwear to their scrutiny.
There was always a buzz on the morning of Derby Day, an anticipatory excitement, which made no sense, really. Few people in the stands had actually ridden a horse, much less owned one. And unlike in NASCAR, the chances of one of the horses spinning into the infield were pretty low. There was a strange sense of urgency to the race. The horses had been training for this since they were born. They only got one shot at this particular race before they aged out of the running group.
We got caught up in the pageantry, the traditions, and the foods that we enjoyed simply because it was tradition. What St. Patrick’s Day is to the Irish, Derby Day is to any self-respecting Kentuckian.
Kelsey and I had arrived ungodly early at Churchill Downs in order to beat the traffic and to give ourselves time to negotiate the veritable maze that was the racetrack complex. Spectators were already milling into the infield entrance, leading inside the track itself, where tens of thousands of rowdy race fans would turn the small expanse of grass into an enormous, raucous, muddy party.
We placed our bets as soon as the windows opened. The favorite—and potential Triple Crown contender—was a large chestnut from New York called Rock of Ages. I put my traditional five-dollar bet on a pretty coal-black entry from Lexington named Instant Karma, who I only picked because I liked the color of her silks (turquoise and teal). Kelsey, on the other hand, placed twenty dollars on Lemon Cakes, a Virginia long-shot scientifically selected as a potential winner through some algorithm provided by her nerd posse.
We chanced a look at both, sneaking through the paddock garden, which was as close as security would let us. Like all girls, I’d gone through a horse phase as an adolescent. Of course, the few times I’d ridden a horse, I’d either knocked my head on a low-hanging branch or led the horse right through a yellow-jacket nest, which was fun for neither of us. But visiting Churchill Downs always stoked those old pony-crush feelings. The horses’ freshly washed coats gleamed iridescent and seal-sleek in the morning sun. Their steps seemed mincing on their impossibly delicate ankles as the trainers led them back and forth to the warm-up track.
“Makes you want to stamp cute little hearts on their butts and braid their manes, doesn’t it?” Kelsey sighed.
“I think the owners would probably object to your turning their million-dollar horses into life-size My Little Ponies.”
I was not at my most comfortable at the track. Before starting with the commission, I’d attended exactly one horse race, but that involved a pony getting away from a petting zoo at my grandparents’ church’s fall festival. Little Sammi Teeter and Dusty, her brave steed, “raced” all the way to the end of the road before anyone caught up with them. Now I was expected to know a little bit of everything about the history of the track, the meaning of the various colored silks, and why the race is limited to three-year-old horses. Because occasionally, the press asked random questions of people wearin
g official-looking name tags, and they really didn’t appreciate it when you said, “I’m not sure.”
Everything was running smoothly in the hours before the official post time, when our guests had been invited to mill through the respectable suite we’d reserved in the Jockey Club and watch the preliminary races on the wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. It was impressive, but not so opulent that people started to question where their tax dollars were going. Knowing that Ray and any number of potential hirers and firers were watching us, Mr. Vaughn and I were actually cooperating and speaking civilly to each other.
Snowy white peonies mixed with the traditional red Derby roses decorated the tables in low globe vases. The windows framed a sunny view of the Louisville skyline. Spring’s arrival was celebrated in the traditional way, with purchases of spiffy new suits and dresses in soft Easter tones. They reflected against the polished wood floors like fallen blooms, giving the room an impressionist Water Lilies look.
The juleps were ice cold, the table linens crisp, and the canapés circulating at just the right pace. I was chagrined to see that Josh was meeting all the movers and shakers, but comforted myself with the fact that I already knew most of those people, and I was pretty sure they liked me better than someone they’d met only briefly while mildly intoxicated. Everything was going well.
I should have known something was about to go terribly wrong.
Just as I ended a rather pleasant conversation with the director of the Kentucky Horse Park, I felt a finger trailing down my arm. I shivered, feeling a clammy cold sensation, like someone was standing over my grave making dick jokes. I turned and groaned at the sight of the walking phallus in question.
I hated it when people I disliked snuck up on me. Where was the Darth Vader theme music when you needed it?
Tall and gym built, C.J. Rowley was handsome enough. His thick blond hair and lantern jaw would have made him gorgeous if not for the cruel slant to his mouth. Of course, he was dressed impeccably in a black suit and a tie with little horses on it. My hands itched to reach for it, but strangling a man with a novelty tie in a room full of witnesses could not be a good career move.