“Craig.” Sharon has a way with a clipped greeting that lays out precisely what she will tolerate from this interaction: twenty seconds of pleasantries, a few insincere smiles; now get out of my sight. She could improv a heck of a business character, although I suppose the point of improv is to take a break from being yourself.
“The course is good for mid-May. A little soft on… Liz?”
“Morning, Craig. Great day out there. Set a new personal best,” I chirp. It’s true, from a certain point of view.
Craig’s smile grows fractionally tighter. “Keller wouldn’t be poaching from West by North, Sharon? Because Liz is one of our most valued employees.”
That’s news to me, but I can’t process it because I’ve just realized Sharon from improv is Sharon Keller-Yakub, vice president of Keller Outdoor Epiphanies.
It’s not a total fail on my part—she’s known for hating photo ops. At least Béa looks surprised, too. As does David.
“That’s wonderful,” Sharon agrees, smooth but deadly. “Keller has the same policy of rewarding talent and hard work. We know the best ones have choices.”
Craig’s eyes narrow. “Liz, I hope you can join the West by North foursome next Saturday afternoon. David can’t make it.”
David’s jaw drops. He glares at the teenager, clearly outraged that the Craiglet made the first string when he didn’t.
“Oh, thanks! But I have a function that day.” I try not to smile too big.
For years, I’ve given Craig what he supposedly wanted: a well-run department, strong relationships with suppliers, contributions to the team. I didn’t demand answers to questions like: If I’m good at my job, why hasn’t he promoted me? And: If I’m not good enough to promote, why am I still the only member of ops?
But Sharon sussed out his motivation in sixty seconds. He wants someone he has to compete for. He wants to fend off a Keller takeover attempt for me, just like he’s done for West by North. What I’m doing today means more to Craig than any real work he’s ever seen me do.
Sometimes I don’t understand people at all.
“Excuse us; we have a lunch reservation,” Sharon says.
Craig’s mouth pinches. “Nice to see you, Sharon. Liz.” David’s urgent whispers carry back to us as we head for the clubhouse.
Sharon laughs like a warrior wiping blood off her sword. “Ihope you don’t mind. As your unofficial mentor, I think Craig could stand to feel a little less sure of you, my dear.”
“A lot of men should be less sure of themselves,” Béa adds. “Your boss seems like a real ass crack.”
“Sometimes he really is.” I kind of can’t believe this is happening. I’m invited to my new friend’s wedding. I’m asking my husband on a date. My mentor, Sharon Keller-Yakub, is making me look wildly promotable in front of my boss. For the first time, I feel like I don’t have to worry about who I’m competing against. I can focus on my presentation and let go of the doubts about myself.
It feels almost too good to be true.
Chapter Eighteen
Improv and partnership demand the courage to share ideasandthe flexibility to let them go. Don’t ignore whatishappening in favor of the idea youwantedto happen. Change your ideas to fit the scene that’s happening now—not the other way around.
—The Second Chances Handbook
I blame Pinterest for the blasphemy that is beachy semiformal dress. This isn’t September in SoCal, it’s the May long weekend in the mountains, and I’m a mountain person whose wardrobe is 40 percent work-ready separates and 60 percent all-weather technical gear. I have nothing that says “Malibu,” or even “Coachella.”
Amber appears next to my parents’ bedroom mirror. “Your husband’s here. And you have a huge rip.”
“Argh.” A shoulder check reveals a torn seam in my only sundress, right over my ass. I’d call it epic, but I’ve seen Tobin’s merman malfunction and my standards have been reset.
I dive back into the closet. There’s no time to repair my dress; I spent too much of the afternoon pitching my proposal to Eleanorand her panel of Barbie judges (who asked penetrating questions about what snacks would be available on my tours), then burned forty minutes failing to achieve beachy waves in my stick-straight hair.
And I gave Amber ammunition to boss me when I should’ve been safely on the front porch, waiting for Tobin to roll up.
“You need to make up your mind about him.”
I can’t see Amber from inside the closet, but Ifeelher in the doorway, arms crossed, frowning.
“I’ll think about it!” My newest sister tactic: not engaging. I don’t have to choose between fighting or getting steamrolled. I can deflect her arrows, much like Wonder Woman.Kapwinnngggggg!
