Hotshot

  None of those jobs mattered, though. They all happened before she found her true calling to the culinary world, and they were simply a means to an end. In high school the part-time jobs kept her in Mary Lynn apple-flavored lip gloss, tattered jeans, and oversize sunglasses. In college they paid for her laptop and all the other extras not covered by her scholarship. But this job did matter because, in her mind, it was going to be the start of a stellar career. Too late, she realized she should have been more skeptical. From the very beginning, the job seemed too good to be true, and after a few days at the magazine, she discovered it definitely was. The boss, or rather, the pervert from hell, was responsible for her misery.

  Her first day could only be described as bizarre. She had been told she would have a parking spot assigned to her inside a heated garage, which was attached to the main building. Since she wouldn’t have to trample through the snow to get to the door, she decided to wear a dress and heels. She settled on a wool fitted pale-pink dress with a high V-neck and a straight skirt.

  It was five below zero when she left her motel room, and getting to her car in the parking lot was painful. God only knew what the wind chill was. Within a minute her skin was burning. She slipped the key in the ignition while she whispered, “Please start, please start.” She added a Hail Mary, and on the third try the motor came to life. She’d had a new battery installed before she left Texas, yet with this cold it was amazing that anything with moving parts would work. Her lips were blue before the heater started blowing warm air.

  Peyton didn’t need directions to the Bountiful Table headquarters because it was the tallest building in Dalton. According to Bridget, Peyton would be able to see it from anywhere in town. She was right about that. It was a giant monolith, extremely contemporary, with gleaming silver letters on top spelling Swift Publications. You couldn’t miss it.

  As she drove toward it, she tried to figure out what the structure was supposed to be. It was round and cylindrical. The closer she got to it, the more it looked like a silo, but it appeared to be black. By the time she reached the winding drive leading to the garage, she realized the surface of the building was made of dark reflective glass. Any windows were obscured. She surmised that the structure wouldn’t win any awards from Architectural Digest unless they gave one for what-were-you-thinking. Like a giant statue of the bogeyman in the middle of Disneyland, it didn’t belong.

  Bridget was waiting for her in the lobby. She wasn’t friendly. Thin and gaunt, she frowned as she gave Peyton the once-over.

  “I’m pleased you’re wearing a dress,” she said. “We don’t have an official dress code here and most of the women wear slacks, and the men wear whatever they want, but Drew—Mr. Albertson—prefers his assistants and trainees to wear dresses or skirts. You’ll be working on the eighth floor. Come along and I’ll get you settled. Mr. Albertson is out of town, but he’ll be back in the office tomorrow or the day after. You’ll meet him then.”

  At five feet five inches, Peyton wasn’t all that tall, but she felt like a giant next to the petite, skin-and-bones woman as she walked by her side to the bank of elevators. Bridget’s expression was so rigid, Peyton thought her face might crack if she smiled . . . assuming she knew how.

  They passed two women in the hall. Both were smiling until they spotted Peyton. Then they frowned and, like Bridget, gave her the once-over. Feeling terribly self-conscious, Peyton looked down at her shoes to make sure they matched.

  The elevator ride was strange, too. Most people in elevators stare straight ahead at the doors or up at the numbers above the doors until they reach their floor, but not the crowd in the elevator she and Bridget stepped into. Peyton stared straight ahead while everyone else, including Bridget, stared at her. It was unnerving.

  The executive offices were nicely appointed, though the colors were a bit bland. Everything had been done in light and dark gray—the walls, the furniture, and the fixtures. It was as though the decorator wanted the furnishings to match the computers. They did, exactly.

  Reception was in front of a wall of glass. A stunning redhead sat behind a sleek white counter, speaking to someone in her headset. She smiled at Bridget, but when she turned her attention to Peyton, the smile stiffened and appeared to be forced. The reactions Peyton was getting were becoming comical, and she worried she’d start laughing. What was wrong with these women? Why were they so hostile toward her?

  Bridget led the way to the inner sanctum. Several cubicles separated by low four-foot walls were clustered in the middle of a large room. Beyond was Drew Albertson’s office. His name was printed on the door along with his title, Managing Editor. Directly in front of Peyton, a large open cubicle held two desks facing each other.

  An older woman with delicate features and big brown eyes walked up to greet them, and Peyton was relieved to see that, unlike the others, the woman was smiling at her with genuine warmth.

  Bridget’s sour expression lessened. “Mimi, this is the new trainee, Peyton Lockhart. Will you take over with her? You know, go through the manual and show her around? I’ve got to get back to my office.”

  Before Mimi could agree, Bridget took off.

  “Welcome, I’m Mimi Cosgrove,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Let’s put your coat away. The closet’s down the hall. Your desk is here.” She pointed to the one on the right in the large cubicle. “You have lots of space.” She nodded toward the desk on the left. “That’s where Lars Bjorkman sits. He’s an assistant editor . . . still learning the ropes,” she explained.

  “Where is your work station?” Peyton asked.

  “Right in front of Drew’s office. I’m one of his personal assistants.”

  “Have you worked here long?” she asked as she followed Mimi down a hallway.

  “Over seven years,” Mimi answered. “I used to work on five, but I was transferred to Drew’s office about eight months ago.” She added, “It’s a change.”

  Mimi didn’t volunteer any other information about her transfer, and Peyton felt it would be intrusive to ask. The woman was being very sweet to her. She didn’t want to grill her with questions right away.

  “Did you know we have a professional kitchen here?” Mimi asked. “One entire floor. Any recipe that’s printed in our magazine has to be tested several times and then voted on. Would you like to see it?”

  “Oh yes, please,” Peyton answered eagerly.

  “Come on then. We’ll take the stairs. I’ll give you the grand tour. Then I’ll show you the manual. You’ll have a lot of reading to do the next couple of days.”

  They spent the morning together going from floor to floor, meeting employees. The test kitchens with their state-of-the-art appliances and gleaming countertops were definitely the highlight for Peyton. When they returned to the eighth floor and stepped out of the elevator, Mimi turned to her right and pointed to large double doors made of highly polished mahogany.

  “That’s Randolph Swift’s domain. It’s a gorgeous office. You won’t meet our CEO right away. I was told he’s gone to visit relatives, but I don’t really know where he is. I haven’t seen him in quite some time. None of us have. Ever since his wife died, he’s become somewhat of a recluse and doesn’t come to his office much. When he was here all the time, he used to address the employees on the intercom, catching us up on the latest happenings because he thought of us as his family.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m starving, and no wonder. Look at the time. It’s already after noon. Let’s go down to the cafeteria. The food’s quite good, but then it should be, right?”

  The morning had flown by. As they took their trays and made their way to a table in front of the windows, Peyton noticed heads turning and conversations becoming more hushed.

  She set her bowl of vegetable soup and cup of hot tea on the table. Mimi commented that she’d forgotten utensils for her salad, but before she could get up, Peyton handed her a fork and an extra nap
kin.

  “Thanks,” Mimi said. She studied Peyton for a long minute and then said, “You know, if you don’t like working for Drew, or if you decide you don’t want to be a food critic, there are a couple of other positions available. Bridget could help you . . . if you decide . . .”

  “I’m not so sure Bridget would help me. She doesn’t seem to like me. Neither do any of the other women here. Have you noticed, Mimi? Look around the cafeteria. Most of the women are glaring at me.”

  Mimi laughed. “The last trainee left a sour taste in their mouths, I guess. Don’t let it bother you. They’ll get used to you. I notice the men are all smiling at you.”

  Peyton looked around the room. Mimi was right. Several men were smiling at her. “That’s kind of creepy, too,” she whispered.

  “Don’t pay attention to them,” Mimi suggested. “Tell me about yourself. Any sisters or brothers? What’s Texas like? I’ve never been south of Minneapolis. I always wanted to see the world, but my husband, Don—my ex-husband—didn’t want to travel.”

  It soon became apparent that Peyton was proud of her state. She bragged about all it had to offer. “I could go on and on. Texas really does have everything you could ever want.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I have two sisters,” Peyton told her. “Lucy is two years older. She’s an interior designer and really creative. She would like to start her own business, but in this economy it’s tough. Ivy is the youngest. She’s a senior at the University of Texas. She’s doing her student teaching now and wants to teach kindergarten. She loves children, and of the three of us, she’s the most patient.”

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  “Yes, and still living in the house they bought over twenty-some years ago. Okay, now it’s my turn, Mimi. Tell me about your family.”

  “Not much to tell,” she said as she stabbed a leaf of spinach. “I have two younger brothers. They’re both married and living in Minneapolis. No nieces or nephews, sorry to say. After college I married the only man I ever dated. We lasted almost twenty-five years.”

  “Twenty-five years,” Peyton repeated. “That’s a long time. You don’t look old enough to have been married that long.”

  Mimi smiled at the compliment. “I’m old enough to be your mother.” Her expression changed and she looked out the window. Peyton noticed a hint of sadness in Mimi’s eyes as she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Don and I never had any children.”

  They continued to talk about their backgrounds while they ate, and after lunch Mimi walked Peyton back to her desk and handed her the company manual. She opened the two-hundred-page volume and began reading all about The Bountiful Table. The material wasn’t what she would call riveting, and Peyton did a fair amount of yawning and daydreaming.

  Occasionally, Mimi would check on her. Once, on her way back from the printer, she stopped at Peyton’s desk and in a low whisper said, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, perplexed by the odd question. “Why—”

  Bridget interrupted when she called Mimi’s name from across the room. “I’ll explain later,” Mimi said, patting Peyton’s shoulder and then hurrying off.

  Peyton didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her new friend again until the end of the day when they were walking to the garage together. Mimi was turning to go up the stairs to the top level when Peyton stopped her.

  “Mimi, what did you mean when you said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want?”

  Mimi halted on the step and thought for a second before saying, “Don’t be in a hurry to sign a lease. Take your time and talk to me before you commit. Okay?”

  “Okay, but I don’t understand why—” Peyton began.

  Before she could finish her sentence, Mimi said, “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” and then she turned to continue up the stairs.

  As Peyton made her way to her car, she reflected on her first day at her new job. Very peculiar, she thought. It wasn’t at all what she had expected, but then, she reasoned, one couldn’t expect to feel completely comfortable from day one.

  ______

  On Tuesday she met the man who would share the cubicle with her, Assistant Editor Lars Bjorkman. He was already at his desk furiously typing on his keyboard when she walked over to introduce herself. He was young, in his twenties, and handsome. He wore one of his signature ski sweaters. According to Mimi, he owned one for every day of the month. Lars was from Stockholm, and he had the most wonderful accent. He told her his goal was to become a chef, and he’d taken the job at the magazine as a first step, explaining it would provide exposure to some of the finest restaurants in the country. She liked him. She noticed how kind he was to everyone, no matter how rude or impatient they were when demanding his attention.

  Peyton took up where she left off in the manual, but it was a much more pleasant task with Lars’s help. He was generous with his advice, telling her which procedures she would need to learn now and which ones she could postpone to a later date. Whenever she had a question, he would stop what he was doing and answer her.

  All in all, Tuesday was a much better day.

  Wednesday her nightmare began.

  THREE

  Drew Albertson looked like a Scandinavian movie star with his blond wavy hair, gray-blue eyes, and long eyelashes. He was tall and thin but quite muscular. His custom-made shirts were fitted a tad too tight, giving the impression that he was so buff his muscles were about to bulge through.

  For Peyton’s first few days on the job, he was very warm and welcoming, expressing his desire that she feel at home and enjoy her work at The Bountiful Table and assuring her that if she had any questions or concerns he was there to help her.

  Drew was married to Eileen, the daughter of Randolph Swift, the patriarch of the company. Peyton met Eileen briefly when she swept through the office one morning to drop something off at Drew’s office. She was a big-boned woman with shoulders a linebacker would envy, but she wore beautiful clothes. Her cashmere coat was definitely black label, and her boots cost well over a thousand dollars. Peyton recognized them from a Neiman Marcus ad she’d seen in a magazine. After two minutes with the woman, Peyton decided the clothes were the only beautiful thing about her.

  Eileen stopped at her desk and looked Peyton up and down as though she were scrutinizing a specimen in a jar. “So, you’re the new girl,” she said, not hiding her disdainful smile.

  Peyton put on her most pleasant face and extended her hand. “Yes, I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Eileen snapped. “Peyton . . . something.”

  “Lockhart,” Peyton offered.

  “Yes . . . whatever,” Eileen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just do your job, and you’ll get along here. My husband has high standards . . . very high standards,” she repeated. “If you want to make it in this company, you’ll see that he gets what he needs.”

  Peyton bit her lip to keep from snapping back at the rude woman. She managed a faint smile before saying, “I’ll do my best.”

  “See that you do,” Eileen said and then turned and walked away.

  Peyton didn’t think she’d ever met a more abrasive woman in her life. If this was her normal way of communicating with people, it was a wonder anyone would speak to her, let alone get close to her. The one thing she had going for her was money. Most likely that was what had attracted Drew. She came from money and was due to get lots more. Peyton had learned from Lars that Eileen and her younger brother, Erik, would inherit the publishing company and a fortune in stocks and bonds just as soon as their father retired as CEO. Even more money would come to whoever took over and ran the business after Randolph was gone. Since Erik had been away at school for several years, it was fully expected that Drew would step into his father-in-law’s shoes.

 
Peyton thought Eileen was the most repulsive person she had ever met. That is, until she got to know Drew Albertson.

  One wouldn’t expect such a handsome man with the sweetest smile and the softest voice to be a sexual predator—at least Peyton didn’t expect it, which was why she was slow to react. But a sexual predator was exactly what Drew was, and in hindsight, she realized she had been foolishly naive.

  His creepy seduction began almost immediately. On her fourth day at work his hand brushed against the side of her left breast . . . and lingered. It happened while she was sitting at her desk and he was leaning over her to point to a graph on her computer screen. She was mortified, but because he didn’t say anything or apologize, she thought he hadn’t realized what he had done. She assumed it was an accident.

  The seventh day on the job he followed her into the file room, shut the door, and trapped her as she was trying to get past him. Pretending to get out of her way, he pinned her against the wall, his pelvis against hers, and said, “You must be used to men telling you how beautiful and sexy you are. I’ll bet they make fools of themselves fawning all over you.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Please move away from me. You’re making me terribly uncomfortable.”

  He acted as though he hadn’t heard her and brushed a strand of her hair over her shoulder. “So silky,” he crooned.

  She pushed his hand away, squeezed around him, and without a word, left the room. She resisted the urge to slam the door in his face.

  That evening she spent a long while researching sexual harassment on the Internet, gathering information to take to Human Resources. She had a strong feeling that Drew wasn’t going to let up, and she needed to know what she legally could do about it.