H2O: The Novel Part 2

"Yeah. Which makes you-"

"The Ice Queen. I could have gone all day without hearing that nickname. Again." I looked down at the floor. I hated office gossip, and this place had turned into another Peyton Place. Or s.e.x and the City. Funny how nicknames stuck. At least here I'd be a queen. The "Ice Princess" moniker had never faded in my last job.

"He deserved it, Andrea. After the way he treated me last night, what would you do?"

"Doesn't matter. He's an Executive VP now, Kate. That was his staff meeting, and he's not your peer anymore. He simply asked if you were ready for the Riddle presentation. That's all."

"I'm sure I told him this weekend."

"Don't read too much into that." Andrea pulled me close to the wall, out of the way of someone dropping off recycled paper. She waited until the intruder had pa.s.sed. "You have to separate this thing with Xavier into personal life and office life, or you're gonna get burned. Don't a.s.sume that when you tell him something at your place that he'll remember it when he's here. He compartmentalizes. At your condo, he's in another world."

Compartmentalize. Like me.

Andrea had it nailed. I thought that Xavier would trust me more since we were close. But I'd come to realize our intimacy could work against us.

"Justus said you two had a long talk in the garage this morning." She looked up, straight at me. Her face was a mixture of pain and question.

"He really cares about you," I blurted out, pus.h.i.+ng back memories of his skin against mine. "He asked my advice about some stuff. And I told him I'd fill you in about dinner."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I ran off to get changed."

Andrea raised an eyebrow, and then looked down at my dress. Her eyes stopped at my middle, then tracked back up.

"What?" I asked, looking down. What's on my skirt?

"Are you?" She nodded in the direction of Xavier's office. "You know. 'Preggo'?"

"Pregnant?" I gasped. "No!"

"You're sure?" she asked, pressing too hard. "You fainting anymore?" Her eyes bored into me.

"No. Not pregnant. And not dizzy. Just fine, thanks." My pulse rose with the temperature of my face. I suspected I'd turned beet red. "I peed on a stick this morning, Andrea. To make sure."

"Rumor mill's going full tilt, Kate. Someone overheard Xavier at Canlis last night. And-well-you know this place. Word travels fast."

His three words: "Are you pregnant?" The damage was done. Here I stood: Kate Pepper, the office mistress. Human Resources would stalk me for sure. I drew a deep breath, thankful that Andrea had been so blunt about what she'd heard, but unsure what to do next.

"You had to know this would happen. Eventually," Andrea said with a schoolmarm's tone. "Now what?"

She wanted to help, but I didn't deserve it. I felt dirty in Andrea's presence, afraid she could read my thoughts about her boyfriend. I forced myself to concentrate. To focus on work.

"What's next? Do my job. The Riddle briefing's in an hour."

"Is he ready?"

"He who?"

"Bill Naudain. Have you talked with him?" she asked. "You told him to build the Riddle presentation. Have you seen it?"

"No. I tasked him last Friday. We were busy, remember?"

"Yeah. Busy getting ready for the boss's charity dinner. But did you pull the files off the server last night and check them out?" She touched my bandage, holding my wrist for a moment. "That's all Xavier wants to know. He's not busting you. Just checking." She tried to smile, something to lift me up, then added, "' Trust but verify.' Xavier says it all the time."

Trust. I failed on that count.

I shook my head. "I meant to. But last night . . ." I snapped my mouth shut; I wasn't about to fuel her concerns about my problem. Whatever it was.

She pushed away. "Gotta run, Kate." She motioned her head in the direction we'd just come from. "Go find Bill. Close the loop with Mr. X. And ignore the looks. The rumors will pa.s.s. They always do." She turned and smiled, then started to walk away. "This time next week there'll be someone else they're talking about."

Headed down the hall, she waved over her shoulder. "Smile. You'll get through it."

I nodded, unable to speak. Kate Pepper. A traitor and a tramp.

My stilettos made a clack-clack on the cherry wood floors of Consolidated Aerodyne as I headed to the main conference room. I loved that about this shoe. The staccato snap of a heel was a woman's gunshot. Less b.l.o.o.d.y but no less deadly. Someone once suggested that stilettos are a metaphor for s.e.x. I prefer to say they're about power. Perhaps there's no difference.

This much is true: Power matters. Women who act like men get ahead. Women who act like women get trampled. Stilettos send my message loud and clear: Don't tread on me.

Riddle Incorporated came to us as the world's leading manufacturer of miniature plasma computer screens. In an era when flat screen meant big, they'd found a way to make huge profits by putting high resolution in a tiny package. In our hands at Consolidated Aerodyne, combined with my new concept for virtual e-mail-what I called 'v-mail'-their screens in our airline seat backs would make every plane a wireless, video-based, keypad-free remote office, for a third the cost of the compet.i.tion. As the technology commercialization executive for Seattle's fastest growing aeros.p.a.ce firm, this account-and this technology-was in my sweet spot. But I'd taken a big chance, delegating the success of this big presentation to one of my staff. I snapped the power heels louder and picked up the pace. We'd win this one on substance, not glitz-if Bill had prepared the way I hoped he would. And if he wasn't ready, I always had a backup plan.

Xavier met me three doors from the appointment, matching my stride. It wasn't hard to find me. Just use your ears. His Italian loafers clacked alongside my power points.

"Ready?"

I didn't look at him, but kept my gaze set straight ahead, increasing my pace. "Double ready."

"Sure? Maybe I can help."

I wouldn't look at him, even if he begged. "I tasked Bill. If he blows it, I have a backup."

"You'd better. Management will crucify you if you lose this deal." We walked in silence the rest of the way to the room. A part of me yearned for him to say something-anything-about last night. I wanted him to at least acknowledge me, not just match strides with my staccato shoes. Expecting an apology from Xavier was fantasy, but surely, he could try.

I forced myself to snap out of it; I had to rattle my own cage and get back in the game. Riddle's people would arrive in half an hour. Andrea knew our boss well; " Trust, but verify" was written all over Xavier's face, draped in a stony silence. He would let me fail on my own, or help me win if I asked for it. But for a.s.sistance, there would be a price. His offers always meant some form of control.

I blocked the entrance when I stopped outside the conference room. Xavier waited behind me as I'd hoped. My eyes met Bill's-a middle-aged man seated on the far end of a blond oak table. No fancy conference rooms for me.

"Are we ready?" I asked.

Three sets of eyes darted about the room with a guilty avoidance, finally settling on Bill, a key business developer on my staff. His gaze s.h.i.+fted from me to the projector, and then to the floor. Andrea had been right; he wasn't prepared. Andrea was always right.

"I'm sorry. I . . . I sent you a text . . ." he began, fumbling for his Smartphone.

Ready to scream but determined to win, I bit my lip and flipped a finger-sized data drive across the room toward no one in particular. Eight gigabytes of material, including a month-old draft briefing I'd prepared for today. I'd have to win this one on guts.

Let's see who grabs it.

Bill stuck his hand out like a professional goalie snagging a hundred-mile-an-hour puck and stopped the data stick in midflight. His nose twitched, and then a smile broke on his face.

"Just kidding," he chuckled, and looked around the room. The rest of my business team busted out laughing, most of them pointing at me.

"You were worried," he said, clutching the data drive between his thumb and forefinger. "Weren't you?" He tilted his head a little and frowned. "You know me better than that, Kate."

The flush I knew had to be crimson warmed my face. I nodded. All the power, speed, leather, and stilettos were useless if I didn't do my job. Bill had saved me. With a business deal on the line, and me distracted, he'd come through.

"I've got your back, Boss," Bill said, extending a palm with the thumb drive, then waving me to my seat. "Let's run through this once before the Riddle guys arrive. You'll love it."

Two hours later, we'd landed a big one, a thirty-million-dollar seat-back display deal for four major air carriers. And it felt great. We'd won their business, but not the usual way. I always close the deals . . . on any day but this. Today it was all Bill. Nevertheless, a win was a win.

Xavier acknowledged me at last; the nod and thin smile from my chrome-headed boss almost made up for his gaffe last night. His faux pas faded to a distant memory as he escorted me from the conference room. Perhaps he'd say something, apologize, or just hold my hand.

"Good job," he said in a low voice, his eyes diverted down the hall by the pa.s.sage of one of the short-skirted girls from Graphics. Then he was gone. Behind me, the noise level rose with the celebration of our win. But Xavier's two scant words and his wandering eyes set the tone for the rest of my day. My party balloon popped.

"Kate?" A voice called out from my right. I spun about on the heels to face Carla, our Human Resources manager. All three hundred pounds of her, arms crossed.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked in her signature throaty gravel voice born of too many cigarettes. It was the cla.s.sic opening line of an HR inquisition. No doubt she knew about last night. She liked to bat the mouse around before she bit its head off.

"Actually, no. This is a bad time, Carla," I said, fidgeting. I pointed to the revelry in the conference room, a festive mood I far preferred to being moored in the corridor with Battle Axe.

She glanced at the jubilation, led by Bill, as they hoisted coffee cups to each other in mock toasts. One of them motioned for me to join them. Carla shook her head. "That can wait. But this can't." She pointed down the hall in the direction of her torture suite. A few doors down from Xavier's.

"What's this about?" I asked, my pulse quickening. This woman was easy to run around, but you couldn't run through her. She'd been gunning for me for months.

Carla shook her head with that wicked "got you" smile I'd seen before. She rubbed the front of her ample belly in a slow circular motion, then pointed at me.

"The word's out on you, Momma. We need to talk."

CHAPTER THREE.

MY THIRD obsession is coffee. Excellent, top-flight, expensive imported coffee. Nothing by Juan Valdez and his scabby donkey. I go for the award winners like Kenya "AA" Gachatha and the famous Kenyan "black currant." Panama Elida or Sumatra Lintong. Starbucks might satisfy the "unwashed ma.s.ses," but for me, it just won't do. I seek out real baristas and strong drink. Some people indulge in caviar, others in diamonds. I prefer black gold laced with caffeine.

Right up there with coffee is something to do while I'm drinking it. My e-mail is inextricably linked to a cup of the finest java that money can buy. I've conditioned myself to read messages only if I have a hot cup of joe in my hand, and lately I find that e-mail and the office just don't mix. The coffee reeks at work, disgusting brown tripe that my office mates load up with artificial creamer in carcinogenic Styrofoam cups.

E-mail consumes your life, so you may as well enjoy yourself while dealing with the drudgery of electronic messages. I do both at ISIP, where they serve up the best coffee in the world, and the fastest Wi-Fi in Seattle. It's the perfect business combination-Kenyan java and ripping-fast Internet. Hiram Berry started this place for coffee sn.o.bs like me who can afford a five-dollar cup and come back often for half-price refills. But at that price, his place didn't really catch on until he went wireless. Now Starbucks is racing to catch up with the digital end of his business. The coffee compet.i.tion may have gotten their start in Seattle, but compared to Hiram's magic, Starbucks and Seattle's Best will never quite measure up.

ISIP sits in a confusing little building in an equally confusing triangular block at the intersections of Taylor, Fifth Avenue, and Vine. With all the one-way streets and crazy traffic flow, you'd miss this place if your nose clogged up and you didn't smell the roast. I caught a whiff one pre-dawn morning months ago while tooling through Seattle on my Ice Rocket. I can smell a quality Kenyan roast a block away, and I followed my nose all the way from downtown to that little shop, traveling on foot after I'd secured my bike at the garage.

ISIP is an odd acronym for a coffee shop, but I like it. Someone told me that "the brew there is so hot that I sip it." Thus, "ISIP." But I suspected there was more to the story. I dropped off a case of ice-cold Rising Moon Spring Ale at Hiram's place one day, determined to figure out why he'd named my favorite coffee shop something so nebulous. He craves beer like I crave espresso, and curiosity was about to kill my cat.

Hiram blushed after he'd polished off two Rising Moons in less than five minutes, burped something deep and stinky, then wiped his face with his s.h.i.+rtsleeve and confessed. "I had a computer technician job at Boeing and I hated it," he said, popping the cap on a third bottle. "I figured I'd open a shop that catered to my two pa.s.sions-computers and coffee. After a six-pack of this stuff," he said, hoisting the colorful bottle of wheat beer, "I'd found just the name."

"At the bottom of a bottle?" Surely, the alcohol was talking.

"Maybe," he said with a laugh.

"So? What did the magic bottle suggest you name this place?"

"I Speak Internet Protocol-I Speak IP. ISIP" He laughed again and swigged half a bottle in a single gulp. "You know, it's kind of funny what people think the name means. Something about sipping coffee. That crazy rumor started after a woman sued a fast-food restaurant because she spilled hot stuff in her lap. I took advantage of the newspaper buzz and turned up the temperature on my brew. Been glad I did, too. Coffee's like steak, Kate. The longer it stays hot, the better folks like it."

He tipped a bottle in salute to me that day, and then swigged another six ounces. "No pastries here, Miss. No sodas, no energy drinks, organic juices, or hand-shaken iced tea. No frou-frou vanilla bean frappuccinos with double shots of mocha and whipped cream. We only serve the world's finest coffee. Very hot coffee. And very strong." He tilted the bottle to its limit, draining the last drop, then lifted it toward the ceiling, inverted in triumph. " To ISIP! To computers and the magic coffee bean!"

So here I was, in ISIP on a Friday night after work. Somewhere across town, Xavier was celebrating with the Riddle corporate reps, polis.h.i.+ng off heavy drinks and finger food at a party in the Warwick hotel. He had invited me to come along, but after the HR manager's obligatory tongue las.h.i.+ng about office romances and personnel actions, I preferred to be alone. Alone, with a cup of something warm and the company of my lovely laptop.

I didn't think Xavier wanted me with him anyway. Celebratory events were his idea of a boys' night out, and knowing how X behaved when he got some liquor in him, I'd be the b.u.t.t of some s.e.xual joke or a grab bag for some drunken client. The silent fellows.h.i.+p of my laptop-obsession number four-and a cup of hot java were preferable to any event that featured Xavier and a mixed drink.

Hiram opens the shop early in the morning for people like me, but he also closes early, around ten p.m. on weekdays. The Berry family lives on the second floor of the little pie slice of a building, smothered all day long in the rising aroma of roasting coffee beans. His kids were probably addicted to caffeine in the womb.

Hiram's odd in lots of ways, but he has a wicked sense of humor. He's always smiling, brown eyes peering through retro gla.s.ses framed by brown matted shoulder-length hair. Tie-died s.h.i.+rts, faded jeans with holes, and Birkenstock sandals round out the hippie look. A true information technology weenie.

Hiram has lots of quirks, but the one I've never quite figured out is his soft heart. He hires the most unlikely people. It's his foible, but his customers tolerate it. "Mentally challenged employees," some people call them. You certainly don't need to be a rocket scientist to work in a coffee shop.

Candice is one of those idiosyncrasies he's hired, maybe a relative, or a friend. She doesn't know the difference between a computer and a television. She smiles a lot. She owns one s.h.i.+rt, a light-blue polo that she wears every day, winter or summer, with dark-blue cotton Dockers. I'm sure she weighs more than I do, but she's shorter by a head. To Hiram's credit and hers, every table she busses is spotless, every mug and piece of silverware s.h.i.+nes, and Candice greets me with a huge smile every day. I confess that Hiram's quirks have been growing on me, Candice included.

Mother would be so proud that I've opened my eyes to people who aren't like me.

That thought made me squirm. I wanted, least of all, to be my mother. Even to be like her. But she would, in fact, be proud that I occasionally talked with Candice. Mother loved these kinds of people. Candice was pure. Nothing but good thoughts and nice words for everyone. Simple as white bread. An adult toddler. What Mother called "people with special needs."

Come to think of it, Mother had never met a person she didn't like. I don't know why, but I loathed that about both my parents. No matter what crowd you were in, everyone instantly became their best friend. "Love one another," Mother would say, calling it "an object lesson" when she pointed out gang bangers, prost.i.tutes, and homeless people. Faceless ma.s.ses teemed on New York's sidewalks, and she professed to love every one of them. Even simple people like Candice, adults whose minds were eternally stuck at age six. I shook my head to dislodge the memory of Mother and her sermonettes.

How can you love someone you don't even know?

The aroma of roasting beans wrapped me in its embrace as I opened the door to ISIP. An olfactory blanket draped itself over a throng of college-age kids armed with mugs of hot brew and open laptops, heads down, wired into the net. People here spoke to each other with animated gestures, but they never made eye contact; all eyes were on their computers or their cups. Candice saw me looking around for a table and headed straight for me.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Kate!" she squealed. The shop had already filled by six on a Friday evening, yet no one blinked when she yelled my name. They all got the same magical treatment. Candice was everyone's best friend.

"Hi, Candice. Table for one?" She knew my habits better than I did and pointed to a lone spot in the back. Perfect.

"I'll take it," I said, pulling my MacBook Air laptop from its shoulder bag while I walked. Candice ambled away, probably to get some tableware. I'd order the java later. Tonight, tabletop real estate at Hiram's mattered more than the drink.

Candice must be dropping the ball. The top of the table sported a pile of spilled sugar and a ring of water when I sat down. I moved in search of a napkin to clean it off.

"I'll get it, Miss Kate!" Candice hollered above the din of the shop. "Be right there!" She waddled in my direction with a rag.

I waved back. I could take care of myself. With my blade-thin silver MacBook Air balanced on the corner of the table, I grabbed a spare napkin and swept the puddle of water away.

The next moment my feet flew out from under me. I clutched at the tabletop, but my arm slid helplessly to one side, with no grip on the smooth surface. I pawed at the tall table with my hurt left hand, pus.h.i.+ng it over as I collapsed on the floor.

"Miss Kate!" Candice screamed from somewhere close, but I lost sight of her and everything else at ISIP. My head filled with images of someplace far from coffee and the Internet.

I saw water, towering mountains of waves. I bobbed in some kind of lake, in the midst of a terrible storm. Water hovered above me, the liquid sky a ma.s.sive ocean that crashed down to drown me. I fought for breath in a mad frothing sea as two watery hands clapped together, smothering me in the middle.

My head connected with something solid and I tasted blood.