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“I won’t let you down,” Liz says.
“Neither of you will,” Mother replies.
“What?” Both of us again, but this time completely in sync. We look at each other, then back to Mother, then comically back at each other. Liz is finally showing her feelings. Surprise is painted in bright, bold letters across her face. I hit surprise, but I’m on anger way before she gets there. I know Mother well enough to not be thrown too hard when she does something truly insane.
“I’m sorry but were you not just saying that everyone hates me?” I demand.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Rhett,” Mother says. “That wasn’t what I said.”
“It’s close enough,” I say. “And now you’re going to send me to— to do what exactly?”
“To learn,” she says.
“And don’t you think that maybe this isn’t a good trial case?” I ask sardonically. “That maybe the eighty billion dollar account isn’t the one you want to gamble on?”
“I hate to agree—” Liz stops herself from finishing that sentence, composes a new one, and says, “Respectfully, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Westing. This will be an incredibly sensitive recruitment. I’m not sure—”
Mother cuts her off. “I believe you both are capable,” she says. “Ms. Slate, you’re one of the best in the city at this. Rhett, you’re a Westing. It’s in your blood.”
Liz and I look at each other again. For all my grievances with my mother, I usually never question her business sense. But now?
Taking advantage of our stunned silence, Mother says, “The Alencars normally reside in San Fransisco but they will be in Chicago next week to attend a tech seminar. You’ll go under the guise of the Westing family looking to invest in the future of technology. You’ll get close to them and establish a relationship with Marie Alencar.”
“And how exactly are we going to get her to sign her money over to us?” I ask. “They’re not divorced yet. Have they even split their assets? Does she know how much money she’s getting? And why the hell wouldn’t she just stay with Paul Morgan?”
“All very good questions to figure out in Chicago,” Mother says.
I look at Liz, who’s thinking hard. Is she regretting getting in bed with my mother? Will she be fired if this doesn’t work out? Will I get Hairy Jacob’s old office if she is? All important questions.
“What do you think?” I prompt her.
She looks quickly at me and then to Mother. She considers for a beat and then says, “I think I need to start packing.”
“Good,” Mother says. “Bring your best clothes. The Alencars have expensive tastes. Your flight and hotel information will be sent to your work e-mails. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to do your research. Make sure you go into that conference knowing everything you can about that couple and their company.”
I will do no such thing. There are way more important things on my plate at the moment. I have a new bike coming in from Germany this weekend, and I’m in the process of replacing the engine in a friend’s Viper. Not to mention I can’t imagine a less agreeable waste of my time than spending a weekend in Chicago with Liz Slate pretending to care about some stranger’s divorce.
Mother stands and that’s the cue for us to follow suit. Short meeting, my favorite type. All in all, things could have gone a lot worse. From the way Mother’s forehead veins were pulsing earlier I had thought I’d be getting a lot worse than a weekend vacation to the Windy City. While Liz runs around some nerd convention trying desperately to prove her value to my mother, I’ll be at the aquarium.
Liz makes her exit like a true drone. Polite and efficient, she’s gone before I can catch her eye. I risk a look at her ass as the door closes right behind it. Sadly, there’s not enough time for my gaze to linger.
“You must really hate that poor girl,” I muse, still looking at the door. When Mother doesn’t rise to the bait, I turn with a smirk and say, “If you’re really planning on subjecting her to me for a full weekend.”
She’s scribbling about on a stack of documents, trying to squeeze in a few extra seconds of work in the lull. How much do all those stolen moments add up to over the years? E-mails sent on Christmas morning, phone calls taken at the dinner table. A hundred hours? A thousand? Half my lifetime?
Always the multitasker, Mother responds as she writes. “The way I look at it, I’m actually subjecting you to a weekend with Liz Slate.”
“So it’s me you hate then.”
Mother looks up at last, pushing her reading glasses down her nose and fixing me in hard, blue eyes. “I hate your attitude. Elizabeth Slate is one of the best recruiters in the city, but more than that she’s responsible, intelligent, and hardworking. If you want more responsibility around here then you’re going to have to learn a thing or two from her.”
“You’re the one who wants me to be more responsible,” I point out. “I’m more than happy to continue as is.”
“Well I am not!” Mother’s words cut through the office. She composes herself, and says, “I’m getting very tired of seeing your face on the news. Since nothing I’ve done so far has seemed to work, I believe it’s time I become more involved in your life.”
“More involved? My entire life has been on a track that you built the moment you decided to have a kid. Anytime I’ve ever tried to get off it, you’ve whipped me back into line.”
My tone doesn’t budge Mother at all. Her face shows zero regret as she says, “I’ve provided for everything in your life. The best of anything you’d ever need. So pardon me if I don’t cry great tears for your oppression. Like it or not there are expectations that come with being a Westing. They’re there for the both of us.”
