Page 46 of Buttons

“I should get started, too,” I say to Beatrix once Sarah leaves.

“One more thing,” Beatrix says as I turn to leave. “Those fancy flowers…”

My stomach tightens, preparing for personal questions. “Yes?”

“Next time, have Sarah put them somewhere nicer than a trash can. The reception desk or break room could use some color, and there’s no sense in wasting perfectly good flowers.”

As I walk through the shelter toward the cat room where I know Leo will be finishing his reading session, I feel the weight of the unread card in my bag. Later, in the privacy of my apartment, I’ll read it.

For now, I have more pressing matters. There’s a grant to write, and a future to build that has nothing to do with expensive flowers or crystal vases, or the man who still thinks he can buy his way back into my life with grand gestures.

I find Leo where I expected, sitting cross-legged outside a bottom kennel, reading the final pages ofCharlotte’s Webto a small gray kitten who now sits directly against the cage door, listening intently. My son looks up as I approach, his serious face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile.

“Mom! Buttons let me touch him for ten whole seconds!”

More pressing matters, indeed.

Chapter 20

Julian

Virginia stares at me with wide eyes that remind me of a spooked animal. I’ve spent forty-five minutes explaining my reminder system, and I can already tell she isn’t getting it. It’s all washing over her.

“So, to clarify,” I say, tapping my Mont Blanc pen against the desk calendar, “every meeting needs a reminder at the one-month mark, one-week mark, seventy-two-hour mark, and lastly, I need a one-hour warning before every meeting. Not forty-five minutes, not an hour and ten minutes. One hour precisely.”

She nods, finally writing something down. “One hour before meetings. Got it.”

“And client files are organized by sector, then alphabetically, then by date of first contact.” I gesture to the sleek filingcabinets that line the far wall of my office. “Never by most recent interaction.”

“Sector, alphabetical, first contact. Yes, Mr. Plaza.”

“I know physical files are tedious, and everything is automatically uploaded electronically, but I really need you to print all files and keep them organized for me. I just don’t do well without paper in my hands.”

Gosh darn-it, this is exactly why Elowen only gave Virginia the log-ins to our system. She knew Virginia couldn’t handle my system. It only proves that Elowen understood me, but I hadn’t taken the time to truly know and understandher.

I drum my fingers against the glass surface of my desk. Virginia flinches almost imperceptibly, but I notice. I always notice. Just how I notice Virginia’s slightly wrinkled blouse and the pen cap she keeps clicking when she thinks I’m not looking.

“First, wash your hands before handling paperwork. I expect clean paper.” Believe me, I wish I could handle electronic documentation to avoid such things, but I physically need to hold something to understand it. As frustrating as everyone thinks it is, it’s ten times worse for me.

“The morning briefing should be on my desk by seven-thirty. Not waiting for me on the computer. Printed. With theWall Street Journalsummary clipped to the top right corner.” I stand, moving toward the window wall that separates my office from the outer area where she’ll sit. “Coffee—”

“Black, two sugars. In the plain white ceramic, not the travel cup, unless you’re headed to an off-site meeting,” Virginia interjects.

“Nice job,” I say honestly. “That’s correct.”

She smiles, relieved to have gotten something right, but I don’t return the smile. There’s too much to teach her.

“Let’s test your understanding of the filing system,” I say, returning to my desk. “Find me the Ridgestone Properties file. It should be under Development, R, 2023.”

Virginia nods and moves to the filing cabinet. I watch as she pulls open the correct drawer and begins flipping folders. Her fingers move past the R section once, then she backtracks. She bites her lower lip, a tell of rising panic.

“It’s not…” she begins, then tries again. She checks a different section, then another.

The seconds tick.

“That’s not where it is,” I say, my voice impatient. “Elowen always—”

I stop. Virginia freezes, folder clutched mid-air, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t. The sentence dies.