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“We can’t promise that,” Geraldine says. “If we continue to lose investors—”
“A month,” I say and stand. “Until then, I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
They don’t agree. They don’t disagree. One way or the other, they’re going to keep pushing to remove me. They’ve smelled the blood in the water, and they’re not going to stop until I’m gone, devoured.
I look over the eight faces that are to decide my fate once more before walking out of the room.
Fifty-one percent. I still hold a fifty-one percent vote.
I wish that were the end of the story, but there are ways around it. One of the quickest ways around it is to declare me incompetent, thus evaporating my say in the matter.
I’d love to argue that an incompetent CEO could never have built something like this, not from the ground up, but that means nothing next to two consecutive quarters of negative growth.
Even though I know Marly had more than a little to do with all this, I wish she was here to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
* * *
By the timeI get home, I just want to give Grace a kiss, collapse on the couch, and maybe have a long series of high-proof drinks.
Max greets me at the door, and I give him a light pat on the head before going further into the house.
“Zach?” Grace calls. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” I holler back. “Where are ya?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” she says. “Come in here. I want you to taste this.”
Max accompanies me to the kitchen where I find Grace stooping over a pot of red sauce.
“That smells good,” I tell her. “What are you making?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, saying, “I found a recipe for manicotti I wanted to try. Tell me what you think of the sauce.”
She gathers a dab of the bubbling red onto the wooden ladle she’s using to stir and holds it in front of her face. Very gently, she blows on it before holding it out for me to sample.
As she brings the spoon of the ladle closer to my mouth, I can smell the garlic and the oregano. My mouth is watering, and my lips are almost to the ladle when, somewhere behind me in the house, Naomi lets out an ear-splitting, “Woo!”
I am now wearing Grace’s sauce as a goatee.
“Oh!” Grace says with a chuckle as she reaches behind her for a paper towel.
“Hi, Naomi,” I groan.
The Michaels sister Idon’tlike comes bouncing into the room and laughs heartily as Grace kindly dabs the sauce from my face. “Didn’t see ya there, Zachy boy,” Naomi says.
“Eh!” Grace interjects.
“Oh,” Naomi says, “sorry about that. I was asking my sister earlier if you had a nickname and that kind of came up.”
I turn my head to look at Grace and with about ten times as much irritation in my voice as I intend, I say, “Thanks, Grace.”
Grace’s eyes go wide for a second, but she lets it slide—for now, at least.
“So, I was wondering if you could help me with something Zachy—” Naomi stops herself. “I’m sorry, it’s like someone telling you not to think of a pink bunny. No matter what you do, it’s the first thing that comes to—”
“Can I give you a hand with that?” I ask Grace.
“Naomi, would you excuse us for a minute?” Grace asks her sister.