A/N: Here's a flashback chapter. It went in a slightly different direction then I thought it would. Please let me know what you think, whether it is good or bad. I still own nothing.
February 1990
"…and that's why I would do well here, at Carson & Crawley." The young woman finally stopped talking long enough to take a breath. Robert spoke before she had a chance to disturb the blessed quiet.
"Thank you very much, Miss Moro. We appreciate your time-"he and Charles stood up, hands extended- "and will get in touch with you shortly." They shook hands, and yet another applicant left. As soon as the door shut, Robert groaned and sank back into his chair. He stuck the heels of his hands in his eyes.
"I told Mama she should have sat in on the interviews instead of me. One look from her would have shut her up in no time." Charles leaned back in his chair, daring to loosen his tie.
"I hate to say it, but so far Miss O'Brien has been the best candidate," he grumbled, scribbling on his notepad. "That's the last one for today, and only a few more this week before the deadline." He sighed.
"At least Miss Moro was pretty," Robert mumbled under his breath. Charles glared at him.
"We're hiring an office manager, not a receptionist. And you know as well as I do we can't just hire some empty-headed bubble. We need an organizer, someone who can run the day-to-day operations. Someone we can trust."
"That chap from Monday, Mr. Rolan, he wasn't empty-headed. But less good-looking," Robert said, leaning on his elbow. "And he's been a manager for the last three years, unlike O'Brien."
"As competent as he appeared to be, we can't hire him," Charles said bluntly. "His previous employer said he overindulges in alcohol too often."
Robert let out a huff and put his hands behind his head. "We can't hire O'Brien as the office manager. I know Cora wants it, they've been friends since their university days. But Mama won't allow it. She's merely an adequate secretary, nothing special."
"I won't allow it," Charles growled. "Which is more important." He was secretly surprised that Violet had not sat in on the interviews. He had only been managing partner for four years, since the sudden death of Robert's father, and this was the first time interviews had been conducted for a senior staff position without her.
"What are you going to do?" Robert asked. He looked at his watch, then jumped up from the conference table. "Shit. It's 5:15. I told Cora I'd be home by 5:30 today."
"Mary and Edith still have the flu?"
"Yes, though they're recovering. By some miracle, the baby hasn't caught it." He left the room in a hurry, calling over his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, for the next interview at least. 2:00."
But when Charles got to the office the next morning, there was a message waiting for him. Cora had caught the flu, and Robert had to stay home. It was just as well. Charles was convinced he would have to hire O'Brien, and the thought depressed him. At 1:45, he went to the small conference room next to the receptionist's desk to await the next applicant.
Elsie was outside, shivering in her car. What were you thinking, giving your notice? You should have waited until you got another job before telling Mr. Booker you quit. She blew on her hands. This was her third interview this week, with two more lined up the following week. She closed her eyes. She could not have stayed at Eyer & Frederickson one day more. It was a big firm, with a lot of responsibility and a salary to match. A jewel on any office manager's resume. But she was thirty-four years old, and had seen enough to recognize a poisonous working environment.
She was sure that Carson & Crawley was not the place for her, but until she got an offer, she would continue going through interviews. It was a small office. It had a reputation for being traditional, bordering on being stuffy and old-fashioned. Not her style at all.
Her friend May Bird had some encouraging information. "The managing partner may be an old fuddy-duddy, despite being so young. Forty-ish," she had said over lunch. "But he won't stand for harassment against the female staff. He fired an attorney last year, a promising one too, a real up-and-comer. Caught the bastard touching one of the secretaries without her consent. Marched him to the front door himself."
Elsie took a deep breath, checked her hair in the mirror, and stepped out of the car. She sat for only a minute before being shown into the tiny conference room. For a split second, it felt claustrophobic, bringing back memories. Only one man sat at the table. His suit and tie were immaculate. He got up immediately when she entered.
"Please, Miss Richards, keep the door open. Thank you," he said, as the receptionist left. He offered his hand across the table. "I'm Mr. Charles Carson, the managing partner here. You must be Mrs. Elsie Hughes." His grip was firm, but not overbearing. "Please, sit down. I'm sorry Mr. Crawley couldn't be here this afternoon. His wife is ill."
"That's quite all right," she said. He was a surprise. He had a full head of thick, black hair and was far taller and broader than she had pictured. In some men she'd worked for, the effect would be alarming. She found his deep voice soothing.
"I must say, I was impressed with your resume," he began. "Although I am curious – why leave Eyer & Frederickson? They must think highly of you, hiring you as their office manager so young. I mean no disrespect, of course."
"Thank you," she colored slightly. "The reasons I left were personal." There was an awkward pause. He cleared his throat.
"Were any of these reasons the actions of a Mr. Kevin Frederickson?" His expression was inscrutable.
Her face flushed full red. She looked down at her hands in her lap.
"There is no shame in leaving because you were mistreated, Mrs. Hughes. No one should be subjected to such behavior." She nodded, her gaze still down.
He silently cursed himself. What had possessed him to make her uncomfortable? He changed the subject as quick as he could. "Tell me about your education. You went to night school to gain your degree?"
"Yes," she said, looking up, happy to talk of something else. "You see, my family came here from Scotland. My parents were supportive, but there was no extra money for me to go to the university. So I worked my way through."
He tilted his head, resting it on his fist. "What sort of jobs did you work while you went to school?"
"Anything I could find that accommodated my class schedule," she said. "I've been a dishwasher. I worked at a hotel for three years as a maid, then as their receptionist. I've scrubbed floors and helped sort books after the renovation at the city library. I worked as a waitress for a long time. One summer, I painted fences," she grinned. "That was perhaps my worst experience."
"Oh?" He asked, clearly intrigued.
"I'm a Scot," she said. When he shook his head in confusion, she laughed lightly. "The sunburn was terrible."
"Indeed," he rumbled, eyebrows raised. Her rich auburn hair and bright blue eyes had not escaped his notice. "Well, Mrs. Hughes, I can sympathize. I worked my way through university as well."
"What did you do?" she asked, before biting her lip. This is no time to be impertinent. He's asking the questions, not you.
"Many of the same jobs as you," he said, unfazed by her boldness. "I've scrubbed floors myself, and toilets, for that matter. I was a waiter at a fraternity, setting the tables for their formal dinners. Occasionally, I served drinks. My worst experience, though, was as a juggler at a circus."
"Why? I mean, if you don't mind my asking," she said, unable to stop herself. "Was the juggling difficult?"
"By itself, no. But some in the audience thought it was funny to chuck things at me while I was dealing with more dangerous objects. I was always terrified of accidently slicing off fingers."
"Oh dear, we can't have that. I'm sure you did the best you could," she said, a broad smile spreading across her face. He smiled back, before looking at her file again.
He could not remember an interview going so smoothly, or so quickly. She answered all of his questions well, with intelligence and a frankness that impressed him. She was firm, but added a warmth he thought necessary to oversee staff. He briefly thought how it would work, since so many of the attorneys were older. Then again, many of them as well as some in the staff were approaching retirement. In a few years, age would not matter. In the meantime, he was sure she could command the appropriate respect.
He only hoped he could show her the proper respect. More than once, he found his mind drifting, thinking about her soft but clear lilt, her small form, and the curve of her hips, before yanking himself back into the present. The last thing she needed was another lecherous boss. Kevin Frederickson was a first-class creep.
They had finished the questions concerning the job itself, and he had asked her for any questions she might have of him. This being done, he was inclined to let her go. But looking at her information, he could not keep his curiosity in check.
"Mrs. Hughes, one more question before you go."
"What is that?" she asked, folding her hands on the table. He didn't see any mark on her fingers, no white band betraying the ghost of a ring.
"Why did you put on your application that you prefer the honorific of Missus, as opposed to Miss?"
She pressed her lips together, not surprised by the question. "I was married when I was very young, Mr. Carson. Neither of us knew anything of life, or really of each other. Daniel…asked for a divorce before three years were out. I gave it to him willingly. By that time, I knew it was not meant to be." She studied the table for a moment. "I go by Mrs. Hughes because in my professional life I've found it brings a certain dignity to my position. It's strictly professional, nothing more."
"What happened to him?" he blurted out. She blinked rapidly, betraying nothing.
"He moved away, got remarried. He died quite suddenly four years ago," she explained.
"I'm sorry," he said automatically. He didn't know what else to say.
She traced a line on the table with her finger. "I was not in contact with him when he died. Still, it is always sad when someone young passes away." There was a faint hint of sadness in her voice. "I suppose…I feel I did not give it the chance I should have. My parents were happily married for thirty years. To them, marriage was a sacred thing. I never intended to treat it lightly." She shook her head. "We all have chapters we intend to remain unpublished."
"Quite so," he said softly before clearing his throat. He rose from his chair and she did likewise. They shook hands. Her hand was soft, but strong. "I will be in contact with you once we make our decision."
"Thank you, Mr. Carson." He escorted her out to the lobby and opened the door for her to the hall.
She berated herself for half an hour in the car. At home, she cracked open a Guinness and wondered why she had been so open with him. She hardly ever spoke of Daniel Hughes to anyone. Why to the managing partner Charles Carson? And why would he care if she'd been a waitress, or painted fences? She hated carrying the large trays full of glasses. Constant groping around the tables, it was a wonder she didn't trip. One of the men's girlfriends, after a particularly raucous dinner, slipped her the number of her father. Their entire neighborhood needed a touch-up of their fences.
She never wanted pity.
He wondered how she'd somehow got the juggling story out of him. Not even Robert knew he had worked for a circus. Or about the fraternity. An old wound, long since buried, threatened to work itself to the surface. That evening, he opened a bottle of Cabernet. Rich boys boozing it up, me left to clean up the mess, whether it was someone's vomit under the table or a crying girl with disheveled clothes to escort out. Those same bastards chucking bottles at me, thinking it was funny when I dropped a knife.
All he wanted was respect.
It took very little persuasion for Robert to agree to extend an offer. She did not take long to give an answer. By the beginning of March, Elsie Hughes was the office manager at Carson & Crawley.