Page 31 of Out of Office

Genevieve,

Writing this email should have scared the crap out of me, but it was the easiest email I have written in a while. I just found out tonight you had reached out via the transportation company, asking for my information. Here is my email, my cell phone, and the landline of the main house where I stay, just in case. I cannot wait to talk to you. You’ve been in my thoughts, almost haunting me, to be honest. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I don’t think I’ll ever be.

“Gen, how many times do I have to call out your name?” my mom asked as we sat around the table in her backyard. It was Sunday morning after services, and a few of Mom’s mentees and I were having brunch with her. Mom sat regally at the head of the table, her brown skin free of wrinkles, her pixie cut straight, and sideswept. Yellow church dress crisp. Basically, hashtag goals for any Black woman wanting to look good in her sixties. Watching her, I thought of my father and our similarities because the only things I had from my mom were my nose and lips.

I wish I was home, in my huge T-shirt and slippers, binge-watching Netflix while rereading Adrián’s email. Instead, I was technically working.

The Black Women in Power Association was Mom’s brainchild. She had fostered the careers of many successful Black women during these brunches and one-on-one meetings. Once I started moving up the ranks in hospitality, I’d become the de facto vice president. My Sundays consisted of service in the morning, followed by two-to three-hour brunches spent strategizing different career moves and initiatives and overall being in communion with like-minded women.

“Sorry, Mom, I have a lot on my mind.”

“Of course, you do. I completely understand. That promotion entails a lot of new responsibilities,” Mom agreed. I forwent correcting her. She was still riding the high of my promotion, reminding anyone of it several times in conversation. I disregarded my embarrassment and smiled at my mom’s smug nod to the rest of the table.

“So, is there anything project-wise you need strategizing?” Mom asked, and Johana Bride leaned in over her plate of shrimp salad and quiche.

“Mmm, not right now...” I said, aware that Johana worked with a rival hospitality conglomerate; both of us were very cautious about specifics when speaking about our positions but had a cordial relationship overall. Didn’t stop each of us from attempting a leg up from any intel we could gather in these brunches.

“I heard you’re all looking to expand in Central America. Smart move. It’s an untapped market, there is some uncertainty in part of the region, but Costa Rica and Panamá are smart moves. That is where we’re planning to expand next. I’ve been tasked with finding A.D. Nicholson, the architect for the Tropics in Panamá, for our next project. Such an intriguing story.”

I nodded, shocked Johana was in such a chatty mood.

“Oh, I’m sharing because it’s a shot in the dark. The real plans of course, I wouldn’t mention here,” Johana said when she discovered my skeptical expression.

“Oh, I see because I was going to suggest not to hang up your dreams in finding him. I heard of the elusive A.D. Nicholson while working on the project. The rising star pulled out of the architect game before peaking,” I explained to the ladies.

“Oh, so why is he so talked about?” Mom asked.

“His most talked about project, and the largest one he worked on before leaving his firm, was the Tropics,” Johana explained, nodding at me. I remember being shocked when told the story. Who left their career before reaping the benefits of their success? I had admired Nicholson’s work, the structural design touches that spoke to Panamá’s known mix of cultures, and many people were lauding his final and only major project.

“True, he did a wonderful job; his practicality, sustainability, and cultural touches made an impact in the community over there and internationally. There is talk about the building getting nominated to the Worldwide Architecture Awards for the hotel category.”

“Hmm...interesting,” Mom said. Damn. This wouldn’t be the end of this topic.

“You should try to find that Nicholson guy. Would be a win for your first six months and a leg up against Johana’s company.” Mom rinsed the last platter and handed it to me to load the dishwasher. The house she bought once she made president of her financial company was gorgeous. It wasn’t huge, three-bedroom only, but the neighborhood was very exclusive, and she’d gotten to design everything inside. The decor was a mix of cottagecore and Big Momma’s house. A little crowded for my taste, but she loved it.

“No. That’s not my plan. My plan is to work with people on the ground in Panamá, maybe tap into a college or two, and see if we can work with young architects. I really want these projects to inject economic impact directly in the hands of people that need it the most.”

“You’re a VP of Operations, not a philanthropist. Don’t lose your focus.”

I sighed, speeding up the cleaning process, ready to be on my way. I’d debated between emailing back or calling and wasn’t certain what to do.

“I won’t, Mom. It aligns with the culture of my company. Trust me,” I said with slight chastisement, and Mom whirled about to stare at me incredulously.

“So, you think you know better than I do now?” Outrage. An effective tool in Lissette’s arsenal.

“I didn’t say that, Mom.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mom kept cleaning up and left me standing there, feeling exhausted. I had just started my new position five weeks ago, and the overwhelming excitement had morphed into a determined push.

The drive left me depleted by the end of the week, and this conversation with my mother was one too many on a week of negotiations and strategizing. I wished that sometimes visiting Mom was just that, a visit, and not an extension of the work I did every day. I understood her need for focus, for structure. Once upon a time, she had the opportunity to be more carefree, but having to be the responsible parent compared to my dad’s blasé approach had taken its toll. She’d chosen me, and given me a stable home, and I would forever be grateful.

“I’m going to head out, Mom. See you Tuesday for dinner?”

“Yes. Thanks for coming with me, it will be very beneficial for you too. The financial association has great connections with all industries, you never know,” she said, never able to shut her networking brain off, reminding me of the finance dinner she had asked for me to attend with her. Ask was a soft way to describe what Lissette had demanded. And what Lissette wanted, she got.

The drive home was short, and the time from walking through the door to me sitting on my sofa, wearing sweatpants and eating ice cream, was worthy of a world record.

My cell phone burned a hole in my lap, the innocuous device the reason why I was binge-watching beach romance movies and stuffing my face with frozen, flavored lactose. I could call Adrián. I could call him right now. He might answer, or he might be on the road, busy. But I could call, and then the ball would return to his court.

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