Page 4 of Things We Tell Ourselves

“Oh, that’s fine.” Her handshake is warm. She's so warm that she’s half-expecting to pull her into a hug but doesn’t. “Miss Sykes got in contact with my assistant. Her ticket has been moved to tomorrow morning. You can call me Leah,” she says, letting go of her hand. “I haven’t been a Mrs. for five months and twenty-five days, but who’s counting?” Leah waves Camille into the house, pausing when she sees Nancy walking down the front path. “Buck can drive you home, Nan,” Leah calls out.

“No thanks.” Nancy nods at Buck, walking past her with Camille’s luggage. She throws a hand up over her head as she walks off. “I’d rather walk.”

Leah shakes her head, frowning. “She’s an Ortego. They’re all stubborn.”

Camille nods along.

“You’ve heard of them?” Leah asks, seeing her nod as they watch Nancy leave.

“Um, not that I know of. I was just … listening.”

“She’d like to hear that.” Her eyes meet Camille’s, and her smile returns. “Her family’s known so well in the financial world that people usually hear Ortego and think of her late father. Now that man was hardheaded. She got it from him. That’s one of the reasons I love her so much. It’s always a good thing to have a best friend who doesn’t put up with people’s bull.” Leah sighs.

Camille gives her a concerned look, glancing back out the door.

“Don’t worry,” Leah tells her with a shake of the head. “Nancy lives next door. She’ll be fine. Come in, come in. I know having you over to my house the first time we meet is a little unconventional, but after my surgery yesterday, my doctors wanted me out of the office to relax.”

Camille’s eyes the boot on the woman’s foot. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

Leah shakes her head, still grinning. “How could you? You didn’t tear my ACL. I pay good money to make sure my private affairs stay private. It’s fine, really.” She nods her head for Camille to follow her. “Normally, I would have waited to meet at my office in Illinois, but it’s not every day you find a functioning solution to an ongoing problem. And when I learned about the brains behind the Oxygen Recycler,” she looks over her shoulder at Camille, “I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

She glides her scooter through the large foyer and into an even larger living area. “Delilah did exactly what I asked by getting you here. You see, it doesn’t matter if I’m at the office or not. My work never ends. That’s something you’ll learn soon enough.” She turns to look at her. The wheels on her scooter stopped. “Is it true that you’ve only been out of college for less than two years?”

“That’s right,” Camille says, peeling her eyes from the gorgeous interior of the house to look at Leah.

“And no background in business?”

“Besides the Business 201 course, I took as an elective, no.”

Leah looks her over for a second. “You’re impressive. If I would have had girls instead of boys, then I would hope at least one of them would have your initiative.”

Leah kicks off on the scooter, continuing into the living room.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t know what else to say.

Leah Bloom is far more personable and … normal than she imagined. Camille takes a deep breath, rounding the corner of the foyer behind her. The living room is immaculate with no tv in sight, only an oversized fireplace. The tall ceilings and white walls add to the immensity of the space. Even the couch facing the fireplace has pillows bigger than she’s ever seen. The living room opens up to an equally impeccable kitchen.

On the other side of the living room, the kitchen island is big enough that the five wide barstools sitting under it have half a foot or more space on either side of them. Somehow, even the 1930s retro-style phone in brilliant, reflective chrome hanging on the kitchen wall adds to the house’s sleek feel. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the back gives a breathtaking view of the pool, extending past the kitchen and leading to the side of the house. Camille’s eyes lock on the pool, her hand reaching out to run over the top of the couch as she passes it. She could walk straight out the back and dive into its soft, blue water. She can’t help but imagine how the water must feel in the Los Angeles heat.

“So this is my house,” Leah says, waving her arm across the living room and kitchen.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Camille mumbles, staring at the pool.

Leah turns on her scooter to face the backyard with her.

“If this goes as well as I think it will,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’ll feel more like a vacation than a business trip.”

“A vacation,” Camille repeats under her breath.

“Marcy, our chef, has already cleaned up the kitchen for the evening,” Leah says, turning to the kitchen, “but if you’re hungry, she made some lovely garlic butter steak for dinner, or there’s plenty of the Cobb salad from lunch.”

“I’m good. I don’t think my nerves will let me eat right now…” Embarrassed by her confession, Camille glances sheepishly at Leah, who gives her a knowing grin.

“I remember my first deal after I took over the company. A word of advice: always plan your next step. So that no matter what way it goes, you always know what your next step is.” Her smile grows, taking on a mischievous edge as she rolls over on her scooter. “Of course, after signing on with my company, your next step will be your next big invention and telling the Flexinburg Group to shove it.”

Camille arches her brow in surprise. Her frustrations from the Toronto meeting bubble to the surface. “The Flexinburg Group?”

Facing the backyard, Leah admits, “I know the two of you met with their people.”

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