Page 7 of February

Her father sat down in the chair opposite her desk and said, “I want you to vet it.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You mean my team?”

“No, I mean you personally.”

“Dad, I have a hundred people who could all–”

“I know the owner personally,” he interrupted. “I went to business school with his father.”

“Oh, okay. What’s the company?”

“They do greeting cards.”

Monica closed her computer to look at him more fully.

“A greeting card company?”

“We have a greeting card company that they’d fold into,” he replied.

“We have a pretty big one. Are they causing us problems? Competition?”

“No, not really. They’re local only; no online presence. They’re in New Orleans, and they’re staying afloat but just.”

“They’re in a major tourist hub, which should’ve given them good sales numbers, and they’re barely afloat?”

“Yes. I think we can help by acquiring them, taking the assets, letting them retire younger than they’d planned, and we’d benefit from eliminating the competition.”

“You just said they weren’t competition.”

“Not seriously, but they have a presence there, and rack space is everything in tourist towns like New Orleans.”

“So, you’re sending me to New Orleans? Dad, I have departments to run.”

“I’d handle this myself, but the doctor told your mother that I’m not allowed to fly for the next few weeks because of my heart.”

“Yes, and you should listen to them,” she replied.

She remembered the scare they’d all just been through, with her father in the hospital, having an operation, and her worrying that she’d never see him again, holding her mother’s hand and telling her that everything would be all right at the same time.

“I am listening to your mother,” he argued.

“Wise man.” She laughed.

“You should find yourself a woman like your mother, not like the one you married. Your mom puts me in my place but loves me, even though I’m an old man set in my ways.”

Her father, surprisingly, had had no issues with Monica being gay or marrying a woman. He’d just hated the particular woman she’d married and had said as much every chance he got. Then, when the marriage had ended, he’d thrown Monica a divorce celebration dinner and opened his most expensive bottle of wine for the occasion.

“When and how would I find this imaginary woman? You’re sending me away,” she replied.

“You’ll find her. You want someone to share your life with, Monica.”

“Dad, I work eighty hours a week. When would I even see this woman to share my life with?”

“You need to delegate. I delegated to you, but you have yet to delegate anything I’ve given you, so you have too much on your plate.”

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