“Her drink vanished,” my mom said. “She thinks it was you.”
Of course she did. “I don’t even know what coconut juice is.”
“It’s coconut water,” Margo said. “And it was clearly labeled with my name when someone took it from the fridge. It’s not the first time, either. Clearly, the issue needs to be addressed.”
“And it has been. So move on,” my mom said, waving her hand. Then, to me, she added, “What’s in that box, anyway? It smells fantastic.”
Rebecca nodded. “It really does.”
“It’s a biscuit from Last Chance,” I told them.
“Bacon and egg?” my mom asked. I told her yes, and she sighed. “I knew it. I could just tell.”
“Item number two,” Margo continued, loudly. “New staff uniform guidelines.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “Not this again.”
“I thought we tabled this?” Rebecca said.
“We did. Until now.” Margo cleared her throat. “Now, I’m aware that this is not a popular issue. But the core of uniformity is uniform. It’s important that we as a staff are always easily identified by our clients.”
“If you start talking about khaki pants and denim shirts,” I warned her, “I am walking right out of here.”
“Emaline,” she shot back, “I am sick of you always trying to bully me out of making needed changes. As my employee—”
“I don’t work for you,” I said. “I work for the office.”
“I am the office!”
“Girls,” my mom said, in a tired voice. I couldn’t really blame her; Margo and I butting heads was a part of just about every meeting, if not every day. Despite the fact that I was the youngest, we’d always argued with each other more than either of us did with Amber, mostly because she was too lazy to get that riled up. We’d both gotten a work ethic; the stubborn gene was just a lucky bonus.
“Khaki and denim is the perfect combination for a beach rental office!” she said now, pulling a glossy catalog from her stack of papers and waving it at us. A picture of a woman in black pants and a white shirt balancing wine glasses on a tray was on the cover. “And there are options here that are practical for every department, from us all the way down to the service contractors.”
“The service contractors?” I said. “What, you’re going to make the cleaners and maintenance people wear them as well?”
“Anyone who interacts with our clients on our behalf is representing Colby Realty. If they are in uniform, there’s no question who the person is who suddenly appears at your rental house to clean your pool. He’s easily identifiable, not some shirtless, barefoot stranger.”
“Shirtless?” my mom asked. “Who’s shirtless?”
I was pretty sure I knew. I looked again at the to-go container, feeling sick.
“Here in the office,” Margo was saying now, “we’ll be in khaki pants or skirts, with denim shirts in long or short sleeves, embroidered with our logo. Contractors will wear shorts and polo shirts or, in certain cases, T-shirts.” She folded back a page of the catalog, then pushed it towards Rebecca. “Everyone will know all the options available to them before they’re asked to purchase them.”
“What?” I said. “We have to pay for these out of our own pockets?”
“Emaline,” she said, looking tired, “I think you and your boyfriend can afford a couple of polo shirts.”
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” I muttered. “And anyway—”
And that was when I realized two things: what I’d said, and that it was too late to take it back. Hearing this, my mother literally jerked in her seat, as if this news was an electric charge, straight from me to her.
“What did you just say?” she asked.
I closed my eyes, silently cursing myself. There were probably worse places for me to announce this than right in front of my mom, my nosiest sister, and Rebecca, who spent most of her time at work gossiping with her friends. But right then, I was hard-pressed to think of any of them.
“Nothing,” I said, reaching over to grab the catalog from Margo, as if looking at the available options of button-down shirts was the most crucial thing at that second. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Wow,” Margo said, her eyes wide. “I figured you’d probably break up in the fall, at school, but—”
“Hush,” my mom told her, then turned to me. “When did this happen?”
I shook my head, knowing I couldn’t even begin to talk about it. Just saying this out loud had made it more real than I was ready to acknowledge.
“Oh, my goodness. Is it Friday already?”
I looked up to see my grandmother in the conference room doorway, car keys in one hand, her purse in the other. Once again, she was saving me.
“It is,” Margo replied. “We’ve only just started, though.”
“What a relief,” my grandmother said, in her classic way that made it impossible to tell if she was being gracious or sarcastic. “I’ll be right back, just let me put this stuff away.”
She disappeared down the hallway, where we could hear her turning on lights in her office and pushing her creaking chair back from the desk before going into the kitchen for something. Meanwhile, we all just sat there, with everyone looking at me while I pretended they weren’t. Finally, my grandmother bustled back in.