“Hello to you, Dakota. How are you doing?” She says all this while still moving aside the contents of her purse and does not once look up at me.
Briefly I contemplate telling her about my shoe debacle, but then she’ll ask why it’s a big deal when I have so many other shoes, and then I’ll have to tell her I don’t have more shoes, then she’ll ask what happened to my once-impressive collection, and then I’ll have to lie because there’s no way I’m telling her I had to sell them on an app for way less than I paid for them.
“Great,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. When Sheila doesn’t look my way, I drop the smile.
“Your dad’s in conference room B.” She finally straightens and looks at me, blowing hair from her pink-lipsticked mouth. “He said to tell you to go see him when you arrived.”
I tap my knuckles on the top of her desk and nod. “Thanks, Sheila.” I start for the conference room when Sheila’s voice stops me.
“Oh, Dakota? You have lipstick on your teeth.”
My fingers fly to my teeth a few seconds before I remember I don’t even wear lipstick. “I do not.”
Sheila laughs. “Gets everybody. Even men.”
I shoot her a playful dirty look and keep going down the hall. Offices line either side, and on the walls between the doors are framed pictures of our finished projects.
The conference room is just up ahead, and through the glass walls I see my dad sitting at the head of the table. I push open the door and step in, and my dad smiles at my approach as I walk the length of the long oak table and take a seat beside him.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Junior.”
The affectionate nickname brings a smile to my face and a punch to my gut. Growing up, I wanted to be just like my dad, and I stuck closer to him than his own shadow. That was until I turned into a fourteen-year-old rebellious monster who did what she could to drive her parents to the brink of insanity.
“What’s up? Sheila said you wanted to see me.” I lean back in the chair and cross my ankles, startling when it’s not my heels that bump the ground but the backs of the shoes. The conference room door opens, and Brandt and Jon step in. They are both architects who’ve been at the firm for years.
“You wanted to see us?” Brandt asks, taking a seat opposite me and nodding at me in this clipped way that communicates his dislike for me. It doesn’t bother me. The feeling is mutual.
My dad brings his palms to touch and rubs them back and forth, his eyes shining. This is what he does when he smells a new deal brewing. By the looks of his obvious excitement, it’s a good one.
“I got a call from a realtor in Arizona this morning. The Hayden Cattle Company is looking to sell some acreage.”
“Are you looking to develop land in Arizona?” Brandt asked, surprised.
I don’t know why he looks like he’s been caught off guard. We’ve worked out of state before.
Dad shrugs. “I might be, if the price is right.”
“That’s great, Dad.” He’s been searching for a new project since we finished the retail center in Denver.
He leans forward, propping his elbows on the desk and steepling his hands under his chin. “This is better than great, Dakota. This is unheard of. Beau Hayden is a hard-ass and he’s never sold any of his land, and not because people haven’t offered to purchase it. Remember Rich Calloway from Brandywine Developers?”
I nod even though I don’t remember him.
“He thought he was going to get in good with Beau by showing up on the ranch and making him an unsolicited offer. The way he tells it, Beau met him on the front porch with a shotgun and told him he had ten seconds to get back in his truck, then began counting.” He laughs, and I can tell how much he respects this old-school frontier way of doing business.
“That’s pretty severe,” I respond.
“Could be to some, I suppose. But to men like Beau, men who’ve been pouring their blood, sweat, and tears into their ranch, and watched their ancestors do the same, it’s an effective form of communication.” Dad places his palms on the desk and pushes to stand. He leans on his hands and looks at us. “This one is going to be a little different though. I, as an individual, am going to be the buyer. Then I’ll hire Wright Design + Build to do the development.”
I blanch. “Can you do that?”
He nods. “Most definitely. I’ve been looking for something to invest in for quite some time, and this feels like the right opportunity.”
We’re quiet around the table. I don’t know what there is for any of us to say.
Dad directs his gaze at me. “We are flying out this afternoon and meeting with Beau and the realtor tomorrow morning.”
My eyebrows cinch. “We?”
He points to his chest. “Me.” His finger rotates my way. “And you. I want you to design it.”
Brandt makes a choking noise. He tries to cover it up with a fisted hand at his mouth and a fake-sounding cough.
“Dad, I don’t think—”
“You’re ready for this, Dakota. Really. You grew up around this business and you’ve been in the office learning everything you need to know. Also, you have a real knack for it.”
It’s his stare, the belief in his gaze, the certainty in his voice, that suspends the argument hovering in my throat. Well, that and the fact we have an audience.
I want so badly to be worthy of his unyielding confidence in me. But the truth is, I’m not sure I’ll ever make up for the pain I’ve caused him.
“I’ll go home and pack a few things,” I tell him, and his face splits into a grin.
“Sheila will email you the flight information,” he says, sitting back down and pulling his laptop closer. “Meet me back here at one.” His shoulders are lifted, pulled higher by the possibility of winning a big deal. It’s a lovely thing to see; for so long his shoulders drooped as if the weight of the world was using him for push-ups, and it was largely my fault.
“See you soon,” I say. “Don’t eat, I’ll bring us lunch.” I wave half-heartedly at Brandt and Jon.
My dad focuses on the computer, and I step away from the conference room with a stomach that feels as if fireflies are buzzing around inside it.
I wonder what my mother would say if she were here? Would she believe in me, the prodigal child, the way my dad does?
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
I spent the longest time thinking it was my fault she was dead. And there’s a small part of me that still does.
“Abby, are you home?”
I called my sister as soon as I sat down in my car. The phone is on speaker, resting in my car’s cupholder, as I tap my chipped cherry red nail polish on my steering wheel.
“No, I took the girls to the Children’s Museum.” She sounds distracted. She’s probably watching them climb the monstrous treehouse in the middle of the museum. “What’s up?”
“Dad asked me to fly with him to Phoenix to look at a prospective property. He’s going to buy it himself and hire the company. He wants me to design it and—”
“That’s wonderful!” Her shriek fills the cabin of my small SUV. “Seriously, Dakota, you totally deserve it. Like, for real.”