Rooms - James L. Rubart [2]
Micah tried to smile and tossed the letter announcing his inheritance onto his desk. Shake it off, he told himself again. It didn’t help.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Great.” He grabbed his notebook and wagged his finger at Shannon as they walked out of his office. “You shouldn’t call someone boss when you’re almost old enough to be their m—”
“—much older sister.”
“Right,” Micah said as they fell into step and marched down the halls of RimSoft. Normally he loved Fridays. The creativity his team poured out was astounding. If employing people better than yourself were an Olympic event, Micah would be swimming in gold.
But today wasn’t a regular Friday. Today a bizarre letter sat on his desk trying to dredge up memories he’d buried forever.
As they turned the final corner on the way to the conference room, Kelli Kay, one of Micah’s more talented programmers, approached. “Want to hear something really cool?” Her red curls bounced like a Slinky.
“Absolutely.” Micah kept walking—now backward—his Nikes scuffing lightly on the teal carpet.
Single mom until four months ago, Kelli put herself through computer school while working forty hours a week and taking care of her ten-year-old son. Never complained about fifty-hour weeks. Never complained about sixty-hour weeks.
“My kid won that art contest I told you about last week; he’s headed to L.A. this summer to compete in the national—”
“You serious? Listen, if he places, let’s fly him and you and that new husband of yours to New York to see the MET. I’ll bring Julie, and we’ll all go check out the art with him and time it so we catch a Mariners-Yankees game.”
“Really?” Kelli half-jogged to keep up with him.
“RimSoft’s already made $2 million off that little antivirus program you developed last year. You’re amazing.” Micah turned and picked up his pace.
Shannon picked up hers too, her white Adidas running shoes helping in the effort. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman who showed up her first day wearing three-inch heels and a business suit straight out of Uptight Dresses for Corporate America. Micah told her to get rid of the heels and put on whatever she loved wearing and felt comfortable in.
“You could actually stop when you talk to people.”
Micah frowned at Shannon. “We have a meeting. You know, the company? Work to do. Software programs to develop. Lots of sales. Happy stockholders. Make money. All that stuff.” He brushed past a lush, broad-leafed dracaena plant and walked faster.
“You’re not exactly yourself this morning.”
“A lot on my mind.”
“They just want more time with you, Micah, to know you like them.”
“I like everyone. But, to be sure, let’s get out an e-mail that says, ‘From Micah Taylor. To you. I like you. I really, really like you.’ ” He pushed open the conference room door and held it for Shannon. He returned her glare with a forced smile.
The conference room was small but comfortable. No vaulted ceiling, no massive table, just two light tan leather couches and six overstuffed espresso brown chairs all circling the center of the room. RimSoft’s version of Camelot. The room wasn’t designed for ego; it was crafted for efficiency.
The couches held two people each. On one couch sat Micah’s head of Legal, with his jet-black hair and John Lennon glasses. Next to him slumped his VP of Mergers and Acquisitions, thirty-one years old but looked fifty with his premature gray hair. On the other couch perched his VP of Marketing, looking more every day like a young Oprah. Next to her sat his chief financial officer. Two of Micah’s software development VPs sat in the chairs.
Shannon also sat in a chair; Micah paced in front of his.
On a table in the center of the room sat a steaming pot filling the air with the aroma of Seattle’s Best Coffee. Clumped next to it were mugs from Disneyland, the University of Washington Huskies, and cups with RimSoft’s logo on them.
Good. All the pieces were in place. Time to check out the condition of the chessboard.
“All right,” Micah said, a slice above his normal volume. “Let’s roll. Where are we with