VELOCITY - DEE JACOB [12]
Amy had met Nigel and had been in meetings with him during the tenure of the Tornado. But the man seated in the other chair in front of Peter Winn’s desk, she had never seen before. He was large boned, yet slim – his face somewhat hollow cheeked, and his head was shaved like that of a pro basketball player or a Tibetan monk. His eyes were large, dark, and had a shining intensity. His skin was pale white, causing his face at first glance to seem rather skullish, though his features on the whole were quite handsome.
The stranger rose partially from his chair to greet her, smiling to welcome her, but when neither of the others made any attempt to rise, he sat back down. Indeed, neither of the other two acknowledged in any way her entry into the room. They simply continued their conversation as if she were not there. They were talking about golf, about the challenges of a particular course somewhere in Bavaria, Germany. They went on and on, Peter doing most of the talking with Nigel adding insightful comments, and the third man chiming in when he could, just so as not to be left out.
As there was no chair for her within casual reach, Amy just stood there awkwardly and silently, trying to size up what was going on. One minute, then another passed.
They are giving you a stress test, she finally told herself. Do not show your anger. Do not show impatience or any particular emotion. At some point, hopefully before dinnertime, they themselves will run out of patience and speak to you.
An instant later:
“Do you golf?” Peter asked.
Amy realized the question was directed at her.
“Yes, as often as I can.”
“Do you use the women’s tees? Or the men’s?”
“The women’s,” she said, straightening herself. “But with course ratings and a properly calculated handicap–”
“What is your handicap?” he asked, cutting her off.
“What would you like it to be?” she asked, not batting an eye.
The third man chuckled. Peter and Nigel seemed less amused.
Pulling back the cuff on his shirtsleeve, Peter checked his watch and said, “Well, better late than never. At least you got here.”
“Sir, I was told the meeting was three p.m. Eastern time; I was on here on the floor before two fifty-three,” said Amy.
Nigel grinned like a shark. “There you have it, Peter; I told you she could stand up for herself.”
The three men forced a brief laugh. Peter then stood, as did the others. And they were giants, all of them: Peter a good six foot five, Nigel six foot six, and the third man only a hair shorter. Amy stood five foot six in heels.
“Let’s go over here,” Peter said, gesturing to an elegant sofa and chairs with ample seating capacity for all.
On the way over, the third man leaned down and quietly introduced himself. “Miz See-o-lawra, my name is Wayne Reese. Pleased to meet you.”
“Very pleased to meet you as well, Wayne,” she said, shaking his enormous hand. “By the way, my name is pronounced ‘Kee-o-lara.’ The C is hard like a K.”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
“Not a problem, and please feel free to call me Amy. Do I detect a slight New England accent in your voice?”
“Born in Boston,” he said, deliberately letting his native tongue say it as, Bawn in Bawstin. Then he added, “But I’ve moved around a lot since then. Most people don’t notice that once in a while my awhs just don’t come out the way othah people’s do.”
As Wayne smiled a bit sheepishly, they sat down and faced Nigel and Peter.
“So, now that we have the geolinguistics out of the way,” said Peter, “why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, Amy?”
“Well, I’m not sure what you know or don’t know, but I was born in Shaker Heights, Ohio, near Cleveland. I’ve spent most of my career in sales and marketing, first with a steel company – for a while my sales region was New England, which is how I noticed Wayne’s very slight accent. And then my husband changed jobs, we moved to North Carolina, and I joined Hi-T Composites as