LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced through the wavy glass wall toward Fleur, who was clicking on her computer and probably straining to overhear us. “No, I guess not,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor. “It’s just … I’m sorry, Callie. Didn’t mean to be a prick.”

      “It’s okay,” I said, my voice cracking a little. My stomach felt hot, my knees tingled.

      I heard Muriel’s voice then, and the sound of her office door closing. Swallowing, I took a breath—seemed like I’d forgotten to for a few minutes. “Anything else, Mark?” I asked in a normal tone.

      “Actually, yes.” He looked down at the floor. “I just took a look at your idea for Hammill Farms. I have some problems with it. You need a new concept.”

      My mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

      “Seriously. You need to rethink it.”

      “I … I … Really?”

      “Yes, Callie,” he said in a harder tone. “Really.”

      Hammill Farms was one of our biggest accounts, second only to BTR. They’d made syrup here in Vermont for 150 years and wanted to do for syrup what Grey Goose had done for vodka—have people appreciate the good stuff, basically. They were also willing to fork out the cash to do so. The owner, John, was obsessed with syrup—he’d nearly gotten Mark and me drunk on the stuff when we’d visited. That was the week before Muriel came. The week before my birthday.

      We were showing John the concept this week, and honestly, I thought it was one of my best campaigns. In the television spots, we’d hear the narrator say: John Hammill is a man obsessed. Then we’d show John, like a master winemaker, holding up a glass of syrup to the light as he waxed poetic, extolling the thickness, the clarity, the grade, the subtleties of flavor. Then we’d go to footage of John in action, tramping through the woods, kissing his maples, talking about ideal conditions and the tradition of syrup-making as he checked the sap lines and boiler, talking nonstop. We’d end with him pouring syrup onto a stack of pancakes, taking a bite of pancakes and, as he did when we visited, practically falling out of his chair in near-orgasmic pleasure. The voice-over would say: It takes a guy like that to make syrup like this. Fade out to a picture of the farm in winter, the newly designed label and the words Hammill Farms Maple Syrup: Six generations of perfection. The print and Internet ads would echo that theme, as would the radio spots.

      The pièce de résistance and my huge home run was the narrator—Terry Francona, the manager of the Boston Red Sox. When we first visited the farm, I’d seen a picture of Mr. Francona in John’s office. Apparently, he’d visited with his family last fall just before the postseason. So I wrote to Mr. Francona’s agent, sent a huge basket of Hammill Farms goodies … maple syrup, maple sugar, gourmet pancake mix, T-shirts—the whole shebang—and said what an honor Terry had bestowed upon the farm with his visit, expressed the importance of family farming here in Red Sox Nation, yadda yadda, and the upshot was that Terry said yes. Every Red Sox fan in New England would recognize that voice.

      The concept was fantastic.

      “It’s just not what we’re after,” Mark said in the face of my stunned silence.

      “Well, what … what are you looking for, Mark?” I asked. This was the first time ever that Mark had disagreed with a concept of mine. He’d tweaked, made suggestions, sure … but he’d never rejected anything of mine before. Well. Any of my work, that is. He’d rejected me just fine.

      “I think we’re looking for something a little more … whimsical,” Mark said now.

      “Whimsical?”

      “Yeah.” He didn’t meet my eyes.

      My heart raced sickly. There was another word he used that gave me pause. “And who’s ‘we,’ Mark?”

      His expression hardened just a little. “Well, Muriel pointed out that … she thought it was a little … It just wasn’t what we wanted.”

      Muriel. “Well, I stand by it. I think it’s a really good idea.”

      “That’s fine, Callie, you’re welcome to think that.” His mouth tightened. “But I want something else. We have a meeting with John on Friday morning.”

      “And did you and Muriel have anything specific in mind?” I asked.

      “Look!” Mark barked. I jumped. “You’re not infallible, okay? You do great work, Callie—we all agree on that—but could you just give us another concept? I need something by Thursday afternoon, if it’s not too much of a problem, okay?”

      I swallowed hard. “Yes, of course, Mark. I just … I’m on it.” I paused. “What time’s the meeting on Friday?”

      “You don’t need to come,” he said harshly, and with that, he left my office, the door gaping open so I could see straight into Muriel’s black-and-white splendor across the hall. She was on the phone, but she gave me a nasty smile.

      My computer chimed with an instant message. He’s jealous! Fleur wrote. I didn’t even know what she was talking about.

      My hands were shaking, and my heart stuttered in my chest. So Muriel was weighing in on my work, huh? And Mark was listening. There was nothing wrong with the Hammill Farms ad. Not a damn thing. I’d be hard-pressed to come up with something better than that.

      And I wasn’t going to the meeting. That was a first. A very bad first.

      For the next three and a half days, I worked furiously. Pete and Leila stayed late, laying out the storyboards for the television spots, finessing the PowerPoint presentations, designing new print ads. For three nights in a row, I worked at both the office and at home, staying up past 1:00 a.m., setting my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I kept my door closed at work, and everyone pretended things were normal. Mark said hello, Muriel pretended to smile, Fleur sent me encouraging e-mails and schmoozed with my nemesis, playing both sides.

      By Thursday, I had two more ad campaigns. Neither was as good as the original, but both were still pretty solid. At one o’clock (because Mark had said afternoon, right?), I knocked on the open door to his office. He waved me in, though he was on the phone.

      “Okay, Mom. I should go. See you for dinner Sunday, right? Oh, great, I’m glad you liked them. Love you, too.” He smiled and hung up. “Hey, Callie.” As if he hadn’t chewed me out the other day. As if things were peachy keen.

      “How’s your mom?” I asked.

      “She’s great, Callie. Thanks for asking. What’s up?”

      “Is now a good time to go over the new Hammill concepts?”

      His mouth fell open. “Oh,” he said. “Well, actually, I … um … I’m glad you’re here.” He got up and closed the door, then turned to me, his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ll take a look at those later, but … actually, we came up with something else.”

      I blinked.

      “Yeah, and we’ll show it to John tomorrow. But leave those there, just in case.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at me, his expression sheepish.

      “What do you mean, you came up with something else?” I asked faintly.

      He winced. “Well, Mure and I were kicking it around at home and—”

      That was the last straw. “Really, Mark? I just spent three days on these. And so did Pete and Leila—your employees, in case you forgot. We’ve been busting our asses on this, while you and Mure …” My voice broke. “Here. Keep them.” Tossing the comps and CDs on his coffee table, I turned to leave. My hands were icy, and I was dangerously close to tears.

      “Callie, wait. Wait, honey. Don’t go.”

      He was using that voice. That low, smoky, intimate voice and I felt a flash of anger so hot and sharp, it was like a razor left in the sun. I hated him in that moment. Wanted to punch him

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