Secrets of Harmony Grove Read online

  How could I have misjudged things so completely? I had always been a competitive person, driven to succeed in business and in life. Though I had celebrated numerous small victories while at Biddle & Sons, it was my biggest achievement that had caught the eye of the boys at Buzz, a wildly successful advertising campaign for Empower Sportswear for Women, based on a slogan and a marketing angle that had been mine from the start.

  By jumping ship and coming over to Buzz, I wondered if I had I let ambition cloud my better judgment and dollar signs obscure the truth. How ironic that my prize-winning slogan for Empower just happened to be “In It to Win It.” By wanting to win in business at any cost, I may have ended up destroying everything I had been working for all along.

  “Extension granted,” Ric said, hanging up the phone and interrupting my thoughts. “But if things aren’t cleared up by this time next week, I’m reassigning the account.”

  His tone was final, as if I had now been dismissed. But I wasn’t about to just get up and walk out of there. I fought the good fight for another ten or fifteen minutes, begging for more information even as the two of them insisted that a suspension was their only option and that they couldn’t tell me anything more than they already had. They remained aloof but firm the entire time, except when I questioned their motives, at which point they both seemed genuinely offended. Either they were two very good actors or this suspension wasn’t about trying to steal my clients after all.

  In the end there wasn’t a thing I could do, especially once they asked Shiloh to summon the security guard. He must have been hovering just outside, because a moment later he appeared in the office doorway, arms folded across his beefy chest, waiting to walk me out. Though I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I knew this was just some terrible mix-up that would soon be straightened out, I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as I glanced over at him, my cheeks burning with heat.

  I stood and stiffly walked to the door, pausing there to look first at Ric and then at Jon, my eyes boring into each man in turn.

  “I’m not going to waste any more breath on defending myself against charges that you won’t even explain, but I will be speaking to my lawyer about this, and I can assure you that when this absurd mess is straightened out, you’ll owe me more than mere back pay. You’ll also owe me a massive apology and a full explanation of how you think it’s acceptable to treat an employee—any employee—like this.”

  Turning back around, I marched toward my office, my shoes clicking rhythmically against the distressed faux-pine floor. If not for my new condo—not to mention my new car—I wouldn’t have merely threatened them with a lawyer but would have, in fact, quit this job entirely. I dearly loved playing with the big boys, and my time at Buzz had already become a daily roller-coaster ride of career high points, but when push came to shove, they were shoving me out the door, and I didn’t know if that was something I would ever be able to get past or not.

  At least Ric and Jon had had the decency to give much of the staff the afternoon off. The few people I passed as I marched down the hall with the guard in my wake made a point of not looking my way, not even for a moment. In a sense, their discreet avoidance was almost more embarrassing than if they had simply turned and stared, as I knew they all wanted to. To make matters worse, when I got to my office I saw that someone had put an empty cardboard box on top of my desk. Were they trying to insult me or be kind? Neither, I decided as I sat down and began opening drawers. They were simply being efficient. Everything at Buzz was all about efficient.

  As the security guard watched silently from the doorway, I packed up all the personal items from my office. The whole process took only a few minutes, which wasn’t surprising considering that I hadn’t been there long enough to collect many things of a personal nature. That single, small cardboard box, once packed, was almost an embarrassment, really, as I couldn’t help but compare it to the cases and cases of stuff I had carted out when leaving my ten-year stint at Biddle & Sons.

  At least I had come into this job with my own laptop, so I wouldn’t be computerless while this mess was being straightened out. It was still in its case on the chair, and once I was ready to go, the guard carried the box and two potted plants while I handled my briefcase and laptop.

  We were silent when the elevator doors closed on the two of us and we rode down to the first floor alone. Once we stepped outside into the cool October air and began walking toward the lot half a block away, I wanted to say something, to tell this man that I hoped he knew this was all a big mistake, and that not only had I not done anything wrong, but I didn’t even know what I was accused of doing. But I held my tongue. Why bother? Obviously, with these people I was guilty until proven innocent.

  My mockingly shiny new Sebring practically glowed from its slot in the parking lot. We put the plants and cases in the front passenger seat, and then I popped the trunk and told him to set the box inside, next to the suitcase that was already there. I couldn’t believe that just a short while before I had been wheeling that suitcase out of the airport, the return of the conquering hero. Now, as the guard simply turned and walked away, back toward the cold steel-and-glass skyscraper I had begun to think of as my new professional home, I couldn’t help but feel like a military general who had been stripped of his stripes and left to slink from the parade grounds in shame.

  Looking at the building, I let my eyes rove upward as I counted ten floors. The blue-and puffy-clouded afternoon sky reflected from the modern structure, making it impossible to see inside at this time of day.

  But I didn’t need to see to know that there were at least two pairs of eyes looking down at me, probably more. I resisted the urge to wave—or to make any other hand gestures that came to mind—and instead simply got in my beautiful new car. Even as I gripped the smooth leather wheel, it was as if I could feel the grip on my identity slipping away.

  Who was I, Sienna Collins, if not the rising young star, creative genius, and mastermind behind one of the most successful sportswear advertising campaigns since Nike’s “Just Do It”? I had never had to ask myself that before, so consumed had I been with my stellar career in the ten years since graduating from college. Now it looked as if I might have to face that very question. The problem was, I already knew the answer.

  If I wasn’t that person—that star, that genius, that mastermind—I wasn’t really anyone at all.

  TWO

  My first stop was the office of my lawyer and best friend, Liz, the very same place where I had sat just last month and gone over the offer from Buzz with a fine-tooth comb, followed soon after by the condo closing. Though Liz’s office was half an hour away, I didn’t call ahead, probably because I knew that if she wasn’t there or couldn’t see me I would go into full freak-out mode. Instead, I simply drove as fast as I could, leaving uptown behind as I headed to Bryn Mawr. Fortunately, Liz was in and she agreed to see me, even though she was obviously swamped with work.

  Her cluttered office was quite a contrast from the stark, trendy decor of Buzz, but as I settled into the overstuffed chair that she cleared by moving a stack of files, I couldn’t help but think how much more at home I felt here than I had there.

  As calmly as possible, I told her everything that had just happened. She listened intently, typing notes into the computer as I went. When it was her turn to speak, however, I was disappointed to realize that she didn’t seem to care whether I was guilty of having done something wrong or not. She was all about the responsibility of my employer and the legalities of the suspension. After hearing her talk about that stuff for a good ten minutes, I simply held up both hands and asked her to change gears a little bit.

  “I think the first order of business is to find out why I’m being investigated. Right now I care far less about my job than I do about whatever government mix-up is putting that job in jeopardy.” I leaned forward to look at her intently. “You know me, Liz. You know I am an ethical and moral person. Whatever I’m being investigated for, if I could just
find out what that is, I know I could get this whole thing cleared up.”

  Though she probably felt as clueless as I did about how to proceed with such an odd situation, she agreed to make some phone calls on my behalf to see what she could find out. But even as she said it, I saw her eyes traveling across the mountain of papers on her desk, and I knew she was wondering exactly when she would have the time to pursue such a bizarre matter. I asked what I could do to help, and she said at this point her best advice was that I go home, sit down, and create a detailed list of my financial assets—savings, CDs, IRAs, investments, etc.—to figure out just how long I could manage without a salary.

  “I don’t have to sit down to figure that out. I can tell you straight away. I’m overextended. I cashed in everything for the down payment on the condo.”

  “Everything?” she asked, her perfect eyebrows arching upward. “Sienna, you should know better than to do something like that!”

  “I know, but my new salary was going to be so much higher that I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  “What about the massive sign-on bonus they gave you? How long can you live on that?”

  “Not too long.”

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “Most of it is now shiny and blue and parked at a meter just up the street.”

  Liz groaned. Then, placing her hands on the desk in front of her, she leaned forward and gave me the look, that same look she used to give me in college when it was time to start a new semester, and I would have to admit that I had spent my textbook money over the summer on things like clothes or activities or art supplies.

  Needless to say, finances had never been my strong suit.

  Lately, with so much starting to come in, that hadn’t seemed to matter. But now that she was talking about security and investments and living within my means and going without a salary, anxiety began to curl up inside of me like a fist. I didn’t know how to be poor. Correction: I knew how, I just didn’t want to remember. I mean, I had never lived in poverty, but when I was a kid we were definitely on the lesser side of modest, our family of four living on my father’s smaller-than-average pastor’s salary despite the fact that he served a beautiful church in one of the wealthiest counties in Pennsylvania.

  When I was in my mid-twenties, once all of the trials were over, I had ended up with several huge settlements. After paying off my many outstanding medical and legal bills and reimbursing my parents for their numerous expenses incurred during that difficult time, I wasn’t sure what to do with the rest. Eager to live a normal life for a change, I had decided to stash it all in savings for the time being and act as if it didn’t even exist.

  After that I went out and landed my first real job, starting as an entry-level copywriter at Biddle & Sons. It hadn’t been easy to cover the cost of living in the city on such a meager salary, but somehow I had managed. As I slowly climbed through the ranks at the agency, the settlement money remained in the bank untouched, though I had come close to tapping into it on more than one occasion. When things got really tight, I would consider looking for a position with a larger, better paying agency, but then we would land a big account, Mr. Biddle would surprise me with a bonus, and I would decide to stay. Some people would have hated the erratic, undependable nature of that income, but I actually found it kind of exciting.

  Then a few years ago I began dating a man named Troy Griffin. A financial advisor and wealthy in his own right, Troy had learned about my settlement money and convinced me to invest in real estate. The housing market in Philly was hot at that time, so I took his advice and soon found that I liked the power of buying and selling. Troy did too. As it turned out, he was a lot like me—and surprisingly unlike any financial expert that I had ever known—in that he seemed to love the excitement of it all, the rush of walking out of a closing with a new set of keys in hand, the thrill of spotting a fixer-upper on some weed-choked corner lot with a faded “For Sale” sign posted out front. Two early house-flipping successes in a row only fueled our fires. During the months we dated, he and I were investing separately but simultaneously, and it reached near-obsession levels for both of us. We would spend hours in discussion and research, trying to predict the different places in the city where property values were rock bottom but sure to increase and bring a handy return on our investments.

  Then came the crash. Except for those few early successes, almost everything else I got myself into ended up taking a sharp nosedive. As housing prices plummeted, I realized that such an aggressive financial strategy had been not just unwise but disastrous; it was all I could do to stay afloat. And though I had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy several times since then, I had always managed to avoid it, just barely squeaking by. Last spring, I had finally unloaded my last unwanted real estate holding and promised myself that I would never get into debt like that again. And I really meant it too. Had I not been offered the incredibly lucrative job at Buzz, I wouldn’t even have looked at the fabulous new condos with the private balconies that had just gone up near the river. Not even when I found out they had fireplaces, built-in bookcases, and heated floors. Really, I promise.

  “What about your bed-and-breakfast out in Lancaster County?” Liz asked me now. “Did you sell that off too?”

  “No, you’re right. There’s still that. It keeps plugging along, earning a little profit every month. But the money’s not enough to live on, and I really wouldn’t ever consider selling, not unless it came down to a choice between that and living on the street in a barrel.”

  “A barrel?”

  I smiled. “You know, like in the old cartoons? The little bum with his five o’clock shadow, so broke he doesn’t even have any clothes, which means he goes around naked, wearing only a barrel held up with shoulder straps.”

  Liz didn’t smile in return. Obviously, she hadn’t learned the valuable lesson that when life handed you lemons, sometimes the best you could do was make obscure cartoon references, especially when somebody used those lemons to squeeze juice in your eye.

  “Don’t be politically incorrect, Sienna. People don’t say ‘bums’ anymore.”

  “Don’t lecture me on matters that are irrelevant, Liz. Come on, I’m trying to figure out why I’m on the verge of being fired. You know how hard I have worked to get where I am. Whether this situation renders me ‘homeless’ or ‘house impaired’ or whatever they call being a bum these days is beside the point. What am I going to do?”

  Despite the sharp tone of my voice, a look of sympathy flashed across Liz’s features. She didn’t reply but simply nodded and looked down, turning her attention back to the notes and figures she had scribbled on the yellow legal pad in front of her.

  That made me feel bad. Liz was a good friend, and I shouldn’t be taking my fears out on her when she was only trying to help.

  I leaned forward and placed a hand on her wrist, apologizing for my outburst.

  “Look, I know I can be exasperating,” I said softly. “I’m too impulsive, too undisciplined, too financially irresponsible. I appreciate that you can look past all that and still be my friend. I’m just lashing out at you right now because I’m frustrated and you’re here.”

  “I know. Thanks,” she replied, giving me a reassuring smile, one that said don’t worry about it, I understand, and together we will figure everything out.

  Just before I pulled my hand away, I noticed her eyes pause at my wrist. Trying not to feel self-conscious, I sat back and tugged on my sleeve, knowing that even the people who knew me best, who had been with me through everything and had seen my whole arm and knew what it looked like, could still forget sometimes and be taken by surprise, if only for an instant.

  She cleared her throat and got back down to business.

  “As long as the bed-and-breakfast isn’t operating at a loss, I think you’re right to hang on to it. Not to mention that I know you want to keep it in the family if at all possible.”

  “That’s correct.”

  From that
whole period of time Troy and I were dating, only one good investment remained: Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast. Two years ago, when my grandfather died and left his property in Lancaster County to the various members of our family, Troy had convinced me to buy out my brother’s share and join up with my father to turn our combined parcels into a small bed-and-breakfast in the heart of Amish country. Troy said he knew a man we could hire as manager of the place once it was up and running. But first, to keep costs down, my dad and I had supervised most of the renovation ourselves, making the drive out as often as we could and even using up vacation time as we converted the place from an old Amish-built house to an elegant yet cozy bed-and-breakfast. Troy had helped us out a lot too, though the investment had lasted far longer than our relationship. He and I had broken up halfway through the renovation.

  But at least his idea had ultimately paid off. That little five-bedroom bedand-breakfast ran so smoothly in the competent hands of the on-site manager Troy had recommended that I barely gave it a thought more than once a month, when my tidy little handwritten profit check arrived. Last year, after my mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I had bought out my father’s share of the place as a favor to him. Though that had extended my finances even further, so long as the profit checks kept rolling in, I knew it was still an investment worth keeping.

  Now, as I sat in my old friend’s office and thought about losing everything—my inn, my car, my condo—I realized that my current boyfriend, whose advice was far more conservative than Troy’s had ever been, had been correct. Someone who had struggled with as much debt as I had, with only one good asset and a new job that had barely even started yet, had no business buying a condominium, much less one right on the river with a clear view of the Ben Franklin Bridge, even if it was going to keep my feet toasty warm on cold mornings.