I nodded, remembering the reports on the declining foot traffic in the Back Bay shopping districts.
It is a difficult sector to maintain without a massive digital presence, I said.
She is working on that, Jake said. We spent the weekend analyzing our customer acquisition cost. She is looking for a breakthrough.
I kept my pen still against the blotter.
Well, she is fortunate to have a marketing manager in her corner, I said.
We keep it strictly high-level, Jake said, his fingers brushing his watch again. She is very protective of her own brand.
I signed my initials at the bottom of the approval sheet, the black ink spreading slightly on the heavy fiber.
Tell her she has good instincts, I said, handing the binder back to him. If this pitch goes through, we will need to start preparing the second phase by Thursday.
I will let her know, Jake said.
He took the folder, gave a brief nod, and left the office, leaving me alone with the stack of unfinished reports on my desk.
By Tuesday evening, the autumn wind was rattling the loose pane in my kitchen window.
Erin sat at my counter, her fingers tapping a steady, impatient rhythm on the granite.
She had stopped by after her grading was done, her high school history essays still stacked in her canvas tote bag.
She was holding the heavy linen invitation to my mother’s fifty-fifth birthday dinner.
Ninety-pound paper, Erin said, running her thumb over the raised silver lettering. Your mother must have spent a fortune on these.
She wants everything to look perfect for the photos, I said, pouring two glasses of water.
The invitation had arrived in a silver-foil envelope, postmarked from the suburbs.
And you are actually going to the Charleston? Erin asked. After the way Melissa acted at the Labor Day picnic?
