“Temporarily.”
“Education?”
“Engineering coursework. No degree completed.”
“Why?”
“Family obligations, according to HR.”
Clare’s eyebrows rose.
“Experience?”
“Twenty-one years in manufacturing.”
“Executive?”
“Some.”
“Then he went backward.”
Denise smiled slightly.
“I suspect Mr. Carter would dislike that phrasing.”
“Most people dislike accurate phrasing when it applies to them.”
Denise closed her notebook.
“You know, occasionally it is possible for a person to take a less prestigious job because prestige isn’t the priority.”
Clare looked up.
“You have been married twenty-eight years. Your judgment regarding men is statistically contaminated.”
“By happiness?”
“Exactly.”
Denise laughed.
Clare did not.
But she almost did.
The Harrow plant appeared even worse in person.
Cold rain silvered the cracked parking lot when Clare’s car arrived Tuesday morning.
She wore a charcoal wool suit, black silk blouse, and heels that had never encountered industrial runoff.
Denise climbed out behind her beneath an umbrella.
“You brought the wrong shoes.”
“They’re shoes.”
“They are architectural sculptures pretending to be shoes.”
Clare ignored her.
Inside, the plant was noisy.
Not productive noise.
Distress.
A conveyor groaned.
Metal struck metal irregularly.
A forklift alarm beeped somewhere beyond the assembly floor.
Employees shouted over machinery.
The air smelled of hot steel, machine oil, dust, coffee, rubber, and fatigue.
Clare hated the smell immediately.
Then she saw a pair of work boots sticking from underneath a disabled conveyor.
A technician crouched beside them holding a flashlight.
A male voice came from beneath the machine.
“Smaller relay housing, Pete. Not the upper bracket.”
The technician moved the light.
“This?”
“No. Other side.”
Clare stopped.
Nobody noticed her.
She waited.
Still nothing.
Denise looked at her.
Clare’s expression said this was already unacceptable.
Finally she asked:
“I’m looking for Caleb Carter.”
The boots stopped.
A wrench clanged onto concrete.
A mechanic’s board rolled outward.
The man beneath the conveyor emerged on his back.
Dark hair.
Rough stubble.
Oil across one cheek.
Scratched forearms.
A charcoal work shirt stained so badly it seemed the machine had attempted to consume him and reconsidered. Văn bản đã dán (1)
He looked up from the floor.
For one second Clare wondered why the mechanic was staring at her.
Then he stood.
He was taller than she expected.
Around six-foot-two.
Lean but broad through the shoulders.
Not polished handsome.
Worse.
The kind of face photographs never fully captured because expression did half the work.
His hazel eyes were tired but alert.
His dark hair had been pushed back repeatedly by dirty fingers.
He wiped one hand against an already filthy rag.
Then extended it.
“Caleb Carter.”
Clare stared at the hand.
Then at him.
A tiny pause.
Barely half a second.
Caleb noticed.
Of course he did.
He lowered his hand without embarrassment.
“Ms. Ashford.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry about the welcome.”
He nodded toward the disabled conveyor.
“Line three decided today needed more personality.”
Clare glanced at the machine.
“You are the interim chief executive.”
“Yes.”
“And this is what you are doing?”
“Currently.”
“Is nobody else capable of repairing it?”
The technician beside him stiffened.
Caleb looked toward the young man.
“Pete can repair it.”
Clare’s attention moved between them.
“Then why are you underneath it?”
“Because Pete already knows he missed something.”
Caleb crouched beside the panel.
“He does not need six executives standing around making sure he feels worse about it.”
Pete looked relieved.
Caleb pointed.
“Try the smaller relay.”
Pete adjusted something.
Clare folded her arms.
The machine shuddered.
Stopped.
Then started.