Well, that put an end to the conversations I’d been having with Sam about where to go for Christmas vacation.

“Definitely,” I said. Oddly enough, it wasn’t a lie. In theory, spending time in a hotel conference room while the California sun blazed outside didn’t sound all that fun. But in reality, I wasn’t yet comfortable enough in my new financial reality to not be thrilled by an all-expenses-paid trip across the country, a luxury hotel room all to myself, complete with slippers and robes and Egyptian cotton sheets, and unlimited alcohol.

Vivienne was back to reading her emails. “Great,” she muttered under her breath sarcastically as she typed a quick reply. “I have to lead a training this year, so I’ll see you there. Don’t wear a bikini.”

I swallowed before I had fully chewed my roll. “Sorry?”

“Don’t wear a bikini. When you have free time at the pool,” she said, looking at me, her eyes suddenly brighter and her voice lighter. “Your male colleagues see you in a bathing suit once, and they’ll picture you in a bathing suit in every single meeting for the rest of your life.” She must have seen the skepticism on my face. “Trust me on this one.”

I nodded, but felt eager to change the subject. “So, you were a partner at Gifford before coming to Klasko?”

“Yep. It was no cakewalk being the new kid. I found I needed to prove myself. And look the part. You’re lucky, you got in on the ground floor. And you already look the part.” She gave me a small smile to let me know it was a compliment, and I sensed she was suddenly enjoying my company.

I tried to picture Vivienne in anything but perfectly tailored, stylish business attire and wondered what she could have worn before she “looked the part.”

The busboy cleared my plate of crumbs and her plate of two whole rolls, torn apart but still there in their entirety, as well as her untouched ramekin of butter. I felt that she somehow had just purposefully tricked me into eating carbs.

She told me about capital markets work over salads and offered to get me on one of her deals over entrées. I grinned obsequiously and thanked her, despite being terrified at the prospect of working for her. She handed the waiter her credit card as she asked for the bill and signed without reviewing the check and, I was pretty sure, without the addition of “esq.”

We walked back to the office in silence as she typed away on her work phone, and in the lobby we passed Carmen and Roxanne, who seemed to be on their way to grab lunch. Carmen waved and Roxanne gave me a high five, then they went through the revolving door without a word.

Vivienne looked up from her phone. “Your friends?”

I nodded. “My class is great. It’s been really nice to have actual friends as I adjust to life at a big firm.”

Vivienne looked at me intently. “Hmm.” She finally released her grip on her phone and tossed it into her purse. “Erich Fromm once said that intelligence is a man’s instrument for manipulating the world more successfully. You know what I mean?”

I began to nod slowly before I allowed my head to shake instead.

She laughed as though she’d guessed as much. “I’m just saying, be careful. You put a bunch of smart, hungry people in competition for the same prize, and the result is . . . well, people are almost never what they seem around here.” She broke into a large smile. “This was lovely, Alex! Looking forward to doing it again soon.”

I fumbled slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I had such a nice time.”

I didn’t actually know what kind of a time I’d had. It wasn’t a bad time. I felt a bit like I had just lost a game of chicken, but I had never felt like Vivienne was coming at me at all. I exhaled as she waved lightly, almost brushing the air away from behind her head, and started off toward the far elevator bank.

From: Peter Dunn

To: Alexandra Vogel

Subject: FW: Goldshore

Hi Alex,

See below. The kickoff meeting for Goldshore will be tomorrow. Please schedule. The timeline will be tight, and due to some scheduled vacation time by the senior associate on the deal, you will be the only associate on it for the next few weeks. I know this deal will cut in a bit to Thanksgiving time, but we’ll do our level best to make sure you can enjoy at least Thursday. Should be a great opportunity. And a lot of work. I trust you are equal to the task!

—Peter

From: Alexandra Vogel

To: Peter Dunn

Subject: Re: FW: Goldshore

Hi Peter,

Thanks. I’ll schedule the meeting asap. I’m definitely equal to the task! Looking forward to it.

Best,

Alex

Chapter 11

“Babe, honestly, it’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving,” Sam said, a slight whine in his voice.

He was driving our rental car to my parents’ house in Connecticut, flashing his brights every so often to illuminate the murky suburban road winding before us in the moonless night. I typed furiously at my phone with my computer on my lap, making changes I could save to the system as soon as I got onto Wi-Fi. My plan to float under the staffing partner’s radar hadn’t lasted more than a week. More senior associates had started to travel home for Thanksgiving, and first-years were required to pick up the slack. I found myself heading into the four-day weekend on three deals, the one for Peter and two new ones for Matt.

“I know I know I know! Sorry! I just want to do this now so I can really spend time with you and our families when we get there.”

Sam nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

“I’m sorry!” I begged.

“I know.”

“Sorry,” I repeated, defeated.

He put his right hand on my knee, and when I contorted my arm at the elbow so that I didn’t hit his hand on my lap as I typed, I felt him roll his eyes at me and move his palm back onto the wheel.

“Bunny! My Bunny is home!” My mom ran into the front hall as soon as we opened the door. A savory waft of a roast in the oven and the smell of something sweet with cinnamon reached me even before she did. They immediately calmed me, and I put my bags down and leaned into her embrace.

“The house smells amazing!” I shut my eyes as I breathed in. When I opened my eyes, my heart sank. Absolutely nothing had changed in the house I grew up in. The same floral tablecloth was draped over the Formica table. The same crocheted pillow declaring “Home Is Where the Heart Is” occupied the best seat on the reclining chair. I suppose I had never noticed how outdated the decor was until I had my own adult apartment to decorate. And somehow the house felt as though it had shrunk, the walls closing in on me.

I started to feel warm and pulled at my collar. “Is it hot in here?” I tugged at the bottom of my shirt to fan my torso.

“Probably a little, because of the oven. I’ll open a window.” My mother continued to chatter as she made her way to the window and allowed a bit of cold air in. “I’m making Brussels sprouts, jalape?o cheddar corn bread, green bean casserole, cranberry orange chutney, ham, and turkey, of course. Sam, your mom is bringing a vegetable tartlet and two pies. Aunt Sue is bringing the salad and fruit salad. What am I missing?”

“How should I know?” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.

My mom’s face fell, and she dropped her hands to her sides.

I was struck by a feeling of guilt. “I mean, I just got here! Can I just do a little work, and then we’ll do a full rundown of the menu?”

“Sure! The computer is all set up for you in the basement.”

“I have mine.” I slid my Klasko laptop out of its cover.

“The Wi-Fi is down, actually. The last storm knocked it out. We’ve been meaning to fix it, but they keep giving us a six-hour window for an appointment! Who has that kind of time to sit around? Just use ours.” I stared at my mother. I certainly didn’t have that kind of time, but I didn’t quite know what else she was doing with her days.

“Mom, I need my computer to be on the internet. I have files saved locally—” I breathed in sharply and put my forefinger to my temple. “Does your computer have an LAN connection? Is it only the wireless that’s down? I guess I can use yours if it’s connected,” I said, figuring that I would only need to redo the work I’d done in the car if I couldn’t connect my laptop.

“There’s no internet,” she repeated robotically.

I looked to Sam for help. “Maybe there’s a twenty-four-hour Starbucks,” he offered. I cocked my head to the side, waiting to see if he’d laugh. He wasn’t joking. I had grown accustomed to high-speed printers, double-wide computer screens, and ergonomic office chairs. Working from my parents’ home was bad enough. I refused to be punished by sitting in some random Starbucks in the Connecticut suburbs because my parents had yet to enter the twenty-first century. There had to be a solution, but obviously I would need to come up with it myself.