Ramona Richards

“So you’ll send me the paperwork?”

“Absolutely!” Peter grinned, a sense of satisfaction filling his chest. Nothing felt better than getting the signature on a new contract. ABC. Always Be Closing. He lived for the deal. This one had taken all his skills of persuasion during numerous phone calls, two video conferences, and four lunches, just like this one. But it was done.

His phone, tucked beneath the edge of his plate, buzzed quietly on the linen tablecloth. Peter glanced down. His assistant. It could wait.

Peter pushed back the chair and put out his hand as he got up. “I’ll have them on your desk by Monday morning, if not before.

The client stood and shook his hand. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

Peter strode back to his car, unable to stop smiling. Life was good. Work was better. This contract would mean they’d start the new quarter off with a huge head start. The latest quarter had ended with the best margins he’d seen since taking over the CEO position three years ago. They had hired him to improve profits and industry position, and he’d done both.

He opened his car, then paused a moment to let some of the heat out. He slipped off his suit coat and tossed it in the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel. His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, then dropped it on top of the coat as he started the car. His assistant again. What can she want? Beth knew he was at lunch with the client.

Hot air blasted from the vents. He waited for the Bluetooth to kick in before calling her. “What’s so urgent?”

Beth didn’t waste time. “The board chair called. They’re having a called meeting of the board of directors tomorrow at four. He wants you to confirm before EOB today.”

Peter frowned. “The whole board? What’s it about?”

“He wouldn’t say. Just wants your confirmation that you’ll be there.”

“No idea why it’s so late in the day? On a Friday?”

This time she hesitated. “Apparently, some of the directors are only flying in for the meeting. They couldn’t get here any earlier.”

That made sense. One of the directors lived in Anchorage. “Okay. Go ahead and send him a confirmation. Do I have anything scheduled?”

“Just a follow-up call if today’s lunch had not gone well. Did it?”

“Perfect. It’s done! We just need to send the contract on Monday.”

“I’ll pull out what we’ve drafted so far and start polishing it. Oh, and you had planned to leave early tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s right. Aaron starts basketball camp Saturday. I’d wanted to shoot some hoops with him. Maybe give him some pointers.”

“Hope he won’t be too disappointed.”

Peter hesitated. Beth didn’t usually make such personal comments. Then Peter remembered that she had a son about twelve, Aaron’s age. She probably understood, although Beth never talked about her family at all. He cleared his throat. “Aaron didn’t know. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Ah. Are you coming back to the office?”

Why would he not . . . Peter glanced at the dashboard clock. Three-thirty already. “Wow! I didn’t realize it was so late. But yeah, I’m headed that way. Can you print all the end of quarter reports from the team, including mine, and leave them on my desk?”

“No problem.”

Peter ended the call, fastened his seat belt and pulled out of the lot. His stomach tightened as he thought about the board meeting. Why in the world would they need to call a board meeting now? The quarter had just ended, so they’d just been in the building less than a month ago. Interim meetings, if needed, were held by video conferencing. What would be so dire that they’d need to get them all in-house again?

His thoughts churned all the way back to the office, playing out one scenario after another about why the board would need to meet. Peter breezed into his office just before four. As requested, six quarterly reports were stacked on his desk, each in their own folders and marked clearly. A seventh folder held the current version of the client’s contract, along with Beth’s questions and suggested corrections. Everything was on the server, but she knew he liked to review hard copy too.

He paused. Beth did great work. He’d only been with the company for three years, and Beth had trained him as to the inner workings of the organization. She “knew where the bodies were buried,” so to speak. Her efficient and professional work certainly kept him on track. Maybe in all this, he could decipher what was going through his chairman’s head.

Beth asked if he needed anything else, and Peter shook his head. “I just want to spend some time with the numbers. See if I can figure out what’s up. You can leave early, if you want to.”

She nodded, but gestured with her pen toward his own quarterly report. On the top was a sticky note with the chairman’s personal cell number.

Peter snatched it up and saluted Beth. “Thank you.”

She nodded and left, and Peter sank into his chair. “Can’t hurt to just ask.” He punched in the number.

No answer. As the chairman’s voicemail kicked in, Peter took a deep breath. “George, I got the message about tomorrow’s meeting. Do I need to prepare anything special? Bring any reports that you might not have seen? The last quarter’s numbers were fantastic! I thought everyone would be happy with the dividends. We certainly were around here. Call me.”

Peter hung up, dropped his cell on his desk and walked to the window. Only thirty-eight stories up, but his office had an unobstructed view of the city. He liked it here.

No. He loved it here. One of the best job fits of his career. It hit all his sweet spots and matched his skill sets like nothing else he’d done. The first year of his contract, the company had increased profits by almost 40 percent. The next year, more than 50 percent. This year, they were on track to a major increase again, and they’d only finished the third quarter. His contract was up at the end of the fiscal year, but he was sure—

Peter’s thoughts stopped. His contract. That had to be it. George had told him the board would let him know well before the end of the fiscal year whether his contract would be renewed. A smile spread over his face. Contract renewal. Maybe even a raise. The whole board would have to sign off on an increase.

His phone buzzed on his desk, and Peter grabbed it up. A text from George: No need to prepare. Just be there.

Bingo.

“Ha! Peter, dude, you are worrying over nothing.”

He dropped back into his chair and pulled the contract closer. They might even get this out by tomorrow.

* * *

The contract did, in fact, head out by messenger shortly before noon. Peter ate a quick lunch, then spent the afternoon going over all the reports. Just in case, he though, they have any questions about the numbers.

Peter stood, relaxed and ready, outside the boardroom at 3:55pm. Precisely at four, George’s assistant opened the door. Peter stepped in and took a deep, steadying breath. The boardroom smelled like furniture polish and coffee, and he smiled as he faced the five men and four women seated at one end of the oblong table. The chair at the head of the table was empty, and George, sitting to the left of it, motioned for Peter to sit there. “Good afternoon, Peter.”

“Good afternoon.” Peter nodded at the directors. Each of them had a laptop open in front of them, and George slid one toward Peter. He centered it in front of him and stared at the screen. It was his quarterly report.

George cleared his throat. “We want to start by telling you that we are pleased with this quarter’s numbers, as we have been the last two years. You’ve taken your charge to turn things around seriously, and we appreciate that. We have no quarrel with your industry performance.”

Peter heard the unspoken “but” in that sentence and sat quite still, waiting. George clicked a few keys on his laptop, and all the screens changed simultaneously. Obviously all networked together and under George’s control. The new screen showed the cover page of a performance report. Peter’s name was centered on the screen.

George addressed the board. “What’s on your screens now is the white paper that was sent to you this week, which you should have had a chance to review, and which has precipitated today’s decision.”

Peter’s stomach tightened. This did not sound like the beginning of a commendation.

George turned to Peter. His tone lowered and his voice was gentle but firm. “Peter, an issue has come up that has to be addressed.” He began scrolling through the report. Your sales numbers are tremendous. What you’ve done for the company at large is to be praised. But there are other numbers that have to be taken into consideration.” He stopped the report on a page that Peter recognized immediately—his employee engagement scores and likeability scores from the past quarter.

Peter placed his palms flat on the table, on either side of the computer. The same scores had been low last year, and George had mentioned them, urging Peter to bring them up. But he was not here to be liked. He’d not been hired to be a cheerleader. His responsibility was to increase sales, not play scout leader. He started to speak, but George put up a hand.

“This is not to devalue what you have achieved.”

Peter couldn’t hold back. “What I’ve achieved has been record profitability. Productivity and profitability. That’s why you hired me. I’m not a nursemaid. These people are adults. And they appreciate the fact that their bonuses will be higher this year than they have been since 1984.”

George stiffened. “So it’s too bad you’re still leading like it’s 1984.”

Peter stared at him. “What?”

George leaned forward in his chair. “The era of Deming and Peters are over. This is the twenty-first century. You have to start leading like it. We need our leaders—especially our CEO—not only to produce but to also have great relationships with the staff and employees. Every employee needs to feel cared about so we can retain our talented people and also so that we can attract the most gifted and talented people.”

Heat rose in Peter’s chest and face. “I didn’t come here to be a people pleaser. I came to turn things around.”

George hesitated, and several of the directors shifted in their chairs. “And you have. Unfortunately, you’ve alienated your team and most of the company in the process. I tried to tell you about this last quarter. Apparently, you didn’t listen.”

Peter nodded. “What do you want?”

George looked at the other directors, as if for confirmation. Two of them nodded. So did George as he turned to face Peter directly.

“You have till the end of this quarter to bring up your employee engagement and likeability scores. If not, your contract will not be renewed.”

If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast. Psalm 139:9-10 NRSVue

On the eve of our college graduation, my roommate and I wrote out our first bucket lists. They were ambitious documents littered with the outrageous dreams of starry-eyed twenty-two year olds. Yet, looking back, maybe those desires weren’t as far-fetched as they might have seemed. I wanted to write a novel, which I finally did. But mostly, I wanted to learn to scuba dive, so when I saw an ad for a free introductory lesson, I took the plunge.

It was one of the hardest but most rewarding goals I ever attempted, but to this day, I adore it. Yet it also led to one of the most frightening moments of my life.

On one particular dive, I got lost. Through my own foolishness, I became separated from my buddy, and I wound up having a “blue water experience.” I was so far out in the ocean that I could only see the same rich blue in every direction—up, down, sideways. Panic seized me as I twisted in the water, trying to decide which way to go. “Lord, what do I do?” The answer seemed to whisper in my ear. “Keep breathing. I am here.” An unexpected peace settled over me. A few slow, calming breaths later, my instructor’s lesson also came to me: Bubbles always go up. If lost, stop and surface.

This experience drove home the words of Psalm 139 in a way few times in my life had. This wisdom psalm attributed to King David speaks of God’s intimate knowledge of each of us. He is omniscient and omnipresent; we are never alone, and our relationship with our Lord is the essence of who we are as people and as believers. We are His children, He loves us, and He will always provide comfort when we seek it from Him.

As these verses beautifully remind us, no place on earth is without the Lord’s presence. His light in our lives is quicker than the rays of dawn and not even the depths of the ocean can hide Him from us.

I followed my bubbles up, did a safety stop, and when I surfaced, one of the divemasters from the boat waited for me with a boogie board. I never forgot the moment. I know that not everyone can scuba dive, but every one of us faces our own trials, and life can often be rough. Pressures from work, relationships, finances—even church—sometimes weigh heavy on our shoulders. The temptations of the world tug at our elbows on a daily basis. Giving in appears to be the easier choice, especially when we feel overburdened and alone.

Yet we are never truly alone. Our God is always here, next to us, bringing us peace and comfort. He knows our innermost thoughts and feelings, and He loves us always.

Prayer: Lord, help me to remember that you are always by my side, no matter where I am or what concerns I may face. Your love for me provides comfort and strength always. Amen.

CHAPTER ONEPineville, Alabama, 1954

When the woman with the daisy in her hair sauntered into the Pineville Drugstore and Soda Fountain that hazy Saturday morning in May 1954, every man in the room turned and looked. Her lavender dress fit loosely, and the lightweight fabric, cinched at the waist with a matching belt, flowed easily around her as she walked. Thick curls undulated around her face with each step toward the counter, the strands so black that a bluish highlight caressed each one. Her lips formed a tight red bow in the middle of a face pale with carefully applied powder. More than one of the old farmers sitting at the cluster of tables near the soda fountain found himself staring unwaveringly at the stranger.

Roscoe Carver stared too, from his chair in the colored section of the fountain’s tables. His fourteen-year-old body responded to the woman’s long legs and curvy hips in a way that would have made his mother pray for his soul and his father for his life. Noticing Roscoe’s gaze, his father squeezed his arm in the same grip that could pull a mule out of the mud. Roscoe flinched, his eyes darting to his father’s tense face.

Ebenezer Carver shook his head, his voice a taut whisper. “Don’t you be gawking at no white woman. Doc barely lets us sit inside as it is.”

Confusion shot through Roscoe. “White? But she’s—” The grip tightened.

“White!” The word was a harsh whisper. “Don’t let them catch you looking!”

Almost in reflex, Roscoe looked down at the table. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the warning. It would not be the last. He squelched the rage it produced in his gut and found a safer outlet for his anger and curiosity: He watched the woman in the broad mirrors behind the soda fountain in furtive glances that danced between her and his plate. Unlike his father, who focused only on his food, the white men in the fountain area stared openly at the woman, occasionally nudging each other and motioning at her with quick points or nods of their heads.

Her curls glistened as they bounced out of control around her shoulders and down her back, as if she’d forgotten to brush her hair that morning. Low-heeled pumps, a light lavender that almost matched the dress, thwacked on the yellow tile floor, as if they, too, were a size too big. She ordered a root beer float instead of breakfast, and Doc Taylor started drawing it up, being that his fountain girl Ruthie had the day off. The woman clopped over to the magazine rack and picked up one with the latest movie gossip. After studying the display a moment, she plucked up a comic book as well. She paid for all three, then leaned against the fountain, sipping the float.

Roscoe tried to finish his breakfast, but his attention kept turning back to the woman’s reflection in the mirror. Maybe his father was right; she was white. But Roscoe knew that she didn’t look like any white woman around Pineville. And there was that thick makeup. She faced the fountain again, and Roscoe studied her profile. The wide dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and sloping jawline. The smooth curls of her hair weren’t straightened like his mama’s, but Roscoe had never seen a white girl with hair that rich and black. Maybe his daddy had. His father had traveled, been overseas with the army during the war. He’d seen lots of things no one around here had.

The woman set the soda glass down and stirred the ice cream into the mixture. Doc tried to talk to her, but she met his questions with soft shakes of her head, and after a bit, he gave up and went to the high counter at the back where he made up prescriptions. The girl ate the ice cream slowly and dabbed her lips. The clop of her shoes echoed against the high ceiling as she strolled toward the door, the magazine and comic book tucked neatly under one arm, her hips swaying beneath the pale purple dress.

Roscoe finally looked back at his biscuit, now cold on his plate. Beautiful, so beautiful that she should never be forgotten.

A thought he remembered with pain the next morning. This time he stared openly at her—her face, her nude body, the waxen look of her bloodless skin. Beautiful, even dead, with those scarlet lips now a bluish gray, marred by a dark protruding tongue. She lay at the edge of his daddy’s newly planted cornfield, a leather strap around her neck, a bright daisy crushed beside her.

He stared, then ran to get his father, knowing that he would never forget that face.