“Gilbey got himself fired again. Don’t know what to do with that boy.”
Jane plopped into her leather chair, squishing all the air out of the seat cushion in an indelicate whoosh. She slipped off one brown leather pump and rubbed the arch of her bare foot against the toe of the other. “What happened this time?”
“Some BS about how the foreman doesn’t like him, wrote him up for being a minute late, yada yada.”
She’d heard it all before—many times—which was probably why she was allergic to the blame game. Her brother Gilbey, just like Dominic Sayers today, always had a boss who was out to get him. And conveniently for Gilbey, the boss always did. Then Gil didn’t have to work while he “searched” for his next job. It was all very convenient. Jane sighed.
“Dad, he’s not going to grow up if you don’t kick him out of the house. He’s going to remain mentally seventeen forever—and he’s twice that age!”
Her father muttered something.
“You know I’m right. Do you want me to talk to him again?”
“Can’t hurt. And maybe you can help line him up some other prospects.”
“No.” Her voice was firm. “I can’t recommend him to anyone when I know what he’s like.”
“He’s your brother, Janey.”
“Yes! He’s my brother, and therefore my own reputation is on the line when I put in a good word for him. It’s embarrassing when he gets fired.”
“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
I am thinking about it. That’s why I’m slowly going insane. “So how are you doing, Dad? Are you cheering up a little?”
“Well, you know. Darn weeds keep growing in the walkway, no matter what I put on ’em. Got moles in the front lawn. And the Jets are gonna get the snot kicked out of them tonight, you mark my words.”
“I’ll bet the hardware store has something to take care of the weeds and moles. I can’t help you much with your team, though. You just might have to pick a different one.”
“I’m no fair-weather fan, Janey. I stick with my boys!”
I know, and your loyalty is one of the things I love most about you. But judging by their current stats, that means you’re going to be depressed until basketball season starts up.
She didn’t say it aloud. “Why don’t you get out into the sunshine and take a walk, Dad? It’ll make you feel better.” And how about some nice Prozac?
“Unnh.”
“Really.”
“Unnh.”
Well, this is progress. “What would you like me to bring for dinner on Sunday?”
“Unnh.”
“Meat loaf? With mashed potatoes and peas?”
“Unnh.”
Jane decided he’d answered in the affirmative. “Okay, then. I’ll see you Sunday.”
She placed the receiver back in its cradle, and her thoughts returned to Dominic Sayers. Unfortunately the thoughts were not of a professional nature: he was shirtless, displaying a tan, six-pack abs and a wicked grin. He was also beckoning her to come sit on his lap—which she did very happily, disengaging his buckle, pulling off his belt and using the leather to strap him to the chair he sat in. Then she—
Jane O’Toole, get a grip on yourself! You’ve obviously been working too hard and are in desperate need of a date.
She tried to remember how long it had been and then decided she didn’t want to think about that.
Wiping her mind clean, she opened a new file on her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before typing in his name. Under it she wrote:
Attitude problem. Bullheaded. Seems to thrive on confrontation. Blames others (boss) for current predicament. Arrogant. Aware of physical attractiveness. Competitive streak several miles wide.
Treatment plan:
1. Exploit and then control subject’s hostility; get him to relax and open up.
2. Establish more about subject’s background. Does he have an underlying anger at women?
3. Observe subject in office environment. Gather examples to show him how his behavior negatively impacts his relations with coworkers. Pay special attention to interaction with females.
4. Bring up these examples in a nonthreatening way and explore alternate scenarios for subject to employ next time.
5. Using the above examples, get subject to admit he has a problem and that he can solve it.
6. Do not allow subject’s looks or your own libido to sway you from your objectives!
Jane stared at the computer screen. Now where had number six come from? She needed to remember that Sayers was not a nice guy. He had likened himself to a pig.
That scent of his wasn’t at all porcine, though—woodsy, male, a hint of clove—and it still hung in her office. Jane spun in her chair to face the credenza, from which she pulled a can of Lysol. She depressed the nozzle and walked it around the room on full blast.
Take that, Sayers. I’ll figure you out. And then I’ll fix you like a bad habit.
SUNDAY DINNER WAS ITS USUAL barrel of laughs. How could you love two people so much and be so frustrated by them? Jane reminded herself that even a graduate degree in psychology couldn’t answer a question like that.
“The potatoes are dry,” her dad muttered. Gilbey said nothing as he helped himself to a slab of meat loaf, placing it in the center of a lake of ketchup on his plate.
Jane contemplated what this said about her brother as she methodically scraped her father’s portion of mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl and added butter and cream. As she reached into a cabinet for the electric beaters, her dad said, “Now don’t make ’em too fattening, Janey.”
She plugged the beaters in. “Adding water won’t make them taste very good.” The noise drowned out any possible response from her dour dad. When she was done, Jane scooped a healthy portion of mashed potatoes back onto his plate and watched with satisfaction as he began to eat them with obvious enjoyment—not that he could allow himself to acknowledge it.
“Probably’ll gain five pounds,” he groused between bites.
She just smiled. He was on the skinny side and had abnormally low cholesterol. She wasn’t worried.
Her gaze returned to Gilbey, who was now turning his plate to make sure the meat loaf was truly centered in the ketchup. “Perfect,” he announced to nobody in particular.
Did he want a compliment for his skill? “You know, Gil, most people put the meat loaf on the plate first and then the ketchup on top.”
“I’m not most people.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
“Why do you do it that way?”
“Because it works better.”
Jane shook her head, but as she watched him eat, she was struck by the fact that it did work better—at least for him. Gil had a hard time with accepted structure. He was always questioning traditional ways of doing things. She’d called him stubborn and exasperating many times. But maybe he was just creative.
Gilbey, in his own way, was as unique as Shannon. But if Shannon marched to an alternate orchestra, Gil shambled along to an alternate grunge band.
Jane stuck a piece of meat loaf into