Chapter 2 - The Yellow Gloves
The radiator in the corner clicked, a steady hiss of steam breaking the silence of the forty-third floor.
Grant slowly walked around his desk. He didn't look at the termination folder lying open beside his tablet. He didn't look at Claire. His eyes remained fixed entirely on the small girl in the yellow coat.
He crouched down. It was a movement his knees protested—he hadn't crouched to speak to a human being at eye level in more years than he cared to count.
"Maya," Grant said softly. His voice sounded strangely thick in his own throat. "These gloves are very big on you."
Maya raised her hands, wiggling the empty rubber tips of the index fingers. "They're Mommy's lucky gloves. She says when she puts them on, her hands stay warm and clean, no matter how cold the water is."
Grant looked closely at the gloves. He recognized them. They were the cheap, industrial-grade cleaning gloves supplied in bulk to the building's maintenance crews. The kind that smelled like harsh chemical sulfur and split at the thumb after two weeks of hard labor.
"Your mother was coughing?" Grant asked, turning his head slightly toward Rachel.
Rachel stepped forward, wiping her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. "It was severe pneumonia, Mr. Holloway. I... I didn't mean to miss the second night. The fever spiked to 103 on Tuesday evening. I couldn't get out of bed to find my phone, and Maya... Maya was trying to put cold washcloths on my forehead. I couldn't reach anyone until yesterday afternoon when my neighbor came by."
She pulled Maya back toward her side, wrapping her arms protectively around the child's shoulders.
"I know the rules," Rachel whispered, her chin trembling. "Missing a shift without calling is an automatic breach of contract. I know you have a building to run. I only came today to hand in my keycard and ask... please don't dock my final week's pay. I need it for the prescription."
Grant stood up slowly. His joints felt stiff.
He looked at the folder on his desk. Inside was a standard severing agreement, drafted by his corporate lawyers, stating that Rachel Bennett’s services were terminated effective immediately due to unexcused absence, forfeiting her accrued bonus for the quarter.
He recalled his own words from twenty-four hours ago: A company cannot be run on circumstances we don't know.
"Claire," Grant said.
Claire stepped into the center of the room. "Yes, Mr. Holloway?"
"Cancel my ten o'clock meeting with the bank representatives."
Claire’s eyes widened slightly. "The harbor project financing meeting? Grant, they flew in from New York—"
"I said cancel it," Grant repeated, his tone leaving zero room for debate. He turned back to Rachel. "Mrs. Bennett, when was the last time you ate a solid meal?"
Rachel blinked, caught off guard. "I... I had some tea this morning."
"And Maya?"
"She had a piece of toast."
Grant picked up the black landline phone on his desk and hit a three-digit extension. "Marcus. Bring the company town car to the private executive entrance downstairs right now. Turn the heater on maximum."
He hung up, grabbed his heavy wool overcoat from the mahogany stand, and picked up his leather gloves.
"Where are we going?" Maya asked, her eyes trailing his every move with wide curiosity.
Grant looked down at her flopping yellow gloves. "We are going to the pharmacy down on Michigan Avenue to collect your mother’s medicine. And then we are going to the diner across the street from the terminal to get lunch."
Rachel shook her head quickly. "Mr. Holloway, no... you don't have to do that. Just tell me if I still have a job."
May you like
Grant paused with his coat half on. He looked at the vast, empty expanse of his forty-third-floor office—at the glass towers, the cold lake, and the framed photograph of his first empty warehouse on his desk.
"You have a job, Mrs. Bennett," Grant said quietly. "In fact, your job duties are changing starting today."
