[Critique Group 1] Marcia Feb. submission

[Marcia Wick]

   Doe Lake Part 2 draft1

1970 words

 

Open House

 

I telephoned Claudia while reading her article in the paper about the
Smythe's tragic murder-suicide. The well-written report had put her back in
the good graces of her editor, she admitted, but she was bummed by the bad
news. I insisted she attend Millwood's open house that Saturday anyway. 

 

"Don't you have to cover the story for the paper?" I pressured. "After all,
Millwood Furniture is Doe Lake's largest employer. It isn't like the
company's 75th anniversary celebration can be postponed. The factory's open
house has been publicized in The Messenger for month."

 

"Okay Ronnie, I'll be there," Claudia finally said without enthusiasm.

 

"By the way, I have some news that will lift your spirits," I added to
entice my friend. "I'll tell you Saturday. Sorry. No hints. See you in the
morning at Millwood."

 

Replacing the receiver, I thought, what bad luck Claudia had landing her
first reporting job in a backwards town like Doe Lake. Although young and
single like her, I had deliberately chosen to work in a small town to hide
from paparazzi and stalkers, no thanks to my infamous TV star mom; but I
wasn't stuck in Doe Lake forever. Soon enough, I'd be leaving to pursue my
own dreams. My trust funds would be released that summer on my 26th
birthday. I intended to plant myself in a secluded cabin in New England and
finish my novel. My departure would create a job opening at Millwood -the
perfect opportunity for Claudia to advance her career, and her life. 

 

Fortunately, I resembled my unknown father more than my famous mom. No one
in Doe Lake knew my true identity, but I planned to share my secret with
Claudia that day. I knew she could be trusted.

 

Saturday morning, I spotted Claudia's purple Chevy alongside rusty cars and
pickup trucks in the muddy lot at Millwood. She'd arrived ahead of me, a
good sign. Rare sunshine thawed the icy gravel. Splashing through ruts, my
Camaro was covered with mud. It was impossible to keep a car clean nine
months out of 12 in rural Michigan, autumn being the exception.

 

Waving me on at the "Reserved" parking gate, Pete said, "Lookin' good,
Veronica." Weekdays, the guy waited on tables at his mom's restaurant,
sweaty in a soiled apron. Nights and weekends, he doubled as a security
guard at Millwood. Sporting a fresh uniform with an official "Security"
patch on its pocket, I had to admit Pete cleaned up nice enough, but he
wasn't as good looking as Robbie, the town cop. Regardless, I wasn't into
dating the locals. Despite my rebuffs, Pete kept hitting on me like a moth
battering a light bulb. I was forced to tolerate his clumsy advances at work
for now, but not for long. 

 

Hunting for Claudia, I followed the aroma of juicy hot dogs and buttery
popcorn to a tented outdoor pavilion. I expected Claudia would be
photographing the crowd for the newspaper. Children squealed in delight at
the noisy blast from a helium tank. There she was, her 35mm camera focused
on a group of youngsters gripping white balloons imprinted with a red "75." 

 

"Delightful," Claudia said when she saw me. "This reminds me of my childhood
school carnivals." 

 

"That's cool," I said. "The fun will help keep your mind off your troubles.
No moping or worrying today." Nodding to a group of hovering parents, I
plucked Claudia from the flock of children. We walked to a set of tables up
front reserved for the company's big wigs. 

 

Under my breath, I instructed Claudia, "Smile for the brass." First, I
introduced her to Mr. Reed, Millwood's president. Claudia stared up at Mr.
Reed's silver-haired head, oversized even in proportion to his prominent
height. Mr. Reed offered his hand, but to my embarrassment, Claudia appeared
to ignore his gesture. I bumped her hip and she looked down. Too late, Mr.
Reed had dropped his proffered palm. 

 

"Oops," Claudia mumbled when she realized her slight. I suspected her low
vision was to blame for the oversight. She didn't talk about her limited
sight, but sometimes it was obvious.

 

"Moving along." I tugged on Claudia's elbow and continued introductions.
"This is Keith Donaldson, Vice President of Sales, and Wil Roberts, vice
president of Production." This time, Claudia raised her hand first, avoiding
further embarrassment. 

 

Ahead, my nemesis approached, lean and mean in a tailored pencil skirt. Her
hawk-like beak and predator's glare frightened others at work, but not me.
Unintimidated, I exaggerated my delight. 

 

"Oh, Claudia, please let me introduce you to Ms. Michelle Hamilton,
Millwood's Design Manager. She has worked here longer than anyone." Game on.

 

Millwood's bitch-in-residence turned her head and blew cigarette smoke over
her shoulder, ignoring Claudia's offer to shake. Michelle's deliberate
affront was nothing like my friend's unintended slight earlier. The bitch
meant business.

 

"Why, Michelle," I drooled like a loyal puppy.  "I was telling Claudia how
many different jobs you've had over the years at Millwood. Too bad I have
the job you've always wanted - seeking publicity for yourself. Oh, did I
mention that my friend here is a reporter?"

 

Hamilton crushed her butt under the toe of her high heel and preened her
feathered hair. Squinting at Claudia's "Press" badge, she said, ",Oh, you're
Doe Lake's new reporter." 

 

No surprise, I knew Claudia's credentials would attract Michelle's
narcissistic need for attention. She puckered wrinkled lips around a fresh
cig and said, "Well Claudia, I have been with Millwood Furniture longer than
Veronica, so allow me to give you a personal tour. I can better answer your
questions about the company."

 

"No doing," I pried Hamilton's skeletal fingers off Claudia's arm. "She's my
personal guest today. You'll have to share your old stories with her another
time." 

 

I whisked Claudia past a long line of visitors through a side door reserved
for staff only. Inside the spacious lobby, Claudia stopped short. "Give me a
minute to adjust to the dark," she said. Dark? Elegant wall sconces
illuminated the lobby. Claudia removed her sunglasses and fished tissue from
a pocket to clean her prescription lenses. . Glasses in place, she gazed
about while her pupils enlarged. Claudia looked down and admired the plush
carpet under our feet. Impatient, I swept her through a double-door into a
sea of open plan workstations, framed in oak and upholstered in hues of
heather grey, deep maroon, and leafy greens. 

 

"Meet Millwood's modular panel system," I announced. "Each workstation is
equipped for computer support." I demonstrated.  "Keyboard trays slide out
from under work surfaces, and computer cables are concealed in conduits
along the bottom of each panel. And look, adjustable task lights are mounted
under the overhead cabinets, eliminating the need for harsh ceiling
fixtures. It's easier on the eyes," I added. Speaking of eyes, the amazement
in Claudia's open-mouthed stare was obvious. "You should see the look on
your face," I teased.

 

"This is unreal," she said. "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas, I mean
Michigan, anymore. When I walked into the Messenger's old office on Main
Street six months ago," Claudia explained, "I was transported back in time.
Now, I've been propelled light years into the future. " 

 

"There's more." I pointed out a shared area housing a humming printer, copy
machine, and facsimile machine. Next stop was the staff lounge furnished
with cushy leather couches and occasional tables. "Interior Design, a
national trade publication for commercial designers and architects, recently
photographed our offices for their cover. See?" I plucked a glossy magazine
off a side table. "Common areas encourage casual conversation and
collaboration," I quoted the article. "I worked with our public relations
firm in New York City for weeks to attract the eye of the magazine's
editors."

 

You travel to New York City for business?"

 

"Claudia, there's a big world outside of Doe Lake, you know. Millwood has
showrooms in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. I travel frequently on
the company's expense account. We stay at the Waldorf and the Palmer House.
We eat at the Four Seasons in Manhattan or Chez Panise in Berkeley, wherever
the customer wants to dine. I invite editors and public relation managers
out when they're in town. It's worth the publicity. We're not publishing
hard news, but a feature on one of our showrooms in Architectural Digest is
well-worth the cost of a two-page spread in the magazine."

 

In fact, I'll be in New York City next week, working up publicity for our
new product introductions at NEOCON

 

"NEO-who?"

 

"We're debuting a new line of ergonometric seating in Chicago in June."

 

"Ergo-what?"

 

I noticed Claudia had opened her reporter's pad and was feverishly taking
notes. 

 

"I thought Millwood only manufactured traditional office furniture," she
said.

 

"Let me show you the private offices along the perimeter that showcase our
executive product lines." I urged Claudia on. Along a wall of windows, the
"big wig" offices were furnished to showcase each distinctive collection of
Millwood's high-end furniture. Traditional pedestal desks made of mahogany,
cherry, and walnut  with  matching credenzas, lateral file cabinets, and
meeting tables spoke of prestige and power. In a corner office, the company
president worked behind a rich red mahogany executive table, its waterfall
edges inlaid with ebony. An impressive conference room occupied the opposite
corner. Custom note pads, coffee mugs, and pens displaying the Millwood logo
were arranged at each high back swivel seat that surrounded the massive dark
walnut table.

 

"We negotiate large contracts with important clients in here," I said.
"That's why commercial furniture is called contract furniture. It's not like
residential furniture that can be bought at Sears," I explained. "Only
authorized dealers can sell Millwood Furniture. Our showrooms aren't open to
the public, only to trade professionals. That's why we promote our product
lines to architects and interior designers. They're the ones who specify
furniture for end users like bank presidents and CEO's of Fortune 500
companies." 

 

Seeing the impression on Claudia's face as she scribbled notes, I launched
on, playing my corporate communications role. "Millwood furnishings can be
found at top universities, medical centers, government offices, and
executive headquarters for companies like A T & T and EXXON..."

 

"Veronica, how do you keep track of it all?" Claudia asked.

 

"That's what the computers are for, silly. Each product is photographed and
catalogue for our dealers and sales managers. Our customer service reps
input orders into the computer, and the assembly of each item is tracked at
each station on the factory floor until it's loaded onto a truck at the
shipping dock out back. There's over 700,000 square feet of manufacturing
space that you haven't seen yet." Outside a private office, I paused and
pointed to a round oak work table. 

 

Claudia nodded appreciatively.

 

"Surprise! This is my office." I bounced into the brown suede chair behind
the table. With the flourish of a hand, I invited Claudia to sit in one of
the upholstered guest chairs. "Impressed? Make yourself comfortable. One
day, this office could be yours." I reached under the table and produced two
box lunches, each containing a fresh garden wrap, gourmet pasta salad, and a
chocolate chunk cookie, giant size. "Dig in," I said, twisting the top off a
seltzer water for each of us.

 

"Wow, I am impressed," Claudia said. "The perks of working in corporate
communications are way better than downing donuts while walking a news
beat." 

 

I enjoyed watching Claudia savor the catered food and special treatment.
"Oh, this is nothing compared to how we dine when traveling on the company's
expense account," I bragged. "Millwood Furniture hosts receptions at trade
shows with caviar, raw oysters, and champagne. Our customers are big
spenders. When they're purchasing top shelf products to furnish 50 floors of
a high rise, you bet we wine and dine them before, during, and after the
sale." I paused, giving Claudia time to digest her lunch, and the contrast
between her job and mine.

 

"Let me close my office door," I said, standing. "It's time to tell you my
news."

 

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