[Critique Group 1] Marcia's submission

[Marcia Wick]

This is a rework of a chapter you've already seen.

 

About 2200 words

 

Open House

 

I telephoned Claudia after reading the Thursday Messenger. "Nicely done.
Your article about the Smythe's murder-suicide is more tragic than Romeo and
Juliet," I said.

 

"The story put me back in the good graces of Mr. K, but I'm bummed about the
circumstances," Claudia said. 

 

I insisted she attend Millwood's open house that Saturday anyway. 

 

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

 

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

 

"You'll thank me tomorrow. I have some news that will lift your spirits," I
said to further entice her. "Sorry. No hints. See you in the morning at
Millwood."

 

I replaced the handset  and 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 dead-end town to
hide from paparazzi and stalkers, no thanks to my infamous TV star mom, but
I wasn't stuck in Doe Lake forever. 

 

For once, I was glad I resembled my absent father more than my tabloid cover
mom. No one in Doe Lake knew my true identity, not even Officer Braun, the
town's inquisitive cop. I understood Claudia's attraction to Officer Braun.
Fortunately, Robbie had backed off the second time I turned him down;
resisting his charms hadn't been easy.

 

Thankfully, my trust funds would be released on my 26th birthday that
summer, then I could leave Doe Lake to pursue my own dreams. 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 -a perfect opportunity for
Claudia to advance her career - and perhaps her relationship with Robbie -
once I was out of the way. 

 

Saturday morning, I spotted Claudia's purple Chevy alongside rusty cars and
pickup trucks in the gravel lot at Millwood. She had arrived ahead of me, a
good sign. I couldn't wait to share my plans with Claudia - I knew she could
be trusted with my secret. Rare sunshine thawed the recent snow. Splashing
through the rutted lot, 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.

 

Pete waved me on at the "Reserved" parking gate, saying, "Lookin' good,
Veronica." Weekdays, he 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, Pete acted like he was God's gift to women. despite my rebuffs, Pete
hit on me at work, repeatedly like a moth battering a light bulb. I was
forced to tolerate his clumsy advances for now, but not for long.  I should
warn Claudia in advance about Pete's annoying overtures. 

 

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

 

"Delightful," Claudia said when she saw me. "This reminds me of my grade
school carnival." 

 

"That's cool," I said. "I hope the fun will keep your mind off your worries.
No bad news today." 

 

Nodding to a group of hovering parents, I led Claudia away from the flock of
children. Under my breath, I instructed her to "Smile for the brass," as we
walked to a set of tables up front reserved for the company's big wigs.

 

"First, let me introduce you 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, Millwood's president had dropped his proffered palm. 

 

"Oops," Claudia mumbled, realizing her slight. I suspected Claudia's low
vision was to blame for the oversight. She didn't talk much about her
limitation, but sometimes it was obvious.

 

"Moving along." I tugged on Claudia's elbow and steered her to another
table. "This is Keith Donaldson, Vice President of Sales, and Wil Roberts,
vice president of Production." I noticed Claudia raised her hand first this
time to avoid further embarrassment. 

 

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

 

"Oh, Claudia, please let me introduce you to Ms. Michelle Hamilton,
Millwood's Design Manager. She's worked for the company longer than anyone."


 

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. Game on.

 

"Michelle," I drooled like a loyal puppy.  "I was just telling Claudia how
many different jobs you've held over the years at Millwood. Too bad you'll
have to compete against me for your next promotion. By the way, did I
mention that Claudia is The Messenger's new reporter?" 

 

Hamilton crushed her cigarette butt under the pointed toe of her high heel,
and preened her feathered hair. I had known my friend's press credentials
would attract Michelle's narcissistic need for attention. Narrowing her
predator eyes at Claudia's "Press" badge, she said, "Oh, y I see. Nice to
meet Doe Lake's new reporter."  Puckering wrinkled lips around a fresh cig,
Michelle said, "Well Claudia, I have been with Millwood Furniture longer
than Veronica, so I could better answer your questions about the company.
Allow me to give you a personal tour."

 

"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 the long line of visitors through a side door
reserved for staff only. Inside the entry, Claudia stopped short. "Give me a
minute to adjust to the dark," she said. Dark? Elegant wall sconces
illuminated the spacious lobby. Claudia removed her sunglasses and fished
tissue from a pocket to clean her prescription lenses. I figured she was
buying time for her pupils to enlarge. Glasses in place, she looked down,
admiring the plush carpet under our feet. Impatient, I grabbed Claudia's
elbow and swept her through a double-door into a large office area. A sea of
modular acoustic panels framed in oak and upholstered in hues of heather
grey, maroon, and green, created a labyrinth of open plan workstations. 

 

"Meet "Wood-Flex, Millwood's modular panel system," I announced. "Each
workstation can be configured and reconfigured easily over time to adapt as
modern workspaces evolve." 

 

I demonstrated. "See? There are slide-out trays under the work surfaces for
computer keyboards, and adjustable task lights mounted under the overhead
cabinets eliminate 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, Ronnie," she said. "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas, I
mean Michigan, anymore." Spinning in a swivel chair, Claudia explained, "Six
months ago, when I walked into the Messenger's old office on Main Street, it
was like I'd been transported back in time. Now, I feel like I've been
propelled light years into the future." 

 

"Into a galaxy far, far away," I quipped a quote from the new Star Wars
movie. "But wait. There's more." I pointed out a shared area housing a
humming printer, copy machine, and facsimile machine. "Look. Conduits along
the base of the panels conceal all the electrical cables. Nice and tidy."
Next stop was the staff lounge. 

 

Claudia oogled  the cushy lounge chairs and occasional tables. "Look,
Interior Design, a national trade publication for commercial designers and
architects, recently photographed our offices for its cover." I plucked a
glossy magazine off a side table. "Common areas encourage casual
conversation and collaboration," I sat, knees crossed on a sofa, and quoted
from the magazine article. "I worked with our PR firm in New York City for
weeks to attract the eye of the magazine editors for this feature," I said.

 

You travel to New York City for business?"

 

"Claudia, Millwood has showrooms in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
I travel far and often, all on the company's expense account. We stay at
fancy hotels like the Waldorf Astoria and the Palmer House. I invite editors
and public relation managers out to eat at the Four Seasons in Manhattan or
Chez Panise in Berkeley, wherever they wants to dine. It's marketing. A
feature on one of our products in Architectural Digest is worth millions in
sales for Millwood. In fact, I'll be in New York City next week promoting
the new seating line that Millwood will introduce at NEOCON in June."

 

"NEO-who?"

 

"NEOCON -the National Exposition of Contract Interior Furnishings. It's a
huge trade show held at the Merchandise Mart in Chicago each summer.
Thousands of potential buyers flood the Mart. This year, Millwood is
debuting a new line of ergonometric seating."

 

"Ergo-what?"

 

I flung myself into a task chair to demonstrate its adjustable controls.
"Office seating should provide proper support and comfort to improve
posture, maximize productivity, and minimize fatigue at work." I spouted off
the copy I'd written for Millwood's catalog. "Ergonometric seating is
engineered to adjust to a wide range of positions because individuals come
in a wide range of sizes." 

 

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

 

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

 

"They do that, too. Let me show you. Millwood's private offices showcase the
executive product lines." 

 

I urged Claudia into a corner office. Sunlight from windows on two sides
reflected off Mr. Reed's executive desk crafted from deep red mahogany. I
called Claudia's attention to the desk's waterfall edges inlaid with ebony. 

 

"Impressive. Talk about prestige and power," Claudia whispered, tracing a
finger along the polished surface.

 

"That's what it's about," I agreed. We walked along the wall of 'big wig'
offices, stopping at every office to admire each distinct line of casegoods
in walnut, oak, cherry, or mahogany. 

 

"Every collection includes single or double pedestal desks, matching
credenzas, lateral file cabinets, bookcases, and meeting tables, not to
mention seating," I said. "Millwood Furniture can be found at top
universities, medical centers, government offices, and the headquarters of
Fortune 500 companies like A T & T and EXXON. "It's pretty big business for
a small town like Doe Lake." 

 

We entered a large conference room in the corner opposite Mr. Reed's office.
Custom note pads, coffee mugs, and pens imprinted with the Millwood logo
were arranged in front of each high-back guest chair surrounding a massive
walnut conference table. I continued my corporate communications speel. 

 

"Millwood managers 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. Contract
furniture showrooms aren't open to the public, only to trade professionals.
Millwood promotes its product lines to architects and interior designers
because they're the ones who specify furniture for end users like banks and
insurance companies." 

 

I paused, giving Claudia time to scribble notes.

 

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

 

"That's part of my job. We photograph and catalog each product for our
dealers and sales managers. Customer service reps input orders into a
computer, and every item is tracked at each station along 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." 

 

I stopped outside a windowless office and pointed to a round oak work table.
"You saw the 'big wigs' offices along the wall with windows. This is the
'wanna be wall," I said. Offices for middle managers like me, also known as
'wanna-be's, 'are furnished with Millwood's moderately priced product lines.
Impressed?"

 

Claudia nodded appreciatively. I bounced into a brown suede office chair
behind the table and, with the flourish of a hand, I invited Claudia to sit
in one of the upholstered guest chairs. 

 

"Surprise! This is my office. Make yourself comfortable." 

 

I reached under the table for a cooler and produced two box lunches, each
containing a fresh garden salad, hard roll, and gourmet chocolate chunk
cookie. "Dig in." The bottle of seltzer water fizzed when I twisted off the
top for Claudia.

 

"Wow, I am impressed," Claudia said. "Corporate communications managers eat
way better than reporters downing donuts walking a news beat." 

 

I enjoyed watching Claudia savor the catered food and special treatment.
"Oh, this isn't bad for a factory open house," I bragged, "but at trade
shows, Millwood hosts receptions with caviar, raw oysters, and champagne.
Our customers are big spenders. If they're considering purchasing Millwood's
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, allowing Claudia
time to digest her lunch, and the opportunity Millwood Furniture might offer
her.

 

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

 

# # #

 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <https://bluegrasspals.com/pipermail/group1/attachments/20220326/a30dce0d/attachment-0001.html>