Been Searching for You

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

May

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” I asked Miles as I took my place around the conference table. Sunlight streamed in through the western-facing windows, so I had to squint to look at him.

“No idea. I just got the email meeting request like the rest of us.”

My stomach tightened. The last time a group of creatives had been called into a room like this was during the worst layoffs our agency had ever seen. Within ten minutes, they were all jobless. I sent up a quick prayer that wasn’t the case this time.

Nearly every seat was full by the time our boss, Laini Grenwick, took her place at the head of the table. Nearly fifty, she was one of the first female executives at the agency, and as such, she treated this business like her baby and was not known for putting up with nonsense. Today she looked every inch the career woman, from the dark twist of her hair and the subtle makeup highlighting her toffee-colored Indian skin to her mauve skirt suit and black pumps.

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.” She looked each one of us in the eye before continuing. “Well, let me start by alleviating your fears. The fact that you are here is an honor. You’ve been hand-picked for a very important, high-profile assignment.”

Miles and I looked at each other, intrigued and shocked. As my coworkers whispered to one another, I realized that collectively, we made up an account team. There was Jenna, the perky blond account executive; Miles and me, the writer and designer team; Rick, our creative director; and Kendra from media relations and the special events teams.

Laini adjusted her chunky black hipster glasses. “Some of you may remember the Fifty Shades of Great event we worked on earlier this year. Well, in addition to raising nearly half a million dollars for charity, it also brought some very attractive business our way. That night, I was fortunate to make contact with Dr. Gordon McAllister, Dean of the Department of English Language and Literature at the University of Chicago. They normally do their marketing in-house, but this is such a big undertaking that they need us. We’ve been tasked with helping with a yearlong campaign they want to launch in September aimed at increasing enrollment in the English program.”

A collective groan went up. Four months to create a project of that scope was insane.

“I have chosen you for this project because you’re the best we have. It goes without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—that if this goes well, it could mean big things for our agency. So I’m asking you to clear your schedules this afternoon. We have a one o’clock meeting with the university president, the dean, and some of his professors. Listen to what they have to say, then get creative. I want your best ideas first thing tomorrow.”

Miles raised his hand. “Are these billable hours?”

“Beginning with the meeting, yes. Track your time, and do what you have to do.”

The campus of the University of Chicago was sprawling, taking up two hundred eleven acres in Hyde Park on the south side of the city. Built in Gothic style, its turrets and ivy-covered walls immediately took me back in time to an era when learning was considered a sacred art. The Main Quadrangles—six courtyards each surrounded by buildings bordering one larger quadrangle—reminded me of the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge that I’d seen on a PBS special. Holding them all in a snug embrace was the Midway, a long green area constructed for the 1893 World’s Fair that joined with two other parks to surround the campus in nature.

“Tell me again why I didn’t go to school here,” I called to Miles as we crossed the parking lot.

“I don’t know, but I’m kinda having school envy myself. And I never thought I’d say that. I loved Drake.”

A long hike later, we arrived, huffing and puffing, at our destination, a dark-paneled conference room down the hall from the dean’s office. A long, rectangular wooden table dominated the room, flanked on all sides by luxe leather chairs that looked as if they were used to supporting the fattened backsides of rich board members rather than working stiffs like us. Along each wall, above waist-high mahogany wainscoting, was a row of oil paintings. The wall across from me bore likenesses of great men of English and American literature—Shakespeare, Byron, Whitman, Keats, even Fitzgerald and Hemingway—on either side of arched triple windows. We each took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.

“I could get used to this. Hey, Laini, what would it take to get one of these for my office?” Miles asked.

“About a thousand extra billable hours. Find them, and it’s yours.”

“Ouch!” Miles said, shaking his hand as if he’d just touched a hot stove.

Not long after an assistant returned, bearing cups of steaming coffee and glasses of water, two well-dressed men entered, and we all stood respectfully.

The one in the lead, a handsome man with a crop of thick black hair and the mercurial face of a politician, immediately put out his hand to Laini. “Dean McAllister. Wonderful to see you again, Ms. Grenwick.” They shook hands, then he introduced his companion. “This is President Harrison.”

The gentleman he indicated was about sixty with a ring of silver hair above bushy matching eyebrows. He was dressed in a fine, tailored three-piece suit that made even the dean’s look lackluster, but he didn’t have the bearing of an aristocrat. Rather, his warm smile betrayed a love of learning and genuine interest in his work. I immediately wished he was our main point of contact.

A third man slipped into the room, expression apologetic.

My heart stopped.

“Ah, good. He’s here.” The dean gestured toward the slightly tardy man. “Last but certainly not least, we have Professor Alexander Grantham. He is the head of literature for our department and will be your day-to-day contact on this project.”

My mind went blank as I watched the man who had so captivated me at the singles event introduce himself to my colleagues. When he reached Miles, the two greeted each other with an affable smack on the shoulder. I wondered how long they had hung out that night after I left.

Then he was facing me, all tan skin and sparkling green eyes. His hand shake was strong, his grip firm. “How lovely to see you again, Annabeth.”

“Likewise.”

And then it was over. We took seats, and the meeting commenced like any other, everyone else unaware of what a momentous occasion this was for me. Well, everyone except for Miles. He elbowed me and flashed a playful grin. He knew full well what was going through my head.

“It would be very helpful to us if you could walk us through what brought you to propose this campaign, a situational analysis, if you will,” Laini said to the three men.

“Of course.” Dean McAllister interlaced his fingers and leaned forward as if confiding a great secret. “With the economy, fewer students are opting for the liberal arts, choosing instead to major in areas of traditional stability like business, health care, and IT, areas where they believe their employment and earning potential are stronger upon graduation. We want to convince them that that isn’t the only path to a successful career.”

“But first, you have to get their attention,” Laini noted.

“Exactly. That’s why Professor Grantham is here. He’s one of our most popular instructors. Over the last several years, he has spearheaded an effort to teach literature using books teens and young adults are already reading. He teaches courses on popular literature like Harry Potter, and uses Percy Jackson to introduce his students to Greek myths and classics like the Iliad. Alex, why don’t you tell them about it?”

Alex adjusted his position, mirroring the dean’s forward posture. “Those who love to read will naturally gravitate toward English as a major or minor. I’m looking to capture those undecided students who may read on the side as a hobby but have never thought to analyze its deeper meaning beyond which ‘team’ they’re on.” He chuckled at his joke, as did a few others. “For example, I use The Hunger Games and Divergent to introduce my students to dystopian literature like 1984 and Brave New World, which they may have previously shunned as outdated and boring.”

“So you’re meeting them where they are then taking them one step beyond,” I said, admiring his dedication to connecting with his students.

He pointed his pen at me. “Exactly. If you throw a bunch of old dead guys at them, they think that’s all English is—the study of things no longer relevant. But if you instead start with things they want to read or are already reading, you’ve got them on a completely different level. They can discuss how the book relates to their lives or what they would do in a given situation. Then later, when we move into the classics, they can take those skills with them and analyze the stories on a deeper level.”

“So you’ll want to take the same approach here. Start where they already are and draw them in,” Miles said.

“Yes. But also show them literature is a living, breathing thing, something they and their peers can not only receive as readers but create. We’re lucky to live in an age where, with tools like w*****d and self-publishing, they can see their peers succeed.”

“Your audience is primarily high school juniors and seniors, I assume?” Kendra asked.

The dean seemed to think for a moment. “Primarily, yes, but we also want to appeal to our students who haven’t made a firm plan and those who might be thinking of changing majors. So if you’re looking to generalize, I’d include our freshmen and sophomores in your list. By the time they’re older than that, they’re pretty much committed.”

“What about the parents? Isn’t their support important? I know if my parents wanted me to study medicine, I’d be less likely to waste my time with English classes, no matter how much I enjoyed them,” Jenna said.

“Good point,” Alex interjected. “Helping parents and students look beyond the obvious professions of beleaguered English teacher and starving writer is very important. English gives you a strong background for so much. If we can show them they’re being prepared to be future online journalists, like Arianna Huffington, or big futuristic thinkers, like Seth Godin, we’ll have a much better chance.” He thought for a moment. “How many of you were English majors?”

Laini, Kendra, Jenna, and I raised our hands.

“Would you be willing to use your agency to show the range of career possibilities?”

Laini nodded. “We’re always looking for interns, so certainly. Right here in this room we have writers, media professionals, and a creative director with a foot in both the design and writing worlds. That’s another point. Perhaps we could collaborate with your school of design to show additional possibilities for dual majors or major/minor combinations.”

President Harrison spoke up. “I’m sure they’d be happy to help. An increase in enrollment in any area is good for the school. I like the way this is shaping up. I have every confidence we’ve chosen the right team to help us.” He glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, I have to step out to attend another meeting. Is it reasonable for this group to gather again in a few days? I can’t wait to hear your final plan.” His excitement was palpable, the optimism in his voice infectious.

Laini thought for a moment. “Jenna will be in touch with your assistant by end of day, and we’ll set something up.”

The president excused himself, then Dean McAllister took control again. “Do you have any additional questions? What else can we tell you?”

“Obviously social media will be a huge part of this,” Kendra observed. “Is there someone in your marketing department I can connect with on that? Actually, I’d like to liaise with your media relations team as well.”

“Good point. In fact, I should probably introduce you to the team sooner rather than later. Perhaps we can tack that on after our final meeting with the president?”

“Got it,” Jenna confirmed.

“Anyone else? Speak up or forever hold your peace.” When no one else voiced questions, Dean McAllister brought the meeting to a close. “Thank you all so much for your time. I look forward to hearing your ideas. Jenna, Alex will send you the budget and contacts in the marketing department. He’s my right hand.”

Jenna flashed Alex her brightest smile and extended her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Alex gave her a small bow in response.

A pang of jealousy shot through me. Of course the perky blonde gets the contact with the attractive professor while the writer holes up in her cube like a mouse. Not this time. I would pour my heart and soul into this project not only to show I was capable of being more than just a penmonkey—I was a trained strategic advisor, damn it—but also to show Alex the difference between a charming saleswoman and someone who really knows her craft.

As we packed up, Laini gave her final instructions. “It’s three o’clock now. Get out of here for the day. But remember, I want your best ideas first thing.”

Less than an hour later, Miles and I were sitting in a bar on Rush Street in the midst of an evening of brainstorming. This was going to be a late night, and I wasn’t happy about it, but times like this came with the territory. It wasn’t my first or likely to be my last.

“Out with it,” Miles said as I set down his second beer. “You are lit up like a Christmas tree, and I know it’s not just because you’re into this project.”

“He’s sooooooo handsome!” I squealed. “What are the chances we’d meet again like this? It has to be fate, right?”

Miles grinned at me. “Maybe. But remember, we’re in professional mode. That means no flirting with the clients.”

I hung my head in mock shame. “I know, I know.”

“You know what they say, ‘the fastest way to get someone’s attention is to no longer want it.’ Date someone else, and you’ll be surprised how quickly he notices you. Take it from me. Women who are taken glow in a certain way that’s irresistible to men.”

“I’m trying to date other people, remember? And you think the glow is real?”

“I know so. Now, no more talk of men. We’re here to work. What do we have so far?”

I read off our list, trying to get my brain to focus on the task at hand. “Tie-ins with local libraries and writing groups, the Chicago Review, online groups like the Chicago chapter of National Novel Writing Month and the River North chapter of Romance Writers of America. These are great starting points, but I think we need to get more specific. I jotted down a few ideas during the meeting. Did you see the shelf of books by well-known Chicagoans in the conference room? We need to check with the library to see if they have one too. If not, they need to get one. We need to show students and potential applicants what the program can prepare them for. That reminds me—we need to find out who the famous alumni from the program are and play them up.” I wrote that down. “What if we work with Kendra’s team to do a meet-and-greet with famous local authors and maybe even some outside of Chicago who wrote popular series? It would take a lot of work, a lot of coordination, but it would also bring in a lot of press.”

“I think Laini will really like that idea. It would also give Alex a chance to highlight his classes and how current novels can and should be taught.” Miles was typing away on his phone as he spoke. “Looks like there are a ton of famous alumni—John Scalzi, Philip Roth, and Susan Sontag to name a few. There’s a whole Wikipedia page.”

“If we got enough interest, we could even offer a series of weekend or evening lectures by famous alumni. I wonder if any would be willing to teach a workshop or something.” I mused.

“It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Five hours, nine beers—mostly consumed by Miles—and three baskets of wings later, we had a pretty solid plan.

“We still need to come up with a theme for this,” I said.

“You’re the reigning theme queen, remember?”

I scowled at him. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m sure Laini will make us all brainstorm themes tomorrow once we have the whole plan together, but it’s probably a good idea for us to have some ideas ready, especially since we’ll be the ones who have to write and design toward it.”

“Good point.” I twirled my pen between my fingers. “So far, the best I have is Year of the Book. Not so much.”

Miles wrote it down. “No, but it’s a starting point.”

We spent the better part of an hour tossing ideas back and forth, a few good but mostly bad, with lots of silly wordplay and innuendo that had me laughing so hard my sides ached. Miles’s latest, Peek Beneath the Covers, coupled with his double entendres about erotic literature, had me struggling for breath.

“Speaking of, how’s the online dating thing going?”

I eyed him over the rim of my glass. “You’re just dying to play bodyguard again, aren’t you?”

Miles’s stipulation the first time I’d expressed interest in one of my online matches was that he shadow us “just in case he’s one of the crazies.” Three times now he’d planted himself at the same restaurant or bar, a few tables or stools away but within sight, while the date happened.

The first guy was sweet, but there had just been no chemistry. By the end of the night, we both knew it wasn’t going to work. The second, though in his thirties, spent the entire night talking about his older brother with an idol worship that should have ended in his teens. By the time he walked me home, I was convinced I should have been dating his brother instead.

“Hey, I did come to the rescue once.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.”

That would be date number three. Something had been off from the moment I laid eyes on him, though I couldn’t tell what. He was perfectly polite, chivalrous even, but something in his eyes had unnerved me. As the night wore on, I realized his questions and answers were a little too rehearsed, as though he had been on this exact date many times. Then when he asked me if I was interested in coming home to meet his wife, I knew he had.

I excused myself and frantically texted Miles. Ten minutes later, he “ran into” us and pulled up a seat, having a ball of making a pest of himself and doing his best to annoy my date into leaving. I’d give the guy credit for putting up with Miles. But when Miles got into the taxi with me at the end of the night, my date finally admitted defeat.

I shrugged, bringing my thoughts back to his original question. “Meh. For the most part, the guys either don’t meet my personal qualifications or have something odd in their profile that screams, ‘Run away.’ I’ve chatted with a few a couple of times, and one I’d even consider meeting, but he hasn’t responded to my last note, and that was like two weeks ago.”

“His loss. At least you can say you’ve tried, right?”

“Yeah. Would you believe most of my matches don’t even have pictures with their profiles? Why in the world would I even consider someone I can’t see? No one likes a blind date.”

“Men aren’t really into details, in case you haven’t noticed. They probably just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

I crossed my arms. “Whatever. If they can’t follow basic directions, I don’t want to date them.”

“And you wonder why you’re single.” I started to retort, but Miles held up a finger. He was scrolling through something on his phone. “Speak of the devil… I just got a Meetup invite to a traffic light party on Saturday.” He looked up as though I was supposed to know what that meant.

I raised an eyebrow, willing him to explain.

“You don’t know what that is? Jesus, you really did spend too many nights in the library at Drake. The Thetas had them several times a year.”

I examined the table through the amber-colored liquid in my glass. The only time Thetas had paid me any attention was during freshman year when a group of assholes told my friends and me to go back to high school because there was no way they were letting us into their party. That was my first and last interaction with Greek life.

Miles was so absorbed in his own memories—he was a Delta—that he failed to notice my lack of enthusiasm and rambled on. “Traffic light parties are where a bunch of people get together and wear different colors based on their dating status. Green means you’re single and looking, yellow that you’re in a relationship but may be open to dating someone, and red means you’re taken. It’s an easy way to see who’s fair game without having to look for a ring or engage in awkward conversation or guess.”

I was confused. “Why would anyone wearing red go to one of those?”

Miles put an arm around me. “Well, for instance, I am taken by the lovely Mia, but I will be offering you my invaluable skills as a wingman. Therefore, I will be wearing red.”

I stared at him. “I am not going to this. I didn’t do keggers in college, and I am certainly not going to one now.”

“You didn’t do them in college, and look where it got you,” Miles teased. “It’s not a kegger. Actually, I’m willing to bet it will be a fairly nice affair. It’s at Mockingbird, that new place over on State. I hear it’s pretty swanky.”

“With talk like that, should I expect to see you in a red leisure suit?” I drained my glass.

“With bell-bottoms. Only the best for you, babe. But seriously, you’re the one who said you would try all measures to find Mr. Right, didn’t you? Ergo, you can’t say no.”

I glanced at the clock on my phone. “s**t. Why didn’t you tell me it was after ten already? If I don’t get to bed soon, I’ll be a wreck for our meeting tomorrow.”

“Because most adults have bedtimes closer to midnight.”

I gave him the evil eye. “All right, you win. I’ll go to your stupid party. What time?” I riffled through my purse, looking for my keys.

“Mia and I will pick you up at nine. Wear something green.”

“And Mia will be wearing yellow?”

“Most likely.”

“Why do you put up with her?” I asked, genuinely puzzled at what he saw in her given her propensity to date and/or have s*x with whomever she pleased whenever she pleased.

“I could ask you the same question. Besides, it’s your fault for introducing us when I moved to town.” He reached into my bag and produced my keys. “She’s fun and unpredictable. Keeps life interesting. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”