I was wrong.
At 1:40 p.
m.
, Daniel called.
“Margaret, do not discuss this with Lauren yet.”
“Why?”
“Because federal investigators may become involved.”
I sat down.
“What happened?”
“The expense approvals appear to have been submitted under Lauren’s credentials.”
My stomach dropped.
“But?”
“But our preliminary review indicates the authorizations were initiated from Audrey Kline’s executive account and reassigned before processing.”
I remembered Audrey beside the pool.
Tall.
Blonde.
Expensive sunglasses.
Laughing when Lauren called me smelly.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is Lauren involved?”
“We don’t know.”
“Daniel.”
“We genuinely don’t.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“How much?”
“Potentially $684,000.”
I closed my eyes.
Then another thought struck me.
“The apartment.”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
Daniel hesitated.
“It appears Hartwell wasn’t paying the full lease expense.”
“What does that mean?”
“A secondary reimbursement account covered part of the housing package.”
“Whose?”
“We’re tracing it.”
Something in his tone changed.
“Margaret, have you ever authorized recurring transfers to a fund called Blue Heron Consulting?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then we have another problem.”
Lauren returned that evening.
This time she did not pound on the door.
She knocked.
Three small knocks.
When I opened it, she looked twenty years younger.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
She looked like the frightened college girl who had once called me because she’d failed a statistics exam and thought her life was over.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped aside.
She sat at the kitchen table.
I made tea.
Neither of us drank it.
Finally she said, “They’re investigating Audrey.”
“I know.”
Lauren looked up.
“How?”
“My attorney represents the trust connected to Hartwell.”
She gave a weak laugh.
“Of course he does.”
I ignored that.
“Were you involved?”
Her face crumpled.
“No.”
I believed her.
Maybe that made me foolish.
Maybe mothers hear truth differently in their children’s voices.
But I believed her.
“Then tell me what happened.”
Lauren rubbed her hands together.
“Audrey told me my compensation package included housing.”
“Yes.”
“She said Hartwell had an investor program for senior employees.
She said the company covered most of my apartment because they wanted me close to headquarters.”
“All right.”
“She also told me to submit client entertainment charges through her office.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.
Dinners.
Events.
The pool party.”
I stared.
“The party was paid for by Hartwell?”
Lauren lowered her head.
“Part of it.”
Of course.
Even my humiliation had apparently been expensed.
“Why did you agree to that?”
“Everybody did.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I wanted to belong.”
There it was.
Not greed.
Not entirely.
Something older.
Something I understood better than she realized.
“I wanted them to think I was successful,” she whispered.
I thought of cardboard inside my childhood shoes.
Lauren had inherited my fear of shame.
I had spent her whole childhood making sure she never experienced poverty.
And somehow, in protecting her from it, I had never taught her what to do with the fear of it.
She continued.
“At Hartwell, everybody is polished.
Audrey’s father owns a vineyard.
Preston went to boarding school.
Madison’s parents have a place in Hilton Head.
Everybody talks about skiing, Europe, restaurants where dinner costs more than your grocery bill.”
She glanced at me.
“I never wanted to be the poor girl.”
“You weren’t.”
“I felt like one.”
My anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“So you made me the poor woman instead.”
Her face broke.
“Mom.”
“You needed someone beneath you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
Tears simply slipped down her face.
“I hated myself the second I pushed you.”
“Then why did you laugh?”
“Because they laughed.”
The answer was pathetic.
And honest.
“Why didn’t you follow me?”
Her mouth trembled.
“Because if I followed you, everybody would know I cared.”
That hurt worse than the pool.
I stood.
Lauren covered her face.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know.”
“You were more afraid of your friends knowing you loved your mother than of your mother leaving humiliated.”
She sobbed.
I walked to the sink and stared out at the backyard.
For a long time, the only sound was the ticking wall clock.
Eventually Lauren whispered, “I am sorry.”
I did not turn around.
“Do you know what apology means?”
“Yes.”
“It means nothing if you’re only sorry because your life became difficult afterward.”
She didn’t answer.
“Would you be sitting here if the bank hadn’t frozen Hartwell’s credit?”
Her silence told me.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
That was the problem.
The investigation moved quickly.
Audrey Kline had been using Hartwell accounts to fund an elaborate social life while disguising charges under other executives’ credentials.
Lauren wasn’t the only one.
Four employees had been used.
But Lauren had been convenient because she trusted Audrey completely.
Audrey had recruited her.
Mentored her.
Promoted her.
Popular Posts
→- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
Recently Viewed
Stories you read recently will appear here.
