Adrienne was on the cable machine. Not the treadmill. For the first time.
Maxwell noticed the change in his routine without doing anything, because now the task of perceiving it was solely visual, and acting accordingly was a separate decision. He saw his reflection in the mirror before reaching the pulley.
"I'm going to rotate," she said, without looking at him, as she lowered herself on the pulley.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your look was cataloging."
"My look isn't cataloging."
He emphasized this, drying his hands with a towel. "You have four looks, and I've named them all: Cataloging, Processing, Waiting, and the one you have when you've finished speaking, and you're polite while everyone else understands." He changed stations without any ceremony. "Good morning, Dragoski."
"Good morning."
He climbed onto the pulley. He did his routine. Wednesday was going to be special, and he needed to clean first thing in the morning.
Greg's call to Werner was scheduled for ten. Maxwell knew this because he was copied on the calendar invitation; not to attend, but to observe, which was a mix of administrative protocol and deliberate sabotage. He remained seated at his desk. He kept the Reinhardt Support workbook open and did what he had been doing since Tuesday's meeting: creating a documentary trail that could enter the room on its own.
At nine-fifteen, Greg stood up, straightened his jacket, and walked toward Conference Room B with the cautious confidence of someone who had rehearsed that particular route. He closed the door. He set up the video call. His first steps were visible in the mirror: a nod, a prepared phrase, perhaps written somewhere, the posture of a man revealing himself to something he wasn't yet fully aware of.
Maxwell didn't look. He worked. He gave the conference room the same attention he gave everything else.
At 10:32, in 32 minutes, well before the 40-minute mark, Greg stood up.
Maxwell looked up. Through the glass, Greg's face reflected the perfect expression of a man who has delved into a technical matter to the very limit of his knowledge and finds someone very precise waiting for him with three more. Not bad. Like staring at a flat, unremarkable wall.
He ended the call at 10:24. He returned to his desk by the longest route. The one that didn't involve Maxwell.
Sarah's message arrived at 10:26. No words. Just a period.
Maxwell typed: I know.
Klaus Werner's email arrived at 1:47. Personal address. Not Hartwell's.
Mr. Dragowski. Mr. Paulson and I spoke this morning. The call covered several logistical matters, but it didn't yield satisfactory results on modeling temperature variation for the Portland corridor, a crucial dependency for our board's approval timeline. I'd like to schedule a brief call at your convenience this week if possible. Please let me know. K. Werner. Four lines from a German board member to a logistics analyst's personal email.
Maxwell read them once. He closed his email. He looked at the photo he'd put on his desk last week: the east wall of Building 14C, the lake in the late afternoon light. He stared at it for seven seconds, four seconds longer than he should have spent looking at anything other than work.
He typed a reply: Thursday at 4 p.m. (Central Time) would be fine. I'll send you the link for the call.
He immediately forwarded the thread to Hartwell. No comment. A second time. The emails spoke for themselves, and adding words would only diminish their meaning.
Nate called from somewhere resembling a parking lot at 6:30.
"She said yes."
Maxwell, who was seasoning salmon, put down the pan. "Patrice."
"Patrice. Maxwell. She said yes to coffee. Saturday at 11." A sigh that contained four emotions at once. "And she said... let me tell you this... she said she hoped I'd call. Exactly those words. Hoped."
"Good."
"'Good.' Maxwell. This woman had hope, and you have the best way of saying 'good.'"
"This is the first coffee. It's the beginning of something good."
"You're so annoying." But a smile was clearly visible. "Where's a good coffee shop near North Avenue? Not Starbucks; it seems to have its own opinion."
"Intelligentsia on Broadway."
He paused. "Yeah, right there." He paused again, a little more slowly. "Is there work?"
"Some."
"Do you want to talk?"
"No."
"Okay." No forcing it. Never force it with Nate. You just left the door open. "Call me if you need to. And Patrick wants to know if you'll be at the Station 14 charity event in April. I have to ask you, though he said you'd probably say you'd try and then something would happen."
"Tell him I'll try."
"Yeah." He smiled again. "Good night, Max."
As Maxwell plated the salmon, the system beeped.
[Hidden Reward Unlocked]
[Condition: 1,095 Consecutive Days Zero Response to Professional Insults]
[Three Full Years. Not Once. Zero Visible Frustration. Zero Changes.]
[Reward: 1,500 Shares Costco Wholesale Corp. (NASDAQ: COST)]
[Price, March 21, 2012: $88.49/share]
[Total Value: $132,735]
[Taxes: Paid. Host Liability: $0.00]
[Deposit: Fidelity Account -4471]
He ate at the bar. After dinner, he opened his laptop and sent the LLC paperwork to Priya Mehta at 7:43 p.m. She replied in nine minutes: Perfect. Have the bylaws and operating agreement drafted by Friday. Favorite name?
He typed: Dragosky Consulting Group, LLC. He stared at those four words for a moment, like someone looking at something they'd written that turned out better than expected. Then he sent it, washed the pan, and went to sleep.