Summer's Crucible- Chapter Two: Living on a Prayer or Being Prey for a Living?

The weeks following Landon's return passed without incident, or at least without any incident Summer felt inclined to acknowledge.

At five o'clock that morning, her alarm blared from the nightstand. As usual, the other side of the bed was empty.

Landon had probably fallen asleep in his office again, sprawled across the expensive leather chaise lounge he preferred to their shared bed. Summer didn't particularly mind. Neither of them enjoyed sleeping beside the other anymore, and they had long since abandoned the expectation that couples should go to bed together or wake at the same time.

Early in their relationship, they had considered their separate sleeping arrangements a sign of maturity. They were independent adults, after all, perfectly capable of maintaining their own schedules without demanding constant companionship.

Now, Summer wondered whether they had simply been practicing for the complete absence of one another.

Their relationship had become a series of passing encounters, occasional meals, and brief exchanges concerning household responsibilities. They occupied the same house, but their lives rarely intersected in any meaningful way.

It hadn't always been like that.

When Summer first met Landon, they had both been ambitious young professionals with promising futures.

Landon was preparing to assume responsibility for his father's business holdings, while Summer had recently completed her MBA in record time, earning a place on the Dean's List along the way.

Back then, she had admired Landon's confidence and his apparent certainty about where his life was headed.

Unfortunately, certainty had proved a poor substitute for competence.

Landon had never finished business school. Over the years, his enthusiasm for managing the family enterprises had steadily diminished, while his enthusiasm for drinking, golfing, and being admired had grown considerably.

These days, he was little more than a well-financed layabout, relying heavily on Summer to help manage the responsibilities he was supposed to handle himself.

He nevertheless made a point of reminding her that he was the wealthier of the two.

It was one of the few distinctions he could claim without fear of contradiction.

Summer had the education, the work ethic, and most of the practical skills necessary to keep things running. Landon had the money and the family name.

Somehow, that arrangement had left him convinced he was doing her a favor by allowing her to live with him.

Summer increasingly felt less like a romantic partner than an unpaid employee who happened to share his address.

They had met shortly after she graduated from college, when she was working her first serious job managing accounts for a restaurateur.

Her employer, Blaine, had introduced them after Landon took an interest in Summer at one of his restaurant openings.

She hadn't been especially impressed at first. Landon was forward to the point of impertinence, and his habit of treating every conversation as an opportunity to advertise himself had initially put her off.

Over time, however, they had settled into something resembling compatibility.

Or, more accurately, Summer had become adept at overlooking the qualities she disliked.

It had seemed like a reasonable compromise when she was younger.

Now, with their routines, ambitions, and even their futures moving in different directions, she was beginning to wonder what remained between them beyond habit and shared expenses.

After completing her morning beauty regimen, Summer climbed into her SUV and began the ninety-minute commute to Xylloughby and Associate Investments.

Her position at the financial consulting firm was hardly the career achievement she had once envisioned.

Most days consisted of placating dissatisfied clients, defending the firm's lackluster investment returns, and enduring the relentless criticism of her work-center supervisor, Willa.

Still, the salary paid her bills, and the commute was a price Summer had willingly accepted

in exchange for living rent-free in Landon's renovated 1970s ranch-style house.

The property was located in a desirable neighborhood, far nicer than anything she could comfortably afford on her own.

That convenience had been one of the deciding factors in leasing her luxury SUV.

Before moving in with Landon, Summer had owned an aging but fully paid-off Jaguar, purchased from a former college roommate whose parents had been remarkably generous in subsidizing her lifestyle.

Summer had been proud of that car.

It had been hers.

The Jaguar was long gone now, replaced by a newer, more impressive vehicle with a monthly payment to match.

She had nicer clothes, better jewelry, more expensive hair appointments, and access to an enviable address.

Yet somewhere along the way, she had traded nearly everything she owned outright for things she was perpetually paying to maintain.

It was an uncomfortable realization.

For all the outward appearances of prosperity, Summer owned remarkably little.

Her phone rang as she merged onto the highway.

Heather.

Summer sighed before answering.

Heather was her younger former stepsister, a remnant of Mimsy's fourth and, mercifully, most recent marriage.

She was the daughter of Rusty, Summer's former stepfather, and his previous wife, Cecilia, a self-proclaimed psychic who now lived in a retirement community near the lake.

Mimsy liked to describe Cecilia's residence as a commune for people trapped in a permanent midlife crisis.

Summer had never found the description particularly clever, though she had heard it often enough to recite it from memory.

She didn't really consider Heather a friend, nor did she feel much familial affection for her.

Their relationship was founded primarily on the shared experience of having endured Mimsy.

It was a peculiar sort of bond, sustained less by mutual interests than by their ability to commiserate over the same unpleasant woman.

Heather called almost every morning to complain about her.

Today was no exception.

“You are not going to believe what she did yesterday,” Heather announced.

Summer adjusted the volume on her car's speakers.

“What happened?”

“She called me and offered to take me shopping for winter clothes. Her idea, mind you. She picked out half the stuff herself, and then, when we got to the register, she disappeared!”

Summer frowned.

“Disappeared?”

“Just walked off! Said she needed to use the restroom. I stood there looking like an idiot with all these clothes on the counter. Finally, I paid for everything myself. Then she came back acting like nothing happened.”

Summer almost laughed.

It was such a thoroughly Mimsy-like maneuver that she could picture the entire scene.

“Did you say anything?”

“Of course I did! She told me I should be grateful she took the time to help me shop.”

“That sounds about right.”

Heather launched into a lengthy account of her mother's former rival's many shortcomings.

Summer listened with half an ear.

Mimsy had always treated Heather particularly badly, largely because the younger woman bore an unfortunate resemblance to Cecilia.

That resemblance had been a constant source of irritation during Mimsy's marriage to Rusty, particularly when the relationship began to deteriorate.

Rusty had eventually become involved with his physical therapist after injuring his back while moving furniture around the house.

The injury itself had occurred during one of Mimsy's endless campaigns to find the perfect location for her grandfather clock.

Rusty had moved the enormous thing so many times that Summer sometimes wondered whether the clock had been responsible for ending the marriage.

The physical therapist had merely finished the job.

When the divorce came, Rusty surrendered nearly everything Mimsy demanded, apparently considering the financial loss a reasonable price for his freedom.

He had since returned to a contented bachelorhood, dividing his leisure hours between

History Channel marathons and reheated canned chili.

Mimsy, on the other hand, had never entirely accepted his departure.

She maintained a peculiar interest in Heather, inviting her to places where Rusty might appear and periodically attempting to establish a relationship with the younger woman that might somehow restore her standing in his eyes.

The strategy had produced little beyond resentment.

Heather continued talking as Summer navigated traffic.

“And then she started going on about Morgana again, saying she's only interested in my money. Honestly, Mimsy just can't stand seeing anyone happy. She was saying the same thing about Landon cheating on you.”

Summer's attention sharpened.

“Wait. Mimsy said what?”

Heather hesitated.

“Oh, don't worry about that. She says awful things about everybody. She does the same thing to me and Morgana.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“Just that Landon was probably cheating. You know how she is. She can't keep anyone around, so she tries to make everyone else's relationships sound miserable.”

Summer tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Mimsy had apparently taken the story about the airport and transformed her suspicions into established fact.

Summer could only imagine how many people had already heard it.

“Right,” she murmured.

Heather continued defending Morgana, insisting that Mimsy was simply jealous of their happiness.

Summer wasn't convinced.

From what she had observed, Heather's relationship with Morgana was an unfortunate arrangement between a woman desperate to be loved and another who seemed perfectly content to benefit from that desperation.

Heather was generous to a fault, and Morgana had an impressive talent for turning that generosity into a permanent obligation.

Summer had never considered it a particularly healthy partnership.

Then again, she was hardly in a position to criticize anyone else's romantic decisions.

“I didn't know you and Morgana were back together,” she said, hoping to steer the conversation away from Landon.

Heather's tone changed immediately.

“What do you mean, back together?”

Summer blinked.

“I thought you two had separated.”

“We never broke up!”

“Oh. I must have misunderstood.”

“Just because we didn't move in together after knowing each other for five minutes, like you and Landon, doesn't mean we're not a couple.”

Summer said nothing.

Heather continued, her irritation gathering momentum.

“You two went all in way too fast, and look at all the problems you've had because of it.”

The remark landed harder than Heather seemed to expect.

For a moment, neither woman spoke.

Then Heather's voice softened.

“Summer, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—look, I just—”

“It's fine.”

“No, really, I—”

“I know. Mimsy gets under everyone's skin. She puts people in a bad mood, and then they say things they don't mean.”

Summer tried to keep her voice pleasant.

“I need to stop for coffee before work. Call me later, okay?”

She ended the call before Heather could respond.

For several miles, she drove in silence.

She wanted to be angry with Heather, but the effort seemed pointless.

Heather had been unnecessarily cruel, certainly.

Unfortunately, that didn't make her entirely wrong.

By the time Summer reached the office, she had more pressing concerns than her former stepsister's tactlessness.

She was about to spend the next ten hours in what she privately regarded as a bureaucratic asylum populated by emotionally hostile Baby Boomers, stalled careers, and people who had somehow mistaken seniority for competence.

She parked her BMW beside Willa's battered Oldsmobile and immediately regretted arriving so early.

There was something about seeing the two vehicles together that seemed to offend Willa personally.

Summer had never commented on the woman's car. She had never asked about it, compared it to her own, or even expressed an opinion on the subject.

Nevertheless, Willa behaved as though Summer's mere possession of a newer vehicle constituted a deliberate insult.

That was the trouble with Willa.

She seemed to interpret every aspect of Summer's existence as a personal affront.

Whether it was her clothes, her education, her age, or the attention she occasionally received from male colleagues, Summer had the impression that Willa was perpetually measuring herself against her and finding the comparison intolerable.

Willa's own appearance was a testament to her determination to remain fashionable at any cost.

Her heavily filled face, permanently tattooed makeup, and aggressively styled hair suggested a woman who had committed herself to several trends long after the rest of the world had abandoned them.

Her behavior toward men was equally unfortunate.

She flirted with nearly every male employee who crossed her path, often with such relentless enthusiasm that the recipients visibly searched for excuses to escape.

Summer generally tried to avoid witnessing these encounters.

Unfortunately, Willa seemed equally determined to make Summer witness her authority.

She took a deep breath, entered through the side door, and keyed in the security code.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, she could reach her office without attracting attention.

She had barely set her handbag on the desk when Willa appeared in the doorway.

The woman was still carrying her own bags, suggesting she had only just arrived.

“Did you message your clients about the interim statement reports?”

Summer looked up.

“Good morning, Willa.”

“Did you?”

Summer resisted the urge to sigh.

“I was just pulling up the template I created for those communications.”

Willa's expression soured.

“Those aren't supposed to be templates. You should be calling each client personally and following up with an individualized email, copying me on everything.”

Summer stared at her.

The procedure had been introduced during the previous week's staff meeting, one of

Willa's notoriously long-winded affairs.

Willa had a habit of scheduling meetings whenever she wanted an audience, then extending them well beyond their allotted time.

At the last one, she had spoken for more than an hour past the scheduled conclusion, continuing through the employees' mandated lunch period.

Summer suspected the new documentation protocol had been invented on the spot after Willa caught her answering an email during the meeting.

Several junior account managers had been doing the same thing, but Summer had been the one unfortunate enough to attract her attention.

Willa's meetings rarely accomplished much.

A few employees nodded dutifully at her observations, behaving like congregants listening to a sermon from the Church of Willa. Most kept their laptops open and attempted to complete actual work while she talked.

Summer had tried complimenting Willa, agreeing with her, and anticipating her requests.

Nothing helped.

The woman appeared to take particular pleasure in finding fault with her.

“I can make the calls,” Summer replied carefully. “I thought the template would help ensure the information was consistent.”

Willa folded her arms.

“I want everything documented for your next performance review. You need to show some improvement, especially considering how poorly your last review went.”

There it was.

The warning.

Summer had heard some variation of it nearly every week.

Technically, Willa didn't control her employment. That responsibility belonged to the sector manager, Rodney.

Unfortunately, Rodney was about as useful as an ornamental plant.

He was rarely in the office, and when he did appear, he spent much of his time chatting with the lobby security guard about sporting events.

Summer had attempted to discuss Willa's increasingly contradictory instructions with him on several occasions.

Each time, Rodney found some reason to excuse himself.

He seemed to regard the possibility of being held accountable for anything as a threat to his personal safety.

Consequently, Willa operated with almost no oversight.

Summer suspected that the only reason she hadn't been fired was that the firm had difficulty finding people willing to work there.

She certainly hadn't chosen Xylloughby because it offered a promising career path.

It had been the best opportunity available after a previous employer's scandal had nearly destroyed her professional reputation.

For a brief period, Summer had worked for a physician who operated a private practice.

The position had seemed ideal.

The pay was good, the responsibilities manageable, and the doctor was a demanding but organized employer who insisted on handling certain financial matters himself.

At the time, Summer had interpreted his insistence as the preference of a controlling, detail-oriented professional.

She hadn't recognized it as a warning sign.

Less than a year after she joined the practice, the doctor became embroiled in an insurance embezzlement scandal.

Summer had been cleared of wrongdoing, but the damage to her career proved remarkably difficult to undo.

Her name was associated with the investigation in publicly searchable records, and prospective employers seemed far less interested in the fact that she had done nothing wrong than in the possibility that she might somehow bring embarrassment to their organizations.

Leaving the position off her résumé created an unexplained employment gap.

Including it invited uncomfortable questions.

The nondisclosure agreement she had signed further complicated matters, limiting what she could say about the practice and its internal affairs.

Even when she explained that investigators had found no evidence of misconduct on her part, interviews rarely progressed beyond polite assurances that someone would be in touch.

No one ever was.

Landon had been particularly harsh during that period.

He criticized her judgment, questioned her professional competence, and frequently reminded her that she should have known better.

It didn't seem to matter that he had expressed no concerns about the job while she was working there.

Nor did it matter that she had been relatively inexperienced when the physician hired her.

To Landon, the scandal was proof that she lacked the instincts necessary to succeed in business.

Summer had never forgotten how readily he adopted that opinion.

For a position she had held less than a year, it had become the defining event of her professional life.

Xylloughby had been willing to hire her when few others would.

That fact made leaving considerably more difficult than she liked to admit.

Willa was still standing in her doorway.

“You're already behind the other account managers on client communications,” she announced. “Every contact needs to be documented in the shared-drive log by the end of the day.”

Summer nodded.

“And if it isn't done, that will be reflected in your review. You've already been written up recently.”

Summer knew exactly which incident Willa meant.

A client had become convinced that cassette tapes were on the verge of a major commercial revival and insisted on investing in a business manufacturing recording

equipment.

Summer had advised against it.

She had explained the risks, documented her objections, and referred the matter to management.

The client remained adamant.

Management approved the transaction.

Summer then obtained a signed acknowledgment confirming that the client understood the risks and was proceeding against her recommendation.

Naturally, when the investment performed poorly, the man's wife called the firm threatening legal action.

The existence of the signed waiver, the documented advice, and management's approval should have settled the matter.

Instead, Willa had used the complaint as grounds for a disciplinary write-up.

Summer had requested permission to discontinue the client's account before the investment was made, but that request had also been denied.

The entire episode had left her with the distinct impression that the firm expected her to be responsible for decisions she wasn't authorized to make.

Willa seemed delighted by the arrangement.

“And be sure to do all of that during lunch,” she continued. “You still need to finish your presentation for the Mneophen account.”

Summer opened her mouth, then closed it.

The Mneophen presentation was already finished.

In fact, the account had been secured the previous week.

Willa either didn't know or didn't care.

Correcting her would only prolong the encounter.

“Of course,” Summer said. “I'll make sure everything is documented. Thank you for clarifying.”

Willa appeared mildly dissatisfied that she hadn't provoked an argument.

After another pointed look around Summer's office, she finally left.

Summer waited until the woman's footsteps faded before turning back to her computer.

She wanted nothing more than to stand up, collect her belongings, and walk out.

She imagined how satisfying it would be to tell Willa exactly what she thought of her management style.

Unfortunately, satisfying fantasies did not pay bills.

And Summer had accumulated an impressive number of those.

Her life with Landon had become extraordinarily expensive.

The car, the clothes, the salon appointments, the cosmetics, and the endless maintenance required to remain presentable in his social circle all came out of her own income.

Landon didn't pay for those things.

He simply expected them.

A dress from Target would earn a disapproving glance. Drugstore hair products were treated as evidence of declining standards. Wearing the same outfit too frequently was apparently an offense against the reputation of the Oettinger family.

Summer had once believed these expectations were part of belonging to a more sophisticated world.

Now she recognized them for what they were.

The price of admission.

Landon was happy to have her living in his house as long as she looked the part, managed the inconveniences he preferred to ignore, and asked for very little in return.

She was, in effect, a wealthy man's hanger-on.

The realization was humiliating.

Not because Summer considered herself incapable of supporting herself, but because she knew perfectly well that she was capable of more.

She had an MBA.

She had professional experience.

She had once owned a car outright and maintained an apartment of her own.

Yet here she was, afraid to leave a job she despised because she had spent so much money maintaining a lifestyle that didn't actually belong to her.

Worse, the prospect of losing Landon now carried a financial consequence she had never intended to create.

She couldn't afford to lose her income.

She couldn't afford to keep living as she was.

And she had no immediate plan for resolving either problem.

Summer stared at her computer screen.

Then she opened the shared-drive log and began working.

She spent the rest of the day doing exactly what Willa had demanded.

She answered emails, completed account documentation, prepared presentations, updated records, and made the required client calls during her lunch break.

The calls were particularly unpleasant.

Most clients were confused to receive an unexpected personal telephone update about accounts that were performing more or less as they had been told to expect.

Several assumed something had gone wrong.

“Is there a problem with my investments?” one elderly client asked anxiously.

“No, ma'am. Everything is proceeding as expected. I'm simply calling to provide a personalized account update.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“It's part of our new communication procedure.”

“Well, I don't need a phone call to tell me nothing's happened. I have a statement for that.”

Summer couldn't argue with the logic.

Another client was annoyed at being interrupted during work.

A third asked whether the firm was experiencing financial difficulties.

By the time she finished, Summer suspected the new protocol had done more to undermine client confidence than reassure anyone.

Willa's ideas had an unfortunate tendency to make the company appear incompetent.

What irritated Summer most was that the policy didn't seem to apply equally.

While updating the shared drive, she noticed that none of the other junior account managers had completed their logs.

Some hadn't even begun.

Their unfinished work sat plainly visible in the system, apparently attracting none of the scrutiny directed at her.

The same disparity applied to account presentations.

Several colleagues had been granted an additional week to prepare their acquisition proposals.

When Summer requested a similar extension for the Mneophen account, Willa threatened to write her up.

Summer had completed the presentation on time anyway, and the account had already been secured.

Yet Willa continued treating it as unfinished business.

It was a maddening arrangement.

Summer could follow every instruction, meet every deadline, and document every decision, only to be criticized for something else entirely.

Sometimes the criticisms contradicted earlier instructions.

Other times they concerned work she had already completed.

Increasingly, Summer suspected that her supervisors had reprimanded her so frequently that they no longer remembered which alleged failures they were supposed to be addressing.

The constant uncertainty was exhausting.

She never knew whether a completed task would be acknowledged, ignored, or used as evidence that she had neglected something else.

By late afternoon, she felt as though she had spent the entire day defending herself against accusations that hadn't yet been made.

Nevertheless, she finished everything.

Every call was logged.

Every email was filed.

Every required document was uploaded to the shared drive.

She even saved copies of the correspondence confirming the completion of the Mneophen account.

If Willa intended to accuse her of failing to perform her duties, Summer wanted a record proving otherwise.

It was a small act of self-preservation, but it gave her some satisfaction.

At the end of the day, Summer went to Willa's office.

She had learned that leaving without checking whether her supervisor needed anything else could result in another accusation of poor communication the following morning.

The office was dark.

The door was locked.

Willa had apparently gone home hours earlier.

Summer stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the closed door.

After spending the entire morning threatening her over deadlines and documentation, Willa hadn't even bothered to remain at work long enough to review the results.

Summer almost laughed.

She checked the surrounding offices, hoping to find someone else who could confirm that she was leaving for the day.

The building was nearly empty.

Only Holsten, another junior investment employee, remained at his desk, typing intently into his computer.

Summer caught his attention through the office window and gave him a little wave.

He waved back.

That would have to suffice.

She collected her belongings, shut down her computer, and headed for the parking lot.

Outside, the evening air was beginning to cool.

Her BMW sat beneath the parking-lot lights, looking polished and expensive.

Summer unlocked it and settled into the driver's seat.

For a moment, she did nothing.

She was exhausted.

Not merely tired from a long workday, but worn down by the accumulated effort of maintaining a life that seemed increasingly determined to make her miserable.

She had more than an hour's drive ahead of her.

At the end of it waited a house that wasn't hers and a man whose affection had become so unreliable that she no longer knew what sort of reception to expect.

Some evenings, she half imagined pulling into the driveway to discover her belongings piled on the curb and Landon inside entertaining another woman.

The possibility was no longer entirely absurd.

She had stopped feeling secure in her own home.

Yet she continued returning to it every night.

At work, she endured humiliation because she needed the income.

At home, she endured indifference because she needed the stability.

And between the two, she spent nearly three hours a day commuting from one unhappy arrangement to the other.

Summer rested her hands on the steering wheel.

There were so many things she needed to address.

Her finances.

Her career.

Her relationship.

Her dependence on a lifestyle she could no longer comfortably afford.

She knew these problems wouldn't resolve themselves. In fact, every day she ignored them seemed to make the eventual consequences more difficult to avoid.

But confronting them meant risking the little security she still possessed.

Leaving Landon might mean losing her home.

Leaving Xylloughby might mean losing her income.

Doing nothing meant continuing exactly as she was.

For the moment, that last possibility frightened her the least.

Summer started the engine.

She told herself she would begin making changes soon, once she had saved a little more money, found a better opportunity, or simply had enough time to think.

There was always some reasonable explanation for waiting.

She had become very good at finding them.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, Summer realized that she had spent years convincing herself that she was being practical when, in truth, she was often simply afraid.

The distinction was unpleasant enough that she quickly turned on the radio.

She didn't want to think about it anymore.

Not tonight.

She had a long drive home, and whatever awaited her there would be easier to endure if she didn't dwell on it beforehand.

For now, Summer preferred the discomfort she knew to the uncertainty of changing it.

It was a choice she had made so many times that she had nearly forgotten it was a choice at all.