Chapter 3 - Second Life
Naomi’s assigned desk stood between a printer and a window overlooking the loading dock. Her official title was associate product developer, but the team called her “the thirty-day experiment” before lunch.
Her supervisor, Celeste Moreno, was a practical woman with silver braids and twenty years of experience in upholstery. “Don’t take it personally,” Celeste said. “They call everyone something.”
“What do they call you?”
“The woman who knows where the bodies are buried.”
Naomi decided she liked her.
The design team included Theo Grant, a cheerful materials specialist who could identify wood by smell, and Priya Shah, a marketing analyst who spoke quickly when nervous. They had been told to give Naomi support without allowing her to disrupt existing schedules.
“So we are supposed to create three products in thirty days,” Priya said, looking at the project brief. “With a budget that would barely cover lunch for the executive floor.”
“Then we make inexpensive mistakes,” Naomi said.
Theo grinned. “That’s the first sensible thing anyone has said today.”
Naomi began by walking through the warehouse. She found boxes of rejected handles, upholstery samples discontinued because the color was one shade wrong, and panels with small knots that the premium line refused to use. Each item represented money already spent and value nobody had bothered to imagine.
At the back of the warehouse, she met Luis Ortega, the foreman. He had worked for Ashford for seventeen years and watched three owners change the company’s direction.
“You want to use the rejects?” he asked.
“I want to know why they were rejected.”
“Mostly because someone in an office decided a customer would not like them.”
“Did a customer say that?”
“Customers rarely get asked.”
Naomi wrote everything down. The more she listened, the clearer the collection became. She wanted pieces that showed their history without looking unfinished: a narrow table with replaceable legs, a lamp with standardized wiring, and a lounge chair whose upholstery could be removed and repaired at home.
Weston appeared at the workshop on the fourth day. He did not announce himself. He stood near the tool wall in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, watching Naomi examine a damaged maple panel.
“You’re blocking the only good light,” she said without looking up.
“Good morning to you too.”
She turned. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I own the building.”
“That doesn’t mean you should interrupt the people working in it.”
“I came to see progress.”
“Progress is not a performance.”
His eyes warmed. “I’m beginning to understand why the panel laughed.”
Naomi returned to the panel. “You don’t have to defend me every time someone is rude.”
“I wasn’t defending you. I was correcting them.”
“That distinction matters to you?”
“It should matter to both of us.”
She set the panel down. “Then let me be clear. If you protect me because you like my ideas, people will say I earned this through you. If you criticize me publicly, they’ll say you’re punishing me for refusing you. Either way, your attention changes the room.”
Weston absorbed that without anger. “What do you want me to do?”
“Judge the work. Privately. Let my supervisor judge me in front of everyone else.”
“Celeste already does that.”
“Good.”
Celeste called from across the room. “She’s right.”
Weston nodded. “Then I’ll stay out of the way.”
He did not leave immediately. Instead, he picked up a warped strip of oak and studied it. “My grandfather would have thrown this out.”
“Your grandfather was wrong about a lot of things.”
“You never met him.”
“I can still be observant.”
Weston smiled. “That is becoming obvious.”
For the next two weeks, Naomi saw him only at a distance. He attended meetings, approved budgets, and moved through the building with an intensity that made people step aside. He never visited her workshop again, but once she found a stack of old Ashford catalogs on her desk with a note from him: Look at what changed before you decide what must never change.
The catalogs showed the company in different eras. The early pieces were simple, sturdy, and made by local craftspeople. Later pages became glossy, extravagant, and increasingly expensive. Naomi noticed a name in the oldest catalog: Daniel Calvert, production accounting.
She stared at it until Priya asked if she was all right.
“Do you know anyone named Daniel Calvert?”
Priya searched the company database. “There are archived files, but they’re restricted.”
“Why?”
“Old employee records. Maybe because of privacy.”
Naomi shut the catalog. “Maybe.”
That evening, the first prototype stood beneath the workshop lights. The table had a small brass plate under its surface explaining that every leg could be replaced. Theo tested the joints. Celeste ran her hand over the finish. Luis nodded once, which Naomi understood was high praise.
“Tomorrow we show them,” Naomi said.
“Them meaning the executives?” Priya asked.
“Them meaning anyone who thinks value only comes from a high price.”
The next morning, a photograph of the table appeared on the company’s internal message board. No one on Naomi’s team had posted it. Underneath, someone had written, Cute charity project.
Naomi felt anger rise, but Celeste placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t answer with anger.”
“What should I answer with?”
“A product that makes them afraid.”
May you like
Naomi looked at the table, then at the old catalog hidden beneath her notebook. She did not yet know why her father’s name was in Ashford’s history, or who had posted the photograph. But she knew the project had become more than a trial.
It was a door. Someone on the other side had started pushing it shut.
