[I’m realizing that at the current pace, Still Time will take until Thanksgiving to complete. Thus, I am accelerating the pace to enhance your reading pleasure. SB SM]
an early rendition of the cover:
Captain of Direct Sales
Lisa Grace parks her station wagon in one of the freshly painted “Reserved for Guests” spots outside the main entrance of The Pioneer Valley Company. She is entirely unimpressed by the architecture. Although the firm employs over 600 people, making it the largest employer in the valley, to Lisa Grace’s trained eye, the enterprise possesses a distinctly big-fish-in-a-small-pond aesthetic. The aura of small-town pretension continues inside. She announces her arrival to a receptionist behind a glass partition, is directed down a hallway to a second receptionist, who finally rings Pierce’s office. The heavy oak door to his inner office swings open smoothly, apparently moved by no human hand.
Does the man seriously have an automatic door opener?
The secretary motions her in. Pierce welcomes her with tremendous, booming fanfare, immediately offering a list of beverages: coffee, tea, mineral water, Snapple… Vodka on the rocks, she thinks dryly, before politely declining.
Mercifully, Pierce gets straight to the point. Her specific role as Captain of Direct Sales will be to spearhead the grassroots fundraising effort involving what he terms “identity marketing.” In practice, this means selling individual bronze plaques on the auditorium seats, securing minor naming rights, selling personalized bricks to be engraved with sponsors’ names for the outdoor ticket patio, and organizing high-end campus merchandise like custom wool warm-up jackets.
“It seems like small-scale stuff on the surface,” Pierce explains, gesturing toward a spreadsheet, “but when you aggregate the numbers, we’re counting on this specific division for over $5 million of the total capital campaign. It’s a vital component, especially when you consider the immense public relations value of the community visibility it provides.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his massive desk. “It’s a major piece of the campaign, Lisa, and it won’t happen automatically. You can’t just cross your arms and expect people to mail in checks. It’s a pure sales job. And although you are the president’s wife—and although you are exceptionally charming, attractive, and well-connected—you’re going to have to learn the mechanics of closing a deal. That’s why I want you to work directly with our vice president of marketing. He manages and trains our entire network of over a hundred independent sales representatives across North America.”
With that, he hits a plastic button on his desktop intercom. “Betty, tell Hank we’re ready for him.” Turning back to Lisa Grace, he smiles. “You’ll like working with Hank. He’s a straight shooter.”
Hank as in tank, she thinks to herself.
A moment later, there is a discreet knock at the door. Pierce presses a hidden button beneath the edge of his desk, and the heavy door clicks and swings open on its own. He really does have a remote-controlled door opener. What a pretentious asshole!
Hank is slightly taller than average, with thick brown hair and a matching, neatly trimmed full beard. He is casually dressed in a knit polo shirt and khakis, standing in stark contrast to Pierce, who looks as though he was born wearing a starched necktie. Hank does look vaguely familiar to her. Is it truly from the town soccer fields, or just the natural cross-pollination of living in a small New England town?
The introductions are made. Pierce begins to drone on, filling the room with corporate buzzwords. “Hank is one of those rare individuals who successfully moved from cold-calling in the field straight into executive management. The old cliché is that the worst thing you can ever give a top sales producer is a desk, but Hank here is the exception to the rule—a top-notch earner who now supervises about 125 independent sales reps across North America. It’s his job to provide them with product knowledge, training, and the psychological motivation to beat out our competitors. You’re in excellent hands, Captain Manion.”
Pierce raises his hand in a mock military salute and presses his desk button to open the door.
Lisa Grace stiffens visibly at the title. Hank takes immediate note of her reaction, giving a subtle, understanding nod of his head. “Let’s retreat to my zone,” he says softly.
They walk down a long, linoleum-floored corridor, away from the executive wing, and turn into a modest but comfortably furnished office. He motions her toward a Naugahyde armchair. (Seriously? Naugahyde?) “I recognize you from the Saturday soccer league last summer,” he says pleasantly.
Lisa Grace, however, is not in the mood for small-town pleasantries. “I’m sorry,” she begins, her tone less an apology than a warning. “But I am completely confused. Am I to understand that you are supposed to turn me into a used-car salesman?”
He smiles gently. “Can I get you something to drink first?” He goes through the exact same corporate beverage options Pierce offered.
This time, she answers aloud, her voice edged with sarcasm: “Vodka on the rocks. Make it a double … Hank.”
He lets out a genuine chuckle. “‘Hank’ is strictly a Pierce-ism. I arrived at this company as a lifelong ‘Henry,’ but because he’s a total control freak, Pierce decided a national sales manager needed a more aggressively masculine name. So, I officially became ‘Hank’ in the company directory.”
“Rhymes with Tank,” Lisa Grace says, her face unmoving.
“And frank, and bank, and lank, and dank, and shank, and crank, and blank,” Henry replies smoothly. “And since we’re airing out our grievances regarding nomenclature, before we get any further into this, I’d like you to consider changing your name to ‘Chuck.'”
“Which rhymes with duck, and luck, and muck, and… uh-oh.” She wags a finger at him, a sudden smile breaking through her defenses. “You almost got me there.”
Trottier laughs, and in spite of herself, she joins him.
“So, Lisa Grace… what do you actually prefer to be called?”
“Captain Bianco-Manion,” she states with mock formality.
“I think I’ll just call you Grace. I like the sound of that much better.”
“And I’ll call you Henry,” she counters evenly.
“Let’s call it a day,” Henry says, leaning back. “I didn’t ask for you to be assigned to my department, and I know for a fact you don’t want to be here. But here we are, so we might as well make the best of it. Let’s start fresh, another time, another place, another day. And I’ll let you choose the location.”
“Deal,” she says, rising from the chair.
Let’s Go Sweat
“‘And you can choose,'” she murmurs to her friend. “So I chose the next morning at the student center coffee shop.”
Lisa Grace and Lorette are seated on one of the green iron commemorative benches at the central junction of the Cross Campus. It is now two weeks deeper into spring; the early daffodils have had their day, and the old hardwoods are finally flexing their branches with thick green buds.
“What do you find out about him?” Lorette asks, leaning in close.
“About him? Nothing at all. I did find out quite a bit about his core theories of sales, however. He loves to talk about how you can’t catch a fish without keeping a line in the water, and how the true goal of high-end sales is simply to make people love you. Do that, he says, and they’ll open their wallets automatically.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… but what about him?”
“I’m telling you, Lorette, nothing. Oh, but he definitely is the guy from the town soccer league. He has a framed picture of his kids in their uniforms right behind his desk, along with a portrait of a woman I assume is his wife.”
“That’s it? Two entire meetings with the man and that’s all the intelligence you’ve gathered?” Lorette looks both incredulous and mock-disgusted. “Girl… you are an absolute disgrace to your gender. Come on, let’s go sweat.”
At the Oasis Diner, Lisa Grace goes with the standard chicken salad plate, while Lorette orders the Double Dog and fries combo.
“We are absolutely splitting those fries,” Lisa Grace warns as the waitress takes their menus.
Lorette gets right down to business. “Checklist time. Kids?”
“Harlow just got her first period.”
“Ooh, wow. That’s a major milestone.”
“She is totally prepared, thank goodness. And Loren is right there watching her every move, so she knows all about it now, too. Now Loren wants to know why she can’t have one yet. What about Brady?”
“I checked in with the ex,” Lorette says, rolling her eyes. “He assures me he’s covered the entire birds-and-the-bees talk, but God only knows what that actually means. I’m choosing not to investigate. Brady is going to the middle school dance next Friday.”
“Is he going with a date?”
“No! Thank God that drama doesn’t start until the ninth grade.”
“Check. Next item: sex life?”
“Only in the romance paperback I’m reading,” Lisa Grace admits, “but honestly, that’s not the worst alternative. You?”
“A very distant memory, and even the memory isn’t great.”
“Geoffrey?”
“On another planet entirely. One that is far, far away from this one.”
“Hey … did you ever find out anything more about those prescription medications he’s taking?”
“No, but I did notice one odd detail. The prescriptions were written by a specialist based in Boston, not by Gerald.” Gerald Thompkins is the Manion family physician. “Thanks for reminding me, though. I need to look them up.”
“When is your next used-car training session with Hank?”
“I call him Henry. And it’s right here, for breakfast this coming Friday.”
“Are you actually going to be able to work with this guy long-term?”
“I think so. He hasn’t pushed me into anything yet. At the student union, I ended up doing almost all the talking, though it was fairly superficial. Just chitchat about the kids, what it’s like being the spouse of a college president, and the kind of alternative music I like. Comfortable stuff. Maybe things will get more serious on Friday.”
“Would it be terrible if I just… casually… happened to drop by the Oasis on Friday morning?”
“Don’t… you… dare,” Lisa Grace warns, pointing her fork.
Lisa Grace orders a bran muffin and black coffee. Henry goes with the cranberry nut muffin and a large coffee.
“So, when do I get my very first official sales lesson?” she asks, leaning across the table.
“We’ve already had it,” Henry replies smoothly. “Lesson two, as well.”
Her expression clearly says Tell me more, so he proceeds. “The morning you walked into my office at Pioneer Valley, your hackles were completely up. You were defensive and ready to pounce on anything I said. There was no way you were going to be receptive to corporate training, so I simply backed off. I considered it a successful meeting because you didn’t bite my head off.”
“Go on…” she says, fascinated.
“Then, at the Student Union, I asked a few simple questions about you and your life. And I learned a great deal about you.”
“Am I being actively manipulated?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“No, not at all. It’s the exact opposite of manipulation. True sales is entirely about being authentic. I learned some very real things about you that day.”
“Such as…?”
“You’re highly intelligent, attractive, genuinely caring, remarkably well-organized, and deeply frustrated. You feel like the entire community regards you merely as an extension of your husband’s institutional privilege.”
The diner waitress interrupts them with a fresh pot of coffee, offering a top-off, which they both accept in silence. There is a long moment of quiet before Henry breaks it.
“May I pontificate for just a minute?”
She answers with an almost imperceptible nod of her head.
“There is a strict, definitive process to professional sales—and it doesn’t matter if the product is a used car, a high-end donation, or a political election. The entire process moves through five distinct stages. Stage One is the Greeting, which takes place back in my office. Stage Two is the Probe, where you ask targeted questions to determine if the person is a viable candidate for your product. Stage Three is the Education, where you show the prospect exactly why your product solves their specific need. And I have a few specific tools to pass along to you regarding that on Monday, if you can make it into my office at, say, 10:00 a.m. Will you be there?”
He takes a slow sip of his coffee and meets her gaze directly.
She looks back at him, her eyes steady and even. “I’ll be there.”
“Fantastic!” He reaches across the table and shakes her hand warmly. “Fantastic. Grace, you and I are going to make a great team, and you are going to be a success in this campaign. Enjoy your weekend.”
The weekend is full of what passes for normal in the President’s House—the frantic, exhausting logistics of busy children, polite chatter with fellow private-school moms, a husband who requires immense time and physical space to decompress from board meetings, endless meal preparation, and falling asleep on the couch with her book. Yet, the routine is interrupted, not unpleasantly, by a persistent thought surfacing in Grace’s mind: how much she is genuinely looking forward to Monday morning.
Monday Morning
Grace arrives precisely on time. She is wearing a sharp, tailored pantsuit and slightly more makeup than she usually wears to her casual diner lunches. Her dark brown hair is pulled back, secured by a silver-and-tortoiseshell clip.
Henry is already at work, writing neatly on a large paper flip chart. “Hi,” he says, turning around. “I hope your brain is completely clear today, because I’m about to load it up. Today we are covering prospecting, time allocation, and the Law of 27 Impressions. With my corporate field reps, this is an intensive one-week course, but I’m going to give you the entire curriculum in exactly one hour.” He laughs.
“Don’t we have to finish our last session first?” Grace asks, setting her purse down. “You said there were five distinct stages to the sales cycle, and we only covered the first three.”
“Nope, we actually did all five. Stage Number Four is The Close, which is simply when you ask for a definitive commitment. I asked if you would commit to being here on Monday morning. The moment you answered ‘yes,’ I immediately moved into the fifth and final stage, which is Reinforcement. I told you that you had made a great decision and how much I looked forward to working with you.”
“I made the sale.”
She draws back slightly, pausing to process it. “Why do I get the distinct feeling that you are always one step ahead of me?”
“No, that’s not the feeling. What you are experiencing is being in lockstep with a colleague. Sometimes it takes a little getting used to. Ready to get started?”
She takes a deep breath, a genuine smile breaking across her face. “Let’s go.”
“Excellent. But first—do you need to use the restroom? Do you want any coffee, water, tea, or seltzer?”
She shakes her head.
“Good. One vital trick of the trade, Grace… once you officially go for The Close, you must shut up. Do not utter a single sound. The next person who speaks loses the deal. You don’t say, ‘Grace, will you marry me?’ and then immediately go on to list your wonderful attributes to fill the silence. You say, ‘Grace, will you marry me?’ and then you sit there and let her answer the question. Got it?”
“Yes,” she answers softly. “I do.”
“Alright. The college expects you to raise 5 million dollars over the next six months. Now, you can get one single person to hand you a check for 5 million, or you can get 5 million separate people to each give you a buck. Which is it going to be?” When she responds with a blank stare, he chuckles. “I thought so. We need a plan. Grace and Henry need a definitive plan.”
The conversation over the next hour and fifteen minutes covers myriad operational topics. Henry asks if she, as the first lady of the college, is frequently required to host formal dinner parties.
“Of course,” she replies. “Department heads, visiting professors, major donors, even student leadership groups and sports teams. The doors to the Presidential Manor are frequently flung wide open by His Excellency, El Presidente, for his adoring public. And,” Grace admits honestly, “I am remarkably good at playing the role of the supportive little woman behind the great man.”
Henry tells her that those exact social and organizational skills are precisely what will be essential in creating her fundraising outline. He asks about her children, interested in the everyday logistics involved in managing their family lives. Grace finds herself telling him all about their activities, their routines, and even their specific childhood quirks. She is in the middle of describing a two-year phase during which her oldest, Harlow, absolutely refused to eat any food that wasn’t pure white, surviving entirely on instant mashed potatoes, pierogies, and mashed cauliflower, when Henry cuts her short with a grin.
“Okay, okay, I’m entirely convinced!” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re officially hired. You’ve got the job. Now here is your first real assignment. Come back to this office at the same time next week, and hand me your written plan.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Grace asks, caught off guard.
“Figure it out,” Henry says simply.
“I don’t even know what a capital campaign plan looks like…”
“You’ll figure it out. Just keep it to a single sheet of paper. Now, get out of my office!” He smiles broadly so she knows it is a joke. “I’ve got a mountain of work to do. And so do you.”
