@Sarez

opened this one (thanks again for tagging me to team up with you, and thanks for hosting another #wewrite, @mariannewest, @byn, @snooks, {{ oops! @snook - thanks, @checky), and everyone hosting #freewritehouse!

Smooth as Silk - A freewrite fiction short story by @sarez

@Sarez begins:
This is the contest: We-Write! My Start and Your End!, and this is the story prompt by @freedomtowrite:

Lydia touched the soft petals

that belonged to roses perched by her grandma's front door.
"Smooth as silk." Her grandma always said. "But be careful of the thorns, they prick."
It was true she realized, about more things than just roses.
Take this afternoon for instance. She had gone into work just like any other day. Her coffee still warm in her hand as she sat down at her desk.
But as she looked up to her computer, there stuck to the screen was a post-it note that read…

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"Lydia switch on your phone please. Shilling called - Morten."

Morten Bailey was the oldest person in the office. At 54 he was still the best artist who could give life to your concepts. Unfortunately, with the entry of the new wizkids with huge computers and gigantic split screens Morten was relegated to odd jobs. And that too because he was a shareholder in the firm and a question mark as far as the other partners like Barker and Shillings were concerned. Nobody wanted to upset him much but nobody wanted him near also, except a few colleagues like herself. Lydia smiled despite herself please, nobody writes it any more. She switched on her phone thinking about what the problem could be. With Shillings it had to be a problem.
"Better Foods is very upset. Your pitch for the new pasta product line was thrown into the bin. You know?" Shillings had started the barrage immediately on picking up the phone.
"The pitch was not my idea; you asked me to be there for the presentation only," Lydia protested.
"So you messed it up Lydia. Here we do your work for you and you throw it away. This is your Team Work."
Lydia could not control her voice which rose to high pitch. "Mr. Shillings, what do you mean? I was brought in only at the last minute."
"And all for nothing. Those spaghetti and pasta ads would have brought in a year of work. Come to my office around 4 and give the two account files you have over to Dart. Ok?"
Lydia, a mixture of rage, nervousness and shock, took deep breaths as she fidgeted with the pendant her grandma had given her. The idea suddenly clicked into place.
Lydia stood up to peer whether Morten was there. He was. She went over to Morten's cubicle of an office and closed the door. "Morten I need your help. Shilling is putting me through the wringer for no fault of mine. Those bloody rocket scientists he has brought in don't seem to be doing good and he is dumping it all on me. Uh... you know my work is good."
Morten gave a small smile and a nod. "Sit down Lydia. How can I help?"
"I am going to Better Foods direct. I have and idea but I need some concept art work to build on."
"You willing to leave?"
Lydia sighed. "Shillings will keep on doing this. Better take a chance now."
Morten was silent for a few moments. " OK Lydia call Ms Strofer right now, tell her you are breaking away and have a new proposal for the pasta line. If you can get an appointment I am with you."
Lydia said a silent prayer and organized her thoughts and called; the response was better than she had expected- They were happy to look at her pitch- "Smooth as Silk."
It had sounded just right to Lydia.

Lydia, still touching the soft rose petals by her grandma's front door,

caught a whiff of spaghetti with spicy marinara sauce, slow cooking over the vintage stove with gas burners that had to be lit with a match. Fresh basil from Grandma’s garden mingled with her heirloom tomatoes. A more fitting welcome was impossible to imagine. Go Grandma!

Knocking first but not waiting for a response, Lydia pushed the screen door open and stepped in. “Hello, Grandma,” she called out. “Smells fab in here, as usual!”

A strange grunting noise emanated from the kitchen. Lydia broke into a run.

Schillings. Sitting in Grandma’s kitchen, his nasty feet parked on Grandma’s table, and Grandma--oh, Grandma! Tied to the chair, a towel stuffed into her mouth. The rooster towel, her favorite. Oh, the indignity of it.

“Schillings,” Lydia hissed.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

Gawd, that was so grade school. How old was this guy? She thought Morten at 54 was the oldest guy in the office, but looking closer now, she could see the face-freezing effects of Botox and the start of gray roots betraying Schillings as nowhere near thirty anymore.

"Is this your idea of teamwork, Schillings? What is this?"

"Justice," he sneered. "You're gonna--"

Lydia had lunged for her grandma before he hissed the "s" in "justice," but two hands clamped down over her wrists. With a shove, he sent her staggering back, crashing into the vintage Frigidaire.

Grandma grunted some more and caught Lydia’s gaze. With a slight tip of her head, a move so subtle anyone but family wouldn't even notice, she indicated the laptop on her kitchen counter.

The screen saver had come up, but Lydia knew something Schillings didn’t.

Every day at dinner time, Grandma skyped her son in Manhattan and tormented him with the food he was missing by not living closer to home. Joseph, in turn, would Skype from his tablet all these fabulous images of whatever New York City cuisine served as a pale substitute for his mama’s home cooking.

Lydia cocked an eyebrow and Grandma blinked.

Uncle Joseph had seen it all from the start.

Quick as a wink, Grandma had given her the upper hand over this creep in her kitchen. So much knowledge could be exchanged in one nanosecond between two women who’d known each other so long and who carried the same Sicilian DNA in their veins.

Schillings came between Lydia and her grandma. Looming over his petite little blue-eyed blonde but Sicilian coworker, he pinned her shoulders to the Frigidaire with his rigid hands. His scowl would have been fierce if not for all that Botox which Lydia realized, now, explained the man's cold, expressionless face.

She couldn't help but smirk.

“Cocky little bitch.” Schilling's voice carried the outrage his face couldn't express. He raised a hand and smacked her across the face.

She smiled. Smiled! After that face slap! And turned the other cheek. Grandma's eyes twinkled at her.

Schillings stared at Lydia as if she'd sprouted a second head.

Lydia stole a glance at the countertop computer, and yes--yes!--it appeared they were in exactly the right place for Skype to capture it all.

“POLICE!”

Two men in uniform stormed into Grandma's kitchen.

Good ol' Uncle Joseph, that not-so-wayward son in Manhattan!

Like Grandma and her roses, her uncle was thorn-sharp and smooth as silk.

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