She got the boys to St. Francis 10 minutes early and made it to Susan’s mother’s house by 8:05, having spent a good quarter of an hour on the phone with the divorce attorney George knew from the country club. A lone bird was singing in the magnolia in front of Susan’s mother’s house. She smiled at it, got out, stood on the snow-crusted grass, and listened, almost forgetting to look around. A white SUV with GMC in large letters on the front was parked one house down with a man sitting in it. Suspicious but unafraid, she walked over to it and tapped on the window. The man inside rolled down the window and looked at her politely, asking, “May I help you, ma’am?”
It wasn’t the man in the flannel shirt.
“Sorry,” she said, “I thought you were someone I knew. Have a good morning.”
“That’s okay. You, too.”
She went back by the magnolia and up to the door, where she rang the bell, and Susan’s mother let her in.
“It’s good of you to check on her, Augusta,” the woman said. Her tone was warm and brisk, but her eyes were hard and distant.
She’d like to hire a shooter herself. I wonder if she could even afford it. She’d have to take out a loan, or maybe a second mortgage on her house.
“What are friends for, if not this?” she responded.
The older woman merely nodded as she shut the door. Susan was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, hair sticking out between the fingers. Augusta walked over and sat beside her.
“I’ll be okay,” Susan said.
“You will be, but it’s all right to feel bad about this.”
“I knew he’d done it. I didn’t have proof yet, but I knew it. I just didn’t know why.”
“It’s a lot to deal with.”
“Yeah,” she said, her head still gripped tightly in her hands. “Have you ever been betrayed before, Augusta?”
“Yes, but not like this.”
“It’s epic, isn’t it? It’s the worst damn case of betrayal I’ve ever heard of, and it’s me who was betrayed.”
“Divorce him and take everything you can from him.”
“You know he could try to have me killed to prevent that, even if he can’t get my life insurance.”
“He could, but I’m here.”
“To protect me? You can’t be here every second for the rest of my life.”
“No, but I’m here now.”
She reached over and laid her hand on her friend’s back, patting it gently. After a moment, Susan reached back with her right hand and gripped Augusta’s, clinging as she quietly wept.
Chapter 5
Anxiety about the Future
It was another Monday morning, and Luke Sanders of Sanders Bros. Architects was stressed out. It wasn’t his turn to go to the job site and check over progress with the crew, but George had asked him to switch days. A steel workers’ strike up north had construction behind schedule, and him on edge. The firm’s finances were tight. Cigarettes, coffee, and anxiety medicine were barely cutting it to keep him on an even keel. His doctor had refused to give him anything stronger than his current prescription. Sometimes he took it twice a day rather than once. He wanted to change doctors, but insurance was making that hard to do.
He slammed the door of his Mercedes shut and backed out of his driveway. “‘Can’t just let the foreman do it, can we?’” he repeated in aggravation. “‘Lead by example.’ Yeah, right. What the hell is our junior vice-president for, if not this situation right here? Why is my ass out here in the cold? I’ve paid my dues for 20 years, building this damn company with you, brother.” The junior vice-president—Luke was the vice-president—was Tom, a Notre Dame graduate from their school of architecture with only a couple years’ experience in management and skyscraper design.
But George, his older brother—the man without whom none of it would have happened—wouldn’t hear of it. The two founders, George and Luke, would share the responsibility and stay hands-on. George had all the damn talent in the family, every stitch of it, Luke knew. No one else in the Sanders family of LaGrange County had ever exhibited the slightest ambition or talent, except an occasional dogged persistence, usually expressed by getting into repeated trouble or getting remarried again and again. Dropping out of high school and getting dead end jobs or ending up living on government handouts had been a way of life for generations, and a good percentage had ended up in prison.
What long dormant genes for genius and ambition had been activated in the making of George in the backseat of a Chevy during the magical spring of ‘75, or with what grace he’d been endowed by God, no one could guess, but he’d broken the family curse and brought his little brother up with him. Their mother, God rest her soul, had always said that while George’s father had been the worst thing that ever happened to her, the night they’d made George had been the best night of her life, and George had been her greatest blessing—a source of hope, she’d always said, right before adding, “Luke, why can’t you be more like your big brother?”
“‘Oughta be grateful,’ everybody says,” Luke muttered, “but I’ve done my work, and then some. I’ve worked 12-hour days for years. I’ve paid my dues. And I don’t need everyone reminding me that it was George, not me, who made me finish high school, get my associates degree, brought me to Memphis, and put me to work with him.”
Traffic was heavy. Luke drove slowly through East Memphis and Midtown into the south side of downtown, where their building was being erected by the GTT construction company, Sanders Bros.’ usual partner. When he finally stepped out to meet Bobby, the foreman, a crane was lifting a girder 200 up feet into the steel frame of the tower.
“Hey Luke, where’s George?” Bobby asked as Luke walked over, his breath frosting in the chill air. “I thought it was his turn.”
“We switched days.”
“He’s not sick, is he?” Bobby asked, sharply.
“He didn’t say so,” Luke said, considering it. “No, he seemed fine. I think he just had something else to do.”
“That’s a relief. I just went to a funeral last week. A guy I used to work with, about your age, actually, had a heart condition like George’s, caught the virus the news keeps talking about, and died from it.”
“Yikes. It’s a relief to both of us. I wouldn’t want to do this on my own.” He shuddered at the thought.
Bobby grinned and led the way. The site survey was much the same as last time, and he was done in an hour. Painfully aware of how careful and efficient George would have been, he found himself double- and triple-checking everything on his list. Back in the car, he started a video call with George. He was nervously glancing at his notes when George picked up.
“Site survey done?” George asked.
“All done.” Luke nodded, looking over his notes.
“How’s it look?” A fit of coughing followed the question, and Luke whipped around to look at the screen of his phone mounted on the dash. George was in the midst of an awful sounding fit. The coughs were deep and hoarse. Luke felt the blood draining from his head, feeling suddenly light at the temples.
“George?” he asked, not finishing his report. He’d caught the latest bug, and he had a heart condition and a weakened immune system. What’ll I do? I can’t run this thing. We’ll go under once this job is done. No one’ll take us on, and we’ve sunk a lot into this project. He couldn’t actually bring himself to think the words “George is going to die,” but the conclusion that George had the virus that had been on the news was inescapable.
“Just…sec,” George said, red-eyed, flushed, and hacking on his little screen.
“Are you sick?” Luke asked.
“No. Maybe a little. I woke up with a light fever.” Fever was a symptom of the virus.
“You need to get to the hospital now.”
“No,” George said, starting to laugh, and then having another coughing fit.
“You need to get to a hospital.” He watched as his brother got it under control. There was sweat on George�
�s brow.
“I’m okay, I choked on my water. It’s just a penny fever. I’ll be fine.”
“A penny fever? Like hell. You’re as sick as I’ve ever seen you.”
“I’m fine. I just had some water go down the wrong way.” He held his glass up to the camera as evidence.
“Seriously, get checked out.”
“Luke, I’m fine. I’ve got a runny nose and fever of 100 degrees. It’s no big deal.”
Luke felt the blood draining from his head. “Those are both symptoms of the superbug.”
“Well, a higher fever would be, I guess, but they’re also symptoms of the common cold, right? I’m fine. Penny fever. I’ll be over it in a day or two. Gimme the site report.”
“Who cares about the site report?”
“People who want to stay in business, like us. Gimme the report please?”
Luke blew out a resigned sigh and told him, “It looks good. Bobby’s on top of it. The framing out is almost done. Still on the revised schedule, though that’ll change, I’m sure. I’ll email it in five minutes.”
“Great.”
“I’m calling Augusta and telling her to get you to the hospital, or your general practitioner, at least.”
George frowned at him and terminated the call.
“Jerk,” Luke muttered, punching in Augusta’s name, and hitting the call button.
There was no answer, though. He’s telling her not to answer, and she’s doing what he says like everyone else does. Damnit, why does everyone listen to him? He’s not that smart, and he’s not a doctor. He could be dying right in front of her, and she’d let him have his way.
He sat there on the job site staring blankly out the window as the crane lifted another girder 200 feet into the air. If George died, all their business would dry up. It was George who made the deals. It was George’s designs everyone wanted. The current project would be their last. The company would go bust or get bought out. The profit margin on the current project was too slim. I won’t make it in another company. What about life insurance? Part of it will go to the company, right?
The memory of George’s sickly countenance, hoarse voice, and coughing came back to him. He punched keys on his tablet, logging into the company site, and accessed the files. The CEO had a life insurance policy benefiting the company, of course, but it wasn’t as large as it should be. There’d be no way to make it on the profits from the current project and the insurance payout for more than a few months. The terrifying spiral of potential debt made his head swim. He slumped in his seat, closing his eyes. We’ll have to hire a new CEO and a team of architects to replace George. Costs will skyrocket. We’ll go under before we get another project.
The phone rang. He opened his eyes, aware of a sudden headache. Augusta was calling. He slid the icon over, answering the call.
“You rang, Luke?” she asked happily. She was in her car. Of course she was. It was a school day, and she was on her way back from having coffee with friends after dropping his nephews off at school earlier in the morning.
“Yes,” he said heavily, then cleared his throat and decided to go with a more authoritative tone. “Augusta, I want you to take George to the doctor as soon as you get home.”
She laughed. “You’re a good brother. He’s fine. It’s just a penny fever.”
“I’m serious. I was talking to him a few minutes ago. He was coughing and hacking up phlegm. His brow was covered in sweat. Take him to the doctor, Augusta. Too many people depend on him for him to take his health lightly.”
She frowned. “He wasn’t coughing before. I’ll call him now, and I’ll be home in 10 minutes.”
“Thanks.” He ended the call.
He could still die in the hospital. The life insurance information was awaiting his further perusal on his tablet. He scrolled down slowly, reading.
The benefit for death by natural causes wasn’t that high. The accidental death benefit was twice that. Well, that’s no help. George, get your ass to the hospital and don’t do this to us.
He thought of Amy, his own wife, and their son, Gage. He thought of his mortgage, his car note, his son’s tuition costs, and their extravagant lifestyle. He thought of how small his 401k was, all things considered. Should have been putting more into it all this time.
His eyes settled on the phrase, “Benefits in case of assassination by a party not associated with Sanders Bros. Architects.” The payout was four times higher than the standard payout for death by natural causes. That might tide the company over and allow them to hire new talent that would attract clients.
He sighed. What are the chances of that, though?
Fear tied his guts in knots. Don’t die, George. We need you too much.
The phone rang. Augusta was on the other end again. He swiped quickly, missed, and swiped twice more before getting it right.
“Luke,” she started in airily, “you worry too much. George is ok. He was choking because his drink went down the wrong way. He’ll be fine. If anything changes, I’ll get him to a doctor fast. Don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
“You can’t be serious. What if it’s the virus? What about his heart condition?”
“What virus?”
“That one that’s all over the news, the deadly one that’s killing people left and right in the Third World and killing immunocompromised people here.”
“You’re a good brother. Trust me. He’s fine. If anything changes, I’ll get him treated. Are you taking your anxiety meds too much?” she teased. “You know side effects include paranoia and increased anxiety in a small percentage of patients, right?”
“Been talking to Amy? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m taking the right dosage and consult with my doctor regularly. Now, what if—”
“Penny fever, Luke,” she insisted lightly. “Oops. I have another call coming in. Bye, now.” She ended the call.
He sat in his Mercedes, staring at the home screen on his phone.
Chapter 6
Love is Grand
Emma was waiting at the door when Roger pulled up. Kilkenny, as a horse, was sitting in the back seat. “Do you think she’s lost weight, or gained?” the pooka inquired.
“I don’t know,” Roger said with a shrug. “I’m not a good judge of such things. She’s delightful company, that I do know.”
“Maybe it’s the clothes. Black is slimming.”
Roger got out of the car. “Amble along now, buddy,” he whispered. “Meet me later, okay? This is a date I’m on. Give a fella some privacy with his girl, eh?”
“If you insist, but who’ll keep you from putting your foot in your mouth?”
“Better my foot than your hoof. Move along, now.”
Emma had stepped out and was locking her door. Roger strolled up the walk and stopped a pace or two away, smiling as she turned from the door. The black was slimming, he decided, but her answering smile was what charmed him the most. She was happy to see him, not his money or his fame, but him, Roger.
I’ll give her my real name tonight. We’ve been dating for a few weeks now. I can’t have the woman I kiss good night on her porch calling me Methodius anymore.
“I’m glad you really live here and not St. Louis,” she said, taking his arm.
“A guy needs his privacy. Between that and changing my hair and glasses like Superman to Clark Kent, I do pretty well on that score.”
She laughed. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry I have to fib to people, though.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“You said it’s an exhibit? The Brooks?”
“No, it’s at the Dixon.”
“I haven’t been there in ages. What’s the restaurant like?”
He paused while opening the passenger door for her. “They don’t have a restaurant there.”
“No? I’m hungry.”
“They’re open for few hours yet. Let’s do dinner early, then.” He opened the door
wide, and she got in.
“Where?”
“Steak.”
“Steak? You spoil me.”
“Want something else?”
“Oh, no. I want steak.” She grinned from her seat, and he leaned in and kissed her, pleased at the way her lips parted in anticipation and how they tasted. He shut the door a moment later and jogged around to the other side. He scanned her apartment lot for Kilkenny and saw the pooka on a third-floor balcony, still a horse. Kilkenny gave him a broad wink. He waved back.
“Making friends with the neighbors?” Emma asked as he settled into his seat.
“Just waving politely.”
“I think that’s Mrs. Jorgenson up there. She’s a nice lady. I sometimes carry her laundry basket up the stair for her.”
“Only sometimes?” he asked as he steered them away from the building.
“Well, it’s funny to watch an eighty-year-old woman struggle up the stairs with a laundry basket in the rain, of course.”
“What? That’s horrible.” He didn’t believe her but tried to feign shock convincingly.
“I jest. I jest, and you know it.” She punched him lightly on the arm.
“I do,” he admitted. I think I could love her.
Later, after parking the car in front of her building, comfortably full since they’d stopped for pie and coffee after going through the exhibit, quiet after much conversation, holding hands as they walked, he thought it again.
“Thank you for another very nice date, Mr. Charn,” she said.
Say it fast before you chicken out. “Call me Roger, please.” He’d meant to say it casually, to slip it in as unobtrusively as possible, but it came out in a rush instead.
“Say what?”
He took a deep breath. “My name is Roger, my first name. Call me Roger, Emma.”
“Roger,” she said, evaluating it. She turned, still holding his hand, and locked eyes with him. He didn’t dare look away. She was smiling, and he couldn’t quite read the smile. Happy? Yes, but why? Please don’t be self-satisfied. We aren’t competing. I’m giving myself to you here, bit by bit. “What’s your last name, Roger?” she asked finally.
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