by R. R. Banks
He lets out a long breath and his face softens somewhat. “I know you didn't,” he says. “And believe it or not, I know this isn't your fault. But, I've spent the last thirty years building this firm up and trying to effect some real change in our community. I can't risk that.”
“I know,” I say, nodding as a lone tear races down my cheek. “I know.”
“Go,” he says. “Work from home if you want. I need the research on the Peralta case by tomorrow. Just email it over to me.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Like I said, don't thank me. I love you, kid, but my firm comes first,” he replies. “If you want to thank somebody, thank your guardian angel.”
Deacon opens the folder on his desk back up and starts shuffling through the papers inside. It's a clear signal that he's done, and the meeting is adjourned. I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, dabbing at my eyes to avoid smearing my mascara too badly. I take another moment to compose myself before turning and heading out of his office again.
The moment I step out, all heads turn away from me, and a hush falls over the office floor. My stomach is still roiling, and I feel like I might be sick. Working from home is probably a good idea.
I walk through the office, avoiding eye contact with everybody, though I can feel their gazes pressing down on me like lead weights as I pass. I stop by Tammy's desk on my way out. She looks up at me, a sympathetic smile on her face, and likely words of condolence for getting canned on her lips.
“I'll see you soon,” I say.
She looks stunned. “Y - you will?”
I nod. “I’m in trouble, but not fired,” I say.
A look of relief crosses her features and she sits back in her chair, a smile gracing her face.
“I'm so happy to hear that,” she says.
“That makes two of us.”
“See you later then,” she says.
“You betcha.”
I step out of the office, and out into the cool morning air. I pull my coat around my body tighter, as a blast of cold wind envelops me. Winter is almost here.
As I walk back to my car, I'm filled with a deep sense of relief, but also with a tremendous amount of heartache. I hate having to leave my group. I'm beyond saddened that I can't be a part of it anymore. But, for now, my need to eat and keep the lights on at home, need to take priority. I can't afford to be jobless. That's not an option at this point.
Slipping in behind the wheel of my car, I'm filled with a sense of gratitude that Colin saved my job – along with a deep sense of contempt for everything the man stands for.
I just wish he wasn't so attractive – and thoughtful, apparently – it would make it much easier to flat-out hate him.
Colin
“We were finally able to break ground on the Chadwick Street project two days ago,” Mason says. “We're excavating the foundation now, and we've made plenty of progress.”
“How much progress?” I ask.
I pace my office with Mason, my foreman on the project, on speakerphone. I stand at the window of my office, which affords me a terrific view of Boston Common. Personally, autumn is my favorite time of year – the leaves are turning, and the world is bedazzled in shades of reds and orange. It's simply gorgeous out there. I'm half-tempted to go take a walk through the Common, just to enjoy it.
Not that winter doesn't have its own appeal, but that is a cold, stark beauty – and one that is best viewed from indoors. In front of a fire. With a warm drink in your hand.
“We're almost back up to speed,” he reports. “We've made up for most of the time we lost after the – vandalism.”
The scene at the site was just that – a scene. It didn't turn into a full-blown riot, but it seemed precariously close for a while. Trying to get the people unshackled from the equipment they'd chained themselves to was problematic. There were a few skirmishes between the cops and the protesters, some blood was shed, and quite a few arrests were made. And my car was absolutely trashed.
It forced us to shut down the site for a couple of days, until all the damage could be cleaned up, and replacement equipment brought in. Luckily, I tend to pad the timelines for construction a bit, just in case something unpredictable happens, but I never like to use up those extra days. I much prefer my crew to come in on time, and under budget. It's something my clients appreciate, and what keeps us landing such lucrative deals.
I'm glad we're almost back on schedule, but I'm still pissed off about the property damage and the lost time.
“That's good news, Mason,” I say.
“I have the crews going hard,” he replies. “I'm keeping them on task.”
My crews always go hard, simply because they're sufficiently motivated to do so. But, if Mason wants to think he's the one driving that train, I won't deprive him of the notion. My crews have been with me long enough to know that if we come in ahead of schedule and under budget, I'm always happy to share some of the spoils of war. They get bonuses for completing a project early and cheaply. I think of it as profit sharing, and I know the crews are always appreciative of it.
It may not seem like much to me, but it’s enough to keep them firing on all cylinders, and motivated to push the production envelope. That holds even more true at this time of year, with Christmas bearing down on us like a Boston winter.
God, Christmas. I don't even want to think about it. For the fourth year in a row, I'm hosting my brothers – and their families – for our annual holiday get together. It's become an Anderson tradition – whoever’s territory was the least profitable the previous year is the one who gets stuck hosting the event.
It's not that I mind. I always love seeing my brothers – we don't get to spend nearly enough time together. In fact, we barely get to see each other anymore. Liam, Brayden, and Aidan all have wives and kids now, so that keeps them busy. The holidays are the only time we have to get together and just enjoy being around each other.
Truth be told, I miss my brothers. I miss hanging around with them like we did when we were younger. I know it's stupid. You have to grow up, and that entails taking on adult responsibilities. But, being with them for a week every year always takes me back to those carefree days. Everything was so much simpler back then.
Oh well. At least we have Christmas. That's something I always look forward to. Even if I'm the one who's hosting the damn thing every year.
All of us Anderson boys are competitive as hell, and this holiday deal is just an extension of that. I'm a bit handicapped in that, while I was in the Navy, they were all already setting up their territories. They were figuring out how the business ran and how to get things moving. I didn't have that advantage. In that regard, they got a running start over me.
It's a bit of a competitive advantage I'm having to overcome, but I'll get there. The last two years, I've managed to cut into the lead the others have over me. It won't be long before I'm passing them. I have the drive, and I'm accumulating the know-how on the fly. It's my personal formula for victory, and I’ll surpass them soon enough.
“Good. I'm glad to hear it, Mason,” I say. “We need to make up some more ground. This is a new client, so we want to be sure to impress. I'm counting on you.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Colin.”
“Good. Thank you, Mason. I'll touch base with you again soon.”
I disconnect the call and grab the water bottle from my desk. I'm taking a long swallow of it when my phone buzzes again. The call is coming from my receptionist, Maureen. I set the bottle back down and punch the button.
“Yes, Maureen?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Anderson,” she says, her voice as crisp and efficient as she is. “There's a young lady in the lobby here to see you. Bailey Janson?”
I stare at the phone for a long moment. That's a name I didn't expect to hear today. I look out the window at the gorgeous fall day and decide it's too nice to be cooped up.
“Have her wait a moment, Maureen,” I say. “I'll be ri
ght out.”
“Very good, Mr. Anderson.”
I disconnect the call and shake my head. No matter how many times I've tried to get her to just call me Colin, she refuses to do it. Says it blurs the line between employer and employee. Maureen is very much a by-the-book kind of woman. She takes no shortcuts and suffers no fools. And I love that about her.
Grabbing my coat from the rack near the door, I throw it on and head down the short hallway that leads to the lobby of my office. Maureen is seated behind her desk, her back ramrod straight, her hair in a severe bun at the back of her head. She's a middle-aged widow with soft, clear skin, blue eyes, and her hair has more gray than brown at this point. She refuses to color it and believes in allowing herself to age naturally and gracefully. She's a grandmother who does a spin class three times a week, hot yoga twice a week, and MMA classes twice a week.
As big as I am, I would not mess with Maureen because she might be capable of kicking my ass.
When I see Bailey though, standing over by the coffee machine Maureen dutifully stocks and runs every day, my breath catches in my throat. She's staring down at her phone and doesn't see me right away, so I have a chance to admire her for a moment.
She's wearing a red and white dress with black tights underneath, and a black cardigan that falls to the middle of her thighs. Her raven-black hair flows out from beneath her white knit cap, and her cheeks are ruddy from the chill outside. Bailey looks up at me, her dark eyes piercing me to my very core. Her full, red lips curl upward into a small smile as she slips her phone into her bag.
I look over at Maureen and find her staring at me with an inscrutable expression on her face. She's suppressing a grin, but there's a mischievous twinkle in her eye. I open my mouth to put a pin in what I know is going through her mind. Then, I remember that Bailey is standing right there, so I close my mouth again without saying a word. Maureen just quietly chuckles to herself and turns back to her computer.
I sometimes forget she's not always so uptight and straight-laced. The woman has a wicked sense of humor and an oftentimes subtle, but cutting, wit.
“Mr. Anderson,” Bailey says.
I clear my throat and turn to the raven-haired beauty. “Ms. Janson,” I greet her. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“I hope not a bad one,” she says.
I can't be certain, but I almost thought I heard a flirty, almost seductive tone in her voice. Which would make no sense, given our combative history. Feeling the woman's eyes on me, I cut a quick glance at Maureen. She's still grinning to herself and starts to quietly hum – and if I'm not mistaken, she's humming the wedding march. She turns back to her computer again as I roll my eyes and reorient myself to face Bailey.
“No, not at all,” I say.
“I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time,” Bailey says, pointing to my coat.
“Not at all,” I respond. “It's a gorgeous day out, so I thought I'd take advantage of it and go for a walk. Would you care to join me?”
“I'd like that,” she replies. “As long as I'm not intruding on your time.”
“No, please,” I say.
I hold the door open for Bailey. When she passes by and has her back to me, I point my finger menacingly at Maureen, which only makes her laugh out loud.
I let the glass door close behind me as I put my hand on the small of Bailey's back, ushering her down the long corridor that will take us through the main lobby of the office to the elevators.
“Your receptionist –”
“Yeah, I'm firing her when I get back,” I say.
The elevator doors open and Bailey steps into the car, a puzzled look on her face that makes her already large doe-eyes look even bigger.
She obviously doesn't know I'm being facetious.
“I'm not going to fire Maureen,” I say. “Truth be told, I couldn't function without her.”
She nods, but still looks hesitant and a bit uncertain. The ride down to the ground floor is quiet, and the atmosphere is tense and filled with a strange electricity – like the air after a storm has rolled in, right before it breaks.
The chime sounds and the doors slide open. I wait for Bailey to exit first, then follow her out. She turns to me, not sure where we're going.
“How about a cup of coffee to start?” I ask.
“Uhh... sure,” she replies hesitantly. “That'd be great. Thanks.”
I step away and walk into the small Starbucks that occupies a corner of the ground floor of the office building. I get a couple of drinks and head back out, handing one of the cups to Bailey.
“I hope a pumpkin spice latte is okay,” I say.
She gives me a long look. “Are you calling me basic?”
I let out a small laugh when I realize she's joking. “No, personally, I’m addicted to the stuff,” I say. “Don't tell anyone, but I'm always happy when they bring it back this time of year.”
“Wow,” she replies. “Big, strappin', Colin Anderson is a basic bitch. Who knew?”
“No one,” I answer. “And if anybody does, I’ll know who snitched on me and where to find you.”
The comment, though a joke, seems to cast a bit of a pall over her. She looks down at her cup as a shadow crosses over her face, and I'm not sure why.
“You okay?” I ask.
She puts on a smile that I can clearly tell is forced. “Fine,” she says. “Shall we walk?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
We head out of the building and out into the cool, crisp air of the afternoon. Work crews are busy putting up holiday decorations – shiny tinsel and oversized ornaments on light poles, and sparkling, off-white Christmas lights on the trees, among other things. Now that Thanksgiving is over, the city has squarely turned its attention to the Christmas season.
The sidewalk is choked with people, but Bailey and I manage to make our way over to the crosswalk. When the light turns green, we head across the street, and head into the Common. With the leaves turning, as the calendar crawls closer to winter, the Common is a riot of festive colors. The world around us is dazzling in vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold, and I can't help but admire it all.
Growing up where I did – along California's central coast – autumn was never this dazzling. I never got to experience the leaves turning or feel this growing chill in the air. And I certainly never got to experience an all-out, city-crippling blizzard before.
Still, something about autumn and winter in Boston really appeals to me. After all these years, the first snowfall of the season still charms me. It still has a powerful magical atmosphere to me.
“How long have you lived in Boston?” she asks, finally breaking the silence between us.
“Eight or nine years now, I suppose?”
“And before that?”
I take a sip of my drink and smile as the flavor explodes on my tongue. I'd heard people raving about it for years before I tried the pumpkin spice myself two Christmases ago. Now I’m hooked.
If that makes me a basic bitch, I’m okay with it.
“Before that, I was in the Navy,” I respond. “I lived all over. After I rotated out, I settled here. Went to Boston College, got my degree, and loved it so much, I decided to stay.”
She chuckles softly. “So, where did you grow up?”
“California,” I answer. “Central Coast. Small town near Big Sur. Have you been out that way?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never been outside of Boston.”
“Never?”
A look of irritation crosses her face. “Not all of us have the financial independence to go wherever we want at the drop of a hat.”
I hear the hard edge and bitterness in her words. She obviously grew up without the privileges I did. I'd say, she probably grew up working class, if not poor, judging by her attitude – not to mention her strong advocacy for the downtrodden.
We stop in front of a place the locals call the Frog Pond. In the summer months, it's a spray pool, where you can come down
on a hot day, and cool off. In the winter, it's frozen over and turned into an ice-skating rink. It's a popular place, and usually attracts hordes of locals and tourists alike. Which is why I try to avoid it.
“Have you ever been ice-skating here?” she asks.
I shake my head and take a sip of my drink. “Nope.”
“Never once?”
“Never.”
She looks at me like I'm a space alien who just descended from the mothership. I turn to her and grin.
“What?”
“You've been here almost a decade and you've never been ice-skating on the Frog Pond.”
“Not really my thing. I just enjoy walking around the park and taking it all in. Especially, this time of year. It's so beautiful. Inspiring, really,” I reply.
She gives me an odd look. “That's kind of surprising coming from you,” she counters.
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Why is that?”
She shrugs. “You just don't strike me as the being awed by nature type, I guess.”
“No? And what type do I strike you as then?”
She chuckles and takes a sip of her drink but doesn't answer. I'm curious – though, I'm sure I can guess. She and I are on the opposite end of the spectrum in – probably every conceivable way. Despite that, I find her opinion matters to me. I don't know why, but I don’t want her to think badly of me.
Which is strange, because ordinarily, I couldn't give a damn what most people think of me.
But, there's something about Bailey that’s just different. Different in ways I don't understand. I can't quite put my finger on. I can’t make any sense of my feelings toward her.
Feelings and emotion often don't make sense to me. They're messy, complicated, and can lead to all sorts of crazy, impulsive, and stupid things. More than that though, they can also blind you to the truth. Keep you from seeing what's literally right in your face. It's why, at least for now, I tend to shun anything emotionally driven. I don't want or need it in my life. No, right now, I need to focus on building up my slice of the ADE empire.
Maybe, after I get this ship sailing in the waters that I want it to be sailing in, I can revisit the issue.
