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In Bed with the Boss

Page 15

by Christine Rimmer


  The concern in her mom’s voice brought a fresh flood of tears. “Oh, Mom. Mom, I…”

  “What? Tell me. It’s okay. You can tell me.”

  It was all the encouragement Shelly needed. Between sobs and honks into a boxfull of tissues, she told her mother everything.

  At the end, Norma said, “That bastard Drake. I should have known he’d pull some crap like this.”

  Shelly gasped to hear her sweet mother use such strong language. “Mom!”

  “What? Well, I’m sorry. I have a mind to give him a call and tell him exactly what I think of him.”

  “Don’t. Please. He’s so not worth it—not to mention that he never answers his phone.”

  “You’re right, of course. But still. It would be so satisfying to call him a bad name or two right to his face.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Do you realize that that man has had five wives? I hope every one of them took him to the cleaners when they divorced him.”

  Shelly laughed. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too. So very much. And I know you and Tom will work it out. Sometimes, it seems impossible, but when there’s love—”

  “Mom. Stop.”

  “But, honey—”

  “It’s over between Tom and me. What we had, it’s…broken now, beyond repair. He won’t forgive me for not telling him about Drake—for even being related to the man.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Time won’t do it. It’s over. I mean it. I…” The tears started in again. She tried to gulp them back.

  “Come home,” Norma said.

  “I…Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Rent a car tomorrow morning. Or fly to St. Louis and we’ll pick you up. I mean it. You need your family around you right now. You and Max come home for a few days. You let us take care of you. You do what I say.”

  Shelly gulped down more pointless tears and opened her mouth to protest some more. But then she realized that home was exactly where she needed to be.

  “Okay. We’ll come.”

  “There you go. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  Once all the excitement was over for the day, Tom had a pile of catch-up work to do. He didn’t get back to his place until after nine.

  He called the number Shelly had given him and left a message for Drake. Then he poured himself two fingers of good Scotch and stood looking out at the small sliver of Lake Michigan he could see from his dining room window, trying not to think about Shelly.

  The phone rang when he was halfway through his drink.

  Tom picked it up. Before he said a word, Drake spoke. “I’m guessing this means my niece has told all. So discouraging. A man can’t even count on his own family these days.”

  Tom knocked back the rest of his drink and relished the burn as it slid down his throat. “Are you in town?”

  “I could be.”

  Tom named a bar a few blocks from his apartment. “Ten-thirty,” he said and hung up.

  At the bar, he took a corner table, ordered a drink and let it sit in front of him, untouched.

  Drake arrived at ten-forty. He slid into the chair opposite Tom and ordered Maker’s Mark on the rocks. They both waited until the waitress had served him and left them alone.

  Like Tom, Drake didn’t so much as glance at his drink. He said, “You’re looking well.”

  Tom quelled the urge to punch Thatcher’s lights out and reminded himself once again that Drake wasn’t worth beating up. He was your common, everyday, run-of-the-mill antisocial personality. The power and the thrill of besting other people was his greatest pleasure in life. Tom had known this about him from the first—and had become his protégé anyway. Back then, Tom had imagined he could handle Drake.

  He’d been paying the price for such a serious miscalculation ever since.

  “You’ve been making trouble for me again,” Tom said.

  “Nothing personal,” Drake lied. It was always personal between Drake and Tom. Tom had survived what Drake had tried to do to him—repeatedly. Every time Drake knocked him down, Tom got back up again.

  Tom reminded himself that getting back up again was the best revenge, the only revenge that mattered. He wondered why he didn’t feel better about it.

  Because the price is too damn high.

  It came to him then. The price. This time the price was Shelly.

  He saw then, as he stared into Drake’s black, bottomless eyes, that he had lost again—just when he thought he’d won.

  For the first time, he didn’t have to start over. He’d triumphed over Thatcher and kept his job—while losing what mattered most: Shelly. Max. The impossible dream that never came true, the fading hope for love and a family at last…

  Tom realized with horror that though Drake would never know it, he had won again.

  Thatcher smiled. “So, once more, the past has caught up with you. You seem very calm this time.”

  “I think I’ve gotten used to this. It always ends up here, somehow, doesn’t it?”

  “Tomorrow,” Drake said with great satisfaction, “the story will break. You’ll be out of a job again. I wish I could say I was sorry about that.”

  Tom corrected him. “No, you don’t.”

  Drake shrugged. “You should give up, you know. I’ll never allow you to climb too high. I can’t afford that. You might become a danger to me. And that can never happen.”

  Tom let him gloat. It was the point of this meeting. Let the SOB get all full of himself—only to find out tomorrow that Helen Taka-Hanson was way ahead of him, smarter and quicker. Helen hadn’t fallen for Thatcher’s tricks.

  Tom picked up his drink and sipped it. Slowly. He was supposed to be feeling triumphant about now, relishing his victory while Drake imagined that he was the winner tonight.

  But Tom didn’t feel triumphant. He felt…empty. Bested. Trumped.

  Drake stood. “Great to see you, Tom. Nice to share this time together.”

  Tom nodded. He watched the other man walk away, marveling. He had won the game this time.

  And lost what really mattered. Again.

  And again, it was his own damn fault.

  “But, Mom. I have to go to daycare today. I can’t go to Granny’s. I’ve already been to Granny’s.”

  Shelly, at the sink cleaning up after breakfast, glanced over her shoulder. Max stood in the middle of the kitchen floor. Though Shelly had told him fifteen minutes ago that he needed to get dressed, he still wore his pajamas.

  The best-behaved kid in Chicago—and he chose today to give her grief.

  She grabbed a towel. Wiping her hands, she turned to him. “You love to go to Granny’s. And we’re only staying for a little while. You’ll be back in daycare before you know it.”

  “What if the butterflies hatch before I get back? What about my Popsicle-stick fort that I haven’t finished making yet?”

  “I’m sorry, Max. We’re going. Now get dressed, please.”

  “But what about Tom?”

  Shelly tried not to gape. Kids. They always somehow seemed to know way more than you thought they did. Shelly tossed the towel to the counter behind her and knelt to face her son eye-to-eye.

  He reached out, laid his small hand on her shoulder. “You were crying last night, Mom. I heard you.”

  Oh, God. Tears clogged her throat all over again. She gulped them down.

  Truth, she thought. The simple truth. Always the best way. After what had happened with Tom, she would never again let herself forget that lies brought nothing but trouble and an eventual bleak day of reckoning.

  She said, “We, um, we won’t be seeing Tom anymore. And I won’t be working for him. When we get back from Granny’s, I’m going to start a new job.”

  “But doesn’t Tom need you? To type and stuff like that?”

  “Tom will get another assistant.”

  “But…you like Tom. Tom likes you. I like Tom.”

  “Sometimes things don’t work out.”
<
br />   “Why not?”

  Why not? Dangerous question. “I can’t explain any more right now. We have to go. We need to get to the airport.”

  “If you just called him—or I could call him. I could tell him that he needs to—”

  “Max.” She rose.

  He was silent, looking up at her.

  “We are going to Granny’s. Get dressed. Now.”

  His small chin quivered and his mouth formed a straight line. She was absolutely certain that her reasonable, well-behaved son was about to throw a full-blown temper tantrum.

  But then he said, “Okay.” And he turned and left the kitchen.

  Shelly watched him go, a terrible hollowness in her stomach and a weakness in her knees. It was her worst fear realized. Not only did she have to get over Tom.

  Her son would have to, as well.

  Max knew the rules about calling people. He knew very well that you had to ask first and you were not allowed to be a pest.

  But when he left his mom in the kitchen, he didn’t know what else to do. Things were not good and he wanted to make them all right again.

  So he broke the rules, just that one time.

  He tiptoed into his mom’s room and he picked up the phone by her bed and he dialed Tom’s cell number.

  Tom and Helen knocked some serious socks off in the Channel 9 interview.

  Helen was amazing—cool and confident as ever. Honest and direct. She told the pretty cohost how she’d hired Tom with the full knowledge that he’d once gone to prison. That she’d never regretted giving Tom another chance.

  Tom played back-up to Helen’s starring role. He was low-key and modest. He answered the cohost’s questions in a simple, understated way. He was humble. And he was grateful to have another chance. And to be working for a dynamic, creative company like TAKA-Hanson.

  When the interview was over, both hosts shook their hands and the producer fell all over them. “Dynamite,” he said. “Great job, both of you….”

  They left the studio and ducked into a car that took them to one drive-time radio spot after another. Each one went better than the last.

  It was after eleven when they got back to the office. Jack, Samantha and Mori were waiting in one of the conference rooms with several copies each of the Tribune and the Daily News, both of which had run the story Drake gave them side-by-side with the rebuttal Tom and Helen had provided.

  “Congratulations,” said Samantha warmly.

  “Slam dunk,” added Jack.

  Mori smiled and nodded his approval in that regal, reserved way he had.

  Tom got back to his own office at a little after noon. He had his temporary secretary bring him lunch at his desk and he worked the rest of the afternoon to get back on top of the job after a day and a half spent fixing what Drake Thatcher had tried to break.

  Drake called him on the office line at two. He didn’t bother to say hello. “It appears I’ve underestimated the situation this time around. Don’t worry, though. I’ll regroup.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea? Tell me, what did you do with my niece? I really did hope to have a word with her, but some stranger answered the phone just now.”

  “Try Shelly at home.”

  “You’ve fired her, haven’t you?” Thatcher spoke with relish.

  “No. She’s just taking a few days off.” It was true, as far as it went. “Anything else?”

  “Not a thing,” said Drake. “I think we’ve said it all—for now.” The line went dead.

  At two that afternoon, Shelly stood by the window in an upstairs bedroom of her mother’s house. The room had been Shelly’s through all the years from childhood to the day she left for college. White sheers hung on the windows. They had wide ruffles along the edges and matching ruffled tie-backs. The sheers had hung there for as long as Shelly could remember. Behind the sheers, for privacy, there were old-fashioned roll-down shades.

  She heard the back porch screen creak shut and watched her dad and her son cross the wide swathe of green lawn, headed for the trees that rimmed the creek. Shelly smiled to herself. Maybe Max would find his pollywog, all grown-up into a frog.

  Her cell chimed from her purse on the low dresser by the door.

  Tom? In spite of everything he’d said and done, her heart lifted in bright, impossible hope.

  She hustled over there and got the phone from her bag. The display shouted a number she didn’t recognize.

  Fine, she tried to tell herself. She didn’t want to talk to Tom, anyway. Never. Never again.

  “Hello?”

  Her uncle said, “Shelly.”

  She almost hung up on him. But then she sighed. “What?”

  “You’ve disappointed me. I thought I should let you know I’ve put a stop on that check.”

  “Fine with me. I don’t want your money. I want nothing to do with you. Ever again.”

  He actually clucked his tongue at her. “I must remember in the future not to hand out career opportunities to poor relations.” Her mom appeared in the open doorway a few feet from where she stood.

  She spoke to her uncle one last time. “Good. Never call me again.” She snapped the phone firmly shut.

  Norma said, “Let me guess. Drake?”

  Shelly dropped the phone back into her purse. “What a horrible man.”

  Norma shrugged. “I never did really understand that side of the family.” She looked at Shelly so fondly and Shelly thought how fortunate she was, to have been born to loving parents. “It’s good,” her mom said, “to have you home.”

  Shelly sat on the edge of the bed. Norma sat close beside her, wrapping a comforting arm around Shelly’s shoulder.

  “I saw this morning’s Tribune,” Norma said.

  “Yes,” Shelly answered softly. “It worked out well for Tom, don’t you think?”

  “Very well.”

  Shelly said, “I’m glad that Tom will keep his job, that Drake didn’t succeed in messing him over again.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Then her mom said, “If you need to cry…”

  Shelly chuckled. “You know, I think I’m pretty much all cried out. For the time being, anyway.”

  “We’ll have pot roast for dinner.”

  “I’m hungry just thinking about it.”

  “However things end up,” said her mother, “love is never wrong.”

  “I never said it was love, Mom, between Tom and me.”

  “Oh, honey. You didn’t have to.”

  Tom didn’t get home that night until after eight. And he didn’t get around to checking his cell-phone voice mail until he was getting ready for bed and realized he’d left the phone off the whole day.

  There were three messages that could wait until tomorrow.

  The fourth felled him like a punch to the gut. He sank to the edge of the bed when he heard the little boy’s voice.

  “Tom, it’s Max Winston. I know I’m not s’posed to call unless I ask first. But you made my mom cry. Now we’re going to Granny’s even though I haven’t finished my fort yet. In case you want to come and say you’re sorry, my Granny lives at 321 Cherry Vale in Mount Vernon. I think you should come, Tom. You should come right away.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Shelly rose early. She went down into the kitchen where her mother, in old jeans and a worn yellow T-shirt with the words The Jimi Hendrix Experience in psychedelic purple across the front, was already busy frying bacon at the stove.

  She turned and gave Shelly one of her biggest, happiest smiles. “While you’re home, I’ll do my best to harden up those arteries.”

  “Smells great. What can I do to help?”

  “Not a thing. Let me spoil you. Have some coffee. Go sit on the porch and enjoy the beautiful summer morning.”

  “Want me to feed the chickens?”

  “Max is handling that.”

  “Well, okay.” Shelly went to the coffeemaker and filled one of her mom’s orange
mugs. “Call me when it’s time to eat.” She wandered out through the central hall. The heavy oak front door stood open. She pushed the storm door wide enough to slip through to the porch.

  The house, like all the houses on Cherry Vale, was set back from the street, with a winding gravel driveway leading up to the front porch and then curving away toward the detached two-car garage. Shelly sat on the front steps, elbows braced on her knees, and sipped her coffee, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the summer morning, and the soft, sighing sound the trees made as the wind rustled through them. She watched a cardinal, impossibly red, as it flitted across the driveway and vanished into the trees.

  She heard a blue jay squawking somewhere over near the garage and turned toward the sound.

  The crunch of tires on gravel surprised her. She looked back to see a silver Cadillac rolling toward her.

  Tom was behind the wheel.

  The shock was so powerful, she almost let her coffee cup slip from her hands. Some of the hot brew still got away from her and scalded her fingers.

  She wished a hundred things at once: that she’d worn something more pulled-together than old cutoffs, flip-flops and a wrinkled camp shirt; that her heart would stop racing; that the stupid tears of surprise and infuriating hope wouldn’t rise…

  Somehow, she made herself stand. She set her cup on one of the two low brick pillars at the base of the porch steps.

  And she waited for him to stop the damn car and get out. When he did, she saw that he wore jeans and a dark blue polo shirt. He came right for her.

  Shelly waited for him. She could do nothing else. She felt rooted to the spot at the base of the steps. He stopped a few feet from her. She saw the shadows under his blue eyes, and the worry.

  And the pain.

  She steeled herself against him, pulling her shoulders back, holding her head high. “What now?”

  “Shelly…” He seemed not to know how to go on.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Suddenly, she knew. “Max. Max called you.”

  “Shelly—”

  She put up a hand. “It’s no good.”

 

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