Little White Lies

by Paul Watkins

  “Do you mean all managers, or just certain managers?”

  The not so obscure reference to my situation does not seem to bother A.J. in any way. He’s so full of it he could fertilize half the corn crop in Iowa just by talking to it. Right now this little item is quickly making its way right to the top of my hit list. I don’t like selective reasoning and A.J. is working hard to make me out to be incompetent and himself to be the grand vizier of the executive suite. What bullshit!

  “It was Mr. Wilson’s opinion that you didn’t know the managers any better than he did. In fact, not aswell, which is certainly understandable. Given that information, I felt an acting appointment was better. If what I just said about Mr. Wilson’s information is true, then I still feel the same about it. I think we’re dealing with two issues here. One is the appointment and the other is my involvement in this area of your business. The way I see it, you need help and I’m capable of giving it to you. I don’t see why you are fighting it. If I had made a mistake, that would be one thing, but I didn’t.”

  “Yeah you did… you didn’t call me… and you should have.”

  “I think you’re structuring this situation so you have me either way. If I had called before the show it would have been totally inappropriate. You would have been busy and you would have made it plain that you were not to be bothered. If I had called after the show it would have been too late… assuming I could find you at all at that time. We would have pushed Lionel into a difficult situation. You are making it a no-win situation and you are basing your decision on form, not content.”

  “Why don’t we just say that if I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Otherwise, stick to your knitting.”

  “Why are you paying me a lot of money to do nothing? I know many of the people around you cannot help you for one reason or another, but I can. Also I can help by training a lot of your people to be better at their jobs. They are good people and with a little help they could really contribute. What are you worried about? You will always be the boss, but you have to learn to let capable people do what they are capable of.”

  “You make me sound like an insecure flunky in some two-bit operation,” he grumbles.

  “That’s not my intention. We are all learning here, but you have to accept the possibility that as the organization grows you may have to make some changes, too.”

  Well, this has gone on long enough… points scored on both sides, I suppose.

  “Okay. I think we have beaten on this enough for now. If you want to fire me for the Atlanta thing, go ahead. If you do not want to fire me, then I think I should warn you that if I had to do it again… I would.”

  “Now see? Dammit, that’s just what I mean. Everything we discuss winds up with me changing, and you going your merry way. Didn’t you hear anything I just said? I do not want you in my business… period! That’s it.”

  “I heard you, but you’re making a mistake and I refuse to let you do it. Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that we already have worked it out. You are out. You are not in my business.”

  “Okay, I’m not in your business. Can we go on to the budget now?”

  A.J. leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He slowly nods his approval. “But no more on this Atlanta business. You are always trying to have the last word. This time the last word is mine… you’re out. Okay, go ahead.”

  “I think the same budget format we’re using here could be applied to the restaurants.”

  There’s a short pause followed by A.J.’s eyes snapping wide open. Of course the budget format wouldn’t work at all, but I couldn’t pass it up.

  Why isn’t he smiling? I am.

  CHAPTER 9

  A.J.’s away on still another trip and we have a bit less than a week to go before his return. Everything here is normal except for the call I received this morning from a writer named Karen Adams. She claims to be a free-lancer who appears regularly in major magazines, most of which are oriented to female readership. Her credentials wouldn’t mean much to me one way or the other since I’m not familiar with anyone who doesn’t appear on the editorial page.

  I used to keep up with business periodicals and technical journals, but since I retired I’ve pretty much let that sort of thing go as well. On a personal level I don’t have much use for the press. I realize they have a job to do, but I think they often go too far when it comes to ‘the people’s right to know’. In my opinion, the reality of the press corps has more to do with personal ambition than with any concern for the public. However, I do work for a public figure and I suppose it behooves me to not do or say anything that would affect A.J.’s good relations with that worthy group.

  During our chat on the telephone I offered to call A.J. and set up a meeting as soon as he returns, but she informed me her main interest was to get background information on the family and their new estate. Apparently she had talked to one of the managers in the New York City restaurant and he pointed her in my direction. All she wants to do, she claims, is to meet with me and discuss her plans for the article.

  I finally agreed on the condition that she would not take any pictures or write anything at all until she meets with A.J. Also, I told her she is not to use my name or position, now or in the future, in connection with this or any other article about A.J. She agreed to my nonsense and we set the meeting for this morning at eleven o’clock.

  It’s a few minutes before eleven and I’m about to leave the library when I see a car pull in and park. I assume it’s Miss Adams, so I might as well go to the door and save someone else the trouble of answering the bell. I open the door just as she hits the steps.

  She is wearing a pleated navy skirt with a white blouse. A light, matching blue sweater is hooked on two fingers and slung over her shoulder. Practical low-heeled shoes match her skirt and bag. As the fashion people say, she looks very together. She is half-turned, looking back down the drive and as she faces me I realize I am about to meet one of those beautiful people you often see pictures of, but never see in person. She is medium height, has jet-black hair cut short and she’s an absolute stunner.

  Extending her hand she says, “Hi, Mr. Richards? I’m Karen Adams.”

  This is followed with a megawatt smile. I think I am smitten.

  “Pleased to meet you. Philip Richards… please call me, Philip.” Her handshake is firm and confident.

  “Welcome to the Jackson residence. We can talk in the library, it’s this way.”

  Walking across the foyer, I can sense her efforts to look about.

  “This place is absolutely lovely,” she offers. “I guess I’m surprised. I did not know quite what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this.” She twirls about as she enters the library and even an old war-horse like me can’t help but notice she has great legs. “This home is in total contrast with his image. It’s really amazing.”

  I nod and smile, but otherwise make no comment. She is visibly impressed with the library.

  “It’s just lovely… I had no idea Mr. Jackson lived like this.”

  “Mr. Jackson is a man of many parts,” I reply. “He is a bit different from his public persona. As far as the house is concerned, his wife, Sheri, has had a great deal to do with what you see about you. She is very well educated, well traveled, and has excellent taste in everything… home decor, food, clothing, reading, and so on… she’s quite a lady.”

  “You certainly sound as though you are impressed.”

  “I am. I’m impressed with the entire family. They are extraordinary people.”

  “How long have you worked for them?”

  “Just since they acquired this property… less than six months.”

  “And are you happy here?”

  “Yes, but this isn’t about me. Remember? We have an agreement that I will not be refe
renced in anything you write… directly or indirectly.”

  She laughs and waves her hand in a dismissive manner.

  “Yes, I know and I have no intention of doing otherwise. I am just trying to get a feel for what type of people they are. I think in order to accurately portray the Jacksons I have to know something about the people who work here. That doesn’t mean I’m going to write about those people. It just helps me to gauge my subject.”

  “Nevertheless, you will have to draw your own conclusions. The main issue here is what access you will have to the family and for that decision, a point I tried to make absolutely clear when we talked on the telephone, you will have to talk to Mr. Jackson.”

  A look of frustration or perhaps weariness crosses her face. I decide to ignore her somewhat unhappy reaction and press on.

  “If you would like to tell me about your article or past articles of this type, I will be happy to talk to him on your behalf. To put it more accurately, I would like to know enough to get you an interview. You will have to do your own selling.”

  Back comes the smile. I suspect it has opened many doors and broken more than a few hearts.

  “Can I ask you anything about the house and grounds, anything about the staff? For instance, do you live here with your family? Are you married? How many people are on the staff?”

  “Hold on!” I interject. “The simple answer to your questions is, no. You may not ask questions of that nature… at least not of me. Mr. Jackson and his family are the subjects of your article and for that information you will have to consult with him. It is his decision as to what you or any other media person may know about his personal life.”

  “So you would have to ask Mr. Jackson for his permission before you could tell me whether or not you live here with your family?”

  I shake my head… this is starting to get exasperating. “No, of course not, because this is not about me, it’s about Mr. Jackson.”

  “Do you always refuse to talk about yourself? I know I am here about the Jackson family, but now I am curious about you.” She looks down and then over at me out of the corner of her eye. “You simply do not fit in here somehow. Am I right?”

  “I hope not. I like my work very much. I could not ask for nicer people to work for than the Jacksons. I… “

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Phil, answer the lady’s question!” Sheri is standing at the door. “I couldn’t help but overhear… I’m sorry for eavesdropping, but I was just passing by and I heard you talking. Also, I really wanted to hear what Phil had to say about us. I guess that makes me a spy, and probably a bad person.”

  This confession is stated without a tear or a shred of contrition. I’ve seen big winners in Las Vegas exhibit more remorse.

  “Mrs. Jackson, I would like to introduce Ms. Karen Adams. She is the writer I mentioned earlier.”

  They both say, “Hi”, simultaneously and then laugh. Sheri is the first to speak.

  “Phil lives here alone. His wife died a couple of years ago and he came to work here earlier this year and saved our lives in the process. We absolutely love him… “ She smiles at me and takes my arm in both her hands. “And we are never going to let him go. And now you know as much about him as I do. He simply never talks about himself. All he does is work.”

  Karen appears to take all this in with interest. “The strong, silent type, huh?” And then to Sheri, “Well, Mrs. Jackson… “

  “Please call me, Sheri.”

  “Thank you… and I’m Karen. Well, Sheri, would you have the time to talk with me and help me with a few questions? I would like to tell you what type of article I have in mind and we could see where we go from there. I don’t know what Mr. Richards told you about me, but I am just a writer. I do the best I can and I try not to do anyone a disservice. Basically I try to tell a good story about my subjects. I have some samples of my work which I will be happy to show you.” Karen has Sheri’s interest as she continues. “Before we start, I have to say that I absolutely love your home. It’s so different from anything I could have expected… given your husband’s business and reputation, that is.”

  Sheri looks at me and laughs quietly. “I guess I can understand that perspective. Can’t you, Phil?” She glances my way, winks and mugs a ‘can I ever!’-lookand then returns to Karen with a perfectly straight face. “He is a little wild at times, but I think if you got to know him you would be more surprised about him than you are about this house. And as far as the house is concerned, it is really the sum of the three of us.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes, three. Phil has helped a lot.”

  That’s my cue to leave. This is getting sticky.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Jackson, but if you would like to talk with Miss Adams for a while, I will be outside, unless you prefer that I stay. Otherwise, please do not discuss anything you would not like to see in print.”

  I say the last with a slight smile and a nod to Karen. She nods her head slightly, her eyes narrow for the briefest of moments and then she smiles in return.

  “That’s okay, Phil. I understand the rules,” Sheri replies. “You may leave us if you wish.”

  I thank Sheri and take my leave. Sheri is very nice to say all those things, but it is embarrassing as well. Also, it’s clear what direction this conversation is taking. These two have hit it off and they’re probably good for the rest of the day. Besides, I have things to do.

  ***

  It’s almost three in the afternoon when Sheri pages and asks me to join her in the library. Karen Adams is still here, but apparently about to take her leave. The children’s nanny, Mary Stanley, is sitting on the sofa with Shana on her lap. Jeff-Jeff is off to the side, playing on the floor. He spots me and scrambles to his feet, running with his arms outstretched, demanding to be picked up. I catch him on a dead run and hold him high in the air for a moment. He always likes to free-fall into my arms and the bear hug that follows. And now Shana’s on her way looking for the same treatment. Holding Jeff-Jeff in my right arm, I crouch down and catch her with my free left arm. The kids are shrieking with delight as we fall into a rather ungainly pile.

  Sheri ignores the bedlam and says, “Phil, we have covered our complete life stories. I know as much about Karen as she does about us, so if she prints anything we don’t like, we can write a story about her.”

  “I’m afraid she’s right,” Karen joins in. “Maybe I’m in the wrong business.”

  They both laugh as the kids bowl me over and pile on my chest.

  “Stop it, Phil,” Sheri admonishes without convincing anyone. “Can’t you wait and play later? We want to schedule our next meeting.”

  I place the kids on their feet and slowly make my way to an upright position.

  “With your permission, I would like to return for a photo session,” Karen says somewhat uncertainly.

  Karen looks at Sheri, waiting for an answer. Sheri, in turn, is looking at me. I shrug my shoulders.

  “Better check with Mr. Jackson,” I advise.

  Sheri may run the place, but there’s no sense begging for trouble.

  Sheri nods in agreement. “Phil’s right. It’s okay with me, but I would have to check with A.J. first. I’m sure he wouldn’t object, but he should know what’s going on. He’ll be back in a few days. Is there anything major scheduled, Phil?”

  “Just the party on the fifteenth.” I look down at the kids who are both bouncing on their toes with outstretched arms, fingers wiggling, looking for action. I shake my head slightly, signaling a time-out. They’re quiet, but the hand and arm action continues unabated.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Sheri says tapping her forehead. “I’m glad you mentioned it. Time flies… how about sometime after the fifteenth? I nod in agreement. Sheri turns to Karen. “Can you call me next Wednesday? That will give me time to check with A.J. We can set
up a time then, and if you can’t reach me for some reason, talk to Phil.”

  “That’s great. I really appreciate this, Sheri. Before I go, would it be all right for Phil to show me around the grounds?”

  “Of course… if it’s all right with him, it’s all right with me.”

  Sheri has a strange look on her face, and try as I might it is not one I can decipher.

  “Sure, I have a moment. What would you like to see?”

  “Anything. Everything.” Karen waves to Sheri as we head for the door.

  The kids start to follow us out, but Mary catches them by their collars. “Come here, you two,” she says with a smile. “Between Phil and A.J., it’s a wonder we can ever get them to do anything. I swear… they would follow those two into a fire.”

  Sheri walks over and scoops Shana into her arms and gives her a hug.

  “I think it’s great.” She bounces Shana and smiles as Shana’s little belly peeks out from under her top. “Wave bye-bye to Phil and Karen, Honey.”

  Shana’s first wave catches Sheri square in the nose with her tiny fist. I try not to laugh, but without much success. We wave back at the children and walk outside as Sheri rubs her nose with the palm of her hand.

  “There really isn’t much to see this time of year. The gardens have been turned under and we’re starting to get ready for winter.” I point in the direction of the garage. “Mr. Jackson has plans for a new greenhouse next spring… the old one is a bit rundown. However we do have about fifteen or twenty acres of lawn with some lovely views of the area.” I stop and point in the general direction of the property lines. “The rest of the land is in its original state… mostly woods. I wouldn’t recommend walking there now because of the soft ground, but we can walk on the grass… that should be fairly dry.”