All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  Shortly after, Laynie left the States and was sent to Sweden. Marstead—not the US intelligence agency Laynie had originally thought it to be but rather a joint U.S./NATO agency—embedded Laynie in Swedish culture. Her papers identified her as Linnéa Olander, an American ex-pat of Swedish descent with family living in Upsala. Supposedly, Linnéa had returned to her roots and never looked back.

  She lived “in country,” learning the languages and tradecraft she needed. After three years of intense language and culture training under Marstead’s supervision, she applied to the Master of Science in Economics program at The Stockholm School of Economics—in Swedish, Handelshögskolan i Stockholm.

  Her entrance into the master’s program had been seamless, and she excelled. The program was beneficial in many respects. One important aspect had been the nationally diverse student population and the friendships and acquaintances she had formed while there. Some of her fellow students were from Russian or Soviet Bloc countries, and she was instructed to spend time with them, gain their friendship and trust.

  When she graduated, she was offered a position at Marstead—one that required her to spend two weeks out of every month in their St. Petersburg office.

  And, of course, under Marstead’s tutelage, Laynie perfected her “other” skill: Seduction.

  “I chose this life,” Laynie whispered when she came to herself. “I have no one but myself to blame. I chose this life because it suits me and because I deserve nothing more.”

  —

  LAYNIE WAS EXHAUSTED WHEN SHE RETURNED HOME THAT EVENING. She locked her apartment door behind her, checked that none of her “tells” had been disturbed, and poured herself a stiff drink. And then added another splash.

  She drank a lot during her forays to St. Petersburg—it was part of her cover, after all—but she hated the drunken parties, the meaningless flirtations, the overtures and pawing that went part and parcel with her masquerade.

  But, oh! Oh, how thin the duplicity was wearing.

  Laynie stared with surprise at her glass. She had downed its entire contents.

  When did I start drinking at home?

  A little drunk and melancholic, her thoughts turned toward home. Toward her family.

  —

  LAYNIE’S FATHER, GENE PORTLAND, was a third generation Swedish immigrant. Gene’s grandparents had settled in Seattle, and their Swedish family name had been Olander.

  Gene’s father, Harold, an ambitious man, had loved everything about America, but to his parent’s dismay, Harold thought their Nordic surname too “different.” After some deliberation, he decided to change the family name to something “more American.” Something suggestive of Olander, but not as foreign sounding.

  He settled on Portland.

  Gene Portland met Polly Whitney in North Carolina while Gene was in the military. It was an uphill battle for them. Neither set of parents approved of their union. They did not care. They married anyway and were happy.

  Gene made money in the Seattle real estate market and he and Polly were modestly well off—but they were childless. After ten years of trying for a baby, they decided to adopt—only to be told that they were unlikely to be approved by any adoption agency.

  White children, they were advised, would not be given to a mixed-race couple.

  Undeterred, they advertised for a private adoption, for a child of any color and, without much notice, had been offered a sister and a brother. The cost was outrageous; it would suck their savings dry. Gene figured the private agency was gouging them, but Gene and Polly paid the money willingly. And they were overjoyed.

  Gene and Polly had always been open with Laynie and her brother about their adoption, which was wise on their part, because Laynie came to them wounded, her earliest memories clouded by a sense of loss.

  Laynie remembered Polly rocking her for hours as she wept and wailed. She couldn’t recall what she was weeping for, but Polly had recounted their first weeks in the Portland home so many times that Laynie couldn’t tell her mother’s voice from her own memories anymore.

  “In a private, closed ’doption, you aren’t given much t’ go on,” Mama’s rich, mellow voice echoed in Laynie’s head. “The only paperwork we were given said that your birth parents were killed in a car crash. Well, our hearts ached for you and Stephen, but we were so grateful to have you, to give you all the love we had stored up.”

  “Tell me about our names,” Laynie would ask. She always asked, because the tale her mother told her was what made Laynie feel closest to her oldest memories, closest to the longing she felt.

  “Well, you wouldn’t stop crying, baby girl,” Mama would whisper. “Our poor Little Duck! So confused and distressed! What a fuss you made! I held you and rocked you every night till you wore yourself out. You cried ever’ night for weeks, you did.

  “You cried until your voice was gone and you could only croak. Daddy said you quacked like a little baby duck, and that seemed to tickle you. You liked it when he called you Little Duck.”

  Laynie remembered, too, stroking the dark, sleek skin of Polly’s arm as they rocked, remembered holding her own arm next to Polly’s and wondering at the many differences between them.

  Chocolate.

  Laynie smiled at those memories. Mama’s skin is like beautiful, sweet chocolate.

  “But what about our names, Mama? Our real names?”

  “You always in such a hurry at this part, baby girl! Well, a’course the agency would not give us your names, your birth names, since ever’thing ’bout the ’doption was sealed. They told us you were both so young that we should give you the names we chose, so we named your brother ‘Stephen’ after Daddy’s grandfather.”

  Laynie would always argue at this point of the story. “But that was wrong.”

  “So you told us! No; he’s Sammie, you insisted. We called him Stephen and his ’doption papers read ‘Stephen Theodor Portland,’ but you refused to call him anything but ‘Sammie.’”

  “That’s right. Now me,” Laynie would demand.

  “Yes, you, Little Duck,” Mama would laugh. “We tried to name you Grace after my mother and, my word! How you pitched a fit. ‘I Laynie! you screamed again and again. Laynie! I Laynie!’

  Laynie, Laynie, Laynie!

  The next part of the story was where Laynie’s memories sharpened and where her sense of loss was the greatest.

  “What else did I say?”

  Polly would dither, but she knew that Laynie would insist.

  “Well, honey, you talked about Care. You would stomp your little foot and shout, ‘Care say I Laynie! Care say I am! I not stupid Grace! I Laynie!’”

  Polly would sigh and add, “You sure were a handful, honey, let me tell you.”

  Laynie’s mama liked to move past that part of the story in a hurry, but Laynie wouldn’t let her. That one word, Care, invoked such deep anguish in her that the tears would gush, seemingly from her very being.

  Care. Something about Care sparked a voice Laynie clung to, a voice that, to Laynie, meant everything . . . and yet nothing:

  No! You can’t take them away! You can’t take them!

  Laynie would weep as though her heart would break, and Laynie’s mama would pull her onto her lap and rock her, knowing she could not heal a wound that Laynie herself could not even identify, let alone articulate.

  Polly could only hold and love on Laynie until the storm subsided.

  “Well, we named you Helena Grace, after Papa’s grandmother. Helena was close enough to Laynie that it didn’t send you into a tizzy,” Polly would conclude.

  “But you called me Laynie anyway.”

  “Yes, Sugar. We called you Laynie anyway. We still do,” Polly would agree, agonizing over the shapeless, faceless pain her daughter suffered.

  Afterwards, Laynie would go in search of Sammie. When she found him, she would tug his roly-poly toddler’s body into her lap or, as he got older, close to her side, and tell him a story.

  Polly would watch from
around the doorway as Laynie, sometime during the story, would pat Sammie’s hand and murmur, “You are Sammie. I am Laynie.

  “Care said so.”

  Laynie woke with a start. Her apartment was dark, and she was chilled to the bone. She shivered; the inside of her mouth was sticky. Gummy.

  You’re a mess, Linnéa—inside and out.

  It was more than that, though, and she knew it.

  I am Laynie. You are Sammie.

  Sammie, not Stephen.

  Care said so.

  Laynie, not Helena.

  Care said so.

  Laynie, not Linnéa.

  O Care, where are you? Why did you leave me?

  Laynie leaned her forehead on her hands. “I am so close to cracking up.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 21

  KARI HAD BEEN HOME FROM THE ORDEAL IN HOUSTON less than three hours when the peal of the doorbell roused her from muddled thoughts. She heaved a sigh and went to answer the door.

  “Oskar? Melanie?” She took in Oskar’s serious expression and opened the door all the way. “Please. Come in.”

  She showed them into the living room and sat down across from Oskar. “What is it, Oskar?”

  “I want to apologize to you, Kari. Scarlett filled me in on everything—including that scoundrel Hancock’s plan to outsource half of the sewing workers’ jobs.”

  “Actually, he planned to outsource them all,” Kari drawled. “He was getting ready to test his little plan when we intervened.”

  Oskar looked old. Worn.

  “It’s my fault. I never trusted Hancock. Once my trusted source retired, I should have provided more oversight. Should have looked in personally—”

  “Oskar, it’s all right. In fact, a trial by fire was what I needed. I learned a lot and proved a few things to myself, things I needed to find out. The ordeal showed me changes I need to consider. All in all, the experience caused me to grow.”

  Oskar could see with his own eyes that Kari was fine, and it struck him that she was right. She radiated a new maturity and confidence.

  “Yes, I see. And our girl? How did she do?”

  “Scarlett and I work together as effortlessly as a hand in a glove. She is everything I hoped she would be.”

  Melanie glowed at Kari’s praise. “She’s coming into her own, then.”

  “She has you two to thank for her sterling character.”

  Oskar sat taller, a measure of stress bleeding away. “Well, then, since you think everything is all right . . .”

  “It is. But thank you for coming to visit me. And since you’re here? How about we sit outside on this pleasant spring day and enjoy a coffee and some of Azalea’s fresh popovers?”

  “I love Azalea’s popovers!” Melanie replied.

  —

  KARI MULLED OVER OSKAR AND MELANIE’S VISIT until she, grateful to be home and in her own bed, fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she was still preoccupied with her reflections of the night before.

  Yes, Scarlett is proving to be as clever and competent as I had hoped, Kari thought. And, with her support, it is time for me to initiate some changes—changes necessary for the future health of my holdings.

  Later that week, Kari invited Scarlett to lunch and began to open up to the younger woman.

  “I like you, Scarlett, and you have a future with me, should you choose.”

  “Thank you, Kari. I enjoy working for you and look forward to the future, to new experiences and opportunities.”

  Kari smiled. “Ah, the future! The future has everything to do with why I asked you to lunch today. I’ve been giving a lot of thought to how I want to structure the management of my holdings going forward.

  “My relationship with Brunell & Brunell has been more than satisfactory; it has been perfect. However, the arrangement has become rather convoluted from a business perspective. Since Brunell & Brunell no longer has a fiduciary responsibility toward Peter Granger’s estate and Oskar is no longer managing for me, the fees I pay to Brunell & Brunell to use their offices and in-house staff do not make sense—especially since I am managing my own holdings. To be candid, I see no reason for us to be working out of the offices of Brunell & Brunell any longer.”

  Kari smiled again. “And so, I plan to remove myself from Brunell & Brunell, and form my own management company. I’d like to make the move soon, and I’ve been looking at office space.

  “You know I own Decatur Towers? I have decided not to lease out the top floor of Building One when it comes available October 1. Instead, I will move into the suite December 1, and I would like you and Miss Fletcher to come with me.”

  Scarlett was already nodding, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Kari grinned at Scarlett’s enthusiasm. “How does Michaels Enterprises sound for a company name?”

  “I like it! Memorable. Classy, not ostentatious.”

  “Thank you. We’ll need to staff up, of course: HR, accounting, financial planning, additional administrative assistants, computer techs, a security service. I intend to ask Clover if Brunell & Brunell will need the personnel we’ve been using, if he will continue to employ them. However, if Clover will release them, I will make them offers. They know my businesses inside and out, after all.

  “And I asked you to lunch today to offer you the position of in-house legal counsel, Scarlett. The work over the next six months will be intense as we move and restructure. Are you interested?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Michaels.” Scarlett looked ready to jump out of her skin. “I love working for you, and I look forward to the challenge of establishing Michaels Enterprises. I-I know you will be very successful.”

  Kari extended her hand to Scarlett. “Well, then. Let’s enjoy our celebratory lunch, shall we?”

  —

  KARI MET WITH CLOVER AND OSKAR ON FRIDAY THAT WEEK and, to her surprised delight, found them supportive of her transition.

  “This is a perfectly understandable and wise move,” Clover told her. “At this juncture, the role of Brunell & Brunell is redundant.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Oskar declared. “With the right-sized organization, your overhead will make more sense, and you will have the undivided loyalty of the staff of your own choosing. I also believe you will find that your standing in the business community will flourish when you are operating under your own name.”

  Kari was disconcerted when her eyes misted. “I cannot thank you enough,” she whispered, afraid her voice would fail her. “You have been the best of friends and the best of advisors. I-I love you both.”

  Clover laid his hand upon Kari’s. “We have loved you from that first day you sat in our conference room and Mr. Jeffers read Peter Granger’s will to you. Through all these changes, you have handled yourself admirably, Miss Kari. We are proud, both as your attorneys and as your friends, to see you come into your own.”

  Kari saw the same approval reflected in Oskar’s expression. “You had this in mind all along, didn’t you, Oskar? When you had me start meeting with you to become ‘acquainted’ with what I owned?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I confess! I saw in you the potential that, given the right guidance and your own inclinations, would grow you into a capable businesswoman. I wanted to give you the opportunity to see, for yourself, what you could do.” He cleared his throat. “I hoped you would rise to meet the challenge, Kari, and you have.”

  “Thank you,” Kari whispered again. “Thank you for seeing in me what I could not.”

  —

  IN A MEETING WITH THE BRUNELL & BRUNELL PERSONNEL who supported the management of Peter Granger’s estate, Kari announced her intentions. At her request, Oskar and Clover sat in on the meeting.

  “All of you, as employees of Brunell & Brunell, have labored on behalf of Peter Granger’s estate for years. A few have faithfully cared for my holdings,” she nodded at two accountants, “for decades.

  “I will be leaving these offices December 1 to establish my own management organization. Sinc
e the estate has been the primary purpose for your positions at Brunell & Brunell, my leaving could put your continued employment with this firm at risk. Therefore, in the next few days you will receive offers to come work for me.

  “I’m happy to report that Scarlett Brunell has accepted the position of in-house counsel for Michaels Enterprises. She will be handling employment offers and questions until a human resources position is filled.”

  Kari then deferred to Clover.

  “Thank you, Miss Michaels. Miss Michaels’ move to her new offices is a good five months away, giving each of you time to consider your options and responses. Certainly every one of you is essential to Brunell & Brunell as long as Miss Michaels’ offices are here and she utilizes Brunell resources.

  “Once you receive your offer, please take the time you need to make the decision that will be best for you and your families. I believe you will have thirty days to accept or decline her offer?”

  Kari nodded to Scarlett, who spoke next. “Yes, that is correct. If you accept our employment offer, the transition from Brunell & Brunell to Michaels Enterprises would be seamless and occur on December 1. If you decline the offer, Mr. Clover will address your future employment options at Brunell & Brunell.”

  Kari and Scarlett fielded questions before the meeting broke up. For the most part, Kari thought the news was received well.

  “Do you think they will all accept?” she asked Scarlett.

  “I do. I see no reason for any of them to refuse.”

  Miss Fletcher appeared at Kari’s elbow. “Miss Kari? Might I have a word?”

  “Of course.” They stepped into Kari’s office, and she closed the door to give them privacy. “What can I do for you, Bettina?”

  “I was wondering if you intended to take me with you? That is, I very much would like to go with you.”

  Kari grinned and hugged Bettina. “Of course I do! I would be mad to do otherwise. Hmm. I can let you in on a little secret, I suppose. Your offer will be for the position of Chief Executive Assistant. You will still work directly for me but you will also supervise the secretary pool. Does that appeal to you?”