Corporate Affair (The Small Town Girl series)

by Linda Cunningham

  “Ha! Trade Winds! Nothing to worry about. Old Stewart is just like Palmer. Stewart owns Trade Winds outright. Although it appears to be one of the biggest communications companies in New England, it just doesn’t have the capital to work with that we do. In the end, I can just flat out offer more cash. Money talks. It’s about the only thing that does. Besides, I plan to maneuver Miss Fitzgerald into a position of, how shall I say, submission.”

  Aiden was lifting his glass to his lips and stopped. This was very nearly a threat. It sounded sinister. Was his imagination running away with him?

  “And how do you propose to accomplish that?”

  Aiden heard Christopher Fenton give a nasty little laugh. “That is something that’s just going to have to remain a corporate secret. Suffice it to say, I’ve used it before to fire people, to get information, to turn the situation for the benefit of Fenton Industries. Works every time.”

  Aiden was boiling over with impotent rage. He had to finish his beer and get out of there. What was that his mother had said? Eavesdroppers always hear unpleasant things. Well, he had heard some unpleasant things. He took another gulp of the beer just as one of the men at the end of the bar motioned for Vanessa, who was writing up Aiden’s tab, to come close.

  “What’d you want now, Larry?”

  The man leaned in over the bar and spoke in a low voice. “Hey, are those guys here to talk to Jordan about Palmer and Chat?”

  Aiden watched as Vanessa looked over to the two men. “Don’t know,” she said. “I never saw them before. Could be.”

  “Sounds like they are. Hey, you call your cousin Ashley and tell her to tell Jordan to watch her step. Don’t trust these guys. They ain’t good people.”

  “Huh,” said Vanessa. “You been eavesdropping?”

  Now the other man spoke up, leaning close over the bar like his friend. “Not intentional,” he said, “but it seems these guys are too stupid to keep their voices down. They been running their mouths, and we don’t like what we hear. Just tell her don’t trust ’em.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Vanessa, sliding Aiden’s check along the bar. He picked it up and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. So this was a small town in action. Palmer must be a big fish in a little pond, like his father had said. Everybody seemed to know his business. And perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. It could work in Aiden’s favor. He left cash on the bar and included a healthy tip for Vanessa.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Any time,” acknowledged Vanessa.

  Aiden walked out into the late afternoon. The sun was in the sky a little later these days. It would be flooding his hotel room with light as it set over the hills to the west. He walked slowly back to the Inn, hardly seeing as he walked.

  Aiden’s emotions were never a very active part of his life by day—or by night for that matter. Now they were in total chaos. He was struggling with something, some feeling he couldn’t quite identify, yet it was familiar at the same time. Jordan Fitzgerald had confused him somehow, and he caught himself thinking about her constantly. Was it pity? Was it sympathy? Was it just animal attraction? His natural reaction to a pretty girl? He thought about his meeting with Jordan Fitzgerald, his surprise to find she was female. But had he been surprised that she was female or surprised at her beauty and youth? He had thought that despite her self-control and professionalism, her obvious competence and intelligence, she had looked almost fragile in the huge office. Those big blue eyes—there was something behind them, something guarded, something vulnerable.

  Aiden shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He climbed the front steps to the Inn, nodded to Bill Noyes, who stood behind the desk, and went up to his room. He kicked off his sneakers and sat cross-legged on the bed, like he used to do when he was a student, his laptop balanced on his knees. He typed furiously for a while, making lists, highlighting, crossing things out, adding a balance sheet. Finally he looked up and out the window.

  The last of the evening sun was indeed pouring into the room, washing the floor in gold and making the brass bed gleam. It was a warm room. In spite of the reason for his finding himself in the little town, Aiden felt content and at home. His phone rang, snapping him out of his daydream.

  “Aiden!”

  Aiden’s stomach sank. He had totally forgotten. “Alexis,” he said dully.

  “Where are you? You were supposed to pick me up early so we could miss the traffic out to Cape Elizabeth. We’ll be late, Aiden!”

  Aiden listened to the edgy voice, tinged just a bit with hysteria and anger. Better get this over with fast, just like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I-I’ve had to stay in Vermont. I’ve got continuing business here, and it can’t wait.”

  There was silence. Then, the woman’s voice again, “Are you telling me you’re not picking me up? Are you telling me we’re going to miss the party? The party on the yacht? Where the other guests include the governor of Maine and a United States senator? Aiden? Aiden, are you there?”

  “You can still get there. I’m just not able to go.”

  Now her voice became deadly quiet. “Aiden,” she finally continued, “I’m disappointed. I’m angry. I drove up here from Boston for this. This is absurd, and I’m not going to waste my time a second longer. Don’t ever call me again. Good-bye, Aiden!” She clicked off. Aiden sighed, looked at the blank screen of his phone, and ran his fingers through his hair. Oddly enough, he felt relieved. Alexis was just another diversion. He didn’t realize until now that he hadn’t actually cared that much for her personality anyway. All he had thought about was climbing into bed with her and having some fun sex. Suddenly he reflected. Fun sex. Then he thought about that, realizing it had been a while since he’d had any real fun. At any rate, the deed was done. He would not see her again. There were other fish in the sea, not that that seemed to matter at the moment. Aiden was once again aware that his emotions were in tumult. He was getting very involved in this merger deal. It seemed to mean more to him than his work usually did. Maybe he was getting like his father. He bent his head to the computer and began pounding the keyboard once again.

  Chapter Four

  STRUGGLING WITH CONFLICTING FEELINGS, Jordan drove back to work that afternoon. She was elated that her daughter was walking, yet it had been Jordan’s mother and father who had seen those first steps, not her, Grace’s own mother, and certainly not Grace’s father. Jordan fought the burn of tears at the back of her eyes.

  Jordan gripped the steering wheel and clenched her teeth. Focus on what you do have instead of what you don’t, she told herself. Consciously, she willed herself to think positively. Certainly, she was lucky to have her parents. Grace was lucky to be cared for in a real home by her grandparents. And it wasn’t as though Jordan wasn’t doing her part. Her job at Chat was everything to the family now that Jordan’s father had been laid off from his construction job. Not only was she paying the mortgage, but she was contributing to her brother’s university tuition as well. Her father and mother chipped in with savings and unemployment checks, but Jordan was shouldering the bulk of the family’s expenses. She was glad she could do it. It made her happy to help her family, to be the one upon whom the rest could rely. That was what family was all about. Whoever was in the strongest position at the moment helped the rest weather the storm until they were back on their feet. If missing her daughter’s actual first steps was the price she had to pay, then she would pay it.

  She wheeled into the parking lot at ChatDotCom, pulled into her parking place, and hurried into her office through the private back door. She wanted to go through both the proposals from Trade Winds and Fenton Industries once again before she met Christopher Fenton this evening for dinner. Ashley could help her. Together they could compare the offers and make a list of non-negotiable issues in selling Chat so as to reap the greatest benefits for the employees of the company and for the Palmer family.

  Jordan threw her blazer and bag into the chair at her desk and crossed the room to
call Ashley in from her desk, but the door opened before she could reach it. The two women nearly collided.

  “Oh, Ashley,” she said, somewhat startled. “I was just coming out to get you. Will you help me go over these proposals? I’ve got to know the ins and outs of each one, especially the Fenton one because I’m meeting him for dinner at the Inn tonight. I want to get finished in time to get home so I can shower and change.”

  “Of course I’ll help,” said Ashley. “Actually, I was coming in to talk to you about Fenton.”

  Jordan blinked to cover her surprise. “Well, come sit down.” She gestured to the wing chairs and turned to take two portfolios off her desk. As they sat down, Jordan said, “So, you have some ideas about the Fenton proposal?”

  Ashley and Jordan had gone to high school together. They had not been close friends, but they had always been friendly. Ashley had worked at Chat for a year before Jordan started, and they had developed a professional friendship that soon grew into a personal one. Ashley was a tiny girl, almost a head shorter than Jordan. She was slim, quick, and efficient. She seemed to have an uncanny knack for anticipating things before Jordan asked for them. Ashley’s appearance seemed to be of great concern to her. She was always dressed as well as her income level would permit. Her long, color-enhanced black hair was always done in a smooth, low pony tail, or draped artfully over her forehead and down her back. And, Jordan noticed jealously, it stayed draped all day, with never a single hair out of place. Jordan was bound to reflect on the fact that if she ever tried to wear her own hair like that, her curls would burst forth of their own accord, giving her the look of a crazy person. Ashley wore way too much makeup for Jordan’s taste, almost as though she was performing on stage. Her blue-gray eyes were heavily lined in black. Her lashes were coated with black mascara, and the three shades of artfully blended eye shadow made her eyes seem abnormally large. It was obvious she frequented tanning salons, but her gentle nature was her own, and little by little, it was this that Jordan came to see.

  Jordan had initially remarked to Gene Palmer that Ashley seemed nervous, almost on edge, but Mr. Palmer had only laughed and called her “watchful” instead. And, as Jordan got to know her better, she found herself relying more and more on Ashley to keep the everyday details of the business in order. She found her quite up to the task. “Watchful” had been a good word. Nothing seemed to escape Ashley Hart. However, it was very unlike her to read through a proposal without express permission or a request to do so from Jordan or Mr. Palmer.

  Jordan settled herself back into the comfortable wing chair, the proposals on her lap. She looked up at Ashley.

  “So you’ve read the Fenton proposal. Tell me, then, what did you think?”

  Ashley’s large eyes grew larger. “Jordan! Of course I didn’t read the proposal. You know me better than that!”

  “I thought you said you had something to say about the Fenton proposal?”

  “I said I wanted to tell you something about Fenton. Christopher Fenton.”

  Jordan was brought up short. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t understand.”

  “Vanessa called me this afternoon,” Ashley continued. “Just before you got back.”

  “So? What does that have to do with Chris Fenton?”

  “Well, it seems he came into the pub this afternoon for something to eat. Larry Sample was at the bar with somebody else. Vanessa didn’t say who. Anyway, Larry told Vanessa to call me and have me tell you not to trust him. He said Fenton was saying things he didn’t like.”

  Jordan’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Hm,” she said. “What did Fenton say?”

  “Larry didn’t specify. Just don’t trust him.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t, anyway. Both these companies only want what they can get out of Chat, which is territory. It’s my job to see that a deal gets closed that’s beneficial to us, not them. Because no matter what they say, no matter what they sign, eventually they’ll do whatever they want. I do wonder what Larry Sample heard, though.”

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  Jordan laughed sardonically as she leafed through the proposal. “Oh, no. Don’t bother. You know Larry. He’s always digging up dirt somewhere.”

  They worked over the proposals for a full two hours. Finally, Jordan looked at the clock. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I need to get ready. Can you get these properly printed and bound? I want to have it as ammunition. I know what I’m talking about, but with these guys you have to have everything on paper and you have to back up all your convictions with hard arguments. Also, I want to leave in time to stop in and see Mr. Palmer.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He just finished up another round of chemotherapy. He’s got a break now for a while, but he wants to get this wrapped up soon.” Jordan sighed. “He’s only seventy-four. That’s not that old.”

  Ashley shook her head slowly. “My grandfather died when he was eighty-six, and we thought he was too young to die. Eighty-six is ten years past the average. It’s just that we didn’t want to let him go.”

  “I suppose so,” said Jordan as Ashley shut her laptop and stood up.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said to Jordan and left the room.

  Jordan watched her. Sometimes she envied Ashley. She was so steady, so kind. She saw the truth in everything—she and her husband, Kyle, had been together since eighth grade. They had both attended The Community College of Vermont, and when they graduated, they got married. For three years they had lived in a tiny, three-room apartment up over MacTavish’s Pub. Ashley worked as a waitress; Kyle held the job he’d had all the way through high school as a mechanic at Rick’s Garage. When Ashley finally secured her position at ChatDotCom, they bought a small Cape-style house from Kyle’s cousin on a pretty side street in town. Everything seemed to fall into place for Ashley. Jordan was sure there would be children, probably two. Probably a boy and a girl, two years apart.

  Jordan truly didn’t begrudge Ashley a thing. That was just the way things worked out for some people. She sighed again. Other people were destined to travel a more circuitous route. She slipped into her jacket and picked up her bag.

  Ashley returned with the document. “Here’s the portfolio,” she said, handing the bound paper to Jordan. “I made extra copies. They’re in my desk if you need them, but I think you should only need the one for tonight. Good luck, Jordan!”

  “Thanks,” said Jordan, smiling. “I’m kind of weak in the knees. Maybe I’ll feel better after I talk to Mr. Palmer.”

  “You’ll do just fine. You always do. Tell Mr. Palmer I’m thinking of him.”

  “I will. Good night, Ashley.”

  Jordan walked out the front door to her car. Going to see Mr. Palmer was always a bittersweet experience. She missed him, gone from the office for six months now. On a daily basis, she missed his guidance, his friendship, his mentoring. She tried to see him every chance she got. They had a regular meeting every Monday afternoon and Thursday morning, but she tried to squeeze in extra visits too. She knew he was always glad to see her.

  On the other hand, it pained her immensely to see the once large, boisterous dynamo of a man compromised by disease. He had lost almost fifty pounds. His hair was thin and his skin gray. His face bore the pinched look of a man struggling with serious illness and pain and the rigors of the treatment protocol. When Jordan had accepted the position as his personal assistant two years ago, right after her internship, he had been one of the strongest, surest people she had ever known. He taught her to trust herself, in spite of her circumstances. And in spite of her circumstances, she had rallied, found her niche, and come to know and trust her own judgment. Her confidence had grown until she knew she could depend upon herself. She could do it, whatever needed to be done. And she owed that confidence, that self-awareness, to Gene Palmer.

  When Grace came along, Jordan was cognizant of the gossip that swirled around her, but she steeled herself and gave it no credence. She showed up to work ever
y day and did her job with skill and finesse, just as she always did. She made it a rule to discuss her private life with no one. Mr. Palmer knew the truth, and Ashley and her family knew the truth. They were the only people who mattered to her. Everybody else could think what they wanted.

  She turned off the main street and drove slowly up the long, curved drive. At the top of the hill sat the Palmer house. Built at the turn of the century by a wealthy factory owner, it was a large, imposing, two-story brick square. A white portico softened the front, and a meticulously pruned juniper hedge bordered the lawn. A garage had been added much later, and a greenhouse-style solarium connected it to the house. Jordan parked in front of the garage and entered through the solarium door. Gene Palmer’s wife of fifty-one years looked up from where she sat at the small table in the garden-like room. The late afternoon sun warmed the space. Jordan closed the door on the encroaching chill of the spring evening.

  “Hi, Mrs. Palmer,” said Jordan softly. “How is he today? Is he up for a quick meeting? I’m having a business dinner with Christopher Fenton this evening. I just wanted to speak to him for a minute.”

  Marie Palmer, dark circles under her eyes, gave a tired smile and stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt. “Hello, Jordan. Actually, he’s doing pretty well today. He sat out here with me for lunch. He asked for grilled cheese sandwiches and some soup. I gave it to him, and he kept it down. Then he went in for a nap—”

  “And here I am!” Gene Palmer called out as he walked into the room. In spite of his compromised physical state, Jordan was still aware of the old man’s dignity, sharp intelligence, and curiosity. He moved slowly but steadily toward Jordan and gave her a quick hug. “Have a seat, Jordan. We’ll sit out here. The sun feels good.” Gene sat down heavily on the cushioned wicker sofa with a groan. “There,” he said with a little gasp as he settled himself. Jordan flashed him a warm smile to cover her own sadness and sat down in a wicker chair opposite him.