by J. P. Hansen
“I thought I’d see you last week. Did you visit Elmwood Cemetery?”
That didn’t take long. Brooke’s eyes fluttered a flurry of blinks. “Um, yeah, I did.”
“I thought you might stop by…”
“Daddy, you know that’s a tough day for me. I’m never feeling social on that day.”
“I understand.” He glanced away.
Brooke bit her lower lip and sensed her father’s contemplation. The two remained quiet until they arrived at the pillared entrance of Myers Park Country Club.
“Here we are. I’ll drop you off at the front.” Always the southern gentleman.
Standing at the curb, favoring her good leg, Brooke marveled at the park-like grounds. Rolling hills met magnificent oak and maple trees, forming around the famous Briar Creek. She learned to swim, swing a golf club, and hit a tennis ball here. Happy times.
Brooke didn’t feel like Charlotte Country Club today and was glad that her daddy didn’t persuade her to go there. In Weston’s world, persuade meant demand. She didn’t want to watch him work the room. But, the real reason…the memories of her wedding were too much for her to handle today.
Weston grinned as he ambled up the sidewalk, nearing his daughter. She truly was the apple of his eye. Even in her thirties, she still resembled the seventeen-year-old prom queen. Another couple strolled within earshot of Brooke as Weston called out, “My, you are one beautiful girl.”
Brooke blushed, partly because both strangers glanced over their shoulders, but mainly because, even though she felt unattractive, her daddy made her feel good. As only her daddy could.
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself—for an old man.” They both laughed.
Weston grabbed Brooke’s hand, kissed her cheek, and the two of them shuffled toward the door. “I think your leg’s healed. You walk better than me.” Weston smirked, then lunged ahead for the door. She smiled as she let go of his hand and entered, noticing her foot had improved.
The convivial Byron Nelson Lounge rekindled Brooke’s appetite. With the thoughts of mouth-watering barbeque still lingering from the drive, her stomach growled. They strolled across the stodgy room that resembled an old library more than a bar, settling on a table at the window. Her nose detected good grease, bringing her lips into a curl. Her daddy seated her.
A fifty-something career waitress weaved her way through the half – full lounge and approached. She forced a tepid smile that matched her weary eyes while she scribbled their matching drink orders—iced tea, unsweetened. Brooke felt like a margarita, but didn’t want the lecture about drinking and driving; Weston always waited until five o’clock for any alcohol.
Weston inhaled a deep breath and while exhaling, said, “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you too. Sorry I missed last Saturday.”
“I understand. You’ve been busy and what, with the injury and all…What are you doing with your spare time, now that you can’t run?”
“It’s only a sprain. Even though it’s painful—more painful than any of my stress fractures in college, I’ll be running in no time.” She nodded toward her foot as her ankle started to ache.
“Well, don’t push it. Let it heal this time. Hey, this is one of the few times I could beat you in the mile.” He laughed at his own joke while Brooke smirked. Glancing out the oversized window wall, she spotted a few golfers on the putting green. She recalled her earliest memories of golf. Brooke and Billy would tool around on the practice green before daddy pulled up in the cart. Then, she perched on his lap as he drove them to the first tee. Though too little to play, her daddy let her putt on the real greens alongside him. From her early teens, they used to jog together. At first, it was around the block, then a few blocks, then around the neighborhood, until they would run for five miles. She still remembered beating him for the first time.
If it weren’t for her daddy, she never would have set records in cross country. Brooke had fond memories of running with him as she conditioned for a new track season. After running five miles at a brisk pace, they’d play a best-of-five tennis match—right outside where they were now seated. The courts seemed bigger then, but rekindled the same warm memories.
Weston surveyed the surrounding tables and nodded to a man nearby who Brooke didn’t recognize. Always working the room, Brooke thought. “How has your shoulder been?” Brooke drew her daddy’s gaze back to her.
“It still hurts when I swing a golf club.”
“That’s probably a blessing. Makes you slow down your swing…” They both laughed.
“How’s work?”
Brooke sighed, “I’m not sure.” Weston’s bushy brows furrowed as his dark brown eyes intensified.
“What do you mean?”
“I miss GenSense…this new place just isn’t right for me.”
“I warned you about Pharmical.”
Brooke hoped he wouldn’t do this. “No you didn’t.”
“You know I battled against that company.”
“Oh come on, it was what—four years ago?”
Weston Ingram represented three wrongfully terminated employees of Pharmical: a general manager fired two days after his sixtieth birthday, a sixty-two year old scientist, and a fifty-eight year old sales manager. None of them were “performance related”—like the company claimed. All three had been replaced by much younger outsiders. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Well, I’m not worried about age discrimination. I’m the youngest senior manager they have.”
“It’s not age discrimination. It’s the way they treat people. Pharmical just doesn’t follow the golden rule. They should have settled those cases out of court without smearing three good people in the process.”
“It’s a whole different company today.”
“Not as long as that CEO is still there. That guy could scare a great white out of the water.”
Brooke’s eyes widened. First, his college buddy called him a snake and now her daddy called him a shark. She’d perceived an entirely different side. Now’s not the time to defend Chase Allman, she decided. “Look, I’m their youngest vice president, they pay me a ton of money, and though it’s not my dream job, it could be worse.” She couldn’t believe she was now defending the company she loathed. Daddy could draw her into any debate.
“Excuse me, are you ready to order?” Weston shifted his eyes from Brooke to the waitress.
Ordinarily, Brooke would have asked the waitress to come back later, but she was thrilled by the interruption. “I’ll have the Reuben.”
“Would you like to substitute a salad for the fries?”
“No, I’ll have the fries. And, can you bring ketchup?” The waitress smirked as she jotted on the small pad. Weston frowned.
“I’ll have the blackened grouper with rice. And, can you bring me an ice water with a fresh lemon?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Hungry? Thought you had breakfast.” Weston raised one eye brow at Brooke.
“Actually, I’m starving. I haven’t been eating right lately.”
“You’ve got to take better care of yourself.”
Here we go again with a food debate. “How come you never order a Reuben?”
“Well, I don’t like corned beef or Swiss cheese. And sauerkraut gives me gas.”
“Ewww. Too much information.”
Weston chuckled, then eased into a fatherly grin, “Well, you asked. Don’t expect me to misrepresent myself.”
Brooke glanced away. Does he always have to sound like Perry Mason?
Weston continued, “You never told me about your visit to Elmwood Cemetery.”
I can see why he is so good in court—he’s relentless. “Actually, I’m glad you asked. For the first time, I feel like I’m ready to move on.”
“That’s great. Are you seeing someone?”
“No, Daddy, I’m not.” Brooke’s lips pursed like she bit into a lemon.
“Well, it’s been long enough. It’s time you date
d.”
“I’m not going through this with you again. I’ve been dating.”
“You’ve never dated anyone more than once.”
“Sheesh, enough already. It’s not like flipping a switch and voilà, there’s Mister Right at my doorstep.”
“You’re not even trying though.”
“Look who’s talking?” Brooke paused and bit her lip as her father’s expression darkened. She gritted her teeth, wanting to retract her lack of tact.
“I’ve been meaning to say this to you since Tanner died.”
Brooke’s eyes widened, mouth opened. She wished her sandwich would arrive right now. It didn’t. Weston continued, “The day your mother died was the saddest day of my life,” he paused, having to breathe, “if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have ever made it.” His voice cracked. She understood what he meant all too well.
Weston closed his eyes tightly, then popped them open, “But there’s a reason for everything. We all die. I just couldn’t figure out why God had to take my Mary when He did.” He swallowed hard, “But, I knew you were His gift in return. I wallowed for a long time, then I poured everything into you. I tried to be your mother and father all in one. Sometimes, I failed, but I kept on trying. You turned out okay. Hell, you turned out better than just okay. But, now I see so much of myself in you. It’s almost like you’re me thirty years ago. I shut down then. I wouldn’t let anyone in. There were plenty of chances, but I didn’t take ‘em. Now, I’m an old man without a partner to share life with. Don’t make the same mistake I made.”
Brooke gulped so hard she almost choked. She’d never heard her daddy ramble like this. She almost didn’t recognize him. The usually stoic facade had cracked, leaving only his heart. He glanced away, chin wobbling. Brooke widened her eyes as tears clouded the already dim room.
After a long pause, imbued with emotions that swirled like a hurricane, Brooke said, “I won’t—”
The clanking dish startled father and daughter. “Reuben for the young lady. With fries. I brought you extra ketchup.”
Brooke’s appetite had gone from unquenchable to invisible in a matter of seconds. She stared at the Reuben she had so craved as if it was suddenly covered with mold. The fries she would have killed for earlier now smelled repulsive. She sipped her iced tea, then eyed her daddy. He cut a piece of his fish and forced it into his mouth. He reached for his water and gulped. She could tell his mouth was too dry to eat properly. Just like hers.
Neither one of them spoke while they struggled to eat. Brooke managed to consume half the sandwich and hardly touched her fries. For the first time in as long as she could remember, her daddy left food on his plate.
“Would either of you care for dessert?”
Both Brooke and her father replied in unison, “No.” Weston said, “Please just charge this to my account.”
“Right away, Mr. Ingram. Have a nice day. Hope to see you soon.”
During the short drive back, with the air conditioning still blasting in her face, neither of them spoke. As Weston pulled into the driveway, he said, “You wanna come in for a while?”
“Not today, Daddy. I have a long drive and my foot’s hurting.”
Weston shot a look of dejection, “At least let me grab you a fresh bag of ice.”
“Sure.” As much as Brooke just wanted to bolt out of there, she had to allow her daddy to be the gentleman. And, her ankle throbbed.
After Weston shuffled into the house, Brooke stepped out of his Cadillac. She hobbled over to her car, jumped in, and started the engine. Within a minute, her daddy emerged from the garage carrying a gallon-sized cellophane bag packed with crushed ice. As he handed it to her, he said, “Are you sure you have to leave so soon?”
So soon? The last hour felt like an eternity. She wanted to say something wise like, it’s Saturday, Daddy, how am I going to meet a guy hanging out with you, but instead, “Thanks for lunch, Daddy. I’ll see you soon.”
“Remember what I said.”
“I will. Don’t worry about me. Take care, love you.”
Driving away, Brooke felt drained. Her emotional tank ran dry. Visiting Tanner’s grave, Todd moving away, the job she dreaded, and her aching ankle, all descended on her like a landslide. Between Shane, Todd, and her daddy, she had plenty of advice about life. She realized they were all right—in their own ways—but, she also understood life had to be on her own terms.
It’s not that I don’t want a man—it’s that Mister Right is my boss—and he’s already taken.
Chapter 7
The shrill ring startled her. Her office landline still sounded foreign to her. And Monday mornings were never Brooke’s high achievement intervals as her life coach liked to call them. She had been thinking of calling Shane and hoped it was him, but caller ID revealed a local number. “Hello, this is Brooke Hart.”
“Good morning, Miss Hart. It’s Ruth Shelby from Chase Allman’s office. Do you have a moment?” Brooke shot upright in her chair. She hated being called Miss Hart, but thought against arguing.
“Yes, of course. Hi Ruth.” Brooke almost called her Miss Shelby but bit her lip instead.
Bypassing the return hi and small talk that usually ensued, Ruth said, “Mr. Allman would like to schedule a meeting with you today.”
Big gulp, thinking why? Am I getting fired? “I’m free most of the afternoon.”
“Mr. Allman has an available time slot at 2:15 p.m. Does that work for you?” Brooke sensed it was a rhetorical question since her company outlook was blank all day.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, he’ll see you at 2:15 p.m. sharp.”
“Ruth?”
“Yes, I’m here. Do you have a question?”
“What is the purpose of the meeting?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Allman.” Ruth sounded like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz.
“What should I prepare for the meeting?”
“I don’t know…prepare to answer his questions. You may want to bring a progress report on Integrated Client Services.”
Brooke wanted to slap Chase’s surly guard. “Thanks for your help,” Brooke said with saccharine coating, “I’ll be there at two-fifteen.” Right after hanging up, Brooke said, “Beee-atch.” She ducked her head into slumped shoulders and hoped nobody heard.
Peering out her fifteenth floor window, Brooke’s pulse pounded. Adrenaline surged for him as hackles rose from Ruth. Her petty insolence reminded her of the bitches and backstabbers in high school. And, it all stemmed from jealousy. She wondered why Ruth felt threatened. Is it because I’m younger? Or because I’m a vice president? Or, is it something else?
GenSense never had a real pecking order. Everyone felt important. It extended far beyond the company-wide profit sharing—people just followed the golden rule and worked with a sense of purpose. Pharmical was too big and profit hungry. Perhaps, not sharing equitably in the wealth created a monster. Whatever the case, she sensed Ruth couldn’t be trusted.
A tendril of panic formed in Brooke’s stomach—how am I ever going to prepare a progress report for a division that had made little or no progress since I joined?
***
“Excuse me…Chase.” He dropped his hands from the back of his head and gripped the sides as he spun around on his ergonomic leather chair.
“Hi Ruth.” He smiled that warm smile that made her melt.
“Brooke Hart is scheduled for 2:15 today.”
“Great, thank you.”
“Oh, and she was all worried about the purpose of the meeting.” Ruth raised her eyes.
“She shouldn’t be. What did you tell her?” Chase hoped Ruth didn’t press him. The fact of the matter was he couldn’t shake Brooke from his mind. He used the ankle injury as an excuse to see her.
“I said you just wanted to have an informal discussion.”
“Perfect, thanks. Can you shut my door on your way out?”
Chase waited until Ruth settled her petite torso at her cub
icle. With the door closed, she would hold his calls. He thought, I’m lucky to have Ruth. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
He lifted the telephone off the receiver—the actual landline. This call couldn’t be made from his unprotected cell or office speakerphone. He had used speakerphone on so many conference calls lately that the real phone felt strange. It matched his insides.
He answered on the second ring. Chase lowered his head almost between his legs, and said, “Can you hear me, Max?” The call lasted less than a minute—nothing new to report, as Chase had feared. Listening to the gruff private eye, Chase questioned Max’s competency. This was different than chasing around a philandering spouse with a high-powered zoom lens. If exposed, Chase Allman stood to lose it all.
Chase had been dreading the next call. But, he didn’t dare ignore him. Nobody blew off The Butcher.
***
Brooke scrambled to pull up and print reams of reports. She had a tough time asking Cheryl, her shared assistant, for help—Brooke still didn’t understand the inner workings at Pharmical; plus, it wasn’t in Brooke’s nature. Back at GenSense, she had served as her own assistant—answering her own calls, drafting her own letters, even getting herself her own iced tea. She wondered if Chase treated Ruth as his coffee gopher. As much as she loathed Ruth, Brooke hoped he wasn’t that guy—the one who thought his time was more important than someone else’s. CEO or no CEO, he was no different than another human being.
Though hunger pangs growled, Brooke had no time for even a drive thru. And she couldn’t imagine asking Cheryl to fetch her a Chef Salad, without croutons, and no-fat dressing on the side.
At 2:06, panic extended well beyond tendrils. She drew a deep breath and said, I don’t know what I’m doing…and I don’t even care. How much could he expect me to know? Is he following up on my injury? What was he really interested in?
Another deep breath. Time to find out.
***
Though the ankle still ached and, carrying a full briefcase didn’t help, she advanced without wincing. Brooke had always had a high threshold for pain. She followed orders, icing it at nighttime—when it hurt the most—and attempted to stay off of it. The whole experience actually helped her avoid unnecessary tasks. She sensed this meeting would be anything but unnecessary.
