That makes one of us.
Marco flashed him a practiced smile and reached his hand across the table. Jonathan wished he’d had time to wipe off his damp palm before putting it into Marco’s strong grip.
MARCO’S JOURNAL
END OF day one at Vallen Industries. Interesting. The company has good bones, as they say about creaky old houses, but it’s been mismanaged almost into the ground. I don’t blame Jonathan either. It’s clear Frederick is the one still holding the reins, while Jonathan dances to his tune. Vallen Jr. obviously doesn’t have a clue about business and doesn’t seem interested in learning, no matter what dutiful rot he spouted to me today. One note: the data sheets and reports are pristine, unusually so. If those are Jonathan’s doing, he might have promise as a numbers guy. Maybe the CFO? Numbers don’t seem to intimidate him as much as people do. Okay. Enough about the Vallens. Can I make a difference? Absolutely. Give me a year and I’ll have that place singing.
For tomorrow: cardio, pick up dry cleaning, cat food, flowers for Ashley, visit Mama’s grave—sixth anniversary of her death. RIP Mama. I hope I make you proud.
Gratitude: business opportunities keep coming, my health, being warm and well-fed and having Bunny the magical cat to keep me company. (Ironic that no one in Boston would suspect I’m grateful for being warm and well-fed. They all think I was born with that silver spoon in my mouth—like Jonathan Vallen. If I’d had the opportunities he had, no way I’d be such a schlump.)
Chapter TWO
SAFELY HOME from another soul-sucking day at Vallen Industries, and with Father out of the way at work for another few hours, Jonathan played loudly, letting the organ music crash over him. He badly needed his music fix, after suffering Pellegrini’s withering glances at his ineptitude the past few days. At this rate, he didn’t know how he’d make it to the end of the week. He swallowed painfully over the sore throat that he’d woken up to this morning. He felt achy and kind of feverish too. Great. Perfect timing, getting ill now and providing Pellegrini with more ammunition about Jonathan’s general unfitness to run the company. Although none of that was going to matter soon enough.
Trying to ignore his aching muscles, Jonathan played on. He loved the piano, the harpsichord, the organ… anything with keys. He used to sit in this family room—smaller and more intimate than their formal living room—for hours, playing while Mother sat reading or embroidering. Often she’d put whatever she was doing aside to devote full attention to Jonathan’s music. She’d close her eyes with a happy smile and…. Jonathan’s eyes filled, but he played on. Music was his lifeline, what made him feel whole in the face of all the crap. It was mostly what had pulled him through in the black months after Mother’s death.
Thoughts of Mother inevitably become thoughts of the cottage. He needed to finalize his plans for moving to the Cape. He still hadn’t told Father of his intention to move there permanently. He’d been sucking it up and pretending to be Pellegrini’s avid student for the last three days. Anthony had advised him to send Father the news in an e-mail, the better to avoid the wrathful scene that was sure to ensue. “Do the e-mail and then get out, doll. We’re hitting the road as soon as you hit Send.” But when to do it was the question.
Jonathan was seized by a series of sneezes so explosive his hands slipped off the keys. Double drat. He clutched his pounding head and tried to think. With Pellegrini around, this was the perfect time to leave. Father didn’t need Jonathan in the company, not with Marco Pellegrini at the helm. Although Marco wouldn’t win any awards for friendliness, he was effective. He’d been there less than a week, and the difference in efficiency was already palpable. Jonathan could exit stage left now without feeling complete guilt at deserting Father.
He pulled out a tissue and blew his nose, then stared at the artificial Christmas tree in the corner. Okay. He was calling in sick tomorrow and Friday. Who cared what Pellegrini thought about Jonathan’s work ethic? He could use the time to start packing. Next week was Christmas, and business at Vallen Industries slowed way down this time of year. Workaholics like Father showed up, but most of the staff went on holiday. Of course, Father would expect Jonathan to be at work to continue being coached by Marco, but Jonathan planned to stretch out his illness and not come back to work at all before he left Boston for the Cape. He’d stay in town through Christmas, though. It was Father’s first without Mother as much as it was Jonathan’s, and although Frederick Vallen rarely displayed emotion, Jonathan’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to let Father spend Christmas Day alone.
But on December 26, he was out of here. For good.
MARCO’S JOURNAL
VALLEN INDUSTRIES Day 5. Afraid Jonathan Vallen is proving a hopeless case. He only lasted a few days before calling in sick. Seems depressed, or just supremely unmotivated. He should start exercising, would help. Having Frederick Vallen as a father would depress anyone. What a prick. Overheard him yelling at Jonathan in his office. Hope Frederick isn’t going to be around much. Don’t need him breathing down my neck. Think I came to an understanding with Norris, the VP, about the press release. Need to keep an eye on him. Not sure what he’s after. Okay, Marco, positive thoughts only. Did 225 lbs on bench press this a.m. Felt good to kick the fitness regimen up a notch.
For tomorrow: pick up tux for charity ball, season symphony tickets—should I get a pair? Ashley hates classical. One ticket will do. Haircut. Ask Ashley’s PA to get A’s Xmas present for me—I have no ideas.
Gratitude items: Bach cantatas, the good coffee I’ve got, the new project of turning yet another worthy business around. Bunny the magical cat. And Sophia the magical sister who called today just to tell me she loves me. Imagine that!
Chapter THREE
DECEMBER 26, 2014
TO: Frederick Vallen
CC: Marco Pellegrini
FROM: Jonathan Vallen
Subject: Resignation from Vallen Industries
I am tendering my resignation from Vallen Industries, effective today, 12/26/14. I believe wholeheartedly in the mission of Vallen Industries and wish to see the company regain its former success. The staff are superb and our products second to none. However, it’s become obvious that I am not the man to move the company forward.
I am encouraged by the addition of Marco Pellegrini as acting CEO. After having the chance to work with him last week, I am convinced he has the talent and the vision to turn our company around.
Thank you for the opportunity to serve in the company. I look forward to seeing the results of Marco’s leadership.
Sincerely,
Jonathan Vallen
“YOU SEND it?” Anthony threw a few more pairs of pants into a suitcase, then shut and fastened it.
“Yeah.” Jonathan’s hands shook, but the deed was done.
“Uncle Frederick is going to throw a fit. Where is he?” Anthony cast a nervous glance at the bedroom door like he was expecting him to burst in at any moment.
“At work, of course. I don’t know. I mean, yes, he’ll probably blow a gasket, but he’s got someone much more competent running the company now.”
“Marco the dreamboat.” Anthony heaved a dramatic sigh. “Now that you’re gone, I won’t have a reason to drop by and catch his eye.”
Jonathan made a face. “The man is all work. I think he’s part robot. And good luck catching his eye. I doubt he’d be able to pick me out of a line-up, even after working with him for three days.”
“Well, speaking of catching people’s eyes….” Anthony’s pointed glance swept over Jonathan’s current outfit, Hush Puppies and all. “If you’d only let me make you over.”
“Too late now. I’m going to live in sweats and T-shirts at the Cape. And holey old sweaters.” His phone rang, with the moving company’s name on the display. “Hello. Yes. Mm-hm, I need the harpsichord picked up first thing tomorrow morning. Yes, the same address. Thank you.”
When he threw down the phone, Anthony stood staring at him. “You’re bringing the harpsichord?”
“Of course. I’ve got the old piano out there, and it’s in good shape. The organ is another matter. I’m not going to try getting that moved yet. But my harpsichord is easy. I’ll pack up my music later tonight…. What?”
“I don’t know.” Anthony gave a quick shake of his head. “It’s like I just realized this is actually happening. You really are moving, as in permanently.”
“Yes. I really am.”
They shared a look, and then Anthony clapped his hands. “Hot damn, cousin, this is the coolest thing you’ve ever done! Come on, let’s get these suitcases into the car before Uncle Frederick gets home.”
Soon they were pounding down the stairs and into the garage. They flung bags into the back of Anthony’s van, already crowded with boxes and other suitcases. Jonathan climbed into the passenger seat, and Anthony pulled out into the street and headed out of town. They grinned at each other and hooted as one.
Freedom!
MARCO’S JOURNAL
UNEXPECTED EVENTS. Jonathan Vallen did a runner. Sent a resignation email to the old man, cc me. I hear through the rumor mill that he’s left town. Probably for the best. I’d run in his shoes, too. Or not. Secretary said he hasn’t been the same since his mother died. Damn, now I’m thinking of Mama. Still miss her cooking and her hugs. Ashley doesn’t hug. Fine by me, really. Less entanglement the better.
Remember for tomorrow: make appointment at Discreet Dreams, being horny gets in the way. Or maybe should step up my exercise regimen? No, I want to be touched. Ask for massage with happy ending by their hunkiest masseur. Cancel travel plans for New Year’s. Too soon, and with all the upheaval, someone needs to be here to run Vallen Industries.
Gratitude: that my own prick of a father died before he could drag me down with him. That I got out of public housing and hitched that free ride to Harvard. That despite the craziness of my family and childhood, I made it through and so did Sophia. That I have music and art and beauty in my life. That I’ve been given amazing opportunities. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be living in a Back Bay penthouse at age 32, with a beautiful blonde girlfriend, being CEO of a company like Vallen Industries. I’d thank God if I wasn’t so mad at Him for making Christians such a bunch of homophobic assholes. Thanks anyway, Man Upstairs. Amen!
Chapter FOUR
CAPE COD—New Year’s Eve
THE CANDLES flickered, casting fantastic shadows on the wall, the small tree twinkled with lights of red, blue, and gold, and the fire died slowly in the hearth. Jonathan played on—Bach, Byrd, Telemann, and Mendelssohn… and finally, as midnight drew near, he launched into a stately version of “Auld Lang Syne.” As the last strains of music faded, fireworks sounded in the distance, marking the beginning of 2015.
Jonathan picked up a glass of champagne from the table and raised it in a toast.
“To you, Mother. Happy New Year. Here’s to my new life. Thank you for making it possible.”
He sipped the bubbly and set down his glass with a sigh of satisfaction. Being all alone to ring in the New Year was exactly what he wanted. Anthony thought he was crazy to be out on the Cape all by himself and had tried to get him to come to a party in Boston, but the Cape was where Jonathan wanted to be. He had no problem being alone. And he loved his little cottage.
Jonathan surveyed the cozy room, then smiled. One day he’d like to not be all alone on New Year’s Eve. He’d like to have a dog and, okay, a great guy to cozy up next to. But for right now, Jonathan was content and filled with anticipation for beginning a whole new life.
His phone buzzed. When he saw Father’s name on the display, he almost didn’t pick up. But duty still tugged. Battling visions of him alone and drunk on New Year’s Eve, he answered.
“Happy New Year, Father.”
“It will be when you come to your senses and get your ass back to Boston.”
Father’s words were slurred, and the tinkling sound of ice cubes confirmed what Jonathan had envisioned. Jonathan could see him—sitting in his study in the big empty house, bourbon on the rocks in hand, staring at the many photographs of James adorning the opposite wall and the one of Mother he kept on his desk.
Waylaid by a wrench of sympathy, Jonathan concentrated on taking a cleansing breath. “I’m not planning to do that. As I’ve told you the last three times you called.”
“I can’t believe you bailed. Pellegrini is temporary. I brought him in to teach you, not to have you run away.” Father paused to take another sip, but Jonathan had nothing to say. He was actually surprised at Father’s insistence that Jonathan return to Boston and stay with the company. He’d have thought Father would be relieved to get him out of his hair.
“Well?” Father prompted.
“It’s been four years. Why can’t you understand I’m not CEO material?” Jonathan almost said James’s name, as in James was the one who could run a company, not me, but stopped himself. He and Father had an unspoken pact to not mention James.
James had been the golden boy. As a son, James had exceeded even Father’s high expectations, combining athletic prowess and stellar scholastic achievement with a happy and extroverted nature. He had brought not only Father but all of them joy, and Father had taught him everything he knew. Jonathan was the polar opposite of James. From the moment he’d been born, he was a mama’s boy, having inherited Mother’s introverted nature and love of music. But he had never begrudged James his status as the favored son, because James had been as kind and wonderful to Jonathan as he’d been to everyone else.
They’d even had fun as a family back in the days before death had robbed them of their two best members. Father, despite his fierce façade in running a business, had a playful side that Mother and James had been able to bring out. Although Jonathan had no aptitude for sports, he’d excelled at board and card games, and they’d spent many nights when both boys were young playing raucous rounds of Uno and Sorry!, graduating to pinochle and cribbage as the years went on.
And despite his lack of interest in music, Father had attended all of Jonathan’s recitals from elementary school through college. He’d even said he was proud when 17-year-old Jonathan had won a regional piano competition and made it into the prestigious Berklee College of Music. But that was also the year Jonathan had fallen in love with his music academy instructor, Gregory—an affair that was inevitably discovered. After that, Father became adamantly opposed to Jonathan continuing to pursue music. He’d finally acceded reluctantly to James and Mother’s demands that Jonathan be allowed to go to Berklee, but Jonathan had long suspected that Father’s request for him to join Vallen Industries after James’s death had been motivated in part by his wanting to tear Jonathan away from a music career.
Father’s voice brought Jonathan back to the present. “That’s what Pellegrini is for. He’ll make you into a CEO. Jesus Christ, do you want Vallen Industries to be sold to some stranger? Am I the only one who gives a good goddamn about keeping it in the family?”
I don’t care to the first question, and yes to the second. “I’m sure you won’t have to sell it.”
“Oh yeah? Who do you think is going to step in after Pellegrini turns it around? Your faggot cousin, Anthony? That’s a laugh.”
Hands shaking, Jonathan tried for another calming breath as the softness he’d been feeling toward Father evaporated. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? It’s what he is.” Clink. Sip. “At least you got through that ridiculous homo phase of yours,” Father muttered. “Even if you’re a pansy-ass about running the company.”
Jonathan swallowed over the bitter lump in his throat. “I tried, Father.”
Father snorted. “Tried. Sometimes I wonder where you came from.”
Tears stung Jonathan’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words came. All his life Father had berated him for not being good enough. For not being like James, the perfect son. And even though Jonathan had loved James fiercely, Father’s dismissal of Jonathan as a less than adequate son still
hurt. And all his life he’d become mute and powerless in the face of Father’s disdain. A wave of grief knocked him breathless. Mother. She’d always been his refuge from Father’s lacerating words. Come back. Please.
Mumbling “I gotta go,” Jonathan hung up on Father, his optimistic mood gone.
Who did he think he was, anyway, to believe he deserved to be happy?
MARCO’S JOURNAL
HAPPY NEW Year 2015. Glad the holidays are behind us. Didn’t mind working, though. Glad I had an excuse not to accompany Ashley and her ritzy friends on their ski vacation. Why go somewhere even colder and with more snow? Next year remember to go somewhere warm and sunny. Speaking of cool temperatures, A’s still acting kind of cold. I guess the Victoria Secret’s lingerie Bethany picked out didn’t cut it for my Xmas present. Could A have wanted an engagement ring? Already? God. Don’t know if I can do this. What would Mama have said? “Be yourself, Marco. Just be yourself and everybody love you.” I don’t know about that. Be gay? Or bi, I guess. I’m able to get it up with A, thank God. But I don’t enjoy it all that much. Face it—I’m queer. Not a great idea to flaunt it with the board members. That’s all. And given Ashley’s dad is on the board… okay, Mama, stop shaking your finger at me with those sad eyes. I’ll consider being myself.
For tomorrow: Saturday. Catch up on end of year reports. Cat food (where does she put it all? I’d be a blimp if I ate as much as Bunny the magical cat does). Cardio and upper body. Discreet Desires massage with Hank the hunky masseur. Then no more. It’s too tempting and if I’m going to get engaged to A, I need to be faithful.
All the Way to Shore Page 2
