by Alison Stone
“Midport Industries is not for sale.” He took a sip of his coffee, the hot liquid hitting his sour gut. The day couldn’t possibly get worse.
“Neither one of us wants to be here. Let’s sell the company, take our share and go on with our lives.”
Benjamin shook his head slowly. “It’s not that easy. How do you know this so-called outside company won’t close the plant? The loss of Midport Industries would devastate this town. They need the jobs.”
“Xenon would infuse much-needed money into the company. Buy new equipment. Bring in new customers. Create jobs.” Kathryn ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. “And if we don’t act fast, they may move on to another plant. We’ll miss the opportunity.”
“Xenon.” He didn’t like the sound of it. “Or Xenon could cannibalize the plant. Take our equipment. Move it down south or across the border into Mexico for cheaper labor. And lock the doors.” A headache formed at the base of his skull.
Kathryn’s expression grew tight and she shifted to face the window. “You don’t know that.”
“Midport. Industries. Is. Not. For. Sale.”
“I know you can’t afford to buy me out. All your money is tied up in your business in Atlanta.”
Benjamin wiped his hands on his napkin. “How do you know that?”
“I’m not a rookie. I did my research.” She eyed him with a cool distance.
“You have no right prying into my private affairs.”
“When your father left me half the company, my lawyer and your father’s lawyer had lengthy conversations. Did you think I’d blindly return and report to work?” Her hands were back on the table, the knuckles of her interlaced fingers turning white. “You were invited to meet with us.”
And what? Let her know how betrayed he had felt by his father’s last minute change to his will? How it made him feel like a kid again when dear old Dad didn’t have faith in him? Reaffirming his belief that he’d always been his father’s second choice. The spare.
“I have another life too. A life I’d like to get back to,” Kathryn said.
“No one’s holding you here. Go,” Benjamin said as he leaned across the table.
She shook her head. “I’m not walking away. Not without financial compensation. My dad made the company what it is today. My family is entitled to everything we’re going to get.” She leaned forward, mirroring his intimidation tactic. “I’m sure Xenon will make it worth your while. Don’t you want the financial freedom to do what you really want to do? Instead of following someone else’s dream?”
“Midport Industries has been my family’s blood, sweat and tears.” He felt his face getting red. “I can’t sell it.”
“Why not? What are you trying to prove?”
Her words cut like a knife. What was he trying to prove? That he was as good as Craig? That he was worthy of the inheritance? That his father had been wrong all those years ago in selecting his brother over him to run the plant? A million thoughts swirled in his head, exhaustion settling in his bones. “I’m not selling.”
“We’ll see.” Kathryn slid out of the bench just as Betsy returned with two plates piled high with some tantalizing concoction.
“You leaving?” Betsy seemed genuinely disappointed.
Benjamin slid out of the booth. “You stay.” He threw money on the table. “I’m going.”
Well, that didn’t go as planned.
Kathryn felt an emptiness no dessert—no matter how many slivers of almond and white chocolate shavings were on it—could fill. She reached for the check and cash, wanting more than anything to get out of there.
“Where’s the fire?” Betsy asked, watching Benjamin make a beeline to the door. Betsy pushed Kathryn back into the booth and sat down across from her.
Kathryn pursed her lips. Before she had a chance to speak, a man with a goatee slipped onto the bench next to Betsy. “Hello, ladies.”
Kathryn stared at him in confusion. She had seen him before. A chill raced up her spine as realization dawned. She’d noticed him at the plant today. He had been hanging out by the wash where Johnny had drowned.
“This is David Thompson,” Betsy said in a monotone voice, seemingly annoyed by the intrusion.
“I believe we’ve met.” For some unknown reason, anxiety twisted Kathryn’s insides. Maybe she was just feeling uneasy from her argument with Benjamin.
“Perhaps we have.” David pinched the gelled hair at his forehead and ran his fingers down the strands, restyling it.
The corners of his thin mouth lifted, and he waggled his eyebrows. “Hard to forget this face, huh?” He reached across and patted Betsy’s cheek. She grimaced and backed away.
“Can you please leave? I’m trying to catch up with my sister.” Betsy made a shooing gesture.
Something niggled at Kathryn’s brain, something at the fringes. “Did you grow up around here, David?”
He seemed to give her question some consideration, pressing his index finger to his goatee. “Nah, I moved here a few years ago after I graduated from high school.”
“His grandmother owns the diner, and he lives with her in the apartment upstairs.” She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “He likes to come in here and bug me all the time when he’s not working at the factory.”
“Ah, you love it.” David smirked.
“I’d love it if you’d get out of here so I can talk to my sister.” Betsy opened her eyes wide and glared at him.
“I will, but I wanted to check to see if the rumors are true. You selling the plant?” David jerked his thumb toward the window, in the direction of the factory, Kathryn supposed.
Kathryn gave him a tight smile. She hadn’t planned to make her intentions public. Not officially anyway. “No decisions have been made.”
He tapped out a cigarette and twirled it around his fingers. “Not yet, huh? Bud Farley ain’t going to take this laying down.”
“Bud Farley?”
“He’s the president of Local 770,” Betsy said. “Fights tooth and nail for everything he can get.” She shrugged in response to Kathryn’s puzzled look and waved one hand in a sweeping gesture. “I hear people talk. A hazard of the job.”
“I better go.” David stood abruptly and winked at Betsy. “Nice to meet you, Katie.”
Kathryn was about to correct him but decided to let it go. Only one person had ever called her by that nickname.
Once David had left, Betsy tilted her head, a twinkle in her eye. “You don’t like him. He’s an acquired taste.”
“Are you dating?”
Betsy laughed. “Seriously?” She shook her head. “Mrs. Thompson has been so nice to me. She says I’m a good influence on her grandson. So we hang out sometimes. His other friends are a little rough around the edges.”
Kathryn bit her lower lip before she spoke. “Okay…” She struggled to hide her emotions. Lately, she had too many to hide.
“You don’t believe me? Let me guess. You don’t want me to fall for some guy who works at the plant.” Betsy filled in the blanks. “You don’t want me to get stuck at the diner. You. You. You. It’s always what you think we all should want.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Her conversation with Benjamin came to mind.
“I don’t have to.” Betsy shook her head. “Your face says it all.”
“You deserve the best.” Kathryn acquiesced. She reached for Betsy’s hand, but her sister pulled away and rose to her feet.
Betsy spun around and planted her palms on the table. “I know I deserve the best. Have you ever considered I’m happy here? You’ve been gone for ten years. You have no right to assume you know what’s best for me.”
Kathryn blinked back the tears. Regret. Grief. Sympathy. She took a sip from her homemade cocktail of pain. “I’m sorry.”
Betsy expression softened. “It’s okay. Why don’t you stick around awhile this time? Maybe you’ll realize Midport isn’t so bad.” Her sister touched her hand briefly. “I have to get back to my
customers. We’ll talk later?”
“Sounds good.” Kathryn stared at the kitchen door long after Betsy disappeared through it.
Kathryn finally gathered her things and left, the day’s events weighing heavily on her. She crossed the parking lot, the gravel crunching under her shoes. As she approached her silver car, she noticed a yellow paper flapping on her windshield under the wiper. Without giving it much thought, she plucked it out. Probably a notice of a church service or bake sale.
A cold wind whipped up. She shivered and turned up her collar to protect her neck. She slid in behind the wheel and threw the note and her purse on the passenger seat. She wanted to go home and take a warm bath. Wash away the events of the day. Her first full day in Midport, heaven help her.
She reached over to get the keys from her purse when something on the flyer caught her attention. She held her breath as she smoothed the paper against the steering wheel. Someone had painstakingly cut letters from a magazine to form the words: Johnny’s death no accident. Be careful.
A tingly flush raced up her neck and down her arms. She pushed open the door and stepped out, her eyes scanning the parking lot. The pinging sound of an engine drew her attention to the far corner of the lot. A faded red, early-model VW Bug turned out of the lot and sped down the street.
Nerves rattled, Kathryn climbed into her car and flipped the locks. Shaking, she fumbled with her cell phone and hesitated.
She had no one to call.
Chapter Four
Kathryn stared at her cell phone, hesitant to call the police. The size of the department guaranteed she’d have to deal with Officer Gavin. The thought made her stomach knot. As a young recruit, he had been one of the first to respond to the 9-1-1 call regarding her father’s death. His incompetence at the scene left nagging doubts in a loving daughter’s mind as to the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. Or was it wishful thinking? She shook away the thought. Why bother with the police? They had already determined Johnny’s death wasn’t a criminal matter.
She read the note again. Johnny’s death no accident. Be careful. She pressed a hand to her temple. The headache from earlier threatened to return. A loud rap on the window made her jump.
The passenger window on her vehicle framed Benjamin’s concerned face. Her hand flew to her chest. She thought her thundering heart might explode. She flipped the automatic locks, then leaned across the seat and released the handle.
Benjamin pulled the door open and crouched down in the opening. “Everything okay?”
“Look at this.” She shoved the flyer into his hands.
He seemed to study it for a minute before looking through the front windshield. “That’s what Ed Smythe was up to.”
Kathryn narrowed her gaze. “I don’t understand. You saw who left this?”
Nodding, Benjamin gestured with his thumb toward the building next to the diner. “I was coming out of the drugstore when I noticed Ed putting something on your windshield. I thought it was strange that yours was the only car he tagged.”
“But why?”
Benjamin lifted his chin. “Mind if I get in? I was hoping to catch a ride home.” A hint of amusement gleamed in his eyes.
Kathryn laughed, a welcome release. A hint of embarrassment heated her cheeks. She had, after all, driven him to the diner. “Of course, get in.” He slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed behind him.
“Start the car. I want to take you somewhere.”
Fifteen minutes later, Benjamin and Kathryn pulled up a long gravel driveway leading to a small ranch sitting under tall pine trees. “Where are—” Kathryn stopped midsentence. He followed her wide-eyed stare to an old Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of the garage.
“The car you saw pulling out of the lot?”
She nodded slowly. “Should we be here?” Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel suggested she’d rather be somewhere else. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“Park behind the VW. We’re fine.”
Kathryn complied, staring at the house through the windshield. Her clear blue eyes looked uncertain, a contrast to her usual polished demeanor. He climbed out of the car. A brisk autumn wind slapped his face, numbing his ears. He jogged around the front of her sports car, acknowledging—not for the first time—she must be doing well financially.
He mentally scolded himself for not asking more questions about her life. He had been so bent out of shape about his father’s will to even ask her what she’d been up to all these years. When would I have done that? Shortly after she arrived, Johnny was killed in the wash.
Then she made the crazy suggestion to sell Midport Industries.
Now this.
It didn’t leave a lot of time for idle chitchat.
Benjamin glanced at the house. A single bulb lit a small porch stoop. He met Kathryn on her side of the car. She had her shoulders hunched and her sleeves pulled over her hands. “How well do you know—“ she seemed to be searching for a name, “—this Smythe guy?” Uncertainty threaded her tone.
“Ed Smythe’s a janitor at the plant. Near retirement. He’s had a rough time of it.” Benjamin cupped her elbow and led her up the walkway.
Before Benjamin had time to explain further, Ed, dressed in a gray T-shirt and blue work pants, opened the inside door but kept the screen door shut. Time had not been kind to Ed. An ugly combination of pain and anger hardened his already sharp features. “What do you want?” he barked. Next to Benjamin, Kathryn flinched.
“I think you know what we want.” Benjamin used a soft tone, hoping the old adage was true. You catch more flies with honey. “Have you been out tonight?”
Ed pulled a loose cigarette from his T-shirt breast pocket. He had a hole near the collar that had probably been there for years. He put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it and took a long drag. “Nope, can’t say I have.” His words came out on a cloud of smoke.
Benjamin raised the flyer. “Recognize this?”
Ed’s face colored slightly. His expression remained hard.
“Wait, before you say anything more, what if I told you we saw you?” Benjamin didn’t want to cause the older man further embarrassment by a long denial that would eventually be disproved. Kathryn tensed under his touch.
Ed appeared every bit the broken man as he leaned against the doorframe. He turned the handle on the screen door and pushed it open with his foot. “Come in. Talk to my wife.”
Ed led the way through the house. Instinctively, Benjamin took Kathryn’s hand in his—was surprised when she didn’t pull away—and they followed the older man through the living room and kitchen to a small sunroom of sorts in the back of the house. Thick drapes covered all the windows. He sensed it had been a long time since sun had warmed the room.
A thick haze of tobacco smoke filled the cramped space. Ed’s wife sat on the couch stroking a cat curled up on the ottoman in front of her. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray resting precariously on the arm of the couch She flicked a nervous glance at her husband, then back at Benjamin, her eyes sparking to life. “I know who you are. You’re his son.”
Benjamin stopped short, confused by the woman’s harsh words. The man went to his wife’s side and touched her shoulder. “They know we sent the note,” Ed said, his voice soft, as if he owed her an apology.
Kathryn squeezed Benjamin’s hand, drawing his attention. “Look over there,” she said, gesturing to the corner of the room. Scissors rested on a pile of magazines tucked under a table adorned with candles and photos.
The older woman hitched a shoulder. “You already know we sent the note. Now what are you going to do about it?” She laughed, a mirthless noise punctuated by a wet, popping sound. A smoker’s laugh.
“Why did you put that note on my car, Mr. Smythe?” Kathryn pulled her hand free from Benjamin’s.
“They killed Johnny Beck. Just like they killed my Nicholas,” Mrs. Smythe answered for her husband, her angry eyes pooling with tears.
Ed squeezed his wife’s shoulder.
Between the cloying smell of cigarettes and the flickering candles, the walls grew close. Too close. It reminded Benjamin of his father’s bedroom as he lay dying. Now he was eager to get answers and get out of here. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smythe, but didn’t your son die in Iraq?” A fist tightened in his chest as he thought of his brother in Afghanistan.
“My son had to go to Iraq because he couldn’t find another job. The management at Midport Industries—including your father—are directly responsible for his death. If they hadn’t fired him, he’d still be home working at the plant.”
Benjamin’s stomach hollowed out.
“I’m sorry.” Kathryn was talking to the Smythes, but she met Benjamin’s gaze as if to say, It’s okay. She touched the corner of a picture frame sitting on the table. “May I?” After Mrs. Smythe gave a subtle nod, Kathryn picked up the photo and sat next to the older woman.
“This is my son, dear,” Mrs. Smythe said. Benjamin took notice of the images in the photos decorating the small table. One was of a baby-faced boy in a military uniform. The other photos captured their son in various stages of his life.
A young boy, no more than five or six, with a cardboard mortarboard on his head waved at the camera. Kindergarten graduation, no doubt. A Boy Scout uniform. A toothless child with a crooked helmet. His first bike. The photographs in the makeshift shrine had preserved a few fleeting moments in time forever etched on a grieving mother’s soul. Benjamin could only imagine the depth of the grief consuming her.
Benjamin’s throat tightened while tears flowed freely down Kathryn’s cheeks. Rumor had it Mrs. Smythe had suffered a nervous breakdown after her only son was killed in Iraq. As much as it pained him, he had to find out why the Smythes found it necessary to send an anonymous warning note to Kathryn.
“Why did you leave the note?”
Mrs. Smythe looked at her husband. He nodded his approval. She shifted her attention to Benjamin, her eyes holding barely veiled contempt. “Your father fired him.”
“Why?” Benjamin crossed the room and sat on the couch next to Kathryn.
