The Company You Keep

by Tracy Kelleher

  Joe rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the lecture, Mr. Miyagi, my personal sensei.”

  “Anytime. My ‘Wax On, Wax Off’ lecture is scheduled for tomorrow.” Vic rested his elbows on his blotter. “Now, who’s so anxious to talk to me—” he shuffled through the pink paper slips “—that he keeps calling…what…three…no, four times?”

  “The head honcho at Pilgrim Investors. I checked around, and they’ve got their own building on Park Avenue, besides offices in London, Tokyo and Shanghai. Rumor has it that they’re planning a new office in Australia—the economy’s booming there what with their large supply of raw materials going directly to China. They’re players, big time—trust me.” He shot back Vic’s own words.

  Vic could do without players. But business was business. “So, if there’s a possibility of new construction, why didn’t they contact you?”

  Joe shook his head. “I tried pointing that out to him over the phone, but got nowhere. He’s one of those blue-blood types who only talks to the top dog. If it gets down to the nitty-gritty, then his lackeys will step in and deal with me.”

  Vic rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “All right, let’s see what the big man has to say. Little does he know I was born in Trenton and grew up in a row house.”

  “Ah, but you’re still the one with the Grantham degree,” Joe needled him.

  “See, if only you had stuck with football,” Vic replied, and he could have said, “studied a bit harder,” but he didn’t. Why rub it in? Instead, Vic picked up one of the message slips and started to punch in the number.

  Suddenly, Abby stuck her head in the open door. “Hey, boss, thought I’d let you know. That young couple you helped in the warehouse?” She worked the chewing gum in her mouth. Abby was a smoker, and since there was no smoking in the building, she was a constant gum chewer in between cigarette breaks in the parking lot. “Well, they ended up going with the Verde Typhoon granite from our Platinum Collection, and are now thinking about the Yellow Bamboo stone for the vanity top in the master bath. I told them no problem—we’d hold a slab, and they could just call in the dimensions. If we don’t hear back in a day or two, I’ll follow up.”

  Pleased, Vic nodded. “Good work, Abby. We just quadrupled the price of the sale. You could teach my younger brother here a thing or two.”

  Abby eyed Joe and laughed knowingly. “That’s not what I heard. Word is he’s the one who likes to play teacher.”

  Joe tugged at a starched cuff of his white dress shirt. His onyx cufflink winked. “Hey, anytime you want to be a pupil I’d be delighted.”

  Abby threw back her head and erupted in a gagging smoker’s cough. “Please, not only am I old enough to be your mother, I have three sons of my own. No one can spot bull faster than a mother of sons.” Long divorced, Abby had grown up in the same Polish neighborhood of Trenton as Vic’s parents, and it had been his father’s idea that she work for the company.

  “You two can go at it all day if you want, but some of us have work to do.” Vic picked up his phone and started to dial again.

  Abby saluted and scampered off.

  For a fiftysomething mom she still looked pretty good in a tight black skirt, Vic thought. He leaned on his elbow and waited, listening to the phone connection.

  “Mr. Lodge’s office,” a male voice answered at the other end.

  Vic shifted the phone to the right hand so he could write with his left on a legal pad. “This is Vic Golinski from GSI, Golinski Stone International. I’m returning—” he looked at the slip again since names were not his strength “—Mr. Lodge’s calls.”

  “If you’ll hold, I’ll see if Mr. Lodge is available.”

  “No problem.” Vic began doodling a grid pattern on the legal pad. He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Joe. “I’m on hold for the great man.”

  Then he leaned back in his chair and winked at Roxie. She blinked, her thick white lashes fluttering, but her brow remained furrowed. Roxie was one of those dogs that seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Just look at her cross-eyed and she was convinced she had cancer. Maybe this time she was right.

  “Mr. Golinski.” A gravelly male voice drawled out Vic’s name. The aristocratic overbite extended the last syllable into almost two. “Conrad Lodge III here. You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Golinski.”

  “Vic, please, and I’m sorry for the delay. Things have been slightly hectic this morning, but now I’m all yours. What can I do for you, Mr. Lodge?”

  No first-name familiarity was reciprocated, not that Vic had expected anything else. But then he had a thought. Conrad Lodge? “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but your name is very familiar.”

  “Perhaps because you’ve seen me mentioned in the Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Yes, I suppose for someone in your line of work—stone and all—that wouldn’t be your usual reading matter.”

  Vic didn’t feel the need to convince him otherwise. What point was there in informing him that he had an MBA from Stanford and that GSI was now the leading distributor of natural stone in North America.

  No, he wasn’t about to set the record straight because he knew all about people like Conrad Lodge III. They liked to look down at people in “the stone business”—good honest people like his father, who worked with their hands and believed that if you worked hard enough, anything was possible—especially for your children.

  No, he wouldn’t give Conrad Lodge III the satisfaction of knowing he’d pissed him off. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t usually get beyond the sports pages—being an ex-jock and all,” Vic responded. He leaned back in his chair and rested his stocking feet on the lip of the trash can next to Roxie’s pillow.

  The dog stirred and knocked the plastic cone around her head against the black container. Clearly, it annoyed her. If Vic knew that Roxie wouldn’t bother the bandaged ear, he’d take the thing off.

  Conrad chortled as if he were actually sharing the joke. “Of course. Which is exactly why I called.”

  “Not many people have any interest in my short-lived football career.” Vic wasn’t being modest, merely stating a fact. But he also knew that prospective customers, once they found out about his former sports career, liked to dish the dirt. Everyone was an expert or a fan, it seemed. Then after that ritual dance, they usually got down to business. “How can I help you?” He continued to draw on the pad, adding vertical lines to the grid pattern.

  “You may recall that I’ve sent you several emails regarding Grantham University, in particular Reunions in June.”

  Vic had a vague recollection of deleting some emails with a Grantham email address. He figured it was yet another solicitation for the alumni fund or the latest capital campaign. Not that he didn’t value his education and the opportunities it had opened up for him, but that didn’t mean he was about to fork over more than his two hundred dollars a year that he obligingly offered. Let the Conrad Lodge the Third’s of the world dip into their ample trust funds… . With a few quick jabs, he drew some arching lines, fanning outward.

  Wait a minute… Conrad Lodge III?

  Vic abruptly lifted his foot off the garbage can and planted both feet firmly on the floor. “Hold it. Now I remember why I know your name.” He lay the pen on the pad. “You wouldn’t happen to be Mimi Lodge’s father?”

  “Why, yes, Mary Louise is my daughter.”

  Vic looked down at his pad and frowned. He’d unconsciously drawn what looked unmistakably like the fountain in the courtyard of Allie Hammie. He ripped the paper from the pad and scrunched it up.

  And that’s when he hung up—without another word.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “HEY!” JOE JUMPED to his feet. “What the hell just happened?”

  Vic rubbed his forehead, then held up his hand. “Not to worry.” He hit redial.

  Conrad picked up immediately.

  “It seems we were cut off. My apologies.”r />
  Conrad didn’t bother with any more preliminary chitchat. “You may know that my firm is considering opening another office in the Antipodes.”

  Vic rolled his eyes at the pretentious language. “Yes, I believe my brother, Joe, to whom you talked briefly, mentioned something about it.” He nodded to Joe, who raised his chin.

  “Yes, well…I know our design and construction team are in the process of sending out for bids.”

  “That’s good to know. GSI has handled several projects in Australia and New Zealand, and we’ve had very positive reviews.”

  “I’ll pass that information along. But that’s not entirely why I called.”

  Why wasn’t Vic surprised? When did a CEO get involved with building projects besides signing off on the design and then cutting the ribbon at the end?

  “As I explained in my emails, I’m on the organizing committee for Reunions coming up this June.”

  “Congratulations, but I must confess I haven’t attended Reunions since my senior year when I served on a panel discussion,” Vic said. It was an experience he’d managed to put far, far away.

  “Yes, that was a memorable occasion.”

  “Your daughter, I believe, made it particularly memorable.” Vic tried to keep his tone even.

  “Yes, Mimi is definitely opinionated, but I’ve never seen her so…shall we say…demonstrative?”

  She may have been “demonstrative,” but somehow it had been Vic who had been hauled off to the police station. Mimi had merely waved goodbye wrapped in a towel provided by the cops. “I guess that’s what you could call it.” His tone wasn’t quite so even.

  “Yes, well, the past is something we can’t change, even if we’d like to.”

  That surprised Vic. Conrad didn’t strike him as someone who was particularly introspective, let alone regretful. He wondered if Mimi’s father was referring to something in particular.

  He didn’t know much about the family except what he’d heard as an undergraduate. You couldn’t live in Grantham without realizing that the Lodges were very Very Important People. And as for Mimi, she’d run with a different crowd—the preppy jocks who knew all about lacrosse, and what brand of gin was best for martinis.

  He knew she had become a hotshot war correspondent on the nightly news—her dream fulfilled, if he remembered correctly—who’d been kidnapped while on assignment in some ex-Soviet region and finally released. He wondered if the family had maneuvered that one the way they used to have the Grantham police in the palm of their hands. They obviously had connections everywhere. Whatever, he really didn’t care. If a family member of his had been kidnapped, he would have used every possible means to free them also.

  “On the other hand,” Conrad went on, “perhaps what I am proposing is a way to redress past wrongs. You see, as it turns out, I am the chair of panel discussions for the Reunions in June.”

  “Tell me you’re not proposing what I think you’re proposing?”

  “I think the possibility to revisit problems of equality in college sports is as timely now as ever. And since all the panelists have agreed to participate again, it will be interesting to see if any of their perspectives have changed.”

  “All the panelists?” Forget the others. Vic was only interested in one.

  Lodge cleared his throat. “Yes, though, it is true that my daughter agreed to participate only if you served on the panel, as well.”

  Vic tipped his chair back again. “She did? I’m surprised she even remembered me.”

  “Interesting, she said the same thing about you.” Lodge didn’t elaborate. “In any case, I think the audience would be fascinated by your perspective as a former professional athlete. And no doubt more than a few of them will recall your courage all those years ago to take what might have been considered a refreshingly candid, though politically incorrect stance.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re itching for a replay. Is your daughter still so easily riled?”

  “That remains to be seen. Even if there are no fireworks, the anticipation that something might happen would be worth the price of admission alone, don’t you think?”

  Vic didn’t know what to think. He glanced down at Roxie, who sighed a dog sigh. He hadn’t wanted to wait until after the weekend, and the vet’s office closed early on Fridays, so he’d had no choice but to collect her first thing in the morning. Now, he just wanted to get her home and comfortable. And wait for the prognosis.

  Yet the businessman in him also wouldn’t let go. Besides, the economy in Australia might be booming, but big commercial jobs in general were still few and far between. “At the same time you’d keep GSI in mind in regards to the construction of your Australian offices?” he asked.

  “As two seasoned men of the world, I think we both understand the certain quid pro quo that is a part of doing business,” Conrad replied. “You have my word that we will view your company’s participation in a very favorable light.”

  Mimi Lodge. Just the thought of her was like a craw in his side—an irritating feeling that just wouldn’t go away. Like nothing and no one else he’d ever come in contact with. What was it Machiavelli had said? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?

  Well, Mimi Lodge wasn’t so much an enemy as a troublemaker with a capital “T.” All the Lodges were, he reminded himself, even the man on the other end of the phone line.

  But Mimi Lodge was also the only woman who had ever aroused his passions so fully, so surprisingly. She’d blindsided him, that’s what she’d done.

  And now he wondered what would happen if they met again.

  “So do I have your agreement, then?” Conrad prodded him. “It would mean a great deal to me.”

  If Lodge were at all the type of person to be sincere, Vic would have assumed that the older man genuinely meant it. He watched as Roxie licked the top of a front paw, sure evidence that she was in pain. Nope, he couldn’t hang around the office any longer. “Just send me the details, and I’ll be there,” he said decisively.

  They exchanged a few more cursory comments, Vic wrote down the information, and then the call ended. He swiveled around and faced Joe.

  “So, did we get it?” Joe sprung from the couch.

  Vic ripped off a sheet of paper and rose. He circled his desk and handed it to Joe. Then he stepped over to the coat rack and shrugged on his blazer. The action rekindled memories of the exact opposite where Mimi Lodge was concerned.

  Joe frowned at the paper. “If I can navigate your handwriting, this is a contact at Pilgrim?”

  Vic reached for the top button of his jacket, then decided to leave it open. Easier for driving. “It’s the person you can contact in regards to our bid for their new building.”

  Joe whistled. “So how did you do it? I gather there’s a Grantham connection?”

  “Yes, it seems that my agreement to serve on an alumni panel at Reunions this coming June sealed the deal—or at least the bid.” He reached for his winter jacket and turned back to his brother.

  Joe looked incredulous. “Wait a minute. That hothead? The one who dumped water on you your senior year? Wasn’t her name Lodge, too?”

  Vic pulled out Roxie’s lead from the pocket of his coat. “Mimi Lodge. His daughter. Conrad seemed particularly interested that we recreate our little tango.”

  Joe shook his head. “I don’t get it. It sounds suspiciously like the old man is pimping for his daughter. Which is pretty creepy, even for someone like me.”

  “I don’t think your sensibilities had anything to do with the offer, and I’m not convinced it really has anything to do with me, either.” Vic walked over to Roxie and kneeled down to hook the lead to her collar. Then he stood up and Roxie awkwardly followed suit. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the motivating factor was guilt.” The question is whose? Vic silently ruminated.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  June, the Wednesday before Grantham University Reunions…

  “YOU DIDN’T NEED TO PICK
me up, you know. I could have taken the Link into town and then walked,” Mimi announced. The Link was the single-car commuter train that connected Grantham to the mainline at Grantham Junction. That’s where she was now—standing, on the southbound platform at Grantham Junction, having just disembarked from the express train from New York. It had been standing room only when she’d gotten on at Penn Station, and she’d only managed to secure a seat when she outmaneuvered a teenager with two Bergdorf Goodman bags and a Louis Vuitton purse. What was the world coming to anyway?

  Her half-brother, Press, took her rolling suitcase from her without bothering to ask. “I’d already emailed you that I’d be back for Reunions, and the timing worked out. Besides, admit it—you would have given me grief if I hadn’t made the effort.” A year after graduating from Grantham, Press was living in Melbourne, Australia, where he was getting a master’s degree in paleontology. He’d traveled halfway around the world to work with a scientist who was on the forefront of 3-D imaging of bone specimens.

  Mimi looked him over. He seemed the same—maybe skinnier and now sporting a fashionably scraggly beard that was a darker blond than his short curls. He wore jeans and a T-shirt—a Hoagie Palace T-shirt. The T-shirt had her thinking. “How about we stop off for some hoagies—my treat. Unless you have other plans, of course?”

  Someone bumped Mimi from the back. She tensed. Damn. She’d been doing better these past two months. She willed herself to breathe out slowly and recognize the bump as just a commuter in a rush. Much as she didn’t go in for the touchy-feely stuff, seeing the psychologist recommended by Noreen had helped. Treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder had greatly improved over the years. For Mimi, the sessions had helped her identify frightening memories and replace them with more manageable thoughts. That still didn’t mean she was “cured.”