Foundation

by Lainey Davis

  Dad lets his hand linger on mine. “You and this company…you’re the things I’ve fought for, son.”

  I don’t respond, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I wouldn’t describe his absentee style of parenting “fighting” so much as “too busy or too unskilled to realize his preschooler soiled his pants on a job site he shouldn’t have been visiting.”

  “I’m a lousy husband,” Dad says. “I know that. I’ve given up marrying them, son. You probably noticed. But your mother, she wasn’t ready for you.” He swallows. “I know she got pregnant to try and keep me…try to get me to be faithful to her.” He shrugs. “Not sure why she thought I’d be true to her after I left Liam and Cal’s mother for her.”

  “Come on, Dad.”

  “I’ve never been any good at being a husband, and I’m probably a crap father, but damn it, I fought for you. Once you were born, your mother wanted alimony. She wanted full custody, but I wasn’t going to let you go. God, Isaac, it killed me when your brothers went to their mother’s house. I know I had no idea what to do with the three of you when you were home destroying our house, but it was too quiet without you there. I wasn’t letting you go.”

  “So what are you saying? You stripped mom of all custody with some shark lawyer?”

  He eyes flash at me. “Absolutely not. No. Son, she saw she wasn’t getting the money from me she wanted, and she wasn’t winning me back and she…well, she left. She left both of us. You know that.”

  I sit for a few minutes and absorb the idea that my mother had at one point claimed to want me, even if it was for the child support payments she thought she’d get from my father. I’m not sure how to feel about that, whether it makes me feel better or worse or, I don’t know. Just more complete in the knowledge that I was thoroughly unloved.

  Dad leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “It probably didn’t seem like it, Zack, but I treasured those one on one days we had together. You were what got me through the long weeks your brothers were gone. They didn’t get to come to work with me like you did.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to see me where I was most comfortable. In the one environment where I never seem to lose interest.” He sighs, shrugs again. “I wanted you to love what I love.”

  We stare at each other until I reach for the plate and start gnawing off pieces of the bread. Dad says, “Look, if you don’t want to come to the meeting, why don’t you go back to Pittsburgh and reach out to Ray. Get him in the office for a meeting, and get me a briefing.”

  “If I do this, you’re not going to go off on some unexpected tangent? This is my friend and I’ve been consulting with him as he builds his software. I’m already invested in this, Dad.”

  “I’m not going to—“

  “If I prepare a briefing for you, we’re going to have a meeting about it before the meeting and you and I are going to talk about the strategy of the meeting and the ask from Ray together.”

  “Sure, son. Of course.”

  “Don’t say ‘of course’ like this is normal for you. If you want me to really take over for you, to love this thing that you love, then you’re going to have to start include me in whatever is going on in that head of yours.”

  “Point taken.”

  As I walk away from him, I hear him muttering that I sound like his brother, and it’s probably the greatest compliment my father has ever handed out.

  I throw my things together in my bag and head for the airport, feeling guilty that I’m not saying goodbye to Nicole, until I remember how we ended things yesterday. Or, rather, how I ended things between us. For good. I sink into my business class seat on the flight, and play back everything my father had said over breakfast this morning.

  He didn’t say anything surprising or new, really. Except for the part about having to fight for custody of me. That was new information. But it was just the cavalier way he said he’s no good with women. A terrible partner. Like he’s just accepted that his brother and his business are enough for him.

  I can’t stop seeing myself in his words. Because who am I? A grouchy fucker who defines himself by what’s going well at work, who channels college relationships into work…hell, my dad even said I’m like him. I know he meant somehow that I’m the ideas guy in the operation, but it’s there.

  “Lone wolf,” I mutter, thinking back to Nicole tossing me out of bed each time I’ve been in there with her. She must be able to see it, too.

  I pull out my tablet and have to close out of all the apps I have open for calculations on her property. I try typing up some notes about the briefing for my father, about all the work I’ve been doing with Ray related to teaching the computer to predict landslides. It blows my mind, how someone like me can teach a computer to know about the pressures and properties of soil. But here we are.

  There’s no way I’m going to be able to oversee Nicole’s yard work and get my shit together to meet with Ray.

  I sigh. It’s probably best if I don’t go back over there, anyway. I can’t concentrate around her, and she hates me. Because I was a shit to her. But of course, now I’m thinking about being with her. I think constantly about her hair blowing into my mouth, or listening to her on the phone with clients calming them down, or stirring them up as the case may be.

  She doesn’t need me, and she sure as shit doesn’t need me distracted while I’m making critical plans to repair the yard behind the house she renovated with her bare hands.

  I start an email to one of the junior engineers in the geotechnical division at Beltane. I can have Lisa take over the work and I can supervise, make sure everything seems kosher before we get the heavy machinery in there. It’s probably best this way. Clean break. Outsource the interactions to Lisa, focus on the meeting with Ray.

  “Eye on the prize, Zack,” I mutter to myself on the plane. Only problem is, I keep losing track of what the real prize might be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Nicole

  “PERHAPS I COULD draw your attention back to the matter at hand?”

  The room falls silent as I click the slide presentation forward on the screen. Almost as soon as we filed in, Tim had dropped an arm around Augusto’s shoulders and started in on a speech about how this young man would help restore the nation of Paraguay to splendor.

  There was a lot of cross talk, with Mick Brady trying to use the weather as a transition to talking about landslides, and Augusto’s agent frowning in response to the president tapping his pen, looking frustrated. I don’t know where the fuck Isaac is, but he hasn’t been present for any of the tours or meetings this morning and he’s not here now.

  Amidst the din, I stood, cleared my throat, and dimmed the lights, a trick I learned when I was trying to get dude bro coders to shut up and listen to my words.

  I pull up some images I put together after our focus group data, of smiling kids running around, of a smiling young Augusto sitting on a ledge, his feet dangling off the edge in threadbare shoes. “Mr. Cruz is so proud of his heritage and would like to craft his charitable foundation in such a way that it supports the people of his homeland.”

  Augusto smiles. The president’s frown lessens slightly.

  I flick ahead through a series of press photos of Augusto from training camp, the rookie draft, and some random footage of him walking to and from the baseball field. “Augusto has come a long way from the skinny guy who loved American baseball so much he formed a park league with his friends from school.” I click again.

  The screen flashes a shot of him sitting on the roof of the dugout, smiling, legs dangling over the edge in a pose that echoes the childhood picture from earlier. He grins and sits a little higher in his seat. I continue. “Turns out, the one thing Augusto loves almost as much as Paraguay is sneakers.”

  Tim frowns and shoots me a glare. Mick Brady has a fake smile plastered on his face and his knee shakes nervously.

  I pull up some numbers and a bar graph. “I’ve surveyed known philanthropic foundations and
high profile donors. I’ve done focus group studies with likely donors. As you can see here, we asked them about their propensity to contribute toward various types of causes.”

  I listed infrastructure projects, clean water, improved education, and sports facilities. And, of course, I asked them how they felt about supporting a company that gets necessities like shoes and athletic clothing to young kids who can’t afford such things.

  “Based on some similar models from other companies, and considering the high likability of Mr. Cruz as a famous role model, these are the predictions for the first year of Cruzwear—a line of fashion sneakers, athletic shorts, and baseball gloves.”

  I advance to a slide with a lot of zeroes on it and I wink at Augusto’s manager. A number of late night calls and last-minute cramming in my hotel room led to this pitch. This is the strategy that’s going to work, and it might be shitty that I left Tim out of the planning loop for it, but I’m not sorry about it.

  “We’re going to do a buy-one, give-one model,” I explain. “Regular customers who purchase a pair of Augusto’s high end fashion sneakers will be providing a pair for a school child in Paraguay who doesn’t have access to athletic footwear. These aren’t just sub-par shoes, but high performance athletic apparel that’s built to last. Cruzwear will let kids run and play on rough terrain, in mud, in the rain.”

  Augusto looks like he’s going to cry with happiness. Even Mick Brady has an enthralled expression by this point. “The foundation arm of the business will establish the production factory here, in Paraguay, and train and hire local people to manufacture the line. The foundation will thus support the local economy, while providing young children with the tools they need to chase after their own athletic dreams.”

  An hour later, I’m seated at the bar with Augusto’s agent, Dennis. We’re knocking back South American wine and feeling damn excited about what is sure to be an insanely busy year ahead. The paperwork and logistics in establishing all of this are going to drive somebody bananas. It won’t be me. I’ll either be fired, or hard at work mapping out a strategy for the next Stag Law client who wants support with their charitable giving.

  Augusto comes up to us, grinning. “Hey, Ms. Kennedy,” he says, eyes sparkling. “You know I love this! I was starting to get a little worried about all that monsoon talk earlier in the day.”

  “Worried?”

  He shakes his head. “You know…fixing roads here? Construction? Sometimes it’s not so above ground…”

  I frown, not sure what he means. Dennis coughs into his fist, saying, “corruption,” and I understand. Augusto is worried about getting involved at the government level.

  “In fact,” he continues. “I do not even know if it’s such a good idea to build a factory here.”

  “Oh,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Well we can work all those details out. The important part is the shoes, right?”

  Augusto beams and holds up his foot, clad in a vibrant orange high-top shoe that brightly contrasts his slick dark suit.

  Tim, Mick, and the president’s chief of staff emerge from a cigar room just then, and I stiffen. Augusto and Dennis take off to celebrate with Augusto’s home town crowd, but I remain seated, raising a brow at Tim and waiting for him to come over.

  When he sits next to me, he leans his forearms on the bar and inhales and slowly exhales through his nose. “I hate the smell of cigar smoke,” he says, frowning and signaling for the bar tender.

  Once he orders a water, he drinks it slowly before turning to look at me, where I continue to sip my wine. “That meeting was very different from what we discussed back in Pittsburgh,” he says slowly.

  “Indeed it was.” I don’t shy away from his gaze and I’m not afraid of his anger. I know my friendship with Emma will survive even if my time with Stag Law has come to an end. I’d rather go out having stood up for myself and my ideas, having stood my ground about the parameters of my role as strategy director.

  Tim inhales again and sets the water glass down on the bar. “Augusto is thrilled with your idea,” he says, and I nod. Duh, I think, but I know better than to say so out loud. He clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware the focus group numbers were so striking,” he says, gesturing a hand. “I admit I got caught up in the idea of a humanitarian infrastructure project.”

  “Well maybe you should go work for the peace corps,” I snap, before I can catch myself. Tim chuckles.

  “Maybe in a former life.” He raps his knuckles on the bar. “I owe you an apology for the way I’ve behaved leading up to this trip.”

  My mouth drops open in a wide O. I really thought he was coming over here to yell at me. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been really stressed out since Alice got pregnant this third time,” he says. “And you know, things with my father are…strained. Anyway, he’s not someone I go to for advice.” Tim sighs. “Can I be really honest?” I nod. “Sometimes I get…Mick always seems like everyone’s dad, you know? I think I got wrapped up in Mick Brady’s enthusiasm.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure Mick really thought his idea was mutually beneficial,” I tell him. “It’s not the worst idea in the world. It’s just…it’s not Augusto and it’s not the right model for a business for a star athlete.”

  Tim nods. “You’ve learned a lot about the industry since I brought you on board,” he says, the side of his mouth turning up in a grin.

  “Maybe you should pay me more,” I tell him, nudging him with my shoulder. But I rest my hand on his. “You’re a great dad, Tim. I know Thatcher looks to you as role model and all that shit.”

  He chuckles, and the sides of his mouth turn up into a small smile. He holds his glass toward me in a toast. “Things are about to get really intense for you at work, Nicole Kennedy. I hope this doesn’t impact your marathon training.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Nicole

  ISAAC DOESN’T CALL. Forget my number, I’d told him. And he chose then to start doing what I tell him. I feel like some sort of psychopath, thinking about him all the fucking time. But it’s hard not to when so much about my life centers around him. The trench in my yard. The group training runs he’s apparently skipping now. The orgasms that have gone missing again since I threw him out of my hotel room.

  Maddie and Emma are on their way over to my house to see the work in the back yard. I got an emailed set of finalized plans from someone at Beltane Engineering and signed them digitally from the plane on the way back. I would have loved to see the look on my own face when I realized I was being passed off to an underling.

  Now, this Lisa person is at my house every day with a clip board, every bit as serious and earnest as Isaac as she measure shit and bosses around a set of contractors.

  Lisa says the money has come in for the remediation, and she’s got a barge sailing up the Allegheny River with digging equipment.

  I hear a whistle behind me and turn to see my friends standing in my yard. Maddie carries a six pack of beer and Emma hands me a bag of chips. “This is…” Maddie shakes her head and gestures at the boat sailing up laden with dirt. They’re bringing it in by water, which I guess is good so the dump trucks don’t have to trash the grass on my front yard to get it back here.

  The three of us set up some chairs on the patio and watch the chaos for awhile, the roar of the machinery robbing them of any opportunity to ask me uncomfortable questions. When the crew takes a break, the quiet feels loud and Emma clears her throat. “So,” she says. “I don’t see Zack over there…”

  Hearing the name Zack, Lisa looks over and shouts. “Mr. Brady has put me in charge of the project,” she says. “Once again, I assure you I’ve passed all my exams and am highly qualified to supervise the remediation.”

  “No worries, Lisa,” I say. “We’re just not interested in staring at your ass when you bend over.”

  She flushes. “Oh.” She looks back at her clipboard and tries to hide a laugh.

  Emma shakes her head at me. “Thatcher and
his brothers went for a run yesterday,” she says. The three of them often do that, and more often than not they wind up having a fist fight as they “help” each other figure out solutions to their emotional drama.

  “Who has a black eye,” I ask before I shove a handful of chips into my mouth, glad we’re pivoting to work talk already. Maddie snorts.

  Emma just laughs. “Thatcher came home stunned into silence because Tim was talking about how he was wrong and should have trusted you more.”

  I just continue eating chips and shrug. “Show me the lie,” I say. Emma swats at my shoulder.

  “He’s lucky to have you,” she says. “You know trusting people is Tim’s major weakness.”

  “Yeah, well, mine, too. Apart from you, obviously,” I say. But I had forgotten that Tim and I have that in common—our sense that we are the only ones we can rely on in the world. Tim’s been pretty actively working on it. I’ve just been leaning in to my role as a control freak.

  Just then, Valerie walks over toward us with a lawn chair. “Not in the mood, Valerie,” I say, but Maddie hands her a beer, twisting off the top of the bottle before she hands it to my neighbor.

  “Got your note about the lawsuit,” Valerie says, gesturing at the barge. “I notice you didn’t seek my approval before the work began.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  “Good thing that Lisa person came over for a signature,” Valerie huffs as she settles into her chair. She points a knuckle at a shaggy-haired guy in a flannel with the sleeves cut off. “You gals all staring at the looker over there operating the excavator?”

  “Duh,” Maddie says with a snort. We all share a laugh.

  “Just don’t get used to sitting over here with us,” I tell Val. “I’ll put up a fence, I swear to god, and block all the sun from your hedges.”

  “Oh, like I enjoy putting up with your snappy bullshit,” Val retorts with a grin. She reaches for the bag of chips and I hand it to her, glad we seem to be speaking the same language for once.