“As I said, you’ll have talk to John Sage. He’s the CEO.”
“Me? You want me to tell him?”
“I’m not part of it anymore, Kristin,” he said gently.
“Is this John Sage coming here next week?”
Jay laughed dryly. “I’m sure he’ll send a team of underlings. John Sage is one of the wealthiest men in Scotland.”
“Scotland! Mr. Astley, what did George Smith have to do with this sale?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Not a thing. George Smith is a, um, New York management consultant, that’s all. He doesn’t know these people.”
“Oh.” What a relief. She would never be able to bear it if George had betrayed her and if she’d been the person responsible for inadvertently selling out her own town.
“In fact,” Jay said, smiling, “Mr. Smith put in a good word for you. I instructed payroll to add a bit extra to your bonus check. I wish there was more I could do for you, Kristin, but there isn’t.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, feeling determined, Kristin sat on the stool beside Lily in her sister-in-law’s diner, typing the name “Sage Family Products” into the search engine on her smartphone.
Stephanie leaned over, a pot of coffee in one hand. “What does it say about them?”
Kristin scrolled through the company website. “They’re family-owned, not a public corporation. I can’t find an email address for anyone specific, but that’s not surprising.”
“Maybe you should call them?”
“So they can laugh at me? Steph, I’m just doing research as I think this thing through.”
“Where are they located?”
“Edinburgh. The capital of Scotland, ironically.”
Stephanie snorted. “I should send them my haggis recipe.”
“I doubt they would appreciate it, hon.”
Stephanie took the phone from Kristin and swiped her thumb across the screen, scrolling through text and photos of the products. “You should go over there, you know. In person. Show them Laura’s Born in Vermont plans and force them to reconsider before it’s too late.”
“Right,” Kristin said breezily. “I’ll just hop on my private jet and use that passport I have tucked away at home. No problem.”
Stephanie walked off, taking her coffeepot with her. She came back a moment later and slapped a piece of paper on the counter before Kristin.
“What’s this?” Kristin asked.
“Arlene Ross posted it a few weeks ago. She’s looking for a roommate on her British Isles trip.”
Arlene was a worker in the Aura factory. She’d been one of Kristin’s overtime crew that fateful Saturday. Kristin saw her sitting across the diner at one of the tables in the corner near Jeff and Mindy, who was still crying. Kristin turned back to Stephanie. “And?”
“And,” Stephanie said, poking at the paper, “look where the trip starts and ends.”
Kristin glanced at the itinerary. “Edinburgh.”
“Yup.” Stephanie grinned at her. “You’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. Why not now? This is perfect. You’ll be with a group, and you’ll be safe. And once there, you can do good for us, Kristin. If anybody can convince them, you can.”
“But I don’t have a—”
“Passport. I know.” Stephanie nodded. “But since the flight leaves on Thursday night, we can get you an expedited one at the passport office in Boston. By the end of the week, you’ll be on the plane.” She leaned over, peering at Kristin. “Don’t you see? This is it—your chance. You’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. Do it, Kristin.”
“You can find our castle,” Lily piped up.
“Oh, come on,” Kristin protested. “You two can’t possibly be serious.”
Both Lily and Stephanie stared at her. It appeared that they were.
CHAPTER FIVE
KRISTIN STOOD AT the intersection of a busy, bustling street corner in the city center of Edinburgh, noise from traffic overwhelming her and the roar of passing buses and taxis fraying her nerves. She pressed her hand to her chest, struggling to gain control of her worry and fear.
Was this a day terror, or was she having a real, live panic attack?
Breathe.
Rhythmically, she forced herself to inhale and exhale, bringing much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream.
Gradually, the clamminess in her skin subsided, though the grit of exhaustion remained in her eyes.
She fluffed her plane-matted hair. Last night, on the red-eye flight from Boston via Dublin, she had spent hours in a cramped coach seat, wide-awake while Arlene snored beside her, oblivious to everything. Kristin’s thoughts had bounced between fear of the huge task she’d set for herself and, truthfully, an excitement over finally seeing Scotland.
And now, on this late-morning, cold-and-breezy spring day, here she was. A gust of wind roared through her, shaking her to her core.
But Kristin straightened. Pulled her wet-weather coat, lined with warm wool, closer to her body. She had packed sensibly, with sturdy, waterproof boots—she was in the British Isles in March, after all. The weather was similar to Vermont in the mud season, she supposed, though Edinburgh had surprised her with a pale blue sky, rather than the rain she’d been told to expect.
Edinburgh was certainly busier and more beautiful than she’d counted on, too. Though this section was quaint, with hilly boulevards and cobblestone sidewalks, it was still much larger, with more people strolling the Victorian-themed streets, than she was used to at home.
Clenching her teeth, she patted her jacket pocket, wishing she’d brought her flashlight. She also felt unsafe without her cell phone. But the inner circuitry didn’t work in Europe, and she hadn’t found enough time to arrange for an alternate. All she carried with her was her purse—containing her Born in Vermont reports, a new passport and her wallet lined with Scottish pound notes—strapped bandolier-style over one shoulder.
There was just something about actually being there that shook her anew. Yes, the buildings looked familiar—she’d seen the bird’s-eye version from the internet website cameras, after all—and yet, being here in person was completely different.
The air felt dissimilar from home; it was heavier and damper. She didn’t see the familiar signs of spring, either. In Stephanie’s front garden, the purple and yellow crocuses were just barely pushing up from the earth, the first of the spring bulbs, but Edinburgh was farther north than Vermont. Closer to the Arctic Circle. It felt colder to Kristin. More foreign.
What am I doing?
Now that she was here and realized how frightened and anxious the whole scenario made her feel, she briefly wondered if she should give up this crazy errand. She still could. The rest of her family—her parents and her brothers—didn’t know her true reason for signing on for this trip. Listening to their skepticism and criticism had been hard enough. If they knew she was single-handedly trying to save the Aura plant, the ridicule and the reasons against attempting it would have been deafening.
At home, only Stephanie had her back. Kristin had left her travel plans with her sister-in-law. If Kristin backed out, she could continue on the tour with Arlene, with no one the wiser.
Keep going. If she could find the headquarters of Sage, get inside and convince John Sage to listen to her, then she might be able to help save her factory. She could help Mindy. Arlene. Jeff. Stephanie.
She could help her town.
Kristin took out her city map. Righted herself. Crossed the busy boulevard many blocks away from her hotel near the Royal Mile, and checked the numbers on the buildings against the number on the slip of paper in her hand. She was on course, and she would stay on course.
The architecture surrounding her was beautiful. Edinburgh was beautiful. If she didn’t have this task, she would have enjoy
ed exploring the neighborhoods.
She passed food shops—so many food shops, with cheeky, silly names. This was just her type of city—interesting, independent and vibrant! She couldn’t help stopping to stare at every window—the cheeses, the chocolates, the whimsical pastries. Stephanie would love it here. And there was a bagpiper—oh, a bagpiper, in his kilt and sporran! She shivered, letting the drone of the haunting Highland songs seep into her bones, soothing a part of her she so rarely let out in her day-to-day life.
Yes, the pomp was for the tourists, true, but she was a tourist. And there were ancient-looking pubs and cheery tearooms along her path. And those accents. The rolling Scottish brogues that drifted along the streets and alleys like music. She could drink in that accent, lie in it all day long. Maybe she should just embrace this temporary insanity.
So much to explore. Even if she were to just stay in Scotland for the duration of her two-week tour it would be a dream come true.
Arlene had gone off with her friends to tour Edinburgh Castle and the Royal Mile down the hill between the castle and Holyrood Palace. Later, they planned to shop in a woolen-mill store and taste some whisky before dinner. Kristin had been sorely tempted to join them. Oh, how she wished that—
There. Kristin stopped. The company headquarters for Sage Family Products loomed ahead.
She speed-walked toward the building until she was at the pavement before a great, revolving door. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the stately stone facade with tall windows. Ornate. Gilded. European.
From her research on the internet, she’d learned that John Sage was a wealthy man—nearly a billionaire, or at the very least, worth hundreds of millions of dollars. And this rich man had decided to buy her tiny, local factory—strip it of all its wealth and then put it out of business? The factory that made healthy, honest, healing earth-based products, for body, mind and soul?
That had been Laura’s dream. Laura, the only person who’d ever truly believed in Kristin. She had given Kristin a chance and taken her under her wing when no one else would.
Now that Laura was gone, who else but Kristin could stop her company from being stripped and destroyed?
Armed with hot anger, feeling freshly indignant, Laura’s spirit fueled her. She strode through the rotating door and marched inside the vast, white lobby. Nearing the lunch hour, it was busy inside the cavernous space. Suit-jacketed business people, many of the women wearing high heels that click-click-clicked across the marble tile. The men sported short haircuts and carried nice leather briefcases slung over their shoulders. They were attractive office workers, sophisticated and confident, especially in comparison to her small-town factory folk. Her coworkers at Aura dressed more informally, acted more casually. She couldn’t imagine Mindy here. Or Dirk. Or even Jay Astley, with his slumped shoulders and defeated expression.
She could, however, imagine Laura. Laura accepted guff from nobody. If she were here, she’d tell Kristin not to let anyone make her feel inferior. Besides, Kristin had nothing to feel self-conscious about. She’d changed her clothing in the lobby restroom of her hotel. She’d repaired her hair and makeup as best she could and had dressed in a knee-length black skirt and a business-formal silk blouse that brought out her most striking feature: the green in her eyes.
Usually, Kristin dressed like a country cousin, but today she looked as if she belonged here in the city. And she did belong: technically, she worked for Sage Family Products now. As far as she knew, she was drawing a paycheck signed by John Sage.
Focus, as Laura used to say. In Kristin’s bag, she carried the plans for Born in Vermont. She took them out and clasped them to her.
Concentrate. Do not let the lack of sleep get to you. As Laura so often had done, Kristin fixed a smile on her face, lifted her chin, and forged ahead, plowing toward the elevator.
Amazing how no one stopped her. A security guard nodded at her, mistaking, perhaps, the white Aura employee badge that Kristin wore clipped to the hem of her coat for the same employee identification card that Sage used. The elevator—or lift, as it was labeled—was open, so Kristin stepped inside. She searched the directory posted on the wall, and found a listing for Visitor’s Reception.
That would do. She took a breath, kissed her finger for luck, and pressed the button for the floor she wanted. She was officially jumping without a safety net....
The elevator door opened to the waiting area for a wealthy, modern company. A woman dressed and made up like a trendy young fashion model handled a telephone call, smiling at Kristin as she did so.
Finally the receptionist hung up. “May I help you?” she asked Kristin in a pleasant voice that, while definitely British, Kristin clearly understood.
“Yes.” Kristin placed her shaking fingertips on the desk and did her best to solidly plant her feet on the carpet. Breathe. “My name is Kristin Hart. I’m an engineer and a new Sage employee. I need to speak with the person affiliated with the Aura Botanicals acquisition.”
The receptionist paused. She didn’t seem to know what to do.
Kristin smiled at her and held her ground.
“You’re...American?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes. I’m from Vermont.”
“I don’t know...”
Please, Kristin silently pleaded.
And then a smile spread across the receptionist’s face. Kristin smiled, too, until she realized that the receptionist was gazing at someone behind her.
“Hello, Mr. Sage,” the receptionist said.
Kristin turned and saw a group of four men exiting the elevator, traveling together like an entourage. In the center was the short, balding man she distinctively recognized from his company photo on the internet. John Sage.
Kristin smiled directly at him, saw the twinkle in his eye, and felt hope.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she stretched out her hand to him. When he took it, she felt relief.
“Mr. Sage, I’m so pleased to meet you. My name is Kristin Hart. I’m a new employee of yours, from America. The Vermont Aura plant.”
“Ah.” He shook her hand and nodded. His grip felt firm, but cool.
Swallowing, she held out her report to him. She had his attention, and she needed to keep it, so she forged ahead. “One of the formulations was overlooked in the transition between our companies. I’ve come here today because I believe it could be very valuable to you. This business plan should show you why the proposal for the Born in Vermont line should be implemented in the Vermont factory.”
Two short lines formed on his brow. “You’ll have to work with Malcolm MacDowall on that.”
“Malcolm?”
“Yes. Jean here—” Mr. Sage nodded to the receptionist “—will set up some time with Mr. MacDowall for you.”
“Who is Mr. MacDowall?”
“He is our vice president in charge of acquisitions.”
Jean picked up the phone. Kristin understood she was being handed off. Mr. Sage passed the report to the man beside him and looked beyond her, seemingly ready to move on.
Kristin had just a split second. She knew how corporations worked.
“When?” she asked Mr. Sage.
“When?” he repeated blandly.
“When may I give a presentation to you?”
Mr. Sage smiled indulgently at her. “You may speak with Malcolm on Monday. I’ll make sure I discuss it with him today.”
Monday? That meant she would have to stay in Scotland through the weekend. She would have to leave the tour and Arlene, and stay on her own in Edinburgh.
She swallowed. Did she dare? She would be alone. Then she’d have to catch up with the tour later. But this offer...wasn’t this why she had traveled all the way to Edinburgh—to keep her town’s factory from being closed?
Mr. Sage was walking away and thro
ugh an intimidating set of doors. She needed to make her decision quickly.
She had to stay. She could not lose the Aura factory.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she called.
Mr. Sage turned. “You’ll see Malcolm.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”
She glanced to Jean, the receptionist, who was busy looking up phone numbers on a printed list of names.
Kristin needed to prepare herself for this Malcolm person. She wouldn’t leave until Jean had called him and set up an appointment.
* * *
MALCOLM CLOSED DOWN his spreadsheet and leaned back in his chair. He keenly felt the frustration from weeks of massaging numbers, and the numbers still refusing to give him what he’d wanted them to.
Numbers are always right. They do not lie.
That fact was a solid rock to hold on to in a hostile and dangerous world.
He stood up and stretched his arms, his attention drawn, as always, to the large but delicately painted oil landscape mounted over his desk. His sister’s work. She had an amazing talent. The rolling green hills and glens and the deep, sparkling loch where he’d been raised were faithfully reproduced in such a way that the place looked mythical.
He’d hung the painting there because it was his touchstone. The reason for everything he did—whether good or bad.
He’d been gazing at it for six weeks now. It had aided his conscience—necessary, because he was a man in a business where a conscience wasn’t of much use.
Yet again, he touched the edge of the envelope he needed to mail. The note inside, on official letterhead, had taken him a while to compose so that the message was delivered just right.
He couldn’t save Kristin Hart’s factory for her. There was no possible way to keep that facility open without continuing the financial bloodbath that Jay Astley had started. The only sensible decision on Jay’s part had been to sell the brand. Malcolm didn’t feel guilty for his acquisition; he never would.
But Kristin...she’d be devastated once the plant closed. He knew how deeply this would hurt her. And it tore at him.
The Sweetest Hours (Harlequin Superromance) Page 8
