Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  “Ah. City of Brotherly Love.”

  Marty grimaced. “Yeah, well, unless brotherly love includes free use of intellectual property, we got a problem. Here’s the map from our favorite competitor, Duncan Limited.”

  Marty clicked the On button on the adjoining projector. A second map, light blue instead of gray, and with a Garamond typeface, was projected directly over the first. It, too, was a map of Philly, and when he adjusted the width, height and area of the display, the streets lined up exactly with the first. Not a problem in itself, Joss thought. Street maps, after all, were supposed to give you a nearly accurate representation of the area in question, and even a competitor like Duncan Limited could be counted on to represent the area correctly. The problem occurred when a competitor didn’t bother to do the survey work to identify the streets themselves, and there was one sure way to find that out.

  Joss typed a few commands into her laptop. “I just checked our database. We have three trap streets in Philly.”

  “Yep,” Monty said. “Cranberry Lane, Hastings Drive and Compass Rose Alley.”

  Compass Rose Alley. Joss smiled. That was so her mother. “And?”

  “And”—he walked to the wall and touched different places on the Duncan Limited map—“we have Cranberry Lane, Hastings Drive and Compass Rose Alley.”

  They were called trap streets for a reason, Joss thought. You couldn’t find them anywhere in Philly—not the real Philly, at least. They existed only on maps produced by Brand O’Malley, and they were put there to catch the plagiarist mapmakers of the world, who found it easier to copy someone else’s maps than survey their own.

  “Call our attorneys,” Joss said.

  Di held up a hand. “You can’t afford an attorney—unless it’s a pro bono one.”

  Joss sucked her lip and gave her friend a beseeching look.

  Di rolled her eyes. “I’ll talk to David.” David, her husband, was a lawyer.

  Rogan’s admin stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Reynolds will be ready for you exactly at five.”

  If only I’m ready for him, Joss thought. She gave Di a look.

  “I’m close. I’ll have it by the time we’re up there.”

  Joss grabbed Luke, the baby, and Todd-ler. Di tucked the report under her arm and kept her fingers running furiously over the calculator. Peter trailed behind, protecting the rear from pirates and Sith lords. If Joss couldn’t make payroll, she’d have to lay people off. Di had been the first to go six months earlier, raising her hand to save the jobs of others. Now Joss paid for Di’s time by the hour and used her only when she could afford to. Joss remembered a time when the world had seemed effortless to her. She’d lift a finger and a maid or driver or chef would rush to do her bidding. Now she worked ten-hour days, six-day weeks, to keep the company afloat. Had the world really been that easy, or was that just the sentimental nostalgia that all people had about their childhoods?

  They reached the elevator, and Joss put down the car seat so she could lift Peter high enough to press the Up button.

  She prayed Rogan would be amenable. He’d been looking only to buy her father’s company, Brand Industries, and the name of her mother’s—Brand O’Malley, the most famous name in maps—for use on his GPS devices, but he was a great guy and he’d understood Joss’s desire to keep her twenty-three-person business, her only inheritance from her mother, running and under her control.

  What Rogan paid for Brand Industries, though more than he should have, would still barely cover the debt her father had run up before his death three months earlier, so Joss would see no money from that, nor from his personal fortune, which he had thrown into his failing company’s coffers in an attempt to save face among his peers in the business world. And her mother’s much smaller company, which had been more practically run while her mother was alive but neglected under her father’s subsequent guardianship, had spent the last few years teetering on the edge of insolvency.

  Joss felt like her life since her mother’s death, not long after Joss’s eighth birthday, had been laid out strictly to ensure she’d be able to assume control of the mapmaking company when she was old enough. Despite being a lover of literature, she’d applied to and gotten into a math and science high school so she could study geography. In college, she’d pursued a dual major of business and geography while she worked full-time at Brand O’Malley, learning the ropes from the very able managers there. At twenty, even before she’d graduated, she’d accepted in practice what she’d already had in theory—the top executive role—and for the past three years, as the sales of paper maps dropped like a lead printing press, she’d been doing everything she could to keep these fine, hardworking people—and herself—employed.

  The memories of yachts, stretch limos and happy times over salmon en croûte at midnight were long gone, having followed her mother, the family money and, finally, her father out of her life. And while losing the wealth had taught the very important lesson that she didn’t need money to be happy, she wouldn’t have minded, just once, being able to make payroll without getting on her hands and knees and praying to the lords of cash flow that the money would arrive.

  “So, how are you going to effect this miraculous largesse?” Di asked.

  “The loan, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rogan owes me a favor.”

  “A fifty-thousand-dollar favor?”

  “The number’s fifty thousand?” Joss said, distressed.

  “The number’s at least fifty thousand. I’m still checking.”

  “Crap.”

  “Crap,” Todd-ler repeated happily.

  “Oops.” Joss shot Di an apologetic look.

  Di wiped something that looked like chocolate pudding off her arm. “Least of my worries.”

  The elevator arrived. Joss swung the car seat inside, leaned down again to grab Peter and said hello to one of the Brand Industries salesmen who was inside.

  “Forty-eight,” she said, and pointed out the correct button. Peter poked it and leapt to the floor, pointing the saber with a sneer at his image in the elevator’s mirrored walls. His mother, lost in her calculations, pressed a sheet of paper against the wall and made a notation. Todd-ler started to chew a piece of Joss’s hair.

  “Say,” the salesman said to Joss, “I understand congratulations are in order. Next week, is it?”

  Joss gazed down at the diamond sparking languidly on her finger, so large as to almost be worthy of a pirate’s treasure chest. “Yep. No point in waiting. When it’s right, it’s right.”

  “Yes, and you’ll need to hurry with your office,” Di said to the man. “The caterer needs the space to set up the tables.”

  The salesman’s brows shot up, and Joss waved away his worry. “I’m not having my reception in your office. Diane thinks that just because I’m getting married in the Founders Room upstairs, it’s an all-business wedding.”

  “It’s the conference room for the Sales Department,” Di said curtly.

  “It’s a gorgeous space.”

  “Now, should we all wear business suits,” Di asked, “or is that just you?”

  Joss sighed. “It’s not a business suit. It’s a skirt.”

  Di gave her a look.

  “Okay, a business skirt—but it’s Chanel!”

  Joss knew Di didn’t understand why she was, as Di liked to say, running her wedding “like the fourth-quarter employee recognition event.” Joss couldn’t explain. Everything in her life since she could remember had been done for expediency. It just didn’t feel right to have anything except a small ceremony, in her favorite space at her dad’s company—well, her dad’s former company—followed by a quiet dinner in the dining room of the William Penn Hotel, where her mother had taken her for tea each Christmas when she was a little girl.

  Di rolled her eyes. “I’m certain Coco didn’t have it in mind for a bride.”

  Joss exhaled. It was going to be a long week. Tomorrow was her bachelorette party. Thursday was the p
arty her soon-to-be mother-in-law was throwing for the large number of friends and relatives who couldn’t be accommodated at the ceremony. Friday Joss left for the Academic Supply Show in Las Vegas. She’d fly back on Monday, just in time for Tuesday’s wedding. Other than the ceremony itself, her mother-in-law was taking care of everything, which suited Joss perfectly. All the better for Joss to focus on the far more concerning issue of making payroll.

  The elevator stopped at 36 and the salesman got off. Peter punctuated the exit with a saber flourish. “Will I get to see your wedding?” he asked. “Mommy says I can only come if I dress like the mail delivery guy.”

  “Your mommy’s hilarious. And yes, you know I couldn’t get married without you, pal. I’m counting on you to give me away.”

  She returned her thoughts to the problem at hand. Fifty big ones. At least fifty big ones.

  “I think I’m going to have to resort to something more than a favor for fifty thousand.” Joss gazed at herself in the mirror and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. “I’m going to have to try a little more—”

  She found herself gazing into Peter’s curious eyes.

  “A little more what, Aunt Joss?”

  Di gave her an interested sidelong glance; Todd-ler thrust his fingers into her bra.

  “A little more hard work, Peter. That’s what being a grown-up is all about.” She rewarded Di with a tiny tongue stick-out and loosened Todd-ler’s grip on the tender flesh.

  “Exactly how hard is this work going to be?” Di asked.

  “Jeez Louise, I’m hardly going to—” Peter’s gaze shot right to Joss’s face. What is it with kids these days? “I’m not going to work so hard I’ll regret it.”

  “Good to hear,” Di said. “Girls who work that hard can get a reputation.”

  Peter’s gaze narrowed and slid between his mother and Joss.

  “But let’s face it,” Joss said, “I’ll do whatever it takes.” She thought of Marty and his diabetes and the security guard with her kid on dialysis.

  The jesting smile left Di’s face, replaced with a brow raise. “Really?”

  “Really. It’s not like I haven’t gotten hints he’d be amenable.”

  “I know, but . . . really?”

  “It seems a small price, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re not going to . . .” Di gave her a look to fill in the missing word.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no. I’m going to need far less artillery than that.”

  The door opened on 48, and they trooped out. Part of the deal for the Brand O’Malley name was these offices would go to Rogan’s company when the papers were signed next month. He’d already taken over the chairman’s office. Some of the people there, though, still worked for her.

  “Howdy, Joss.”

  “Afternoon,” she said to LaWren, the security guard. “How’s Darryl?”

  “Doin’ good,” she said. “We’ve got him on home dialysis now.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Did he like the DVD I sent?”

  “Prisoner of Azkaban? Oh yeah.”

  “Loved the Marauder’s Map. We got to get ourselves into that business, eh?”

  LaWren laughed.

  Rogan’s admin, Pat, a prim, thin-lipped woman who had been with Brand Industries since the dawn of time, had always reminded Joss of Miss Gulch, the mean neighbor who took Toto from Dorothy. Pat, however, scared Joss even more than her cinematic counterpart.

  Pat frowned at the bedraggled group and saved a particularly sharp look for Joss. “It’s after five.”

  “I can’t help but notice Rogan is not actually in his office, so I’m thinking my lateness isn’t going to be a problem.”

  “He’ll be here soon. The video conference with the Sydney office went long. But it’s better if you’re here when he arrives.”

  Of course it is.

  Joss gestured the group inside.

  “Will the children—”

  “Yes. Part of the analytics team.”

  Di sunk into the long couch, still working on the numbers, and Joss gazed out at the gorgeous view that used to be hers, especially the regally old-fashioned Gulf Tower with its brightly lit stepped crown modeled on the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Even more kitschy was the quaint weather beacon on top, which glowed red for clear weather and blue for precipitation, and blinked to signal a coming change. Winter in Pittsburgh was not always fun, but when one could view it against a twilight sky with the Gulf Tower beacon shining red, it all seemed worthwhile.

  Peter jumped immediately into Rogan’s chair and began to play with the phone.

  “Er, maybe not, pal.” Joss put Todd and the baby onto the thick Aubusson rug and straightened.

  Peter collapsed with a disheartened sigh into the cushioned leather.

  “Say, what’s up with the Band-Aid?” Joss asked, trying to cheer him. She’d just noticed the Spider-Man bandage wrapped around his finger.

  “Confection, Mom says.”

  Joss looked at Di.

  “Infection,” Di corrected. “You’re wearing a Band-Aid because you cut your finger playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the koi pond, and it swelled up big and red. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” He smiled a dreamy, dimpled smile. “Really cool pus.”

  Joss heard Rogan’s voice in the corridor. “Oops.”

  Di nodded. “I’ve got it. One more second.”

  Rogan strode in, an impossibly handsome man with soft blond waves and piercing blue eyes that cut to the bones of any business deal. He grinned when he saw the extent of his welcoming party.

  “Hey,” he said to Peter, and nodded at Di. “Good to see you. Are we—”

  “Nope.” Di struggled to her feet. “We’re on our way out.” She handed the cash flow statement to Joss, swept Todd and the car seat into her arms and signaled to Peter to follow. Then she gave Joss a quick peck. “I’ll see you tomorrow, eh?”

  “But, the number . . .”

  Di gazed pointedly at the report in Joss’s hand, where Joss spotted a hastily scribbled note.

  “C’mon, troops,” Di said. “Let’s pull out.” She made a rallying motion with her hand and gave Joss a small wave. “Don’t work too hard.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joss glanced at the cash flow statement. $63K, the scribble read. This may be the time to go all the way.

  Oh, fudge.

  “Hey,” Rogan said cheerily. “What’s up?”

  “I’m here with a request.”

  “Oh.” He nodded, replacing the smile with a more guarded look, and made his way to the desk.

  She stared at the weather beacon, gathering her courage. The red glow began to pulse. A change is coming, that’s for sure. “I need another loan.”

  “Oh, Joss.” The words bloomed with disappointment, and he sunk into the chair.

  “I—I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  “How much?”

  “But we have a big order from the California school system coming in next month, which is usually one of our biggest of the year, and I know we’ll be okay after that.”

  He gazed at the keyboard in front of him, more, she thought, out of embarrassment for her than anything else. He’d insisted she stay on to run the map company, and Joss wondered if he regretted his decision. “How much?” he asked.

  She took a breath. “Sixty-three thousand.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on desk, fingers laced, and ran his thumbs back and forth across his lips, considering.

  “I wonder,” he said softly, “if you should think about closing.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “We’ll be fine once this quarter is over.”

  “I know you want to honor your mother, but I really think there’s a way through Brand Industries’ acquisition of the Brand O’Malley name that—”

  “No. Please. The company stays open. I’m willing to discuss how.”

  He sighed. “I don’t think I can do this. With all due respect, it’s a bad bet, and I couldn�
�t sell the board on it. Too hard.”

  Joss met his eyes and smiled. Pleading was not sexy. Being confident and direct with a business-person-to-business-person frankness—that was sexy.

  “I’d like you to think about it.” She’d made it a point this morning to put on her sexiest bra. It was a demi in beige and blue that lifted her breasts up like two scoops of French vanilla ice cream and ended just before her nipples began. Rogan was a very old-fashioned guy—the big surprise when she’d first met him. A little flash of ice cream. Perhaps a peek at some unskirted thigh. He’d be toast. The board would be hard, but let’s face it, he’d be harder.

  That was about the one advantage women had in the business world. Men didn’t always think with their frontal lobes. Anyone who’d ever dated a man knew it. And when the thought process did its little dance out the frontal lobes and over to the basal ganglia, it left a trail of mush in its wake.

  She put the cash flow statement and her phone on the edge of Rogan’s desk, stood up and leaned over to examine his desk clock. Waaay over. It was an ugly, ornate thing he’s said his old girlfriend, Daphne, had gotten him. It managed to be both gaudily antique and tethered by a power cord—the worst of both worlds. She could feel herself shaking.

  She had never done this before. It wasn’t her operating style. But if this was all it took to keep the company afloat, in the overall scheme of things, it wasn’t too much to ask. Business was business. Some people had the marbles. Some people wanted the marbles. Unless you could think of a way to swipe some marbles for yourself, you wouldn’t get to play.

  She could hear the tick tick tick, and even though she wasn’t looking, she could feel his gaze reach all the way to her navel. The tenor of the room changed, as did the cadence of his breathing.

  “I think,” she said, giving him a smile, “you can convince them.”

  He had the good sense to blush. Rather a charming thing, if you thought about it. The little spots of color on his cheeks were the first step in the mush process.

  “I-I could probably try to convince them.”

  Could you, now? Joss examined the clock for another long moment, then unbent and dropped in her seat.