by Jean Oram
“Just menial jobs. Nothing for someone with your skill set.”
How did he know what her skill set was? Oh, right, she’d bragged about her marks. Maybe she should shut up about that and just take whatever job came her way. It seemed as though she was either underexperienced or overqualified.
“I’m not too good to start in a small job and work my way up.”
“Anyone is lucky to get a job these days. Tell you what…” He shifted, grabbing his wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and passed his business card over her shoulder. “Watch our website—all jobs are posted on it—and if something comes up, apply, and use me as a personal reference. What’s your name?”
“Maya Summer.” Maya blinked, glad her sunglasses were covering her damp eyes. Finally, a lead. Finally a reference. She held up the card, willing her voice to be light. “Thank you.”
He patted the seat and smiled. “Anytime, cab-driving Maya from Muskoka who graduated top of her class at the U of T. See? Remembering you and our connection. Rock solid.” He tapped his sandy hair with a knuckled fist.
Maya laughed and read the name off his card. “Okay, Jonah who works at Roundhouse Exports and doesn’t follow sports and has a health spending account. Thank you.”
Maybe her mom was right. Connections might be the answer she was looking for, after all.
* * *
The doctor didn’t know what he was talking about. Connor was not going to have a heart attack or stroke. He wasn’t a senior citizen. He was young and alive. He just needed to figure out how to stop being such a pansy and get his work done.
“I’ll be working late,” he told his driver as they pulled up in front of his office building. “Don’t wait around.”
He stepped onto the sidewalk, the thick summer air pressing down on him. No cool breezes or chirping birds. Just traffic, exhaust, and heat. He tugged at his collar and hurried to the doors, eager for the relief of air-conditioning. A man stepped out, the door’s glass reflecting the hot summer sun into Connor’s eyes. It was so bright he was momentarily blinded, his balance failing as he stepped back. A bus honked and a truck ground its gears. Someone bumped his shoulder as he fought to see. A douche in a suit glared at him, barely lifting his head from his phone as he jostled past.
Connor entered the building and glanced toward the Starbucks nestled in its heart. He could really use a massive Americano right now, but the line was out the door. He patted his pockets, searching for his phone. Where had he left it? Was Stella in today? Or had she decided to take the two weeks off as she’d threatened to?
Maybe his secretary, Em, would want to get out of the office for a bit and fetch him a coffee.
He took the elevator to the top floor of the tallest skyscraper in Toronto, First Canadian Place. Landing that primo office space on the corner of Bay and King had shown him exactly who he’d become in Toronto. The king. A man who got what he wanted even if it wasn’t on the table.
Eager to soothe his worries and doubts with a good opera, as well as a mindless task such as cleaning out his in-box, he stepped off the elevator. A woman behind his secretary’s desk popped up as he approached, her hands doing a strange jittery dance at her sides.
“Mr. MacKenzie?” Her face was a mask of confusion. “I thought you were on vacation.”
He paused for a split second, not fully recognizing her. She seemed familiar, but at the same time foreign. “Just an extended weekend, didn’t Stella tell you?”
“She said you’d be gone for two weeks.” The woman placed a hand on her chest, her posture sagging. “It’s unlike you to take time off, and so suddenly. I was worried.”
“Did you change your hair?” He still couldn’t quite place what was so different about his secretary.
Em patted her dark bob with the pink streak. “Three months ago,” she said tentatively.
“It’s nice. It makes you look younger.”
She beamed. Yep, same woman. Man, he needed to start opening his eyes and seeing things. He stepped into his office, calling over his shoulder, “Can you get Stella on the phone, please?”
Em promptly sat, punching in numbers he should know by heart. He closed his office door and waited for her to buzz him.
What to tackle first? The in-box? Real or virtual? Check in with his merger project manager? His advisors and whatever they were working on?
He ran his palms over his large desk, surprised that they were trembling. He clenched them, willing them to still. He was excited to be back, that was all. That was why his heart was racing, too. It wasn’t fatigue, or anxiety, or anything that would lead to him in a hospital bed.
“Mr. MacKenzie? Stella is on the line.”
“Thank you, Em.” He pushed the worn button. “Stella! We’re back in business.”
“The doctor let you go back to work?”
He tried not to be miffed at the way her voice rose in disbelief. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because only a few days ago you couldn’t remember my name, and ran into the doorjamb hard enough to blacken your eye, and stopped being able to form full sentences. Not to add you’ve been looking like death warmed over for about a week. And I mean that in the literal sense.”
“Good to hear your voice, too,” he said drily. “When can you be in here and bring me up to speed?”
He waited through a long pause, staring at the art on his office walls. He spun and studied the panel to his right. “When did I get new office art?” he asked.
“You’ve had that since you moved in.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
Connor focused on the prints once again. The colors were so subtle, so bland. So…boring. “Did I pick them out?”
“The interior decorator did. You said you didn’t have time. You requested something powerful, intriguing and preferably not offensive.”
Placing Stella on speaker, he walked to the wall and lifted the first print off. “Well, it’s none of the above.”
“I agree.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He could picture her shrugging on the other end of the phone.
“You know, paycheck, agree with the boss, et cetera. But I did bring you that new painting I found a few weekends ago.”
“Where’s that?” He scanned his room, and there it was, a gorgeous, bright sunflower that lacked the gloss of talent. Oddly enough, it made him feel good. It made him feel…love. And not in a hokey way, either. “It’s nice.”
“I know. You should hang it on your wall.”
He crouched to read at the name, and fireworks of recognition flared inside him.
“Connor? You still there?”
He pulled himself out of his spell. “Where did you say you got this?”
“Farmers’ market a few hours north.”
“Yes. Right. I remember now.” He stood and returned to his desk. “Stella?”
“Yes?”
“Have you found that getting projects under way and making a decent profit seems more difficult lately?”
There was a thoughtful pause. “Yeah, maybe?” The way her voice lifted—a voice more familiar to him than his own—he knew she was considering the idea, hefting it in her mind while assessing its worth. “For the past few months things haven’t flowed as quickly or smoothly as they once did.”
Connor nodded. Thank goodness it wasn’t just him imagining it, or creating a story in his head so he’d feel like less of a failure for the ways things had been moving lately. “It is harder.”
“Well, the economy isn’t what it was when we started.”
He leaned back in his chair, assessing the print still hanging to his right. It had to go, too. Maybe after he caught his breath again.
“It is harder to make an easy buck with these stupid economic bounces,” he admitted. Was that all it was?
“If it were steady. Even if in decline…”
“Those were the good ol’ days, weren’t they?” He wanted to hash this out in person. She was his best so
unding board and had been with him since he’d started this business. He checked his watch. It was already after five, and it wouldn’t be fair to call her back in if she was already gone for the day.
“Why don’t you retire?” Her voice was gentle, curious.
“Retire?” He let out a laugh. “Don’t you know how young I am? I have a world before me.” He spun around in his chair, his power position. There wasn’t an office higher in the city and everyone knew it. He was on top in every way possible. “And give all of this up?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. She was holding back. What was it?
“I’m missing something.”
“A life, for starters.”
He laughed. “I’m the king. Who needs a life? This is it! What everyone strives for.”
“Everything is business with you and it’s killing you.”
“Not this again.” He fought the temptation to hang up, his anger soaring higher than the CN Tower.
“Don’t get snippy with me.” There was an edge to her voice he hadn’t heard before. “You need time off.”
“I don’t.”
“Take time to reassess, Connor. I’m not saying quit, but you need time away to figure out your next life goal.”
He paused, unsure. He had made it to the top, and didn’t have any more goals other than to try and knock down any dirty rascals storming his castle.
“You have a stellar grad to help you out over the next two weeks,” Stella said. “She and Em can take care of the little things and your advisors can take care of the big things. I hired Maya for two weeks. Everything is under control. Take a vacation, Connor.”
“I don’t think Maya can be you, Stella.”
She laughed. “Of course not. But I gave her an info pack I spent half the night compiling. She’s up to speed. She’s eager but as quick as a whip. Trust her. She’ll get it done and she has Em to lean on. I have good instincts in people. So trust the people you and I have hired and go. Rest. Restore. That merger is an old clunker, and two weeks away from it will enhance your point of view, not kill it. And everyone else has their own projects to keep them busy.”
“Two weeks minus the days I’ve taken off already.”
“Don’t nitpick, Connor.”
“You knew the doctor was going to tell me to take this time, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t, but I know how to be prepared for anything. You taught me that.”
“You’re not in Canada, are you?”
“No, Connor, I’m not,” she snapped. “Ever think that maybe I need a vacation every once in a while, too? In fact, doctor’s orders.” Her voice was low, sad almost.
“Why?” His heart was racing again, but he knew that this time it was out of concern for his assistant, Stellar Stella, and not for whatever other reasons usually set it breaking the recommended speed limit.
“I’m pregnant. And I’ve been working too hard.”
“Shit.” Talk about left field. Hadn’t she married only a few months ago? It was right after the Westing merger, and she’d taken her honeymoon just before they’d jumped on the Everglades deal which closed last fall. Holy cow, it had already been well over a year. How did that happen? “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Why do you sound glum?” he asked.
“Because I haven’t even told my parents yet and I’m having to tell you. I’m still in the first trimester, so don’t even think about telling anyone.”
“Mum’s the word.” He chuckled at his pun.
“Connor, you’re a nit.”
“So? We’re back at work in two weeks?”
“You taking the time off?”
“It’s not the same without you here keeping me together, Stellar Stella.”
“You’re really taking it?”
“No, of course not. I’m going to die at my desk and you know it.” Laughing, he ended the call, his humor dying as he broke the connection. He tugged forward a newspaper Em had left open on his desk, and glanced at the photo under a headline that had his name. Who was this old dude who looked as though he was a member of the walking dead?
Connor dropped the paper in realization. It was him. The knowledge hit him in the chest and he turned back to his view of the city, his breathing ragged with alarm. It wasn’t a joke. He really was going to die here. He might already be…no, don’t think that way.
He moved to the wall, supporting himself for a moment before lifting the second print. A print? Why hadn’t he bought real art? He could support someone doing something fresh and new, instead of buying a cookie-cutter image. He dropped the print and a corner of the frame splintered.
The print was him, his life. He was similar to the artist in that he’d made something cool the first time. Something original, new, and alive, not knowing how it would end up. He’d followed his gut and created. Then, boom, before he knew it, he was selling framed reproductions and hoping to ride the gravy train to something big, when in fact he’d sold out and stopped creating long ago. This artist was rubber-stamping his own creativity, Connor his whole existence.
It was time for more risk, and to put something worthy in his obituary. He needed meaning.
He returned to the phone on his desk.
“Is James still here?” he said into the speaker.
“Yes,” Em replied.
“Tell him to pop by, would you?”
“Sure thing.”
A moment later James came breezing into Connor’s office. “How’s my favorite boss, Connor MacKenzie, the king of Toronto, doing?”
“You crazy son of a bitch, what’s up?”
“Not a lot.”
“How’s the merger?”
“Bill says it’s tough going.”
“Why?” Connor took a drink of water from the mini fridge to his right. His throat felt dry and his eyes were burning. Must be the air in this place. Recycled. Maybe he should get some sort of renovation done to improve that. Stella, in her condition, would want fresh air, not this dry, already-breathed crap.
“The usual. Slow backers. Lawyers dragging their feet.”
“Speed things up.”
“Trying.”
“And?”
“Things aren’t like they used to be.” James leaned back in his chair and propped his fingertips together.
“People are still eager to merge with me.” Connor’s anger was back. He wanted to snap, lash out at something. It had become like this in his office lately. He flashed from chilled out, relaxed and patient to pissed off and ready to punch something.
“I know, I know.”
“Don’t placate me.”
“It’s clause 15, subsection 7.”
“Which is?” He should have this memorized, not James, who was only an advisor. James was a details man, yes, but he wasn’t the boss.
Where were his files? Connor rustled through some papers on his desk and rubbed an eye.
“I’ll work on it with him,” James assured him. “We’ll finesse things. Massage it along. Don’t worry about it.”
“Any new potential offers on the table I should know about?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing?” Damn the bounce in the economy. One little rise and everyone was sunshine and roses, thinking they were through the storm. They weren’t. “I thought Bill was our ideas man.”
“You weren’t gone that long, my man,” James said, tapping the corner of Connor’s desk with a knuckle.
“How’s your primary industry project going?”
“Okay. Moving along on schedule.” James allowed a small smile and Connor relaxed. Maybe if this project went well for James things would finally get easier again.
“Look, I gotta go, Connor.” James placed his hands on the chair’s armrests and leaned forward. “Meeting with the lumberyard’s people for dinner. Golf next weekend?”
Connor managed a tight, polite smile as he massaged the tightness in his left shoulder. He had come to hate golf, as it represented getting corn
ered by golf partners on the twelfth hole and propositioned for a new project, then having to play nice for another six holes before he could let them down nicely and walk away. Or in James’s case, rejecting his play for Connor’s company. His advisor wanted a large share of the company’s bottom line even though Connor had made it clear that it wasn’t up for grabs. Connor owned CME, nobody else.
“We’ll play it by ear, okay?”
“Sounds good.” James tapped the door frame. “Oh, and hey, are you back again?”
“Can’t stay away. You know me.”
“I’ll let the guys know.” James licked his lips twice—a tell Connor had come to recognize as the man being nervous. Why didn’t his right-hand man sound more enthused about the prospect of him being back in charge? Odd.
His office door opened and Em came in carrying a notepad, ready for an end-of-the-day debriefing. She smiled as James ducked out, and took a seat across from Connor, falling into Stella’s usual routine.
Connor rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the shooting pain that was arching up his arm and into his neck. Probably a pinched nerve.
“You all right?” Em asked, her face pale with worry.
He rubbed his chest. “I think I need to leave. How about we debrief in the morning?” Every breath felt as though he was trying to wrestle a noodle through a vise.
Em stood alongside him as though she was expecting him to fall.
Connor didn’t dare speak. He needed a hospital. Now.
* * *
Maya wished she could stand in the entry of the skyscraper housing Connor’s business forever. The air conditioner was blasting straight at the doors and the chill was a welcome relief from the heat of her car. She surreptitiously flapped the skirt of her dress to encourage more cool air to move against her skin before reluctantly moving through the stream of employees happily leaving the chilly building in order to breathe real air. Feeling like a salmon swimming upstream, she weaved her way to the elevators, barely making it into the next empty one before the doors closed.
Hitting the button for the top floor, she savored the elevator’s fresh scent. She ran her fingers through her hair, gazing in the mirrored wall and thinking of various opening lines. “Hey, how are you? Need someone in the mailroom?” Or “Can I work for you here, since you aren’t coming back to Muskoka?” It didn’t matter. Every line she came up with sounded desperate and stalkerish.
