by Penny Reid
“Caleb has never been a proponent of the plan. He believes the shares should reside with the family, not with the board.” Eugene’s reminder was unnecessary.
Whenever I saw my cousin, he mocked me, told me how I’d failed my family, and how I’d never be capable of leading the company. He’s say I was too shy. Too inexperienced. Too timid. Crazy like my mother. His favorite taunt was that I could snap at any time.
I wasn’t shy. He mistook my silence for timidity. I saw no reason to converse with people I didn’t like and the truth was I didn’t like him. Just thinking about the weasel made me want to throw spoiled milk on his weasel face. And then heft loaves of maggoty pound cake at his weasel face. And then rotten tomatoes. And then drown him in a vat of sewage. And then bring him back to life just to burn him in a dumpster full of dead rat carcasses . . .
I might have unresolved anger issues.
That said, on the bright side, dealing with weasel-like Caleb and his weasel face had forced me to become more assertive. The intensity of my desire to prove him wrong was 49% of the reason why I’d stayed the course over the last two years.
“Whether that . . . Caleb is pleased with the plan or not makes no difference,” I seethed through clenched teeth, acknowledging the uncomfortable spike in my blood pressure for what it was, an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “I am Rebekah and Zachariah’s child. He is not.”
“Yes. But Caleb is your closest living relative. Well, closest relative who is not institutionalized.”
I had to swallow my sorrow before I could respond. “How is that relevant?”
“He will make the case that you, like your parents, are unstable.”
“Again, please explain to me how he can make a case that I’m unstable.”
“Because he will, and he’ll win. He’ll use your voluntary dilution of responsibility—handing over voting control to the board—as proof of your instability.”
“No—”
“Try to look at this from a judge’s perspective. You are the sole heiress to the single largest privately held pharmaceutical fortune in the world, which employs over one hundred thousand people across four continents. You choose to be a secretary in Chicago and haven’t accepted a single cent from your family in over seven years. You can’t just be ‘stable.’ Your mental health must be above reproach, because there’s too much at stake.”
“Begging your pardon, but I’m not just a secretary.” I seriously, seriously despised it when people called secretaries and administrative professionals just a secretary. Being a secretary was a multitasking marathon, a daily gauntlet of making everyone happy all the time. “I am the executive assistant to the CEO. Not taking money from people doesn’t make me crazy, but I will point out that I do allow reimbursement for my travel expenses to and from Boston.”
“Family history is not in your favor. Your mother—the last heiress in your position—was diagnosed with schizophrenia shortly after your birth, close to the age you are now. She was in and out of treatment facilities until she was committed by your father when you were five. You were hospitalized as a teenager for a suicide attempt and diagnosed with bipolar disorder—”
“I didn’t try to kill myself and I definitely don’t have bipolar disorder. I’ve been seeing a therapist—”
“You refused treatment at fifteen and ran away from home. You lived on the streets for almost three years. You have a history of illicit drug use, engaging in promiscuous and risky behaviors—”
“That’s not—” My face burned brighter.
“Again, you’ve refused to move back to Boston. You’ve refused help from your family.”
I snorted at this—another burst of uncharacteristic emotion—because bitterness burned my throat. By “family,” he meant Caleb. Help from my “family” was no help at all.
“All of this has been well documented by your cousin, and I know he has a parade of witnesses to support this version of events.”
An agitated laugh tumbled from my lips and I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Okay.
I was really losing it.
I needed to calm down.
I told myself to calm down.
“I have witnesses, too. I have friends here, people who will speak to my character and stability.”
“But you won’t have access to the funds. You won’t have money to pay a legal team to fight this because—as I said—he will have control of the accounts as your guardian. We can try to stay ahead of Caleb, start shifting the money under your control now, but at this point it will be too late. The wheels are already in motion, the accounts will be frozen.”
“But you’re the trustee! You have control of the—”
“I won’t. It’s too late.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?”
Eugene hesitated, finally saying, “Trust me, it’s too late.”
I struggled with my composure. “Fine. It’s too late. I don’t like this option.”
“I didn’t think you would.” His chair creaked again. I was going to have to call his assistant about getting that chair oiled.
“What is my next option?” Proud of the deceptive calm of my voice, I released a slow exhale.
“Option two: you execute a medical power of attorney pre-emptively to someone close to you, but your cousin will definitely contest that appointment.”
The panic began to recede, finally. This was good news. “Oh. Okay.”
“Not okay.”
“Why? That’s better than option one.”
“Yes, but not by much.”
“Why not by much?”
“At best it’ll only buy you some time. When I say Caleb is motivated, I mean he is motivated. He’s not going to stop until you’re under his thumb. Voluntarily assigning someone your medical power of attorney is basically admitting you’re not mentally competent to make your own decisions. Most judges will agree that a family member has priority and is better suited in this role than a friend selected by the incompetent person. Plus, you would be subjecting this friend to intense scrutiny and litigation.”
I stopped pacing. “What about option three?”
“Which option is that?”
“You tell me.” There had to be an option three, because neither option one or two were acceptable.
He was quiet for a long moment, and then said very, very grimly, “I assume you are considering the transfer of your shares to Caleb? A buyout?”
My gut response was, hell no. Not only was Caleb a terrible cousin, I was convinced he was a terrible human. For the last several months, whenever I visited Caravel headquarters and reviewed division earnings, I’d always left with a creeping notion that something wasn’t right. The numbers added up, but they were too good to be true.
Profits were soaring with Caleb as the CEO, which meant the board was ecstatic. Yet, the sudden sharp profit margin concerned me. We’d had no new properties come to market in five years, spending in drug development was down, and I’d identified obvious inefficiencies in our clinical trials subdivisions. Vague revenue reports from several of the most lucrative divisions culminated in a nebulous sense of anxiety about executive operations.
What would become of my grandfather’s company under Caleb’s tenure if left unchecked?
Whereas my brain and heart asked, Why not? Why not walk away?
I didn’t want the responsibility. I’d never wanted it. No one—especially not father when he was still fully cognizant—believed I was capable of it. Even on my best days, I doubted myself in the extreme.
Why not just wash my hands of it? Walk away. Live a normal life.
Eugene didn’t wait for me to respond. “I discussed that option with him, suggested a buyout of your shares. He . . . did not appreciate the suggestion. Firstly, he doesn’t have the money. As you know, the CEO’s compensation package is capped at five million, inclusive of pay-for-performance and share options. That puts him at far less than his contemporaries. Secondly, he said he would
n’t pay you a single cent, that he’s taking what’s rightfully his. As he put it, ‘what I’m owed.’”
“Hypothetically speaking, not that I’m considering this,” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, “couldn’t I just sign it all over? Free of charge? Just give it to him?”
“The bylaws disallow that. As the controlling shareholder, bylaws require you be compensated at least one hundred and ten percent the average stock price of the last two years, and current stock is at an all-time high.”
Well, there went that idea.
Despite the suffocating lump in my throat and tears pricking my eyes, I was able to whisper, “Eugene, there has to be another option. Talk to me. Give me some hope. What can I do?”
His chair creaked once more, this time giving me the impression he’d been struggling to find a comfortable position. “There is one more option.”
“What? What is it?”
“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”
My eyes flickered over the neatly organized shelves of office supplies, my brain stuck on the word boyfriend. “What?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
I thought about retorting with, “Other than a string of enormously substandard first dates last year, which make me question the solvency and continued relevancy of the male portion of the human species, no. Not anyone of note.”
Or, “How the heck am I supposed to find someone to date when I have work, school, and flying to Boston twice a month for heiress lessons?”
Or, “Do you really think it’s wise or even possible for me to date anyone when I know eventually what I’ll become? What they’ll have to put up with?”
Instead, I replied, “No. Why?”
“You could get married.”
“Married?” Panic resurged, causing me to shriek, “Eugene! I can’t get—” I stopped myself, swallowing, endeavoring to breathe. Breathe. Breathe . . . Calm down. “Sorry for my outburst. I apologize.”
“Caleb could try to contest a marriage, this is true.” Now he sounded less like his grimly pragmatic self and more like he was trying to soothe and pacify; this alteration in his voice did not help my mood. “But his chances of success are minimal, especially if you marry immediately.”
“I am not irrational, Eugene. You do not need to use that tone of voice with me.”
“Fine.” He sighed, and when he spoke again he sounded like good-old grim Eugene. “In the absence of a valid medical power of attorney by a mentally competent person, your spouse would be the default for all medical decisions. Therefore, it’s not as though you signed anything over or admitted—or even implied—mental incompetence. In the eyes of the law, the bond of marriage typically surpasses all other relationships, familial or otherwise.”
“Married.” Now I definitely couldn’t breathe. I was dizzy. I needed to sit down. Spotting a stack of printer paper, I lowered myself onto the top ream.
“Yes. Married.”
“This seems implausible.” Married? What a ludicrous suggestion. “This isn’t a movie, Eugene. Sorry, but I do not believe people just get married to protect themselves from greedy family members’ nefarious scheming.”
“Yes. They do. People get married to avoid being deported, to obtain a green card, to avoid testifying in court, to secure medical insurance or other tangible benefits, and—yes—even to avoid greedy family members’ nefarious scheming. It’s why marriage fraud is against the law.”
“Marriage fraud? Are you suggesting that I commit a crime?”
“No, I cannot suggest you commit a crime. That is completely unethical and I could be disbarred.”
My head was spinning so I lowered it between my legs. The last thing I needed was to faint in the supply closet. “But you can break attorney-client privilege with Caleb and warn me about his intentions?”
“I was just one of seven lawyers present during Caleb’s last visit to Sharpe and Marks. Your family’s estate employs the firm, and you are the sole beneficiary of your father’s estate. I have—personally—been on retainer, paid by your father since before you were born, since before Sharpe and I founded the practice.”
“I thought you were retiring.”
“I will be next month, for the most part, with some exceptions. The most notable exception being Zachariah Tyson. I hold your father’s power of attorney and I’m the executor of his estate, the trustee. I have fiduciary interest in carrying out your father’s wishes. You are Zachariah’s sole beneficiary. Caleb assumes too much. I have no reason to believe Caleb is ignorant of my freedom to discuss estate matters with you, at my discretion.” If I didn’t know better, Eugene almost sounded like he was grinning. “Nor have I identified any cause to clarify this point with him or any of my colleagues—including Sharpe.”
Spoken like a true lawyer.
He continued, “As long as you intend to make a life with the person you marry, it’s not marriage fraud. If you marry immediately, Caleb’s request for guardianship will look like a reaction to your marriage rather than the other way around.”
“You’re serious.”
“As my billable rate.”
Darn. “I see.”
I lifted my torso, placing my elbows on my knees; my forehead fell to my hand.
“Again, you would have to intend to make a life with this person. Kathleen, this has to be someone you’ve known for a while. Trust that Caleb will have him—or her—investigated, how long you’ve known each other, etc. He may try to invalidate the marriage.”
Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “What if I don’t know anyone I can ask?”
Wait.
That wasn’t exactly true.
I did know someone. My good friend, Steven Thompson. I’d known him for two and a half years and I loved him dearly. He was my plus-one whenever I had a business function, or went shopping, or wanted to go see a play.
“Kathleen, I’m not exaggerating.” Eugene cut into my thoughts with more grimness, more urgency. “There has to be someone you can ask, and not a stranger or a casual acquaintance. Because, this is it. This is your only hope. This is the only way. But it is by far your best option. The chances of invalidating a marriage in situations such as these are very slim. The chances of Caleb—as your cousin—becoming your guardian are therefore also very, very slim. Sorry to break it to you, kid, but you need to get married, the sooner the better.”
I lifted my eyes heavenward, wanting to ask, “And just how does one propose marriage to a person in a situation such as this?”
Oh, hey. I know you’re gay, but my family thinks I’m crazy. Marry me, maybe?
“Let me reiterate, this person must be someone you trust implicitly because . . .” He paused, and when he spoke next his voice was laced with uncharacteristic urgency. “Caleb will try everything, even bribery, threats, everything. Please make sure he or she knows what’s expected.”
“Please explain to me how can I do that when even I don’t know what’s expected.”
“You misinterpret my meaning. Don’t ask a friend who might have feelings for you. We don’t need that kind of complication. Let them know a platonic, trustworthy affiliation is what’s expected for, by my estimation, at least five years.”
I shut my eyes. Eugene didn’t need to worry, because Steven definitely didn’t have feelings for me. I didn’t have a choice. I had to ask Steven. If Steven wouldn’t marry me, I didn’t know who I would ask.
Maybe Marie? Marie was a good friend from my knitting group, and—more importantly—the only other single friend I had.
That’s not true.
Ms. Opal was also single; her husband had died a few years ago . . .
Am I really considering this? Asking my widowed coworker to marry me? Am I this desperate? Think of what you would be asking of her!
Whoever agreed—if anyone agreed—I knew Caleb would not hesitate making both our lives a complete hell.
How can I ask this of anyone?
I cleared my throat of sentiment an
d asked, “How soon?”
“With your father. . . you need to move fast.” I listened as he took another deep breath, palpable worry turning his tone a new, troubling shade of bleak. “Kathleen, please, please listen and understand. This blindsided me. I wish I could’ve given you more warning, but this will keep you safe. Getting married today wouldn’t be too soon. We’ll . . . talk soon.”
Eugene ended the call and it felt like I’d been tossed off a cliff. Numbly, I glanced at the screen of my phone. We’d been talking for twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes was all it had taken to completely scramble my world.
My phone was almost out of battery.
I hastened to call Steven. He didn’t answer and I cursed, turning off my phone before it went dead. I then indulged in five more minutes of allowing myself to feel. Then another five minutes of hiding within the closet of despair while I collected myself.
When I stepped out of the supply closet, I had Ms. Opal’s number ten envelopes. I was also calm, cool, and focused.
I was on a mission. I would hold myself together until that mission was complete, and that mission started with finding Steven.
Both Steven and I worked in the Fairbanks building in downtown Chicago; he worked on the top floor, I worked on the fifty-second.
Steven had a fancy job title at Cypher Systems—a corporate security firm—that translated to a senior accountant type of position. We’d been introduced by my friend Janie, a member of my knitting group (except she crocheted). Janie used to work with me at the firm, but she’d been let go when her ex-boyfriend’s father pulled some strings and had her downsized.
It had all worked out, because that’s how Janie met her husband, Quinn Sullivan.
Anyway, that’s a long, convoluted story with very little relevance on what was happening today.
Steven worked for Janie’s husband’s company and we all worked in the same building, that’s the important part. Moving on.
Wearing my detached resolve like armor, I tucked Ms. Opal’s envelopes under my arm and took the elevator to the lobby. Cypher Systems headquarters was on a secure floor and a keycard was needed to access the level. My plan was to ask the security guards to call Steven’s desk, and then have my friend escort me to his office where we would talk.
