"The airport?" Esme asks, sounding confused.
"Yes. I called the roadside assistance people to come out and test the battery, and it turns out the battery is perfectly fine."
"That's good."
"But the starter is not."
"That's not good."
"No. It's not. They say it can be fixed, but the shops around are all busy and won't be able to get to it until at least tomorrow. Then they have to see if there’s one that will fit and blah, blah, blah. In conclusion, I found a super cheap flight, called a cab, and Grammie is sending one of her friends to pick me up."
"You're flying two hours?"
"No, I'm flying about 45 minutes. But the airport is a good 40 minutes from the house, so it’s not really any better.”
"Are you sure you're OK? You seem frazzled."
"Honestly? I am frazzled. But I'm going to be fine."
"Really? I could come and get you. Just tell the cab to pull over."
"I'm already almost at the airport."
"Then wait at the airport."
"You have to bear the donuts. The responsibility has fallen to you. Thank you, though. I appreciate it."
"Of course. Let me know how everything goes."
"I will."
I hang up and tuck the phone into my carry-on. In the twenty minutes before the cab arrived at my apartment, I had frantically redistributed all the luggage from my car into one big suitcase and this carry-on so I wouldn't have to check more than that. Now I'm wondering if I have everything I'll need or if I'm going to have to shop for clothes as part of my new identity as a nurse.
The airport looms ahead of us, and suddenly I'm nervous. I don't know what's waiting for me at the house. Even if Esme is right, and Grammie only needs help while she gets used to a cast, I know there's more back home I'll have to face. The emotions I felt while walking away from that house for the (supposedly) last time were overwhelming. Soul-crushing. The worst thing is, I know those feelings are still there, patiently waiting for me. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to face them.
Chapter Two
Cade
"What do you mean those permits still haven't gone through? … That's not good enough, Ian. I've given you plenty of time to take care of these things, and frankly, I'm sick of the delays. This isn't the first project I’ve done of this scale. I have successfully completed far more expansive projects, and I've never had to go through so much red tape. It's ridiculous. My time is being wasted, and my tolerance is growing thinner by the second. I suggest you figure out whatever has failed on your end, rectify it, and call me when you are ready to hold up your end of the agreement. Unless, of course, you would like me to terminate our contract and remove your company from the list of vendors Endeavor will partner with on future work… Goodbye now."
I end the call and throw the phone on the desk, pressing my fingertips to my temples and letting out a long breath. Squeezing my eyes closed, I do my best to not let the migraine prodding at the edges of my awareness take over. Unfortunately, that conversation was not the first I've had with Ian, the representative of the development company I’m working with on a large-scale commercial project. I had stared at the eerie stretch of what used to be apartment buildings every time I passed it for more than a year. At first glance, it looks like a wide field surrounded by segments of an old, abandoned chain-link fence. It takes a few seconds and a closer look to notice the overgrown sidewalks that weave through the grass, heading nowhere, and the short sets of cement steps leading up to doors long-since demolished along with the rest of the buildings.
Something about those lonely steps really affects me. Every time I see them, I feel a connection. This stretch that now looks like an empty field used to be a neighborhood. It was once filled with families, friends, and lives. Each of those sets of steps represents someone's home.
The overgrown sidewalks are where mothers strolled with their children, friends walked home from school, and countless other inconsequential moments happened over the decades the apartments stood. Each of those moments shaped this area, and now that even the buildings themselves are just memories, it's like I'm drawn to recreate the space. Leaving it empty almost feels disrespectful. I feel like I'm looking into the ghosts of those days, and the almost painful sense of nostalgia sends me back to the time before I sat in this office.
No one in the company has realized how personal this project is to me. They don't know how driven I am to take that space and revive it. Of course, most of my employees have no clue who I am. Most projects are handled through my assistant, who acts as my proxy for the majority of the day-to-day operations of the company. It's only when something is particularly serious that I get involved. Like now. We’re already days behind schedule, and I'm getting increasingly frustrated by this vendor. Without receiving the proper permits, and processing the paperwork they need to, we can't progress any further in clearing out the land. Weeks were spent finalizing plans, identifying the few sidewalks that would stay and marking what would be removed along with the steps and the foundations, and outlining the area I plan to develop into a recreational complex for the community.
The buzzer on my desk alerts me that someone has approached my office and I tap the button beside it. The door opens and Franklin steps inside.
"Are you ready?" he asks. "You're supposed to be there in twenty minutes."
"I know," I say, grabbing my jacket from the antique coat rack a few feet from my desk. "Calm down. We're going to make it in plenty of time."
"Not if we don't hurry."
Franklin is an exceptional assistant. He can make decisions in an instant and has a remarkable ability to shut down anyone who doesn’t understand why they can’t directly interact with the owner of Endeavor. The price to be able to maintain the fairly reclusive lifestyle I prefer and still run my empire, beyond the exorbitant salary I pay Franklin, is his high-strung personality. Just being around him for more than a few minutes when he thinks the day is getting off-track is enough to inspire urgency, and a sense of anxiety, in anyone. Sometimes, however, I wonder if this may be his biggest asset. The more on edge people feel, the more likely they are to do whatever is required to rid themselves of Franklin and his particularly shrill and tightly-wound brand of motivation.
"Franklin, we're going to the second floor. Of this building. Barring the elevator shutting down, I think we’re going to be just fine. And even if that happens, I'm fairly certain someone would come to pry us out pretty quickly."
His eyes widen slightly, and I realize I just put another frantic thought in his head. We walk out of the office and turn toward the elevator as I straighten the collar of my jacket.
"The principal of the school is already here. He was told an anonymous donor has endowed a new program for the school, with the stipulation that Endeavor is used as the source for training, materials, and course plans. He believes he's here to discuss the potential program with the person selected as the head of the project team."
"He believes that because it's true," I say. "I did donate anonymously. I do want the school to start this program. And I am the head of the project team." Franklin gives me a look like he's not sure if I'm joking, or if I'm somehow trying to mold his thinking. "It's going to be fine, Franklin. Come on."
The elevator doors slide open, and we step out onto the second floor of my main office building. There are several other buildings in the Endeavor network, most of which are specialized to specific subsidiaries or departments. This building is the headquarters, housing not just my personal offices, but also departments dedicated to the most important projects we're managing. The second floor is comprised of meeting spaces in a variety of configurations and sizes to make coordinating teams and interacting with clients simple and streamlined.
I can see a gentleman sitting at the table in one of the conference rooms before we enter. The glass wall is thick enough to prevent sound from traveling through so meetings are completely private, but the transparent walls a
lso allow anyone walking down the hallway to quickly identify what is happening in each room. The man's chestnut brown hair looks out of place, and I have to remind myself this is not Mr. Hayes, the principal from when I was in high school, but Mr. Norton, the replacement who took over after he retired three years ago. It's still hard for me to imagine the halls of the high school without Mr. Hayes’ vigilant presence roaming through them. He wasn't the type of principal to make dramatic, rousing speeches at pep rallies, or try to blend in with the kids by spewing whatever haphazard combination of slang he happened to absorb. Instead, he roamed the hallways almost entirely in silence, observing everything that was going on, and keeping students in line with only a stern glance. I knew plenty of guys who strutted their way through the school like they owned it until they saw Mr. Hayes coming their way. One look from him and they would scatter. By the time I dropped out, there were even whispers that people had seen Mr. Hayes in one section of the school at the same time he was in another section. The outrageous legends about him only seemed to increase the magnanimous presence around him, and I walked out of the school for the last time knowing full well that if he walked out with me, he would be remembered in those halls long after I was.
Mr. Norton doesn't possess the same intensity. Far younger than Mr. Hayes, he seems to be the very definition of mild-mannered. He smiles meekly when I walk through the door of the conference room and reaches for my hand, rising partially from his chair as if he doesn't want to commit to standing all the way.
"Mr. Norton," I say. "Thank you for agreeing to come out here to meet with me. I'm Cade Sawyer."
"Nice to meet you," he says. "Please, call me Michael."
I nod as I settle into the chair at the head of the table.
"Well, Michael, as you know, I've been asked…" My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pause only for a moment before continuing. "I've been asked by the donor…" My phone buzzes again, and I glance at Franklin, who gives an almost imperceptible shrug. One more time. "I've been asked by the donor to be your resource as you build the woodworking program at the high school. Today, I'd like to talk to you about why encouraging the students to learn woodworking will…" My phone buzzes again, and I see Mr. Norton's eyes dip to my pocket and then back at me. "If you'll excuse me for just one moment. Franklin, if you could answer any questions Michael might have."
I grab my phone out of my pocket as I stalk out of the room. Without bothering to look at the screen, I smash the button to answer the call.
"What?" I snap.
"Well, that's a lovely way to answer phone calls. Is that how you talk to your clients?"
I sigh, my eyes closing briefly. I should have taken a few of the aspirin I keep in my top drawer before coming downstairs. This is going to be one of those days.
"Hello, Grammie," I say. "I'm sorry. I'm in the middle of an important meeting right now."
"Oh, that's alright. I'm sure they'll understand. This will only take a minute."
I can't help but smile. Anyone else would realize I am trying to get her off the phone. Not Grammie Rose Helms. She’s not that kind of woman.
"Are we still on for lunch next week?"
"Well, that's actually why I'm calling you."
"Oh, no. Are you in Mexico again? Where are you? Do I need to –"
"No. I won't be going anywhere for a while."
I walk into the coffee room and make myself a cup, pausing when I hear a sudden weak, strained tone in her voice.
"Grammie… is something wrong?"
"I fell and hurt myself," she says, sighing deeply. "It's this house. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten."
"What's wrong with the house?" I ask. "I was there just a few weeks ago to change that lightbulb for you, and it seemed fine."
"Not that house," she says. "That house is fine. I'm at the country house."
"Why are you all the way out there. Hasn't it been years since you lived in that house?"
She lets out a withering sigh.
"Yes. But I'm getting into my golden years, and I've been missing my sweet Rupert so much, I felt I needed to be back here."
She doesn't sound like herself, but I'm going to let her keep going. I never know when it comes to Grammie.
"So, are there some things at the house that need fixing?" I ask, trying to push her into revealing the reason for her call before she bursts into her rendition of 'Sunrise, Sunset'.
"Oh, a few. And you know I just can't trust anyone but you, Cade. Ever since Gramps taught you woodworking, I've known you were going to carry it with you. Now you have your own little company. It's so wonderful. He'd be so proud of you."
Grammie sniffles, and I smile again.
"I tell you what, Grammie. I've got to finish up with this meeting, and then I'll call you back, and we'll talk about what's going on."
When I walk back into the conference room, Franklin is rattling off all the details about the program, and Mr. Norton looks like he's about to fall asleep. I wonder if he has an increased sense of sympathy for the students sitting in front of teachers who never quite mastered the art of public speaking. I watch the presentation for a few moments, fascinated by how fast Franklin is talking, and the way he hasn't lifted his eyes from the notes in front of him in the entire time I've been standing here. I realize Mr. Norton must be making him nervous, and I glance at the principal's hand. No wedding ring. Maybe I should give Franklin more of the responsibilities of implementing this program after all.
* * *
Two hours later…
After the meeting with Mr. Norton, I decide to take the rest of the afternoon off. I had enough time in the office for today, and I'd rather be back at my house. As the privacy glass panel slides up into position between the driver and me, I dial Grammie again. She answers the phone after the second ring, and I notice her voice sounds even shakier now than it did the first time I talked to her.
"I'm so glad you called me back," she says.
There's a note of surprise in her voice that strikes me as odd.
"I always call you back," I say.
"I know," she says. "But you're so busy nowadays. I know you're working hard on your company. It would be easy for you to not have time for an old lady like me."
"I always have time for you," I say. "What do you need?"
"The house needs some attention, and I don’t trust any other company. There are some local people around here, but I don't know them. What if they take advantage of me?"
"Grammie, you don't have to convince me. If you need some help around the house, I can arrange for it to get done for you. Just let me know what's going on, and I'll set up a team."
"No, no, no team. I don't trust anybody else in the house. Is there any way you can do it? I understand if you don't have the time. You have to make sure your clients are happy."
As soon as she says this, I get a twinge of guilt in my chest. Grammie isn't trying to be condescending when she talks about my company or my clients. The truth is, she doesn't know the extent of Endeavor’s success. She believes I took the carpentry and woodworking skills her husband taught me during the summers I spent time with the family when I was younger and turned them into my own company that is allowing me to stand on my own two feet. In her mind, I'm successful enough to live comfortably, but she doesn't know my bank account rakes in billions, and that most of my life is spent alone in my home, arranging for donations and endowments to various organizations throughout the community. When I'm not able to find a program or organization that fulfills a need in the community, I just start it myself. I do it all anonymously because I don't want the recognition. All I want is to see the people of this community have more opportunities and resources than I did when I was younger.
Grammie and Gramps were that resource for me. If I hadn't met them, I wouldn't be where I am now. I have them to thank for everything. It's not that I purposely want to lie to Grammie about my success. It's not her I'm hiding from, or who I don't want to know about my wealth. Instea
d, it's my own family I pulled away from years ago, and never intend to go back to. I know if they find out about my money, they will treat me differently. I don't have much to do with them as it is, and that is my choice. I've made sure they have enough for their basic needs, but that's where I draw the line. My parents have never looked kindly at wealthy people, viewing them as entitled and dishonest. At the same time, they had no qualms taking every advantage they possibly could. They always have. They have always been irresponsible and flighty, and if they were able to get their hands on my money, they would burn through it as fast as they possibly could and end up in the exact same place they are now.
I don't dislike my parents. I don't hold any animosity toward them or wish ill on them. Not anymore. As an adult, I'm able to look at them clearly. Thinking about my childhood, I know they could have been there for me more. My parents should have taken better care of me rather than expect me to be the one to care for them. I always felt the compulsion to save them, until I realized I had to save myself and walk away. Now I make sure their rent and bills are paid when needed, but otherwise, I stay out of their lives, and they stay out of mine. I can't remember the last time I met with my parents, but I see Grammie at least once a month, if not more frequently. There was a brief time in my life, about two years, that I didn't have contact with her, but I don't like to think about it. I've tried to put that all behind me and live the life I want now.
As much as I believe Grammie is milking the hell out of whatever led to her getting hurt, which I'm not convinced was a simple fall, there's a part of me that is terribly worried about her. It's hard to accept, but she is getting older. Although she has lived more in her life than five or six people could have, it may have finally caught up with her, and she really could be having a harder time managing things alone. I can't leave her in a dangerous situation or expect her to trust another team when she wants me. The least I can do for her is to use the skills her husband taught me to fix up the house where I spent some of the best summers of my life.
Unexpected Daddies Page 27
