by Andrea Stein
His father had even gone so far as to say he was proud of him, a week ago at dinner. Noah had noted it down because it was the first time he’d heard his dad say that to him since he had won a swimming trophy in fifth grade. Okay, so maybe he was exaggerating, but not by much.
They’d run out of time. Noah had thought he would have more with his father, but Maxwell’s accident had taken that from them. And now what was Caitlyn Montgomery up to?
Chapter 3
She dressed in her old bedroom. Even though she had been home for almost nine months, something kept her from moving into the master suite. Silly, but not even her mother, after all this time, had wanted to take over that room. It stayed there, vacant, little changed.
The house itself, at least its outer shell, hadn’t changed much either. Surprisingly, there hadn’t been much money left after her grandfather’s death. The lawyer couldn’t explain it, how a man who was supposed to be making money for his clients had been so spectacularly bad at keeping it for himself.
All that had been left was the house, which had been in the family for generations, and modest trust funds, one for Caitlyn and one for her mother. Caitlyn had used most of hers to fund her education, first at Wellesley, then at the London School of Economics, while her mother had managed to spend down hers trying to maintain a ‘lifestyle.’
Now, rising home prices and over development had made waterfront property of any kind incredibly desirable – and valuable. Her mother had hinted at this often, the desire to sell, since they were equal owners, but Caitlyn had simply said no. She needed to know that this house, with its quirky floor plan, odd-shaped rooms and the truly fabulous wraparound porch would always be there for her.
Caitlyn shut her window, which looked out over the back lawn and the trees to the flat expanse of the water. The sun was up and bright, the sky blue, but a strong wind chopped the surface of the harbor into a shade of bottle green. Seagulls floated against the sky, holding steady, drifting and then tail diving to the surface.
It had been four days since she found Maxwell’s body, the initial shock turning into an efficient numbness. A nice uniformed officer had walked her back up the beach to her own stairs and into her home, telling her gently that she really should keep the door locked. She had sat then in the study, chilled to the bone and trying to get warm, trying not to think.
Then there had been phone calls from Sam Harris, and she could sense his chilly disapproval over the phone, as if this were somehow her fault. But ever dutiful, he had told her he would take care of things, and she was spared the ordeal of speaking directly to Noah, telling him that his father was dead.
Caitlyn pulled on her dress, a dark, charcoal gray sheath in silk. She struggled with the zipper in the back, remembering the last time she’d worn it, she’d had someone to help her. Fingers shaking slightly, she knew she didn’t want to go to the funeral, but her mother, safely distant in New Mexico, newly detoxed and in love, insisted.
“You must represent the family, Caitlyn,” Serena Montgomery had said. She was still smoking; Caitlyn could hear her sucking on her cigarette over the phone. There was the bark of a dog in the background, and Caitlyn tried to imagine her mother, tall, very thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired, out there in the desert, baking in the sun like one of her own clay pots. Caitlyn neglected to remind her to wear a hat.
It had been on the tip of Caitlyn’s tongue to ask her mother when she had ever cared about representing the family. But that was one of the topics they avoided, one of the many.
“I’ll send flowers,” her mother had said.
“But it’s Maxwell,” Caitlyn answered, as if that said everything.
“And he doesn’t deserve flowers? After all, he’s given you a job. After everything.” Serena still couldn’t think of him as dead.
Her mother had refused to fly back. “Caitlyn, you know I want to sell the house, cut ties to Queensbay. It was your decision to come back. I won’t be pulled there.”
Not for Maxwell, not for any of you. Her mother didn’t say it, but it was there between them, the truth of their relationship. Her mother was moving on. Why couldn’t Caitlyn?
“Yes, mother.”
Caitlyn pulled on her jacket, which matched the dress. She smoothed her skirt and went to her dresser, running a brush through her hair. Her fingers hovered over the jewelry box, passing lightly, as they always did, over the sapphire and diamond ring she no longer wore, but that Michael, in a perverse twist of pride, refused to take back. Caitlyn selected pearls, for both her ears and her neck. Thus armed, she went out the door and to her first funeral since her grandfather’s.
Chapter 4
Caitlyn took a seat in a pew about halfway up the church. It was already close to full, and several rows ahead of her, towards the front, she could see the other mourners from the office. Tommy Anderson, another associate of the firm, was there with his wife. And then there was Deborah, the office manager, and Caitlyn’s own assistant, Heather Malloy. There was not enough room for Caitlyn to squeeze in, and in any case, she preferred to be on her own, away from them, the better able to keep her emotions in check.
She had known Maxwell Randall all of her life. He had been her grandfather’s business partner and, after her grandfather’s death, the sole steward of the firm that now bore only the Randall name. Through the years he had stayed in touch with her, swooping into town when on business to take her to dinner. Remembering her birthday, giving her career advice, perhaps even making sure she got her first job. Then finally there had been that phone call, offering her a fresh start.
But in truth, though he’d always been kind to her, not many had truly loved Maxwell Randall, thought Caitlyn, looking over the somber suits and blank faces. Most were here because it was the right thing to do.
It was hard for her to put into words what she felt towards him. Not quite love, something short of that – a fondness perhaps, gratefulness. Maxwell was too difficult to love and, lately, he’d been just plain crazy. Try as she might to remember him as she had known him, younger, hearty, sane, all she could think about was their unfortunate dinner at the club.
There was a murmur in the church, and Caitlyn looked up. The name moved like a ripple through the crowd, and though she wanted to squeeze to the side, to run and hide, she was right there, in the open, visible. She watched as he walked, eyes straight ahead, Sam Harris trailing behind him.
Noah Randall, fresh off of selling his software company. He’d left college with a couple of buddies, some software code and a business plan sketched out on a napkin. In ten years, they’d taken it from their shared apartment to ever-growing offices, customers and value. Noah, though he knew how to code, had showed himself adept at leading people, so he’d become the CEO.
And just nine months ago, he’d sold the company to one of the industry’s big players. He and his buddies had walked away with a small fortune in cash and an even greater payout in stocks. Noah claimed he was taking an early retirement, but the tech and business blogs were frantic with speculation about what venture he’d turn to next. The gossip pages, though, were having a field day, detailing every party, purchase and happening that newly minted billionaire Noah Randall attended.
His eye caught hers as he walked to the front of the church. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, nicely fitted, a muted blue tie and a crisp white shirt. He looked somber, but not as if he had continued to hit the whisky after she had left.
Noah was alone, except for Sam Harris, who was eagerly guiding him up the aisle. What, Caitlyn thought, he’d had no one to bring with him? He was always being paired with someone, usually a model or actress. Caitlyn ground her teeth. She had promised herself that she would tune Noah out, but that had been harder and harder the more he showed up in print and online.
The funeral was appropriately grand. Not many tears were shed, but everyone extolled Maxwell’s virtue as a businessman, a philanthropist and a foundation of the community. No
one spoke about family. No one mentioned his recent erratic behavior on the golf course, at the yacht club or at the historical society’s auction.
Caitlyn waited until most of the people had left and then, trailing behind the crowd, she walked down the aisle, her feet echoing quietly. It was cowardly, but she wished to avoid another face-to-face meeting with Noah, especially under these circumstances. No doubt they would have something to say to one another, especially after this morning, and she could see the strain was getting to him, the awful truth. He looked stretched and tense, ready to snap, she thought.
Sam Harris was waiting for her at the end of the aisle.
“Caitlyn.”
“Sam,” she said, looking at her boss with wary eyes.
“I’m glad you’re here. Are you going back to the house?” he asked, the meaning clear.
Caitlyn shook her head. She had paid her respects to Maxwell, and that was enough, but Sam took her arm and pulled her off to the side so they were standing in patch of light, made scarlet by a stained glass window.
“I wish you would,” his voice was low and urgent, and he still held her arm. “As a representative of the Randall Group, if for no other reason. Family is very important to this firm, and you’re a Montgomery.”
“I would think that you’d rather not remind these people of that fact.”
Sam smiled thinly, “That’s old history, Caitlyn, and people like to see the new generation in action.” His gaze turned towards Noah, and Caitlyn could guess the gist of his thinking. Side by side, the members of the next generation of the firm. Given the suddenness of Maxwell’s death, it was just about the best thing Sam could get to calm clients nervous about their money.
“You know how good you are with the clients. I am sure Maxwell would have wanted it.”
It was hard for Caitlyn to take offense at his words. As always, Sam Harris was putting the firm above all else, something Maxwell would have appreciated. They had all taken advantage of her last name. In more than one meeting, Maxwell had said, with all seriousness, “This is Caitlyn Montgomery, Lucas Montgomery’s granddaughter, but she’s like a daughter to me.”
He said it without any self-consciousness, avoiding the fact that he had a son of his own whom he refused to speak to, and who refused to speak to him.
In reality, though she was only an employee, there by Maxwell’s invitation and his good graces. She’d never been able to get him to commit to the future. Maxwell had known what she wanted. But all bets were off now.
Sam ran the firm, at least until Maxwell’s will could be sorted out, and the clients that were here today – and there were plenty of them – were looking for assurances, assurances that everything would continue as before, that Maxwell had left behind him a legacy intact. They couldn’t know that he hadn’t made any plans for the future. If the clients saw that, then they would run, pulling out their money and leaving the firm without a leg to stand on.
All of this went through Caitlyn’s mind as Sam looked at her.
She nodded, acknowledging all that he had left unspoken.
“I’ll go.”
Chapter 5
Caitlyn went up the front steps this time, getting an eyeful of the Randall house. It was a monstrosity with a water view. Once Lydia Randall had divorced Maxwell, all restraint had fallen away. Maxwell had many passions – unfortunately, none of them matched. Colors had not mattered to the man at all, neither had the differences between marble, tile and linoleum. He lived at the whim of any decorator who sensed a commission but, typically, he lost interest in their efforts and stopped paying. Even the outside was a mess, a mix of shingles, clapboards and fieldstones, the trim two different shades of blue. Inside, modern sculpture vied with sepia-tinted photographs. It was a grand house, in its oddity, the rooms spacious, filled now with dark-suited mourners and white-coated caterers.
The desire to leave was so strong Caitlyn almost escaped before Sam took a hold of her and propelled her into the living room.
“There are some people I want you to meet,” he said and introduced her.
A group of men perked up when they heard her name. Their faces were uniformly bland, but their stances betrayed their impatience, as if they too would rather be anywhere but here.
They were sizing her up, trying to match an image with the name, and Caitlyn, fighting her discomfort, smiled to see if she could disarm them.
“It’s wonderful to have the next generation join us. We’re preparing for the future,” Sam said, his arm curving protectively around her. She resisted the urge to shake it off.
“Where were you before you joined the Randall Group?” one of them asked, his eyes slightly lecherous behind thick glasses.
“I was with Capital Trust in London.”
All of them nodded. It was a name they knew, a good name.
“Caitlyn was in client relations. She’s already doing a wonderful job here. Perhaps you saw the profile of the firm in the Finance Daily? It mentioned her specifically.”
They nodded, almost as a group. No, they hadn’t read the profile, but it was good to know. At least the bad news hadn’t traveled as fast here as it had in London, Caitlyn thought.
“And what are you doing now, for the firm?”
“Primarily client relations, but I was working with Maxwell on investment strategy.” She wanted them to know she was good for more than a few lunches and free tickets to the hot new show in town.
“Well, they were the best, Lucas and Max.” All of them raised their glasses in a toast, and Sam maneuvered her away.
“There are a few other people I would like you to meet, if you don’t mind. Just offer them some reassurance, remind them that you have experience, you’re looking forward to a long future with the firm.”
“What about Noah?” So far Sam hadn’t said a word about him. Noah had been acting more like a playboy than a businessman lately, and Sam was a bit old-fashioned, not quite getting technology companies and some of their sky-high valuations.
Sam looked at her and then scanned the room. Caitlyn followed his glance and saw Noah alone in a corner, his face dark, eyeing everyone with a wary expression. There was a glass in his hand, but he didn’t seem to be drinking much, just scanning the crowd.
“What about him?”
“Well, if you want to make such a big deal about me, then people will start to ask about him. After all, he’s the celebrity.”
“Noah Randall is not a member of the firm. And he’s known for spending his money, not saving it. We’ll have to let Noah answer those questions on his own, won’t we? Just tell people you don’t know what his plans are.”
Which was the truth. None of them knew how big a part Noah would play in their future. Caitlyn felt her body tighten. Her future could be in his hands; her position at the Randall Group was determined by whoever was the boss – which had been Maxwell, was now Sam, and tomorrow, who knew?
Caitlyn looked at Sam, whose face was not quite bland. She saw what he was thinking – that Noah wasn’t going to inherit the firm. In Sam’s mind, there was no way that Maxwell would make such a decision, to leave a company on whom more than a few people relied, in the hands of someone he hadn’t spoken to in ten years. No way would he pass over his faithful right-hand man for some newly minted paper billionaire, someone who had gotten lucky, at best, and was an irresponsible playboy at worst.
“I see. Thank you, Sam.” Caitlyn smiled briefly and moved away, thinking that in all of the years Sam Harris had worked for Maxwell Randall, he had failed to see the fundamental foundation of the man. For Maxwell, blood really was thicker than water.
<<>>
Caitlyn looked down at the little woman in front of her. She had to lean down and close in to hear what the woman was saying, since she refused to speak louder than a whisper.
“I remember your grandfather.”
Caitlyn smiled, preparing h
erself. Such a statement did not always mean what was coming next was a good thing.
“He was a good man,” she said, the implication being that Maxwell had not been.
Caitlyn figured the woman – Mrs. Smith, Sullivan, whatever – was close to eighty. She looked scattered and smelled like mothballs and lavender.
“I remember your mother, too.” Definitely not a good thing, Caitlyn thought and waited. There was no mention of her father; no one remembered him, not even Caitlyn, who dutifully sent him a card each Christmas. He was an alcoholic drifter who lived on a boat in the Caribbean. The marriage to Serena, Caitlyn’s mother, had been just enough to give Caitlyn legitimacy, which her grandfather then decided to question by having her name changed back to Montgomery.
“I wanted to speak to you, dear. Maxwell wouldn’t listen to me, said I was being daft. But you’ll listen. Addie said you would.”
Caitlyn didn’t know what the woman was talking about.
“Of course I’ll listen. What can I do for you?” A client was a client.
“There is something wrong with my account. I tried to get money, and they said it wasn’t there. But then it was. And everything was fine.”
Caitlyn smiled, not sure how she could help.
“Your bank account?”
“No, the firm account.”
“I’m sure it was nothing.” Caitlyn looked up. There was a noise, a commotion towards the other end of the long room, and she tensed.
Mrs. Smith-Sullivan looked at her. “I want to show you something.”
“Fine,” Caitlyn said. “We’ll talk later, but you must excuse me, there’s something I need to attend to.”
Caitlyn moved quickly, anger making her face tight. The crowd parted for her, sensing her.
