by Andrea Stein
“I’m hanging up now,” Caitlyn said, gritting her teeth.
“That would be a mistake,” he said quickly and with authority.
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t,” she countered.
“Because I know, even if you don’t, that nothing you could have done would have stopped Lucas Montgomery from killing himself that night.” Peter Flynn delivered this extraordinary statement in a flat, emotionless voice.
Caitlyn stopped herself from hanging up the phone. The man’s words reached out across the air as her hand hovered, her mind making a decision, yet her hand unwilling to commit.
“Do I have your attention now?”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Good. I have information about your grandfather’s death.”
“What kind of information?” Caitlyn asked, too quickly, then willed herself not to betray her eagerness.
“Not so fast. I don’t give information away for free.”
Of course, everything came with a price.
“I don’t think what you could tell me would be any worse than what I already know,” Caitlyn said.
Flynn chuckled, and Caitlyn felt the icy fingers of fear tickle her neck. She looked up and saw her door was open but no one was paying the least bit of attention to her.
“Not necessarily worse. But wouldn’t you like to know the truth, the why?”
“I know the why,” Caitlyn said. Everyone knew the why.
“There are two sides to every story. I have a good story, better than the one you already know.”
“How can I be sure?”
“There’s no one left to tell you, is there? All the old cronies are gone. Maxwell gone. He’s not there to protect you now. Ever wonder why he was such a nice old man to you? You were just about the only one he was nice to. Especially as he started to go off the deep end,” Peter Flynn said.
“What do you want?” Caitlyn said, growing impatient again, even while knowing it was the truth.
“A fair exchange, little Miss Montgomery. I want some information from you, and in return, I’ll tell you something that might put that uneasy conscience of yours to rest.”
“Who said I had one?”
“I would, if the night my grandfather killed himself was the one night I chose to break curfew. I would think that ‘if only’ must go through your head on a pretty regular basis.”
“I’m hanging up now.” Caitlyn could hear his laughter as she put the phone down, slamming it forcefully on its cradle, willing it to be silent. She looked up and around her small office.
Wasn’t this what she was looking for, by coming back home? An answer to the why? She knew the what. Everyone knew the story. Lucas Montgomery, founder of the Montgomery-Randall Group, investment advisor to the genteel rich, had driven his Lincoln Town Car, not his beloved Mercedes coupe, down to a deserted beach one evening towards the end of the summer. He had shot himself with a gun, no one knowing where he had gotten it, and left a note, saying, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to. Do what you can.”
And then the stories came out, hushed up, but out there nonetheless. Unaccounted transactions at the firm, money missing, all of her grandfather’s shares going directly to Maxwell. Almost single-handedly, Maxwell had saved the firm, using her grandfather’s death to win sympathy and forestall mass client defections. With help from a few friends, everything had been saved. The Montgomery-Randall Group carried on, a disaster forestalled by a sacrifice. The fact that her grandfather had had cancer, inoperable and terminal, was no consolation. He’d spared himself a messy death and left the crap for others to clean up.
Caitlyn sighed. She could not imagine anything worse than what she already knew.
Chapter 9
Caitlyn entered the conference room. It was a large space; still, it was filled to bursting with every employee of the firm. The Randall Group was on the top floor of a five-story building. Nothing like the glass and steel tower she had worked at in London.
Inside the room, Caitlyn could feel the nervousness rolling off of people. It was in their eyes, and in the sweaty armpits of Bob Harper from the mail room. Faces reflected in the sheen of the conference room table’s shiny surface were worried, ghostly almost. They were all wondering what would become of them.
There was a slight swirl of air as heads turned towards the door. Two men entered, and Caitlyn felt her heart sink, even though she had prepared herself for this. Maxwell the Bastard had struck again. She felt a burn in her throat and just maybe the pricking of a hot angry tear before she got a hold of herself.
Maxwell had used her, she thought, as Sam Harris began to speak. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual tan. In the summer months, he spent most of his spare time on his boat or hanging out at the yacht club. By October, Caitlyn suspected he had a little help from the bottle.
“Everyone, I would like to introduce you to someone. Many of us here have worked at the Randall Group for years. It’s always felt like a family firm, Maxwell like a benevolent uncle guiding the ship.”
Caitlyn felt the anger rising in her. Benevolent, her ass. Cheating, deceitful user was more like it.
Sam straightened his tie before continuing. As usual, he wore a suit, gray with pinstripes and a striped tie, this one alternating navy and red. Caitlyn had seldom seen him wear anything but, not even a subdued paisley. He eschewed French cuff shirts and cuff links and wore a simple watch with a leather band. He even drove a nice, practical car. Sam Harris had been the man to rein in Maxwell’s wilder tendencies, but he did little to inspire anyone to greatness.
“It was a terrible tragedy that Maxwell Randall was taken from us so soon.”
Caitlyn scanned the room. The faces had changed from scared and nervous to puzzled. Most were trying to get a better glimpse of the man who stood behind Sam, just out of view – all except for Tommy Anderson. He caught her looking at him and grinned.
She gave a half-smile. Tommy Anderson was a financial analyst, always running numbers, evaluating deals. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and an MBA from a top business school. He had joined the firm almost a year before Caitlyn came, and he and Sam were good buddies. Suddenly, Caitlyn had a very bad feeling about this.
“In order for our ship to weather these stormy seas in the next few months, we need to present a clear and united front to our customers and the investment community. So while ownership of the Randall Group has passed to Maxwell’s son, Noah Randall, I will be stepping in as the CEO, with Tommy Anderson as my vice president for the foreseeable future.”
There were a few murmurs around the conference room, and someone started clapping. Soon enough, everyone joined in, including Caitlyn, giving some half-hearted slaps of her hands together. So this was how it was going to be.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Sam Harris raised his arms and called for quiet.
“As I said, I would like to introduce to someone. Noah, why don’t you come forward?”
Sam Harris moved out of the way, and Noah stepped forward. Caitlyn looked up and caught his eye. She stared at him for a moment, holding his dark eyes with her own. He had to look away.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” he began. Caitlyn tuned him out, focusing on the small seething little bit of rage within her. The Randall Group was supposed to be hers. Not Noah Randall’s, the prodigal son, and certainly not Sam Harris’s and Tommy Anderson’s. It was supposed to have been her legacy and now, once again, it was slipping through her fingers.
Chapter 10
“Can we talk?”
Caitlyn looked up and saw Noah in her doorframe.
“I guess I don’t have much choice. You’re the boss.” Caitlyn flipped over some papers on her desk, not looking at Noah. “Unless you came here to fire me. In which case, just so you know, my contract calls for a rather generous severance payment.”
“Caitlyn,” Noah said with a laugh.
He stepped in through the door and closed it, but not before he caught a glimpse of the very interested look on the face of her assistant, Heather Something.
“I don’t want to fire you. From all reports, you’re the one who’s keeping the firm from going belly up.”
Caitlyn stopped what she was doing and looked at him. He was wearing a blazer, in a casual tweed pattern, and a light blue shirt with jeans and brown shoes. He didn’t look like a banker, and that wasn’t what he intended. He was a computer guy, and came from a place where a clean t-shirt meant you were dressed up.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“Gary Burton, that’s who.” Noah sat down and placed his hands on the clear surface of her desk. Caitlyn’s office was modern to the extreme, including a clear, glass-topped desk supported on simple metal rods.
Caitlyn nodded. “It’s nice to know I have some admirers.”
“Which is why you’re probably wondering why Sam Harris is acting CEO.”
Caitlyn waited.
Noah smiled. Caitlyn, when she wanted, could appear as patient as the Sphinx. She had been a skilled chess player and an even better poker player, simply because she could bluff better than anyone he knew. It hadn’t been her poker face. It had been her ability to turn her charm on, thereby making every rational thought fly out of your head.
“You were saying?” she asked.
Noah started. He’d been looking at her, searching her face, getting lost in her eyes again.
“Sam Harris is the obvious choice for now. Everyone would expect it. You’re new. Young. We don’t want anyone to get spooked.” Noah finished, knowing how lame it all sounded.
“Funny. I thought youth was a good thing these days. And last I checked, you’re only two years older than I am.”
Noah said nothing, and she rushed on, “So, I’m just supposed to play nice, go along like nothing has happened?” Caitlyn shook her head. “Maxwell is dead. He was your father. Don’t you feel anything?”
Noah looked up, fighting to keep the hurt off of his face. She’d always known how to cut him to the quick.
“Of course I feel something. You’re right, he was my father. And we’ve barely talked over the last ten years. I always thought there would be more time. That somehow, someday, I would just make him see. See me, who I became. See me as a success.”
Noah dropped his head down into his hands and was silent.
She got up and walked around her desk. Without thinking, she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. He breathed her in, the heady, flowery scent of her hair, and the spicier, warm smell that must have been her perfume.
Finally, he looked up at her, their faces close again.
“Caitlyn,” he started to say, but she pulled away, so there was good foot or two of space between them. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to make sure they knew where they were supposed to be.
“I have work to do. You should go. I am sure you have some place to be.”
He looked at her for a long moment, putting a question in his eyes, until finally Caitlyn broke and dropped her gaze.
“I’ll go for now, Caitlyn. But we’re not done talking. There are some things I need to tell you.”
She just opened the door for him. He brushed past her on his way out, deliberately letting his shoulder touch hers. She felt it, too – the small thrill of electricity. He saw it in her eyes and heard it in the quick hiss of her breath and the way she quickly jumped back, giving him a wide berth.
“I look forward to working with you, Miss Montgomery,” he said as he stepped out in the hall. Heads of assistants and secretaries swiveled towards him.
Caitlyn smiled. Two could play this game. “As do I, Mr. Randall.”
Chapter 11
Tommy Anderson stepped into Sam’s office. Two glasses and a bottle of single malt sat on the desk.
“What are we celebrating?” Tommy asked, taking a seat.
“Well,” Sam said, taking off his reading glasses and pouring out a finger of whisky into each glass. “Today was just the beginning.”
Tommy took his glass, raised it in cheers and took a swallow. It was good stuff, and it slid smoothly down his throat.
“I managed to convince Noah Randall that things would be best if he left them in my – that is, our – capable hands.”
Sam took a sniff and a swallow of his own drink.
“Kept asking about Caitlyn. Wanted to know if she’d be any good running the place.”
Tommy chuckled. “Well, that would be something.”
He settled back into his leather chair, letting his eyes take it all in. Sam had gone with the traditional masculine look – all dark wood, a faded Oriental rug in red and gold tones, rows of leather-bound volumes behind him. The desk was neat, one stack of papers, a computer and a phone. Pictures of yachts racing decorated the walls and half-hull models of bygone vessels took up prime shelf space.
The man loved his sailing. Even the pictures of his family, in tasteful silver frames, showed them on boats. Here in the Caribbean, that one in New England with yellow foul weather gear. Sam Harris, Tommy knew, came from some money. Prep schools, sailing teams. He was a born snob, the feelings of privilege so inbred he didn’t even consider there could be some other way of life.
It was a way of life foreign to Tommy. He’d grown up with a single mom and a missing dad, in a one-room apartment in the bad part of Hartford. Only some skill in baseball, good grades and a hustling mindset had kept him moving forward.
“That’s what I said. I happen to know that those two have some sort of history together. Heard they were thick as thieves for awhile, back when they were kids. So I went easy on her. Told him to watch out for her.”
“And why’s that?” Tommy leaned forward.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure that old Maxwell made a few promises he didn’t intend to keep when he lured here.”
“Lured her?” Tommy said. “I thought she ran into trouble in London – that she got fired and no one would give her a job?”
Sam shrugged. “Maxwell said it wasn’t quite so cut and dried. Said it was never a performance issue, more of a personal one. Her grandfather and Maxwell used to run this place together. It was her great-grandfather that started it. Then her grandfather, Lucas, took it over and brought Maxwell on, made him a partner. Then when Lucas offed himself, Maxwell took over, complete control. It was about then I entered the picture.”
Tommy swirled his drink in his glass, watching the dusky liquid catch bits of light from the green-shaded banker’s lamp. It was interesting stuff, stuff he probably should have known sooner. But that wasn’t what they were here to talk about.
Tommy brushed back his blond hair and tossed back the last of his drink.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for the bottle. Sam hesitated just for an instant before nodding. Tommy smiled. Didn’t like to share the good stuff, did he? Tommy thought as he poured himself a generous measure.
“You didn’t bring me here to talk about old history, did you?”
Sam looked at him, shook his head and said, “I really like what you’ve done with the Platinum Fund. We have clients clamoring to get in. I see a bright future for you here at the new Randall Group.”
Chapter 12
Noah stood on the beach, wrapped in a warm jacket lifted from his father’s closet. His clothes were all Californian now, not suited for October on the East coast, so he had found this one that was old and shabby, but only a little too small. He had come down here to clear his head. The police had made their final, formal call. The medical examiner had ruled his father’s death an accident, one caused by an excess of alcohol, a penchant for drinking outside and a set of rickety old stairs that ended on a rocky bit of beach. Noah could sense that they were already losing interest, moving on to the next case.
He rubbed his hands through his hair. His head was
still reeling. The news that lawyer had delivered hadn’t been a complete surprise. His father had been clear that he wanted to pass the firm on to his son. His father had believed in passing things down from one generation to the next. The foundation of great wealth, he’d often said. He wouldn’t have cared whether or not the next generation wanted it – or whether it had really been his to give.
Noah had always been bothered by that. The simple, almost effortless way Maxwell had taken control of the company after Lucas Montgomery’s death, squeezing out Caitlyn and her mother. They’d been left with nothing of the company her family had built over the generations. Even the name had been changed.
Noah now had something he did not want, did not need and, most importantly, did not know what to do with. He would have no clue how to run an investment advising firm. He was focused on his next project, and that was going to require all of his time and energy.
He looked out over the water as if the answers to all his problems could be found there. His father’s house sat on a short promontory of land that stuck out in the wide expanse of Queensbay Harbor. To the west was the actual village of Queensbay, to the east, more land that rounded off into bluffs and a beach that overlooked the Sound. Hills ringed the whole harbor, dotted with the homes of those who had enough cash to pay for a water view. The easiest way to get down to the beach were by the private staircases that wound up and down the face of the bluffs.
Noah had decided to avoid his father’s precarious stairs. It was too hard for him to look at them without imagining his father falling, not sober enough to realize just what was happening. So, he had taken the long way around, cutting across the small row of trees that divided his father’s property from the neighbors’ and then borrowed their stairs, which were sturdy and in good condition.
The breeze was running fresh air through him, cleansing him, serving to scour him of the pain he felt. He’d known coming home wouldn’t be easy, having successfully avoided it for years. There were too many memories for that, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this hard. Seeing Caitlyn would have been treacherous under any circumstances, but the past couple of days had stirred up too many old memories, too many old feelings.
