by Jill Barnett
At that moment, it felt so damned good to sit there next to March, saying nothing at all and not feeling like he had to. One of the things about a marriage of over thirty three years was you could live in long silences without either of you feeling like you had to fill them. “Our anniversary this year,” he paused. “It’s thirty four years, right?”
“Thirty five.”
“Is that one of those important ones?”
March started laughing. “What?”
“You know, tenth, twenty-fifth, thirtieth—the ones that mark some irrational, special numbers—the ones you get in really deep trouble for forgetting. Is thirty five important?”
“Every anniversary is important, you stupid fool,” she said. “You’ve never forgotten our anniversary.”
“That’s right. It was your birthday I kept forgetting. How many years was it before I realized it wasn’t in July?”
“About five. But I didn’t care. I always made out like a bandit those years, with two birthday gifts. The make-up present was a really, really good one. You should forget again, honey. I want that Cartier bracelet.”
“What bracelet?”
“The one I’ve been dropping large hints over for a good five years.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m waiting to surprise you.”
“I hate surprises.”
“No you don’t. You just hate not knowing the surprise.” He rested his head back and took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling, the vagaries of his business running through his head after Mickey’s words to Phillip.
After a few minutes he said what was bugging him out loud. “I wonder now if buying SkiStar was such a great idea.”
“Don’t let what Mickey said get to you. He’s seventeen. He thinks he knows everything. He was embarrassed and angry at Phillip for pointing out he was going to cry, probably even more angry at himself.”
“Pissed at me, too, for taking the car away.” Mike poured some more wine. “He’s right, though. There’s a lot of talk.”
“I know SkiStar is struggling. But the brand was already failing when you bought it. No man can make a business turn around overnight.”
“Three years and counting isn’t overnight. Orders for the new line are in the toilet. Scott’s been making noises about all the money we’ve been pouring into Phillip’s side of the company.” Mike paused, staring at the dark color in his wine. “Just the other day Scott said something to me about how Phil is always just skating by. He was complaining that because he’s older, he’s had to pave the way and take harder knocks.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“But he thinks it’s true.”
“Children always think we ruined their lives. Those two operate so differently. Scott analyzes everything, thinks it through. He’s methodical. Risk adverse. Phillip makes his decision and that’s it. He’ll decide whether the risk is worth it quickly, then jump on it or walk away. He has a quick mind. He’s you.”
“But he doesn’t suffer fools and says exactly what he thinks, like someone else I know.”
She laughed. “Some of my better points.”
“I know Scott’s frustrated and I understand that,” Mike said. “SkiStar’s pulling a hell of a lot of money every year out of the board business, and with no sign of any gain at all.” He paused. “I wonder sometimes if I’m beating a dead horse.”
“Is it Phillip? Is he screwing up?”
“No. He told me tonight he has some kind of plan to present to the board Wednesday. I know he’s the doing the best he can. But Scott isn’t happy about it. I think the financial draw and constant losses are starting to create friction between the two of them, which is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I bought the SkiStar.”
“You have always tried too hard to keep things fair and even for them. I know why you do it and I love you for it, but they’re brothers. They’re going to compete. It’s perfectly natural. Look at them on the slopes. Look at how they’ve always fought for our attention. They need to work out their own status in life and in business. Each of them needs to find his place. As much as you’d like to, you can’t make their worlds perfect.”
“Well, that’s good because I haven’t. Things are far from perfect.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Listen to what Phillip has to say.”
“Whatever it is, it’s going to cost money and Scott isn’t going to be happy.”
“Too bad for Scott. Don’t let them put you in the middle because your father was a jerk with you and Brad. It’s your company, Mike. You make the decisions. I’ll support you. The boys will have to accept your decisions.”
Mike set this empty glass down. “Has Mickey said anything to you about joining the professional boarding circuit?”
March laughed. “Only constantly since his sophomore year. He’s looking for a reaction whenever he says it.”
“Well, I gave him one.”
“I won’t,” she said stubbornly. “You know what the real problem is?”
“Enlighten me. You’ve got a better handle on him nowadays than I do.”
“He’s just unsure of himself and looking for an easy out. These kids today have so much pressure on them and they’re greener and even less ready to choose their futures than we were. They have so many more choices. College selection is coming up. The truth is he’s scared he won’t get accepted at his first choice. It’s important for him to shine in this family. Look at Scott and Phil. He’s afraid to want it too much and be let down. Or worse, he’s afraid to let you down.”
“Hell, I don’t care where he goes to school as long as he goes and gets a decent education.” Mike drank some more wine, then added, “And I do care that he doesn’t become a convicted felon in the next nine months.”
March laughed. “I know as a parent I should be concerned about what happened today.” She paused. “But Mike, really . . . The purple cow?” She began to giggle.
“When Mickey was still in the detention room with his dipshit buddies, even the cops were laughing about it. This is all your fault. He gets that wicked mind of his from you, Sunshine.” He winked at her and relaxed.
Soon he was aware that all his problems from a few minutes before didn’t seem too bad. He wouldn’t trade places with anyone. He lived in a marriage where he could say aloud what was bothering him and March could make him feel better for it. He took the glass out of her hand, placed it on the table. “I think it’s time to talk about something else.”
“What?”
“Something much more important.” Mike leaned toward her. “Come here, and let’s do something about these panties.”
Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear and easy, no big local news, no trucking strikes, no traffic jams or bridge problems. You could scan the horizon from north to east and see Marin, Angel Island and the East Bay’s gray-green foothills. The water in the bay was crystalline and mythical, like a panoramic image from a Peter Jackson film, its edges still tinted gold in the rising sunlight. The city, its streets, public transportation and sidewalks, had all settled into a continuous, routine system of mid-week order.
March leaned over and placed her hand on her husband’s knee as he downshifted the sports car. “It’s only 8:15. We have time. Take Eleventh Street.”
He made a quick right turn and in a few more minutes they were in front of the old apartment. A big huge square brick building covering most of a weedy city lot, it was flanked by a small gas station without automated pumps, a tire shop and an Hispanic market, all set against a gray tower of cement freeway pillars.
The building’s roof was flat, with broken black gutters in the corners, but some of the mortar looked new and lighter, and the sliding windows had finally been replaced. For years, left over from the turbulent Sixties, there had been a huge peace sign and a big blue eyeball painted on the south side of the building.
“They’ve repainted the brick.”
“The eye’s gone. No one’s done a thing to the roof, t
hough.” Mike paused. “Man . . . Listen to that freeway noise.”
“I hear it.”
“I don’t remember the noise being that bad.”
“It wasn’t. At least I don’t think it was. The boys were so young. They could never be quiet for more than two minutes straight and you were working downstairs in the shop most of the time.”
“You used to play your music so damned loud,” Mike laughed at her. “I could hear it over the grinder. The bass was turned up so high sawdust shook onto the floor. Even the commercial neighbors complained.”
“I’ll have you know the boys loved my loud music.”
“We’re lucky our children don’t have hearing problems.” He leaned on the steering wheel, looking up at the old place. “With the price of property now, I’m surprised this place is still here and no one’s converted it. Looks just like what it was: an apartment over a warehouse.”
“I’m glad it’s the same, proof of our history together.” She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe we can sneak down here some night and paint Cantrell Museum on the side.”
“See. There’s proof. Mickey and the purple cow was all your fault.” He put his hand on her leg. “I never knew underneath the graphic artist I married is a hidden graffitist.”
“I love it when you start a sentence out with ‘I never knew.’ I’m still an enigma.” She glanced at Mike’s profile as he drove, loving that this man was hers, then she looked out the window. She was pretty certain her little silly secret was safe and he didn’t know she foolishly drove by the old apartment whenever she was alone and nearby, or on her way to the office. The old place was only a few blocks out of her way, and she always justified her drive-bys with the idea that seeing where you came from never hurt where you were going.
The executive offices of Cantrell Sports Incorporated took up five floors of the Sutter Building, along a grand canyon of steel and glass monoliths on Montgomery Street in the center of the financial district. They got off the elevator into the bold, graphics-painted lobby she had designed, filled with clean-lined, European-styled furniture from an upscale importer and large blown-up images of the latest Cantrell boards in every kind of snow and air action, along with the latest ad slogans.
Mike headed for his office and March, who hadn’t been to the offices officially in a few months, spent some time visiting the departments, especially the art and graphics floor, saying hello and asking about families and kids and parents.
At nine thirty she walked into the boardroom, passed by the box of hot Krispy Kremes, a stack of five-hundred-calorie-each croissants, and collection of fruit Danish and grabbed a non-fat fruit yogurt and black coffee.
Her tall, slim and athletic sons joined her, the boys she had raised on organic baby food she made herself in a blender, painful breast feedings and then organic whole milk for their growing bones, and years of healthful, well-planned and balanced meals.
They each grabbed donuts and croissants and Danish—all plural—stacked high on their small white plates, along with creamy lattes, juice and milk. Phillip, aged thirty-two, actually carried a bottle of chocolate milk.
Scott had already eaten two donuts by the time he sat down, drank the milk and was starting on a croissant with butter, then looked up at her. “What?”
“There isn’t enough butter already cooked into that for you?”
“Nah. Hand me the jam, will you?” He grinned at her.
“The fact that neither of you have an ounce of fat on you is proof to me that God is a man,” she said.
Phillip sat down across from her. “Of course He’s a man. That’s why we run the world. Hoo-yah!”
“Stop beating your chest, son, and try to remember we women give birth to you.” She took a bite of yogurt and pointed at him with her spoon. “Your tie doesn’t match.”
Phillip frowned down at his clothes. “Yes it does.”
“You’re wearing the wrong tie again, Phil.” His wife Keely walked in and poured herself some coffee. “I can’t let you leave the house after me.”
“You should pin notes on his clothes,” Scott said. “That’s what mom did all through high school. He looked like crap in college. Purple shirt. Brown pants. Red hightops.”
Color blind, her daughter-in-law silently mouthed to March over Phillip’s bald head.
Looking at Keely it was hard to believe she had been through so much just a year ago, when after struggling to get pregnant for two years, she’d had an ectopic pregnancy that put her in the hospital, left her with one ovary and tube, and put Phillip through hell. It was not easy on either of them, but Keely was well now and March knew she was still longing for a baby. They were trying again, but no luck. March gave her a quick kiss. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”
“She’s presenting the new ad proposal for SkiStar,” Phil explained then looked at his wife. “Get me another milk, baby, would you? Chocolate.”
“Only if you promise to pour it on that tie,” Keely shot back. She was a good match for Phillip.
When Molly graduated from UCLA with an award winning portfolio and the beginnings of a great reputation, she was hired as a commercial photographer for one of San Francisco’s largest advertising firms, the same firm March had done graphics for years back, then Mollie quickly met and bonded with Keely Robinson, a tall, blonde, super-smart junior ad consultant. Before long, Molly had played matchmaker between her irrepressibly-fun, completely helpless bachelor of a brother and her friend. The rest was Cantrell family history.
Within a few minutes the board had settled in, and for more than an hour, they completed regular board business before Phillip opened the discussion of SkiStar’s losses and failing position in the industry, then led into Keely’s ideas, which she pitched as she handed out her proposal folders. “The time-proven, best publicity tool for increasing the sports industry positioning and sales is celebrity endorsement. The statistics and historical percentages of growth and profits, some done in colored graphs, are in your folders. They start on page four.”
Her facts and research were impressive, but that wasn’t surprising. What was impressive were the projections and goals for SkiStar, which looked too good to be true, if the company followed advertising history.
Scott closed his folder. “I thought we decided endorsement was too expensive and risky.” He paused, then added, “When? Two years ago?”
“The risk was in the celebrity list we were considering then,” Phil said.
“So what’s changed?”
“One name,” Keely looked at Phillip and who gave her a wink.
“Who?”
“Spider Olsen.”
Olsen was the only industry name that could make every person in the room stop and believe. And March understood why. Spider Olsen. She glanced at Mike. He wasn’t saying anything. His expression was one she knew: thoughtful, a listen and wait look.
The top winter sports broadcaster for almost two decades, working for ABC, NBC and ESPN, Spider Olsen was a household name, the only American skier to win three Olympic gold medals for downhill and two consecutive for slalom. Spider Olsen’s name was synonymous with United States skiing.
A five-time World Champion, Olsen had refused all endorsement offers since he left the sport almost twenty years ago. But the networks had gone to Spider for every winter Olympics coverage since, for the world championships, and he anchored and mediated network winter sport commentary.
Blond, tall, aggressive and intelligent, with a deep and distinctive voice, he was also just as often in the entertainment headlines, married and divorced from an ice skater, an actress who starred in a long-running Emmy-winning sit-com, and, most recently divorced from the granddaughter of a United States vice president. He was everything March had thought the first time she’d ever met him. Spider Olsen was a hound. Pure trouble.
“What makes you think we can get Olsen?” Scott asked, laughing slightly at the idea. “No one else has. He’s turned down every endorsement offer for years.”<
br />
“He won his medals on SkiStars.”
“In the 80’s.”
“He likes Dad,” Phillip said.
“Yeah, right,” Scott said. “He likes the millions a year he thinks we’ll pay him.”
Phil looked at Mike. “I didn’t know you knew him, Dad, until Keely introduced him to me. He said he knew you from years back.”
“I know Olsen,” Mike said without emotion.
“All our conversations indicate he’s open to an endorsement for SkiStar . . . especially now that it’s part of Cantrell.” Keely set the folder down.
Mike laughed, shaking his head slightly, his hands steepled as he rubbed his chin.
As far as March knew, the Mike’s contact with Spider Olsen was limited to his fist to Olsen’s jaw in a bar in Calgary.
No one at the table really needed convincing. An endorsement from Olsen was exactly what SkiStar needed. There wasn’t a person there who didn’t understand Olsen’s appeal. Olsen was bigger than life. March had already promised Mike she’d follow his lead on this. Her smart-as-a-whip daughter-in-law understood the power of the carrot she’d just dangled in front of them.
Phillip looked up at his dad every few seconds, tapping his pen on the arm of his chair with his usual energetic lack of patience, waiting for Mike to say something, and Scott was silent and not particularly receptive, even when he glanced at her and gave a slight smile. She knew he was worried about the amount of money a contract with Olsen would cost the company, money that would come directly from Cantrell’s profits, on Scott’s side of the business.
Mike sat back, his decision clearly made. “Okay.” He looked at Phil and Keely. “You got it. Let’s start negotiating.”
