Kathryn Shay - A Time To Give

“Thanks for calming down Hugo, Ben.”

He lowered the paper. “No thanks necessary, ma’am. Just take it as payment for my dinner.”

Again, that smile that could stop a truck in its tracks. “You pay for your dinner ten times over. And please, don’t call me ma’am—it makes me sound like my grandmother.”

He suppressed a grin.

She nodded to the paper. “Anything interesting in there?”

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly lonely, he talked about current events with her. On occasion, he let her help him with the crossword puzzle.

“Not much.” Unless she wanted to discuss the business world’s corporate shark. If it was the last thing he did, Ben would get even with that man. He’d never been vindictive, cold and callous—until Lammon Mackenzie had entered his life. He hated the man most for that.

“Ben, is something wrong?”

Only my whole life. “No, why?”

“You look angry.”

“Nah. Just wish the economy was better.” He nodded over her head. “Seems Alice is looking for you.”

Emily rose when she saw the older woman in the doorway and smiled down at Ben. She squeezed his arm. “Someday, I’m going to get you to tell me more about yourself.”

His heartbeat accelerated. “Boring story.”

“I doubt it.”

He watched her leave. Well, she was right about that. His story was anything but boring. Sad. Infuriating. Stupid. But not boring. It was his own damn fault he’d let Lammon Mackenzie get his company. He’d lost everything to the bastard—everything but this place.

Which was why, once Ben had sobered himself up, he came here every Monday. Cassidy Place, which he’d started ten years ago in memory of his father, and was still solvent because he’d gotten funding from the United Way, was the only thing he had left in his life to prove he’d made a difference, made his mark on the world.

That was why he returned weekly and endured the torture of seeing Emily. In order to stay sane after all that had happened to him, he needed the reinforcement that he was more than an ex-drunk has-been who didn’t have the smarts to hold on to the company he’d built from the ground up. And there was no way in hell Emily Erickson was going to find out what a failure he was.

LAMMON MACKENZIE SCOWLED at the cell phone as he listened to the message. “It’s me again,” he barked after the beep. “Where the hell are you? Call me.”

Just as he clicked off, the office door opened. His assistant, Pete Heller, stood in the doorway and nodded to the desk. “There’s a call for you from your lawyer, Mac.”

“All right.” He scowled at Pete. “I suppose you’d like to leave now.”

The tall, lanky man arched a brow. “What, at 9:00 p.m.?”

“Funny.”

“We human beings need food and sleep.”

Mac hid a smile. If the guy wasn’t such a shrewd market analyst, he’d fire him for his irreverence. “Get the hell out of here.” He picked up the phone. “Jacob, nice of you to get back to me.”

“It’s only been a few hours since you called. I have clients other than you, Mac.”

“Nobody who pays you as much.”

“Well, you’ve got me now. What can I do for you?”

He knocked his knuckles against the paper. “I’m ready to sell off Rockford Instruments.” Formerly known as Cassidy Industries.

“Wow, that was fast. I had no idea this move would come so soon.”

“I’m that good at turning things around, Jacob.”

Of course this time, he’d had help. Cassidy Industries had been in bad shape when he’d snatched it out from under Benedict Cassidy. The guy was too fair, too optimistic and too foolish to make it in the business world. It had been child’s play, really, to take the company from him. Even easier to build it back up again.

“All right, I’ll start the paperwork.” Jacob hesitated. “What will you do now?”

“I have a line on another business that might be fun to court.” Man, he liked the thrill of the chase. The kill, when the time came.

“You have a lot of energy, Mac.”

“For a man in his late fifties, not bad. Get in touch when you’ve got this rolling.”

He disconnected and leaned back in his plush leather chair. Propping his feet up, he linked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. At least he’d have something to look forward to. Aside from his daughter, work was the only thing in his life. He preferred it that way. He didn’t have to tolerate a nagging wife who wished he was home more, friends who disagreed with his tactics. He didn’t have to explain himself to anybody.

So there was no reason why he opened the left drawer of his custom-built granite-topped desk. No reason to pull out the picture of the man, woman and child. Still, he did it.

A lump clogged his throat as he stared at the images. Mac was young, only twenty-six. He had dark hair then, not this mop of gray. He was thinner, too, and more relaxed. The little girl was stunning, just like her mother. God, his wife had been beautiful. And fragile. She’d never stood a chance with him. He could still remember her laughter… Lammon, you’re home early, I love it when you surprise me like this… Lying beside him… You’re so good in here—she’d tap his naked chest over his heart—why can’t you let others see that? See what I see… Her face when she’d held out their child to him for the first time… It’s all right that you weren’t here for the birth, darling. Isn’t she beautiful?

But then, as always happened when he thought of Anna, bad memories followed like the furies chasing prey. I can’t believe you did what the paper says… Tell me these are vicious rumors… I won’t leave her with a man like you….

Abruptly he dropped his feet to the floor, shoved the picture back in its hiding place and bolted out of his chair. He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a hefty scotch. When it didn’t take the sting away, he gulped back another. Finally, that numbed him.

He studied the office—the oak ceiling, the grass-cloth walls, furniture that had cost more than some people’s houses. They were all testaments to his success, and that comforted him. The clock caught his eye. Ten o’clock. He scowled at the phone. Stalking to the desk, he picked up his cell and punched Redial.

The answering machine clicked on again. “This is Emily Erickson. Leave a message at the beep.”

“Emily, this is your father. Where the hell are you?”

THE APRIL SUN BEAT DOWN on Ben’s shoulders, making him sweat like he used to after an hour in the sauna at his former health club. His T-shirt was more wet than not and his back ached. But he hefted the concrete blocks without complaint. This Saturday-morning stint with its overtime pay would earn him enough money to buy heavy work boots for the winter. Grunting with effort, he was hit with a flashback so quickly he couldn’t roadblock this one….

Buy those hand-tooled boots, Benedict, they make you look like a cowboy.

He’d chuckled at Mallory, his model-chic fiancée, and mimed drawing a gun out of an imaginary holster. Watch it, ma’am, never know what an hombre like me might want from a lady like you.

She’d laughed and he’d bought the boots. They’d cost almost a thousand bucks and he hadn’t blinked at the expense.

“Hey, Cassidy. You got a visitor.” The foreman hovered over the hole Ben was in helping to lay the foundation for a small house.

Ben frowned up at him. “Who is it?”

“Didn’t ask his name. Take a break. You been goin’ nonstop since six this morning.”

Ben glanced at the Timex that had replaced his Rolex. It was noon. Who the hell would know he was here? He’d cut off all ties with his old life when he’d lost his company. Puzzled, he climbed the ladder and shaded his eyes against the sun. Trey Thompson, his former lawyer—his former friend—stood on the edge of the site looking like the preppy from Yale that he was, in an oxford shirt, khakis and Docksides. As best he could, Ben wiped the sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt and crossed to Trey. “Hey, counselor, how’s it going?”