Enchanted (2 page)

He reached across the desk and picked up the photo of his father, staring into the warm gray eyes of the elderly gentleman. “I turned forty-nine yesterday, Dad,” he whispered. “Nearly half a century of living and what have I accomplished? I’ve doubled your empire. I socialize with presidents and kings. But I’m lonely.” He shook off his sadness and set the photo back in its usual spot on the left side of his desk.

He shuffled through a pile of papers, wishing the work, the company, and everything else demanding his attention would disappear. He pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to drive away the headache that had plagued him since early morning. Forcing himself to relax, he leaned back in his chair, dug his fingers into his neck, and kneaded the taut muscles. Stolen moments of relaxation rarely occurred, but today he didn’t care. Today he started reflecting on his life, and he didn’t like what he saw.

“Excuse me, Mr. O’Brien.”

He didn’t even see Grace, his secretary since time began, walk into the room, carrying another pile of dreaded paper.

“I hate to bother you, but I have something important to discuss.”

“Oh, God. Whatever you do, don’t tell me you’re quitting.” He leaned on the desk, resting his chin on the heels of his hands, pressing fingers into his temples.

“No”—Grace chuckled—“but you just might fire me.”

“Why?”

“I want to talk about the Christmas party.”

He looked from the slightly built woman with a head of tightly permed grayish brown hair to the calendar on his desk. “It’s June.”

“Yes, I know it’s June,” Grace said, “but in order to get the best location, we have to reserve early. Now—”

“You know I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“You used to—”

“Those are the key words, Grace,” he interrupted again. “I
used to.
But not anymore.”

“But the parties were a tradition when your father was alive. Remember how he loved dressing up like Santa for the kids?”

“That was a long time ago. People don’t have time for office Christmas parties anymore. They’re too busy.”

“That’s just an excuse.”

“Okay, then. Let’s just say I’
m
too busy for a Christmas party, and I’m too busy to continue this conversation.”

“Very well, sir,” Grace huffed. “I’ll try again next month.” She dropped a stack of folders on his desk and walked to the door, turning back for one parting remark. “By the way. I hope you don’t mind if I change your signature block to Scrooge O’Brien.”

Mac frowned as he watched the door close behind Grace, an institution around McKenna Publishing. More like a mother than a secretary, Grace was one of the few people who could get away with back-talking the boss. But her dedication and loyalty never failed, and Mac was positive she’d die at her desk.

He quickly dismissed all thoughts of Grace and Christmas parties, and tried to forget the headache. But other thoughts crept into his mind, and soon the wording of the contract blurred as his eyes moved from the legalese to the photo of his father, and then to the sterling silver frame at the right side of his desk. It held the picture of an older woman, white-haired and plump, with bright red cheeks and a loving smile. People who saw the photo assumed she was Mac’s grandmother. In truth, he liked the frame—and the picture that had come with it. He never considered replacing it with a photo of someone he knew. He cherished the frame and the memory of his father who had given it to him one Christmas morning, just a few hours before he died.

There was a story behind the gift, something he never quite believed. Remembering his father’s words made Mac laugh and brought back sentimental thoughts of the man who never had a harsh word to say and found good in everything that surrounded him.

“There’s something special about this,” his father told him, running his fingers over the dulled silver. “I was in an antique store the other night, looking for something unique for your mother. There were a bunch of old frames sitting on a shelf, mostly wood and brass. I found this one hidden behind the others. It was tarnished and covered with dust, but when I picked it up, it shimmered a bit. Maybe it wasn’t actually a shimmer, because the silver needed polishing. I wiped off some of the dust with my finger to see the picture and, now don’t think I’m losing my mind, but I could have sworn the lady in that picture winked at me.”

Mac smiled as he remembered the story. So like his dad to find something magical about a tarnished silver frame and a picture of an old woman. But he never forgot the words, nor the love in his father’s eyes when he gave his son that last Christmas hug. The day after his father’s funeral, Mac polished the silver, buffed it until it glowed, and put it on his desk, a constant reminder of the man he deeply missed.

Christmas hadn’t been the same since that day. A big part of him had died along with his dad—the part that laughed and cried and found good in everyone and everything—and he wanted it back. He just didn’t know how to bring it to life.

He stared into the eyes of the woman in the photo. I wish I could believe in magic the way my father did. I wish you could wink and bring me happiness. He laughed, shook his head, and returned to the contract before him.

oOo

Kathleen didn’t knock timidly. Timidity wasn’t a word in Kathleen Flannigan’s vocabulary. She didn’t even wait for Mac to invite her in, but pushed open the door, slammed it behind her, tossed the mock-up on his desk, then took a seat across from the giant she called boss.

Mac’s head didn’t move; only his eyes looked up from his work. Don’t look into her eyes, he told himself. Her eyes had mesmerized him ten years ago when she was only twenty-two. Find something else to focus on. Not the lips. No, definitely not the lips. Ah, the lapel of that boring navy jacket. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked, emotionless.

“No, sir. But we need to talk.”

“I’m listening.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, away from her startling blue eyes, away from her lips.

“Why do you find it so difficult to like my work?” She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs, and waited for an explanation.

He raised his head, let his eyes stray to her one exposed knee. He remembered the old days when her knees were covered with faded blue jeans, skintight, and looking much too tempting to a man who wanted desperately to ignore his desire for a much younger woman. Get a grip, Mac, he chastised himself.

Kathleen followed his eyes and uncomfortably adjusted her skirt over the bare expanse of skin.

He crossed his arms over his chest, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the opposite arm, a posture that frightened most people. His overwhelming size intimidated others. But Kathleen Flannigan didn’t look threatened.

Their eyes met.

The battle began.

“I don’t dislike your work. If I did, you wouldn’t be in my employ.” His eyes narrowed, and he stole another quick glance at her legs. “The only thing I dislike is how you go out of your way to do things contrary to my wishes.”

“What you wish for and what’s best for you and the company aren’t necessarily the same things. You want a profitable magazine—that’s what I plan to give you.”

Unfolding his arms, he braced his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “I suppose if anyone can do it, you can. You’ve always been rather lucky.”

“Not lucky. I’m good. Damn good.”

One eyebrow rose at her statement. “I won’t dispute that. I’ve known it for years.”

“Then why do you ignore me?”

Silence, He turned away from Kathleen and stared out the window. How could he answer that question? In five long years he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask her about the rumor he’d heard about her and his father. Not that he wanted to believe the rumor, but he’d never had a chance to question his dad, and it was much easier to ignore Kathleen than confront her with his fears.

Just as he had ignored her for five years, he ignored her question. Instead of answering, he picked up his pen and scribbled a just-remember
ed thought on a piece of paper—
Housekeeper
. Then he looked up, but not at Kathleen. “Tell me about
Success
,” he said, looking over her shoulder, focusing on the bookcases behind her.

“It’s going to be great.” Pride rang out in her words, “It’s not directed at any particular group, but for successful women and women who want to be successful. It’s full of ideas to make their lives easier, help them achieve greater success. It’s for women who know how to handle men, and for women who need a little help in that department.”

Try as he might, Mac couldn’t keep his eyes from Kathleen’s face, nor a smile from his lips as he looked at the animation in her expression while she spoke about the magazine she so obviously loved. One of the many things Mac hadn’t forgotten about Kathleen was
that she never lacked emotion. S
trong emotion.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

“No. I was just wondering. You aren’t aiming this magazine toward feminists, are you?”

“And if I was?”

Mac shrugged his shoulders. “That would make it too much like other magazines on the stand.”

“You’re right. But like I said, it’s not aimed at any one group. In fact”—Kathleen focused on the silver-framed photo on Mac’s desk—“I think even your grandmother could benefit from the advice in my magazine.”

Suppressing his laughter, Mac realized that, just like everyone else, Kathleen assumed the woman in the photograph was his grandmother. If she only knew that his ninety-eight-year-old grandmother had been the ultimate feminist in her day, and even now refused to take anyone’s advice.

“What about advertising?” he asked, turning his thoughts back to the magazine and the things he knew would make it or break it. “What about marketing? What about writers?”

“It’s all under control. We’re working on the advertising, but we’ve got the best articles from the best writers. You’ll be pleased when you see the final copy.”

“So, you plan on letting me see the finished product? I thought you might try to evade my critical eye.”

“I’ve always valued your opinion. I’ve missed your input over the years.” She stood and walked slowly, thoughtfully, to the window and looked out at the New York skyline. “We used to be friends, Mac. What happened? Why did things change?”

Ask her now, Mac, an inner voice told him. Ask her about what went on between her and your dad. Ask her about her daughter. His teeth clenched at his thoughts. His eyes narrowed, and the headache that had nearly faded reappeared with a vengeance. Taking time to massage his temples and think of something to say, he stared at her back, at the strands of auburn hair escaping from the bun at the nape of her neck, at the shapeless navy blue suit that hid from view most of her feminine delights. What had happened to the pretty young girl with a head full of ideas, who laughed at his jokes, and made
him
feel twenty all over again?

He looked from her back to the skyline, then into her eyes when she turned around, the look in her eyes that told him she needed an answer. “Things didn’t change,” he said. “You changed.”

“No,” she stated flatly. “I just got older, and wiser.”

“That’s not all. I’ve watched you with your staff, with the others in the office. You’re a lot tougher than you used to be.”

“A woman has to be tough to get ahead. I have a big goal to achieve, and I won’t get there by being weak.”

Mac searched her eyes, her face, looking for just a trace of the Kathleen he had known a long time ago, but the vulnerability and the innocence were gone. “So, what’s your goal?”

She went back to the chair, took the mock-up from his desk, and sat down. “First, I plan to make this magazine a success. A huge success. Second, I plan on running McKenna Publishing.”

He didn’t see any laughter in her eyes, only the sincerity with which she made the statement. “Have you already hired a hit man to get rid of me?” He hoped a touch of humor would enter his voice, but years of training kept his poker face and nonemotional voice in check.

“I don’t need a hit man,” she said, staring hard into his eyes. “You’ll be the cause of your own demise.”

He thanked his lucky stars he didn’t have a mouth full of beer, or he would have spat it across the room at her outrageous statement. Yet, he had heard her words and clearly understood her meaning. Publishing made him rich. It didn’t make him happy. And that fact, alone, would surely drive him to an early grave.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she added.

“I have no intention of giving up my hold on this company.”

“You don’t love the publishing business, not the way you should. So why not let someone like me, someone who does love it, take over?”

“Because you haven’t got what it takes.”

She leaned forward in her chair, giving Mac a better view of her haughty expression. “My balls are just as big as yours,
Mr. O’Brien.
I just wear them in a different place.”

That did it. God, the woman was driving him mad. Why not give her McKenna Publishing right now? That would be more desirable than listening to her boastful remarks.