Getting Some Of Her Own (15 page)

Why had he opened himself to a relationship in which he saw no future for himself? She wanted him, but would take him only when her libido forced her to it, for she obviously did not want a loving relationship with him.

“I could love that woman,” he whispered, “and I could love her forever.” He stood there for a long while staring at the darkness and seeing nothing. “The hell with it. I've had worse to contend with. I've got work to do, and neither she nor any other woman is going to derail me.”

He went into his den, removed the cover from the painting that he began four years earlier when he walked away from Verna. Looking at his idea of Pine Tree Park in early spring, Lucas wondered why he suddenly decided in the dead of winter that he wanted to paint spring scenery. Dabbling at the painting occasionally with no urge to finish it was hardly gratifying. He realized that he didn't even want to finish it, that it served as a repository for his frustrations. He painted a few strokes, but the red and pink flowers that the ground cover at the bottom of the painting required held no interest for him at the moment. Indeed, he couldn't imagine how the flowers should look.

He returned to bed, slept for about an hour and got up earlier than usual that Monday morning. Not in years had he greeted a day with more enthusiasm. He loved a challenge, and he expected to get a few. Precisely at nine, he walked into his office at Jackson Enterprises, noticed three vacant seats at the conference table, sat down and turned to Miriam. “To whom do those seats belong?” She told him, with what he noted was no small measure of glee. “Is this their usual pattern?” She shook her head, and he smiled in delight. The boys were testing his mettle.

“Good morning,” he said. “First, I'll hear the status reports that I requested. Mr. Montague, you're first,” he said to the chief of the transport unit.

“Are we going to have these reports every Monday?” Montague asked Lucas.

“As often as I request them. Let's have it.” He thought the report a good one and said as much.

At about a quarter past nine, three men entered and took their seats. Lucas made a show of reaching into his pocket, removing the pocket watch that his maternal grandfather had given him and putting it on the table in front of him.

“No one comes late to these meetings. Is that clear? Let this be the last time. I'll hear your report now,” he said to the man among the latecomers who headed the real estate division.

“I wasn't sure what you wanted,” the man said.

So he hadn't prepared a report. “Here's an example of what I want,” Lucas said. “At number 2101 Rovine, the halls are filthy, the elevator doesn't work, several hall lights are out, and the entire hallway plus the stairs, laundry rooms and elevators need painting. It's a slum building. I want to see the receipts and expenditures in this office tomorrow at ten o'clock.”

“But I can't—”

“That's what you get paid for.”

“If you don't mind my asking,” the man said, “are you Mr. Jackson's nephew or his cousin?”

“Yes,” another one said. “I'm assuming that you're the manager.”

He leaned back in the tufted, maroon-leather high back chair and looked from man to man, straight in the eye. “Neither. I'm Calvin Jackson's son. His only son.” He heard the gasps, but continued as if he hadn't. “And I am not the manager. According to my father's signature, I am CEO of this enterprise. I answer to no one, not even to him, and everyone answers to me. Is that clear?” He looked at the man who first questioned his authority. “I want that building in pristine condition a week from today. I'm an architect, and I know pristine when I see it.”

Deciding to put them all on notice, he said, “By the end of this month, I will have personally inspected every building and those three bus lines. That gives you a month before I get to your unit, Mr. Pearson. For now, what can you tell us about the media holdings?” He listened with interest to what he regarded as a well planned, carefully structured report.

He questioned the chiefs and their deputies without regard to status, and at precisely ten o'clock, he closed the meeting. “See you all here next Monday at nine.”

“Brother, are they hot under the collar!” Miriam said. “I'm proud of you. I'd better warn you, though, that they're mild compared to what you'll get when you tangle with Enid Jackson.”

“Thanks, Miriam. I appreciate the support. Does my father know how poorly some of his properties are kept?”

“No. And if he did, he'd have a fit. Matt Logan, he's unit chief, gets away with murder because he's Mr. Jackson's golf buddy. Something tells me you ought to make him bring in his books.”

“I will, and in the future, all books will be kept in your office in a safe. I can't imagine company books in the hands of the person in charge of collecting and disbursing funds.”

“Shall I tell them to bring their books next Monday?”

“Yes, but don't tell them until late Friday.”

A smile spread over her face. “Gotcha.”

Hmmm. She knows something that Calvin Jackson doesn't have an inkling of.
He got into his car and headed for Woodmore and Hamilton Village. He meant to return to Calvin Jackson a thriving business free of the problems that currently beset it, but he didn't intend to neglect his own business.

“Say buddy, you're scarce as hens' teeth these days,” Willis said to Lucas when he arrived at the building site. “What's up?”

“Wait'll after work. Man, have I got a story for you!”

 

 

Unable to find the carpets she wanted for her client's house, Susan decided to make a short trip to New York. After contacting her suppliers there and determining that she would be able to choose from a number of Tabriz patterns, she made plane reservations, packed and telephoned Cassie.

“Hello, Cassie, this is Susan. I have to be in New York for a couple of days, and I wanted to ask that if you see lights on or anyone moving around, please call the police.”

“Of course, I'll look out for your place, Susan, and I'm sure you'd do the same for me. When will you be back?”

“I plan to return on Monday. If I have to stay longer, I'll call you.”

“Safe journey. Let's have high tea when you get back.”

Susan laughed at that, for she doubted Cassie ever did anything simple. “Please, no mayonnaise or butter on the sandwiches.”

“I wouldn't think of it. Do you think I want to get fat? Not on your life.”

At that comment, Susan's amusement disappeared like shadows in the noonday sun. Cassie would go to any lengths to keep her stomach flat, including risking her husband's affection. She bade Cassie good-bye and hung up.
I'd be stupid if I let myself be jealous of her. She could have it all, but she's too selfish to realize that
.

After showering and eating a sandwich, she phoned the New York limousine company that she always used. “This is Susan Pettiford. Please meet me at LaGuardia Airport at twenty minutes after six today. I'll be on Delta flight 187.”

She dressed and, with an hour and a half to kill, she sat down at her drawing board to sketch window treatments for one of her clients and nearly swallowed her tongue. She had forgotten to tell Lucas that she would be out of town for the weekend. He had no special right to know, but if by chance she didn't return in time for her Tuesday tutoring session, he would be irate. She dialed his cell phone number.

“Hamilton speaking.”

“Lucas, this is Susan. I wanted you to know that I'm leaving for New York in a little over an hour, and that I expect to be back Monday. If I'm not, and if I miss my Tuesday class, you'll know why.”

His silence told her that he was adding two and two and getting nine. “Is this an emergency trip?”

“In a way. I can't find what I need here, and I can get it in New York.”

“I see. When did you decide to make the trip?”

“About . . . oh, four hours ago.” She decided not to wait until he delved methodically into every step she'd taken all day, but to bring it to a head. “What's the matter? Should I have called you earlier?”

“If you had, I could at least have offered to drive you to the airport.”

“If you're in Woodmore, and if you're not too busy, you may still do that.”

“I'm out at Hamilton Village, and I'm wearing a hard hat, brogans and soiled jeans. When is your return flight? I can meet you then.”

She gave him the flight number and time. “If I'm not on it, I'll call you.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I have a feeling that you came close to forgetting it. Good luck shopping.”

In New York, she found what she wanted immediately—a tan patterned Tabriz and matching silk pillows for her client's living room sofa—bought a ticket to the Metropolitan Opera House to see
Madame Butterfly
and headed for Fifth Avenue. She didn't want anything in particular, only to be among beautiful, elegant things, to smell the myriad designer perfumes when she entered the upscale department store, to see models parading in beautiful dresses, and all the skinny young men with their perfectly cut and shaved hair, diamond studs in at least one ear and dressed in their tight, slim-legged black pants and black T-shirts.

After strolling around the first floor where the cosmetics companies competed for the opportunity to put makeup on her face, she went up to the designer floor and wandered from one over-priced designer to the next.
What did I ever see in all this? Just think of all the money wasted on staying ahead of the Joneses.
Woodmore is a blessing. If you want to show off, at least it costs less. Having reacquainted herself with what she'd left behind and remembered why she didn't miss it, Susan went to her hotel on Fifty-Seventh Street. Later, she attended the opera and enjoyed the one thing she missed about New York.

The following morning, she telephoned her suppliers and visited some of them, making certain that she kept her contacts, and that she would remain a favored client. On the way to her hotel, she passed a store that featured children's clothing, and although she admonished herself not to go in there, she went, and came out with two large bags filled with gifts for Rudy and a book bag for Nathan.

“Lucas is going to blow a fuse,” she said to herself, “but I don't care. I have to do this.”

He awaited her at the airport Monday afternoon as he'd promised, and to her surprise, he kissed her when they met, and he did it as if it were his right. “What's in those shopping bags?” he asked casually.

She refused to lie. “I don't think you want to know.”

He said nothing more about the gifts until they reached her house. “Don't you realize that Rudy's foster sisters and brothers are going to be jealous about the gifts she's getting, and that, as a result, they will mistreat her, perhaps even destroy some of her things? Apart from breaking the schoolboard's rules, you may unwittingly cause Rudy unhappiness.”

“Why can't I befriend her? She . . . you don't understand.”

“Yes, I do. And what I'm beginning to understand worries me.”

She looked at him hoping that her unspoken plea would suffice, and that he would not have her dismissed. “I'm not going to hurt that child, Lucas.”

“I know. You love her too much to hurt her intentionally, but one day, you'll lose her, and it will tear you apart. I'd hate to see that. Look, I'd better get back to work. Be in touch.”

“Thanks for meeting me.”

A grin formed around his lips, exposing his even white teeth. “Don't mention it. It was my pleasure.”

What had come over him? He hadn't been severe with her, yet she knew he didn't approve of her giving gifts to Rudy. She went inside, called Cassie to let her know she was back home, sat down and wrote a note to Rudy's foster mother.

She addressed the letter, sealed it, put it in her briefcase, and telephoned Ann Price. “Mrs. Price, this is Susan Pettiford. I'd like to take Nathan to the museum Saturday afternoon around one o'clock. I hope Rudy will join us.”

“That's a wonderful idea, Ms. Pettiford. I don't have time to give these children the care they need, much less expose them to art, music and things like that. Do you need a note or anything?”

“I need your written permission. You may send the note with Nathan on Thursday. Thanks so much.”

“What you're doing for little Rudy is a blessing to her. She told my Nathan that, until she started your tutoring class, she was planning to run away. Poor thing gets nothing at home but scraps. Scraps of attention, scraps of clothing, and scraps of food. The State ought to supervise these foster homes more carefully.

“That's why I'm raising my grandchildren. My youngest son and his wife are so messed up, and their two kids suffered so that I went to court and got legal custody of them. Sometimes I think people ought to be forced to go to a school for child rearing before they can have a baby. Bring these poor little things into the world, and don't have the slightest idea how to raise them. No sense of responsibility. Well, I bent your ear enough. I may see you tomorrow when I come for the children. Thanks for calling.”