Possessions (71 page)

Simply! thought Derek.

Ann twisted her hands. “I don't like the way any of you are talking. We have to welcome him back—”

“Welcome,” Curt snorted. “What has he done to deserve a welcome from any of us?”

“He doesn't have to do anything,” Ann replied with spirit. “You don't have to earn your way into your own family.”

“You have to earn your way everywhere,” said Derek contemptuously. He was tense, every nerve taut and ready—to react, retreat, attack, plan. He didn't know what was happening—a rare and infuriating situation—and so he had to be prepared to respond to whatever was proposed: to buy Craig off before he had a chance to dilute Derek's power in the
company; to handle the Macklin problem if Ross had gone running to Victoria with the story; to counter any rearrangement of Victoria's will that could inhibit his total control of the company once she was dead.

His eyes met Tobias'. “If only I were a playwright,” said Tobias with relish. “What I could do with all of you!”

“Tobias,” Ross said. “That doesn't calm the atmosphere.”

“True,” said Tobias penitently, and fell silent, but the atmosphere was no calmer. Katherine felt it, sharp with speculation and apprehension, as if hundreds of tiny knives were flashing beneath the fluorescent lights that reflected on paneled walls and the rich rosewood table. It touched her, too, in her chair in a corner, away from the table, as everyone shot covert glances at her while hazarding suppositions about Craig. Across the table, Ross watched her and when their eyes met she stirred restlessly with vivid memories of their times together. Derek sat a few feet away, and she was aware of his glances, not only because Ross was there, but because his wariness was unnerving. She had not seen him in months and he reminded her of a tightrope walker—thinner than she remembered, withdrawn into himself, rigidly controlled as he scribbled on his pad of paper.

Victoria walked in, followed by Claude, and stood at the head of the table. Wearing a black silk suit with an ivory blouse, and a bar pin of silver filigree with coral that Katherine had made her, she stood regally erect, her eyes piercing and unsmiling, resting briefly on each of them.

Stiffly formal, as if giving advance warning of the bombshell she was about to throw, she said, “The special meeting of the board of directors of the Hayward Corporation is called to order. Tobias will take the minutes. I have called this meeting because I have recently gained information which is dangerous, disgraceful, and repugnant. It demands immediate action. Our agenda is to deal with this information, which affects the reputation of the corporation, its liability for past misdeeds”—Derek's mouth tightened—“and its future shape and direction.”

“Future shape and direction?” Curt queried. “Not in one meeting, without advance notice so we can prepare suggestions.”

“Perhaps,” said Victoria distinctly. “I was not understood.
I gained this information only recently. It is intolerable. And as long as I am alive and own fifty percent of this corporation, when I find something intolerable, it will be changed. Immediately.”

No one spoke. Standing perfectly straight, hands clasped loosely before her, she was imperious and formidable. Katherine loved her and was in awe of her. She looked at the others: Ann and Jason puzzled, Curt suspicious, Derek withdrawn, Ross, Tobias, and Claude watchful—they know, Katherine thought; they know what this is about.

“Claude?” Victoria said. “If you please.” She sat in the wing chair at the head of the table, her head high, observing all of them.

Claude was seated at the other end of the table. “Sixteen years ago,” he began in his resonant courtroom voice that reminded Katherine of the first time she had heard him, at dinner in Victoria's apartment, “the Hayward Corporation built the Macklin Building on Mission Street. There were delays due to a strike, and to make up for lost time and money, the specifications were altered in such a way that the building was constructed in violation of city codes.”

“What's that?” Jason said. “Nothing like that ever—”

“Highly unlikely,” Curt rumbled. “Claude, I'd like to know to whom you've been talking—”

“Over the years,” Claude continued, “the building settled, causing cracks but no immediate danger, until the earthquake of October first, when part of the second floor collapsed, injuring two workmen. Together, they are suing for five million dollars.” He raised his voice as Curt and Jason exploded with questions. “They are suing Ross, who bought the building some years ago, and his company, which designed its renovation. However, an investigation—and there will be one if this goes to trial—will reveal that the floor collapsed because of excessive settling of the foundation, which occurred because the Hayward Corporation, under Curt's presidency, with Derek as construction manager, knowingly and illegally put up a substandard building.”

“You lying bastard,” said Curt tightly.

Jason pounded the table. “Why the hell wasn't I told this?”

“Jason,” said Ann. “It was 1966.”

“God damn it, I know what year it was. But when did this
happen? Before or after the sailing accident? Before or after we left for Maine?”

Derek seemed to pay no attention. He jotted an occasional note on his pad, but otherwise sat absolutely still.

Curt shoved back his chair and hunched his shoulders, facing Claude. “You won't be able to practice law in a stable of shit when I get through with you. I know a conspiracy when I see one; Derek warned me something was going on—”

“Curt!” Victoria flared. “How dare you speak like that in front of me? Sit still and behave yourself! I will accept an apology.”

After the briefest of pauses, Curt said suavely, “I apologize. I forgot myself.” He pulled his chair to the table, cursing whatever weakness in him made him feel, at sixty-four, like a schoolboy when his mother scolded him.

“It is curious, however,” said Derek lightly, turning to a fresh sheet of paper, “that someone has fabricated this story at this time.” He glanced up. “When Ross is being sued. Could that someone be his little friend and companion—trying to make sure we all contribute when the hat is passed—so she spreads a pack of lies that would virtually force us to pay and be silent?”

“You rotten son of a bitch!” Claude roared—calm, careful, unemotional Claude—violently shoving back his chair, beating Ross to it by a fraction of a second, shocking everyone into momentary paralysis.

In that small pause, Tobias sent his voice like a trumpet down the table.
“‘Envy's a coal come hissing hot from hell!'”

Nervous laughter erupted around the table. Victoria, who had briefly closed her eyes, fastened her gaze on Derek as she said, “Thank you, dear Tobias. And my dear attorney. Now may we continue?”

A mistake, Derek acknowledged. Unsure where Claude was heading, he'd thought he could force him to admit the danger to the corporation if they publicized the Macklin Building. He hadn't known that Claude, like Victoria, had been mesmerized by that woman. Fuck her. Every time he thought he knew what she could do, he discovered he'd underestimated her again.

Claude had sat down, reluctantly passing up his first and probably only chance to feel his fist ram Derek's mouth. “I
don't waste my time on a pack of lies,” he said shortly. “The history of that building is no longer a secret.”

Derek's pencil tapped his pad of paper, making small specks, like a storm of insects. His head had begun to pound from the frustration of not knowing what was happening, and he went on the attack, to retrieve what he could. “This has nothing to do with personalities,” he told Victoria, as if they were alone in the room. “My first concern is the corporation. From what I've heard, Ross's engineer was incompetent in his renovation design and then had the misfortune to have it tested by an earthquake. Bad luck, but not ours; it wasn't our project or our engineer. We can't risk the corporation's reputation by accepting responsibility for the incompetence of others.”

Jason glared at him.
“Whose
incompetence? What about yours and”—he shot a glance at Curt—“my brother's, sixteen years ago, that nobody bothered to tell me about?”

Derek's pencil skidded across the sheet of paper. “God damn it, you were vice-president; you hadn't run away yet to the backwoods of Maine. Weren't you paying attention to business? Were you blind?
Or are they lying?”

“You and Curt,” Jason muttered, his face dark with embarrassment and anger. “You worked together; shut me out.”

“We filled a vacuum, Uncle,” said Derek smoothly, feeling his power return as Jason's slipped. “You weren't paying attention.”

“I was working on other projects! And I was worried about my daughter, sneaking out at night, after her mother and I ordered her to stay away from you!”

Derek gazed at him, his mouth twisted in a tight smile.

Claude's courtroom voice sliced between them. “I have a statement to read that will clarify matters and speed our proceedings.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “This past week I located and interviewed a former city inspector. This is his statement, dated October 11, and signed Frank Beecher.”

Derek's head jerked up, the tiny nerve beside his eye beginning to flicker.

“On July 11 and 12, 1966,'” Claude read,

“Working for the city of San Francisco, I inspected the foundation columns and
footings of the Macklin Building being constructed by the Hayward Corporation on Mission Street in San Francisco. I signed four reports saying they met the engineering specifications and plans already approved by the city and the state Seismic Commission. But the fact is, based on my experience, I thought the columns weren't sunk deep enough in that particular soil, and the amount of steel reinforcing in the footings didn't seem adequate. I checked the specs, and the columns and footings met them, so I thought the specs might have been changed after the city approved them. I talked this over with the construction manager, Derek Hayward. He suggested I approve the work in exchange for ten thousand dollars cash, and I did. That was my only contact with the Macklin Building.”

No one moved. Jason's face was dark with fury. “Is that public knowledge—what he wrote?”

“Not yet,” Claude replied.

“Then how did you know enough to look for this guy?”

“Katherine gave us the background—”

“Katherine?”
said Derek. “So I had the right woman but the wrong man.” His twisted smile flickered again, but Katherine heard a change in his voice; he was losing control. “It was her husband she was protecting, not Ross. How disappointing for Ross to discover she's still turning loyal somersaults for her runaway.”

“Derek—!” Victoria began icily.

But Derek could not stop.
“None of you can believe that tripe!
Christ, only a lawyer could read it with a straight face. A child could see through it. Who the hell is Frank Beecher? A piece of fiction dreamed up by Craig and his faithful little woman, with Claude's help, to ruin me and bring their golden boy back in a blaze of glory.
Craig
was the one who altered the specs on the Macklin Building and paid off that beer-bellied liar to approve the whole thing;
that's
what we've known for sixteen years!”

A stunned silence settled on the room. No one moved. But in that moment, as in an earthquake, the power and alignments of the Hayward family shifted, and everyone felt it.

Victoria sighed. “Katherine,” she said, without turning, “please sit beside me.”

Katherine brought her chair to the table. Victoria's regal posture had not wavered, but her eyes had filled with tears, and her hand shook as she sipped from her glass of water. She reached for Katherine's hand and held it tightly. “Now,” she announced, keeping her voice cool and steady, “I shall talk about the future structure of the Hayward Corporation.”

The stillness in the room was as heavy as the morning fog. Katherine saw Derek and Curt exchange a glance, then look away, staring into space, waiting. “Hugh and his father built it,” Victoria said. “Hugh made its reputation for excellence. And Derek, for the most part, has managed it brilliantly, built it to its present size, and increased the wealth of all of us.”

She drank again from her glass. “Once, for a few years, I ran the Hayward Corporation. Ever since then, I have felt quite proprietary about it. And when Hugh died and left half his stock to me, it was his way of telling me that
the company and the family were mine to care for.”

She contemplated them. “I waited almost fifty years to put my mark on this company. Even after Hugh died, I waited. Curt took over; when Jennifer died I lost interest . . . then Curt retired and Derek took his place . . . and things were going well . . .” Her voice had wandered into the past and she caught herself. “But now I'm getting old. I cannot leave to chance, or even to tomorrow, the affairs of a company and a family I love.”

She put down her glass, her hand steady. “Everyone has always assumed Derek would have full control after I die, that I would divide my shares between him and Ross, and, since Curt gave Derek some of his shares when he retired, and also votes with him on all issues, Derek would have a clear majority. However, nothing is obvious any longer.” She paused. Prolonging the drama, Katherine thought; just like Tobias. “Because of what we have discovered, I have decided on a complete reorganization of the company.”

Curt grunted, as if he had been hit in the stomach. “Talked into it,” he muttered.

“I
decided!” Victoria blazed. “Is that clear? This is
my
decision, which I have worked out with our corporate attorney over the past two weeks. He will describe it to you. I want no questions or comments until he is finished. Is
that
clear?” Her breathing was rapid and she clung to Katherine's hand, but still she sat erect. “I expect silence and attention; I am tired of hearing you wrangle like children and I am disgusted by obscenities that demonstrate nothing more than infantilism and limited vocabularies.” She paused. “Claude? If you please.”