by Con Riley
“The diner at the end of the street makes the best pie in the whole city.”
Jon doubts that, but he humors his new landlady as they walk a few blocks, the heels of her mules clicking the whole way. Her hand tucks into the crook of his elbow, and it stays put until he holds the door open for her at the diner. It’s not until they’re seated that she removes the posy from her huge purse. The peony at its center is as pink as her cheeks when he asks, “Did you really mean to bring that with you?”
They’re interrupted by a voice that’s horribly familiar.
“What can I get y—?” It’s Tyler, who wears a neat red and black apron that matches the diner’s decor. He frowns for a fleeting second before saying, “Hey, Peggy!” His smile at least looks real as he greets her. “Now, what did I tell you about this being a family establishment? You have to stop bringing in a different boyfriend every night of the week.” His smile dims when he glances at Jon, then amps up when he refocuses on Peggy, who’s flustered.
“You can’t know how many boyfriends I bring,” she insists. “You hardly ever work here these days.”
That sounds about right for someone Jon’s already labeled lazy.
“I work here enough to know that you’re about to order two desserts, make me eat one for you, and then try to tip me like you ate your way through the entire menu.”
And that sounds like exactly the kind of behavior a leech would encourage.
Peggy seems to find him funny. “Why don’t you sit with us for a minute?”
“I better not,” Tyler starts, but a passing waitress offers to cover his tables.
What the heck is it, Jon wonders, that makes people rush to make Tyler’s life so easy? He pulls the menu closer to hide what he’s sure must be a sour expression. Time spent sitting with him is the last thing he would order tonight, especially when Peggy doesn’t budge, meaning Jon has to slide along the booth to make room.
Maybe Tyler feels as awkward. He’s ramrod straight after he slips in next to Jon, taking up as little space as he can, and he sounds much less easygoing when he says, “So… what brings you here?”
It’s a direct question Jon can’t exactly ignore. “Peggy said this was a good place for dessert.”
“It sure is.” Tyler plays with the edge of a napkin. Silence extends when Peggy turns to talk with a passing waitress. “Seattle’s got a lot of great places to eat,” Tyler adds. “I could show you a couple while you’re here, if you like.”
“No.” Jon’s outright rude, and he knows it the moment Tyler’s eyes suddenly widen.
Peggy interrupts before Jon can be any ruder. She pushes the posy across the table. “Look, Tyler! Look what Jonathan made for you!”
It’s such an unexpected statement that Jon almost sputters. He’s still threading together a denial when Tyler shifts to face him. His knee pushes against Jon’s under the table, vibrating very slightly. “For me?”
Oh great. That vibration is repressed laughter.
“You shouldn’t have.”
Jon’s reply is muttered. “I didn’t.” But Tyler reaches for the flowers and pulls them his way regardless. Jon watches from the corner of his eye as he lifts them to his nose. From this close it’s real hard to see any deception in him. His smile after taking a deep sniff is surprised—and surprisingly sweet. There’s no more honest descriptor. And his gaze, when he catches Jon looking, is much warmer than the cool slate he saw that morning. It’s so warm that Jon raises the menu for a moment to break their earnest connection.
Maybe Tyler doesn’t notice his reaction. He looks down at the bouquet instead. It’s really very simple, tied with a strand of garden string instead of silky ribbon, and now that Jon sees it cradled in Tyler’s hand, he guesses it could stand to be a whole lot bigger.
“No one’s ever gotten me flowers,” Tyler admits. When he catches Jon’s gaze again, his pupils are huge, his lashes dusted with specks of pollen. “Thank you Jonathan. For what, I’m not sure exactly…,” he trails off and sniffs the flowers again, as if he truly likes them.
“Jonathan’s grateful, that’s all.” Peggy’s head tilt isn’t cute anymore, Jon decides as she completes her sentence.
No.
It’s downright dangerous.
“He’s grateful you worked hard all day to clear up after your ex.”
Chapter 7
FOR THE next week or so, wondering about Tyler’s ex takes a backseat to research at work. He’s too busy to waste time lingering over Peggy’s pleasure at getting her tenants talking or on the way Tyler’s knee had pressed against his again after repeating his offer to show Jon some good places to eat, like he’d decided to ignore his earlier rudeness. None of those touches had likely been deliberate, but the truth is he doesn’t have time while dodging bullets at work to do much more than wonder. Instead he saves all his speculation for when he stares at the long, thin water stain on his bedroom ceiling before sleep. It makes a change from checking Facebook for more barbs from his ex roommates or from trying to figure out what the hell’s wrong at Hallquist Holdings.
He’s been asking questions there all week that have gotten him the stink eye, which is nothing unusual. Middle managers hate getting put under a spotlight, especially if that foreshadows corporate changes, so he takes a leaf from his training manual and doesn’t let rudeness rile him. Besides, he’s not here to make friends.
Carl Snyder, however, takes open dislike to a whole new level.
It’s almost impressive how he paints a picture without saying a word. By the end of Jon’s first few weeks, there’s nobody left in the building who doesn’t know Carl hates him. At least there’s nothing backhanded about his disdain; he makes his lack of respect clear to Jon’s face right at the start of their next team meeting. Resentment is there, plain as day, in the way he paces rather than sits, prowling the perimeter of the meeting room like a big cat that’s caged. His hackles are up, all right, and every person present knows it. That’s only emphasized when he slings a report onto the table like it’s a gauntlet. It skids on the sleek surface before finally stopping in front of Jon, a lone sheet of statistics fluttering free and falling. It lands on the floor an equal distance between them, but Carl doesn’t bend to retrieve it.
It’s a powerful moment that Jon internally admires while outwardly keeping stock-still. As standoffs go, it’s not exactly novel. According to his training, how Jon chooses to respond will shape how the whole company will view him. He can pick up the paper himself, or he can use patience as a lever until Carl’s defiance crumples. The first option is his natural preference. It would certainly speed up this meeting. Besides, getting to his knees in front of a man stopped seeming weak the first time he gave a blowjob. It’s a position of power in his opinion to have another man need the breadth of Jon’s shoulders to keep from falling. But he guesses Carl doesn’t share that viewpoint, so he selects a patient game plan.
Jon pushes the report away, his movements slow and deliberate, and waits for Carl to figure out that he’s backed himself into a corner.
The change in Carl’s expression is subtle, like the shift in the room’s silence from shock to anticipation that’s electric. It’s revealing how pained Carl looks when he reaches the sole conclusion that remains—Jon will only pay attention to the report he hurled when he has that last sheet of paper.
If Jon were a betting man, he’d put all of Hallquist Holdings’ money on Carl resigning before getting to his knees in front of his whole team, and if he turns in his seat, he’s almost certain Anthony Nelson will be smiling. The seat Anthony chose is another sign of who wants power bad enough here to adapt. He’s literally Jon’s right-hand-man today, while Carl now stands all alone with both of his hands empty.
It’s Eric who breaks the stalemate when he arrives late with no clue what he’s interrupting. He dumps the cardboard tubes he carries and casually scoops up the fallen sheet of statistics like taking a knee isn’t the least bit demeaning. After glancing at the figures, he pa
sses it Carl’s way with a cheery, “There you go, big guy.” It’s a moment of informality that’s familiar, and Carl’s rumble of thanks holds both relief and fondness. Eric continues to interact like this meeting’s fun rather than crucial. He breaks open the tubes he arrived with. “Got the maps you asked for, Mr. Fournier. You want me to put them up?”
“Sure.”
Eric and his interns work together to affix aerial maps of the city to the glass on either side of Jon’s strip-mall drawing.
“What’s this?” Carl’s prickly tone suggests he’s still primed for combat.
“This,” Jon says, his voice calm and steady, “is a challenge—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Carl doesn’t apologize for his outburst. “Is this what they’re teaching at business school these days?”
“This,” Jon repeats just as steadily, “is what Stan wants to happen.” And that’s the bottom line in everything Jon will do here. Besides, Stan’s competition idea isn’t the worst way in the world to help him assess performance.
“Thought you were just going to nitpick our figures.” Carl slides the sheet of paper that Eric retrieved along the table. “Take a long hard look, why don’t you? My guys are doing just fine. I keep a real close eye on their work. There’s no way we’re losing money.”
Anthony rebuts his assertion. “Uh, I’m guessing Jonathan’s here for a reason. And he can definitely read a spreadsheet without you putting your spin on the figures.”
Jon’s seen friendlier smiles on great white sharks. It’s just as predatory as Carl’s earlier pacing, creating an uncomfortable dynamic that members of Carl’s team shy away from, their eyes resolutely on the table.
“Anthony’s right.” Jon stands before qualifying his statement. “Statistics only ever show a snapshot of a company’s true position, and balance sheets can be deceptive. I can’t see management style in these columns.” He picks up a pen, draws a huge dollar sign over his drawing of Peggy’s house and then adds a few more. “Your boss thinks I found some overlooked potential right under your noses on my first day here, but”—he casts a glance in Carl’s direction—“maybe your teams can find even better.” He goes ahead and constructs a financial forecast right there on the glass. There’s no doubt that, in theory anyhow, redeveloping neighborhoods like Peggy’s could be lucrative. At least four small homes could fit on the same footprint as her yard. Eight, if the house and garage were razed to the ground too. Multiply that by the number of houses in her street, and the potential’s right there in the plan he sketches.
Eric asks a good question. “So how come no one’s already done it?” When he reaches out, Jon passes him a pen, and he draws a bright red bulldozer and wrecking ball rig parked in Peggy’s driveway. “If it’s that easy, I mean.”
Carl’s the first to answer. Surprisingly, his voice borders on kindly. “It’s far from easy, son. Redevelopment isn’t only about land values or decent highway access. Zoning can be a nightmare. A whole lot of palms need to be greased before you’d get to bring that wrecking ball in.” His tone sharpens, and Jon knows the next comment is aimed at him. “It’s a long game in a city like this, not a simplistic high-school project.”
And yet it’s a high-school project he’ll submit to if he wants to keep his job.
“All each acquisition team has to do,” Jon says with much more confidence than he feels, “is find a location with as much potential as this one and then report back with a projected profit forecast.” He lowers his voice. “Both of your teams have a track record of developing out-of-town locations. Some more profitable than others. See looking for something different for once as a team-building exercise.” He makes eye contact with Carl. “It’s a chance to show me your management styles in action,” because God knows, to have lasted here as long as he has, there had to be more to the man that his lackluster figures.
He leaves the teams gathered around their maps, but Carl follows him out to the hallway.
“This is bullshit, and you know it.”
Jon had wondered if he’d try to confront him again. Hell, he dreamed about it last night in between snatches of seeing Tyler lifting flowers to his nose over and over, his pupils so blown Jon had woken with a start, sure he was falling into their black depths. Both dreams had left him jumpy, but now that it’s broad daylight, he draws on his training. He keeps his expression relaxed while both of them are visible through the glass. “All you have to do is show me what you’ve got.” There’s no point grandstanding, so Jon keeps it simple. “No, don’t show me; show him.” They both know he means Stan Hallquist. “Show him what you’ve got. What you must have had before, Carl. I already looked over the figures. I did that before I even got here. You must know that it doesn’t matter if your team’s doing okay if their figures still suffer by comparison.”
They both glance through the glass where Anthony stands back, relaxed and almost smiling as his team pinpoint subdivisions and turn to him for approval. His easy stance is deceptive—when he offers a few words, his whole team snaps to attention. He meets Jon’s gaze and holds it, and leadership exudes from him. It’s that quality, Jon’s almost certain, that makes his guys work so much harder for him. Carl’s team, on the other hand, seems constantly uncertain, paralyzed by indecision.
Carl’s says, “This is bullshit,” again, only now his voice is quieter.
“Whatever you say.” It’ll make Jon’s job easier if he wants to go ahead and quit right away. Something makes him add, “It’s a shame, is all. Giving up, I mean. Didn’t you say during our first meeting how you made all this happen with Stan?”
Carl nods then stares at his shoes. For a big guy, he suddenly looks a whole lot smaller. “Yeah.”
“So what was different back then?”
“Nothing.” Carl backtracks and huffs. “Actually, everything. It… it all meant more, I guess.” He shakes his head. “It damn sure meant more than money at the start. I mean, of course making a profit was important, but I have no idea when things changed. Maybe I didn’t notice, what with working on-site ninety percent of my time. But these days…?” His shrug is barely visible. “I don’t know what he’s trying to prove lately or who he’s trying to prove it to.”
It’s an interesting admission. “So does that mean you’re giving up?”
Carl’s lips press together and he looks every one of the sixty-one years indicated in his file, his complexion as grey as his hair. “I’m not a quitter.” Then he adds, more like it’s an afterthought than a rock-solid conviction, “I can still do this. I’m not done contributing to this business.”
“Good, because bullshit or not”—Jon points at Carl’s team who still look lost—“I have to write a report on those guys. That might not matter to you.” He inclines his head toward the glass. “But I’m guessing it will to them.”
IT’S MUCH easier later that evening, when he’s up to his wrists in compost, to filter out corporate white noise. Peggy makes it easy too by simply passing him pots to fill, one after another. The repetition of bend-scoop-fill leaves plenty of headspace Jon puts to good use. He starts by dissecting Carl’s reaction. The man had dropped his aggressive persona—one that hadn’t really rung true after Eric so fondly called him big guy—and had taken his team somewhere private for the rest of the morning.
Jon can’t exactly blame him.
Standing side-by-side with Anthony, whose team ran with the challenge from the outset, had to be high pressure.
Peggy passes him another pot, and Jon carefully fills it. He bends, getting close to the bottom of the sack of compost. It rustles as he scoops another full trowel, so he only half hears Peggy’s murmur. “What was that?” he asks once he straightens.
She startles, like she’s forgotten he’s right next to her outside her greenhouse. It’s almost twilight—traffic more a distant hum than a roar—but there’s plenty of light left to see her bite her lip and blush.
“I was talking to my tomato plants.”
Of course she w
as. Jon can’t help his smile. Of course she talks to plants just like they’re human. “What are you telling them?” he teases. “To behave and give you a good crop?”
It’s possible the color in her cheeks deepens. “I was telling them to be careful, if you must know.” She sniffs. “It’s not easy for them to grow big and strong here.”
“No?” The plants look robust enough to him but it’s cute how quickly she bristles, bright red curls quivering as she answers.
“No, Jonathan. It’s not easy at all. You have to look after plants like they’re family. Here.” She’s indignant as she thrusts one into his hands. The fine hairs on its thick stem tickle the tips of his fingers in the exact same way he remembers. “This one’s a couple of weeks ahead of the others. You tend it while you’re here and see for yourself if it’s so easy.” Her eyes narrow. “Pretend it’s the mother of your future tomato babies. Make sure she’s warm and well fed, like you would for a wife. And don’t you dare neglect her!”
“Can’t say I planned on having any kids. You sure you want to trust me with it?”
“Oh, Jonathan.” She sounds shocked. “You’ll want children when you meet the right girl. You must have some,” she insists, and her voice turns dreamy. “Imagine how beautiful they’d be, with your dark eyes and kindness.”
Jon lowers his head. He doesn’t exactly agree with her description—kindness isn’t something Bettman cultivates in their recruits. Perhaps she’s only wishing she had children of her own. She hasn’t mentioned kids or grandchildren, and he wonders if she’s lonely. It’s a moment of reflection that offers some insight—maybe that’s why she’s so attached to Tyler.
“Have lots of children, Jonathan,” she insists. “Then bring them to visit with me every weekend so I can make them do my weeding.”