Finding Spring (Almost a Billionaire Book 3)

by Bridget E. Baker

  But Jack just grins at me. “Nancy hired a live one, didn't she? Let's hope you can organize as well as you can mouth off.” He spins on his heel and walks down the hall without a backward glance.

  My hands shake as I slink back to my office, but Jack doesn't say a word to Nancy. He marches back into his office purposefully and slams the door behind him. Okay, then.

  I'm looking over the next two months on the calendar with Nancy when I notice Greg wasn't kidding. There aren't any meetings set up before two p.m.

  “Where is Jack every morning?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I guess not, but he’s sort of like Willy Wonka, isn't he? Why not tell everyone why he's always late? And what SITB stands for?”

  “We do our jobs and we don't pry into Jack's life. It's none of our business.” Nancy hands me a list. “We've got meetings set up with possible buyers for SITB's tech in two weeks. These are the details we need to complete before then. You can see how much time Jack has to deal with them.” She points at the calendar. There are about six hours that aren't already blocked off in the next two weeks.

  “We don't have enough time to schedule all of this stuff,” I say. “Unless he comes in earlier. Can’t we ask him to clear some room? Maybe he can come in at nine a.m. two days a week?”

  Her lips compress and she stares at me for moment. “Jack Campbell bankrolled this entire company with his private savings. So whether he's golfing, or out late partying, or sleeping in with a hangover, or basket weaving while listening to Reggae music, it doesn't affect our jobs. This is the time he's given us, and our job is to work within it.”

  I shake my head. “Fine.”

  I focus on the time blocks again, seeing patterns emerge that remind me of a puzzle, like an old game Mary loved when we were kids. Tetris, I think it was called.

  I point at the detail for next Wednesday. “This meeting is across town so we blocked off drive time. That's sort of wasted dead space. Maybe we could do this review.” I point at the list. “During that drive.” I glance up at her. “Is that kind of what you mean?”

  She nods. “This is exactly why I hired you. Do as much as you possibly can to condense this, paying careful attention to the order in which these steps need to take place. Once you've come up with a smaller list of things we can't possibly compress, that's when we go to Jack and ask for his help. Got it?”

  “It's our job to inconvenience him as little as possible.”

  Nancy beams at me. “Yes, precisely.”

  I hunch over and get to work, calling people on the list to shift things when necessary. I'm about halfway through when Nancy stands up and heads for the door.

  “I've got to leave early for an appointment with my OB. They're twice a week now, which is killing me.”

  “I'll see you tomorrow, then?” I ask.

  She nods. “Absolutely. Do the best you can with that, and we'll review your solutions in the morning. Once you're finished there, I need the power point I created reviewed for typos, and two dozen of the portfolios copied and assembled. Think you can do that?”

  “Sure.” I might be a little late, but I'll text Pam and warn her.

  “Great. See you tomorrow.”

  Jack's door is still shut when Nancy leaves. The red light that represents his phone line is lit up, which means he's still talking to someone. Maybe he's almost forgotten about how I sort of called him Hitler. When my cell phone rings, I’m so startled that I almost drop it. I silence it immediately, Jack's feelings about employees doing personal things during work fresh in my mind, but in the process I notice the caller. It’s Pam.

  What if Troy's in trouble?

  My heart sinks at the thought of answering a private call at work, but Jack's on the phone behind a closed door, and Troy's only been with Pam for four days, today included.

  I swipe to answer the call. “Pam?”

  “Trudy, Troy won't wake up from his nap. I shook him like you said, but he won't open his eyes.”

  My heart stops. It’s the worst nightmare of every parent with a diabetic child. “Call 911. Tell them to take him to Piedmont. I'll meet them there.”

  I grab my bag and rush from the office. I barely stop at the front desk long enough to tell Ish I’m leaving.

  “Family emergency. If Jack notices I'm gone, tell him I'll be back later tonight to finish the power point and copy the portfolios.”

  Ish nods. “Best of luck to you, miss. I hope everyone's okay.”

  Me too.

  The whole way to the hospital, I obsess. I wanted this, I wanted a job. I needed to go out into the world, leaving Troy with a stranger. And now he's unconscious, probably suffering a hypoglycemic event. That means I traded a hundred and thirty-five dollars for my child's safety.

  I always knew Mary was smarter, and she’s undeniably harder working. She made better decisions in love. She took care of me and everyone around her when I could barely care for myself. Mary gives more time to charity, more time to friends, and more time to everyone. But I never doubted one thing: I’m a good mom.

  If I don't even have that, if I’ve failed my son, then who am I?

  I race into the partitioned section of the ER where Pam's waiting with Troy. He's sitting up, sucking noisily from a juice box straw. I sprint across the room and yank him into my arms. “My baby.”

  “Hi Mom. Sorry you had to come to the doctor's.”

  I rub the back of his curly head. “It's okay baby, it's just fine.”

  “But you had to leave work. And Miss Pam's real sad.”

  Pam still hasn't met my eye. When she finally does, she looks away immediately. I'd put my money on her feeling more guilty than sad.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  The doctor breezes into the room, his white coat unbuttoned over hugely baggy blue scrubs. “You must be Mrs. Jenkins?”

  I nod. “It looks like my baby’s okay?”

  “He's just fine. He suffered a minor hypoglycemic episode, Mrs. Jenkins. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes sir. It means his sugars went too low.”

  “It can cause sweating, confusion, or even hallucinations, but when young children are napping, you wouldn't see any of that.”

  “But you can't wake them up.” I’ve feared this exact thing for more than three months.

  “We gave him a shot of Glucagon, and he perked right up. Based on what Pam told me, it seems she gave him the proper amount of insulin for the food she prepared, but he failed to finish his lunch.”

  I close my eyes. How could she not have noticed?

  “I'm so sorry,” Pam says. “I didn't realize he hid the animal crackers under the sofa, and I'm pretty sure he fed part of his hotdog to Camilla.”

  Camilla, their stupid, bouncy sheepdog who I now need to shoot.

  I told Pam to make sure he ate everything, but this is my fault for assuming she could handle it. I never should’ve taken this dumb job. I never should’ve trusted anyone else with Troy. But what choice do I have? I can't sponge off of Mary forever. I want to curl myself around Troy and never move again.

  The doc monitors his vitals for another half hour, but his sugars remain stable. “You guys can leave whenever you're ready,” he says. “Troy's fine.”

  I gather him up in my arms, but he shoves against me. “I can walk, Mom. Put me down.”

  My heart lurches. He's too small to be so big. I slide him down my body slowly until his tiny sneakers touch the ground.

  “I really am so sorry,” Pam says. “I swear I'll watch what he eats like a hawk from now on. I didn't realize how serious it could be.”

  One look at Pam's stricken face and I know she means it. We've been friends since before Troy was even born. She taught me how to change a diaper when neither Mary nor I had any idea what we were doing.

  “I know,” I say. “It's not your fault. It's complicated.”

  Pam touches my arm. “Please give me another chance. Don't give
up your job, Trudy. I know you're planning to from that look in your eye.”

  I grit my teeth. “It's not that I blame you. It's my fault, not yours.”

  She looks at the ceiling. “You watched Benson for so long and you never let me pay you a dime. I made one tiny mistake, and I promise it won't happen again. I promise.”

  “Mom, I like playing with Benson. Please don't blame Miss Pam. I won't hide food anymore.”

  I crouch down. “You can't ever hide food, sweetie. I know sometimes you don't want to eat every single thing, but you're special, remember? You have to follow different rules. Harder rules.”

  His lip trembles. “I want to be normal. Like Benson.”

  I shake my head slowly. “You can't change how God made you. No one in the world is more amazing than you are, but that means you have to pay a little more attention than other four year olds.”

  “I will do it, Mommy. I will.”

  I know he will. And at the end of the day, the only way I'll have health insurance for visits exactly like this is if I keep my job. Which means I need to get back to the office and finish what I said I’d do.

  I call Paisley. “Hey gal. How do you feel about babysitting for a few hours tonight?”

  I fill her in on what's going on during the drive home, and Paisley meets me at my house just in time to take over after Troy's bath.

  “Aunt Paisley's going to read you a story or two, okay sweetie? Mom has a little work she needs to catch up on since she left early today to check on you at the doctor's. Okay?”

  Troy nods and I kiss him on the forehead. The hardest part about being a parent isn't being willing to do anything and everything for your kid. It's figuring out what to do when the things your kid needs, like direct care and a roof over his head, pull you in two different directions. And now, after hiding his food and feeding it to a dog, does Troy need a hug, or a stern talking to? I opt for a little of each.

  When I grab my purse to leave, Troy's small voice calls out. “Mom?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Can you please water my plant on your way out?”

  That dumb dead daisy. I roll my eyes.

  “Please?”

  I dump another cup of water over the top of the rotting Gerbera daisy, because it's easier than trying to crush Troy's treasured delusion. Then I head back to the empty office. I'm going to finish that spreadsheet, typo check the power point, and make those portfolio copies if they kill me.

  5

  Paul

  My patent attorney is the best in Atlanta, but he's hard to pin down. “So you think we'll have the FAOM this time next week?” I ask.

  “Of course I can't speak for the patent examiner, but yes, the hope is that the first office action on the merits will be complete early next week. Todd indicated as much to me.”

  I close my eyes. I need this wrapped up, or I'm going to get an ulcer. “Fine. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Brighton says.

  I hang up. I never make small talk with anyone when those pleasantries cost me six hundred dollars an hour. I learned that the hard way. No matter how close you think you are to your lawyer, the clock is ticking every time you're on the phone with them.

  My Outlook calendar indicates the mock presentation is scheduled for tomorrow at three p.m. I leave my office to grab a copy of the portfolio Nancy was preparing so I can run through it tonight. Except Nancy's not in her office. Gertrude isn't either. I walk to the front of the office. “Ish, what time is it?”

  “Hello, sir. It's five minutes until five p.m.”

  I frown. We're up against a deadline, and both my assistants leave early? On the same day I fired Greg's untrustworthy self? “Did either Nancy or the new girl mention why they left?”

  Ish bobs his head up and down awkwardly. “Uh, yes sir, thank you.”

  Thank you? I swear, if reliable receptionists weren't so hard to find, this odd guy would not still be here. But he’s unfailingly polite, and he's never called in sick. Not once in almost a year. I prompt him. “What did they say?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, sir. Miss Nancy has a doctor's appointment, and she will see us in the morning.”

  “Okay, and the new hire?”

  “Miss Gerty ran out the door just before four. She looked quite distressed and mentioned she had a family emergency.”

  I swallow hard, inexplicably worried about someone I barely know. What kind of emergency? Is she married? Why should I care about that? “Did she say anything else?”

  Ish shakes his head. “I'm sorry sir.”

  I stomp back to my office, annoyed that I'll be stuck here prepping for a presentation tomorrow without the proper materials. Why did I hire someone new if she's not even going to put in a full day? I've barely reached my office when my phone rings.

  I snatch the handset and hold it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Paul, it's me again.”

  Mr. Brighton. There's no good reason he should be calling me back. “Is everything okay?”

  “I wanted to tell you that a nearly identical patent to yours was filed at the patent office two days after us.”

  I clench my free hand into a fist, but I don't throw anything through the window. Yet. “Two days after us this time?”

  “That's correct. It looks like your leak was delayed for some reason.”

  “But we can't sue for infringement until our patent is granted,” I say.

  “You're absolutely right. If you learn any more about this process, you won't need me anymore.”

  I wish. “How nervous should I be right now?”

  “That depends entirely on whether you can document the date of your discoveries. Last time, your competitor had a working prototype before you did.”

  My competitor. I roll my eyes. Some shell company we couldn't track down. And now, even though SITB doesn't share a single employee with my last startup, they've managed to infiltrate me again. “What should I be doing, other than preparing records and a timeline?”

  “It would help if you could identify this competitor and the leak.”

  “You'll look into the shell company?” I ask.

  Mr. Brighton's frown conveys in his tone. “Of course, but I'm limited in ways you aren't.”

  He needs to follow all the rules to keep his law license. Any risk taking will have to come from my end. As it should, since it's my leak, not his. “I'll pursue every angle. You can be sure of that.”

  Mr. Brighton clears his throat. “And I'll lean on my friend at the patent office and let you know if we can expedite anything. I'll also call the court and push for a hearing date. Soon.”

  I hang up and release a string of expletives. I pore over all my internal email correspondence and memos to prepare a timeline, which takes nearly two hours. I wish we had an IT person to help me ensure our firewalls and data are secure. I don't know enough about computer tech to be confident there. Nancy really needs to find someone new soon. I click send on the email with my timeline to Mr. Brighton and I lean back and stretch.

  A run. I need to take a nice long run, and I'll feel better. I stand up to leave for the night, but I'm startled by a noise. Someone else is here. After hours. While I'm already suspicious about a leak.

  I poke my head around the corner, expecting Nancy. I do not expect our new hire, Gerty whatever her name is. Nancy's desk is covered with papers, and she's stuffing things into folders.

  “What are you doing here?” I narrow my eyes at her.

  She jumps and looks up at me with huge, wide, sky blue eyes. “Oh, Mr. Campbell. I didn't realize anyone else was here.” Her sweater hangs on the back of Nancy's chair, leaving her in a silky camisole top. Her high heels are piled in the corner of the room, and she's standing in bare feet.

  “Clearly.”

  “I had to leave for, well, to deal with something, but I promised Nancy I'd have these ready for the mock presentation tomorrow. I came back to finish them up, and to do some work on, well. I'm sure yo
u don't care what, but another project Nancy asked me to do today. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you.”

  She is, but not in the way she means. Although. The timing is strange. She shows up for an interview on the very day the thief files a rival patent? I do the math in my head.

  Even if she had stolen the information, they couldn't have gotten it transmitted and a file prepared on the same day. But that doesn't mean she's not a new leak, either. What if Alan or Greg were the leak and now they're gone, so she's the replacement? Again, the timeline. Alan, maybe, but he left voluntarily so that's unlikely. And Greg left after she appeared.

  “Since you're here,” she asks, “is there any chance you know what this means?” She holds up a note that says, “Diagram G, electrical components.”

  I nod. “I've got that on my laptop. The specs for the critical components aren't kept on the main server. I told Nancy I'd print a copy of that. Follow me.”

  Gerty pulls her sweater on and slides into her heels before following me into my office. I hide my smile. She wouldn't have bothered covering up if she didn't find me at least a little bit attractive. Not that I'd actually date my assistant. Especially a mouthy, accusatory one. Who, for all I know, left without notice because she had to help her husband out of a pinch.

  I check out her left hand while I'm pulling the file up. She's standing awkwardly by the door, resting it against the doorframe so it's easy to see. Her ring finger is bare, but that doesn't mean she's single. Maybe her boyfriend has commitment issues.

  Not that it matters.

  “How many copies do you need?” I ask.

  “I guess that's your call. I'm preparing ten folders, but I think the idea is that if they make sense to the staff tomorrow, we can use the same ones for the presentation in two weeks. Do you want them all to have one?” she asks. “Or maybe just one for yours if the material is sensitive?”

  “Good idea. I'll just print a single one here.”

  The printer sits on the edge of my desk, right next to my desktop. It clicks and growls, preparing to print. I walk toward it at the same time as Gerty, our hands reaching out simultaneously for the diagram. She pulls back, as do I, and then we both reach for the paper again. This time she steps back, bumping into a potted plant.