by Karin, Anya
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No, not right now. Thanks again."
As soon as the door closed behind him, Preston tore open the letter.
"Dear. Mr. Webb," it said. "I'm writing to let you know I've finished the latest round of entries and have them saved just like you asked, on my computer, on one of those thumb-drive things, and online. Do you want me to send these files to you at some point? I'm a little nervous about keeping them, but if that's what you need, just let me know. I've never even seen dollar amounts like this, much less had anything to do with them."
Another headache threatened. Preston had been having them for as long as he could remember, but lately they'd been worse. Out of nowhere it seemed, these pounding, crippling headaches cropped up at the worst times. He set the letter down for a moment, rubbed his temples hard and fished a pair of absurd pink and purple reading glasses out, which he hid in his desk. He looked at them and chuckled before sticking them on the bridge of his nose. Blinking for a second, the pain retreated for the moment.
"I wanted to thank you," he continued reading, "for the chance to do this. I don't know why you're paying me so well, but just know that without it, my family would be in quite a spot. Things are still tight, but that's okay. Ever since you dropped by and offered me this chance, everything's looking up."
Then, Preston Webb read something that made his eyebrows arch.
"My daughter will be coming home from school in the next few days, and is planning to stay for a week or so to look after Jake and Lori (those are the kids). She keeps threatening to take a semester off, but I told her not to do that. We'll see if she listens, though. The kids doing fine, but I'm not. It's so strange to be alone, you know? I don't know why I'm telling you this, except that in the last few weeks that I've gotten to know you, I feel like I've made a friend. I know you lost your dad a few years back, so I'm sure you understand what it's like to be around someone for so long, and then just have them gone one day."
Preston lay the letter down again, but not because his head hurt. With it on the table, he read 'best regards, Ryan Barton' and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, head in hands.
"Your daughter," he said under his breath in his soft baritone. "Alyssa, that's her name. Alyssa Barton. What I wouldn't give to see that face again."
Years ago, before his father died, before he took over the business and all that it entailed, Preston had watched Alyssa, although she never knew it. She had a habit of breaking into the west end of the property, through a hole in a fence that separated Webb land from her father's. She never did much of anything, but every now and then she'd wander out of the woods and poke around in the parts of the property just past the woods.
He lived most of his life through a pair of binoculars. Or at least that's how he learned a great deal about the world around him. Except for a few rare occasions, he was never allowed to leave the mansion and the surrounding gardens. Tutors came to him when he was a child, and then at Gadsen's insistence, because his father had gotten a little feeble-minded and entrusted the butler with Preston's upbringing well before anyone knew about it, college professors were hired to come and give him private classes. The family's massive wealth was enough to convince Princeton to send faculty to him, and give him a degree, but it wasn't enough to cure loneliness.
Through those binoculars, he watched the woods every single day. He loved the deer and the little foxes and other things that made their homes in them. He was never allowed pets, not until his father died and he got Schala and Sky, so those out in the forest were the closest thing he had.
And then, one day, he saw her.
She popped out of the woods with a sack slung over her shoulder. Preston always figured it was full of mushrooms, because gathering mushrooms was one of his father's favorite hobbies as well, and he always did it out in those woods, because he said it had the "right amount of rot" and produced the tastiest specimens.
He watched her with the binoculars, a little confused because she was a few years younger than he – almost ten – but as isolated as he was, it didn't feel wrong. To him, she was just another person, and as much as he wanted anything, he wanted to talk to her, or to touch that golden hair. But there he sat, alone, separated from the rest of the world except what was allowed into his life through Gadsen's filter.
Down there, picking through whatever it was, she looked like a little beam of light. He couldn't take her eyes off her. And then, every day after that, he always spent a few minutes watching that particular patch of forest, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
"I pretended you saw me," he said into his empty office. "I sat there with those binoculars, staring out the front of my house and pretend that you waved sometimes. And then you just vanished."
Preston reached for his ever-present stationery pad and grabbed a pen, but then he thought better of it, and shoved it aside.
"What on Earth are you thinking? Writing a letter to some girl – to a woman, now – who has no idea who you are, and telling her you watched her pick mushrooms ten years ago? I'm sure that's a wonderful way to meet new people and all, but come on, Preston."
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, absently rubbing his scar. He didn't know what it was from, not exactly, because no one ever told him. His father never addressed it at all, and Gadsen either didn't know or refused to talk about it. Same went with his mother. Just a candle in the wind, he thought. As soon as she was gone, that was it, no more talking about her, except to say how she died in childbirth and that was that. He'd long since given up asking for answers, though he never stopped wondering.
"Alyssa Barton," he said again, the sound rolling around in his mouth.
A knock on the door interrupted Preston's reminiscence.
"Mr. Webb? Sorry to bother you again."
"No problem, Gadsen, I was just thinking about something. What is it?"
"Well, I do hate to remind you of things like this, but there's the matter of your trust that must be attended."
"My trust? What about it?"
"Yes, ah, well, as you know, when your father died, he made me the interim executor of his estate, to oversee it until you were ready to take the business."
"And? I'm running the business, so great. Transfer the money."
"That's the problem. He has very specific stipulations for what he meant by 'ready'."
"I'm listening," he took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy, impatient sigh. "I get the feeling you're going to say something I don't want to hear."
"That depends." Gadsen said. The slender butler wrung his hands and then pinched the base of his nose again as was his habit.
"On?"
"Well, it depends on how much you want to be married."
"Are you proposing to me?" Preston plucked the rose he'd cut off the plant earlier and held it behind him, chuckling. "It's a bit sudden."
"Sir, be serious."
"Alright, alright. Married? I don't exactly know you expect me to manage that when I can't even leave this damned compound. No matter that I run an entire company or not. Here I sit, under house arrest, except when you're with me."
"It's not like that sir, it's for your protection. You know that."
"Protection from what exactly, Gadsen?" The venom hissed in Preston's voice.
"From outside. I promised your mother I would protect you. Promised your father as well."
"Well you've certainly protected me from everything very well. The only scars I have, aside from the ones that have no explanation," he ran his finger along the white mark, "is from nicking myself with a razor. Then you took those away!"
"Calm down, sir. Please, there are guests in the foyer." Gadsen moved closer and smoothed his lapels, then put his hands on Preston's shoulders and turned his chair around.
The mismatched eyes, they didn't shock Gadsen. They never had. After all, he was there when the boy was born. He helped bring him into the world. He knew everything. But he said nothing.
"Are you ready to listen to me, sir?"
"Go on warbling, Gadsen." Preston pinched his temples again, trying to ward off the fourth – or was it the fifth – headache of the day. "Just say whatever it is you want me to do. I'm sure I'll do it."
"Whatever you were thinking about has put a terrible mood in you."
"Go on, Gadsen."
"The stipulations of the trust are that you must be married, and must have the reasonable expectation to remain so – meaning it can't be a convenience marriage and then immediately annulled – and the reasonable expectation that the Webb line will continue. You must accomplish this within five years of your father's death. As you know, that was-"
"Four years, ten months, one week, four days and," he checked his watch, "eight hours. I can go to the minutes if you like, but after that it gets a bit murky."
"No sir, I remember very well. I lost my best friend on that day, if you'll recall."
"Did you?"
Gadsen swallowed.
"Well that's all well and good. I don't know what exactly it is you expect me to do about it. Is there some local bar I should start frequenting?"
"No, sir."
"Well then what would you have me to do? I don't actually know anyone outside of this house, and then there's...this..." He ran his finger along his scar.
"You have all the money in the world, sir, I'm sure that would be enough to get someone to look past a scar."
"So you'd have me buy a wife, then. Good. That's good, just what I want. An entire life without human contact, and then I buy a wife. Good, Gadsen. Glad that's cleared up."
"At least think about it. If you don't manage to fulfill the terms of the trust, ownership of the company, and full decisions thereof, will revert to the board so that they can run the company. And we can't have that."
"You."
"What, sir?"
"You can't have that. That's what you mean."
"I don't know what you're getting on about, but I'll not listen to any more of this rubbish." The stiff-necked butler stuck out his lower jaw. "Do think on what I've said. Whenever you're more reasonable we'll talk again."
"Right, Gadsen, right."
The door clicked softly.
Preston Webb stared straight out his window, right at the spot where he watched that pretty little girl – the only one he'd ever watched – all those years ago.
"Wait a minute. If she's back in town, I wonder if she's going to keep up any old habits. If my dad's any indication, picking mushrooms is one of those life-long hobbies."
He reached across his desk to the phone, picked it up and dialed the security office.
"Webb Oilworks, security station four, this is Peter."
"Peter, good to hear your voice," Preston smiled. Peter Roark was, of all the employees, the only one he really trusted to not get things back to Gadsen. He was a big man, round-faced and ruddy, who worked harder than anyone Preston had ever known. He set up the entire security system and team for the property, and knew every single secret passage, tunnel, door, and blind-spot in the cameras. When the elder Webb built this place, he went on a hunt for the best in the business, and that was Peter. He had never once failed.
But he and Gadsen never got along. And that was another reason Preston trusted him.
"Mr. Webb? What's up – uh, I mean what can I do for you, sir? I didn't expect to hear from you."
"Do you ever?"
"Well no, s'pose not." Peter laughed and switched the receiver to his other ear. He was hard of hearing in the left one, and always answered with it as a way of screening calls. "What can I do for ya?"
"I'm not sure if there's anything you can really do, not yet anyway. But, in the mornings, could you check the woods on the western perimeter? You don't have to spent a lot of time or anything on it, but just buzz by there and see if you find anyone."
"Sure, but, who am I looking for? Do you think someone's been breaking in? Because I can pretty much promise you that-"
"Oh no, no, nothing like that. I know this place is locked up tighter that Gadsen." They both laughed for a second. "Do you remember that girl that used to pick mushrooms out there? She lived in the house just on the other side of those woods. Her name's Alyssa Barton."
"Sure, I remember her. She stopped coming through here four years ago? Maybe five? I didn't know her name, but sure I remember her. Why?"
"It's a little embarrassing, but she's back in town and I was hoping she might resume her visits. If she does, I'd like to finally meet her. I used to... Anyway, if you see her, could you bring her in?"
"Hold on. You want me to catch some girl wandering through the woods and kidnap her?"
"No, it's not kidnapping. I just want to meet her. Don't hurt her or anything."
"Couldn't you just, I don't know, talk to her? Seems easier."
A long silence hung over the phone line. Neither man spoke for ten seconds, twenty.
"Sorry sir, not my place. I'll do what you say. I'll keep an eye out, and if I see her, I'll bring her in."
"Thanks Pete. I can trust you, right?"
"Of course, sir. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I just might need to know who exactly I can count on when it comes down to it."
"Uh, well," Peter clicked his teeth, "yeah, I'm your man if you need me. I loved your dad like a brother."
"You're a life saver. Remember, don't hurt her, and – well, I'd say don't scare her but that might be impossible." He chuckled. "Alright. Talk to you later."
"Right, Mr. Webb. I'll let you know as soon as I see anything."
"See that you do."
The line went dead with Preston still holding the phone and staring dead-eyed out the window in front of him. In his mind, a girl stumbled out of the woods and looked at him from across the field that separated the two of them.
She smiled, waved, and mouthed 'be home soon,' before disappearing back into the trees.
Preston Webb slid his fingers across his eyes and rubbed them for a moment. He yawned and looked down at the stack of papers in front of him, the letter from Ryan Barton off to one side, and the contract that Gadsen had brought. Then he remembered the tea and took a drink.
"One thing I can say for Gadsen is that he can certainly make tea."
The paper on top of his growing mountain was on cheap white copy paper, but the signatures at the bottom were real enough, in three different colors of blue when he looked closely.
"Underground Usage Permit," it read. "This is to permit Webb Oilworks to lay underground pipes for the purpose of transporting oil and other petroleum products underground through the Township of Newton, State of Pennsylvania. These pipe works must comply with all Federal and State practices and guidelines for the transport of petroleum and petroleum byproducts."
He let out another heavy sigh and folded the contract.
"We'll see about this," he said.
Creasing it hard between his fingers and the top of his oak desk, Preston Webb closed his eyes, felt underneath his desk for a latch, opened it, and put the contract inside. Slowly pushing the hidden hatch closed, he listened for the lock to click.
Chapter Four
Alyssa rolled over, looked out the windows, and was a little disappointed when the dueling squirrels chose not to make a repeat performance. That minor tragedy aside, she had a lot to do for the first time since she got home.
One dramatic, stretching yawn later, she touched her toes and popped back up fast enough to get a little woozy.
The first thing on her to-do list was already a failure when she went downstairs. Jake and Lori were dressed for school and waiting at the table.
"Hey! I was supposed to make breakfast. You're supposed to sit there and read the paper." She patted her dad on the back, and then tugged him by the hand back to the table. "Sit!"
"Okay, okay. I just wanted to make sure you had a good morning is all. Square meal and all."
"I'll be fine. I can c
ook some eggs and some bacon. At least I think I can," she teased, taking up the spatula and flipping the two un-flipped pieces of bacon. "Need coffee?"
Her dad grabbed his paper and said: "yes, please!" with a huge grin across his face.
"Good. You're learning," she said. "I'm here to help. Stop taking care of me. Okay?"
"It's a hard thing to do, baby girl."
"I know, but that's the whole reason I'm here." She stared at her dad's face for a second.
His face was looser than it was only a couple of days ago. His eyes didn't have that pinched up forehead between them and the crow's feet, from where he squinted when he laughed, were back along with the smile lines in the corners of his mouth. As he sat there and took a big gulp of steaming hot coffee, Ryan Barton smiled even though he didn't know anyone was looking his way.
"By the way, Lyssie," he said without looking up from the sports page, "I found the letter you left me."
Lys's stomach almost turned a flip. Every word of the note was true, but that sort of emotion was something she'd just never done much of before. Her voice trembled a little when she told him she hoped he read it all the way through.
"I did," he said. "It's a lot to think about. What you said struck a few nerves. It... Well, is it okay if we talk about it when I get back this afternoon?"
"Sure, yeah," Alyssa said, trying to hide her disappointment.
"One thing really hit me though," he continued, "because I thought the same thing."
"Should we talk about this in front of the kids?"
"I don't see why not. They're old enough that I'd hate for them to see their dad as a cold-hearted old man with no emotions. I want them to know that it's okay to have feelings. Right guys?"
"Yep," Jake said.
Lori followed with another affirmative sound that was a bit like a honking horn.
"What you said about this place not feeling like home with mom gone, that struck a nerve. For a couple months, I felt the same way. Something just wasn't right about it. I was tense, and that made the kids tense. Then them being irritable made me even more up-tight and on and on. Then all the working and the stress made me sick. Like physically sick."