by Gail Hewitt
Home For Christmas
When the phone rang to wake Maggie the next morning, the smell of hot coffee was so strong that she instinctively looked around to determine the source. A small silver service sat on the desk, the spout of the pot steaming gently. She showered quickly and put on a variant of the jeans and blazer outfit she'd probably be wearing from now on, her new business uniform as it were. When she'd swiped at her damp hair and applied lipstick, she just had time to drink half a cup of the cinnamon-flavored brew and eat a couple of wafers from the packet that lay on the tray. Then she grabbed her briefcase and the laptop, tossed the overcoat around her shoulders, and headed for the tiny elevator. Downstairs, she found Mrs. Evans in the living room, looking through the dark wooden blinds of the bay window. She turned around when she heard Maggie.
"Good morning! I hope you slept well. I was checking to see if the car's here. Phillips hasn't knocked yet, but sometimes he arrives early."
Maggie looked around, and Mrs. Evans guessed the reason. "Tom's making the flight with us, but he doesn't like the drive, so he usually goes by helicopter. I hate helicopters, so I do the drive."
"I can't blame you for that," Maggie said. "I just missed being in a helicopter crash once, and it was scary."
"Oh yes," Mrs. Evans said, looking through the blind once more, "here they come, but it isn't Phillips getting out. It must be Security."
"Do you always travel with a security detail, or is there one today because of that stupid thing to do with me?"
"Oh, there's always been some kind of security," Mrs. Evans said matter-of-factly, "at least since the late 1980s when Tom began to get so much publicity. You wouldn't believe some of the really strange mail that he gets. A few years ago, a man stalked him for months and even threatened him with a gun. That's one of the reasons he's so sensitive to the possible dangers in your situation. In fact, your security detail will be coming with us to Atlanta, and he'll remain with you when we separate."
Maggie hadn't considered that possibility.
"I appreciate everyone's concern," Maggie assured her. "And I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but is that really necessary?"
"It's not for me to say. You know how Tom is," she told Maggie. "Ah, he's coming up the steps, so they must be ready for us."
The knock was crisp and to the point, as was the heavyset man in a business suit responsible for it. "Good morning, Mrs. Evans."
"Good morning, Mr. Youmanns. This is Miss McLaurin. She's our guest today for the flight."
"Yes ma'am, I've been advised. Her detail is with the car. Is this all the luggage? Then let's go. Traffic reports are good, but we want some slack, considering it's a holiday and you never know about holiday conditions."
Sari, Mrs. Evans' petite housekeeper, had appeared silently behind them, a fact of which Maggie was not aware until Mrs. Evans turned to give her instructions about Tommy Cat's feeding schedule for the day. Outside, a somewhat-less-burly but still-impressive man waited watchfully by the car, which wasn't a car at all but a rather large limousine.
"Miss McLaurin, this is Sander Johnson. He'll be handling your security today."
Maggie shook hands with Johnson and smiled. "I appreciate it."
"Can't be too careful, Ma'am. There are lot of whack jobs out there, and we don't want anything to happen to you."
Having delivered these reassuring words, Johnson took Maggie's briefcase and laptop and deposited them inside even as Vincent Youmanns was doing the same with the shopping bag of wrapped packages that Mrs. Evans, her arm still in the sling, indicated was to go with them. The two women settled onto the forward-facing seat across the back, Vincent Youmanns sat up front with the driver, and Sander Johnson remained inside the passenger section, just behind the divider window, distant enough that the two women had relative privacy. On the way to the airport, the conversation was occasional and general, mostly having to do with the traffic, the weather, and the lights they'd seen on their drive around Manhattan the night before. Just as they arrived, a helicopter was lifting off, and Maggie could see Tom striding across the tarmac, several shorter men almost running alongside, visibly hanging onto what he was saying.
The plane was larger than Maggie expected, a 767 with a customized interior. Inside, Mrs. Evans went to what was evidently her accustomed place, in a semicircular arrangement of comfortable reclining chairs toward the front. About halfway back in the plane was another semicircle, this one of Plexiglas enclosing a small conference area in which Tom and three men were already sitting, paperwork being distributed. Tom looked grim and the others apprehensive. This was evidently going to be a working trip, Maggie saw, feeling a little guilty at her suspicion that Tom had changed his mind and come along simply because she was there. She had to stop thinking the way Miles had, she told herself. For one thing, Miles no longer seemed to be a factor. For another, he'd just been wrong. Tom had had several opportunities in which to make a nuisance of himself, and he hadn't.
Mrs. Evans settled herself in a chair far away from the window and beckoned to the steward. "Lars, will you see what Miss McLaurin wants and bring me my usual Diet Coke, but with lime today instead of lemon? And I'd like an English muffin, toasted, please, with nothing on it."
The steward inclined his head, "Yes ma'am."
Maggie told him she'd have the same thing.
As they waited for their Cokes and English muffins, the two women discussed the plane and its fittings. Like Tom's office at TTI, the décor was slick and contemporary, displaying many shades of tan and ivory, with occasional pops of color, among them flower holders attached periodically around the cabin walls, each filled today with holiday bouquets in an unorthodox orange and tan. The 767's interior was very chic, and it was also relatively spacious.
"Tom hates to be crowded when he flies," Mrs. Evans said, explainining the size and decorating approach. "The bonus is that he can make the plane his home base any time because it's fitted for twenty-four hour use. There's a full bedroom at the rear, with an attached bath. There's a private sitting area just there, next to the bedroom. The conference room doubles as a dining room if need be, and there's a full kitchen and another bathroom, just there."
"A little home away from home," Maggie grinned, thinking of Tom's renovated Chevrolet from the old days. "One of the perks."
Mrs. Evans took her seriously. "Yes, it is. Tom has worked very hard to achieve this kind of success. He deserves it."
"Who deserves what?" Tom's voice, coming from over her shoulder, made Maggie jump. She didn't realize he'd left the conference area.
"You are a naughty man," Mrs. Evans said, making a face, "and we aren't going to tell you anything. Are you really going to work the whole trip, Tom? It's so tedious if you can't join us. What's so important?"
"It's this Madoff thing and the de la Villehuchet suicide. It's interfering with a couple of things we had on the drawing board, and some decisions have to be made before tomorrow."
Maggie looked at him, and he interpreted the sharp glance correctly. "Don't worry. TTI's accounts weren't within a country mile of Madoff or any of his feeder funds. I always thought there was something suspicious about that steady rate of return." Tom winked at Maggie conspiratorially, then returned his attention to his aunt. "I'll join you later if it's possible, Aunt Martha. Meanwhile, you girls amuse yourselves. I understand they've restocked the DVDs. If you need anything else, you know who to call."
Mrs. Evans watched him fondly as he rejoined the other men, where a spirited discussion ensued at once. She sighed. "He works so hard. I was hoping when he sold the business he'd slow down a little, but now I think he's spending even more time on TTI and his investments. "What he needs is a hobby, or a really good relationship with a nice woman."
"You could say that about a lot of successful businessmen," Maggie pointed out. "Change the 'nice woman' to ' nice man,' in fact, and you could apply it to a lot of businesswomen. Business can be very absorbing."
"I've no doubt," Mrs. Evan
s agreed, but she didn't sound convinced.
The engines, which had been revving for several minutes, changed in tone. The steward returned with a tray. "The pilot asked me to tell you that we'll be taking off in approximately ten minutes, Mrs. Evans."
"Don't worry, Lars, we'll remember to fasten our seat belts."
The muffin slices were well toasted and hot and the Cokes nicely iced. The individual serving tray on which they were served was covered with a damask cloth woven with Tom's initials in modern, block script.
"This is great," Maggie said. "Flying corporate is always better than flying commercial except for maybe first class on Swiss International – I like having the flight data screen in front of me and seeing what I'm flying over."
"So you've flown in private planes before?"
"Quite a bit, actually, but nothing as impressive as this. You could practically fit a typical New York City apartment in here."
"What kind of work do you do?" Mrs. Evans asked her.
"In the past, executive training, program design and communications strategy," Maggie answered. "At TTI, I'm responsible for liaising with the schools that will provide the students for the initiative, and also with parent groups to encourage family involvement. I'll be devising communications strategies, doing research, maybe even getting input as to how to combine existing school curricula with the TTI extracurricular efforts."
Mrs. Evans shook her head. "School is very different now. In some ways they seem to expect too little from students and in some ways too much. That mixture of expectation, entitlement, and lack of accountability must be very confusing to young people."
"I know what you mean," Maggie agreed. "Now that I think of it, maybe that's why a fresh approach like this is needed — to encourage everyone to step back and take a harder look at what's being required of students and why."
"That's for you and the others to work out," Mrs. Evans told her. "Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in what you just said."
"In what way?" Maggie asked, her eyebrows shooting upward.
"I suppose I was hoping that perhaps you might be the nice woman. For some reason, I had an idea that the relationship between you and Tom might be something more personal."
"Strictly business," Maggie told her. "Sorry."
"Does Tom know that?" Mrs. Evans asked, nodding slightly toward the conference area. "He can't keep his eyes off you."
"He probably expects that crazy kid from work to jump out of the woodwork and attack me," Maggie joked.
"Possibly," Mrs. Evans said. "So you and Tom don't know each other at all outside of business?"
Maggie glanced at the other woman, and realized that the safest course was to come clean, at least to some extent. "We met while we were both in school, but that was a long time ago and we haven't seen each other since."
"Did you know Tom's family?"
"No. We met while he was in graduate school and I was an undergrad. I think his father was already dead, and his mother was living somewhere else."
"In Florida, with me," Mrs. Evans explained. "Which means Jack would have been dead too — his brother. He died in Vietnam, which just about killed Tom because he worshipped Jack. Well, it was an unfortunate situation. Tom's father, Devon, was a highly unpleasant man, a bully who drank too much and never thought about anyone but himself. I could never understand why Ada — she was my older sister — married him. But she did, and she had these two darling boys. Jack and Tom were the cutest little things you ever saw, both fair and blue-eyed and almost too pretty to be boys. I think Ada did the best she could, but it was as if she lived in a dream world. The boys more or less had to look out for themselves when their father went on one of his rampages. I think the sheriff even came a few times. Braxton and I spoke to Ada about our keeping them with us, but all she would allow was for them to visit us in the summer."
"It was nice of you to try to help them," Maggie pointed out.
"We kept in close touch, but even so . . . " Mrs. Evans shook her head and sighed. "It would have been a mercy if Devon had dropped dead sooner, but he didn't and those boys had to put up with how he treated them until they were old enough to leave home. Tom was in college on a football scholarship when Jack was killed in the war. He's always been catnip for the girls. I mean, just look at him, you can see why . . . "
She stopped and stared at her nephew, who was explaining something to the others. Maggie's gaze automatically followed hers, to be caught out when Tom looked over to see her head turned directly toward him. Maggie blushed and turned around. Tom did look good, even better, if possible, than when she'd first known him. Of course, some of that probably had to do with the clothes and the haircut, not to mention the ambience that money always provided successful men. Still, she'd give him full points.
"Of course, looks like his can bring problems," Mrs. Evans continued. "I've always thought that the fact that Tom had it so easy with girls all his life was one of the reasons he never tried very hard with any of them, but if you knew him in college after he returned from the Army, then you know that better than I do. They couldn't leave him alone, and he more than returned the favor."
"There always seemed to be girls around," Maggie agreed. Now she could smile at the memory; the reality had been more irritating. During the three months that she'd made daily visits to Tom's scruffy apartment in the odd little complex in Midtown, she'd found females hanging about in the courtyard, waiting for him, and answered the phone several times to find yet another at the other end, insisting that she be allowed to speak to Tom. There had even been a yearning letter that she'd come across while cleaning. The girls had definitely liked Tom. It was that universal attraction — and the practically scripted lovemaking to which she'd been an unwilling witness — that had set her up to believe he had been consciously disloyal.
"I don't think it changed when he went west," Mrs. Evans continued. "Of course, I will give him this. When he decided to marry, she was a sensible sort. Very attractive, of course, and considerate. They've been divorced for fifteen years, and we still keep in touch."
"He's a smart guy," Maggie agreed. "You'd expect him to choose an exceptional woman when it came to marriage, which he evidently did, but I'm not sure he'd appreciate us talking about him like this."
"That's one of the benefits of being his aunt," Mrs. Evans laughed. "To me, he'll always be that cute little fair-haired boy who deserved better than he got."
After that, Mrs. Evans took out her Kindle and began to read, and Maggie opened her laptop and began to work. Some time later, there was a tap on her shoulder, and she looked around to see Tom standing over her, motioning her to follow him, a forefinger across his lips. He nodded toward his aunt, who was indeed napping.
Maggie set the laptop on the seat closest to hers, undid her seat belt, and stood up, stretching. Tom led her to the private sitting area that his aunt had pointed out earlier. This room was obviously intended for his personal use. The Plexiglas around it was frosted, and there was a closely fitted door. He waved her to one of the chairs and took another nearby.
"I just heard from the police. Based on what you told them yesterday and what they found on the phone recording, they're getting an arrest warrant for Josh Wells first thing tomorrow."
"For making threats?"
"There's also the fact that he was caught on camera today trying to break into TTI. We'd already changed all the locks, of course, and the staff was told not to admit him to the premises again. When he couldn't get in the front way, he went around to the alley and tried to get through the gate in the wall that sits at the back of the lot."
Maggie shook her head. "I just wish he'd go away."
"If he doesn't stop, he will," Tom joked, but there was a look in his eyes that made Maggie think she wouldn't want to be in Josh's shoes.
"I appreciate your letting me know," Maggie told him, beginning to get up.
"You say that all the time," Tom said abruptly, startling her. "Are you aware of that?"
>
"Say what?" she was so surprised that she sat down again.
"What you just said: 'I appreciate it,' or some variant."
"Well, I only say it when I'm genuinely appreciative," she protested.
"Always?" he raised an eyebrow. "In all circumstances? That must be offputting to men."
"Look," she told him, blushing, "I've told you that I'm not going to discuss my private life with you."
"But you said I was brotherly," he protested laughingly. "Isn't that what brothers do? Tease sisters about things that aren't any of their business? All right, all right. I'm sorry. So, what's your time frame today? A car and driver will be collecting you at Charlie Brown as soon as we land. The trip to West Paces should require, what, about forty to forty-five minutes? Our current schedule calls for us to depart at eight. That'll leave you approximately six hours. Will that be enough?"
"It'll be fine," she told him. "All I'm doing is logistical stuff with Amanda Perry – she's my mother's practical nurse. My visits barely register with Mother."
"I'm sorry her mental state is so precarious," he said. "I can imagine that must be . . . " He caught the expression on her face and stopped himself. "Well, no point in talking about that. It sounds as if the schedule will work. Your security detail and the car are remaining with you, by the way, so if for any reason you want to leave earlier or we need to change the schedule, you'll have transport immediately at hand."
"That's very generous of you," she told him. "Even though I don't think it's strictly necessary."
"Tom's world, Tom's rules," he joked, at least ostensibly it was a joke.
"Your aunt said something like that," Maggie said slowly.
Tom grinned and shook his head.
"Do you know your aunt likes to talk about you, Tom? In fact, she talks about you a lot."
"Not to most people," he told her. "Some of the best reporters in the business haven't been able to get anything out of her other than name, rank and serial number."
"If that's true, she definitely knows about us and was throwing stuff out just to see what my reaction would be."