by Penny Reid
“Forty questions?”
“Yes.” I rinsed the cup then moved to refill it with fresh coffee. “Emma stopped by yesterday, and—”
“Emma was here yesterday?” His tone told me he wasn’t happy.
“Yes, no big deal.” I sipped the hot beverage, placed it on the small kitchen table, then turned to the cabinets to seek out dishes for breakfast. “We talked. It’s all good. But she deposited a lot of information in my brain and I think it’s going to take at least forty questions for me to gain the answers I seek.”
“What kind of information did she deposit?” In my peripheral vision I saw he was grabbing knives and forks.
“Well now, you can play forty questions too. I ask you a question, you ask me a question. There’s no need to keep tally of how many, it’s just that I’d like to clear up as many unknowns as possible before heading home this evening.”
He was quiet for a beat as we set the table, then said, “That’s right. I forgot you’re leaving today.”
I took stock of our progress, found everything to be satisfactory, and sat next to him as he served the casserole.
“I’ll start—I’ll answer your question about what kind of information Emma shared.”
He nodded, glanced at me warily, then grabbed a muffin and tore it in half. By the time I was finished relating the story of Emma’s visit the day before, he’d eaten three servings of casserole, two danishes, and a muffin. As well, he was on his second cup of coffee and third glass of orange juice.
I stripped the conversation of all my emotions, tried to relate just facts, but he interrupted me a few times and asked for clarifications, making my tale longer. I decided to leave out the part where Emma and I discussed his last girlfriend as I felt like her existence wasn’t really pertinent to the issue at hand.
At last I was able to question him. “So my question is, why did you set up a foundation as the controlling shareholder in the venture capitalist company instead of keeping the profits for yourself?”
He shifted in his seat and I saw he was considering how best to answer this question.
“You can tell me the truth, Martin, whatever that might be.”
“I know.” He drank some more coffee, examining me over the rim of his cup. “There were actually several reasons.”
“Okay, what was the biggest reason?”
“How about I start with the most important business reason?”
“Fine.”
He cleared his throat and set the coffee cup on the table, leaning forward. “After what my father did—with your mother, trying to use us to control her—I realized that if I invested directly into SAT Systems, the venture capitalist company launching the satellites, then there was a small chance—but a chance nevertheless—that he’d be able to take legal action against my investment. So I established the foundation. Its non-profit status cleaned the money, basically, and meant he had no claim to it. I didn’t want to put the project in jeopardy.”
“But you gave up sixty million dollars and subsequently billions of dollars in revenue.”
“But that didn’t matter to me as much as following through with SAT Systems. I mean, I’m the head of the foundation. I have the same voting power at SAT Systems that I had before. Only the profit doesn’t come to me, it comes to the foundation.”
“So,” I tried to understand his motivations, “launching the satellites was more important than the money part of your revenge plan? Sorry to use the term, but I thought the main ambition of your revenge against your father was to eventually ruin him and make yourself three times as wealthy in the process.”
He stared at me, gritting his teeth, his jaw ticking for a long moment, as though debating with himself. But then abruptly stated, “When you walked out, the revenge plan, as you call it, didn’t hold much meaning anymore. It took me a while, but I figured that out by June, three weeks before my birthday, before I had access to the trust. You were right. Focusing my energy on fucking over Denver Sandeke was a waste. And you would have known all this if you’d read any of my interviews.”
I sat up straighter, surprised, feeling like I’d been slapped—but not in a violent way, more so in a reprimanding, wake-the-fuck-up kind of way.
Before I could stop myself—riding a rising wave of resentment—I said, “Listen, I would have read the interviews, but when I did a google search all that came up were pictures of you with your girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend.”
Martin frowned at me, his face scrunching in a way that told me he had no idea what I was talking about; in fact, he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Red hair? Petite? Pretty? Ring any bells? Emma also mentioned that you two were dating.”
His lips parted and he blinked at me as though seeing me in a completely new light.
I couldn’t hold his gaze any longer because I felt an abrupt spike of fear that his eyes would soon be clouded with pity. Instead I stabbed at my casserole and tried to fight the swelling distress that I’d just exposed myself.
I mumbled, “Like I told you last week when you came to the coffee shop, I avoided news about you for a reason.”
He didn’t respond right away, but I felt his eyes on me, considering me. Peripherally I was aware that he’d placed his fork on his plate and was leaning his elbows on the table.
“I’m considering Dr. Patterson as my replacement at the foundation for operations. Rose Patterson, the girl in the pictures, is his daughter.” His voice and words sounded careful.
I took a bite of the delicious casserole that no longer tasted delicious, careful to keep my eyes averted. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I was determined not to cry. I would not be that stupid girl who cries when she talks to her ex-boyfriend about his current exploits. Therefore—to ensure that I did not cry—I distanced myself from him, his words, and my feelings.
He was silent for a beat, still watching me. “I told you last week, I’m not dating anyone.”
I shrugged. “It’s really none of my business.”
“Rose was a way to meet Dr. Patterson.”
I nodded, cleared my throat, found that I really, really didn’t want to talk about this. After ensuring that the buttresses around my heart were completely fortified, I lifted my eyes back to his and tried to bring the conversation back to its original focus.
“So, you were saying about the interviews?”
“Kaityln—”
“You decided revenge wasn’t worth it?”
“Damnit, just listen for a second.”
“Fine. I’m listening.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest, giving him absolutely nothing.
“I wasn’t ever really with Rose. I needed to meet her father. She was…” Martin looked frustrated and seemed to be searching the kitchen table for the right way to explain.
Watching him struggle I suddenly understood the situation, and I supplied for him. “She was a means to an end? You used her because of who her father is?”
For some reason this thought made me feel both better and worse.
Martin gritted his teeth. “Maybe it will make more sense once I explain more about the foundation.”
“Okay, tell me about the foundation.”
I watched his chest expand with a large breath and his eyes settle back on mine; but now they looked as guarded as I felt.
“The actual plan—alternate source of Internet delivery for rural areas—still made sense, even without the ultimate goal of revenge on my father. So rather than focus my energy on Denver Sandeke, I turned my attention to how I could work with the team I’d assembled to make this venture meaningful and profitable. We’re not doing this to drive my father out of business—although that may eventually happen, and at the very least, Sandeke Telecom and the rest of the big monopolies will have to cut their prices drastically—we’re doing this because it makes sense. It’s a unique opportunity, and, yes, it will make a difference.”
&n
bsp; His mouth was a flat, stern line, and he was glaring at me.
“I see,” I said, because I did see. As Emma had suggested, Martin had truly given up revenge. I thought about telling him I was proud of him, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do so.
Sighing, Martin glanced at his plate and shook his head. “I sold the houses—with Emma’s help. She made that happen before Denver found out. I sent half the profits offshore and I donated the rest to the foundation. The foundation invested the money in SAT Systems. Emma explained to you what the foundation does, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, Dr. Patterson currently leads a think tank in Washington called Rural Education Reform. He’s dedicated his life to trying to equalize the opportunities for children in underserved areas. I know I’m not the best person to lead the operations of this foundation if I truly want it to succeed—and I do, I need it to succeed. He is a content expert and he’s passionate about the subject. I think he might be the best guy for the job.”
“So you met him through his daughter?”
“Yes. I befriended her because I wanted to meet him.” This admission held no note of an apology.
“So, you’re friends?”
I noted that Martin’s gaze was veiled before it fell away. He studied his plate, but I knew he didn’t really see it.
Finally he said, “I used Rose to get to her father. It worked. He’s probably going to take the position.”
I felt my heart sink. I thought about asking him to clarify the extent of his relationship with Rose, but ultimately I decided against it. If he wanted to tell me, he would tell me. And he wasn’t my boyfriend; we weren’t involved. It wasn’t my place to ask.
His eyes lifted back to mine; they held a new edge, like he was bracing himself for my reaction.
I shrugged, feeling frustrated but resigned to my place. “So, the foundation. You need it to succeed?”
He sighed and I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed I didn’t press the Rose issue.
Nevertheless, he answered my question. “Yes. Although the mission of the foundation is noble, ultimately I’m leveraging the work they do to make money for myself. Lots and lots of money.”
I nodded again. “I figured that out when Emma told me you’d purchased the broadcast and streaming rights for the next fifty years in underserved areas.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand that. Because, I’m never going to become a person who is selfless. If I see an idea to exploit, I’m going to exploit it.” His tone was harsh, like he was trying to communicate something of great importance to me, like he needed me to see that though he’d let go of his plans of revenge, he hadn’t suddenly become a philanthropist.
“Well then, I’ll cancel the application for sainthood I filed on your behalf.” I gave him a wry smile that didn’t quite meet my eyes, hoping he’d see I never expected him to be a saint.
But he didn’t.
“Kaitlyn…” He looked discontent, pushed his plate to the side, and rested his forearms on the table. His frown was pensive and severe. “I’m never going to be a person who thinks about honor before personal gain; it’s not second nature to me, like it is to you. I might do things in the future that you don’t agree with. But I hope that—”
I stopped him by covering his hand with mine. “Stop, listen for a second. I know you’re not perfect. No one is perfect. I know that how you were raised means you’re a survivor. You needed to be. I understand that. But revenge was a choice, protecting yourself is instinct.”
His eyes were solemn, yet I saw he understood my meaning. I squeezed his hand then continued, “You said to me a few weeks ago at The Bluesy Bean that you had plenty of logic, or reason, or something like that. But you also said that you wouldn’t mind having my self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit input either.”
“Did I say that?” he deadpanned, fighting a smile.
“Basically. More or less. My point is, this friendship is good for both of us. I make lots of mistakes. So do you. And maybe we can get to a place where we trust each other enough to be a mirror for the other person. I’ll let you know when you need more saintliness in your life. You let me know when I’m being a self-sacrificing martyr. How does that sound?”
His mouth crooked to the side as his gaze wandered over my face. “That sounds good.”
“Also, I’ll tell you when you’re crossing the line between hot young executive, and an uptight corporate sell-out.”
“Are we talking about my towels again?”
“You mean your monogrammed linens? If so, yes.”
He huffed a laugh. “They were a house-warming present from Emma.”
“I’m burning them.”
“That’s fine.”
“And I’m replacing them with Lord of the Rings beach towels.”
“That’s fine too. I don’t give a fuck about my towels as long as they dry me off.”
“Good to hear. Then I’ll also be adding some My Little Pony ones as well.”
We shared a small smile and I released his hand, taking the pause in conversation as an opportunity to steal a chocolate chip muffin. As I did so, I noticed Martin fingering his calluses, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the tough patches of skin.
I guessed he had more to say, so I prompted, “Anything else I should know? Did you get a tattoo over the last few months?”
“No. Did you?” His eyes shot to mine.
“Yes. It’s a centaur mounting a unicorn on a rainbow.” I took a bite of my muffin and smiled.
He looked horrified. “Really?”
“Maybe.”
His eyebrows jumped and his eyes automatically moved down my body, as though he could see the hideous hypothetical tattoo through my clothes.
Suddenly, catching himself, he closed his eyes, pressed the base of his palms against his forehead, and shook his head. “Actually, there is something else you should know. There’s another reason I set up the foundation instead of taking the profits directly, and that has to do with your mother.”
“My mom?”
He opened his eyes again, giving me a very direct and pointed look. “Yeah. The activities of SAT Systems fall under the jurisdiction of her senate committee. But my broadcast and streaming rights do not, especially since most are for international areas. The foundation is non-profit, and isn’t regulated as one would regulate a for-profit corporation. Different rules apply.”
“Okay…”
“Meaning,” he paused, watching me intently, “meaning that you and I can have this…friendship, and your mother can’t be accused—with any legitimacy—of having a conflict of interest or bias.”
***
“You don’t have to come.”
“I want to.”
“You want to spend your Christmas afternoon at a senior center in Queens?”
Martin shrugged, switching gears. His car went vroooom.
Meanwhile I was still mulling over the information he’d detonated during breakfast. I was still wondering what the exact nature of his relationship with Rose Patterson had been. Plus I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact he’d purposefully structured his involvement with the satellite project, and established the foundation so our friendship wouldn’t compromise my mother.
I didn’t want to read too much into the action, but it seemed like this meant he’d been thinking about me, and some future relationship with me, several months ago when he’d established the foundation. And this simmering thought process twisted me up into a ball of confusion.
Because I didn’t know what his actions months ago meant for us now.
In fact, I opened my mouth to ask this question when Martin broke the silence with his own question.
“Why are you leaving tonight? Stay an extra day.” He glanced at me briefly, his question and slightly demanding statement pulling me from my thoughts. He returned his attention to the road. “I’ll take the day off tomorrow, show you around the city.”
“That’s nice
of you, but train tickets tomorrow are really expensive. But I did want to ask you about—”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No.” I scrunched my face at him, shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be four hours of driving for you. Plus I promised Sam I’d be home tonight so we can have dinner together. She’s been alone all day, and we have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes. We’re going to exchange gifts, drink wine from a box, and binge watch the last season of Doctor Who.”
He nodded and I noted that the corner of his mouth was curved downward into a frown. I could tell he was lost in thought. Meanwhile I was re-gathering my courage to ask him about the foundation.
Suddenly he asked, “When are you in New York next? When’s your next show?”
“Oh, well.” I cleared my throat, flexing my fingers over my knees. “Not until the end of January, as far as I know. Plus, with school starting up again next semester and all the new departmental requirements, I might have to cut back with the band.”
“You seem…happier.” Martin’s eyes flickered to me, his gaze sweeping over my face.
His words and how he watched me as he said them, like he respected and valued me, made my chest feel airy and light. I recognized he was trying to be a good friend. I glanced down at my hands, feeling self-conscious beneath his steady and apprizing scrutiny.
“I am happy.” I nodded at this assertion.
I was happy.
Even without Martin I would be happy and this realization caused a burst of gratefulness to warm me from my head to my toes—for him, for our week on the island, and for our odd Christmas in New York.
Because I wanted him to know he’d helped me and that I would always be grateful, I continued unprompted, “I love music, I love playing it and composing it. You were right to push me. You made a difference in my life and I don’t think I’ve thanked you for that yet. So,” I glanced up, found him watching me with avid interest, “thank you, Martin. Thank you for finding me in that chemistry closet and seeing me in the first place. Thank you for helping me see myself.”