That'll Be the Day

by Kress, Alyssa

  "Excuse me?"

  Ian jerked a thumb toward the computer. "They didn't pay you."

  "Excuse me?"

  Ian drew in a deep breath. "You say they took their order, but I don't see a deposit in your accounting program. Did you forget to enter it?"

  Maggie stared at him. "Excuse me?"

  "Where's their check?" Ian demanded.

  Angry heat rose into her face.

  Meanwhile, Ian's expression went shrewd. "They didn't give you a check, did they?"

  "Pardon me very much, but I don't see—"

  "They never do," Ian went on, bulldozing her words. "You never get a check from them. I've seen the records. There's an order, but it's not until thirty, sixty, or sometimes ninety, days later that you finally get paid."

  Maggie's breath felt heavy in her lungs. "I cannot believe we are having this discussion. Who said you could go through my financial records?"

  "What did you think I was doing on your computer, playing solitaire? Of course I went through your bank records. How else could I input all your information to the new software?"

  "Well..." He had a point, but even so, she'd never dreamed she'd be having this conversation with him. She'd assumed he'd understand where to draw the line.

  Stupid assumption.

  Ian narrowed his eyes. "The order you sent off on Friday must have been huge. Why didn't you demand a deposit, at the very least?"

  "Is this any business of yours?"

  Ian ignored that idea. Of course he did. "You're not a big operation here. You don't have the cash flow to absorb fronting that kind of money. And there's no reason to, anyway. Corporate Edges got paid up front. So should you."

  Maggie could feel steam rising. In a minute it'd blow out her ears. "Not that it's any of your business," she retorted, "but Corporate Edges is my biggest client. They pay most of the bills around here."

  Ian snorted. "Not on time."

  No, not steam. It was lava. Maggie was a volcano, ready to blow. Everything—everything!—she'd warned herself about him had clearly been true. "You have no idea—none—of how to run a small business. Clients like Corporate Edges don't grow on trees. I have to make them happy if I want them to come back. They want to be invoiced, so I invoice them." Maggie punctuated her next words with a raised finger. "And they always pay."

  "Sure they pay. After they've made interest on the money you fronted. And after you've paid interest on the debt you've accumulated. Maggie, you're letting them take advantage of you."

  Her anger was a churning, boiling thing. She couldn't believe she'd spent two seconds that morning worrying about his health. He was obviously in perfect condition. Yes, he clearly felt healthy enough to be back to his old, intolerable self.

  "I am baffled." Only with great effort did Maggie control the volume of her voice. "I am baffled as to why you think this is any business of yours."

  "That's not the point."

  "Isn't it?"

  "No, the point is, you need to stop this behavior. From now on, you demand money from Corporate Edges up front."

  Maggie had always thought the phrase 'to see red' an exaggeration. No more. Ian appeared to her now through a brilliant red haze. She felt tossed back to the age of fourteen, as if she were yet again receiving a disparaging lecture from her father. "This is beyond the bounds," she told Ian. "Beyond the bounds. You do not get to tell me what to do. You do not get to—call me names."

  "I did not call you a name," Ian said.

  "Yes, you did," Maggie hissed. It made her even angrier that she couldn't recall what name he'd called her. "You are one huge control freak, you know that? You always have been. I should have known you always would be."

  He laughed. "You're calling me a—?"

  "Maybe Sophia would put up with it," Maggie interrupted, her throat tight. "But I won't. I won't be told what to do—in my own shop. I won't!"

  "Sophia." Ian's brows jerked down. "What does she have to do with this?"

  "You know damn well what she has to do with it. You told her every breath to take the whole time you were married. Well, I breathe on my own, thank you very much."

  If Maggie had wanted to bring Ian to the same angry place she perched, she appeared to have succeeded. Ian was regarding her with flared nostrils and burning eyes. "You know nothing about my relationship with Sophia."

  "And you know nothing about how I have to run my business."

  For one charged moment longer, they glared at each other. Antagonism crackled in the air like high tension electrical wires.

  Then Ian spoke. "I'm done here."

  "That you are," Maggie agreed. She watched, seething but satisfied, as he walked out the door.

  ~~~

  Ian swung open his front door with the force of a man still in the throes of a vicious temper. In the process, he nearly knocked the watercolor in the foyer off the wall. He wished it had fallen off the wall. He wanted to break something.

  The nerve of the woman. The nerve! Saying he'd bullied Sophia, saying he'd hurt her. Maggie knew nothing about it. Nothing!

  Ian slammed the door behind him, something he never let the kids do when they were in tempers. He strode through the house, banged through the kitchen swing door and made for the backyard. He had no place to go. He just wanted to move.

  How dare Maggie call him controlling! It was the pot calling the kettle black. But she was too blind to see that, too prejudiced, too—everything bad there could be about a woman.

  Steaming, Ian swung a circuit around the backyard. The problem with Corporate Edges was something he'd known from the first time he'd glanced through Maggie's bank records. He'd held his tongue, though, waiting to be sure. Well, he'd found out for sure today. Maggie had been making a serious mistake with that account. She was letting them walk all over her.

  But would she listen to him? Would she admit, ever, that she could be wrong?

  When hell froze over.

  It really boiled him, particularly since Ian knew Maggie wouldn't put up with Corporate Edges' behavior in a personal relationship. Why was she putting up with it here? As if that weren't irritating enough, she called Ian controlling for simply pointing out her contradictory behavior.

  After taking one more vicious circle around the backyard, Ian jerked open the kitchen door and strode back into the house.

  Standing in the center of the kitchen, he blew hot air. It took several angry minutes before he noticed the red light blinking on the wall-hung answering machine. He stopped dead. A message.

  It had to be from Howard.

  The anger that had filled his belly turned immediately to dread. Every hot, boiling cell in him froze.

  Howard hadn't liked the way Ian had put him off. It was just like him to call again, to refuse to take 'no' for an answer and try to nudge Ian into driving to the office that afternoon.

  Standing there, Ian had to work to draw breath into his lungs. Oh, boy. He'd had the nerve to take Maggie to task over acting like a coward? Talk about projection! He was the one who was a coward. The mere idea of talking to his boss gave him palpitations.

  Ian shook his head. It wasn't Maggie he was angry with, but himself. Please. He'd known she was letting Corporate Edges get away with murder since the first time he'd gone through her bank records. But he'd only made the mistake of opening his mouth about it today, after grubbing about in her nursery hadn't solved his own problem. What was he going to do about this huge, exciting—and terrifying—job Howard wanted to give him?

  Lifting a hand to his chest, Ian rubbed there and glared at the blinking red light on the answering machine. The blinks did not stop. The message did not go away.

  Slowly, he lowered his hand. How big a wimp was he? Couldn't he at least listen to Howard's telephone message? Letting out a breath, he punched the play button on the answering machine.

  But it was not Howard's voice that commenced to fill the room. Ian did not recognize the man who introduced himself as Greg Jordan, and was torn between relief and
self-disgust that he'd been wrong about Howard. He was reaching over to delete, figuring it was a sales call, when Greg Jordan clarified that he was Andy's geometry teacher.

  "I'm a little concerned about Andy's class work," Greg Jordan spoke from the tape machine. "He hasn't turned in homework for the last two weeks. I've given him warnings as the homework is required for his final grade, but so far he hasn't responded by bringing in any of his assignments. I'd appreciate it if you would call me at your earliest convenience." After which stunning call, Greg Jordan gave his phone number and clicked off.

  Ian stared at the answering machine. This was completely unbelievable. Andy hadn't turned in his homework assignments? Impossible. Homework was all Andy did these days. He locked himself in his room from the time he got home until he went to bed at night.

  Ian scoffed. Obviously, Mr. Jordan had Andy mixed up with some other kid.

  But Ian narrowed his eyes and thought it through a second time. He wasn't in the classroom. He didn't really know what Andy might or might not be handing in. All Ian really knew was that Andy claimed he was doing homework.

  The dread chill returned to Ian, only about a thousand times deeper than when he'd thought the phone message had been from Howard. Was it possible Andy wasn't doing homework in his bedroom? But—what else could he be doing?

  Ian became so chilled he started to tremble. Dire possibilities filled his head.

  Damn, he thought. Damn, damn, damn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Hey, Andy, wanta come home with me? We can play Mortal Kombat."

  Only half listening to his friend Brandon, Andy shut his locker in the school hallway. His backpack was heavy as he hoisted it over his shoulder. "Nah. I gotta go home."

  "Again?" Brandon lifted his own, obviously lighter, backpack. He hustled after Andy as he started toward the street. "You haven't been able to come over in weeks."

  Andy shrugged.

  "Come on, Andy. It'll be fun."

  "Fun is great...when you have the time for it."

  Brandon scowled. "Boy, you've gotten boring lately."

  Yeah, well, causing your dad to almost die will do that to you. Andy shrugged again. "Gotta lot to do."

  "All work and no play..."

  "Is better than flunking out."

  "Get out." Brandon grinned. "That isn't about to happen to you."

  Oh, no? "Maybe some other time," Andy said, managing a friendlier tone.

  Brandon sighed. "Sure." He turned to walk in another direction. "Some other time."

  Andy trudged out to the street and turned toward the public bus stop. All he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. Get on the bus, go home, lock himself in his bedroom.

  And fall yet further behind.

  He was starting to get scared that what he'd told Brandon might come true, that he might not pass ninth grade.

  And there'd be no hiding that from his dad.

  Andy didn't notice the car creeping up on his left until the curbside window rolled down. He jumped, startled, until he recognized his dad's car.

  "Hey, Andy." His dad was behind the wheel, looking out at him. "Why don't you hop in?"

  Andy gaped. What was his dad doing here? He never picked them up from school.

  Meanwhile, a line of cars was starting to pile up behind his dad's stopped Cherokee.

  Andy opened the door, threw in his backpack, and climbed in.

  "Surprised you, huh?" Ian said.

  Andy looked out the front windshield. "Yeah." To put it mildly. Dread sank into his bones. What was this about? Had his dad learned some bad news?

  "Kathy called to see if she could stay over at a friend's house and I thought it was a good opportunity for us to spend some time together." Ian glanced over at Andy. "Just the two of us."

  Andy chanced a glance over. Yeah, beneath the surface calm, he could see his dad was worried. Oh God, what now? "Uh, sure," Andy muttered. His backed-up homework didn't matter if his dad was having some horrible health problem.

  "What do you say we go over to The Fun House, catch a few video games?"

  Andy flicked another glance at his dad, this one thunderstruck. He wanted to play video games? With Andy? This was too scary to understand. "Okay," he agreed, his voice small.

  Ian grinned at him. But Andy wasn't fooled. There was definitely worry behind the grin. Panicked, Andy asked himself: had he done something recently to worsen his father's condition?

  Twenty minutes later they walked into The Fun House. The noise was deafening. As tense as Andy already was, he tensed more.

  "So, where do we start?" Ian stuck his hands in his back pockets and acted like all he had on his mind was video games.

  Stiff, Andy pointed. "Primal Rage is a game for two guys. Brandon and I play it a lot." He didn't add it was one of the less violent of the games he played. His dad would probably have plenty to say about it as it was.

  But Ian didn't remark on the number of explosions in the game. He tried to act like he was having a great time. It was so fake.

  Not knowing what else to do, Andy did his best to go along with it.

  "I think I've worked up an appetite," Ian said, after their fourth game and the fourth time Andy had whupped him. "You want to get something to eat?"

  "Sure." As if Andy were going to argue with his father now. But then he remembered and hastily added, "But all they have here is pizza and junk. Not, you know, what you want to eat."

  "Ah." Ian frowned into the crowded room, apparently considering this information. "I think I'd like to escape to somewhere a bit...quieter, anyway. How about that Mexican place over near Broadway?"

  Andy gulped. His dad wanted a quieter place. So they could talk, presumably. "Sure, Dad," he said, barely a whisper. "That sounds great."

  The Mexican restaurant was, indeed, a great deal quieter than the video arcade had been. They were about the first people there and had their choice of tables. Ian asked the waitress for one of the booths tucked between the bamboo poles that marched across one side of the restaurant. Nice and private.

  Andy felt a fresh wave of dread.

  But of course he had to wait until they'd looked at their menus, caught the waitress, and ordered before there was any hope of his dad finally talking. By that time, Andy felt like one big knot.

  "So." As the waitress walked off with their order, Ian turned to Andy. "That's what you do when you're at the arcade. You sure got a wicked way with that joystick. Blew me away."

  Andy's heart was beating so hard he couldn't believe his father couldn't hear it. "Mm hm," he hummed.

  His father's expression changed then. From casual jocularity it turned terrifyingly serious. "All right. You know I have something on my mind."

  Andy's throat became too tight for him to reply.

  Ian leaned over the table, looking straight at Andy. "I got a phone call today. From your geometry teacher."

  Andy continued staring at his dad. It took him a few seconds to process his dad's words. He was talking about Andy's geometry teacher. How could this have anything to do with his dad's heart?

  "He's worried about you, and so am I," Ian went on. "Mr. Jordan says you haven't turned in a homework assignment in two weeks."

  Slowly, Andy started to understand. His dad wasn't talking about himself, but about Andy and all his backed-up homework assignments. Nothing about a heart problem.

  Oh. Oh-h-h. It didn't take long for Andy to switch gears. He'd already been worrying about school before his father had surprised him outside school. "I'm working on catching up," he now told his dad. It was true. He was working on it. Just...not very effectively.

  Ian lowered his lashes halfway. Andy could tell his father didn't believe him.

  "I am," he hotly declared. "My backpack is full of every single book from my locker."

  Raising his lashes, Ian regarded Andy with deep concern. "I know you aren't fooling around with your friends. You're home every afternoon and evening." His lips pressed toget
her. "Closed in your bedroom."

  Andy didn't know what to say. This sounded like an accusation, though of what he didn't know.

  Ian gave Andy a very direct look. "What are you doing in your bedroom every day?"

  "My homework."

  Ian lifted his eyebrows.

  Andy moved his hands. This was so embarrassing it was painful. "My book is open. I just...can't seem to get anything done."

  His father gazed at him for a long time. "That's what you're doing," he finally said, "sitting in front of your open book...doing nothing?"

  Andy could feel his face flame red. "Well...yeah."

  Slowly, Ian leaned back in his seat. His eyes stayed on Andy. "Huh."

  Andy had to look away. "I'm sorry. I know it's stupid. I should be applying myself. Focusing. I know."

  "Huh," Ian said again.

  Andy glanced past his father's shoulder, searching for the waitress. Maybe if their food came, they could end this horrible conversation. "I'm sorry," Andy said again.

  "You don't have to be sorry," Ian said quietly.

  Andy was so surprised, he actually looked back at his father.

  Ian was shaking his head. "You don't have to apologize, Andy. Clearly, you're trying to do your homework. God knows, I've seen the hours you've been putting in. But...just as clearly, something is getting in the way." Ian paused. "Something on your mind."

  Once again, Andy averted his gaze. He stared at the colorful clay jugs lining a shelf near the ceiling. A fine trembling started in his hands. "I...don't know about that."

  "I'd like to help, if I can." His dad spoke in such a gentle, careful tone that it made something hard rise in Andy's throat.

  "There's nothing you can—" Andy had to pause to push back the pressure building in his throat and behind his nose. "It's not your problem."

  Ian laughed softly. "If it's your problem, kid, it's my problem."

  Andy nearly lost it then. He turned his face toward the inside of the booth. "It's not— Really—"

  His dad reached over the table. Andy was afraid he was going to take his hand, but he just put his palm down on the linen tablecloth in front of Andy. "Let me take a guess, okay? Maybe it'll be easier if you can just nod yes or no."