The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  Amy also remembered her commitment to spend time with Natalie going over her children’s book.

  “All right, but I also have to get together with Natalie.”

  After the meal was over, Amy and Jeff stood side by side in front of the sink doing the dishes. In a soft voice she told him about Ms. Robbins’s suggestion that Megan be drug-tested.

  “I could tell you were upset during supper,” Jeff said.

  “But what do you think? I didn’t get a chance to talk to Dr. Simmons in private. And all he did was screen Megan for diabetes and check her electrolytes.”

  Jeff was scrubbing the pan Amy used to cook the main dish.

  “I don’t know. To falsely accuse Megan of something like that could cause a huge rift that might be very tough to heal.”

  “But what if it isn’t false? Catching something early can be crucial to keeping it from becoming a bigger problem.”

  Jeff put the pan in the dishwasher.

  “Let’s keep our eyes open. If there’s really a problem, she won’t be able to hide it.”

  Amy wasn’t so sure.

  twenty-seven

  Megan’s blood work at Dr. Simmons’s office came back completely normal. When she called for the results, Amy asked in as casual a voice as she could manage if the test included a check for illegal or street drugs.

  “No,” the physician’s assistant replied. “I don’t see that on the doctor’s order.”

  “Could that sort of test be run?”

  “We’d need a new blood sample. Once the analysis is complete, the lab doesn’t store the unused material. Would you like to schedule another appointment and bring Megan in?”

  Amy hesitated. “Not at this time. I should have asked Dr. Simmons about it the other day.”

  “If you have reason to be concerned, it’s better to know a problem exists than wonder.”

  “I know, but my husband wants to wait.”

  As soon as she spoke, Amy felt bad for criticizing Jeff to a stranger.

  “There’s no harm in talking to your daughter about drug usage,” the woman continued. “A common mistake parents make is assuming a child won’t experiment. Peer pressure can be a powerful force.”

  “Megan has a good group of friends,” Amy replied with more confidence than she felt. “But I’ll try to find a time to bring it up in a way that doesn’t seem like I’m attacking her or don’t trust her.”

  “What is your e-mail address? I’ll send you the link to a website that will help you with the conversation,” the woman said.

  Amy gave her the information.

  “This comes up a lot more than you’d think,” the woman said. “And in good families. Don’t be afraid. Take action.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Amy hung up. A minute later she received an e-mail with the link. Before she could go online, Mr. Phillips buzzed her.

  “Come into my office,” he said.

  “Should I bring anything?”

  “Something to take notes.”

  Amy picked up a steno pad. The senior partner had a thick file spread out in front of him. Amy sat down across from his desk.

  “I’ve been working on the Thompson Trust for the past twenty-four hours,” he said. “Are you aware a man named Carville from the UK claims his deceased father and Raymond Thompson had joint business interests in Africa?”

  “Yes, sir. I typed a memo you dictated about it.”

  “Of course you did.” Mr. Phillips rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Mr. Carville and his solicitor flew to Raleigh yesterday, and I met with them at a hotel near the airport. They told me there are oil wells in production on the coast of Nigeria close to the area controlled by Thompson and Carville. However, to exploit them is going to require additional expense from Carville and the trust. The decision whether to spend the money is in my hands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carville is willing to put up his share of the additional development costs, and he’s put the money in his solicitor’s escrow account.”

  “How much?”

  “Around a million dollars in US currency.”

  Amy pursed her lips.

  “If Carville wasn’t willing to put up his share, it would be an easy decision. I’d advise the beneficiaries of the trust to walk away from it.” Mr. Phillips pointed to the documents on his desk. “I’ve looked over the paperwork, and Thompson owned seventy-five percent of this company. That means the trust would have to pony up three million dollars to see this thing through. Normally, I wouldn’t recommend that level of risk, but the return would be ten times the investment.”

  The amounts of money Mr. Phillips was talking about were so large that they were only numbers in Amy’s head.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I’ve located at least two firms that can examine the project and give us expert opinions about the risk. I want you to find out everything you can about the consultants and get back to me. There’s no way this kind of decision should be made by us in-house.”

  Amy hesitated. “Mr. Phillips, I’m not trying to avoid work, but that sounds like something one of the lawyers should do.”

  “I’m putting Chris and Morgan Jessup on it as well. There can’t be too much redundancy on something this important. Don’t consult with either one of them. Report back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Amy wrote down the names of the two consulting firms. “Would you need to talk to the beneficiaries of the trust about it?”

  “That should only be done when I’m satisfied with the legal opinion I’m going to give. Based on past history, they won’t agree, and I’ll have to step in and make the call. It creates a very touchy situation. The firm is subject to liability whatever we recommend. The responsibility made it tough for me to fall asleep last night, and at this point in my career that’s not the kind of pressure I want.”

  Mr. Phillips rarely showed weakness.

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do my part,” Amy said.

  “That’s it for now. Get back to me with your recommendation by Friday morning.”

  Over the next few days, Amy was surprised at how much she enjoyed her new assignment. In between her normal dictation duties, she conducted research on the Internet, but more important, she contacted individuals and firms that had used the services of the different consultants. Coming up with a recommendation wasn’t easy. She discovered there were clients who didn’t like a consultant because they didn’t get the answers they wanted; clients who were pleased with the consultant’s opinion at the time it was given but dissatisfied when it didn’t prove accurate in the long run; clients who were initially unhappy with a consultant but ultimately came to appreciate the advice; clients who didn’t like anything about the consultant; and clients who thought the consultant was the repository of the highest level of business wisdom. Amy developed a spreadsheet to chart her results.

  At home Megan had no further instances of unexplained afternoon sleepiness. Ms. Robbins’s comment about possible drug usage didn’t drop off Amy’s radar, but it faded further in the rearview mirror. Ian received a good report on his arm from the orthopedist, and it looked like he might get his cast off early.

  Thursday night after supper Amy went up to the writing room. Each stage in writing a book held its own unique challenges and pleasures. In the beginning, the freshness of meeting the new characters and discovering who they were intrigued her. During the middle section of a book, there was the ebb and flow of success and failure that lay along the characters’ developmental arcs. And toward the end of a book, Amy often found herself typing as fast as she could to find out what happened next. Even though she generally knew the end of a story, the exact path the characters followed to get there held surprises for her as well as her readers.

  In the opening chapters of Deeds of Darkness, the courage of Amy’s main character in facing serious challenges made her someone a reader would want to root for. This was a key element for a suc
cessful novel. If readers didn’t care about the characters, why would they want to spend time finding out what happened to them? And the teenage niece would have no problem attracting her own cheering section. Her mixture of toughness, tenderness, and neediness was sure to touch maternal hearts.

  Friday morning Amy delivered her recommendation about the financial consultant for the Nigerian oil project to Mr. Phillips. He looked over the spreadsheet she’d printed out.

  “This is an interesting approach,” he said. “How many people did you interview?”

  “Thirty-eight,” she replied. “It’s split fairly equally among the two companies.”

  “And you’re recommending the firm in Miami even though you have the least information about them.”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve worked on two projects for clients in Africa, including one in Nigeria.”

  “I don’t see where you talked to that client.”

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t get anyone to return my phone calls. I thought maybe one of the executives would talk to you. When I told the person on the phone I was an administrative assistant, it didn’t get me past the gatekeepers.”

  “Maybe you should have said you were an author working on a book.”

  “There’s nothing in my new novel about Nigerian oil companies. The setting is south Texas.”

  “It’s still oil and gas territory.” Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t let me interfere with that part of your life,” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “Your information will go into the mix I’m getting from Chris and Morgan.”

  “I know you wanted us to work separately, but is there going to be a meeting to discuss what each of us found out?”

  “Not with you, but thanks for what you did.”

  Disappointed, Amy returned to her office. She had no right to expect to be a direct part of the decision-making process, but she’d invested a lot of time and energy. Midafternoon, Chris Lance came by her office. He leaned against the door frame.

  “I’ve not been avoiding you on purpose,” the younger lawyer said in a casual voice. “But Mr. Phillips has kept me very busy. It looks like I’ve weathered the storm and will be staying at the firm.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Oh, and I talked to him about my conversation with Laura about the Westside Lighting case. Did you say anything to him about it?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. He understood.” Chris glanced down the hall. “I just came out of a two-hour meeting with Mr. Phillips and Mr. Jessup about the possible consultants for the Nigerian oil issue and the Thompson Trust. I saw your work. It was impressive.”

  “Thanks. What did Mr. Phillips decide to do?”

  “Mr. Jessup and I both recommended the firm in Houston, so they’re going to get the nod.”

  “Why? They had a lot of negative reviews from clients.”

  “But that was primarily the result of a man who’s no longer with the firm. They have a specialist in foreign business analysis who is very impressive, and his clients rave about him. I didn’t see that you talked to him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Claude Ramsey. He’s a geologist who went back to school to get a degree in international finance. He knows a lot about oil and gas.”

  As soon as Chris left, Amy went to the website for the Houston firm and clicked the “Our Staff” tab. Midway down the page she saw Dr. Ramsey’s name and clicked on his bio. The face of a middle-aged man in his late forties appeared on her screen. Something about his face seemed vaguely familiar.

  Then Amy remembered.

  She’d seen the same face the night she saw Michael Baldwin in the living room. She knew the two men couldn’t be directly connected, but there had to be a reason why the geologist appeared with Baldwin in the dream. Amy read his curriculum vitae. Dr. Ramsey received his bachelor of science degree in geology from the University of Texas at Austin and his MBA and PhD in finance from Wharton School of Business in Philadelphia. She couldn’t quibble with his academic credentials. He was obviously a very smart guy. But the number of letters after a man’s name didn’t guarantee moral integrity. That part worried Amy.

  As she read the information on the website, the sick feeling Amy had when she saw Michael Baldwin in the living room returned. She wasn’t sure why she felt nauseous, but it couldn’t mean anything good. She knew she couldn’t sit by idly and let another Michael Baldwin disaster fall on the firm. But with Baldwin, she’d seen a vivid picture that could be interpreted fairly easily. How would Mr. Phillips react if she went to the senior partner and urged him not to hire Dr. Ramsey because his name made Amy feel bad? She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and prayed. No answer came.

  Troubled, Amy was on her way home from work when she received a phone call from Megan.

  “Mom, where are you?” Megan demanded as soon as Amy answered.

  “About five minutes away from the house. What’s wrong?”

  “We need to leave right now to go to Mr. Ryan’s pizza party! It starts at five o’clock. I’m already late!”

  “And when were you going to tell me that?”

  “I did! You were probably thinking about your new book or something.”

  Amy bit her lip.

  “Be ready. I’ll honk the horn, and you can come out to the car. Do you have his address? I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Yes, just hurry! I’m supposed to help set up before everyone else gets there. I’ve already missed that part.”

  Amy tried to remember when Megan told her she needed to be at the teacher’s house at 5:00 p.m. but couldn’t. If she had, Amy would have made arrangements to leave work a few minutes early. She pulled into the driveway. Before she could honk the horn, Megan was out the door jogging toward the car. She was wearing her shortest skirt and a short-sleeved shirt. At least she’d not gone overboard with her makeup.

  “Where’s your jacket?” Amy asked as soon as Megan opened the car door. “You’re going to freeze. It’s supposed to get down into the forties tonight.”

  “This isn’t a ball game. I’m not going to be outside, and I’m sure Mr. Ryan has heat in his townhome.”

  “And you’re going to be home at eleven.”

  “No, you’re going to pick me up at eleven. And don’t come a minute early. If you do, you’ll have to wait because I’m not coming out to the car. Let’s go. And don’t drive under the speed limit just to make me mad.”

  Megan’s attitude was as bad as some of the tantrums she pitched when she was three years old. However, sending her to time-out wasn’t an option. Amy backed up the car.

  “You could be more polite,” she said.

  “You get mad when Dad makes you late.”

  It was a true statement. Amy put the address in her GPS. It was a ten-minute drive. She and Megan rode in silence. The route took them within a block of the law office and then to the east side of town. The teacher lived in one of the nicer townhome communities in the area. Amy slowed as they drove past the pool and clubhouse. The pool was covered for the winter. Lounge chairs were stacked against the wall of the clubhouse.

  “Bethany and I hope Mr. Ryan will have a pool party this summer,” Megan said.

  Amy didn’t reply. Teenage pool parties were not something she was looking forward to.

  “That’s it,” Megan said when they reached the back of the development. “I recognize his car.”

  Another female student was walking up to the front door of the townhome.

  “That’s Rita Fox,” Megan said. “She’s a junior. It’s amazing that ninth graders like Alecia and me are getting to come to something like this. Before Mr. Ryan came along, Rita wouldn’t know I was alive. He says it’s important for students from every grade to get to know one another.”

  The words sounded fine in theory. Amy could only hope the teacher knew what he was doing. She pulled into an empty parking spot beside a small, older
-model car. A tall young man with dark hair got out.

  “Mom!” Megan squealed. “It’s David Springsteed. I had no idea he was going to be here. How does my hair look?”

  “Great. Who is he?”

  “He’s a junior, too. You and Dad would love him. He’s superpolite and goes to church and everything.”

  “Have you been talking to him?”

  “No, but all of us think he’s gorgeous.”

  “Megan, the difference between a ninth grader and an eleventh grader is too much. There’s no harm in a little daydreaming, but—”

  “Girls mature faster than boys,” Megan said, cutting her off. “If I hop out now, I can go inside right after him. Bye.”

  Before Amy could say anything else, Megan was out of the car and up the sidewalk. The front door of the townhome opened, and Amy saw Greg Ryan. The teacher shook David’s hand and looked past the student toward Amy’s car. He motioned to her with his right hand, inviting her inside. Amy knew Megan would be furious if she crashed the party for even a minute, but her mother’s curiosity was not going to be denied. She turned off the car’s engine and got out.

  twenty-eight

  Greg Ryan was wearing blue jeans and a casual shirt. He waited on the landing for Amy.

  “Thanks for dropping off Megan,” he said. “I know you’re busy with work and writing.”

  “It was a quick turnaround. I’m sorry she’s late. I didn’t know she was supposed to be here to help set up.”

  “Don’t worry about it. ‘Late’ is a relative word for kids. A party doesn’t start until the right people get there. Come inside, and I’ll show you around.”

  Amy followed Mr. Ryan into the townhome. It had an open floor plan. To the left was a combination living room/dining room/ kitchen. There were several teenagers milling around. Megan looked up and saw Amy.

  “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ll be leaving in a minute.”

  “I invited her in,” Mr. Ryan added. “Megan, will you make sure there’s plenty of ice in the bucket in the kitchen sink? If not, there are a couple of bags in the fridge.”

  Amy glanced around. For a single male, Ryan had decent taste in furniture and wall decorations.