Descriptive word of choice aside, the idea of allowing his betrayed ex-wife a normal life, unfettered by unwanted contact with him, took precedence over his odd mix of feelings. Some would call the enforced distance childish. Conor preferred to think of it as life-affirming. He left her alone and she didn’t try to kill or maim him. Sensible, all around. To Addie, he tilted a look of acceptance. “She likes her life the way it is.”
“And you know this because...?”
He grinned, tweaked her hair and grabbed his coat. “Because I’m not afraid to muscle you girls for information.”
Addie’s look softened. She reached a hand to his arm. “You think we don’t know how much you do for her? Unseen? Unheard? Unappreciated?”
While he appreciated Addie’s loyalty, Conor saw a very different side of himself where Alicia was concerned. As her husband he’d substituted money for time, stature for presence, and ambition for faith. Not exactly what he’d promised in those wedding vows, spoken in that old Cleveland church where stained glass windows soothed in muted pastel wonder, not a primary color in sight. Pretty. Restful. Peaceful.
Naw. Addie’d been too young to fully understand the trade-offs he made in the name of money and acclaim, but he loved that she’d allowed him a second chance to be the father he should have been all along. “Not enough to make up for what I’ve done in the past, Sweetheart. And lets just keep those things between us, okay? I’m not even going to ask how you ferret out things you have no business knowing, because I’ve got a pretty good idea. You’ve always been a snoop.”
Addie stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. “A questioning mind is an invaluable tool in the multi-faceted context of modern law.”
“Nice quote. Stay out of my papers.”
She laughed. “You don’t mind and you know it. So I stumbled on a few references to Bill Pearson along the way. You’ve been mighty generous, Dad.”
“It’s just money, Ads.” Conor leaned back, raised her chin with a gentle hand and met her gaze. “It means nothing.”
“Tell that to the homeless you help along The Bowery. At Penn Station. Grand Central. You can’t fool me. I’m just surprised Kimber hasn’t figured it out.”
Conor thought hard about how closely he guarded his anonymity in some arenas, then came clean. “Kimber has known for years. She um...” he hesitated, shrugged, and blew out a breath, “...works for me.”
Addie’s expression ran the gamut from surprised to puzzled to knowing. “Homeward Bound.” She arched a brow as she named the fast-growing homeless ministry that had won several awards in the last two years. “That’s yours?”
Conor hedged, disliking credit. “With a lot of help from my friends. Other companies. Government grants. A combined effort.”
Addie hugged his waist tighter, her dark, discordant curls snug against his suit coat. “I saw some of the paperwork in your office. I just assumed they referred to charitable donations in general. A good tax write-off.”
Conor acknowledged that with a grin. “It’s all of that and more. Nothing wrong with a good tax write off that helps people get a roof over their heads. Food on the table. A decent bed.”
“And the medical care from the Mobile Clinic Units.” She took a step back, straightened his tie where she’d mussed it, and breathed a sigh of approval. “You’re okay for a rich guy.”
Conor smiled. “It stays between us, though, okay? I like my life quiet outside the firm.”
“The other partners know?”
Conor winked. “Regular contributors.”
“Even Whickman?”
Conor laughed out loud. “You do know too much. Yes, even Whickman, because he was afraid he’d look like low man on the totem pole. Certainly not for any altruistic reasons I can glean.”
“I’m proud of you, Dad.”
He’d waited a long time to hear those words from this particular daughter. They sounded good. Real good. “Feeling’s reciprocated. Now I’ve got to fly and catch a quick ride to the office. Nine o’clock meeting.”
She gave him one last hug. “Thanks again for the pastries.”
“Save some for your sister,” he called back over his shoulder.
Addie’s laugh followed him. “You snooze, you lose. Rules of the game.”
Would he put it past her to eat all the pastries? Naw. Especially if she hadn’t been eating all that well at school, and from the looks of her, she’d been skipping meals in favor of studying, another quality shared.
But he also knew that Foster was man enough to tuck away additional treats to ensure Kim’s ongoing happiness. Foster had figured out how to handle his daughters years before Conor had a clue.
He’d have to remember to make sure that thought was reflected in the houseman’s bonus.
His cab sat idling at the front entrance of the building. Conor nodded to the morning doorman who ensured Conor’s daily trip to the office stayed dry and relatively warm. Curbside service, door to door. Another perk of the rich in New York, one he didn’t mind. “Thanks, Juan.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Bradstreet. Enjoy your day, sir.”
Conor put a hand to the other man’s shoulder. “You, too. My best to Alva.”
A quickly veiled flash of concern darkened the Latino’s gaze. Conor paused, his hand on the cab door. “She’s all right?”
Juan looked away as if annoyed with himself before lifting his gaze to Conor’s. “The doctors have found a spot on her lung and they say it does not look well. The children are most concerned.”
Conor read Juan’s tone and knew that the children had nothing on their old man. “I’m sorry to hear that. Who is her doctor?”
“Dr. Johannson with City West.”
Conor made note of the name and hospital in his Blackberry. “I’ll make some inquiries.”
“Mr. Bradstreet, I was not suggesting—” Juan half tripped over his tongue to back peddle. “I was not asking for help, sir. I know your life is busy.”
“Not too busy to help a friend.” Conor gripped the other man’s shoulder, a mark of solidarity. “I’ll see what I can find out, what options are available. I know a few people.”
The doorman’s face lightened at his words. “Thank you, sir.”
Conor accepted the thanks with a grave nod as he climbed into his cab.
The health options open to service personnel like Juan were not always the same medical options open to the Conor Bradstreets of the world, a disparate truth that shouldn’t exist, but did.
But Conor knew how to iron out disparity. He’d developed a real good hand at the required maneuvers over the years. Whether or not his contacts could help Alva Alvarez was a whole different story, but he’d be wrong not to try, and he’d stopped making those kinds of bad decisions once he walked off that bridge and headed back to his apartment.
His personal pledge had met with some tough challenges. The proximity of the firm’s corporate structure to the World Trade Center had put him in the midst of the maelstrom that claimed thousands of innocent lives. He’d dragged people through the doors of their building, pulling them in, off the street, out of the way of billowing ash clouds until the police issued an all clear.
They’d huddled in the lobby, crying, praying, sharing quiet stories, waiting for communication devices to work, or first responders to assure them everything was all right, all the time knowing that nothing would ever really be all right again.
A few of those World Trade Center refugees kept in touch with him after their surreal bonding experience. Most hadn’t, probably needing to distance themselves from the horror of the realities they witnessed that fateful morning.
And then there was the Neolithic jerk who broke Addie’s heart her senior year at Bryn Mawr. Conor had hated that feeling of helplessness and vulnerability, watching her cry, seeing her fall apart while her back-to-nature boyfriend went back to nature with a Haverford farm girl, citing Addie’s ambitions as extreme.
Addie, extreme? The kid shoulda gotten a
taste of Addie’s old man...
But Addie had toughened up after a while, and Conor had been able to resist the urge to meet up with the young slacker and give him some good, old-fashioned Pennsylvania farm boy discipline. Mostly because the kid’s only crime was that he neglected to fall in love with Conor’s daughter. Tough lesson, all told, but Ads seemed the stronger for the whole thing. Now. Back then?
Rough couple of months.
Weighing things up, he’d had a good run, all told. He’d done what he could, when he could. Except for Alicia. He did okay as long as he didn’t think about Alicia. About missing her. Holding her. Touching her. Encroaching on her sacred territory.
But with Addie’s information regarding the stalemate in Princeton, Conor couldn’t help but think of her now. With no firm directive, he dialed Bill Pearson and was glad when Bill’s office assistant put him straight through.
“Conor, how are you? Still dancing in the streets over the out-of-court settlement with our Japanese industrial friends? Saved you no small amount of time while ensuring a beneficent corporate windfall. We’re talking some serious yen, my friend.”
“With an enviable exchange rate,” Conor agreed, amiable. “Bill, without breaking any code of ethics, fill me in on what’s going on with Alicia’s plans for her bookstore. Addie said your proposal got rejected by the borough’s zoning board. Is that the case?”
“Since it’s public record, I’m not divulging anything covered under client/counsel privilege,” Bill replied. “You know this town, Conor. You know the score. They got a mega deal with a big bookstore to hook up with the University and Alicia got the shaft. End of story.”
“But their clientele would vary, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Different market and demographic?”
“For the most part. I think Shipton Books took a burn to the idea of a second bookstore opening in the same quarter and only blocks away—”
“Understandable from their perspective,” Conor interrupted.
“Assuredly, but the argument remains that Alicia’s proposal should have been heard and assessed for its own merits, the type of place an old world mentality like Princeton craves, but push came to shove and my guess is that Shipton offered to nix their deal if the town okayed two bookstores in that narrow time frame. Off the record, that is.”
“Who’s heading the board right now?”
“Reggie Preston is the current board chair.”
“Of Garlock Aviation?”
“That’s him.”
Conor filed that information mentally and readdressed Bill. “Bill, for more reasons than I care to enumerate, I want this to go through for Alicia. If I can tweak a reversal, then we’re in the clear, right? No more hurdles?”
“Not at this end.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. And, Bill?”
“Yes?”
“This is on the Q.T. Just between you and me.”
“Whatever you say.” Conor recognized a touch of curiosity and more than a hint of respect. “You’ll get back to me then?”
“Either me or my new best friend Reggie.”
Bill’s voice held the ease of shared humor. “I’ll be waiting.”
By late morning Conor had put together a pretty impressive profile of Reggie Preston. A self-made man who married into blue blood, he’d lost two sisters, twins, to childhood cancer, a feeling Conor reflected. Losing Jon so sweet, so young...
Eyeing up an online map of Mercer County, he placed his call to Garlock with a goal in mind and no small number of ways to accomplish his desired end.
Or so he hoped.
“Mr. Preston, my name is Conor Bradstreet, I’m with Wells, Terwilliger, Whickman and Bradstreet in New York.”
The CEO’s voice reflected a mix of interest and deference. “Mr. Bradstreet, nice to talk to you. I believe our daughters graduated from St. Michael’s together, didn’t they?”
Good memory. Conor gave him an extra point on that. Obviously he’d been more involved in his child’s life at that point than Conor had, but Conor had high speed Internet on his side, and a quest. A quest always put a man one leg up. “They did. The older ones, that is. My younger daughter was two years behind your son Cameron.”
“The horseback rider.” Preston uttered the phrase with the respect one true horseman shows another. Conor felt himself lucky to know the front of a horse from the back, and that was only because the front had eyes and a nose. He still had a hard time figuring out a person’s draw to the smelly creatures, but Addie was a horsewoman, through and through, hence the expensive and always hungry mounts stabled at her mother’s house.
“Addie loves her horses,” Conor agreed. He sat back in his chair and got right to the point. “Mr. Preston, the reason I’m calling is that you and I might be able to work a deal that’s mutually beneficial to both of us and the town of Princeton.”
“A deal.”
Conor recognized the downturned note and chose to ignore it. “My former wife is attempting to open a bookstore in town, a double shop front on Poole, just around the corner from Nassau.”“I’m aware of Mrs. Bradstreet’s proposal. I believe it was turned down by the board less than two weeks ago.”
“Which is why I’m calling.”
A hint of displeasure crept into Preston’s demeanor. “Mr. Bradstreet, while the board is always willing to hear the many proposals put before it in a timely fashion, there is simply no way—”
“I understand your position, Mr. Preston. I really do. As a property owner in Princeton, I have no innate desire to do anything or see anyone else do anything, including my ambitious ex-wife, which would have a negative effect in any way, shape or form on the local economy. Princeton’s small town flavor in an Ivy League setting, a quick train ride out of New York City, makes it an ideal target investment area. Those of us who made that plunge two decades back are currently reaping the long-awaited fruits of that labor, aren’t we?”
“I’m always ready to make money, Mr. Bradstreet.”
“Conor, please.”
“Conor. And I’m Reggie.”
Bingo. First connection. Done.
“Reggie, I have a proposal. I want to run it by you because as Board Chair, you have a decided weigh-in on any discussions that come before your core group.”
“But just one vote.”
“When one’s vote is the tie-breaker, it bears significant impact.”
“What’s your proposal, Conor?” Conor heard the Pling! Pling! Pling! of something on Reggie’s end. A paper clip snapping? A rubber band? Reggie doodled. When doodler’s thought, their hands needed something to keep them busy, hence the noise. Usually a good sign.
“I understand that several local businessmen and women have been looking into underwriting a camp for kids with cancer and other terminal illnesses on the old Breckinger farm by Longneck Pond.”
The plings paused. “How did you hear that?”
“It’s not common knowledge?”
A deep sigh that sounded more than a little defensive came through the phone. “Mr. Bradstreet, I’m going to guess you knew that information wasn’t common knowledge for very specific reasons. People find out, tongues wag, the price jumps up and the whole thing falls through. Furthermore, I’m going to assume that this phone call is to assure me you won’t make our purchase common knowledge as long as the Board rubber stamps your ex-wife’s little bookstore scheme. Does that about sum things up?”
“Um. No.” Conor cleared his throat as though embarrassed for the other man. He paused one beat, then two, letting the silence stew before saying, “May I continue?” Conor did his level best to maintain a tone of slightly insulted deference without laughing. Not an easy task.
“Go on.”
Conor breathed deep and slow. “I think your idea for a local park for kids with serious and terminal illness sounds wonderful. You might not know this, but Alicia and I lost a son to cancer ten years ago.”
The indiscriminate p
ings paused. “I didn’t know that.”
“Jon was four when he died. He spent over half his young life in and out of hospitals, in treatment programs, being poked, prodded, tested, bled and any other thing they could think of.”
“I’m sorry, Conor. I really had no idea.”
“Reggie, here’s the deal. I’d like to see this cancer camp go through, but the way you guys are working the purchase, it’s never going to happen. I don’t know who you’ve got cutting through the layers, but whoever it is isn’t earning their pay.”
“Because?”
“The clause in Ben Breckinger’s will says that the property cannot be sold for recreational purposes.”
“But...”
“You’re tying his kids’ hands with your proposal, especially because they’ve got split objectives among the second generation. Reword the thing and rework the angle. Go at the purchase from the aspect of a working farm that happens to cater to kids with cancer. Then the ones willing to sell can say yes legally, majority rules, you’ve got your picturesque piece of property for a very worthy cause, on top of that a sweet donation from me personally and I get...”
“A permit for your wife’s bookstore.”
“I wouldn’t be disappointed.”
Reggie breathed out a long sigh. “How did you dig all this up? You must have been working on it for months. Years, even.”
Conor didn’t dare tell him that wondrous things could be found in a quarter day with the firm’s connections. Less time than that, actually, if the Internet server proved really cooperative. “Let’s just say this could be a mutually advantageous phone call.”
“But you’ve already told me what I needed to know,” argued Reggie. “From this point on I can ignore your wife’s petition, reword the purchase offer for the land and forget this phone call ever happened.”
“But you’re a gentleman, Reggie, like me, and we don’t break those rules. Bend ‘em a little, from time to time, but we respect one another. And there is the little matter of my donation.”
“Which is?”
Conor named an amount that made the plings start up in quick-fire fashion. “You’re serious?”
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