Aiden pulled into Clark’s Corner, Vermont, exactly three and a half hours after leaving Portland. The BMW’s GPS system instructed him to turn left and follow the road along the river for 2.4 miles. He slowed to the posted speed limit of forty miles an hour.
“Destination on right in point-zero-one miles,” said the metallic voice of the GPS.
Aiden saw the sign on the front of an old brick factory building along the edge of a canal that came off the river. chat.COM Communications For Today and Tomorrow. He turned as instructed and crossed a narrow bridge to a newly paved parking lot. He pulled into the spot marked “Visitors” and shut the engine off, opened the door, stepped out into the sunny spring day, and stretched. It was ten-thirty in the morning.
Aiden looked up at the building. It had obviously been an old paper mill or perhaps a tool company, built along the rushing river during the hay days of the New England industrial boom. The building had been skillfully renovated, and the artistic details imparted by bricklayers of long ago were again visible. It was quite a grand building. Whoever had overseen the renovations had done so with an eye to not spoiling its original character, and the many windows winked once again in the morning sun. Aiden had always liked old things, and he felt oddly comfortable as he walked through the door into the spacious lobby.
There was a circular, marble-topped desk in the lobby behind which sat a pretty young receptionist.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely.
“I’m Aiden Stewart,” he replied. “I’m here for a meeting with M. Jordan Fitzgerald.”
“Oh. Oh my,” said the receptionist, slightly flustered. “You’re from Trade Winds. The company that wants to buy us. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Stewart. I’ll announce you right away. Just wait here. Can I get you coffee or anything?”
The girl’s agitated manner amused him. My reputation must have preceded me, he thought.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Take your time. I’ll wait. And I prefer to call it a merger, rather than ‘buy.’”
The girl hurried away, through two big glass doors behind her desk, muttering, “Merger, yes, merger. That’s the word.”
Aiden put his hands in his pockets and looked around. He wondered if CEO M. Jordan Fitzgerald was as excitable as his receptionist. He gazed around. How odd it was that one of the most successful small Internet providers should be cloistered away in the backwoods of Vermont. Well, the Internet could flourish anywhere, he thought, and that’s why we want to own them. We have to own them. As much as he tried to dismiss his father’s irritating lecture before he left Portland this morning, Aiden could not. He knew in his heart that even at his advanced age, his father was still a consummate businessman. Aiden squared his shoulders as the receptionist came back through the big glass doors.
“Follow me,” she said tersely.
Aiden walked after her down a wide hallway. On either side of him were glass walls through which he could see people working in their cubicles or gathered together around conference tables. At the end of the hallway was a solid wooden door with gold lettering that said M. JORDAN FITZGERALD on it. The receptionist opened the door, slipped through, and shut it again, leaving Aiden standing in the hall. Soon she reappeared, slipping back through in the same manner, closing the door behind her again.
“You may go in now,” she said formally, stepping aside to allow him access to the door. “You’re actually early. Your appointment is for eleven.”
Altogether weird, thought Aiden as he reached for the handle of the door. I wonder what Fitzgerald is like.
He pushed the handle down, opened the door, and stepped into the room. Aiden felt the shock hit him. A young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, stood behind a large desk. Her feminine, floral spring dress might have been too casual for office wear, except for the blue linen blazer she wore over it.
“He” was a “she.” Fitzgerald was a woman. And a beautiful one at that. Aiden grappled visibly with his surprise. He had assumed something entirely different.
About the Author
photo by James Peterson
Linda Cunningham grew up a small town country girl, and it is here where she’s still most comfortable. She has written steadily throughout the years, although usually other people’s speeches, articles, and grants, primarily for medical and agricultural trade journals. Now that her three children are grown, Linda is writing full time and writing the stuff she loves—Romance!
Linda lives in a romantic stone house in the Green Mountain State of Vermont, surrounded by her gardens and animals which include horses, dogs, cats, chickens, sheep, a parakeet, goldfish and the wild visitors who tiptoe through on a regular basis. When time permits, she also enjoys cooking, sketching, and painting.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Omnific Publishing for giving me the opportunity to share my words. To my amazing editors, Colleen Keough Wagner and Katherine Teel, thank you for making my words the best they could be. To Traci Olsen, you are a fabulous marketing agent and great friend, thank you for all you do. To Micha Stone for creating a beautiful cover. To Victoria Michaels, my own personal Yoda, thank you for taking me under your wing, my friend; I adore you. To Kimmy, Mindy, Lecia, and Caryn, thank you so much for being the best friends…no, sisters. I love you all so much. And last, but definitely not least, my readers, I do this for you as much as I do it for me—you all rock hard!
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Small Town Girl Page 23