by Anna Mara
Bill nervously glanced at the gilded mirrors and crown moulding inside the private elevator as it silently whisked him upwards. Only the best for his old man.
Even though both Bill and William Sr. lived in the same house, neither spoke to the other. If there was anything that needed to be discussed, William would have Charlotte, his secretary, set up an appointment in his office with his son.
And Bill had better be there—on time and without excuses—or else it would be one more grievance added to the long litany which he would rant and rave about.
The elevator doors parted and Bill stepped out into a dark green, carpeted outer office. The lighting was low in the room—better to show off the two Renoirs on opposite walls.
Charlotte, a slim, well-maintained woman of sixty, rushed out from behind her desk and hugged Bill briefly before releasing him.
"Thank God you're all right. We were so worried," she said in a breathless, concerned voice.
"You mean 'you' were worried."
"I mean 'we'," Charlotte was adamant.
At that moment, the office door behind Charlotte was yanked open and William Havenwood Sr. stood there, glaring at his son. "You're late," he barked in his British accent before slamming his door shut again.
Bill sighed. Yes—he was definitely coming out of that office a eunuch today. First, that crazy, beautiful broad had damaged 'the goods' and now his old man would finish the job. Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob to his father's office and entered.
Inside, Bill took no note of the richly appointed office or the large expanse of windows, which overlooked the city. He only had eyes for his father who stoically stood, with hands clasped behind his back, beside his ornate cherry wood desk.
"It wasn't my fault. I was rear-ended and…" Bill started to explain.
"Sit." The word was spoken as a trainer would to his dog.
Bill let out a breath as he took a seat in one of two wingback chairs opposite the desk. Here it came—the lecturing—the recriminations—the disappointment in his father's eyes, yet again. Well, he was immune to all of that. And numb. He had been for a very long time.
"Punctuality is the mark of a successful man," William enunciated every word as he began to pace the room like an angry leashed tiger with its tail lashing back and forth.
"Only thing I'm successful at is spending your money. Does that count?"
"Don't be smart."
"No, I'm never that," Bill gave a half laugh.
William looked his son over. "At least you're in one piece."
"Wouldn't want to ruin your fun."
"Meaning?"
"Well now you can rip me… to pieces."
William stopped his pacing and glared at Bill. "Charlotte was crazed with worry. Why didn't you call back?"
"I didn't think…"
"No, you never 'think', do you? Or should I say you only 'think' of yourself."
"Like father, like son."
"Not quite. I don't exactly start my day at noon and spend my nights screwing around."
"No, you just screw people during the day," Bill said as he returned his father's glare.
"It's paid for your lifestyle all these years and I haven't heard too many complaints from you, have I?" Bill remained silent. "Have I?" Bill again said nothing. William answered his own question. "No, I haven't. Well, all that's about to change."
"What do you mean?" Warily, Bill swiveled his head to look directly at his father. What was the old bastard up to now?
"You're cut off."
"What!"
"No more cars. No more trips. No more allowance. You're to pack your bags and be out of my house within twenty-four hours. I've had enough of your lazy, irresponsible ways."
Bill was floored. What the hell was going on here? No more Havenwood money? It couldn't be. His father had threatened many times before but he'd never gone this far.
"Look, I don't know what this is about but…"
"And you're out of the will too." Like a man possessed, William marched over to his desk and retrieved several papers from a drawer. He threw them at his son. "I've set up the Havenwood Trust. When I'm gone, all my money's going to charity; all of it."
Slowly, Bill glanced at the papers clutched in his hands. They were legal papers all right, signed and witnessed, detailing what his father had just said.
William looked around his office and shook his head in disgust. "All this…" His hand swept the room and he shouted. "Everything… everything that I've bloody worked hard for all my life will be given away when I'm gone. I have no legacy. I don't even have any grandchildren to leave it to, thanks to you."
Bill was speechless. This couldn't be happening to him. He needed that money. He couldn't live without that money. Especially now, when there were people counting on him to… well, he couldn't think about that now. He needed to focus on changing his father's mind.
William stared at his son with contempt as he continued his speech in that proper British tone. "My son, my only son… look at you. You're thirty years old and what have you done on your own? Absolutely nothing, that's what. Well from now on, you're going to stand on your own two very expensively shod feet because I've footed your bill for far too long."
Bill stared hard at his father who was now standing proudly behind his desk. Studying William's face, he thought he could actually see a glimmer of excitement in that old puss, that bastard!
Well, he wasn't giving up without a fight. His spirit wasn't broken by a long shot and if that's how the old man wanted to play it, then fine; he would too. He also had Havenwood blood in him and he hadn't survived this long under his father's thumb without some smarts of his own. Bill took a deep calming breath. Be steady and think clearly, he thought to himself.
"If you're mad about…" Suddenly Bill's face turned even paler than it already was. Could his father have found out about what he was really up to? About…? Nah. Impossible. He continued his previous train of thought. "If you're mad about my timekeeping here at the office, then…"
"What timekeeping?" His father started pacing again. "You're never here. You show up at one in the afternoon, stay three bloody hours, accomplish nothing of value and leave to party all night long. I should have fired your useless ass a long time ago."
"But you didn't."
"No, I didn't. I kept hoping, praying this was just a phase, that you'd change. I kept telling myself, he's young, he'll learn; he'll become more responsible."
"I am responsible."
"For what? I gave you one thing, one goddamn bloody thing to do and you screwed it up."
"You'll have to be a bit more specific," Bill smirked sarcastically. But it wasn't funny. None of this was.
"This." William grabbed a folded newspaper from his desk and threw it at Bill's chest. He didn't appreciate his son's smart mouth.
Unfolding the newspaper, Bill looked at the article. The headline screamed "Your Dog Food Pays For This"; and below that was a picture of oil oozing into a lake. Scanning the text, Bill saw that it linked Fido Food and Samco Oil with the leaking pipeline problem.
"You were put in charge of P.R. It was your job to see that nothing like this would ever get into the press," William continued angrily.
"It's only The Bulletin; it's not like it's The Times." 'The Bulletin' was a small, radical newspaper put out by one of the larger national environmental groups. It was rumored they had ties with the Guardians of Mother Earth Organization that had been picketing lately outside the Fido building.
William frowned. "Not yet, it's not. But that's how these things start and before you know it, our name is being dragged through the mud."
"Don't you mean oil?"
"My… aren't we clever today. Too bad you weren't clever enough to stop this before it got into print." William pointed to the newspaper still in Bill's hand.
"I'll make a few calls and…"
"You'll do nothing.
"But…"
"You're fired and out of my life for
good."
"You don't mean that." Bill was getting very worried.
"I most certainly do mean it," William stated emphatically. "Now get out."
Bill sat there looking shelled-shocked. What could he do? What could he say? There must be something. There had to be.
"Out! Now!" William shouted at his son with all the force he could muster, snapping Bill out of his reverie. The old man wasn't getting away with this. Not if he could help it. But he needed time to think and it had to be away from this hellhole.
Bill stood up slowly. The impeccably cut designer suit gave his movements grace as he fluidly threw the newspaper and will document back down on his father's desk. He looked squarely into William's eyes. "Fine, if that's the way you want it." He turned and began walking to the door.
A glimmer of sadness briefly crossed William's determined facial features. "It's not the way I want it." Bill stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at his father. "It's the way it has to be," William continued, his hard business face now firmly back in place.
Father and son stared at each other and in that moment, Bill knew he still had a chance. If only he knew how to get through to that crusty old heart of his father's. But he didn't know; he hadn't known for a long time. All Bill knew was what he had been taught; no showing of real emotions—just games, lies and deception. It was the Havenwood way. And that's how he was going to play it. But how? Think, Bill, think.
And in a flash, he knew the answer. Grandchildren. The answer was grandchildren—or at least the possibility of grandchildren. The old bastard had mumbled something about wanting a legacy. If only he could convince his father that there was a chance for a grandchild in the very near future, Bill could buy some time. And if he could buy some time, he knew he could eventually convince dear papa to embrace him back into the Havenwood fold—and back into the money.
Bill had one eye blink second to take a shot at it. It was now or never. "I'll be out of the house by tonight. I know where I'm not wanted." Bill stared at his father who was still standing expressionless behind his desk. Not one tick of emotion. Not one. God, the old man was good. But he, the son, was going to be better. "See you around, pops." Bill turned and strode to the door. "Oh and by the way…" he stopped and looked back at his father, "… you'll understand if I don't send you a wedding invitation?"
"Wait," William imperially commanded.
Innocently, Bill stared back. Yes—there was now genuine interest stamped across the old bastard's sour mug.
"What wedding?" William inquired.
"I was planning on telling you today but…"
William rudely interrupted his son. "What wedding and don't make me ask again."
Bill bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. The old man was definitely interested and this ploy just might buy him the time he needed to change his father's mind.
"I'm getting married."
William was very suspicious. "Really? Who's the lucky bride?"
"Well, Stephie…"
William burst out laughing. "I should have known you'd pick that money-hungry tramp. You can't even be trusted to make a responsible decision in your own personal life." He flopped down in his chair, as he continued to laugh and regard his son as a joke.
Bill didn't like to be regarded as a joke. "I wasn't going to say, Stephie." Yes, he had been. Now what? Who was he going to say it was? "I was just going to say that Stephie and I have called it quits. We haven't even seen each other for awhile." If you could call that afternoon 'awhile'.
"Is that right?" William didn't believe a word of it.
"Yes, and since then, I met someone else; and I love her and I'm going to marry her."
"Who?"
"You don't know her."
"Well, I would if you told me her name." William was losing his patience.
Who? Who the hell was Bill going to say? His mind was drawing a blank. He had to stall.
"She's… different; a serious sort of girl."
"And she wants to marry you? You?" William laughed again.
"Yes. She's crazy about me."
"Or crazy about the money she thinks you have."
"She's not like that."
"Everybody's like that," William looked directly at Bill with accusatory eyes. "It's amazing what people will do or say when large amounts of money are involved."
Bill wasn't really paying attention to his fathers' suspicions. He was too busy mentally trying to come up with a name. Who could he say was his beloved bride-to-be? How about Rachel from the country club? No. William hated her father. Maybe Melissa Crawford? No, William hadn't been too thrilled with her drug-bust a couple of years ago even if the charges had been dropped. What about…?
"I'm waiting."
William's loud and impatient voice barged into his train of thought. Bill focused again on his father's face. "For what?"
"The name, goddamn it; the name—if there is one."
"Of course there is. I wouldn't lie about something like this." He would and he was. "And I don't appreciate you thinking that I would." Bill was still scanning his brain for a name. Maybe he should just make one up? "Her name is…"
And that's when Bill saw it. Looking down at the carpet in front of his feet was the piece of paper the officer at the accident had given him with that crazy woman's name and information on it. It must have fallen out of his jacket when he'd made his way to the door.
Thank you, heaven.
Casually picking up the paper, he stole a quick glance at it before stuffing it back into his pocket. Christina. Christina Matteo. That was it. The name he needed. A name his father had never heard of—and a name about which he could spin any story he wanted—and a name that belonged to a real live person. After all, the best way to tell a lie was to tell as much of the truth as possible—and change only what you needed to change. His father had taught him that one.
Bill looked directly into William's eyes. "Her name is Christina. Christina Matteo."
"So why haven't you mentioned—this Christina—before now?"
"Because I…" Why? What was the reason? "I didn't think you'd approve. She's not from your social circle."
William smirked. "I may be a bastard, but I'm not a snob. What does she do?"
"She's a photojournalist at Streetwise Magazine."
"What? A reporter? You're involved with a bloody reporter?" William was outraged as his eyes bulged out in shock.
Oh no; Bill had put his foot in it. He hadn't seen that one coming. Stupid move. Of course, his dad hated reporters or at least the ones that weren't on his payroll. Bill had to do some damage control and do it fast. "She's not a reporter. She just takes pictures of club happenings and musicians and events and… stuff like that." Smooth, Bill, smooth. Don't blow it now. "Streetwise is just a free music newspaper. You know, rock and roll and fashion and… stuff."
Seconds ticked by as father and son stared at each other.
William broke the silence first. "So, you've already asked her to marry you and she's accepted?"
"I love her; she loves me. What else is there?" Bill was starting to feel anxious. Had his father bought it? Watching William sitting there with his arms folded across his chest, Bill couldn't tell.
William watched his son squirm. No. He wasn't buying any of this. His son was lying and he knew it. He hadn't built a billion dollar empire by being an idiot, even if his son seemed to think so. He eyed Bill suspiciously. "You're telling me all of this now, when I've thrown you out. Coincidental, don't you think?"
Bill innocently shrugged his shoulders. "I would have told you today but…" He let the sentence hang in the air.
William stood up and Bill betrayed himself by instinctively taking a step back. Damn it. His father could still get to him. Here he was—thirty years old—and he still felt ten in front of his old man.
William's shrewd eyes didn't miss anything. "I want to meet this Christina. Bring her over for dinner tonight."
Bill had no intention of actua
lly producing the real 'Christina Matteo'. He was just going to create an imaginary 'Christina Matteo' as an excuse until he could think of a better way to change his father's stubborn, bull-headed mind. "I can't," he spouted.
"Why not? Is there something you're not telling me?"
"Christina's out of town for the next couple of weeks; on assignment for the magazine."
"I thought you said it was a local newspaper. What does she have to go out of town for?"
Bill had better get his story together. He was making mistakes and his father was just too sharp not to catch them.
"She's… photographing some band on the road; recording their tour. I think they're called…" Bill's eyes scanned the office. "Paperweight. A new up and coming group. Very hot right now." His dad wouldn't know 'Paperweight' from the 'Stones'.
William stared at Bill. "Well then, I guess I'll meet Christina when she gets back."
"I think you forgot something? You threw me out, remember? So you're not a part of my life anymore. In fact, when I leave here, I'm going straight home to pack my bags."
"Why don't we put all that unpleasantness on hold for awhile? At least, until I've met Christina?"
Bill smiled. It was exactly what he wanted to hear. Two weeks. He had two weeks to come up with something better. And he would. "All right, we'll wait for Christina to come home and I'll introduce you."
And with that, Bill turned and walked out of the office and towards the elevator. Charlotte had already left for the day.
Bill had won round one. He was still in his father's good graces—well not really—but at least his credit cards weren't going to be cancelled and he still had a magnificent multi-million dollar roof over his head. But more importantly, he could still get his hands on some cash—some desperately needed cash. People were depending on him—and he wasn't going to let them down, no matter what he had to say or do.
No matter what.
As Bill walked through the downstairs lobby, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
"It's me. I just came back from seeing the old bastard and he's threatening to cut me off." Bill paused as he listened to the other end. "I know, I know, don't get excited. I'll keep getting you the money somehow. I won't let you down, I promise."