by Gaelen Foley
Perfect night for a ballgame, he thought as he gazed wistfully across the bridge to the stadium. Too bad he couldn’t be there himself, watching the Pirates battle the Braves.
As he clipped along, Harry spotted bikini-clad women sipping wine coolers atop a houseboat that bobbed gently in the river’s rippling current. Three shirtless men appeared from below deck to join the ladies, and Harry could hear their stereo rumble into an electronic beat. He snorted, watching their party from afar.
Must be nice.
He picked up his pace as he sidestepped theatergoers, gallery crawlers. The Cultural District was ablaze with energy of a different type of crowd now, sending an equally envious flutter into Harry’s heart. But clearly, this was not going to be one of those black-tie, champagne-gala-type nights, like the recent opera fundraiser he’d attended.
The sight of all the well-dressed symphony fans heading into the grand Victorian concert hall made him smile wryly at the memory of one of Culpeper’s more notorious recent mishaps.
Just last month, Harry had found himself taking the matronly director of the Cultural Trust out on a frigging date so that his boss would be permitted back into Heinz Hall. The cowboy had gotten himself kicked out of his theater box during a performance of Man of La Mancha because it seemed he’d had too much of that good bourbon he liked with his steak dinner before the show.
Culpeper had rudely begun bellowing along with Don Quixote as he sang “The Impossible Dream.” The eccentric tycoon had claimed afterward that his emotions just got the better of him; that song had always choked him up, he’d said. The cowboy had croaked so loudly as he crescendoed into the climactic verse that even the actors on stage had been horrified.
Billionaire or no, he’d been escorted out by security and told never to come back, followed by his mortified date, poor Miz Tammy, who must’ve wanted to put a bag over her head.
Sure enough, the next morning, Harry had received his assignment to fix it. His mission: to work his allegedly potent Irish charm on the cultural director, never mind that the lady was nearly old enough to be his mother.
By the end of a lavish meal and a bottle of 1995 Chateau Margaux, the theater director had been more than willing to allow Mr. Culpeper to return as a season ticket holder.
Harry had received a nice bonus check for that one, in addition to Curt’s encouraging hint that he was indeed most likely to be named successor to the throne.
Not that Harry was keeping score—at least not with anyone who gave a damn. The only person he wanted to outdo wasn’t even in his life. Maybe it was wrong of him, but inside, it gave Harry a great sense of satisfaction to be so successful, to reach such heights in his career, to make such obscene amounts of money, because it was his own private way of telling his father to shove it.
What a loser, that guy.
Harry had no plans of ever forgiving the man, wherever he was, for walking away from him and Mom all those years ago like they were worth nothing.
But he shoved those dark thoughts out of his mind and hurried on.
By the time he reached Industry Row at the far end of Stanwix Street, the stars sparkled on a field of indigo behind the towering skyscrapers, and the party atmosphere had dimmed. All was quiet as he spun through the Trent Building’s revolving brass doors.
“Evening, Mr. Riley,” said the security guard at the desk in the grand marble lobby. “He’s already up there,” he added with a warning look, nodding at the ceiling.
“Thanks, Ray.” Harry waved his passkey in front of the elevator’s barcode reader, the doors slid open, and he was swiftly whisked up to the forty-fifth floor.
Harry took a few deep breaths, staying calm, cool, and sensible, just the way everyone always expected him to be, as he wondered what labor of Hercules he might be called upon to perform this time.
Upstairs, he pulled open the frosted glass double doors to the firm’s offices, strode past the bronze statues and modern art paintings, and rounded the corner into Curt’s private reception area.
There, Harry found Dana already on duty. “Better get in there, Harry,” the curvy blonde warned, rifling through a file cabinet. “Something tells me we’re both gonna need a cocktail after this,” she added with a smoky look.
Which Harry ignored. Frankly, he was a little sick of her persistence. Would she never get the message that he did not mix business with pleasure? He didn’t care if she was hot. That was only asking for trouble, and he was not about to jeopardize his ambitions for the CEO slot over a woman with dubious motives.
It didn’t stop her from trying.
Dana flung a lock of dirty-blond hair over her shoulder and tugged her black skirt up an inch, then bent down to open the bottom drawer, arching her back as Harry walked past.
He rolled his eyes, turned away, and rapped lightly on Curt’s office door before letting himself in. “It’s me.”
“Where you been, Harry?” cried Culpeper, who was stretched out on a burgundy leather couch with an empty rocks glass balanced on top of his big belly.
The Texan didn’t bother getting up. His arm rested over his eyes like he’d just been napping.
“Got here as soon as I could, sir. I thought you were at Silver Oaks with Ms. Reese for the weekend. What’s up?” Harry asked.
Since he’d turned sixty-five, Culpeper had been relaxing more lately, enjoying his millions along with the array of female companions he kept strategically situated in geographically convenient locales around the country.
Young or old, blond or brunette, Culpeper’s lady friends shared just one common quality: they each lived near a phenomenal golf course.
The boss should’ve been golfing today, in fact, at Silver Oaks, the five-star resort up in the Laurel Mountains, about a ninety-minute drive outside the city.
Harry wondered what on earth could’ve happened to interrupt what was supposed to have been a romantic getaway with his current main squeeze.
Right now, according to Dana’s schedule, the cowboy ought to have been wining and dining Ms. Tammy Reese at Apex, the fine French restaurant that was part of the resort.
Of course, Harry had done his due diligence on Miz Tammy, as the cowboy called her, when the boss had first started seeing his new lady friend a few months ago.
Harry had secretly been thrilled that the old hound dog had taken an interest in a woman closer to his own age for once. Gold diggers were a normal part of the billionaire’s existence, but Harry had always felt mildly sorry for his grandiose boss, seeing the hot babes hanging on Curt’s arm, taking him for all they could get, while making eyes at Harry behind the old man’s back.
Typical. Maybe Harry was a cynic, but that seemed to be par for the course when it came to women. At least the ones he came across.
Thankfully, Tammy Reese had checked out fine—no criminal record, no major debts outstanding. Apparently, the bubbly, middle-aged, semi-glamorous blonde was a real estate agent who sold luxury log cabins and ski chalets in the mountains outside of town.
Sure enough, Miz Tammy just happened to live near a famous Arnold Palmer golf course that abutted the tiny village of Ligonier, Pennsylvania, and now the old Texas transplant was all but smitten.
So what was he doing back here so soon?
“Harry,” Curt announced, “we’re buying us a farm.” He sat up, rubbed his deep-set eyes, and stared at Harry, who blinked.
“Okay…”
“And that sum-bitch Monty can keep his measly dump! Silver Oaks, my ass!” the cowboy thundered all of a sudden and shot to his feet.
Aha, thought Harry as understanding slowly crept in. Sounds like the old rivalry is back in play.
He pressed his lips together in an effort not to laugh.
Peter Montclair, a.k.a. Monty, owned and operated Silver Oaks, among many other internationally regarded luxury estates.
Curt and Monty, the two aging tycoons, the cowboy and the smarmy wannabe aristocrat had been Harvard chums, business partners, competitors, allies, and
then enemies at different points in their lives, and to varying degrees of intensity.
Frenemies, the high school kids called this sort of thing, Harry believed.
Which was about how mature the two titans of industry behaved once either of them got the other’s goat.
They’d been getting along fine for the past year, but whatever had gone down at Silver Oaks today must have throttled the gentlemen’s vendetta back into action.
Harry stifled a groan, knowing he’d have to wait for the details to emerge in any sort of cogent fashion. Curt looked pretty drunk. Managing the cowboy required a lot of listening first, asking questions later, he had come to learn.
So Harry folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the desk, waiting with a look of readiness. “You know I got your back, sir. Shoot.”
After a long silence, Curt stood, belch–winced a little, and moved restlessly toward his desk. The silver streaks at his temples shone in the glow of a warm Tiffany lamp on the side table. “Palmer Farm, it’s called. Three hundred acres. Gonna need you to go get it for me, Harry. Owner’s a bit of a holdout. Turned down some fat offers already. Miz Tammy told me all about it.”
Harry furrowed his brow. “Which fund is taking this on? The real estate development portfolio or the Pennsylvania growth—”
“No fund. No investors,” Curt interrupted. “This one’s personal, boy. You write the check from my account,” he added in a grim tone Harry hadn’t heard from him before.
Harry was mystified, but managed to take it in stride. “Okay. Where do I need to go?”
“Tammy says the farm sits a couple miles outside a little town called Harmony Falls, up in the mountains there, no more than ten miles from Monty’s place. Supposed to be real quaint. All kinda festivals and shit.”
“Sure, I’ve heard of the place. Up there by the ski resorts.” As a kid, Harry had gone to a summer camp program for underprivileged city youths not far from the town. He hadn’t been out that way in years.
“Dana’s getting you the particulars,” Curt continued. “She’ll set up your arrangements. You’ll go first thing tomorrow morning.”
Harry almost protested at that—Sunday?—but kept his mouth shut. Damn. He’d already committed to completing a list of honey-do tasks for his mom tomorrow morning. He didn’t have the heart to let her down. He was all she had.
Well, at least she was used to his crazy schedule, he thought, shrugging it off. He’d make it work. As long as he finished some of the chores on her list, he could still hit the road by lunchtime. Actually, a road trip wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, he admitted, instantly daydreaming about his new toy.
It sounded like the perfect excuse to take his new Porsche Boxster Spyder out on the highway, put the top down on a warm summer’s day… Hell yeah. Get those three hundred and seventy-five horses running.
“So what’s on the property now?” Harry asked, snapping himself out of the moment’s reverie. He assumed Curt wanted the mineral rights, too. “How much natural gas?”
“Unfortunately, zilch,” Curt answered with a shrug. “Corn, peaches, a few damned chickens, maybe. Tammy says there’s a good trout stream there for fishin’. It’s three hundred acres, sits right next to the state forest…”
Harry listened, trying to read between the lines, but he was puzzled. Does he want this for a retirement property? The man already owned a ranch of several thousand acres out west, apartments in Manhattan and London, and a beach house in the Bahamas. It was only the Marcellus shale boom that had lured the investor, originally a Texas oilman, to set up offices in Pittsburgh.
“The land, y’see, it’s a good investment,” Culpeper said, still being slightly evasive. “Tammy will handle the paperwork. These folks had the farm on the market up till a few months ago, you see, and then decided not to sell. She was pretty miffed about it, but she’s still technically the agent of record, so when you persuade these folks to unload the property, we’ll all make out real well.”
“Huh,” Harry said. “Just curious—do we know why they changed their minds?”
Curt snorted. “Tammy says one of the family members, a grandkid, talked the old farmer and his wife out of it, wants to run the place, but Tammy says the kid’s got no clue. Need you to get out there and work your magic for me. Put that gift of persuasion of yours into action.”
“No problem.” He had handled similar assignments before. Finessed reluctant clients into doing what Curt wanted with a smile.
Of course, a territorial young redneck with no interest in cutting a deal would certainly be a new type of client for him to work with. He wondered if he ought to pack a pitchfork for this trip or what.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Mind if I ask what you intend to do with this place, sir?”
Curt’s bloodshot eyes narrowed in his fiercest Texas squint, and he gave Harry a vengeful look. “We’re gonna tear the old farm out—and Monty can kiss my ass! ’Cause that there three hundred acres is gonna become the best resort in this damned state, given time! Mark my words.”
Harry quickly hid his astonishment. “You’re building a resort?”
Curt nodded like it was all decided and done. “He’s got a golf course at his place? Well, I’ll build two! One, a championship course fit to lure the Masters. We’ll get Jack Nicklaus in to design it. Three hundred acres is plenty of room. Luxury homes overlooking the greens. Miz Tammy can start selling ’em before they’re even built. Big clubhouse with a fancy restaurant. Cigar room, billiards. Maybe one of those eco spas the ladies like or some such—Tammy knows about it. But you mark my words. Monty’s gonna rue the day, rue the day he ever thought about crossin’ me!”
Harry arched a brow, mystified, and tried to stay on topic while his drunk boss paced back and forth in front of the giant picture window. Beyond it, the city lights gleamed, reflected all along the famous three rivers.
“So, er, how much are they asking for this place?” Harry asked tactfully when he’d recovered from his shock.
“Welll, that’s where things get a wee bit complicated,” Curt said. “The old man gave my gal Tammy the brush-off, like I told you, and the kid and she got into a shouting match. So, it’ll take some finagling to win ’em over. But hell, like I always say, everybody’s got their price.”
“Got that right,” Harry murmured.
“Tammy had the farm listed for eight hundred thousand, but offer the old man whatever it takes. I want that farm. I need that farm,” Curt added in a growl. “So bring your nutcracker, Harry.”
Good Lord, cowboy, what have you gotten us into this time? Harry felt a twinge of uneasiness. The boss had never been so loose with his cash.
Whatever Monty had done this time must’ve really—as Curt liked to put it—burned my britches.
“You convince that farmer and his pain-in-the-ass kinfolk to sell, and I’ll handle it from there,” Curt declared.
Harry pondered this crazy assignment for a long moment. It basically sounded like Curt was going to war—on Monty’s own turf. Montclair International owned luxury resort properties from Europe and Asia to the Caribbean. In short, this was nuts.
But then, Harry considered his standing for the post of CEO should he balk.
Did he really want to see control of the company go to one of his competitors, or even worse, to one of Curt’s useless parasite sons? Curt might be eccentric, but at least the man cared about his kids. Harry resented on his boss’s behalf the way those spoiled, lazy fools—grown men!—only came around to see their dad when they needed money. He was the only one really looking out for Curt’s interests.
He deserved the damned job. So, with that, his mind was made up. Harry shrugged off his qualms. Curt was right, after all. Everybody had their price. He could make this happen easily.
Harry flicked on his million-dollar smile like a light switch. “You know me, sir, I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Attaboy.” Curt grinned back, visibly relieved to se
e that look. Nine times out of ten, it signaled victory. The old man raised his glass to Harry. “Good knowin’ I can always count on you, son.”
Harry gave a modest nod, warmed by the acknowledgment. Because the truth was, despite his many foibles, the old cowboy was the closest thing to a father that he himself had ever had.
Then he turned away and strode to the door to go prepare for his mission.
“Remember, it’s personal this time,” Curt said.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Harry promised with a smile, reaching for the doorknob, “I got this.”
CHAPTER 2
The next day, Harry’s chores for his mother ran longer than expected. Good old Mom had destroyed another garbage disposal in her new apartment, could not figure out how to use the remote for the ceiling fan, needed a few bulbs changed, furniture moved, a shelf hung, and wanted to tell him all the gossip from her friends at church.
As much as he loved her, though, Harry had bolted out of there when she started talking about setting him up with some daughter of one of her new neighbors at the active retirement community, where he had recently insisted that she move.
The old neighborhood was just getting too dangerous for a woman in her sixties living alone. When the SWAT team had raided the house across the street, he put his foot down and moved her out to a posh retirement community in the suburbs.
Noreen Riley, however, had always lived in the city; she felt uprooted and was having trouble getting used to the new place, and that made her needier than usual. So Harry, ever the good son, had made sure to spend enough time with her not just to finish the major items on her list, but more importantly, to cheer her up. He owed the woman everything, after all, considering she had raised him alone while working two jobs. She deserved an easy life now, and Harry was proud to give her that.
In any case, she was the reason why he ended up running a bit behind schedule. It was already two o’clock by the time he was pulling onto the turnpike.
He couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement in his belly at the chance to put his new Porsche, dubbed Ruby, through her paces. It had always been his dream car, and hey, he thought, a bachelor had to spend his money somehow.