Her Silver Fox

by Koko Brown

  “Patrick, what do you have on your plate? Any headway with the Burke account?” R. W. asked, catching him off guard.

  As one, the executive chairs swung toward him.

  Feeling like he’d been caught with his hands in his pants, Patrick sat up straighter. He’d been so busy mentally fucking Shoshana, he’d lost track of the pecking order.

  “I have a few reservations with the Burkes,” Patrick hedged. In all honesty, he was ready to walk away. But no one walked away without giving R.W. a solid reason or three for not closing the deal. “There’s another lead I’ve stumbled across. The Patel brothers have patented an all-purpose cleaning cloth that’s extremely durable and environmentally friendly. They need capital for production, and possibly resources for distribution.”

  “When did we turn into the shark tank?” Saul Gould guffawed at his own joke while a subdued twitter rippled around the conference room. Nervous glances flickered to the man in charge.

  Per his usual habit, Patrick ignored Saul and continued his campaign with R.W. “They’re passionate about their product. They’ve even collected the seed money to obtain a patent and for branding.”

  R.W. tapped his fingertips together for several moments. The longer he took to answer, Patrick held out hope the old man would be open in going in a different direction.

  “Maybe you should go out there to West Virginia and have the Burke’s give you the white-gloved tour.”

  “Will do, R.W,” Patrick muttered. In the game long enough, he knew when he was being shut down.

  A half hour later they filed out of the executive board room. Instead of retreating to his office, Patrick caught up with Roger.

  “R.W., a word, please?”

  “If it’s about that dish rag thing,” frowning, Roger threw his hand around dismissively, “you can’t convince me.”

  Patrick gritted his teeth. Day by day, he was beginning to realize Morrissey didn’t value free thinkers. He only wanted drones to carry out his dirty work.

  “It’s not about that, sir.” Patrick glanced over at Anderson and Gould who lingered nearby. “Can we talk in your office?”

  R.W. glanced at his Rolex. “I guess I can squeeze you in before lunch.”

  Patrick followed the founder and CEO of the Morrissey Group to the end of the hall. They walked through a set of cherry wood panel doors, and like always he was struck with envy. Morrissey’s one-hundred and eighty degree unhampered view of New York City’s skyline was awe inspiring, to say the least.

  “Have a seat?”

  Morrissey patted one of four very expensive cow-hide chairs huddled around an even more expensive George Nakashima sled-base coffee table.

  “Want a cocktail?” he asked.

  “Don’t touch the stuff before noon.”

  “You’re a better man than me.” Chuckling, Morrissey ambled over to a hand-carved walnut wood bar. “What can I do for you?”

  Patrick fingered the piece of paper in his pocket. Randall Ivy had handed it to him on his way to the board meeting. Since straight shooting always worked with R.W. he plunged in, “Have you ever considered an employee daycare, sir?”

  “I was not expecting that,” Morrissey drawled. Swirling the cognac in his glass, he walked over and sat down. “Are you expecting? I thought you didn’t want kids.”

  “I still don’t,” Patrick struggled to keep his voice even, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel empathy for my fellow co-workers who’ve chosen to be parents, like my assistant, who’s pay shoulders the cost of living alone.”

  “And you want me to take on the cost?” With his trademark, not-on-my-dime wizened laugh, Morrissey took a sip of his drink.

  “You wouldn’t be on the hook for the entire cost. I had Ivy do a little research. On-site day care isn’t cost prohibitive and if done right, it can actually make you money.”

  Hearing the operative word which always triggered his interest, an avaricious gleam entered Morrissey’s watery gaze.

  “I suggest we create an employer-sponsored daycare where the employees contribute to eighty percent of the cost.”

  “You want me to ask everyone to contribute? Even those who don’t have children like yourself?”

  Patrick nodded. “I believe having an on-site daycare would reduce chronic tardiness, absenteeism, and improve productivity.”

  “Threat of unemployment works just as well,” Morrissey quipped.

  “You and I know turnover is much more cost prohibitive. Figure in recruitment, training, headhunter costs, loss in productivity while the position is vacant, and costs can run as high as a hundred and fifty percent of the person’s annual salary. And since we lose around five percent of our staff every year, you of all people should see this as an excellent incentive for employee retention.”

  With a loud groan, Morrissey pushed himself to his feet. Nearing seventy-seven, the billionaire should’ve handed the reigns over years ago. A control freak, R.W. would probably be carried out feet first before considering the thought of retiring.

  “I have to admit I’m getting a fuzzy feeling,” he said, depositing his drink on the bar before moving onto his desk, signaling to Patrick his time was up.

  Still, Patrick pressed his suit, “It’s a little risky, R.W. but there are positive gains, like better talent, rete—”

  Morrissey held up a hand knotted with arthritis. “Save your breath, Kelly. I’m a venture capitalist not Mr. Rogers.”

  Patrick slowly stood. “Thank you for your time, R.W.” He might believe in something but he would never grovel.

  “By the by, love the suit,” R.W. threw out as a parting consolation.

  The old Patrick would’ve blossomed under the compliment, especially coming from R.W. Eyes open, the new Patrick saw it as nothing but a means to stroke a self-centered prick’s ego to keep him on a short leash.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Patrick waited until he’d exited R.W.’s office before he pulled out his cell. Always one touch away from his money market accounts, he clicked his bank app. One of two, he’d been squirreling his savings away for an early retirement.

  Of course, retiring at the age of fifty had become an imaginary threshold. In all honesty, the day he’d come into the Morrissey Group, he’d patterned his career after R.W.’s. Why invent the wheel when the wheel was two floors above him?

  So, the self-made billionaire had been his role model from day one. And it had worked in his favor. Until now. Patrick now saw the price of walking in another man’s shoes. He couldn’t be R.W. in his own company. There would only be one Roger Winthrop Morrissey.

  On the elevator ride down, Patrick worked the numbers. With three million in liquid assets, he had enough cushion to leave Morrissey. Retire in some Florida suburb, preferably beachside.

  But would he be content to spend his days playing golf and surfing?

  Patrick snorted. In six months, he’d probably suffer a melt down due to boredom. Plus, he’d grown to love being Santa and sharing in the success of a worthwhile venture. And giving himself more credit than he deserved for other people’s successes, he thought ruefully.

  Self-centered prick.

  What about going out on his own? Become an angel investor, and kill two birds with one stone. Stroke his insatiable ego while doing things his way.

  Naturally, his first investment would be the Patels. They could wind up being his only venture as well. Due to a non-compete clause in his contract, he couldn’t fall back on his contacts or the personal relationships he’d fostered here at Morrissey’s. Litigation was definitely a disincentive to leaving.

  Irritated with the limitations he’d imposed on himself by signing a bullshit contract, Patrick stalked to his office.

  Who was he kidding? A legally binding document wasn’t the only thing restricting his ability to step out on faith. Up until now, his business decisions required very little risk. Like playing Monopoly, he’d wheeled and dealed on someone else’s dime. So far most of his decisions had proved fruitf
ul, and those that didn’t were chocked up as lessons learned.

  As the head of his own start-up, dependent on his own seed money, he wouldn’t have the same learning curve. Feeling like a caged animal, Patrick prowled the length of his executive suite. One bad deal and he’d wind up on skid row, penniless with no hope of gainful employment in the financial industry for at least two years.

  While his short-lived entrepreneurial dream fizzled, Patrick ran out of gas. Steps faltering, he stood in the middle of his office. The New York City skyline stretched before him like an endless possibility, a golden ticket he was too cowardly to pursue.

  All the running from his past and he couldn’t escape his defective genes. “Father like son,” Patrick rasped, feeling a sharp pang of inadequacy. He’d put an entire state between him and Eamonn Kelly, and he still couldn’t shake him or his seemingly infallible weaknesses.

  The laughingstock of the entire neighborhood, his father continued to hold onto his love for a woman who’d abandoned not only him but her young family.

  Barbara Kelly or Bonnie Barb as she was known to her friends and family had been exceptionally beautiful, even by Southie standards. The apple of her parent’s eye the pale-blue eyed blond had been spoiled and coddled, both of which fostered her self-centered and spiteful nature.

  Not even motherhood could cut the egotistical umbilical cord. To this day, Patrick still couldn’t wash away the stain of childhood memories marred with his father’s embarrassing infatuation and a distant woman who wanted nothing to do with them.

  His mind wandered back to one cold day in December when his father had awakened all of them out of their beds. With nothing but a coat thrown over their pajamas and untied tennis shoes jammed onto their feet, they’d been loaded into the family’s beat up station wagon and driven across town.

  “Where are we going?” he remembered grumbling, his younger brothers huddling around him, seeking the only source of heat in the car’s ice-cold interior.

  “We’re going to see your mother,” was all his father would say.

  “Why? She doesn’t love us. And I don’t love her.” Before he could anticipate his father’s next move, Eamonn had leaned over and slapped him.

  “Shut yah goddam mouth.” Silently, Patrick wiped away the spray of snot now dotting his upper lip and cheek. “Yah mutha has hah issues but she loves you.”

  If she loved them, where had she been all these months? If she loved them, why wasn’t she there to tie Ben’s loose tooth to the bathroom doorknob? If she loved them, where was she when Shawn took his first steps?

  Patrick batted away tears. He would not cry over her. Eamonn had shed enough for all of them. With a thin wall separating their bedrooms, his father’s tears had become a lullaby to which he’d fell asleep to.

  ‘I’m sorry, son,” Eamonn said, wrapped a meaty palm around his neck and pulling him toward him. “This has been hard for all of us and I appreciate you stepping up and being a man.”

  “I’ll always be there for my brothers even when you’re not.”

  It was out of necessity, Patrick deduced. His father had checked out months ago.

  After a surprisingly short drive downtown, his father slid the car into a parking space. Patrick leaned up in the seat to spy out the window. Even to his nine-year-old mind, the home they sat in front of was a marked improvement from their rundown rowhouse.

  “Grab your brothers,” his father tossed over his shoulder before slamming the car door behind him.

  Cradling Shawn in his arms, Patrick prodded and poked his two other siblings.

  “Leave me ‘lone,” August wailed, eyes still squeezed shut. Legs flying like the rudder on a paddleboat, he refused to budge.

  Borrowing from his father’s playbook, Patrick twisted the baby fat above the younger boy’s elbow.

  “Stooooppppp!” His baby brother screeched.

  “Get out of the car and I’ll stop.”

  Tears crusting his chubby cheeks, August’s eyes opened just a fraction. “Where are we going?”

  “To see mom.”

  “Mommy?” Liam asked, his green eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning.

  “Yeah, Mommy.” Unable to share in Liam’s joy, Patrick replied a little more sharply than he deserved. Only three years old, he didn’t fully comprehend the fact their mother had completely abandoned them. “Not get out the car before I kick you two’s out.”

  As if presented with the perfect incentive to step out in the snow, his brothers slipped from the car one by one.

  “Hold onto my jacket,” Patrick directed his brothers since his hands were full with a two year old toddler.

  “Barb!” Eamonn bellowed. Eyes crazed, he searched the windows. “I know you’re in there with yah new man. I got a present for ya.”

  Patrick eyed his father’s empty hands. His body began to shake but it had nothing to do with the falling snow.

  “I wonda if your fella is still gonna wantcha with four kids hanging onto your skirts.”

  His tirade met with silence, Eamonn bent down and picked up a handful of snow. Fresh and sticky, the ice easily formed into an icy ball.

  “Dad no!”

  His warning falling on deaf ears, Eamonn pitched the snowball against the downstairs’ window. The chuck of ice exploded into a dozen shards, setting off a loud crash inside the house followed by angry voices.

  Afraid, Patrick gnawed on his bottom lip. “I want to go home, Daddy,” he pleaded. “Please, let’s go home.”

  August must have sensed his misgivings. He threw his head back and let out an ear-splitting wail.

  “Shhh,” he cooed, bouncing the toddler on his hip. “We’re going home so—”

  “Barb!” His father yelled again. This time, the door of the home suddenly burst open, catching them all off guard. Dressed in a work uniform, a man looked at all of them in turn. Patrick held his baby brother tighter. He looked like he wanted to eat them.

  “I’m here for Barbara.” Eamonn’s tone had lost some of its bravado.

  “She ain’t available,” the man growled. “You and your crying ass brats better get off my lawn.”

  “Barb,” his father shouted again, completely ignoring the man’s threat. He stepped forward, peering into the front window.

  “I told you she wasn’t available.” Head tucked low, the man charged into his father, knocking him on his back.

  Arms swinging wildly, his father threw several punches. None of them did any damage because he was summarily outpunched by the other guy.

  “Get off me,” his father wheezed. He tried to buck the other man off him but he didn’t budge.

  “You leaving?” the other man asked, arm cocked for another blow.

  “I want my wife.”

  With a disgusted snort, the man stood then wiped his hands on his work overalls. “How many times do we have to do this dance?” Patrick frowned. Had his father been here before? “She doesn’t want you.”

  Up to his ankles in snow, Eamonn struggled to his feet. “She just can’t throw it all away.”

  “And bringing them snotty nose kids around here won’t change anything,” he said, pointing a thumb in their direction.

  He affected a brave front, but the man’s words made Patrick’s insides twist like when he drank spoiled milk.

  “Let me ask her,” his father shot back. “I want to hear it from the goat’s mouth she doesn’t want her kids.”

  Barrel chest rising and falling, the man looked at him and his brothers.

  “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t tell you so,” he said before turning and taking the front steps two at a time. Toes tingling from the cold, Patrick wished he could have followed him.

  “I’m cold,” Liam declared, edging closer, snuggling into Patrick’s bubble coat.

  “We’ll be going home soon.” Patrick eyed the front door. More than enough time had passed for his mother to make up her mind. He might not be the adult but one of them needed to step up.

 
“Dad, can we go sit in—”

  “Barbara?” His father whispered.

  Patrick turned. His mother stood on the front stoop. Hair perfectly coiffed, her slim figure wrapped in a petal pink winter coat.

  “Mommy!” August and Liam exclaimed.

  She ignored them.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed, her fiery blue gaze targeting Eamonn.

  “Barbara, come home, baby,” Eamonn implored. He ran forward and settled his hands over hers. Not the least bit moved, she ripped her hands free.

  “I am home, Eamonn. Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

  “W-What about the kids?” his father implored.

  Devoid of emotion, her eyes flickered over them. “What about them? You wanted them not me. So, I left them with you.”

  His father collapsed to his knees at her feet. “Don’t say that, baby.”

  “Christ, Eamonn, get up.” Lips twisted with disgust, she slapped him on his shoulder.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” Eamonn blabbered, his tone thick with emotion.

  Barbara set her hands on her hips. “I’m not doing this. You brought this on yourself. You’re a weak man, Eamonn Kelly. Always have been, always will be.”

  Shoulders shaking, Eamonn shook his head. “I ain’t weak,” he blubbered. “I love you, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t love you.”

  His father’s hands crept over red goulashes. “Never?”

  As if hating his touch, she jumped back.

  “Not even when I carried you over the threshold in your mother’s wedding dress?” Eamonn pressed. “And…and you said you were so happy you could cry.”

  “I used you to get away from my mother! That bitch never loved anyone but herself.”

  Patrick had no clue if she was telling the truth or not since he’d never met their mother’s mother.

  “Don’t be like this,” Eamonn pleaded, edging toward her. And like some sick, pathetic dance when he moved forward, she took a step back. “Remember how I used to rub your feet in bed at night and we’d talk about our dreams?”

  Barbara clamped her hands over her ears. “For Chrissakes, get out of here. And take them with you.”