Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy Book 1)

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Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy Book 1) Page 5

by Abigail Easton


  his face.

  He lifted his gaze and pushed the glasses up the bridge of

  his nose. They immediately slid back down. He sighed. “Feet

  off my desk and butt out of my chair, please.”

  When Cole didn’t immediately oblige, Mr. Bradley nudged

  Cole’s feet.

  Angela lifted an eyebrow and shot Cole a smug smile. She

  sat in a chair facing the desk. Cole stood and rounded the desk. “You still shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

  Cole settled into the chair beside her.

  Mrs. Bradley walked in with three mugs of coffee. She set

  one in front of each of them, and then busied herself with

  sugar and cream.

  “Just black,” Cole said.

  “Same for me,” Angela echoed. She was a latté addict, but

  today she needed her caffeine undiluted.

  “One and two for me,” Mr. Bradley said, offering his wife

  one of his rare smiles.

  Angela saw a blush creep into the woman’s skin, and then

  she tidied her tray and hurried out of the office. Mr. Bradley

  sat tall in his seat and opened a file.

  “It’s good to see you, Angela. I wish it were under better

  circumstances. How are you holding up?”

  “Fine.” She lifted her mug to her lips.

  “Good, good. Now Cole, you already know the status of

  the arena’s financials. Angela, Cole or I will share the specifics

  with you later, but the sum of it is that the weekly circuit events

  haven’t brought in even close to the amount of money they

  used to. And the annual pro event didn’t even break even last

  year. Which, I’m afraid, brings us to this…” Mr. Bradley

  paused to take a deep breath. “We have a buyer who’s willing

  to give you double market value for the land. Cash.” Cole swore under his breath.

  Angela sipped her coffee. “I don’t understand,” she said,

  looking at Cole. “Isn’t that good news?”

  “The land, Angie.” Cole shook his head. “Not the arena.

  They want the land. It’s the only thing with any value. Who’s

  the buyer?” Cole asked the lawyer.

  Mr. Bradley fingered the papers in front of him. “You

  know I’ve always been straight with you, Cole. I knew your

  mama and daddy. Joan and I used to watch after you when you

  were a baby. And you know I would never advise you to do

  something you were fundamentally against. But this arena’s

  being run dry. You’re no businessman. And neither was Henry.

  This is a good offer. Now, I know you well enough to know it

  won’t be easy for you to do this. But you both need to think

  long and hard about this and consider what’s best in the long

  run.”

  Cole leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Who wants it?” “The Montana Drilling Coalition.”

  Cole jerked as though someone had slapped the back of

  his head. “The drilling coalition?! How could you even talk to

  them about this, Charlie? You know what that would do to this

  town.”

  Mr. Bradley sighed. Angela sipped her coffee, and Cole sat

  back in his chair, fuming.

  “You’re paying the arena workers’ salaries with money

  from your ranch,” Mr. Bradley reminded Cole. “How long do

  you think that’s going to hold out? Are you willing to let your

  ranch – your father’s legacy – get dragged down, too?” “There’s my winnings. They’ll keep the ranch and the arena

  afloat.”

  “And how much is that injury going to set you back?” Mr.

  Bradley pointed to the cast on Cole’s arm. “It looks like you’re

  out for the season. How many missed rodeos does that amount

  to?”

  “You’re the executor of Henry’s estate.” Cole stood. “How

  much commission do you stand to make from this deal?” “Cole.” Angela set the mug down and stood, her head

  pounding.

  Mr. Bradley didn’t give her the chance to speak. He slid the

  glasses off his nose and laid them on the desk. “I’m sorry, Cole,

  I truly am. I’m not advising you as the executor, or even as an

  attorney. I’m telling you this as a friend. You have to know

  that.”

  “What about the circuit boys? Where will they compete ‘til

  they’re ready to go pro? And the workers? Where will they go?” “Oil’s big money,” Mr. Bradley offered. “It’ll bring jobs.” Cole swore again. Loudly. “It’ll bring a lot more than that.

  It’ll change this town. You know that!”

  “I’m selling my half to them.”

  The lawyer and Cole both turned to Angela, their silence

  finally granting her audience to speak.

  “It’s the only option,” she asserted. The hopelessness of

  the situation bore down on her. The night she had sat on her

  foyer floor, after losing her job, her apartment and her

  boyfriend, she’d thought that maybe there was something left

  for her in Grace. Maybe something could be salvaged from the

  recent wreckage that was her life, even if it meant revisiting the

  wreckage of the past.

  She looked at the faces of Cole and the attorney, and

  realized what a fool she had been.

  “My father gave the arena to me knowing there wouldn’t

  be enough money to keep it going and we’d be forced to sell.” “It makes no difference,” Cole said. “I won’t sell.” Angela gathered her things. “I don’t want it going to the

  coalition, either, but frankly, it’s not my problem. You can fight

  them if you want, but the partnership agreement allows me to

  sell my half to whomever I choose.”

  “Then what? You take the money and run away again?” “It’s what I do, isn’t it?” She took two business cards out

  of her briefcase. Angela Donnelly, Junior Analyst – now a lie. The

  phone number was still the same, though. At least until she

  could no longer afford to pay the cell phone bill. She laid the

  cards on the desk and faced Cole. “This time I’ll say ‘goodbye’.

  Goodbye, Cole. Mr. Bradley, I’ll be leaving on the first flight

  out I can get. I trust you to negotiate the price, but I’m glad to

  assist. Keep me apprised. I’m sure we can handle things via

  FedEx and over email.”

  Cole picked up her card. “Junior Analyst,” he read. “What

  exactly does that mean?”

  “I analyze and assess businesses, evaluate problems and

  develop strategies for improvement,” she answered

  automatically, reaching into her bag for her car keys. Mr. Bradley and Cole smiled at each other, and then at her. “Seems to me,” Cole said easily, “what the Bullpen Arena

  needs is a Junior Analyst.”

  “I concur,” said Mr. Bradley.

  “No.” Angela shook her head fervently and moved to the

  door. “That could take months and I can’t stay. I’m sorry.” She hurried out the door.

  Cole called after her as she left the room, but she kept

  going, already determined to retreat.

  “Angie, wait!” He caught up with her as she stepped onto

  the Main Street sidewalk. “Just wait a minute, will ya?” She whirled around and stumbled in her heels. “Why’d you come back?” Cole demanded.

  “Isn’t it obvious? To claim the arena.”

  “No. There’s more to it than that.”

  “Maybe.”
Her chest ached, the air in her lungs stifled by

  the wet heat. Cole’s accusing stare forced a knot into her belly.

  “But it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving.”

  “I think you’re right. Henry left the arena to you just so he

  could make you walk away. And he wanted it to sting.” Cole’s

  voice rose. He didn’t bother to curb his temper. “I’d like to

  think he pegged you all wrong, sweetheart.”

  “He did peg me wrong, but I have nothing to prove to him,

  or to you. It’s over, Cole. Accept it and sell your half, too. You

  don’t have the money to fight this. Don’t bring down Doug’s

  legacy over this.”

  “It’s my arena.” Cole gritted his teeth, desperation and

  anger steaming in his eyes. “Mine. It always has been, even

  before I bought it.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m doing what I have to do.

  You’d be wise to do the same.”

  “There she is folks!” Cole said loudly, looking around as

  he gestured to Angela and took a wide step back. No one else

  was on the street, but he continued speaking as though to a

  crowd: “Miz Angela Donnelly, cold-hearted businesswoman

  extraordinaire!”

  “You haven’t grown up a bit, Cole. You’re as a much of an

  immature jerk as you’ve always been.” Angela turned and

  walked away, the click of her heels punctuating her steps. ****

  Angela had traveled this same road, for a similar purpose,

  almost fifteen years ago. But running away never got easier.

  This time, New York was not an escape; it was a prison laden

  with uncertainties of its own, tainted by the things that had

  once drawn her there. Even as the familiarity of her apartment,

  her office – her life – beckoned her, she was struck by the stark

  realization that it was all a ghost of what she once had. She thought of the things she had given up, and those she

  had left behind. A client had given her an aged bottle of merlot,

  which she had been saving for a special occasion. Now it sat in

  a box in storage, destined to turn to vinegar. There was the

  farmers’ market down the block and the coffee shop on the

  corner, where they knew her drink by memory. Would they

  even know she had left? And there were the choices she had

  made. The dirty subway stations; trash on the sidewalk at dusk. A nearly empty back account and maxed out credit cards. No job. No apartment.

  Jeffrey.

  She would not stoop to begging him for her job back. Maybe she should just move somewhere else entirely. She

  had no job, no family, no roots, and one credit card that still

  had an open limit. She was headed to the airport where a

  thousand different destinations were just a plane trip away. She

  could go to L.A. Or Alaska. Or Spain. She knew enough

  Spanish to get by.

  Angela had just begun to entertain the fantasy of walking

  through the Puerta del sol when the sign announcing the turn to

  the Bullpen Arena flashed in her peripheral.

  She slammed on the brakes, coming to a complete stop in

  the center of the highway. Her pulse scrambled. Even with the

  windows shut and the air conditioning running she could hear

  the rusty sign creak on its hinges. The sound taunted her like

  an eight-year-old child singing “Na-na, na-na, naaa-na.” A

  glance in the rear view mirror revealed another car coming up

  fast behind her.

  She swore, ground into first gear, and squealed the tires as

  she took the turn. The car fishtailed when it transitioned from

  pavement to gravel. She knew she was going too fast, and later

  she would wonder what possessed her to take that long,

  winding road to the arena, but for now she knew only that she

  couldn’t not do it.

  She needed to see it one last time.

  As the car neared its destination the twin pillars to the

  entrance rose over the horizon. To the left was the ticket office,

  the midnight blue mini blinds pulled down.

  She parked and stepped out of the car and onto the gravel

  lot. The pungent scent of manure overcame her. Angela

  breathed shallowly and resisted the urge to cover her nose with

  her sleeve. She walked down the pathway into the open arena,

  beneath a roof held up by a circle of pillars.

  Air rushed through the open space. It twirled around the

  pillars and swept over and through aluminum stands with a

  quiet whoosh. The late morning sun stretched shadows across

  the freshly raked dirt.

  She rested her hand on the steel fence rung, musing on the

  oddity of her acrylic nails against the rusted steel. The same

  hand had once been that of a girl – with dirty nails – clutching

  the rail excitedly as she hung over the edge to catch a better

  view of the boys as they practiced, hoping one boy in particular

  would catch a view of her.

  Angela smiled sadly at the memory and pushed herself on

  down the aisle, toward the offices at the far end of the arena.

  The animals would be resting now as the crew prepared for the

  night’s events. She imagined the cowboys were resting as well,

  and the few that ran the offices here would be humming away

  silently. There had always been the excitement of silence

  before a rodeo. The air waited with great anticipation for the

  shouts and blood and pure adrenaline that pumped through

  here each Friday night during the summer circuit season. “I wondered when you’d get around to coming by.” Reed Sanderson, the arena’s events manager, walked out

  from one of the passageways between the stands. He had aged

  considerably, but his eyes still danced in the manner of a man

  who could either shoo a girl away or welcome her with open

  arms. It was the latter he greeted her with today. He removed

  thick black gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket, and then

  wrapped his arms around her.

  “I saw Cole this morning. He mentioned you were back.

  You look good, Angie.” Reed released her. “A fine woman

  you’ve grown into. How are you?”

  Angela laughed. “That’s a long story, I’m afraid. “I’m up for hearing it.”

  “I’m not up for telling it.” She smiled to soften the harsh

  tone of her voice.

  He nodded. “You were like that as a child, too, you know.

  Always bent on living life all alone inside that head of yours.” Angela scanned the arena again, needing to remove herself

  from Reed’s studying eye. “This place hasn’t changed a bit. A

  little more run down than I remember.”

  “Part of her charm. Not as many folks come to see her as

  they used to.”

  She took step alongside him, the dirt soft beneath her

  heels, and waited for the question she knew would come. “So you’ve come back to claim this, have you?” She smiled. If Reed was anything, he was predictable. “There’s not much to claim,” she said.

  Reed stopped and squinted. “Yeah, well, we’ve known that

  for some time. She had a good run, though.”

  “The drilling coalition wants the land.”

  Reed stopped walking and his eyes went dark. “Henry’s

  been selling off pieces of this land to those no-gooders for

  years.
If it weren’t for Cole buying up the last bit, we’d be

  standing beneath an oil rig right now.”

  “I’ve decided to sell my half to them. I’ve urged Cole to do

  the same with his half.”

  He looked at her the same way Cole had earlier. “They’ll get it anyway,” she said. “You know that.” “I’ll admit she’s got only a breath or two of life left in her.”

  He took a strong breath let it out shakily. “But don’t sell it to

  the coalition, Angie. Anybody but them.”

  “They’re the only willing buyers. The place isn’t worth

  anything to anyone else. Not even the land will draw another

  buyer, since the coalition owns every parcel surrounding this

  place.”

  The arena was quiet now, but the steady din of a summer

  crowd rang in her ears. She heard the laughter of children and

  the snorts of bulls; the announcers’ voices echoing through

  speakers hanging from the rafters.

  And she saw herself: eight years old standing next to Reed

  in the announcer’s stand, and then at sixteen, when Buddy

  Harper tried to steal a kiss beneath the stands. She’d been more

  interested in watching the action in the ring.

  She thought of the moment when, years later in New York,

  she had won her first account on her own, and how she’d

  equated the victory to that of a bull rider’s. She had stood in

  the conference room as a cowboy settles onto the beast’s back.

  All she had to do was hang on through the terror, until she felt

  the weight of the trophy in her hands.

  After a while, the victories were more easily won, the gleam

  of the trophy no longer a thrill.

  She thought of Jeffrey’s disdain as he took away her

  apartment; her sanctuary. It had been the last piece of the trophy

  she still cherished.

  Angela looked up at the rafters, its wood splintered and

  the paint chipped. It reminded her of the first time she had met

  Marco Salzman. Salzman and Sons Bakery had been on the

  verge of bankruptcy; Marco hadn’t been able to afford even a

  can of paint to fix the peeling sign out front. She had spent

  days poring over his accounts, searching for ways to revive the

  small business. Years later and thanks to Angela’s help, they

  were still thriving, with a chain of stores in each of the five

  boroughs and a few in New Jersey.

  Angela felt Reed’s stare. She turned to him and realized

 

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