The Executive

by Kimberley Montpetit

  Scrolling through the pages, she began to understand what Caleb did for business. DREAMS dealt in—well—a little bit of everything. Clothes, toys, furniture, jewelry, costumes, furnishings, draperies, vacations, hotel rooms. You name it.

  You could get expensive Disney plush toys for a fraction the cost.

  Diamond earrings for wholesale prices.

  A king-sized bed for a couple hundred dollars. Brand new.

  Cruises for a few hundred dollars to the Caribbean. Including island snorkeling and scuba diving excursions.

  Customers put out bids and companies around the globe supplied them.

  Goods in Asia, South America, and Africa, sold at wholesale prices, or less—through the DREAMS app.

  What a genius idea.

  And Caleb was the genius behind DREAMS. From the conversation, she caught in snatches tonight, Adam was the computer wizard and the rest of the guys found suppliers, flew around the world making deals, and somebody—maybe Ryan or another employee—was in charge of the shipping end of things. Somebody else customer service.

  The categories of goods—and services—was staggering. DREAMS was a monolithic company. Ten thousand variables and suppliers to supervise and oversee.

  Kira closed the lid to her laptop and switched off the TV, her mind buzzing from orange-dusted Doritos and caffeine.

  She got dressed for bed, put on thick socks, turned up the heat a little, and climbed under the thick comforter. Staring at the ceiling, she was thunderstruck all over again.

  Caleb Davenport was a freaking millionaire!

  Somebody she had gone to high school with.

  Reaching over to her nightstand, she snagged his business card again. No address was listed. Just an email, company website, and a customer service 1-800 number.

  Flipping open her laptop again, she typed in Caleb's name. How many Caleb Davenports were there in Denver? Only two. Caleb and his father. So Caleb was a junior. A Number 2. Caleb Davenport II.

  No address listed though.

  Heck, maybe he had homes in several places around the world.

  The guilt she'd been feeling over accepting a five-hundred-dollar tip dissipated.

  The guy could certainly afford it, despite the incongruity of the entire evening.

  With thoughts of Caleb swirling in her mind, the pure exhaustion from her day finally claimed Kira as she fell asleep, Miss Pixie curled around the bottom of the comforter.

  Chapter 7

  In the morning, dreams fled as soon as the sun hit Kira's eyes. Stretching just like her own lazy Miss Pixie, she grabbed her phone to check the time. It was nine-thirty.

  Flopping back down, she thought about last night again, scratching her cat behind the ears. Those men at her table—strangers to her except for vague memories of Troy. She hadn't really been the football fan in high school. Went to a few games, but not a die-hard fan. The only year she attended them regularly was when her best friend, Sally Quinn, had a crush on one of the players.

  When she did go, her friends and she strolled the field like a lot of the other girls, boy-watching, and gossiping about the various amorous couples making out under the bleachers. They bought snacks from the Parent's Association snack booth, cheered the team's good plays, and were jealous of the super popular cheerleaders.

  Caleb had been a computer nerd, but she had also been a nerd in high school. A music nerd. A scholastic nerd. A girl who had a few close friends, but not someone who partied on weekends, or a cheerleader, or the girlfriend of a sports star.

  Grabbing jeans and a blouse, Kira headed to the shower. After she was done dressing, Kira grabbed a bowl of cereal while watching one of the morning shows. She was only slightly interested, as they were already on the cooking segment.

  Give her an old movie on the TNT station, or A&E, or Masterpiece Theatre. She'd recently discovered a twenty-year-old BBC version of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier and was hoping to watch it on Netflix this weekend with a huge bowl of popcorn.

  "Oh, what a glamorous life I lead," Kira said while leaning over the bathroom sink to put on her makeup. "Popcorn and a movie set in 1927. Eek, that's ninety years ago!"

  She fixed a smudge of mascara and applied a light coat of lip gloss, muttering, "But such a delicious story of ghosts in a manor house—and a man who gets away with killing his wife."

  Fifteen minutes later, Kira pulled up at her parent's house. Not the beloved house she grew up in. That one had foreclosed two years ago when her father lost his job after the accident. This tiny thing with no lawn and broken concrete in the driveway, where weeds were sprouting like wildflowers, had been built after WWII. Old, cheap neighborhoods. Far from downtown and the newer suburbs of Denver.

  A knot of sorrow hardened in Kira's throat. The accident and the loss of their home had changed her parents. It had changed all of them.

  "Hey, Mom! Dad!" she called out when she pushed at the front door.

  "Sweetheart, you're here." Mrs. Bancroft said, wiping her hand on a towel as she came in from the kitchen.

  The straight hair she tended to tuck behind her ears was beginning to gray. She wore a pair of sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. Not exactly work clothes for her part-time school aid job. "I was just fixing waffles, want one?"

  "I thought you'd be at work," Kira said.

  "It's—it's Wednesday. Half day," she said awkwardly and then scurried back into the kitchen like a mouse.

  "But half days mean you work mornings and get off at one o'clock," Kira said, realizing that her mother was lying. "Is Dad okay?"

  "I'm fine," came her father's low rumble. "In here."

  Kira followed the voice for no more than five feet—the house was so tiny—into the family room.

  The TV was on, but her father was sitting by the light of the window, fussing with one of his plants. He'd always been a gardener on the weekends, planting flowers and vegetables during the summer. But ever since the accident he'd become avid at cultivating all kinds of things. Not just the biggest tomatoes, but miniature roses, various species of cactus and many more.

  His newest kick was bonsai trees, beautiful Japanese miniature trees. A tree you could hold in your hand with gnarled branches and funny greenery on top, like a man with a mop on his head. He'd been inspired after Kira wheeled him around the Botanical Gardens a few months ago in the late spring when the gardens were a riot of color and fragrance.

  In fact, a book about raising bonsai trees was open on the table next to him and he was taking a Saturday class through a community education program.

  Mr. Bancroft slid his hands over the wheels of his chair and flipped around to stick a bookmark inside before closing it.

  "My Kira-girl," he said now, his voice full of affection.

  "Hi, Dad," she said, leaning over to kiss his scratchy cheek. A fine stubble of silver beard ran across the folds of loose skin.

  "Do you mind raising those blinds across the room?" he asked now. "I hate the dark, even though there's no real view. Just the neighbors."

  "Sure, Dad," Kira said as she opened the blinds, opening up the view at the other houses on the street, patchy grass, and a broken-down car on the side yard across the street. The owner was underneath attempting to repair it, tools scattered across the driveway.

  The neighbors were nice enough, but junk in the yard always made a street feel dismal and cheerless.

  Maybe it was her.

  Despite her father receiving disability, it was a fraction of what he used to make. After losing their savings in an attempt to save their home of thirty years, Kira's parents had nothing except medical bills. Even though her mother had a part-time job, it paid a pittance, mostly to help the grocery bill. Besides, she wouldn't leave her husband for more than a few hours. Kira did what she could to help out by contributing to their mortgage payment, but finances for all of them were stretched to the breaking point.

  Kira took a seat at her father's work table filled with plants and splotches of spilled soil. "Hey, Dad," she s
aid in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen where the sound of plates and silverware came. "What's up with Mom's job? Did she call in sick today?"

  "School lay-offs. It's actually been a few weeks ago now. The school year began and then they laid off. Too many employees. Too many aides especially. I think she's embarrassed. Especially at her age."

  "But I'm her daughter. Why wouldn't she just tell me?"

  "She didn't want you to worry."

  "I'd be glad to help you guys more," Kira said. "But—" she stopped, chewing at her lip.

  Her Dad's silver-blue eyes nailed hers in a stare. He'd aged so much since the accident, his hair turning pure white as though he was already eighty years old. "You already help more than you should." His voice grew ragged. "My accident ruined your whole life, kiddo. I'll never forgive myself."

  "Dad!" Kira said, grasping his hand. "Stop saying that. There's nothing to forgive. It was snowy and icy and you had a flat tire." Her throat grew thick, hating how her father was tormented over how drastically all their lives had changed.

  "I should have radioed for help and thought it would be faster to do it myself."

  "There's no going back. Nobody could have predicted. I'm just grateful you're still alive. There were worse outcomes," she added, tears swimming in her eyes.

  "My life insurance would have kept you in school and your mother in comfort. Disability is worse."

  "I'd still rather have you than any money."

  "Ah, Kira, darlin', you are the light of my life. You were the most talented out of all of my kids and it's probably too late."

  Kira smiled tightly. It probably was too late, but she wasn't going to tell her father that. Besides, there was no end to her parent's financial struggle. This was their life from now on. "I've been thinking I need to enroll part-time in school and get a degree I can use that will double my salary. I just sort of dropped into waitressing accidentally."

  "What kind of degree?"

  "Business? Engineering? Computer software?"

  Her father chuckled. "Right. My pianist daughter sitting at a computer all day writing code."

  "Hey, I'm a fast typist."

  Her Dad went quiet and he took her hand in both of his, his palms warm and gentle. "What's going on?" he asked now. "I can tell something is up. Your frown lines are growing the longer you sit here."

  Kira laughed. "Maybe you should take up card-reading and tell people's fortunes, Dad. We could make a sign and hang it out by the mailbox. Fifty bucks an hour."

  His lips quirked up in a grin, but he just waited for her to spill out the latest.

  "Okay, okay. Last night when I got home from the restaurant, there was an Eviction Notice on my door. But I paid my rent. I've never missed, never even been late—although sometimes it's by the skin of my teeth."

  "Gotta be a mistake."

  "It had my name and apartment number on it."

  All of a sudden Kira couldn't breathe. She'd just remembered that she'd given her mother her rent checks to mail for her. A month ago, she'd been here for dinner right before the first of September. Mom had been doing her own bills and volunteered to take Kira's to the post office since she had them in her handbag that night. Since Kira had gotten a work bonus during August and had logged lots of overtime, she'd paid two months at once.

  She should have gone online last night and checked her account to see if the checks had been cashed. That dratted eviction notice. She also needed to contact her landlord. Beg for time to figure out what had happened.

  "What's going on inside that pretty head of yours?" her father asked.

  "Nothing. I'll figure it out."

  "Breakfast!" her mother called gaily, setting down plates of steaming waffles and a pitcher of warmed syrup on the table.

  They ate while her mother chatted about nothing. Kira gulped down her waffles in five minutes and stood. "Are all my things—my books and stuff—still in the shed?"

  "Far as I know," Mom said. "What do you need?"

  "Looking for my old yearbooks."

  "Why would you want to look at those?"

  "I ran into some guys last night who said they graduated with me, but I don't remember them. Thought I'd look them up."

  Her mother, who was always asking about dates and boyfriends perked up. "Sounds interesting! Anybody catch your eye?"

  "No, mother," Kira said firmly. "I also learned that my class is having our ten-year high school reunion in a couple of weeks. Did the announcement come in the mail?"

  Her mother frowned, her eyes darting about the room. "Um, I don't know."

  "Yes, Claire, you showed it to me," her father said. "Came about a month ago. I thought you gave it to Kira."

  "I'm sure I did."

  Kira glanced at her father and once again, their eyes caught meaningfully. Then her dad broke off the glance and stared down at his empty plate.

  "I think I'd remember that, Mom. I felt a little stupid not knowing a thing about it last night when those guys were asking me if I was going."

  "Wouldn't your friend Sally have told you?"

  "She lives in Connecticut, remember? Even if she received one—if her parents forwarded it on—she couldn't afford to fly across the country to attend. Plus, she has a new baby."

  "Oh, yes," Mom said vaguely.

  "Look through the stack of papers in the master bedroom," Dad suggested. "And that basket of magazines and newspapers."

  Kira rose from the table and stacked the breakfast plates. When she returned to the front room, Dad was staring wistfully out the window while her mother was already absorbed in The Price is Right.

  It was painful to watch her active, vibrant, strong father stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Their future plans of traveling when he retired had vanished, and her mother was becoming more forgetful. Kira wondered about her mother's mental health, as well as her memory. Losing her job at the school didn't help. Was the reason her mother didn't tell her about getting laid off because she was embarrassed or because she had forgotten?

  Life sucked. "Make that SUCKS in all caps," Kira muttered, returning to the kitchen to rinse the breakfast dishes and stick them in the dishwasher.

  After scouring the waffle griddle, it was time to solve a few little mysteries.

  First, she riffled through the basket on her parent's dresser, the top junk drawer of the bureau, and her mother's bathroom drawers.

  Kira sucked in a breath when she discovered amidst a jumble of receipts inside an outdated ledger from five years ago on her parent's bookcase, one of the rent checks from two months ago. Still in the envelope, stamped, and ready to be posted. But where was the second check?

  For the moment, she had to get some fresh air. She'd take a break and do a search for her high school yearbooks.

  Trudging outdoors, she unlocked the shed, leaving footprints in the dusty floor while she searched through a stack of boxes marked Kira. At the rate she was going, she'd never own her own home. She should probably just torch it all.

  When she raised the box lids she gave a small gasp at the sight of so many old books, old letters, games, and dolls. Nostalgia hit her. How could she get rid of all of this? It was her life. Back when life was innocent and sweet. Before her father's accident. Before she had to quit school. Before Roger Caldwell, who broke her heart two years ago when her dad was in the hospital hovering between life and death and ran off with some girl he met on a cruise. A cruise! He'd lied about that, too. He'd gone on a singles cruise purposely to meet women.

  Good riddance. The time she spent with him felt wasted when he threw her off so easily. Ever since Roger the Jerk, it was hard to trust, to give her heart to anyone.

  By the time Kira dug through the final box, the shed was stifling hot, even for October, and the weak overhead light bulb was making her eyes ache with strain.

  She'd just about given up when she felt the hard corners of the stack of yearbooks and quickly wrenched them from the box. One for every year of high
school.

  They were out of order but she opened the very last one. Senior year. The only year that mattered, really. Sitting cross-legged, she sat on the dusty wooden floor and leaned back against one of the wooden crates.

  Slowly, she flipped the pages, memories flooding over her. Pictures of her teachers. Football games and the team. Skinny guys in their padded uniforms. Photos of the Drama Club putting on Camelot on the stage in the cafeteria.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed. Staring out from the snapshot was herself and Sally, including a couple other girls she used to have lunch with. The yearbook staff had caught them laughing at a table over spaghetti and French bread. Pieces of chocolate cake sat uneaten next to them. Back when she could eat anything all day long and never gain a pound.

  Finally, she turned to the graduating class pictures. The fancy ones where the seniors went to the portrait studio and took professional glamour shots.

  Hers came up first in alphabetical order, of course. Kira Marie Bancroft. "Hm, not too bad," she murmured. "At least my hair didn't suck too much that day."

  Biting at her lips, Kira kept going, almost afraid to continue looking, but what did she have to be afraid of?

  The C's flipped past and then the D's.

  Caleb Davenport. There he was, smack dab in the middle of the row.

  This Caleb Davenport was not the Caleb Davenport who dined at her table last night.

  This Caleb Davenport had acne, greasy hair hanging in his eyes—well, only slightly greasy, perhaps his mother made him wash it that day and he just forgot to scrub and rinse. He had a half grimace for a smile and sleepy eyes like someone had to wake him up to say "cheese".

  This Caleb Davenport looked like a loser.

  Which wasn't very nice, Kira supposed. But this Caleb Davenport wasn't a boy she would have looked at twice—let alone once.

  Kira laughed, running a finger along the center of the page. "I think you might be playing a joke on me, Mr. Caleb Davenport, CEO of DREAMS. I'm not sure this is even you. In fact, I'd make a bet it isn't. Just someone with the same name."