with a pointy nose and glasses that seemed intent on escaping
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 o
f 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
Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy #1) Page 5