by Vesper Young
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Would you like the same spot you had last time?”
We exchanged a glance.
Last time the restaurant had been so packed there was only one cramped corner booth. Mindy had practically squeezed herself into the corner at the start, but it had failed to disguise the proximity. I’d felt every nervous twitch of her knee against mine and she’d been close enough I could smell the vaguely citrus scent coming from her hair that smelled better than any luxurious perfume I’d ever known.
Really, the place was half empty. We could have a reasonably sized table easily.
Apparently the hostess got tired of waiting for us to decide.“Well, my mama always said silence is a yes. Right this way.”
The hostess led us back to the same corner, popped the menus on the table, and went back to her stand and her cellphone.
I slid into the cushioned booth part. The chair was back today, but to my surprise, Mindy went next to me.
I inhaled discreetly. The same citrusy smell filled my nostrils.
“Oh, the chair is back.” She sounded startled. She started to lift her body off the space next to me. “I can go there.”
I grabbed her hand under the table, then stared at our hands. It was like a reflex to keep her close. Childish.
“Or I could stay here,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off.
I debated telling her it hadn’t been intentional and we could even change tables if she wanted, but she settled back next to me and I personally didn’t feel like changing anything about the setup.
I handed her a menu.
She looked down at it without really seeing it. Her lips quirked up and down, as though she was having some great internal debate.
If she offered to pay again, I’d have kill her, I mused.
Finally, one side won out and she looked back up at me.
“Um, not to pry, but is everything okay?”
My good humor faded. Reality crashed back inside me like a tornado against glass the claimed to be tornado proof but hadn’t weathered a storm like this.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she went on as I let the silence stretch between us. “You just seem a bit out of it since you came back from the hospital.”
“They say he has one month left. At most.” There, the words were out in the cold light of a two-dollar-pint bar.
She didn’t jump to sympathy. “Hasn’t he already blown the expectancy out of the water? Who says the prognosis is so bad?”
I gave a low laugh. Once again, she echoed my sentiments. “The top cancer treatment center on the east coast says so, Mindy. And if I thought there was a substantially better one in the west, that’s where he’d be. Yes, he outlived the average expectancy at diagnosis with a strict regimen and treatment, but that was before it fully penetrated. Now he’s beyond their help.”
“I’m sorry, Deacon.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. “The worst is that I can see it. At first, it wasn’t so bad. He’d sit down suddenly from the pain but he’d recover. Then he just wouldn’t stand again for a while. Now, it’s constant. He tries not to show it—he’s a tough bastard when he wants to be. But this is it. I can’t do anything else.”
She clenched my hand under the table. A pulse of heat went up my arm.
“You can spend time with him. It’s not easy, seeing our parents as utterly mortal. One day, he’ll be gone. And it sucks it’s a lot sooner than it should be.”
Her deep green eyes sparkled with emotion and I felt another pulse go into my hand.
“But we don’t get to choose when we lose our parents. We just have to hold onto them while we can.”
“You’re right.” I sighed. There would be many late night visits in my future.
We let the quiet sit between us for a moment.
“What happens to Blake Enterprises?” she asked.
“I’ll take over as CEO. My father built this company from the ground up and I’ll see it grow to twice its net worth within the next decade.”
“Wow. Humble much?”
I smiled. I didn’t need humility when it came to my job. “It’s less egotistical than it sounds. Our growth had been slow for a few years while recovering from the last crisis. We weren’t diversified enough at the time to get by unscathed. Now we’re finally in a position to expand but we’ve stagnated since my father’s diagnosis.” The company was like a headless cockroach. We were surviving, but we couldn’t go on forever like this.
“Why haven’t you taken over as CEO?”
Wasn’t that the multi-million dollar question? “It’s a busy time even at my level. This Dukas deal is large and delicate since it’s our biggest international venture to date.”
Mindy nodded, the epitome of understanding. “Uh-huh. My power-hungry, tireless boss avoided rising in his company because it was too hard. I get it.”
A bark of laughter erupted from my chest. “Is that how you see me? Power-hungry?”
“In my more charitable moments.”
I snorted. She had a sharp tongue once she loosened up. I stared at the mouth that housed said tongue and imagined ways to muffle such hurtful words.
“At least tireless isn’t so bad,” I remarked.
“I can do obsessive, too.”
“You wound me, Ms. Killip.”
“I can do a lot more than that,” she smirked.
“Oh?” This was interesting. “Do tell.”
Her eyes narrowed as she replayed her words. Then her cheeks bloomed a lovely pink. “Shush—you—just answer the question, Deacon, or I’ll get out my nasty words.”
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.
“Yes, I heard it too. Just tell me why you really aren’t CEO, in name or at least action.”
I looked away, trying to gather my thoughts. There were so many parts and I still wasn’t sure how they fit together.
“Well, he’s been CEO for the past thirty-some years. People know him, they respect him. It’s a big space to fill suddenly.” That felt close to the truth.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, is the lil’ business mogul scared?” she asked in a falsetto. “Yeah, right.” She returned to her normal voice. “Pass the pillowcase, because you’re giving me bullfeathers. Can you think of a single time you haven’t risen to the challenge?”
She paused as if it wasn’t a rhetorical question. I thought back. There had been challenges, absolutely, but I’d always believed I’d figure it out and I always had. If it took hard work and smarts, I could do it.
She nodded at whatever she saw in my expression. “In the eleven months I’ve worked for you, I’ve never seen you out of control. You enter a situation and you own it. CEO won’t be any different. You have your own connections who respect you and you have the same name as th company.”
True. “Okay, since you seem to know everything about me. Why haven’t I taken over as CEO?”
“Because you’re loyal. Your dad’s identity has been CEO of Blake Enterprises for most of his life and all of yours, right?”
I nodded.
“You don’t want to take that away from him. It’s his dignity. His pride.”
When she put it like that, it resonated. It was sentimental of me.
“Great. I’m being stupid because I pity my dad and don’t want his feelings to get hurt.” Could I be any more pathetic?
“That’s not it at all.”
“Yes, it is. It’s stupid. When I assume the head role, people will be used to going on without such a position and it’ll take time to assume that authority in the structure of the company, let alone as a new player. We’ll be floundering for at least a quarter.” Already I tried to figure out how I could establish myself as a similar-but-better CEO with maximal damage control.
“It is not stupid,” she protested.
“Really? There’s no business upside to allowing this power vacuum. As it is, the board is discreetly having our company evaluated. They’re acting like we’re dead in the water, because eve
n though this has been a slight pause in our upward trajectory, they act like we’re sinking.”
“No, there may not be a business upside,” she conceded. Finally. Getting her to agree with me on anything was a victory. “But there is an emotional one. You’re letting him hold on to a piece of him that’s absolutely vital.”
It was stupid. I changed the topic to avoid further argument, and with a pointed look, Mindy was gracious enough to let me do so. Her laser focus as a secretary had been fantastic. As someone I ate lunch with, it made her a difficult conversation partner.
Despite the heavy topic we started on, I enjoyed myself. Her opinions were passionate and thought out. She had peculiarly strong opinions on pockets in women’s pants, but I figured anyone as fashion conscious as Mindy was bound to have some peculiar beliefs.
The check came, and the only thing that saved me was that she’d forgotten her wallet in her haste, much to her horror. Call me a chauvinist, but I always paid for meals with others. It granted you credibility in the business world and in high society, as long as you didn’t make a show of it and made it obvious it wasn’t up for debate.
Mindy vowed next time she’d get the check.
***
Over the next couple of weeks, I visited almost every other day either after work or in the weekend mornings. I brought Mindy each time. After proving I was good to my word about the loan payments, she put up less of a fight. The only snag we hit was I insisted on modifying out contracts to include I would pay for a meal afterwards.
She’d snickered when I proposed it, then stared openmouthed when I told her I was serious that morning. I told her I was happy to debate several things, but this one argument was tedious. She refused to sign, so I retaliated by ordering in lunch each day until she agreed.
It was the little things.
The visits with my father were undeniably more pleasant for both of us with her there. I got better at cards, to Mindy’s utter vexation. My father perked up every time he saw us, but he deflated faster and faster. Our visits grew shorter and shorter. I hated it more and more.
At work, we remained professional, though both of us were more relaxed. She grew blunter and I teased her about the occasional odd-colored choice that I secretly loved. Who else would wear orange flats and the same green pants I loved that clung to her hips in that perfect way?
Half the time we even stopped to eat a proper lunch together, which was a habit I’d never been inclined to take up before. The enjoyment I got those few weeks when we spent so much time together was bittersweet. The end was coming but when I was with Mindy I could almost believe it wouldn’t be devastating.
Then I got the call.
Mindy 12
The call came on a Tuesday morning. It was less than twelve hours after we’d visited. I knew right away there was only one reason the hospital name would be lighting up my caller ID display.
“Please hold,” I said. My voice cracked.
In the past, I’d buzzed Deacon’s calls in from the speaker on my desk to his. Back then, he’d been Mr. Blake and his door had been perpetually shut. These past few days I’d just called over since he left the door propped.
I couldn’t yell this across the corridor. I stood. Each step closer to the door felt more final.
He saw me at the doorway, a look of confusion wrinkled across his brow.
“Deacon? It’s the hospital.”
I saw the moment he knew. I closed the door halfway to give him privacy and went back to my desk. Who could work? I stared at the door.
Thirty seconds later, Deacon stormed through the door. He didn’t look at me as he fled the office. He stayed out for two hours, then stormed back in the way he’d come.
I tried to read the expression on his face. It was eerily blank.
He reentered the office and then the door was shut behind him.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I handled any pressing emails. People called from various businesses to send their condolences. I stared at the closed door and thanked them for their wishes, then jotted down a list of everyone who phoned. I figured if it was someone truly close to the family they’d call his cellphone.
But no personal calls came to me. The ringing stopped abruptly at five o’clock when the business day ended. For most people, that is. I kept staring at the shut door.
Frederick Blake had been a good boss and a good man from what I’d heard around the office and seen for myself. But Deacon was his son. No matter who he was to everyone else, he was Deacon’s father.
I seldom left at five since Deacon typically dictated my schedule and he worked obscenely long hours under normal circumstances. Eight or nine were typical. I usually found ways to occupy myself, putting out fires big and small and whatever else was needed. Over the past year, I’d gotten a good sense of how to do my job in a way that kept the office running seamlessly.
I suspected there was an inferno behind that closed. I had no idea what to do about it.
So I stayed at my desk.
The last words I’d said to Deacon were it’s the hospital. It had been the professional thing to say, and during office hours we maintained our professional boundaries.
The clock on the wall ticked by. Tick. Tock. Tick.
I stared at the door.
Tock. Tick. Tock.
Any minute not, he’d come out. I had to see him. He was right there; it had been hours. He’d be out any minute.
Tick. Tock.
He’d come back icy, hard. He was pushing away his grief because it hurt. It was an excellent strategy, except it wouldn’t work. Our emotions weren’t things we could brute force or outmaneuver, otherwise, I would’ve come to terms with my mother a decade ago.
Tick.
I looked at the clock again. Then I rubbed my eyes because it couldn’t have been right. I had to be confusing the hour and minute hand.
I pulled out my phone for confirmation. It automatically lit up with the time. 11:38. He’d been shut in his office for almost twelve hours.
I got up and knocked on the door softly.
Nothing sounded in the office beyond the infuriating tick-tock clock.
I knocked louder.
Still nothing.
Finally, I opened the door. Slowly, I peeked in.
He was at his computer. His desk was uncharacteristically buried under mounds of paper, open folders, what looked like a map, and various legal documents.
“Deacon?”
He didn’t turn his head away from the monitor. “You’re still here? You can go home.”
“Deacon, it’s almost midnight.”
It was stupid. That was the least of what was wrong with this picture. It sounded better than “Deacon, your father died, how on earth are you working now?”
He acknowledged neither my literal question nor the subtext in it.
I took a step farther into the room. The rest of the room was immaculate, as always. Only the desk and the person sitting at it were a mess. Then another. He didn’t notice. I walked around to see what he was looking at.
It was the flipping Dukas Shipping expansion.
I placed a palm on his shoulder. Underneath my hand, I felt him jump up and his chair spun towards me.
He blinked as if finally processing I was here.
“Deacon,” I murmured.
He looked away, his eyes scanning the room wildly. It was perhaps the most out of control gesture I’d ever seen my boss make.
His father was dead.
A dark cloud filled the vacant look on his face. The confusion turned to something worse. Not anger, not heartbreak, but I suspected the awful combination of the two and everything in between we wrestle with when something knocks our world off-kilter.
He stood abruptly, forcing me to stumble backward.
“I can’t be here.”
He stormed out of the room. I hurried after him.
He exited our office space, his long strides carrying him quickly down the empty corridor.
&n
bsp; He stopped in front of a print on a wall. It was some inoffensive office art, though I could tell it was an original rather than a print.
“He picked this out when he got his first office space. Every expansion after, it came.”
He stomped down farther into the cubicles.
“These stupid convertible standing desks were supposed to help productivity. Who fucking cares now?”
He continued his tirade throughout the building.
Art. Office supplies. The layout. Everything seemed to remind him of Fred.
He went down the stairs, practically running to the bottom. I kept following him. We reached outside.
The night was dark. Only the smallest sliver of the moon lit it. And cold. I’d left my sweater upstairs.
Deacon moved on, slowly now. He didn’t seem calm, though. He seemed like a grenade that had its pin pulled and you knew something was about to go wrong even though at the moment it was an unexploded piece of plastic.
He was stopped in front of the shining plaque that declared that the entire building was Blake Enterprises
One second he stared at it. The next he slammed a fist into it. Then another.
“Deacon! Stop!”
I tried to grab his arms but he pounded the plaque again. He didn’t seem to see me.
“Deacon, your father wouldn’t have wanted this.” He wouldn’t have wanted his son to fall apart or to hurt himself in the process.
He turned on me. His immaculate hair had come out of place, his eyes crazed.
“Who fucking cares what he would’ve wanted. He’s not here is he?”
He looked around. “Dad? Dad? You there?”
“Deacon,” I started.
“Nope, didn’t think so. He’s dead, Mindy. He’s gone. Passed away. With his maker. Permanently retired. Whatever stupid euphemism you want to use. He’s dead, Mindy,” he repeated.
He collapsed against the wall. A bloody hand came up to his face, and I saw he was crying.
“He’s dead.”
I slid down next to him. I didn’t know what I could do to make the pain go easier. A hug? A hand? Some magic words that could make the hurt ease? There weren’t any. I wished for something to protect him from the ache he felt.