by N. C. Lewis
Now, she loathed the monthly call.
There was a soft knock on her office door.
"Amelia." A short, ferret-faced woman poked her head around the door. "I've got the updated numbers." She waved a file in the air like a white flag.
"Come in, Florence."
Florence hurried toward her desk.
Amelia glanced at the numbers. "That can't be right," she screamed, slapping the file hard on her desk.
Florence fled.
The numbers were worse than last month, as they were in Paris, New York, and the Austin office. If the markets kept on their downward slide, it wouldn’t be long before investors withdrew funds. They weren't there yet, thank goodness.
Now, Amelia shifted uncomfortably in her seat staring at the desk phone, waiting for this month's call with Barry Battles. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. Late, as always.
She pushed back her chair and walked around her desk to a small table by the door, picked up her handbag and shook out two pills, washing them down with a half glass of water. The pills kept her thin but made her feel lousy.
When she was ten she saw a motivational speaker. "The key to success," he had said, "is to keep a goals journal." And she had. It paid off at school, where she was top of her class in arts, science, and music. Each success had been written down as a goal, and with practice, patience, and time—achieved.
Back at her desk, she stared at the phone, half closed her eyes, drifting into thought. The years she had devoted to Battles Equity Partners went by like a movie in her mind. As the highs and lows flashed in vivid colors, she wondered whether joining the firm had been the right choice.
She'd planned to rise straight to the top and take over when the aging Mr. Battles stepped down. It was all mapped out in her personal goals notebook. She had hit every milestone of her five-year plan, except one—becoming the deputy to Mr. Battles. And she was working on that, confident it was only a matter of time.
And the cost? She remembered Adam Banks, a tall handsome man with chestnut-brown eyes and a square jawline. Adam said he loved her, wanted to marry, settle down. But it wasn't in her goals notebook. Marriage wasn't part of her plan, but secretly she loved him, deeply. Now, he was gone, married to a blue-eyed Scottish girl with flowing, brown locks and pockmarked red cheeks. With three children and a fourth on the way, Adam Banks was lost forever.
The phone rang. Stunned by the abruptness of it and by its incessant clamor erupting into her thoughts, Amelia sat for a few moments, swallowing hard to control her rising nausea. Then slowly, she stretched out her hand to pick up the receiver.
"You know why I'm calling you early, Amelia," Barry boomed. "You saw the figures and you know your numbers and where they stand—dead last."
"Mr. Battles," she said, hunched over the desk cradling the phone in her shoulder. "There are logical reasons for the falloff. The European economy is slowing down. The markets are down, and investor confidence has taken a slide with it."
"Don't give me that crap," Barry spat. "I'm not interested in your reasons. The only thing I care about is results, and right now you ain't delivering."
Amelia clasped and unclasped her hands. "But, Mr. Battles, the numbers are weak across the board. Wealthy investors are spooked by the talk of recession and the slide in the markets."
"I hired you to sell our fund to European investors. I want sales!" He paused, his voice softened. "Amelia, remember how we talked about promotion to be my deputy and what that could mean for you, financially?"
"Yes," she answered hopefully.
"I can't go on running the whole show forever."
"No," she replied. "No one can." There had been rumors that Mr. Battles would retire soon. If he promoted her to deputy she'd achieve her five-year plan and be in line for the top spot when he stepped down.
"Amelia, I'm inviting you to come to the Austin office for my birthday."
"Oh!" Her spirits rose. "I'd be delighted."
"Good, good," Barry boomed down the line.
Amelia smiled inwardly. The deputy position would be her holding post until Barry retired or she could muster enough support to oust him. She could do it. See the competition, kill the competition, every last son of a gun. Mentally, she began work on her next five-year plan. I will step into Barry's shoes before I'm forty.
Barry's voice stiffened. "I'm fifty-five at my next birthday. When I step down, I want someone at the helm who lives and breathes my philosophy. See the competition, kill the competition, every last son of a gun. Do you believe in that philosophy, Amelia?"
"Yes."
"Then where are the results? Where is the fruit?" he barked.
There was a silence. She'd sold the fund to Saudi royals vacationing in London, to Russian business moguls, and Nigerian oil tycoons, but she'd hit a dry patch. All she needed was a little time, hard work, and luck; toil through the next days and weeks. Soon, she'd be back on the right track, on the plan written down in her goals book.
Amelia cleared her throat. "But, Mr. Battles the economy is—"
Barry exploded. "Amelia, you haven't lived up to my expectations. If you were bacon, you wouldn't even sizzle. I've promoted Abay to be my deputy. You've got three months to turn things around at your end." He hung up.
That stung Amelia to the core. It wasn't fair. She was next in line for the promotion, the best performing salesperson for the past three years. How did Abay get to leapfrog her so easily? Her fists balled.
There was a soft knock on her door.
Florence poked her head into the office. "Amelia, Noel Laird is here for his ten a.m. appointment."
"Get out!" Amelia barked.
The door eased shut.
Besides her own rapid breathing and the tick-tock of the wall clock, there was no sound. Fury flooded through her veins like a fast rising tide on a rocky outcrop, suddenly gushing forth in great crashing waves. How could they give the deputy position to Abay? She was next in line. It was written in her goals book.
Amelia's hand grasped for her pill bottle. For several moments she stared intently at the label. Then her head came up with a jerk, and she smiled a twisted little smirk from the corner of her lips. She would get even with Barry Battles. Her mind worked quickly. What better place than at his birthday party.
Yes, it will be Barry Battles' last.
Chapter 3
It was a little after five on Friday afternoon. Judy Battles sat on a Ron Arad stainless steel sofa in the conservatory reading a magazine. Occasionally, she glanced through the French windows down onto the lake. Three white swans floated effortlessly across the surface in the late afternoon summer sun.
Judy had asked Barry for swans as a sign of his love. She'd gotten them, along with an engagement ring that was worth more than the apartment block where she lived in a tiny rented apartment. Six months later they married—her second husband, his sixth wife.
Judy put down the magazine, pressed her lips together tightly, and stood up. Lately, she'd hardly seen Barry. He worked long hours at the downtown building and seemed stressed all the time. Last week she'd found him late at night in his home office, arms splayed out across his desk, face resting on the cool surface, his eyes open and vacant. She knew it had something to do with the business, but he refused to say anything else.
She glanced at her figure in a mirror. At thirty-two, she was in the best shape of her life, thanks to her strict diet, waltz classes, and the surgeon's knife. With her hourglass figure, bleached blonde, shoulder-length hair, and aqua-blue eyes, she turned heads. And Barry Battles wanted that. "Trophy wife" he called her, and she loved it.
Judy sat back down, picking up the magazine, flicking through the glossy pages. Would Barry be home for dinner, or would she have to dine alone, again?
Barry wasn't one to talk about his business problems, at least not to her. "Talking doesn’t change things," he'd say. But Judy wanted to talk. She picked up her cell phone and called her best friend, Dorothy Simpson.
&nb
sp; "Judy, how's life in the castle?"
"Terrible."
"What's up?"
There was a sort of silence and then Judy said, "Barry."
"As if I needed to ask! It's always Barry. What's he done this time?"
"He's behaving oddly."
"When you have that much money what's normal?" Dorothy teased.
"Seriously, something is going on."
"Trouble in the business?"
"Yes and no."
"What do you mean?"
"He won't talk about the business, although I think things are bad."
"Has he sold your precious swans?"
"No."
"Then things can't be that bad…" Dorothy's voice trailed off as if she was thinking. "Ah, another woman?"
A hollow, sick sensation took a grip of Judy. "I think so."
"Who?"
"I don't know… his secretary," she said through clenched teeth as the color drained from her cheeks.
"I've seen her. It figures. Listen, Judy, I told you this day would come. How long since you two walked down the aisle together?"
"Eighteen months," Judy offered quietly.
"Already?" Dorothy was thoughtful. "The best you can do is grab as much gold as you can carry and kick him to the curb. Judy, I've got a lawyer friend, Lillian Muessig. I'll text you her details. Lillian's like a killer shark."
Judy hung up feeling hopeful.
Then she remembered the prenuptial agreement.
Barry had run it by five lawyers before she signed it. If they divorced, she got nothing, not even the swans.
Judy got up, tossed back her hair, and went to pour herself a drink. He's got a nerve, cheating on me in public, right in front of my face. She drained the glass and poured another.
Where is he now? She dialed his personal line. It rang and rang, then clicked over to voicemail.
Judy slammed the phone down, swirled the inch of chardonnay at the bottom of her glass.
Bet he is with her now; Doris something or other.
The thought seized hold of her. Immediately, she became convinced it was true. Barry was cheating on her at this very instant. For him, it was a habit as natural as brushing teeth or eating with a knife and fork. A few tears trickled down her cheeks. She felt them run along the sides of her nose, dripping off her chin.
She'd been suspicious from the first moment she found out he had hired that Doris woman, all eyelashes, big boobs, and Hollywood figure. Judy had dug a little and discovered that Doris had no qualifications, hadn't ever worked as a secretary, let alone a personal assistant. As best she could tell, her previous job was waiting tables at the Hidden Cave Tavern.
Judy drew in a long, steady breath. If she left him, she'd get nothing. She stood up to pour another drink. Her knees were almost weak enough to buckle. She sipped, standing, her eyes clouded in thought. Then she spoke. "Unless…" Something clicked inside, like a light coming on "… he died." Then it would all be hers. Or at least she thought her ex-boyfriend lawyer had said that.
Judy had been very pale, but now as she waltzed around the conservatory, the color was back in her cheeks. She knew when—his birthday. All that remained was how.
Chapter 4
Amy and Nick drank coffees in the little café upstairs in the main terminal at Austin Bergstrom International Airport. It was almost five in the afternoon and, even though it was Friday, there was only a trickle of weary passengers.
"Are you all right, darling?" Amy asked, as she sipped her hot coffee and glanced down at her cell phone. Since Nick's heart attack, she'd taken care to ask him how he felt.
"Can't complain." Nick replied tapping his finger on his take-out cup of coffee. He didn’t like waiting around at airports, nor doctor's clinics. "It's a long journey from London, but at least it's a direct flight."
They fell silent for several moments, watching the travelers, airline staff, and security personnel hurrying back and forth in the terminal.
"Everything is set," Amy said at long last as if to herself.
Nick turned to his wife and put an arm around her shoulder. "Are you talking about the house?"
"Oh, sorry. No, I was thinking about the staging event for Battles Equity Partners next Wednesday. Danielle just sent a text message to let me know the furniture for the cottage staging is good to go."
"Cottage?"
"Yes, Mr. Battles has hired Studio Shoal Seven for a double booking. His office on Congress Avenue, and one of his guest cottages on his homestead."
"On the same day?"
"Yes."
"What's the plan?"
"Danielle will stay at the cottage all day, directing the furniture crew. I'll begin at the office doing the same job, then join Danielle in the afternoon."
He frowned thinking about it. "That's a lot of work."
"The office is straightforward. I'm only bringing in a few pieces of furniture and lighting." She paused for a moment. "The cottage is more involved. It's like moving to a new house, and we are creating an academic study in one of the bedrooms."
Nick's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Mr. Battles reads books?"
Amy laughed lightly. "I've no idea, but the room will look like a classic English gentleman's library when we are done."
"Want me to help?"
She finished her drink. "No, you stay at home and get a little more rest. I'll take lots of photos and show them to you on our date night."
Nick groaned.
The large black-and-white screen above their heads refreshed: British Airways flight 191 had arrived.
"Ooh," Amy said, pointing at the screen. " Let's go down to the arrivals area and wait."
A toddler, a girl, dressed in a pink, frilly dress played by the carousel, her parents deep in conversation. Amy watched her play, her own thoughts drifting to the details of the upcoming staging event at Battles Equity Partners. The business was new, but the bookings were coming in by word of mouth. Soon, she'd have a full book of business.
It was twenty minutes before the baggage claim carousel began its slow, jerky turn, and another five before the luggage, in a seemingly random order, appeared. Ten minutes after that, Amy spotted Ruby and Noel. "There they are," she said, sprinting toward the couple.
"Mom!" Ruby yelled, running forward. She was about the same height and build as her mother, but with a wider face, and smaller eyes. Amy flung her arms around her daughter. They hugged, laughed, and cried.
"Hi Dad," Ruby said at last, hugging and kissing Nick. She stepped back. "I thought you'd be all stooped over and shuffling along with a cane after your heart attack, but you look fantastic!" She gave her dad another hug. "Noel and I traveled business class!"
They turned to Noel, who had hung back a few paces, a sheepish smile on his face.
"Good evening, Mrs. King," Noel said, a little too formal for Amy's liking. He was of average height with a handsome, boyish face, dark eyes that reminded her of Nick, with jet-black hair that grew like a wild bush, sticking out at random angles like a punk rocker.
"Please Noel, I've told you before, you can call me Amy." He looked especially handsome in his pinstriped business suit, white button-down shirt, and maroon tie. But Amy noticed dark lines around his eyes, and despite the expensive clothes, he seemed somehow shrunken, diminished, since their last meeting.
"Noel," Nick said, extending a hand, "how are you doing?"
"Fine. A little tired, but fine." Noel let his eyes fall.
"London treating you well?"
He blinked. "Yes."
"How are things at work?"
"Good."
Nick gave up after that. "Let me help you with your bags."
Noel didn't answer. His eyes grew wide. He turned and sprinted, jumping over the baggage claim conveyer belt and then in the middle, darted to the exit where the bags disappear. He dove forward like a rugby player onto the conveyor belt. Moments later he reappeared with a crying bundle of pink in his arms—the toddler.
After the child ha
d been returned to her grateful mother, Noel explained. "Out of the corner of my eye I saw her climbing onto the belt. I didn't have time to think, only react."
"Thank goodness you did," said Amy. "That would have been a nasty accident."
Ruby grabbed Noel's arm, squeezed it tight and whispered. "I love you, Noel. I really do."
On the journey home to Gaston Avenue, Amy and Ruby talked with rapidfire-excitement about London, Austin, their plans for the week ahead, and the arrival of Victoria the following week. Nick concentrated on the road, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror at his wife and Ruby. He loved his wife deeply, and his daughter had turned out to be a chip off her block. Noel sat in the front passenger seat in silence.
Chapter 5
Some days were easy. Abay Gómez would arrive at Battles Equity Partners at six fifteen in the morning, complete his tasks, and leave a little after nine at night. He'd take lunch at his desk, have fun berating an employee or two, and have the office gofer bring him a coffee in the late afternoon. After work, he'd hit the gym or run the trails that snaked around downtown Austin. On those days Abay felt like the king of the world.
On other days he had to deal with Barry Battles. "I want the Williams report, now!" "Call the London office and find out why the numbers are down." "Abay, what do you mean he is sick. Fire him!" "On Christmas Eve, Abay, I want you to hand out pink slips to everyone in that team." Barry was always at him to do his dirty work.
Abay sat at his office desk frowning. With the financial markets sliding, wealthy people not investing, he feared an increase in difficult days. He hadn't thought promotion to being Barry's deputy would be like this. He swallowed hard. This is what he had wanted. Now he was living the dream, but it was not as he had expected.
He tilted his chair back, his gaze resting on the crown moldings that edged the office. It was one of the fine touches Barry Battles had insisted on for the executive suites. Abay shifted his gaze to the wall clock—two minutes after three. The office gofer, Maybelline Riera, hadn't brought his afternoon coffee. Two weeks ago, he'd given her specific instructions to bring his drink exactly on the dot of three. Stupid woman, where is she?