Part Two Recap: Something More, Chptrs 5-10

CHAPTER 5: NOW AND THEN

...Peres and Mary Aguilar and baby at the mall...


Sunday, Mary Aguilar pushed a stroller through the mall, dividing attention between dozing Phoebe, Peres walking ahead and window displays. Looking for a dress for the wedding, she despaired of finding anything ---three months and fifteen pounds to go.

The mall teemed with white-headed seniors and teenagers. Peres stood out, tall with a head of black hair, wearing hip-hugging designer jeans, black Italian loafers and tailored white shirt. A silver watch glimmered on his right wrist and he clasped his Blackberry in the opposite hand. When he sensed he’d gone too far, he turned to spot Mary and wait.

She was attached to the over-sized gray-green stroller that held their one-year old and baby bottle and water and extra clothes and diaper bag and rattle. Extending her arms and pushing ahead, she was conscious of the extra weight in her hips and stomach. She covered up in loose-fitting jeans and a red Trojans sweatshirt. Her black hair was gathered in a ponytail. She had sincere brown eyes and a timid smile.

Stopping to gaze in the dress shop window whose mannequin displayed a purple cashmere dress, she focused on its bony white knees and sighed. Farther inside, she spotted a blonde in denim shorts and pink tank top that highlighted her lean belly. She reminded her of Peres living in Manhattan Beach. She’d fit right in with beach volleyball, sunbathing and strolls along the pier. Mary didn’t fit though they lived there a while until conceiving and convincing him to find the house in Whittier, closer to family.

Peres was everything she wanted in a man ---handsome, funny, caring--- and she was sensitive to things pulling him away: career, recollections of the beach and, maybe, women he used to know. The Blackberry was symbolic of those distractions. Why, she wondered, did he need to have it all the time and who was he checking with?

She considered herself blessed to have found him and took pleasure in having confounded the expectations of some people, especially her sister Carmen. They met in college and a friendship developed over time. After graduation they went their separate ways: she working at a pre-school and living with parents; he getting the job at Dedalus Insurance and staying in Manhattan B. A few years later they met again. Something clicked. He asked her out and within the year proposed. She accepted, having discerned a serious side to him, one not present before and something she could work on.

She stared at a spot between his shoulder blades. After a minute he turned. She frowned and he walked back. He looked into the stroller where Phoebe slept soundly. Mary smiled bravely and he put his hand on her shoulder. They walked side by side until reaching the next window.

While she stopped he continued ahead, lifting one foot and letting it linger before setting it down and lifting the other, moving but not too fast, aware that after a few more paces he’d wait again.

He appreciated the aesthetics of the mall with its marble-like floors and thick columns and the jewel box quality of the window displays ---in each something desirable, one after the other.

But instead of being one in a crowd, he wanted to be one alone and imagined a cool silence and footsteps echoing in space and adventures of discovery leading to places unknown. He’d meet and surpass all challengers ---Stephen Joyce, for one. Each victory was validation of self-worth and his abilities ---and in each a prize: wealth, glory, beautiful women. He turned to look for Mary. She was gone, maybe into a shop.

Breathing rarefied air in his imagination, he believed he would do so in reality. The upcoming wedding was an example. He’d been asked to be a bridegroom for Dave Forester, another salesman. Stephen Joyce was sponsoring a big wedding at the Palisades mansion of a friend. It was the talk of the company. Being thrust into the limelight and rubbing shoulders with the rich ---and soon-to-be rich--- he took as his due and was where he wanted to be.

The suburbs were distant from the exercise of wealth and power, if not their influence, and the pace was slower. Moving was the right thing to do for Mary and the baby. But he was anxious about being lulled into complacency. Alive, fit and ready NOW, he thirsted for the hunt.

Poor Mary. Sometimes her worries were laughable. While he was making big-dollar deals, she fretted over the household budget. She didn’t have to, he told her, but she insisted they save for the future, which the baby served to underscore. He retraced his steps to find them.

Mary struggled to maneuver the stroller back through the door, past an arguing couple that wouldn’t make way. Dissatisfied with everything she saw, tears welled in her eyes. Peres approached. His smiling face was always an inspiration and she wanted to explain---

“I liked the fabric and then I realized the cut wasn’t what I wore and then I looked for something else but nothing and Phoebe poor thing woke screaming out her lungs and I squeezed and kissed her and felt she was wet and took her away from stares to change ---you weren’t around--- and when I came back the crowd had grown so large…”

But she kept it to herself. He consoled her and they began to walk until again he went on ahead, leaving Mary to think---

“How much I love him and Phoebe and our life and then she’ll have a brother and then another and we’ll find the house to settle in and be a clan and love and live and live and love forever…”

Looking at Peres, she saw him jerk his head, half-turn and linger in the pose. She stopped, alert to a trim young woman with dark hair and wearing a brown plaid skirt and sparkling hose. Her beige heels sounded a rhythmic clack-clack-clickedy-clack on the walkway. Absorbed in conversation on her cell phone, she was oblivious to anyone around.

Peres caught Mary’s glare, which unfroze him. He smiled, laughed, and waved her forward. But she didn’t budge. He came back and before he said a word, she pointed to the stroller.

“Your turn.”

CHAPTER 6: QUORUM (Part A)

...the company grapevine at work...


Lola McIntyre held court in the company lunchroom. Seated behind a table in the corner, she watched her cohorts gather, as certainly as they punched in on arriving to work each day.

The lunchroom was spare and contained two end-to-end rectangular tables, surrounded by smaller round ones. A counter held a sink and two microwave ovens. Against a wall stood three vending machines offering coffee, sandwiches and juice, and candies and chips.

Joe from the mailroom checked in first. He had thick unruly brown hair and nesting ear buds whose face-framing wire led to the ipod tucked in his jeans back pocket. His lids were three-quarters shut behind glasses, but as he sat naïve brown eyes blinked open before settling into their typical state.

Then Bob from the stockroom entered with an air of bustling activity. On his head his blond hair was brushed left to right in a thick sheaf, in tight curls on his arms. In a blue smock over shirt and jeans, he enforced meticulous order in the stockroom, each item ---whether paper, toner or pen--- having allocated space and with suitable spacing between. He was five years older than Joe and five younger than Lola. Taking the chair to her left, he sat then edged away a few inches. He swatted at an errant crumb on the tabletop, his dry hand scraping the surface like sandpaper.

Lola greeted them but wasn’t ready to begin. They sat silently as she looked to the door until, at last, a tall man with shaved head and hulking shoulders pushed through. Bill the CEO’s chauffeur wore a black suit, narrow black tie and white shirt that pinched at the neck. Though nine a.m., the stubble on his face registered five-o’clock p.m. He sent a charge through her with his dark see-no-evil eyes that flashed angry when stepping into action, especially at his other job as club bouncer.

A quorum being present, Lola looked around the table, like a child planning to say something clever. Her blue eyes rolled and her lips curved into a smile. She brushed an imaginary strand of hair from her face, setting the little gold bells on her bracelet to jingle. No one else being in the room, she spoke openly and suggestively.

“So Bill---, what happened last night?”

She squirmed eagerly, Joe blinked and Bob brushed the table, but Bill was slow to respond. He wasn’t given to gossip.

“I drove them home.”

“Together?”

He nodded.

“Did he stay with her?”

He shook his head.

“Then what?”

“I took Mr. Joyce home.”

“When?”

“About three.”

She pleaded. “What else? Tell me.”

He shrugged. “She won’t be in today.”

Lola’s eyes lit up. The other two shared a conspiratorial glance.

*

Helen’s absence on Fridays had become routine since starting work on the condo. She seized on Joyce’s idea and aspired to create a salon where the wealthy and connected meet. Spare no money or object, he had said.

First to go was the L-shaped sofa interrupting the circulation in the front room, which should be malleable to prevailing moods. Joyce sought investors. She strived to exemplify the creative flow of capital joined to idea.

The color scheme was black and white on spare leather components. Two armchairs, one black, one white, served as focal points. Each large enough for two snug people, she positioned them in opposition. Beside each was a small elevated sectional with backrest and wide enough for a lady to perch. Beside that, hangers-on could attend, precariously, on stylish high stools that were easily added to or subtracted from the party.

The color of the stormy gray carpet echoed a large oil painting, a seascape depicting a gathering wave looming over a peaceful beach. Against the opposing wall an aquarium, backlit in green, was home to a pair of angelfish. Striped black and white, with tails fluttering gracefully, they epitomized the delicacy of being.

When she was done, Helen called Joyce in the early evening of a Friday. When he entered she suppressed a smile and, standing in the middle of the room, willed herself invisible. The room should speak.

He stopped mid-stride, his expectations swept away. He took a seat in the black armchair, his eye following the track lighting above, then flitting to the muted glow of the floor lamp in the corner, the crystal decanters at the bar, the aquarium, the painting.

The seascape, from the perspective of someone on the beach facing the impending wave, disturbed and antagonized him. Accustomed to the idea of man harnessing nature, he rebelled at the thought of being its victim.

His gaze returned to the aquarium where the angelfish appeared to watch, mouths puffing O’s in his direction. He smirked and then saw, as if for the first time, Helen.

She hadn’t moved. Having spent the day prepping the condo in anticipation of that moment, she wore khaki slacks and an overlarge green knit sweater. Her brown hair was knotted behind her head. Her eyes conveyed excitement.

He began to speak, but before he could, she moved ---exposing the white chair that, like an enemy chess piece, posed a silent challenge. He chiseled a small smile on his face. Then he heard the tinkling of ice in glass and she reappeared with drinks.

“Vodka rocks.” She handed him the drink and, before he could ask, said, “Betsy.”

He considered the room and the woman who had transformed it. It would serve. He had been right.

“Good. Real good. Thursday, I’ll bring people over. After eight.”

Raising their glasses, they brought them together to close the deal.

*

That next Thursday, Mimosa Liang rushed into his cubicle.

“She’s late.”

Ulysses looked up in time to catch the exaggerated pout, before she stormed out. He smiled. She was expressing displeasure and that was better than being fearful and their discussions about that. But since Joyce stopped coming to Helen’s desk it hadn’t been an issue.

He already knew Helen wouldn’t be in until after lunch. She’d sent an e-mail, with a copy to Joyce, to remind him. Ulysses had gotten used to adjustments in her schedule. What else could he do? CEO request. During the last month, any work she couldn’t finish was taken care of, though she was pretty efficient and there wasn’t much. But part of her job was dealing with customers over the phone. When she wasn’t available, someone else had to do it, hence Mimosa’s displeasure and other grumbling among the staff.

It couldn’t last. Either she’d leave and be replaced or he’d request another position. But the company wasn’t inclined to spend on support staff and that wouldn’t go far. For the present, he waited and watched.

After lunch, like a sentry, Mimosa reappeared.

“Finally ---she’s here.”

She stayed long enough to flash her intense black eyes that demanded, “What are you going to do about it?”

He acknowledged her with a wave of the hand. She did an about face and left. He rose to make his rounds and, in the course of doing so, see what Helen was wearing. Curious about the “PR event” that no one seemed to know about, he was surprised and somewhat disappointed to see her wearing slacks.

The afternoon passed quickly and without any further advisories from Mimosa. At five, Ulysses shut off the computer, collected some papers in his briefcase and put on his coat. He headed for the door and, as he did, found Helen beside him.

“Have a good evening, Yul.”

“You, too ---though you still have work to do.”

She nodded.

“Going to eat?”

“To the car for clothes.”

Approaching the elevator, Ulysses lurched to part the closing doors and hold them for her. Once inside, he pushed “L” for lobby. When she reached to press “G”, he was surprised.

“Did you park in the garage?”

“I have a space.”

They rode in silence and he exited at the lobby. As the doors closed behind him, he stopped to recollect her words. She didn’t park there because she was working late; she had “a space”.

At his salary he couldn’t justify the expense of underground parking; at hers it was out of the question and made sense only if Joyce assigned it. He felt slighted. He was management and paying out of pocket. She was ---he wasn’t sure. Having wished her luck, he didn’t think she needed it. He sucked it up and headed into the street and to the Early Bird parking lot.

*

In the condo, Helen changed into a one-strap silk dress the color of evening when a pinkish sky turns purple, pink above progressing to deepest purple at the knees. Later, when the hors d’oeuvres arrived, she nibbled seated by the window, watching the city lights.

Around nine, she heard murmurs down the hall. She opened the door to Joyce, an older man and two younger ones. Joyce had his arm around the man’s shoulders and spoke intently into his ear. The man was looking down, listening, but when he saw Helen he did a double take and his eyes grew wide.

Along with silver gray hair ---trim in the front, balding at the brow and thick in back--- he had a light gray beard and dark brown eyes.

He clawed at his throat, as if mute and thirsty, and, finding his tie, adjusted it, then brushed at his dark suit. He straightened his posture. Joyce introduced Pietro Mancusi to Helen.

He took her hand and, bowing, kissed it.

“Call me Pietro, please, Miss Helen.”

She led him to the white armchair where they engaged in pleasant disagreement. He insisted she should sit. “I’ll get your drink,” she said. “Sit first, drink later,” he countered. Laughing, they agreed to sit together. Crowded knee-to-knee, he was clearly pleased.

Joyce improvised by serving the drinks, then hovered over them. The young men fixed their own and stood discretely within earshot.

“Do you stay here?” Mancusi asked.

“At times.”

“A beautiful place for a beautiful woman.”

She accepted the compliment without blush or blink of the eye. He was intrigued.

“Stephen said we’re stopping for drinks. He didn’t say anything about you. How could that be?”

“Ask him.”

“He’s too much about business, I think.”

“Not you?”

“When there’s beauty---”

Joyce interjected.

“Beauty is doubling your money.”

Her eyes twinkled. Mancusi smiled.

“Money can’t buy everything, no?”

“Yes. Shares of Dedaelus. When we go public---“

“Double the money, I know.”

Helen took his glass, still nearly full and rose to play hostess. The young men pierced her sullenly with their eyes. One was tall and thin with red hair gelled to look windswept. The other was stout with black hair.

Everyone but Joyce watched her go behind the bar. He pressed the deal, repeating key words like a mantra: investment blocks – going public – doubling your money. He broke into Mancusi’s concentration. Finally, as if swatting at an irritating fly, he said, “Yes, yes, I will invest. We’ll talk later.”

Shortly thereafter, someone knocked at the door. It was Bill, the chauffeur.

“Time, gentlemen.” Joyce announced.

Mancusi looked to Helen.

“You’re going to the club, too?”

“No,” said Joyce. “She stays here.”

Mancusi looked to Joyce, back to Helen and then to him again, attempting to understand the relationship.

“But you want to come, don’t you?”

Without any suggestion that she would have it otherwise, she said, “I stay here.”

He took up her hand. “Maybe, we’ll see each other again.”

Her eyes twinkled.

As Joyce ushered them out, Mancusi looked unhappily over his shoulder, certain she was the highlight of the evening.

She gave them time enough to get away before gathering her things for the drive home.

The Thursday night soirees became routine as Joyce attracted investors to the company. The evening started with drinks and dinner, either at the Agency Hotel or a nearby restaurant, where he made the pitch. No one committed over dinner. But then he brought them to the condo, and Helen.

Whereas he attempted to persuade, she inspired. She boosted their already considerable egos to do something more than they might have done. Whether inspired or, of lesser men, merely distracted, Joyce took advantage to secure their pledges.

A pledge wasn’t money, but he recognized that the promise of seeing Helen again served as incentive for following through. He laughed inwardly when leading away men who’d rather stay. It became a signature move that seemed to say, “Buy in and you’ll have more.”

The more Joyce saw her effect the more possessive he became. He saw her place as being in the condo. He pressured her to be, exclusively, his assistant, but she declined, preferring “a variety of activity”. He grew suspicious.

He offered more money and she agreed. But then he added that she couldn’t stay in Billing, because it’d cause dissension. So she told him to hold it for her. She wasn’t ready yet. It didn’t make sense. His anger rose, but he checked it. Like the others, he was snared and reluctant to see her go.

But his plan was working. Soon he’d have raised capital enough to buy his father out. The elder Joyce was trouble, advocating for his friends the managers and deploring how they were being treated. Lately he’d been trying to put teeth into the Board of Directors. He was impatient to make his retirement complete and end his interference.

So Helen stayed, on her terms. They became a team that could share a laugh at the expense of others. Initially, the strategy had been for Joyce to escort them to a club afterwards. But over time, he had Bill bring women up. They enticed the investors away, leaving him alone with Helen. They ordered dinner. They talked. Later, Bill might drive her home. Sometimes they went together.

*

Bill concluded:

“I watched them in the mirror. Whispering and laughing, they'd had lots to drink.”

Lola was leaning forward, her forearms resting on the table. Joe’s eyes had blinked open in seeming perpetual wakefulness. Bob brushed at the table.

When Bill stopped, Lola frowned. She wanted more but he crossed his arms, a signal she recognized: he was done.

Just then the door squeaked open and Betsy Murray, the executive receptionist, passed through. The small blonde gave a quick glance at the group before averting her eyes. Lola sensed there was something she wanted to hide. She stopped at the coffee machine and as her coins landed in the mechanical treasury ---spid, spid, spid, spid--- Lola schemed. She made her selection, pressing with the pad of her finger so as not to break a nail. When the paper cup dropped into position and as the liquid drained, Lola’s honey-coated voice reached out: “Betsy, what’s wrong?”



CHAPTER 7: QUORUM (Part B)

..Betsy encounters Lola, Bill, Joe and Bob in the break room...

Coffee in hand, Betsy Murray approached the table where Lola McIntyre and the others waited. She declined the offer to sit. Standing seemed effortless for the thin, light-framed woman who nonetheless wrapped her hands around the paper cup as if holding a support. Her nose was red and her eyes glistened. Ignoring the men, she focused on the other woman.

“Did something happen?”

She sniffed and cast her blue eyes to the ceiling. A tear dripped down her cheek.
“What hasn’t happened this week? First, the thing with Mr. Joyce’s father. Now, Ulysses.”

The group collectively shifted in its seat.

“What about Ulysses?”

“Well,” she began, looking over Lola’s head to reflect. “Mr. Joyce came in a little while ago. Looking mad and not even saying ‘hi’, you know? He’s like that. So he goes up then he calls down. ‘Get Ulysses Mann. Tell him to see me now!’ He’s shouting. The first time he speaks, he’s shouting. I don’t like that.”

She sniffed again. Lola nodded sympathetically and as a prod to continue.

“So I call Ulysses and tell him. He’s surprised and asks me what it’s about. I don’t know. He’s confused and worried. I am, too. Mr. Joyce never asks people to his office. That really bothered me.

“So, Ulysses comes and I can see he’s nervous, but I can’t help. I feel bad. He goes up. I’m sitting looking at the phone, afraid it would buzz and Mr. Joyce yelling; then at the elevator, afraid it would open and him looking mad. Like I did something, you know? It seemed forever, but it was just a minute. Then he comes back down, Ulysses that is. His face is red and sweaty --- like really embarrassed. He doesn’t look at me. I can tell he’s holding something bad inside.”

“When? I didn’t see anything.”

Betsy sniffed. “Just now.”

*

He had to walk it off. On leaving Joyce’s office and enduring the claustrophobic elevator, Ulysses burst out. He wanted free of the building that seemed like a tomb for his ambition. But he had to take a second elevator. Mercifully, no one was inside and he went express down the nine floors to the street.

He turned south, away from the high-rise buildings and into hoped-for anonymity. Hot and flush, he was combustible within his suit coat. He took it off and was cooled by the morning air. But Joyce’s words continued to drum in his head and his body clenched.

After talking to Betsy, he had been anxious. He’d never been called to the CEO’s office and the tremor in her voice didn’t help. But, being generally optimistic, he saw an opportunity to shine. That, too, made him nervous, but in a positive, forward-leaning way.

Possibly an important project needed doing. Though unusual not to come through his manager, different situations sometimes required different responses. Challenges didn’t come with operating instructions. Perhaps Mr. Joyce was thinking outside the box.

As he passed Helen’s cubicle, her absence tickled a thought. Might it be about her? Something bad? It could explain Betsy’s supposed lack of knowledge. Not likely though. Helen had confirmed her absence through e-mail with a copy to Joyce.

If concerning Helen, it was probably what he already anticipated: she was leaving Billing. He’d be graceful about his loss and say how much he’ll miss her. He might even compliment Joyce on getting a good worker. He’d demonstrate he could get along to move along in the company.

For a moment he felt guilty trading on Helen to advance his prospects. But he dismissed the feeling. She was progressing of her own volition and doing better for herself. He, too, wanted to advance. Everyone did.

Passing Betsy at the receptionist’s station, he stepped into the elevator and thought of things larger than himself: company, wife and family, country, world, the universe. He straightened his spine and imagined the earth balanced on the top of his head.

When the doors opened into the suite, he saw the top of Joyce’s head bent in his direction, the bristles of his crew cut like a spiky crown. He stepped out and approached the desk.

Joyce didn’t look up. Instead he rose until towering over the shorter man. His face was grim, his eyes tight beady points. He punched the air with his finger.

“Don’t ever, ever send e-mail with my name on it. You nothing! You don’t care what I do. If you even think you can affect anything, I’ll fire you before you can blink. That goes for Helen, too. Get the hell out!”

Ulysses reeled, the blunt impact of his anger like slamming into a concrete wall. He backed into the elevator, away from the glowering threat, and fumbled for the button to close the doors…

As he continued walking, he found himself in the shadow of a decrepit building, possibly an old textile plant with windows the kind that used to open. They were papered over black.

Though only a few blocks apart, the mood was different from the bustle around the Agency Hotel and its sister buildings. There, activity grew and crested like waves, fresh, eye-catching and exciting. Here, the scattered debris, once part of something whole, were remainders waiting to be collected and hauled away. People, too, the homeless and other castaways, compelled by misfortune, property managers and police, were adrift in the shadowy recesses. He saw a scruffy man with a shopping cart sorting through the refuse, searching for something of value to take and be reformed. Likewise, Ulysses tried to pick through the pieces.

He shook his head. His body began to unwind and the fog to clear. His first thought was what to tell Penny, his second, to get the car and go home. But, he hadn’t been fired. Ferociously warned off, but not fired.

Honor told him to resign and not be part of an enterprise that thought so little of his labor. But he dreaded putting life on hold while trying for another job: dust off and revise the resume, research the job market ---not good due to the recession--- and calculate how long they could last without a paycheck. He already knew the answer: not long. Mortgage, car, insurance and life weighed on the decision.

Given Joyce’s attitude, he was one more irrational demand from being gone. He was the boss and armored against appeal. Without a schedule of when, Ulysses had to time dropping one job and jumping to the next, without falling, stalling or moving too fast.

Joyce had referred to e-mail with his name. Only Helen’s messages, about being absent or late, met that definition, but all he ever did was reply “OK”.

“That goes for Helen, too.” He thought it finally happened: she got too close, stepped over a line somehow and he was set to destroy her. But as he replayed the scene, the rationale failed to convince. More likely, Joyce and Helen stood together. Pinched between boss and subordinate he was, if his words were true, powerless.

Suddenly, a man crossed his path. His hair stuck out in odd directions. Long ago, unshaven ceased to describe his face and the cold seemed to adhere to thin, grimy clothes. With a slack hand, he held onto a flat cardboard box slung over his back. The man stooped as under a heavy load. In a society of expectations, Ulysses thought, it was a burden indeed.

He turned around to head to the office. He needed to know what happened between Joyce and Helen. A chill went down his spine: he was up against the CEO.

*

The door squeaked shut after Betsy, leaving them to stare at each other. Lola was about to jump out of her chair, eager to observe Ulysses and see if he was upset as Betsy said. But halfway standing, with Joe and Bob following her lead, she stopped to settle back in. Something had come to mind and words burbled from her mouth.

“Oh, oh, oh, Bill. I almost forgot.”

The chauffeur sat motionless, his dark eyes shifting.

“The wedding, can you get us in?”

Like a flash, his heavy hand slapped the table.

“Bring your invite.”

The men snickered.

Lola rocked the table and whined.

“You know I don’t have one. I have to go. I want to see!”

Joe recalled the fancy envelopes passing through the mailroom for the affair being hosted by the CEO. Bob followed the motion of the table, thinking how in the stockroom the heaviest boxes went on the lowest shelves.

Bill, used to facing people demanding entry into clubs, had decided a crowded line of people was a good description of life. He learned to trade access for something of value. He waited.

Lola shook the table and bounced in her chair, pleading.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Will you work?”

“Yes!”

He paused, exciting her suspense.

“I’ll tell the caterer.”

“Yea!” She held arms up. The home team had scored.

Silently, Bill turned to the others. Joe blinked his assent. Bob tapped the table emphatically.

“Okay, then.”

The group broke apart, content at the prospect of seeing another side of the company, even if to do so they had to serve.


Chapter 8: THE CHAIRMAN

...between corporate father and son...


The sun poured through the eastward window as the Chairman consulted the list and started making calls. He’d been at his desk since early morning, checking the markets. Dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt, his sole concession to working from home was the absence of a tie.

To a man, the members expressed surprise he was back so soon, then concern. He was more than ready to be back, he replied, and assured them the meeting was routine. As defined in Dedalus’ charter of incorporation, the board of directors met once a quarter to oversee operations.

Composed of CEOs and stakeholders in the industry, there was in practice little oversight. Meeting minutes documented review of income statement and balance sheet. Unmentioned were the drinks, updates on family and the restaurants they went to for dinner. When he ceded CEO to his son, Steve Joyce retained the chairmanship. They hadn’t met in over a year.

Gathered in a conference room at company headquarters, the Chairman surveyed the board: Simmons, Schwartz, Parker and Morgan, all silver-haired men. The first headed a law firm handling many of the company’s cases, the next a brokerage it used for investments, the subsequent a life insurance company and the last a string of small banks.

As a group, they seemed to embody the boom-and-bust cycle of economic life. Schwartz, Morgan and Parker had expanded and were snug within their suit coats, a result of calendars full of dinners and receptions. Simmons and the Chairman were ascetically lean, having been rehabilitated and made ready for the next cycle. All displayed in their eyes a shrewd intelligence. The Chairman called them to order. His remarks lit up those eyes.

“I have grave concerns about company expenses.”

He paused and waited. Parker ---designated recorder for having lost a coin flip--- scrambled to take up his pen. Accustomed to sunny reports, the hint of stormy weather thrilled and unnerved them. Having captured their attention, the Chairman recounted what he had discovered.

*

The same morning he had called them he placed one to his son. As he did, his wife entered bearing a silver tray with coffee and scones and the garden’s contribution, a peach rose in a thin pewter vessel. Rhea set the tray on the table by the window and looked to her husband. He held a hand up as he spoke. The receptionist took a message about needing a room.

The next morning the Chairman wore a tie. His blue eyes were intense within a lean, deeply lined face. His call hadn’t been returned, so he was going to the office to arrange things directly. Rhea was at his side, wearing a lavender suit dress and an orchid on her lapel. Together they looked like a couple burnished by the years to reveal the rare metal underneath.

Security in the lobby recognized him immediately and called ahead to the receptionist. Betsy Murray met them at the elevator and escorted them to the executive suites. As they passed through the staff treated them like celebrities. Familiar people shook their hands, while newcomers looked on. Especially cordial were the greetings between the Chairman and the managers from Claims and Sales.

Inside a private reception room, Betsy offered coffee, which they declined. The Chairman wanted to see the CEO. She stepped over to a phone on the wall, punched in the number and waited, until her face glowed with embarrassment.

The Chairman questioned her. She replied that he’d come in and she hadn’t seen him leave. To his conclusion that he must be there, she offered that he might have gone through the eleventh floor corridor. Sometimes he went that way to the condo, she explained.

Rhea arched her brows.

They followed the receptionist to her station where she demonstrated the button controlling the elevator. It was locked from upstairs. The elevator and the isolated office were new. The Chairman considered them unnecessary. Rhea voiced a different concern.

“What if he’s hurt?”

Betsy tilted her head thoughtfully then answered.

“He never is.”

At the Chairman’s request, she escorted them to see the sales manager. Jeremy Port had been a protégé who became a long-time friend. He was a jovial man with a wide grin in a plump face etched with wrinkles. He enjoyed flying small planes.

He bounded from his desk to greet them. The Chairman asked Rhea and Betsy to wait outside. As the door closed, the manager’s eyes blinked rapidly. But his old mentor consciously relaxed his stern face. The manager mimicked him as they sat at his desk.

“Things all right?”

“Sales are up, so everything’s right.”

“We tried to see Stephen, but he’s disappeared into his office.”

He paused to let the observation sink in and to gauge his response. Port didn’t offer one.

“Does this happen a lot?”

Port’s eyes expressed puzzlement in talking to his old boss about his new one. Issues of loyalty and confidences played on his mind.

“I don’t notice. He’s here every day.”

“What’s this about a condo?”

“I’ve never been up. Used to entertain investors, I hear.” Then, after a conflicted pause, he added, “The gal from Billing is up there all the time.” He was sorry as soon as he said it.

“Who?”

“Helen Roy.”

“What is she?”

“Account Consultant.”

The Chairman weighed the information: disappearances routine but not noticed; an elevator locked from above; investors; a condo frequented by an unknown woman. His face was grim.

Port tried to lighten the mood.

“See you at the wedding?”

He said he hadn’t heard about it.

Embarrassed again ---another misstep in the treacherous territory between corporate father and son--- he told him about the CEO hosting a wedding at a Palisades estate for Dave Forester, a star salesman. Sheepishly, he promised to look for his invitation.

On leaving the offices, Rhea said she’d called Delfina, who hadn’t seen her husband since the chauffeur picked him up that morning. The Chairman’s eyebrows lifted at the mention of a chauffeur.

*

The board discussed the Chairman’s concerns. Simmons acknowledged he’d been specific. The implications, Parker pointed out, were unclear. Morgan wanted more information about the cost of the new office, the elevator and the chauffeur. Schwartz wanted to know the purpose of the condo and whether the company owned or leased it. They all expressed a keen interest in hearing from the CEO. His assurances would go a long way to settling their unease. Schwartz moved to request his presence at the next meeting. Simmons seconded the motion and it passed. The Chairman then adjourned the meeting.


CHAPTER 9: BENEATH THE MASK

...Ulysses and Helen meet...


Ulysses sat waiting on Helen in a restaurant bar just before six on a Friday afternoon. He wouldn’t have imagined it after the confrontation with the CEO that morning. But, considering his position, he had to see her and took her number from the staff emergency list. When she didn’t answer, he left a message. Around lunch, he called again. Finally, just before quitting time, she responded.

Her free and easy manner was a torment, being so at odds with what he felt. But he masked his anguish and persuaded her to meet. At first, she said no, not understanding what couldn’t wait or be explained over the phone. Eventually, she agreed.

He had to see her in person and away from work. Not merely a supervisor, not merely a subordinate, they had to be, in the larger sense, friend or foe. People at work hid true feelings for the sake of a paycheck or getting the job done. He needed to see beneath the mask.

Waiting, he was vulnerable. He didn’t know if she’d consulted Joyce who might come instead. He wouldn’t hold back, not away from workplace rules. Now he was on equal footing. After a fight the police could take them both away.

The Albatross Bar & Grill was her choice and not too far from where she lived. He sat at the bar just inside the entrance. The restaurant was in the next room. Two painters, still in their white coveralls, were at the far end downing tequila shots. The red-vested bartender dourly wiped off wine glasses with a towel. Otherwise, the place was empty.

Ulysses looked into a bar-length mirror. Though the bar was dark as a cave, the sun was shining outside and transformed the door and window behind him into golden rods of light; passersby were flickering shadows. The display, along with a beer, could seduce drowsiness, but he was on edge. Every shadow made him jump.

A figure glided by the window and passed through the entrance. Helen stepped forward, her full lips, clear brown eyes and fresh face, vivid as a revelation. The sunlight, still tangled in the strands, adorned her hair. She wore black jeans and a striped blouse. A maroon sweater was tossed over her shoulders. She gazed serenely into the mirror, waiting to be acknowledged. The boisterous men at the end of the bar grew silent. The bartender approached. Ulysses turned to greet her.

They took their drinks to a corner booth, the darkest spot in the room. Helen set down her wine and slid to one side of the table. Ulysses sat opposite. A candle in a tinted globe fluttered beneath their breaths.

As they settled in, he weighed his options. He could confront her, unite with her or reveal his weakness. But he didn’t believe her his enemy, or think that Joyce was hers and, being human ---and looking forward to another day--- rebelled against admitting the abject truth.

Helen waited, silently demanding an explanation but not insisting on the time. She looked beyond him toward the bar, where the others seemed to wait as well to hear the tenor if not the content of their conversation. The candle flame licked at her cheeks. Her eyes were dark. He began tentatively.

“Stephen Joyce was strange today.”

He recounted the CEO’s anger and how he seemed to think Ulysses was trying to impact what he did. He added that he mentioned her. “That goes for Helen, too”, he had said.

As he spoke, he watched for a reaction. She seemed unimpressed, as if hearing something she already knew. He tried eliciting a response and spoke so emphatically that the candle flame careened wildly.

“He threatened my job.”

A wrinkle fretted her brow. He took it as a sign, though still he didn’t know whose side she was on. In the ensuing silence, he fidgeted and heard new voices behind him and saw the candle flame settle in the globe.

Then, she began speaking about the condo and what was happening. She was passionless and her account had an ethereal quality ---indefinite pauses, followed by observations in wandering sentences woven like a dream. Her voice was soft and low and left the candle flame unruffled, burning like a golden eye.

Ulysses was fascinated by Joyce’s quest to amass wealth and how Helen and the luxury condo were integral parts. He saw the disparity in her roles, one at a desk handling complaints and the other enticing investors. He’d be surprised if she didn’t. She did acknowledge that Joyce wanted her exclusively.

“He’s driven, and won’t stop until he gets what he wants. Then he’ll want more.”

“What will you do?”

“Be exclusive.”

He wanted to sympathize, but she wasn’t asking for sympathy. He had an uneasy feeling he was witness to an unholy transaction that might benefit him but sacrifice her. Though she didn’t speak to the intimacy of the situation, rumors had been rampant about her and Joyce. Just as he had feared, she had gotten close. But now his interests lay in her going further.

“Will you be okay?”

She twitched her lips as if annoyed. The flame began to sputter.

“What’s he really after?”

“Control.”

“Who’s against him?”

“The father.”

“Will he succeed?”

She shrugged. Thinking deeper into the question, he reached his own conclusion: succeed or fail, he wouldn’t fall very hard. If pushed out, a golden parachute would glide him onto the next opportunity.

“Is that all?”

“I don’t think I’m long for the company.”

She smiled. “You’ll persevere.”

The wick guttered in the wax, hissing, and sent up a thin trail of smoke. Her face receded into the dark.

They left the bar, now full with people celebrating the weekend. Outside, the sun was low in the sky. Ulysses was as before but armed with insight. The idea of the Joyces at war was new and offered hope of change, though no assurance who’d win. His emotion had fixed on Helen who didn’t display a thirst for wealth but, being central to its pursuit, was also chased. They parted. He watched her walk away.


CHAPTER 10: THE WEDDING


Peres Aguilar heard a shuffle on the front porch, a metallic slap, and then a sharp-edged thud. Saturday mail had arrived, accompanied by a lawnmower’s sputter, shouts of kids on bikes and cars whooshing down the street. Usually he’d be on the golf links playing a few rounds, but he was getting ready for a wedding.

He inspected himself in the mirror. The granite gray suit and eggshell vest covered him like sleek armor; the royal blue tie added dash and elegance and softened the impact of black eyes and an aquiline nose. Extending arms to his sides, he looked ready for take-off. Thin black hair, quivering whenever he moved, added to the impression of something ready to take wing. His smile lighted up an olive-dark face.

He’d match up well with the other groomsmen, fellow members of the sales staff escorting their brother and his bride to the altar. He envied Dave Forester for being the center of attention. He deserved to be; he was challenging for top seller. Equal to that challenge, Peres leveraged the pressure to sell even more.

But the blessing Stephen Joyce conferred on the union trumped him. Had he not already been married, maybe he’d be hosting his wedding. He worried over future assignments and whether Forester was the favorite, though he didn’t like dwelling on it. He went to find Mary.

Though it didn’t start till three, he watched the time, wanting to allow two hours for travel across town to the ocean-side mansion. First, they had to drop off Phoebe with Mary’s folks. Though traffic might be a killer, riding in his champagne-colored Mercedes coupe wouldn’t be. The car was a nod to the lifestyle he wanted, unlike the house.

Built in the 60’s, their home had three bedrooms ---one converted to an office, the other a nursery. The small yard in back was surrounded by neighboring fences and shrubbery. In front, a cement walk divided the short lawn into green squares and reflected the square aspect of the house.

Peres admired flair but they bought to be close to her parents, understanding they’d find something more appropriate when Phoebe got older. But Mary seemed too comfortable in his opinion.

He found her in the nursery bent over the crib, wearing the blue dress she settled on after months of trouble. Straightening up, she draped a pink towel across her shoulder then lifted the baby.

She turned to find Peres watching, smiled and pinched the soft fabric of his jacket. They went to the car, silver-armored Peres in the lead, followed by Mary, vivid in blue and with a wide-eyed gaze exaggerated by weight loss, and Phoebe, the pink fragile bundle on her shoulder.

*

Traffic oozed through the city and, as they drove, Peres and Mary could look into backyards from the freeway. Older smaller houses had grassy lots with narrow passages between neighbors. Newer tracts, built closer to the freeway and shielded by sound walls lacked substantial yards. Sometimes the walls blocked the entire view and they sped along as if seeking to regain perspective.

They exited on the far side of town and stopped at an intersection with a jumble of gas stations, stores, title companies and fast food. Beyond the business district, they turned down the road leading to the mansion and saw a replay of residences small and large.

Closing on their destination, homes lay farther from the road, obscure behind trees and hedges and the iron fences containing them. Finally, they spotted a line of cars and joined it. Soon they reached the head and turned into the drive whose ornate iron gates, ten feet tall with gilt crests, were swung open but ready to close behind the last guest.

A man in a dark suit inspected their invitation, then directed them to take the road to the left at the fork. All they could see was a green hillock, but once beyond it saw the mansion and the sea.

In a landscape still green from winter rain, the road descended gradually. At the fork, one road rose to the mansion while the other spiraled down to a lot behind a copse of Monterey Pine. Limousines and shuttles coursed along one, smaller vehicles the road to parking, their colors ---red, white, silver, blue--- resplendent under the shining sun. Peres parked and they waited on a shuttle.

The mansion sat atop the rise like the crest of a wave, one-story wings converging on the two-story main structure, peach-colored against the blue backdrop of sky and sea. The shuttle took them to a circular drive and they stepped through the main entrance, bracketed between thick Corinthian columns.

Mary felt queasy. Everything seemed without boundary. Leaning on Peres, she wanted to be inside and gripped him tightly. He patted her hand. As they passed through the portico, her grip grew fierce.

Marble steps descended to a lobby with a golden chandelier above a milling crowd. On the far side, a panoramic window framed the ocean, allowing the larger world to pass through.

“There should be walls,” muttered Mary, feeling dizzy and turning her head into her husband’s chest. She wanted to hug her baby and be in rooms that had four walls and doors that locked.

The vivid blue display, the crescendo of conversation and the people energized Peres. He looked for the wedding party, dragging Mary along.

*

The crowd buzzed with the excitement of having arrived and made a beeline to a long table draped in white cloth holding sparkling flutes of champagne. With glass in hand, people gravitated to the window and, when newer arrivals pressed them, went out the door and down the lawn where the ceremony would take place.

Interspersed with the stylishly made up guests were the help in black pants, white shirts and sensible shoes. They maintained the flow of drinks, finger food and empty glasses.

Lola McIntyre, a self-satisfied grin on her face, rocked on her feet with hands behind her back. Wanting champagne, too, she waited for a quiet moment. For now, she was content to savor the spirit of the event.

Her job was setting clean glasses on the table then stepping aside as the servers poured. More than once, Geoff, who seemed an unhappy little man, had bumped into her, sending the message that he was the professional and she should get out of the way.

Despite that, she was enjoying it, especially the view. She imagined a big red ball rolling down the lawn and into the sea, on its way passing the gathered assembly.

A semicircle of portable chairs faced a wooden platform flush to the grass. Behind that stood a metal arbor, intertwined with pliable branches of willow and garlands of white and purple hyacinth.

Two white tents stood behind the semicircle and were linked to each other and the platform by a red carpet. A larger tent, off to the side, sheltered an orchestra whose emotive strings might be heard at the mansion when the breeze blew right. More to Lola’s taste was the rock band setting up in the ballroom that’d play after the ceremony.

She was somewhat surprised she didn’t see more people she knew, but glad her buddies were present, even though unseen by her. Mailroom Joe and Stockroom Bob, having no catering experience and deemed unsuitable to serve, had been assigned as movers. They staged chairs, tables and boxes and stood ready whenever brawn was needed.

Lola picked some glasses out of a box, wiped them off and placed them carefully on the table. Geoff was moving in her direction. She pressed against the wall. Then, she looked up and was startled. Someone she knew. Funny, he hadn’t said. Geoff passed back before her. When she looked again, Ulysses was gone.

*

When he saw Lola he quickly backed into the crowd. More than anyone he knew, she’d press for an explanation and pose uncomfortable questions. He’d face her later, but not there.

Alert now that some servers might know him, he sought a spot from which to observe but not be seen, a place where his back was covered but his view unimpeded. To most, he might pass as a guest. They wouldn’t suspect he’d entered through the docking bay, or ridden one of the buses chartered by the caterer to ferry in the help.

They could question his style. His dark suit lacked sparkle and his tie, which had been stuffed in his pocket, was somber. But his fancy dress shoes were highly polished and had even attracted the attention of someone on the bus. His expression had seemed to say, “Amateur. Feet’ll be hurting tonight!” To those who couldn’t believe he was a guest, he was a server.

He edged into a corner affording a view of the platform and the seats. He hadn’t seen Helen since their meeting almost a month ago. The following Monday, her desk had been cleaned out, without notice or comment, as if she had never been. He took the logical step of requesting a replacement. No one said a thing. He had thought he might run into her now and then. But even the grapevine had been silent. Work had settled into a steady peaceful routine, but he disbelieved steady and peaceful and wanted to see the conflict rising to explode his world. She was the touchstone.

*

Upstairs in a room with a view of the grounds, Steve Joyce set up headquarters without permission or having to flatter a host. He had charged an aide to seek out a suitable room, like a general sending a scout to reconnoiter for the high ground. He came back with his report and Chairman Joyce and wife Rhea commandeered the space.

Anyone with a glimpse inside would’ve sensed important business going on, serious men in immaculate suits shuffling in and out and speaking in low voices. Rhea, her high voice, definitive and impassioned, was the exception.

Mark Pointer and Jeremy Port were among those who came by to pay their respects, delighted to see their old boss. Separately, they asked the same questions and accepted the same explanation for his not going down to the ceremony on the lawn: wanting to relax and watch from inside. But the Chairman, they could tell, wasn’t in a celebratory mood. He had on his business face.

When the CEO stopped by, he accepted a hug from his mother, but nonetheless bristled at the physical contact. He had to admit, in answer to her question, that Delfina and the boys weren’t there. “Why not?” she demanded. Instead of answering, he turned his attention to his father.

The two men stood apart a respectful distance, like adversaries on a dirt road, twitchy fingers at the sides. Rhea’s presence restrained them from unloading lethal words.

The elder Joyce scrutinized his son with wizened regret that the family line of CEO’s relied on him. The younger man returned the look, intent on making the visit short. No one else being present, he speculated who might have been before and who would visit after. He’d send word to Bill the chauffeur to have someone watch. Abruptly, he announced he had to go and left for his own staging room.

As three o’clock approached, the couple edged their chairs to the window, like in box seats at the theater, poured some wine and watched the action unfold.

*

The seats in the semicircle were nearly filled. The crowd, anxious for the ceremony to start, checked watches against the time as the high hot sun threatened to wilt suits and dresses. It looked to the platform and up the lawn at the mansion for that last essential piece to get things going.

In an air-conditioned tent, the groomsmen jostled each other, joked and took turns peeking through the transparent flap, a nervous excitement elevating their mood. Peres was awed ---by the mansion that was the apotheosis of high living and by the grounds and the proximate sea that made him aware of standing on the edge of the continent; the angling green lawn curled underneath to fall into the ocean which then ran to the horizon to join the sky. His mind stretched to admit it all.

The willow arbor fused every element. Under sky and rooted in ground, it framed and magnified the sea. The ocean’s vast unperturbed expanse filled the frame, and he sensed unfathomed depths and unseen possibilities.

“Line up!” someone hollered. The music stopped and the crowd grew silent. The last essential piece was strolling down the lawn: Stephen Joyce and, beside him, a young woman.

They stopped at the first row where Joyce proceeded to center aisle to greet the parents of the bridal couple then shake hands with everyone else in the row. He returned to the woman who stood waiting by their seats. His actions established his importance to those who didn’t know him and reinforced it to those who did. The woman enhanced his significance, attractive in a dress the color of night when the first star appears.

Peres was third in line. Getting the cue, he stepped onto the carpet and, halfway to the other tent, found a maid to escort. She wore a peach strapless dress ending just above the knees with silvery white hose that shimmered in the sun. Braided black hair was wrapped about her head and her red ripe lips opened in a smile. Linking arms, they marched to the platform. There they separated, she going to the left and Peres taking his spot on the right side. He turned to face the assembly.

Joyce was close by and next to him the woman. His left knee came unstrung. He dipped slightly then caught himself. He’d heard of her beauty; she had to be Helen Roy.

As the ceremony progressed, his eye kept wandering to Helen. When it would have been too obvious, he held her in his mind. And, though the moment belonged to Dave Forester, he had a glowing awareness something was happening to him, too.

Many eyes watched Stephen Joyce and Helen. Joyce was the power that set the stage for the wedding at such a grand scale. People wondered what he thought of his accomplishment. He didn’t betray impressions. His mouth was rigid, without smile or sign of disapproval. He accepted and deflected attention. Helen, though, absorbed looks and the scene around her, eyes growing large to dominate her face and send bolts of electric intensity to whatever and whomever she saw.

The taking of vows redirected attention to the altar and an Episcopal priest in black and purple vestments. The groom, tall and ramrod straight, beamed. The bride, squeezed into a full-length hourglass gown, was regal. They exchanged rings and kissed. Then, he grabbed her hand and led her through the arbor and into the future. Returning to the platform, they walked back up the aisle to applause from a crowd breaking free from its seats.

Still entranced by the imagery, Peres sidled to Helen who in the excitement was watching the couple leave. She was, he believed, the most vibrant and real thing there. When she noticed him and cast her brown eyes at him, his skin tingled. He extended his hand.

“Peres Aguilar.”

“Helen Roy.”

A large hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“Our top salesman,” Joyce said.

He chafed at being overshadowed by the taller man, even as he welcomed the acknowledgement. Joyce gestured to the mansion and Helen, without hesitation, started walking but not before piercing Peres with a smile. He followed with his eyes, feeling a bit of himself leaving with her.

*

Rhea watched the pair climb the slope through the field glasses they had procured. She passed them to her husband.

“It’s just not right.”

He couldn’t disagree a wife’s place was beside her husband, but he saw something more. An executive needed aides to carry out his dictates. His own had been filtering through the guests and discovered a number of investors among them, confirming the business aspect of the wedding.

He admired the effort, but worried about his son’s feverish pursuit of capital. Many of those investors were speculators, in it for a quick hit, who would have no remorse abandoning a shipwrecked company.

To him, that wasn’t running a business. It was the long haul, circumnavigating the globe again and again and again. Business was family and family business, wife, children and allies, in it together and connected by loyalty.

Through the glasses, Rhea saw a displaced wife. The Chairman saw an aide and a question: How loyal was she?

*

The rock band began playing and, Pied Piper-like, attracted the celebrants to the mansion. Peres and Mary partook of the revelry. He charmed everyone he met and played the vital role amongst his peers. But part of him was disengaged and searching.

Day became twilight then turned into night. Whenever he could get away ---to the restroom, for drinks, to share laughs with the guys, to allow Mary time with the gals--- he looked for Helen. The size of the mansion worked against him, the party being confined to the ballroom, an adjoining dining room, the lobby and a few small rooms on the first level. He was convinced he’d find her if only he tried hard enough.

Each time he rejoined Mary, more of his good humor slipped away until an inexplicable sulkiness remained. When they got back to the car for the drive home, he’d been completely overtaken. His mood troubled Mary but she didn’t pursue it, exhausted by the day and settling in for the long ride home.

*

In the dark of night the remaining help staff was in the final stages of cleaning, but at foot of the willow arbor whispers and laughter could be heard. Lola, Bob and Bill were in a cluster, watching Joe.

“Did you get over there?”

Lola pointed to a spot. Joe pumped the canister and directed a jet of kerosene through the nozzle.

“More near the top.”

“I can’t reach.”

“Try.”

He held the nozzle as high as his arm would extend, but in the dark couldn’t tell if any landed.

Lola giggled.

“Bill, you’re taller.”

Bill took the canister and squirted. They heard the sound of liquid impacting a surface.

“Damn ---got some on me!”

“Okay, okay.”

“Stand back.”

“Wait.”

Bob twisted discarded programs into a long torch. Then, looking to his friends, struck a match and held it to the wad until it caught. Carefully with his left hand, he brought the yellow flame near the arbor, his right foot turned in the direction he would run.

He tossed it at the base, igniting a soft explosion and a crackle. Flames raced up and around the horseshoe form. The arbor was ablaze.

The quartet escaped up the slope to the limousine for the ride home, the CEO having released the chauffeur for the night.

The garlands quickly evaporated. The willow branches clung longest to the metal frame, like snakes in yellow twisted agony.

* * *


Chapter 11 will be posted July 17 31

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.