Manhattan, NYC
A blaring horn shrieked, jolting the figure atop a vintage red Harley Davidson. Green eyes narrowed, rush hour traffic was a bitch and on a Friday, nonetheless. A black boot tapped impatiently on the brake it was resting on.
A stale and foul smelling aroma wafted from a nearby manhole forcing its way underneath the open edges of the metallic red helmet of the biker.
Lips pursed, then blew out a long breath as traffic slowly gave way, inch by inch. The loud engine of the motorcycle roared forward, only to come to a complete stop after about three measly yards. Typical. Just a regular, gridlocked, late afternoon in the city that never sleeps.
The horn blared again. "Son of a…"
The biker was only able to cut off the blasphemous outburst after years of being constantly berated for her colorful use of language. Sighing, she put her feet on the ground for balance. The edgy young woman removed thin black rider's gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of a brown leather bomber jacket.
A strong hand smoothed back the dark ponytail that was hanging out from under the helmet. The sun was bright and scorching, as dry lips formed a sideways grin. At least the decision to wear mirrored aviators was a good one. They were pushed back onto a slick and sweaty nose that resided on a pretty, yet strong face; complete with flushed high cheekbones and matching sweaty bangs.
A courier zipped in between the cars, almost knocking into the Harley, as a swift jet of air whizzed past the biker. Only a blur of spandex was seen as the courier pedaled around the corner.
"Show off."
She examined the surrounding scene. This was Manhattan; the heart of the city. Everyone was trying to get to their destination at the same time, which meant touchy tempers and sharp tongued commentary. Car windows were rolled down as their occupants shared sneering glances; a silent hatred for all things slow and uncomfortable in the New York City heat.
The dark haired rider chuckled as she remembered witnessing many an out-of-towner gawk at the daily gridlock a little too long, only to be schooled in the delicacies of traffic etiquette by the natives; complete with an array of expletives, piercing car horns and the occasional love tap on the back bumper. A slight grin formed at the memories. She loved it…
She'd missed it.
The brunette was abruptly nudged from reminiscing when her pants pocket suddenly vibrated. "Whoa… I've got to get used to this thing." Fumbling a bit, she pulled out her mobile phone and examined the screen. "Ah crap." She tapped it then stuffed it back in her jeans pocket. The brake was released as the Harley lurched forward another ten feet.
Several horns behind blared loudly. "Yeah, yeah…."
Blowing out a frustrated breath, she slumped down on the motorbike and tapped her foot on the brake, wishing for the thousandth time for one of those Star Trek transporter things right about now… and who didn't when they were extremely late?
Florenza's Café - Midtown Manhattan
"You really should do something about that trap you have out there. It took me fifteen minutes to escape from that thing!"
Brown eyes blinked at the statement; then a slurp was heard as the remains of a strawberry cream soda were sucked up loudly through a straw.
"Nat, it's a landmark, I've told you this." A slight roll of the eyes, as the empty glass was pushed away.
"It's a pot hole that's blocking the front door and it's a trap, Tootie." The victim announced in an annoyed voice.
The two occupants of the back corner booth sat in the lofty, soft-lit café famous for its celebrity clientele. There was a low hum of conversation around them.
"Tell that to city maintenance, they're not going to fill it in."
Tootie Ramsey had been working at the famous Florenza's café for two months as a waitress, or as she had put it – paying her dues in the acting world. All the aspiring actors did it. The café was known for being a favorite eatery for celebrities as well as being a gold mine for finding new talent.
Those who knew someone, who knew someone, who then knew someone high up in the business, usually had been discovered at Florenza's Cafe. The young actress was thrilled when a position opened up and eagerly had business cards printed - just in case Steven Spielberg happened to be in town and needed to get a hold of her.
"They would if they saw this." From under the table, a mud clad leg and running shoe was put on full display.
"And then, I ever so slightly, started to limp my way over to city hall to file papers claiming pain and suffering."
"Nat…" Tootie pushed the offending leg back under the table.
"What? I could've killed myself trying to get in here!"
Tootie sighed. "Nat I've told you this before… Johnny Carson deemed that "hole" a national treasure after he stumbled and fell on Lola Folana. Her entire career was launched after that. Many a producer has tripped and fallen on undiscovered talent because of that hole. You can read all about it on the plaque right beside the hole."
A smirk. "I've read it, the hole that launched a thousand careers… and ruined a thousand pairs of pants, shoes, ripped skirts, broken bones, torn… "
"Okay, ok! I get your point." The young thespian decided a change of subject was in order and studied her booth companion. "How's it going in the newspaper business, Nat?"
The young reporter was nursing a root beer and glanced at her longtime friend. "Slow. I'm just itching for a juicy story, you know, something I can really sink my teeth into."
Tootie chuckled. "Yeah, but will they let you report on anything other than little old ladies?"
Natalie looked up, startled by the remark. "What's wrong with little old lady stories? They're endearing, heartwarming."
"They're safe, you mean." Tootie pinned her companion with a knowing look. "I mean, it was nice to know Mrs. Lindner finally found her cat after it ran away 5 years ago."
Natalie sighed in resignation. "It's the only subject they'll let me report on. I'm just a junior reporter." She picked at her napkin.
Tootie offered a soft smile. "Yeah but for the New York Times." She reached across the table and gave Natalie a pat on the arm. "How many people can say that coming right out of college?"
It was true. Natalie Green had been courted by the Times since the beginning of her senior year at Langley. After graduation, she was all too eager to move back to the city and begin her career, if only as a junior (cub) reporter. All she needed was a break – the one story that would catapult her to senior status – a story that would prove her to be the greatest and youngest, top reporter the paper had ever seen!
"You're daydreaming again," Tootie smirked as she looked around the café. "Huh… how do you like that? The one day I'm off and so far no celebrities, and where's Jo? She should be here by now."
Natalie smirked back at the aspiring actress; then checked her incoming text messages. "I texted her ten minutes ago, no reply. She's stuck in traffic, no doubt. This is why I take the subway."
Tootie slumped back in the booth and gave Natalie an inquiring look. "I thought you took the subway because, and I quote: There's no way I'm walking ten blocks in the blistering sun only to look like a boiled clam. And, besides, the subway has air conditioning."
"That's boiled lobster. I'd look like a boiled lobster," Natalie corrected. "At least get your crustaceans correct if you're going to quote me, Tootie." She took a long sip of root beer.
A beat passed between them. "I thought clams were mollusks." A dark eyebrow rose in question.
Natalie waved a hand, "Mollusks, crustaceans, what's the difference? I don't want to look like either one of them."
The engine was cut as the biker rolled the Harley into the back alley of Florenza's. She was thankful the owner had let her park her bike in the secure area. Removing the heavy helmet the cool air from the metal street vents was welcomed on glistening skin. A ponytail was freed as she combed through it with deft fingers. Jo peeled off her leather jacket and headed inside the café.
So much for being on time…
Wainscoting seemed to be the theme of Warner Mansion – as the press called it. Every room in the place was wrapped in the decorative wooden panels.
The scenic mansion sat atop the Crestview Hills. Crestview was home to the famous Crestview Golf Club. It was exclusive, of course, and very famous for its rich and celebrity clientele.
The mansion was first built in 1892, by a small construction company owned by George Andrew Warner – great grandfather to David and Russell. The front entrance was elaborate, open and quite breath taking, with a full spiral staircase. The spindle and rail decor had been hand carved. The walls were decorated with a cast of old family pictures and valuable paintings, especially in the main Grande Room.
The halls were a bright color of eggshell white, as chandeliers adorned almost every room in the place. George and Claire Warner, who were both accomplished artists in their own right, had collected every piece of art in the house. Each sculpture and painting was polished and cleaned weekly by a specifically trained staff.
The floors were marble: grey with a touch of brown and white swirled in. They were cold and hard, although the halls themselves were quite hollow.
The clicking of elegant shoes echoed in the south hall as Blair made her way to the 'Mast,' as her father called his study… his sanctuary.
She approached the door, but waited for a moment. She listened before tapping it lightly. "Daddy?"
Blair heard a muffled, "One second…" before, "Come in princess…"
David Warner sat perched on the side of his desk. He motioned for Blair to have a seat across from him as he continued with what seemed to be a very important phone call.
She slowly entered and took in the paneled office. It always made her feel regal when she entered into the Mast… ever since she was a little girl. It smelled like old varnish, and the window behind the desk was in the perfect spot to view the ocean off in the distance.
Her father's golf clubs sat in one corner; as a large fireplace and a built in shelf of law and reading books was on the adjacent wall. Various paintings and art pieces rounded out the rest of the room.
There was a large boat in a bottle on David's desk that he had been working on with his brother. They were each taking turns at building it, piece by meticulous piece inside the glass. It had been their hobby – that and sailing their real life versions off the coast on the weekends.
Blair took a seat and crossed her legs as she waited for her father to finish. She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a breath.
David turned off his phone and regarded his daughter. "So, Princess, how'd everything go?"
"As well as can be expected." Really, Daddy? What was more important than paying respects to your own brother?
David saw her look of slight irritation. He moved to the front of the desk and bent over to meet Blair's eyes. "Now… don't look at me like that."
Blair feigned indifference. "Like what?"
"Like you have a few choice words for me." He paused. "Princess, you know good and well uncle Russell wouldn't want me anywhere else but taking care of business. I was at the funeral and the reception." He pointed out. "I got a call right before the ashes ceremony. It couldn't be helped."
Blair reluctantly knew that was true. She gave him a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. "I didn't say anything."
"No. But your body language is telling me you're not too happy I wasn't at the ceremony." David sat up, resting his hands on his knees. "Look Prin— "
"Daddy I have other things on my mind more pressing than your lack of empathy!" Blair blurted out then abruptly got up from the chair.
"Lack of emp...what?" David was slightly taken aback.
Blair was keenly aware of her father watching in confusion as she strode over to the window and peered out; not really focusing on anything in particular.
He came up behind her and rested his hands, hesitantly at first, on top of her shoulders to offer comfort and waited.
Blair sighed after a few moments. "Do you think I can do this?" she said in a small voice.
David patted her shoulders in understanding. "Princess, you can do anything you put your mind to. You're a Warner," He smiled, his voice low and soothing.
Blair shook her head. "They're all waiting for me to fail, daddy." She swallowed against the wave of worry that suddenly rose in her throat.
"Oh, I seriously doubt that."
David gently turned Blair around to face him. Her forehead was furrowed in frustration. He lifted a thumb to smooth out her brow. "Look, tomorrow morning I'm going to formally introduce you to the executive board." He flashed a quick smile.
Blair answered with a hesitant grin. Her stomach felt nervous, but she pushed it down. "As their newly appointed President… me, David Warner's daughter." She said flatly.
Blair moved out of her father's grasp and walked over to the bookshelf, fingering the leatherback law books absentmindedly. She sighed.
David watched her for a beat. "Well, who else would you have me entrust my billion dollar company to… a complete stranger?"
He watched her for a minute then softened his tone. "Sweetheart, you've earned this position. It's in your blood."
Blair looked skeptically at her father. "So the fact that I'm probably young enough to be most of executive board member's daughter and a woman, that doesn't cast any doubt about my…"
"Oh, now, no, no, Princess. Don't go selling yourself short here," David interrupted. "You are more than qualified and quite a few of them have told me they were especially impressed with how you handled the Meyer account."
David Warner studied his daughter then added pointedly. "Princess, you've earned this."
Blair repressed a sardonic smirk. The Meyer account had been one of her better accomplishments, true. She'd had plenty of small cases since her various internships; both during and after law school. But the Meyer account involved multimillion-dollar business buyouts and crafty negotiations. She'd worked very hard on each case with the senior counselors within each company. They'd recognized her zeal, her strength in the art of law.
The ability to charm and sway others with her arguments had become her biggest asset.
Blair had earned a reputation for being quite a shark at Warner Textiles; especially when it came to negotiating. The past five years had seen her climb from senior legal analyst to vice operations executive as a result of her hard work. The executive board had just recently considered her to replace her late uncle Russell as president, after he had suffered his sudden fatal heart attack.
It didn't sit well with his son, Robert, who was presently vice president of global operations. But Blair was a year older and her father was the acting CEO… and probably the chief persuader in voting for the next president of Warner Textiles Corporation.
Blair cleared her voice and looked at her father adamant. "It's a lot of responsibility." She reiterated.
"Of course it is and you can handle it. Your uncle and I had no doubts about your ability. Look, Princess, tomorrow morning we'll have breakfast at the café and then we'll walk into Warner Textiles like we own the place." David smiled, his attempt to joke a bit lost on Blair, but still…
Blair slowly padded her way toward the door. She swallowed, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach and spared her father a glance. He'd taken off his suit jacket; his white buttoned down dress shirt still crisply laundered. His necktie hung loose around his neck. He looked tired. His eyes were red around the edges.
It had been a long day.
"Fine," Blair said resolutely.
She hated the feeling of uncertainty. She was a Warner and Warner's didn't feel particular things, especially uncertainty… and definitely not failure. Blair shook her head to clear it. No this wasn't any different…this was business. She knew how to do business. It was in her blood after all.
David smiled thankfully at Blair before making his way over to her. He bent down and pecked her cheek; then moved back over to his desk.
Blair smiled in return. His cologne still lingered. It was her favorite. She then turned and grabbed the doorknob and cracked open the door, its hinges slightly squeaking as she did.
She hesitated a bit before regarding her father. "One more thing, Daddy."
"Yes princess?" David froze looking up, his eyebrows raised in question. He had moved to grab a cigar from the humidor and was in the process of lighting it.
"Starting tomorrow? Don't call me Princess."
She had let the door close quietly. The sound of her pumps clicking on the marble floor grew fainter as she moved down the hall.
David let the cigar dangle from his lips and then grabbed it; placing it back in the humidor. He cracked a smile and shook his head in amusement as he moved to the small bar behind his desk. He poured a scotch – neat - then settled in to his chair.
Glancing at the picture on his desk of Russell and him, he smiled. They'd been sailing and each sported a deep tan. The picture was twenty years old. They looked young and dashing. David chuckled to himself.
With tears welling in his eyes, he saluted his brother. "Here's to you, Russ." He held the glass to his lips and smiled one last time before downing the liquid in one swift gulp.
He winced as the scotch made its way down his throat, then leaned back in his chair, peering out the window. A few clouds had settled in, but the sun was still high. Its rays streamed lines into the study, painting the room an orange-ish pink.
You go get 'em princess…