Someone to Watch Over Me
Chapter 13It had been a whirlwind six months. The meeting with Harry Jessup at Pacific Western Life had gone spectacularly well; Stu was hired to investigate a rash of burglaries plaguing the insurance company's clients. He found the criminals and was put on retainer by Jessup, at an even higher amount than what Cumberland had offered him. Suddenly Stuart had two insurance companies sending him cases, as well as those he picked up from 'the outside world.' He was earning a reputation as a straight shooter with the police, and he was constantly busy.
Before he knew it the lease was up on the office in Burbank and he had a decision to make. Sign another lease or find a new location? He decided his income was steady enough he could go 'swim with the big fish' and set his sights on Beverly Hills. It wasn't as expensive as everyone seemed to think it was, and Stu found exactly what he was looking for at a price he could almost afford. It was a good thing he asked the leasing agent about furniture . . . he had nothing good enough looking to populate the office. The furniture was available for lease, too, with an option to buy. It even included everything needed for a secretary in the outer office. . . if he could ever afford one of those. Stu signed a one-year lease and prayed.
He sold his used office furniture back to the thrift store and moved to Beverly Hills. Then he ordered new business cards and new stationery, and made a lunch date with his mother for the next day. He didn't explain why or what he intended to show her.
He picked her up at eleven-thirty and took her to the Beverly Hilton Hotel for lunch. "We're going here?" she asked him as he pulled into the parking lot. "They're awfully expensive."
"Don't worry about it, Mother," he explained as he reached over and patted her hand. "I can afford it." He hurried around to open her door and offered his arm. "You deserve the best."
They stopped at the maître d' and Stu stated, "Reservation for Mr. Bailey."
"Yes, sir, right this way." They were seated by the garden window and Helen examined her son carefully.
"What's this all about, Stuart? There' something you're not telling me, isn't there?"
His head nodded and he smiled. "I picked up two more clients, Mother. One is a steel manufacturing firm that wants all of its employees, including new hires, vetted thoroughly. The other is a law firm that handles divorce cases and civil suits. They've both put me on fat retainers and I wanted to do something nice for you. Your 'poor little boy' isn't such a poor little boy anymore."
Helen took a good, long look at her son. He looked . . . prosperous. "I see that," she told him. "Your father would be proud of you."
"I'd prefer you didn't tell him."
Helen looked up from her menu. "Why not?"
The tone in his voice was one of disdain. "It's none of his business."
Helen sighed and looked back down. "Alright." She hated this – whatever this thing was between father and son. Stuart had proven himself, time and time again. Yet the two men in her life barely spoke to each other. And when they did it was more like sniping than talking. She didn't fault Stuart for the distance between them. That was strictly George's fault. Every time Stu took a step forward, his father tried to push him two steps back. She loved her husband, but she'd carried the baby that turned into the elegant, educated man in front of her in her belly for nine months, and she couldn't abide the things George said and did to 'her boy.'
"Mother? What do you want to drink?" She'd been lost in her own thoughts and hadn't heard the waiter ask about her drink preferences.
"Oh, uh, I'll have a Tom Collins."
"And you, sir?"
"A Bloody Mary, please."
"And are you ready to order?" the waiter asked.
"Mother?"
Helen smiled at her son and looked up at the waiter. "A Monte Christo sandwich, please."
"Sir?"
"I'll have the Beverly Garden Salad, Italian dressing on the side."
Once the waiter nodded his head and left to get their drinks, Helen put her hand on Stuart's. "What can I do to make things right between you and your father?"
Stu shook his head and pulled his hand away from his mother's. "There's nothing you can do. It's not up to you or to me. It's up to him. And I don't think he's inclined to do anything about it anytime soon."
Helen's voice was strained as she asked, "What do you want, Stuart?"
It took Stu a minute to answer his mother. The drinks came before he could say anything. "I want an apology, Mother. I want Dad to tell me he was wrong to try and force a career on me; a career I didn't want. That's what I want."
"Stuart . . . "
"I know. I should hold my breath for an apology."
"Is that all you want from your father?" Helen watched her son's liquid brown eyes – in them she saw confusion, and pain, and something else – resignation.
"Yes. That's all I want from him."
The waiter brought their lunch and they ate in relative silence. Helen Bailey possessed knowledge that her son didn't have, and she'd been on the verge of telling him. George Bailey was dying. The doctor had given him the diagnosis just last week, and Helen was torn between sharing the news with her oldest child and honoring her husband's wishes. She decided, for the time being at least, to do as her husband asked, and find some other way to reconcile George and Stuart. When lunch was over Stu paid the check and they returned to the car.
"Do you have to be somewhere in a hurry?" Stu asked once they were seated inside.
"No. Why?" Her son still had something up his sleeve, and it was obvious he wasn't going to tell her what it was.
"I want to show you something."
Stuart drove down the street and made his way to a high-rise that sat on the edges of Beverly Hills. "Where are we going, Stuart?"
"Just come with me." Again he opened her door and helped her out, then took her inside the building. When the elevator got there he punched the button for the ninth floor and led her down the hallway. He stopped at office 907 and got out some keys, then proceeded to unlock the door. It was a secretarial office, and her son escorted her through it and into a second office. It was quite spacious, with beautiful furniture and large picture windows. "What do you think, Mom? Isn't it beautiful?" he grinned at her.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"My new office. Of course, I don't have a secretary yet, but I'll hire one eventually."
Helen lowered herself into one of the chairs facing the desk and looked amazed. "It's yours? But how can you afford it?"
"The way things are right now, I don't foresee a problem. Well, what do you think?"
"Stuart, I . . . I'm speechless. I had no idea . . . "
Stu beamed with pride. "That I'm doing so well? I've worked hard for it, Mother. And I have to keep working hard, to hold onto it. But I will."
Helen reached up and grabbed Stuart's hand. "I'm proud of you, son."
There was immense satisfaction in knowing his mother was proud of him. Still, there was something missing, and that was his father's approval. He swore to himself, then and there, if he ever became a father . . . he'd be a different kind than his own.