Happy belated Halloween, and positive thoughts to all of those impacted by the recent storm.
####
The stack of papers rested at a perfect ninety degree angle. The one frame – for the family photo, because individual pictures were cluttered and impractical, or so he'd been told – was polished to a squeaky shine. The file cabinet was neatly categorized and alphabetized. Nevertheless, it was getting another pass-through. He admired the legs currently supplying quite a nice contrast against the black metal.
"Mr. Cortlandt's meeting begins in twenty three minutes and 57.2 seconds."
His eyes guiltily lasered on the cluttered desk in front of him. Contrasts, all right. He might be able to clean up a computer in no time flat, but otherwise, might as well sign him up for an episode of Hoarders.
Pete adjusted his glasses and gave a small grin he hoped didn't look as twitchy as it felt. "Well, 51 seconds now, or 50…"
She frowned. "A trip to the bank, barring any car trouble or gas stops - which could alter the variables considerably - can be completed in approximately 19 minutes, making allowances for traffic patterns. Mr. Cortlandt has been gone approximately 25 minutes and -"
"14.3 seconds?" Pete guessed.
Again the frown. OK, this wasn't exactly going well. "23.7 seconds now."
He shrugged, resisting the temptation to gnaw on the tip of the pen in his hand. Corporate drones really shouldn't be picking up habits from the pet dog, after all. "You know Caleb's old junker – I mean, old 1982 Ford Fairmont Futura- he's probably just dragging his muffler along the road."
"Why would he drag a car part in the middle of a busy traffic system?"
Pete scratched his head, in the absence of anything better to do with his fumbling hands. "I'm sure he's okay. He knows this meeting's important. Heck, we know it, even though we're not exactly at the top of the ladder here."
He began to correct himself, but she enthusiastically took off with his train of thought - before he could board the train, of course.
"The corporate ladder contains the Chief Executive Officer, Mr. Cortlandt. The Chief Operating Officer, often known as the Senior Executive Vice President, is responsible for everyday operations. Then the next rung of the ladder contains the Chief Financial Officer. You and I – as accountant and computer programming analyst, would be -"
"Somewhere near the bottom of that particular ladder," he added. Not that he minded. Despite this town's reputation for trading a high-school degree for a CEO title, he'd realized a long time ago that the button-down suits and the slick talk – most especially the latter – weren't for him. And he most assuredly wasn't for them. Truthfully, he'd probably have his father's legacy torpedoed in record time: about 14.4 minutes, or seconds.
"No," she said, startling him somewhat. He had this annoying habit of forgetting when he happened to be in the middle of a conversation, even with someone as unforgettable as Lily Montgomery. "A recent report, based on raw statistical data, projects that our jobs show the most gross potential for growth in the next ten years. My own calculations have confirmed this assessment." Her eyes lit up. "I can show you the chart if you would like."
This time, his smile was easy. "I'd love to see it sometime."
When their moment was interrupted by possibly the only other person who had worse timing than Caleb, he tried to cover the visible jumping jack he'd just performed in his seat by clearing away the red apple hiding behind his clutter. Pete had a feeling that with his current office neighbor around, he was gonna have to learn to love green apples.
He stood and nodded to the interrupter. "Nina."
His sister just grabbed him by the hand and motioned to Lily. "Caleb's back, and we need all hands –" She stopped and glanced at Lily. "Sorry, we need both of you to come to the conference room right now."
Pete waved to the door. "After you." When Lily's hand almost brushed his, he stepped away. For her sake.
Sure.
####
With all of the seats taken, they had lined the walls like a pack of sardines. Some still tried to keep up the whole business professional presentation, standing erect with briefcases or alternative corporate weight of choice in hand. He had to shake his head as he took his place at the table's lead and crossed his dusted boots. The collection of monkey suits offered a bit of a contrast to his brand of business casual. He'd given up the clean-shaven, rumpled suit look oh, about nine months ago, when it no longer seemed to matter a whole hell of a lot. Taken the look out back and shot it, in fact. Being the boss offered certain perks.
He surveyed his rag-tag band of soldiers. Nina Cortlandt, COO, the prodigal daughter returned. His right-hand. Buttoned-up aloof, she possessed the requisite ice now. No more put-upon victim. Daddy's little girl indeed.
Young Peter, who'd also been driven back like the proverbial ragged moth to the white-hot flame that was Pine Valley. The events of the past year had somehow produced that side-effect. The boy was currently fending off the pecking of a mother hen on one side while trying his level-best and failing miserably not to thieve a few not-so-subtle glances at the happily oblivious young beauty to his right. Young Peter, who had the wisdom of youth to his detriment. He'd taken a hankering that no, absolutely no way was he ever gonna be daddy's little clone. Wide-rimmed glasses couldn't quite cover the eyes – and the tiny spark inside - that told Caleb a different story.
Caleb considered the two women flanking the youngest Cortlandt. The object of young Peter's fascination neatly stacked and restacked the papers in her grip, her brow knit and a flash of pink between her lips. His interactions with the accountant were still limited to a few gruff commands and a few equally frank observations from the latter. He'd never use a word like kindred spirit, nor would he ever claim to remember the day when, after putting the finishing touches on a particularly relevant project, she'd turned to him and asked the name of the canine in the picture on his desk. When he had muttered "Dog," she said matter-of-factly, "That is practical and logical."
Caleb had never apologized for the tirade he'd unleashed on the poor HR girl for hiring Lily, nor would he ever likely admit that she'd been absolutely right in her choice.
Times like these, he wished Dog wouldn't have run off. Canines were loyal, easy. He reckoned the pooch had the right idea, though. Maybe offering up a warning. He'd certainly had the urge to go back and reanoint himself as the Mountain Madman.
His focus fell on one of the few people who could make him resist that compulsion. Mother hen Opal, currently patting a piece of rogue hair on a fidgeting son's head. The only board member who shared his eccentric fashion affinities, and a most interesting, most fascinating complication. Many times, he weighed the wiseness of starting up something with the uncle's ex. Most times, he decided to hell with it, even if a certain crotchety devil minus the horns would probably poke him in the backside one day.
Old Pete or even the devil himself might not prove a match for the devil sitting comfortably to his left though, his co-sponsor in this particular endeavor. David Hayward had the stocks and the smarts, but he also had something a little more valuable: the motivation. Caleb, with a shotgun to his chest, might confess that they made a pretty damned formidable team. Hayward hadn't even had to lay the trap. The subject of their current meeting had set the snare himself and gladly handed the doctor the trigger one year ago in the form of one manila envelope.
Today, the snare finally snapped and they had their kill.
Caleb rose and addressed the small crowd. "Our emergency meeting a few nights ago proved very successful." He cleared his throat. "I'm not one for pretty speeches, so I'll get right to the point. We will need some of you to begin work immediately at our newest acquisition and insure an-"He let a rare smile takes its reign. "Easy transition. Any volunteers?"
One hand immediately raised, and he nodded to Ms. Montgomery. His gaze settled on her neighbor until a more hesitant hand wavered in the air.
Old Pete would've appreciated the roughly rhymed poetry of this moment.
His eyelids raised when another hand rose beside Peter., but he continued collecting volunteers unabated.
"Nina," he finished, "I would like you to oversee the transition, along with Mr. Hayward."
His eyes immediately swept from her, but not before capturing a sneak preview of the not-so-collected tirade he was sure the endure later.
He gathered his papers. The numbers were motionless, cold, and hard. He wondered, not for the first time, how many stocks and bonds could equal the price of a son, and the small smile faded.
He would soon find out.
####
"Good." Her eyes widened at the information on the screen. "Make that great. Do I want to know how you got this particular data?" She shook her head at the response. "That's what I thought. Keep me updated."
Brooke put the phone down and scanned over the numbers. That much transferred in one night? Stupidity, especially in her line of work, usually had one primary source: desperation. The question was why? Why would this ruthless, albeit respected hotshot funnel a sizable chunk of his employees' pensions into an overseas account? Better yet, why were they seemingly the only ones investigating this?
For now, she'd leave those questions to the ace reporter, who was proving to be a quick study and just a little too good at the job at hand. Truthfully, a part of her could admit – perhaps the wild-child part that rode into town all those years ago – that mentoring Erica Kane's daughter did have the benefit of driving the tiny force of nature absolutely crazy. No one had been more surprised, and skeptical, than Brooke herself when the young woman she'd always thought of as the sweet anti-Erica showed up in her office last year: the final interviewee of the day for Tempo's new internship. And no one - save maybe the girl - had been more surprised when Brooke offered her the job a few days later. That selfish part that still liked to stick it to the decades-long perennial thorn in her side was just that, though: a part. She'd like to give herself credit for evolving just a little over the years, and the respected, professional side of her could sense Bianca's natural talent. She'd done her best to nurture that talent, with mixed results.
A different part of her wanted to reach out and again find the sweet girl she once knew: the one currently blocked up behind all the pain and the ruthless killer instinct, even if it meant sacrificing the very quality that made her so effective at what she did. Brooke had become well-acquainted with that particular task over the years.
Fingering the diamond ring on her hand, she rose and lit a candle, which only provided a faint glow into the dark room. Instantly, the carpet displayed its scarlet letter: the one her fiancé refused to banish. The truth was, though, all the carpet cleaners in the world could never truly banish the large stain of this house...the house that increasingly felt like a mausoleum. The main memorial stood in the room's corner. Some might call it a mantel of family photos, but time had cruelly transformed it into something else. Scott's dimples flashed in morbid defiance of their dark surroundings, and his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his resurrected father: resurrected only to be buried again underneath a waking nightmare. And Colby., the enigmatic child who remained frozen in Brooke's mind's eye as the little blond-haired wonder: the child who used to serve as a pleasant reminder of a similar little girl with big dreams. Now, she could only invoke images and feelings Brooke would never quite forget.
She approached the mantel and lightly grasped the smaller, obstructed picture. She remembered hearing the cries of the little boy inside the frame, hearing them and being certain that she could never, ever answer them. Being certain that she would never see more than the living, breathing manifestation of her husband's betrayal - right up until the moment she reached out for the tiny bundle in the crib. Holding that bundle in her arms and being ever-so-certain that she'd never, save once, seen anyone more beautiful or innocent.
Gently, Brooke put her former stepson's picture back in its hiding place. Adam's secret was safe with her. Despite the refusals, despite the silences, despite the fact that he had not seen or spoken to JR for over a year, Brooke knew that - despite anything and everything - Adam still loved his son.
And, she also knew, he hated himself for it. When he received the call that JR was in the hospital, he let her witness his bluster, his "Don't call me again"s and his carelessness. When she was presumably safely out of hearing range, only then did she witness the truth manifest in a softly whispered, "Is he okay?"
She crossed the foyer and opened a drawer, carefully removing her own secret. In the days following that night, investigators had combed every inch of the house. They had discovered two guns missing from Adam's collection: two guns that were fully loaded on that night. Six rounds each, twelve bullets. Ten had taken their tragic toll in innumerable ways, and one remained in the second gun. It had never gotten the opportunity to find its intended or unintended target. Eventually, it had been determined that the missing bullet ricocheted and perhaps dug into the wall somewhere. It hadn't really mattered, they said.
Brooke gripped the stem of the champagne glass. It still shone and sparkled, and it still harbored its one addition: a perfectly shaped bullet-sized hole. Other than this small blemish, the glass was uncracked, undisturbed…
A minor miracle.
She couldn't quite put into words why she kept it – ironic for the woman who'd made a career from finding the right words – but something would not let her throw the glass away.
When the door opened and the house's sole other occupant stumbled in, she placed the glass back in its hidden corner. She almost tripped herself as she rushed across the room, stopping Adam right before he did a face-plant into the now-empty liquor stand. Her fingers tightened as the very real smell of alcohol supplanted the phantom odors.
"Adam, what -"
She was stopped by the face in the doorway – the face that, in spite of its matching features, used to be so easily distinguishable from its twin. Brooke turned her attention to the new arrival.
"Where have the two of you been?"
It should've made her happy that the brothers were interacting again. Some bonds could never be completely broken. The too-similar, too-indistinguishable matching looks, however, would not allow her that happiness.
Adam, standing as erect as he could manage and smoothing out his rumpled coat, answered for his brother. "Why, my darling, we were at Chandler Enterprises, the newest subshi… subsidy…oh, excuse me," he slurred. "The newest subsidiary of Cortlandt Electronics."
She might've been shocked, angry even. But after everything that had happened, the news of this particular feat of corporate raiding felt…inevitable.
Although Adam had turned over the business reins so that his brother could provide a "better" legacy, that passion and fire for his legacy still remained. Try as he might, Adam would never be able to douse it completely.
That fire rekindled itself as his eyes settled first on her, and then on his brother. "You do, of course, realize what this means?"
The expected resistance did not come. Stuart just nodded.
Brooke's eyes took their own inventory, an inventory that included a dimmed diamond ring, a locked drawer, and a sealed envelope from the family court that likely announced the declaration of yet another war.
Weddings, plans, and all the niceties that went with them were on indefinite hold.
As her gaze returned to her fiancé, Brooke considered the casualties of war.