gorilla and founder of PAK Industries continued to study himself in the mirror. No one would ever call him handsome. Nor would they say he was cute. Articles, and there were hundreds of them, said he was “interesting.” One even said he was “chameleon-like,” whatever the hell that meant. Those same articles then fast-forwarded to his financials and more or less said he could be ugly as sin because no one cared, and with all that money in the bank, he was the CIC. His secretary had to translate that for him. CIC, she said, meant Cat in Charge. If he wanted to, he could start purring right then. He laughed at the thought.
“Hey, Pete, you in here somewhere?” his longtime motherly secretary shouted from the doorway.
Pete ran a loose ship, and as long as the work got done, he didn’t care who wore what or who said what. Familiarity in the workplace worked for everyone’s comfort zone.
“Just checking my tie, Millie. Do you need me for something?”
Hands on her plump hips, Millie stared at her boss. “Well, would you look at you! You want some advice?”
“No, but that isn’t going to stop you. Spit it out.”
“You look silly. Ditch the duds and go back to being you. You only get dressed up like that when you go to funerals. Did someone die, and you forgot to tell me? We always send flowers or a fruit basket. By the way, some personal mail just came for you. I put it on your desk earlier while you were getting dressed. I think it’s the third request for your RSVP in regard to your alma mater’s fund-raiser. You might want to take care of that.”
Pete walked over to his desk to see a large, cream-colored square envelope with the return address of his alma mater. Millie was right, he needed to get on the stick and make a decision one way or the other.
“Well? So, who died?”
He was off-balance. Just the sight of the cream-colored envelope and the return address rushed him back to another part of his life. A part of his life he didn’t want to deal with just then. “No one died. I’m dressed like this for the ten o’clock meeting. Then I have that photo op with Senator what’s-his-name. I still don’t know how I got roped into that.”
His voice was so cool, so curt, Millie drew back and closed the door. She rushed around the floor warning everyone that the boss had his knickers in a twist and was all dressed up. Something was going on. The entire floor huddled as they tried to understand why the boss would attend a meeting in a suit and tie even though he was going to have his picture taken later. Peter Aaron Kelly didn’t give a damn about suiting up for photo ops. Everyone in the whole world knew that.
“And,” Millie said importantly, “the boss is wearing Armani and not his regular hand-stitched HUGO BOSS funeral attire. Something is definitely going down this morning. He’s chipper, though, so it must be a good thing. Well, he was chipper until the mail came,” Millie muttered as an afterthought.
While Pete’s staff whispered among themselves, he was busy ripping open the envelope Millie had left for him. She was right, he had twenty-four hours to say yea or nay. Even at that late date they were still willing to have him as their guest speaker if he would commit. “Well, boys and girls, I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’ll send you a check, and we’ll call it square.” To make himself feel better, he scribbled off a sizable check and tossed it in the top drawer along with the two previous invitations. Millie would take care of it. He’d have her send off an e-mail or overnight letter nixing the speaking gig.
Screw it all. Now he was in a cranky mood. He flopped down on his custom-made chair, whose leather was butter soft, and propped his feet on the desk. He had fifteen minutes to, as his mother used to put it, woolgather. He made a mental note to ask her if she still used that expression.
Pete opened the drawer again and reached for the invitation. He twirled the cream-colored square in his hands. Maybe he should go back. So what if he’d made a promise to himself never to do so. People broke promises all the time, especially when the person made the promise to himself.
As the minute hand on his watch crawled forward, Pete slid the invitation back into the drawer. Maybe he’d think about it later. Not too much later, he cautioned himself. The reunion was across the country in two days.
What the hell, he had a corporate jet. But getting that baby all fired up with a pilot was a whole other ball game, especially on short notice. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t think about it. He blinked when a vision of a young girl in a floppy hat with a big sunflower on it appeared behind his eyelids. Lily. Lily something. He took a minute to wonder where she was and what she was doing. She was probably married with four or five kids and a doting husband. He corrected that thought immediately when he remembered the last time he’d seen her and the sad look in her eyes. No, he’d bet PAK Industries that Lily something-or-other wasn’t married with kids.
Pete looked down at the calendar on his desk. He had a busy day. After the photo op with the senator, he had an appointment with his shrink. Maybe after his appointment he would be in a better frame of mind to make a decision about attending the fund-raiser.
The pricey TAG Heuer watch on his wrist chirped. Time to head for the boardroom so he could make his announcement. Fifteen minutes, tops. Five minutes to get downstairs to meet the senator and smile pretty for the cameras. What the hell was the senator’s name? Then off to the shrink. After that, he was on his own time. The thought left him light-headed.
Precisely three minutes later, Pete entered the conference room. For some reason, the room always amazed him. It was half the size of a football field, with wraparound windows for light, and was dominated by a long teak table whose shine was so bright he could see his reflection. Twelve leather chairs surrounded the table. Off to all four sides of the large room were private groupings of chairs, small sofas, tables, and tons of greenery. In the center of the teak table was a magnificent silver coffee urn, with fine china cups and a crystal decanter of orange juice as well as four trays of assorted pastries.
“Hi, people,” Pete said, taking his seat at the head of the table. He looked around at all the people who had worked at his side for years and years to make it all happen. He owed them all big-time. He nodded to Millie, who was trotting around the long table, placing in front of each person a snow-white envelope with the PAK logo in the corner.
“A show of my appreciation. Look, there’s no easy way to say this other than to come right out and say it. I’m taking some time off. A year at the least. Maybe longer. You can run this place without me. There are some things I need to do. Personal things. So, having said that”—Pete tossed a set of keys to his second-in-command, Marty Bronson—“the keys to everything, Marty, and you get my parking space. Before you can ask, no, I am not sick, no, I am not getting married.”
Pete pushed back his chair and stood up. “Oh, there is one other thing. Every one of you in this room has my cell phone number. If you call me, you’re fired. I’ll check in from time to time so you can hear my cheery voice. I want to walk out of here knowing I didn’t make a mistake when I hired you all. Just make me proud and let me get out of here before I start blubbering. Don’t get up. Sit there and plan how you’re going to spend those checks I just gave you. See ya!”
Outside in the hallway, Millie stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “That was a really shitty thing you just did in there, Peter Aaron Kelly. You should have prepared us, given some kind of warning. Everyone’s in shock. What are you going to do now, watch television?”
It was the worst thing Millie could have said to her boss. Pete never watched television; he hated it with a passion. Every day his staff tormented him with what they’d seen on the tube that he’d missed.
