Or lose control of what he’d worked so hard to build.
But he knew Paul was right. Close the factory was the only logical thing to do. Will’s chest squeezed tight, as though he were being crushed. “After all the satisfaction of growing the company, it hurts to send it down the drain.”
“Not down the drain, just overseas. It’s not the same thing at all,” Paul assured him. “If you want, I’ll make the announcement and you can distance yourself from the dirty deed.”
“No,” Will said, straightening. “I’m responsible to my employees. I’ll tell them.”
Paul passed across some stapled pages. “I’ve drawn up a list of employees and their redundancy payouts. Everything’s ready to go. I just need your signature.”
Glancing down the page, Will frowned. “These amounts are awfully low. Most of my employees have families.”
“They’re the minimum entitlements required by law.”
“Double them.”
“You can’t afford—”
“Just do it!” Will swore softly but fervently, rubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry, mate, I know you’re only trying to do what’s best for the company.”
Paul leaned forward and gripped Will’s shoulder. “Everything’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
Will nodded, and forced himself to concentrate on what had to be done. “To fulfill current contracts, production has to continue for another three months.”
“I’ll notify the appropriate people in Jakarta and put the paperwork in motion,” Paul said. “I’ve got agents there looking for suitable factory space. Do you have anyone in mind to go over and help with the start-up?”
“Art Hodgins would be my first choice.” Three months. He was giving his employees the ax and then expecting them to continue to work for him for three whole months.
“If I were you, I’d delay making the announcement until closer to the shutdown date,” Paul said, as though he’d read Will’s thoughts. “You’re only required to give two weeks’ notice. Any more than that and you’re asking for trouble.”
“People need time to find new jobs. It won’t be easy for some,” he said, thinking of Art Hodgins—and Pat and Mick and Vlad and a dozen others over the age of fifty. Although, in the case of Art, Will could delay the problem by getting him involved in the set-up overseas.
“You’re shooting yourself in the foot,” Paul said. “But maybe for you they’ll carry on. I’ve never seen a company with so few industrial relations problems.” He glanced at his watch as he tucked the rest of his papers in his briefcase. “I’ve got another appointment in Mornington—but what do you say we meet for an early lunch at the Grand Hotel?”
Just the thought of sitting in a pub, pretending to have a good time right after he’d lowered the boom on his employees, had Will shaking his head. There was only one place he wanted to be after this—alone on his surfboard between the sky and the sea. But that would have to wait until the end of the working day. “Thanks, mate, not today. Let’s get together soon, though.” He pushed himself to his feet.
And then, all too quickly, Will was facing the expectant faces of the hundred or so men and women who worked for him. There was some nervous laughter as he cleared his throat, and a few people exchanged apprehensive glances. When he began to speak, the room fell quiet. From the shocked looks on every face as his message sank in, he realized that whatever rumors had gone around, no one had expected the factory to actually close.
Shock swiftly gave way to muttered whispering. Then, McLeod, a hard-bitten man who’d been with the company only a few months but who seemed always to be complaining, demanded belligerently to know why.
Art Hodgins quelled the rising storm of protest, shouting that Will Beaumont wouldn’t be closing his doors unless he was up against the wall. When the noise died down, Art turned to Will with quiet dignity. “I’m sure we’re all sorry you’re losing what you’ve worked so hard to build.”
Will nodded briefly, fighting a rising sense of shame. Paul stepped forward to outline the steps being taken to save the company, namely, relocating to Indonesia. Rumblings of anger and betrayal echoing in his mind, Will escaped back to his office to deal with the morbid and mortifying task of burying his dead company.
MAEVE KICKED OFF her boots and pushed through the front door of her cottage. She’d just been to the wholesale nursery to order plants for Will’s garden and had gotten an excellent mid-season sale price on two dozen gardenia bushes, plus found a gorgeous specimen of a deeply scented mauve rose called Moonlight Mist. She couldn’t wait to see how they looked in Will’s garden.
“Hi, Dad,” she called. “I’m home.”
No answer. Art’s boots were in their usual place on the mat outside the front door. The mail had been collected and piled on the hall table. She walked down the long hallway, passing the shut bedroom doors, listening to the silence. “Dad?”
The house seemed unnaturally quiet. The kitchen was empty, with no signs of cooking. Or indeed, of any life at all.
Apprehension jabbed under her ribs. Quickly, she strode back down the hall to his bedroom. Wherever he was, Art was fine, she told herself. He’d walked down to the milk bar for a paper or a pouch of the tobacco he rolled his single cigarette of the day from. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she passed him on the street?
“Dad?” She knocked at his closed door. “Are you in there?”
Pressing her ear to the door she heard a grunt of assent. Sighing with relief, she opened the door. “Are you okay?”
He was lying on his bed, hands folded on his chest, staring at the ceiling. Fear clutched at her again. He hadn’t gone to bed during the day since his heart attack. When he turned his head to look at her, his face was gray and the lines on his forehead and around his mouth appeared more deeply etched.
She came farther into the room. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’. Was just about to fix dinner.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then seemed to lose the energy to get up.
Maeve sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, alarmed to smell whiskey on his breath. Art liked a shot of Johnny Walker now and then, but he was too frugal to go in for drinking in a big way. “What’s wrong?” she repeated. “Are you ill? Tell me.”
Art sighed and dragged a hand over his stubbly face. “My job is finished. Aussie Electronics is closing the Mornington plant and moving to Indonesia.”
“What! When?” Her father had survived one redundancy, but at his age he’d been lucky to get hired at Aussie Electronics. For him, getting another job would be virtually impossible.
“Three months.” Art reached for the empty glass on the bedside table and swilled back the last drops of whiskey. Then he stared at the floor.
“But I don’t understand. Why?” Her father’s morose apathy scared her. The past five years had been hard on him—first Mum going, then Kristy,
