chain of small department stores in the South gone?
Because the man who’d flown a kite from the top of the building last week wasn’t him. If the past few months were any indicator, Malcolm Henry, Jr.’s cheese had slid off his cracker.
Hell, the man sat up front with his driver holding a wiener dog he’d named Izzy in his lap. If that wasn’t damning evidence, Brennan didn’t know what was.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around the change in the man who had skipped most of his grandson’s birthday parties because there had been work to attend to. His grandfather had even arrived late at Brennan’s graduation because of an emergency board-of-directors meeting about an acquisition of a small chain of stores on the East Coast. Malcolm Henry had been the sharpest businessman in the Crescent City…and now he called bingo at the local homeless shelter on Friday nights.
Brennan picked up the phone. “Get me Ellen. Please.”
The VP of communications and community relations, who was also his second cousin, answered on the third ring. “Bivens.”
“Ellen, tell me my grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo idea.”
“Your grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo.”
“You’re lying.”
“Of course I am. You told me to.”
Okay, so he had.
“We can’t throw money away like this. Giving a random stranger millions of dollars is irresponsible in this economy. We have investors who will flip when they find out MBH is handing out money capriciously.”
“Wait a sec, it’s not the company’s money.”
“You mean he’s using our money for this?” Something hot slid into his gut. It wasn’t as though his grandfather couldn’t do what he wished with his own money. But over the past six months, the man had shelled out huge chunks of money to pet nonprofit agencies. Giving money away to a perfect stranger, declaring him or her the Spirit of Christmas and mapping out some crazy publicity stunt sounded dangerously negligent.
Worry started eating away at Brennan. What if the heart attack his grandfather had suffered six months ago had done other damage—like to Malcolm’s head? Maybe a mild stroke that had gone misdiagnosed? His grandfather had always been extremely careful in spending money, both in business and his personal life.
Brennan wasn’t ready to watch his grandfather turn senile, ineffective and dotty in his advanced age. He wasn’t ready to let go of the one solid presence in his life.
“That’s what he indicated,” Ellen said, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “I assumed you had spoken with him about this. We’ve been working on this for three months.”
His grandfather had spoken to him. Brennan had just failed to “hear” the plan. “I have, but I was unaware of the particulars, and, honestly, I had hoped this crazy idea would fall by the wayside. After all, we have the Magic in the Lights gala coming up benefiting Malcolm’s Kids. Grandfather has plenty of charitable causes to pursue, all of which demonstrate the Spirit of the Season.”
“Actually, this idea of his is brilliant from a marketing perspective. All I have to do is splash this story on the front of the Times-Picayune, and we’re golden. You can’t buy this sort of goodwill.”
Brennan frowned. “Story?”
“He didn’t tell you how he found the person he wants to use as the center point?”
“No.”
An awkward pause hung on the line, and he could tell Ellen didn’t know if she should be the bearer of the news or not.
He saved her the trouble. “No problem. I’ll get to the bottom of it when we meet in Boardroom B at ten. I’ll see you then.”
“Meeting? I can’t attend—I have a report I have to submit to Don before the end of the day.”
“Grandfather called it regarding this foolishness.”
“Oh, well, then I guess I can’t refuse Malcolm.”
Of course you can’t. He still writes the checks around here.
Brennan set the phone in the cradle and looked at his desk. He had too much to deal with to worry over his grandfather’s stunt. He had a conference call at 9:00 a.m. about a new cosmetics line by some Hollywood starlet the company was considering for the stores, and he still needed to look at the reports Mark had sent so he could talk to the CFO, Don Angelle, about procuring extra commercial spots to be aired over Mardi Gras.
No time for crazy Spirit of Christmas ideas. Not when a healthy bottom line demanded more than mistletoe and Yule logs.
Bah, humbug.
He snorted at that thought. Man, he really was like Scrooge. Next thing, he’d be shuffling only one small lump of coal onto the fire to save a measly buck.
And with his grandfather pissing away all their money, he might be forced to play the Dickens character.
* * *
MARY PAIGE TAPPED HER FOOT in time with the Christmas music spilling out of the speakers, mouthing words about sleigh rides and walking in winter wonderlands. A huge Christmas tree sat on a platform in front of the lobby fountain, blinking in time with the music. She loved it and wished she knew how to sync music with her own small tree that she’d put up last weekend.
The doors slid open and she stepped inside the glass elevator with a well-dressed woman and pressed the button that would take her to the twentieth floor. As the doors closed, her stomach flipped over.
Maybe she should have told Mr. Henry she wasn’t interested. No one in her right mind would give up two million dollars, but Mr. Henry wanted her to basically take a break from her job to be his poster girl for bringing the true meaning of Christmas to the Crescent City. Her boss, Ivan, hadn’t been happy about her taking the morning off, and she still had half a study book to get through in preparation for her certified public accountant exam, which loomed in a couple of months. It felt like she’d be sacrificing all she’d been working so hard for.
Still, it was two million dollars.
And she was in her right mind. Mostly.
Late last night she’d considered all the things she could do with the money—pay off student loans, buy a car that didn’t have rust spots around the wheel well and make donations to all her favorite charities. And she could help her mom pay off the loans taken to modify their old farmhouse to accommodate her brother’s wheelchair. Yeah, two million could do a lot of good in her life…and in the lives of others.
So she should probably sign the agreement, cash the check and count herself a lucky duck…even if it meant tugging on a Santa hat and making merry with the entire city of New Orleans for the holiday season.
Besides, if during the meeting with Mr. Henry the whole crazy proposal felt like too much for her to handle, she’d refuse. She wasn’t locked in to anything and had done nothing more with the check than hide it in the bottom of the ballerina jewelry box her granny Wyatt had giving her for her twelfth
