Unto Others

Prologue

The rain wanted to be snow. Heavy drops pounded the windshield, splattering into ephemeral ice crystals. Pedestrians dashed across the street, hopping off the curbs over street corner puddles, their umbrellas whipped about by the wind.

The frigid, gloomy gray of that April Monday hinted not at an imminent spring with its warmer, sunny weather but rather the stinginess of New England’s winter, insistent on hanging around in defiance of the vernal equinox nearly three weeks earlier.

The drenched pavement and the night’s darkness exacerbated the glare and made driving all the more stressful. Henry Bancroft could barely make out the lines on the street. The pedestrians were silhouettes in motion against the on-coming headlights.

The passenger he had dropped off ten minutes earlier brought the evening’s moisture into the car with him. His wet trench coat (Burberry, Henry noticed) and dripping umbrella (also Burberry) had fogged the windows. Only now were they beginning to clear again.

Henry usually avoided driving in bad weather like this. But he had no choice. He needed the money. He’d been driving since late-morning—eight hours so far—to maximize his income for that day.

Driving for Uber certainly had its downsides—like lousy weather and the occasional disagreeable or overly demanding customer. But it was a job. Sort of.

On the plus side, it got him out of his cloistered condominium existence, away from the soul-sucking online job boards. It also helped keep his bank account balance out of the red.

He kept his car clean for the many people he ferried about the city and had a supply of bottled water on hand for thirsty customers. The company had suggested that in the email that welcomed Henry as an “Uber partner.”

He laughed at the euphemism. Some partnership. It’s not as though he got stock options when he’d signed on. He thought providing riders with water might inspire a tip every now and then.

Henry lived alone and no longer went into an office every day, so he appreciated the human contact and conversations afforded him by transporting strangers about. The occasional passenger intrigued him with a fascinating life story, imparted during their brief acquaintance—like the remarkably accomplished and peripatetic blind man he’d driven to the airport three weeks prior.

Others made him laugh. A few gave him job advice and hope for a career revival. Groups of two or three usually immersed themselves in conversation, oblivious to his active eavesdropping in the front seat. But most passengers barely spoke at all, their eyes and fingertips affixed to their smartphones—that is, when not conversing on them, usually loudly.

Henry had also dealt with his share of jerks—in about the same proportion as he had during his twenty-six years with the Whitman-Selby International advertising agency.

When he was efficient and smart about his choices of where and when to drive, he could turn a decent profit. But not much. After this, his first full month of driving four to eight hours a day about as often as he could stand, he calculated he was earning on average between fifteen and eighteen dollars an hour—less than a tenth what he’d taken home as an adman.

He wouldn’t be doing it much longer—that is, once he’d landed that desired new job. Rather, if. Because, so far, nearly six months since storming out of Whitman-Selby, his quest had proven utterly fruitless, his self-esteem suffering a slow, merciless death.

His insufficient severance check had been spent down to nearly nothing. So, if he was to keep his health insurance premium and assorted bills paid, it had to be Uber to supplement his meager weekly unemployment check—which itself would end eventually.

Steve Whitney’s smiling face had popped into his drifting mind earlier that afternoon as he drove people around the city. His long-time agency mentor had retired nearly eight years earlier, though they’d stayed in touch since. How would Steve react if he knew that Henry was driving for Uber?

He wouldn’t find out because Henry would never tell him. Besides, Steve had enough on his mind dealing with his wife’s mysterious illness to be bothered by Henry’s mundane life issues.

Come to think of it, Henry hadn’t spoken to him since January when he’d reached out for ideas and encouragement. As he dropped off another hungover college kid late for class, he jotted a note to himself to remember to call Steve to see how Louise was faring and what had sent her to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital for those tests.

Watching the student trot off to class, Henry noted that the fare had come to five bucks—the minimum charge—for the six-tenths of a mile he drove him across the university’s sprawling, rain-soaked urban campus.

He hated those short hops. They usually originated with a ping when he was a couple miles away. That fare would net him $3.20. Not enough to cover the gas he wasted driving from Beacon Hill to Kenmore Square or the wear-and-tear on his car. The IRS let him deduct 56.5¢ a mile, not nearly enough to cover the real cost.

He’d driven enough college kids around the city to reach conclusions about them merely on the basis of which school they attended.

The MIT students were his favorite—mostly polite and talkative, often sharing insights into some pretty esoteric topics. He didn’t mind tooling around Kendall Square hoping to give a ride to someone from MIT.

Once, he’d picked up a professor. During their thirty-minute ride through congested traffic to the airport, he’d been treated to a fascinating mini lecture on the latest developments in materials engineering, a subject of which he was totally ignorant.

The engineering undergraduates were often endearing in their nerdiness and thirst for knowledge. He always quizzed them about their studies and found their enthusiasm for their subject matter contagious. It was always a treat to talk to them, even if only for a few fleeting minutes.

Part One

One

Henry Bancroft scanned the vast open space that was Whitman-Selby International’s New York headquarters, nodding and smiling to members of the staff, as he made his way to the conference room at the far side of the fifteenth floor.

Jake Lancaster, one of his account supervisors, stopped him mid-stride.

“Henry? Quick question for you?”

“Sure, Jake. What’s up?”

Holding his spreadsheet so Henry could see it, he said, “Henry, these numbers in my Adler budget aren’t right.”

Henry took the paper in hand and studied the columns of figures briefly.

“You’ve got the commission in here twice,” Henry said, pointing to the expense column on the right. “Not only are you double-billing them on the commission, but you’re asking them to pay a commission on the commission. That would be nice if we could get away with it. But it’s illegal.”

“I know. Jeff put that there. I was going to ask him about it, but you know, he can be so—

“Never mind. Strike the one in the expense column and recalculate the bottom line. I’ll talk to him about it.” He frowned, shook his head, and handed the paper back to Jake.

At ten, one of Henry’s teams would be reporting their findings to him in a conference room where he would learn about a new client’s brand image, attested to by the agency’s in-depth market research, supplemented by focus group findings.

His entry tripped the motion sensor, turning on the conference room’s overhead lights. As he sat, his favorite account supervisor, Ginger Simmons, entered with her smile.

“Good morning, Henry. How are you?”

“Doing great, Ginger,” he said. “And you? Any plans for the weekend? Supposed to be beautiful weather. Maybe the first nice weekend of spring.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been so slammed lately. Haven’t had time even to think about the weekend. I mean, is it really Friday already?”

“That’s not healthy, Ginger,” he said, as her account manager, Adele Sanders, joined them.

“What’s not healthy, Henry?” Adele asked.

Chief copywriter Christie Chan joined the group in Adele’s wake—right on time. Not only was this team brilliant. It was also punctual.

Their three distinctly perfumed selves, a mélange of fragrances, intrigued Henry. But he also found it a bit cloying in the close conference room. The aroma was almost visible, he thought, as though he could see it rippling in the air like heat off baking asphalt in the distance. He grinned to himself at the cleverness of his metaphor; made a mental note to remember it.

“I was about to suggest that Ginger take time to smell the roses, that there’s more to life than work. And so do you all.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ginger said, laughing. “We do all the work,” and winked at him.

“And good work it is. So, let’s get to it. What did you learn? What do people think of Ashford Frozen Foods?”

Ginger walked Henry and Christie through their findings, answering their questions along the way.

It did not reflect well on the client’s brand image among its target audiences, which would help justify the agency’s recommendations to introduce an updated logo and new package designs along with an aggressive new ad campaign across television, and targeted print and social media, plus couponing.

Listening to Ginger cite the particulars of the research and selected focus group quotes, he thought to himself how impressive she was. The best. Confident. Thorough. Smooth. Professional. Even the timbre of her voice conveyed authority.

Henry had a knack for spotting promising talent and was

especially proud of recruiting Ginger some five years earlier right out of college during a recruitment tour of campuses in the Northeast. She had progressed quickly in the agency and, at twenty-seven, was the youngest vice president among some fifteen-hundred employees spread across its fifteen offices—nine in the U.S, plus one each in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Paris, London, and Berlin.

Her clients adored her, likely for her reliability and responsiveness, smarts, poise, and engaging smile. That combination would take her far in the ad business, he thought.

As executive VP, Henry had a multi-faceted role at Whitman-Selby International: schmoozing clients; sorting out their challenges and finding the right solutions and the right team to see it through to implementation; mentoring junior staff like Ginger and her peers; and, lastly, bringing in new business.

He preferred the former roles; didn’t enjoy prospecting for new clients; not his forte; tedious; time-consuming; sometimes demeaning; and often a lot of work with nothing to show for it in the end.

The team wrapped up its presentation. “Excellent work,” Henry exclaimed. “How soon can you be ready for a full presentation to the client with some preliminary storyboards?”

Ginger glanced at Christie who simply nodded and smiled.

“Probably week after next,” Ginger said.

“Great. I’ll let them know. The four of us should all plan to be there, plus Greg out of media planning. Right?”

“Right,” Ginger replied.

“So, are we all set?” Henry asked, leaning forward and planting both hands on the tabletop, betraying his urge to leave. They looked at one another.

“Definitely,” Ginger said.

“Anything you need me to do?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.” Henry stood, glanced at his watch again.

“I have to run. I was due for a meeting with Jeff two minutes ago and you know how he is when people are late.”

He left the room with a smile for each of the three young women.

Two

On most weekdays, Kirsten Olsen rode the Metro North trains into and out of Manhattan. Not today. She left her home in Larchmont at seven and took car service to Findlay’s downtown offices to ensure she got to her office early and unflustered. Today would be a long day—a critical day for her reputation and the success of the company.

As she stepped through the double glass doors into the executive suite that Friday morning, Kirsten felt electric, barely able to contain an inappropriately silly grin.

It was the kind of feeling she thrived on, a shivering sense that she was making big things happen for the prosperous wealth management firm; that she was integral to leading the breakthrough that would make Findlay Wealth Advisors truly a global player, a serious competitor in the major leagues of international investment management.

This was the kind of triumph she’d been striving for after twelve years working her way up the corporate ladder at Findlay. She had arrived.

Darcy Mahoney was waiting in her office, seated at the far end of the room at Kirsten’s conference table with her laptop open and papers strewn across the table next to her.

“Thanks for coming in early, Darcy,” Kirsten said, smiling at her assistant as she entered her office at eight. “We have a lot to do today. And we’re going to need every minute.”

“No problem. Actually, I think we’re in pretty good shape. The final research for Australia and India came in by email overnight, so that completes our data needs. I’ll plug them into the spreadsheets and finish the charts and projections by lunch.”

“Excellent. We need to get the plan to Kevin before he leaves today at five. He promised to read it over the weekend. I’m meeting with him first thing Monday morning to go through it one last time. With his okay, we’ll be able to print it and get copies to all the board members in time for their quarterly meeting next week.”

Kirsten Olsen, Executive Vice President for Global Wealth Management, with help from her top aide, Darcy Mahoney, Senior Vice President, was putting the finishing touches on a complex, aggressive strategy to expand the company’s global footprint into the Asia-Pacific region.

Brian Hudson, chairman of the board of directors and one of the firm’s two co-founders, had long ago envisioned the company becoming an active global wealth management organization. Expansion into the Far East would be the final piece of that strategy.

The board had demonstrated its willingness to make the necessary investments to ensure success. But they wouldn’t commit the big money until they were confident that the risk was minimized and the upside sufficiently lucrative.

Building that case was Kirsten’s number one task.

Their approval of her comprehensive strategy at their next quarterly meeting in less than two weeks would mean committing second phase seed money to move it toward fruition. Hence, the anxiety that mid-April morning in Findlay’s executive suites.

Her plan called for six strategically located branch offices in six different countries in the region staffed with full-time employees, replacing the local independent franchise operations they’d relied on up to that point.

With the board’s final okay, the next few months would be grueling, entailing a lot of foreign travel to meet landlords and executive search firms, and engage in negotiations with local government authorities for necessary authorizations. Nearly all that work would be handled by Kirsten personally, on site, in the six different foreign cities.

“Darcy, I had an idea on my way in this morning. Let’s include some more numbers for comparison. Let’s put next year’s European and North American projections alongside our Asia-Pacific numbers.”

“I love it! I have those data. I just have to build the charts. Shouldn’t be difficult. I can do that this afternoon.”

“Excellent. Let me know how I can help. While you work on building in the Australian and Indian data, I have to go see Sam Hendricks and his financial team for guidance on standard lease rates in our six cities. I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

Three

The president of Whitman-Selby International, Jeff Matheson, had progressed to the top of the advertising business the old-fashioned way: family connections.

His father had joined J. Walter Thompson after returning from the Korean War and, over the years, had worked his way up to the executive suite. When Jeff graduated from Trinity College, he came to the agency as an intern and go-fer, quickly advancing under his father’s tutelage, watchful eye, and good graces.

While in college, Jeff met and, after graduation, married Marilyn Blake. Six years after joining Thompson, yearning to get out from under his father’s increasingly intrusive involvement in his career, Jeff secured a position at Whitman-Selby through a connection with its president: his father-in-law, Clayton Blake.

Lacking a son of his own, Clayton groomed Jeff as his heir-apparent at the agency and greased Jeff’s way into the presidency nearly twenty years later when he ascended to the CEO and board chairman positions.

Henry had been a year behind Jeff at Trinity. They’d become acquainted through their fraternity, Kappa Alpha where, as a freshman pledge, Henry endured Jeff’s merciless hell week hazing. Henry arrived at Whitman-Selby two years after Jeff. They reconnected and remained casual friends over the intervening years.

Henry advanced rapidly, eventually becoming executive vice president, one of only six in the New York office and thirty-five company-wide. Lacking the Blake family connection, however, he knew that would be as high as he would ever get in this agency.

What he did have going for him, however, was Steve Whitney, long-time head of the New York office, who took him under his wing when he sensed Henry’s intelligence and instincts for the business.

While mentoring him, Steve always ensured that Henry was in the right place at the right time to get the necessary promotions and plum account assignments that tested and proved his mettle. Henry continued to thrive at the agency after Steve retired seven years earlier.

Both Jeff and Henry lived in Larchmont, golfed together occasionally at nearby Winged Foot where Jeff and his father-in-law were members. They socialized with their wives once or twice a year, and often bumped into each other on Metro North trains into and out of the city. Their sons had attended Rye Country Day School together.

“Morning, Jeff,” he called out from the doorway into Jeff’s spacious office.

“Henry. Come in. Come in. Have a seat. And please close the door.”

“Say, Jeff, Jake Lancaster button-holed me earlier this morning,” he said as he sat down. “He shared the Adler budget with me. It had the commission in there twice. He said you put it in the expense column. Since commission is a separate line item, calculated after the net—not an expense—I figured it was just an oversight. Anyway, why are you bothering with a client’s budget? A bit below your pay grade, don’t you think?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I want to keep an eye on Adler. I think there’s a big upside for additional business there. But you fixed the error?”

“I did. So, what’s up? You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. You’re aware of the Boston situation?”

Henry nodded and frowned.

“It’s gotten worse. Two more resignations over the past three weeks. And one of their largest clients is making noises about taking their business elsewhere. We have to get rid of Chet Tinsley. He’s flushing the operation down the shitter. But I have the solution.”

“What’s that?”

“You,” he said, pointing at Henry and smiling. “I want you to go up there and take over the operation.”

Jeff continued briskly through Henry’s scowl.

“I’m tellin’ you, Henry, this is a real opportunity for you. A chance for you to break out. You’re the only guy I know who can stop the bleeding. You’re a people person. You understand what makes people tick. And that’s what this situation demands: people skills; someone with sensitivity; empathy; someone with who knows how to listen; someone who can sooth fragile egos and smooth ruffled feathers. Stroke ‘em without letting them know they’re being stroked. You’re an ace.”

Henry got nervous whenever Jeff talked at him like a machine gun.

“This would be short-term, right? Because I’ve got a lot going on here.”

“No, no. I mean permanently. And soon. You’ll have to relocate. You’ll get a salary bump as head of the office, of course. You know the agency will cover your moving costs and any mortgage differentials. Don’t worry about that. We’ll make it easy for you. Hell, you and Kirsten are empty nesters now anyway, just like me and Marilyn, and—”

He blanched. “Oh, sorry. I forgot about Peter.”

Long pause as Jeff rearranged himself in his chair and Henry stared out the window at the clear sunny skies over Queens to the east.

Jeff cleared his throat and spoke more quietly. “Anyway, you guys would probably appreciate the change of scenery from this dreary city. I’d love to do it myself, but I’ve got bigger obligations,” he added, grinning.

“How soon do you need an answer?” Henry asked evenly.

“Right now, Henry. We have to move on this, and we don’t have a lot of options. I got a call yesterday afternoon from Alan Mahaffey. Head of Mahaffey Industries?” Henry nodded again. His face was a blank.

“The situation is so bad, he went over Chet’s head and called me, the agency president. It’s that bad.”

Henry creased his brow. “No. That’s not good.”

“He told me they’re going to take their account elsewhere if we don’t fix the situation. Too much account team turnover. No consistency of service. He said that Chet is totally uninvolved in his account, which is ironic considering it’s one of the office’s biggest clients. He said Chet is clueless. That’s the word he used. Clueless.”

“Whoa. Bad-mouthing our guy. That is bad. What’d you tell him?”

“I said I’d get rid of Chet and replace him with our best man. You,” he said, turning his hand, thumb and index finger into a pistol aimed at Henry.

“Well, I’m flattered. But Kirsten isn’t going to go for this. You remember, she just got that big promotion two years ago. Can I at least check with her?”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that.”

Jeff paused, glanced down at his desk before bringing his eyes back to Henry. “Okay. I’ll tell you what. Like I said, this is a hell of an opportunity for you. But if a permanent move is out of the question because of Kirsten’s job, then we’ll let you run the Boston show on a temporary basis. Live in the agency’s apartment there for as long as it takes. A year. Two years. Whatever. Get the situation squared away. Find a reliable, solid guy to take over permanently. When you come back here, you’ll have your old spot at your new, higher Boston salary.”

“But who’s going to take over my teams here?”

“I thought you might have a suggestion.”

“Easy. Ginger Simmons. She’s already a vice president. You’ll have to promote her to senior VP. And give her more money, of course. Sound okay with you?”

“She’s kind of young, isn’t she? What is she, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven. And she is remarkable. Quite a talent.”

“Well, okay. Your endorsement is good enough for me.”

Henry stared into the middle distance, lost in thought for a long moment.

“What are you thinking?” Jeff asked.

After sustaining the pause for another beat, he brought his focus back to Jeff and spoke quietly.

“I think I can tie up loose ends here next week and be in Boston by the following Monday. Does that work?”

“Definitely. I knew I could count on you, Henry. Thanks! I’ll fly up there first thing Monday, send Chet packing and lay the groundwork for your arrival. And then you can give Ginger the good news—as soon as Chet’s departure is official, that is.”

Four

Henry worked his way back to his office at the opposite corner of the floor, lost in thought. Boston? Shit. Kirsten will not like this at all. She’s accustomed to breathing the rarified air of the executive suite and will not quit to move to Boston. Nor did he expect her to.

On top of that, they hadn’t been getting along lately. She’d been emotionally distant, her mind always elsewhere. She was often away on business, and their time together had become the occasional weekend, if that. And when they did spend time together, it was always dealing with household issues, or having petty arguments.

Kirsten had worked hard to climb the corporate ladder and was making a lot more money now.

Move to Boston? he thought. Not a chance. Jeff’s suggestion of commuting made more sense. And since Findlay Wealth Advisors had a Boston office, too, maybe she could work from there on the occasional Friday so we could spend a weekend together, enjoy Boston a bit. Maybe we could go to the symphony or the Museum of Fine Arts—

“Excuse me, Henry. Got a minute?” Ginger Simmons interrupted his musings as he was stepping into his office.

“For you, Ginger, anytime. What’s up?”

She followed him in and closed the door.

“I need to speak with you privately.”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

She stepped closer to him, face-to-face, close enough that Henry could smell her perfume more distinctly than he had during their meeting fifteen minutes earlier. He liked it; wondered what it was; was tempted to ask; thought better of it.

“Henry, I’ve really enjoyed working for you. You took a chance on me. You’ve been a wonderful mentor and friend. So generous with your time and your wisdom—”

“What are you saying, Ginger? You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She sighed as her eyes dropped. “I got a great offer from Huffman & Piazza. I can’t pass it up. I start there in two weeks.”

“Oh no you won’t, Ginger. Have you signed anything with them yet?”

“Not just yet. I was going over there on my lunch break today to finalize the details with Peter Piazza. Sign some papers and stuff.”

“Cancel the meeting. I have a better offer for you. Keep this to yourself, but Jeff is going to fire Chet Tinsley next week—you know, head of the Boston office?”

Meeting him eye-to-eye, she nodded, her eyes bright and quizzical.

“Jeff wants me to go up there and run the office. When he asked who should take over my place here, I didn’t hesitate. Ginger Simmons, I told him. He agreed. So, you’ll be a senior VP with a salary bump. Tell me I just changed your mind. It’s got to be better than whatever Huffman & Piazza is offering.”

She was silent. The corners of her mouth hinted a smile. She stared at Henry.

“I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m flattered. This is what I’ve been hoping for. This changes everything. What should I do?”

“Call Piazza right now. Tell him thanks but no thanks.”

“I don’t want to seem greedy, Henry, but how much money are we talking about?”

“What are they offering you?”

“A hundred-forty thousand to start.”

“We’ll raise that by ten percent. Call it one-fifty-four.”

“Wow! Just like that? That’s nineteen thousand more than I’m making now. Are you sure Jeff would let you do that on the spur of the moment?”

“Absolutely. You just negotiated yourself a deal. And you deserve it. And Jeff knows it, too. You’re the best.”

She jumped at him, threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “No, Henry, you’re the best! It’s a deal.” She pulled back and smiled at him broadly.

“Remember. You have to keep this to yourself until the Boston thing is official next week.”

“Of course. Oh, this is wonderful. Thanks so much!” She turned on her heel, opened the door and walked briskly out of his office. Henry smiled to himself.

But his smile quickly faded as Kirsten reoccupied his mind. He was not looking forward to telling her about the move.

Five

“Well, isn’t that just dandy. My career takes off and I’m in a serious power position making the big money, and now Jeff wants you to move to Boston? A promotion for you while I’m supposed to quit, tag along, and start all over again in Boston.”

“No, Kirsten. No one is suggesting that. But Findlay has an

office in Boston, don’t they? Couldn’t you work there occasionally?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Henry, that’s just a sales office to service local clients. All the action is here in downtown Manhattan. And so is the executive suite where I belong with the leadership group—in my office with my team.”

“Okay, okay. Fine. I can live in Boston during the week in the agency’s apartment and come home on the weekends. And I can be in Larchmont during the week for anything if need be. I can handle that. Would that be okay?”

She grunted. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

“Besides, Jeff said that it could be temporary if I wanted. And I could come back to my old position at my new higher salary once the Boston situation is stabilized.”

She snorted. “And you believed him? He said he wants you in Boston. Permanently. Out of New York. In case you forgot, you’re a threat to Jeff. You made him look bad.”

“What are you talking about? I’m no threat. He’ll be president for as long as he wants to be.”

“Don’t you remember that time he fucked up that account, and you saved it? What was it called? Carolina something?”

“Carolina Weavers? One of our biggest accounts. What about it?”

“You told me that Clayton praised you in front of him. Said you saved the account. That was just last January. You know that Jeff doesn’t like to be embarrassed in front of Dad. You also know that he holds his grudges. That’s likely the main reason he’s shipping you off to Boston instead of some other executive VP.”

“That’s ridiculous. He said he needs a people person up there and that I’m the best one for it.”

“Hah! Right. Believe me. He’s already written you out of the script. For him, this is a win-win. You’ll take care of his Boston problem, and you won’t be a threat to him in New York anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Anyway, if you did come back, you’d be a fifth wheel. He’d barely tolerate you. No. In fact, he wouldn’t tolerate you at all. He’d start easing you out, or, more likely, discover that he can’t justify your high salary. He’s throwing you overboard and you don’t even know it.”

“Oh for Chrissakes. Maybe that’s how politics work at Findlay. Not Whitman. They take care of their people. Why are you always so cynical? Jeff and I go way back. We were Kappa Alpha brothers.”

“Yeah, sure he will.” She laughed. “I’m hungry. Are we going to order take-out? Or do you want to cook dinner because I sure don’t. I just want to put my feet up, have a glass of wine and watch the news. It’s been a long week.”

“Go,” he said, with an underhanded flip of the wrist. “Go sit and relax. I’ll bring you some wine and the take-out menus.”

As he poured the wine in the kitchen, Henry wondered why she’d been so hard to live with lately. She was finally doing what she’d long wanted. Sure, it meant more hours at the office and a lot more travel. But putting in long hours had never bothered Kirsten. Give her this: She had a solid work ethic. But why did she seem so unhappy all the time?

In fact, he’d asked her that question a couple weeks earlier in the midst of another argument. She barked back at him, “I am not unhappy!” He changed the subject.

It would be Henry’s fifty-third birthday tomorrow and as yet he’d sensed no awareness of the fact from Kirsten. She hadn’t suggested they do anything to celebrate. Likely, it would pass unmentioned.

He brought Kirsten her wine and a stack of take-out menus.

“I’m going to get changed while you check out the menus. I’m fine with whatever you want. I’ll go pick it up.”

She was silent as he left the room, perusing the menus, sipping her wine. She seemed to be ignoring the TV news, which was muted.

Changing out of his suit, he wondered about Kirsten’s comment regarding Jeff. Was she right, or was that just her usual sarcasm talking? He knew that Kirsten had never liked Jeff or his wife and resented having to socialize with them, even if it was only once or twice a year. But Jeff was a fraternity brother. He would take care of Henry. Wouldn’t he?

As he thought about it, it occurred to him that Kirsten might be right about being squeezed out. By the time he got back to the Manhattan office—maybe in a year or two—Ginger could well be an executive VP. Could the New York office justify seven EVP salaries? Plus, his would be at the new higher rate as head of the Boston office, likely blowing New York’s salary budget.

Henry’s greatest strength had always been his people skills. He’d excelled at spotting and hiring superior talent and then, especially, helping them grow and retaining them.

But at Whitman-Selby—like most agencies—the premium had always been on bringing in new clients and growing them—wringing as much money out of them as possible. Keep the money coming in at an ever-increasing clip and less of it going out in high salaries and overhead. His contribution was more intangible than bottom line numbers, but it was also more critical.

Anyone with networking skills and industry contacts could bring in new business. You can bring in all the new business you want, but if you don’t have motivated, creative in-house talent to give it the attention and service it deserves, you’ll just have a revolving door with existing clients exiting as quickly as the new ones come in. He’d seen it happen at his first agency, which was no longer among the living.

Henry was not confident that Jeff, Clayton, or any other members of the executive committee or board of directors appreciated that distinction, evident in their obsessive and persistent focus on numbers, numbers, and more numbers: monthly, quarterly, and annual revenue, cash flow; earnings before interest, taxes, and amortization; profitability; billability; and every other ridiculous measure they could dream up and fixate on.

Hell, they weren’t admen. They could be in any business, making and selling widgets, knick-knacks, and gewgaws. It really didn’t matter. They had no appreciation for the core purpose of the ad business: to make the clients’ cash registers ring, as the so-called father of advertising, David Ogilvy, had once said.

They were just obsessed with making more money by bringing in more clients and squeezing as much money as possible out of them; and then counting their money and trying to hang onto as much of it as they could to give themselves ever-fatter bonuses and raises.

Kirsten might be right. There wouldn’t be a place for him when he got back to New York. Even if there were, he’d undoubtedly be expected to bring in new business.

He could do that, sure. But he’d never thought of himself as a salesman. He didn’t like kissing the asses of people he barely knew, just to put more money in his boss’ bank account.

Six

Monday morning, Jeff Matheson caught the six o’clock Delta shuttle to Boston, intent on arriving at Whitman-Selby’s downtown offices before the whole crew got in. He remembered how Chet often bragged about getting to the office early, usually the first one there. Jeff would take advantage of that.

It was critical to cut him loose before the business day got started. Jeff didn’t want a lot of witnesses in case Chet responded poorly and made a scene—a distinct possibility, knowing Chet.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, and he stepped into the lobby. It was eight-fifteen and completely quiet, save the low, soft whistle of the ventilation system. No receptionist yet, of course. A lone staffer in a distant corner of the open office area had his head down in his computer. Probably on a tight deadline, Jeff thought.

Jeff’s Salvatore Ferregamo calfskin Oxfords trod the plush carpet silently as he wandered back toward Chet’s office. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drew him to the break room. Chet was standing at the coffee maker, his back to the door.

“Good morning, Chet,” he said flatly.

Chet’s eyes widened when he turned and saw it was the agency president.

“Jeff? What are you doing here?” his voice cracking. “I didn’t know you were coming up to Boston today. What’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

The Keurig machine hissed, spit and sputtered to a conclusion.

“Want a cup of coffee?” Chet asked, stirring sugar and artificial creamer into his cup.

“No thanks. I’m good. Let’s go to your office,” he said, and turned. Chet followed, paper cup of coffee in hand.

Chet didn’t react well to Jeff’s news and tried to get himself a second chance. But Jeff wasn’t budging.

“Chet, it just hasn’t been working. We’ve talked about this before. Your office’s profitability numbers are all over the place. New business is good, but your billability rate is down. Apparently, you’ve been ignoring the agency’s five-year strategic plan, and you’ve failed to meet most of the quarterly targets—even though you contributed to the plan in our off-site strategy sessions last year. You made promises to me and the executive team, promises you haven’t kept. You also said you’d take a class in leadership and people management. Did you ever do that?”

Chet looked down at his coffee, resumed stirring it with the thin wooden swizzle, and shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.

“We’re losing staff and you might lose your largest client.”

“What are you talking about? What client?”

“Alan Mahaffey called me last week. He’s threatening to leave if we don’t make some changes here. The fact that you’re not aware of that tells me all I need to know about how poorly you’re running this office.”

Chet grimaced and looked away.

“We’ve been giving you the benefit of the doubt for too long. Maybe the chemistry just wasn’t right for you here. Look, you’ll get a generous severance package. And I’ll write you a solid letter of recommendation. I’ll make up something about a corporate reorganization. You’ll blossom elsewhere. It’s best for everyone.”

Chet slumped in his chair. “Bad timing. I just found out two weeks ago that my wife is pregnant with our third kid—she’s due in September.”

Jeff looked at him blankly, saying nothing.

Chet glanced briefly at Jeff again before moving his eyes to his computer.

“Do you think you can pack up your stuff and be out of here before everyone shows up? Happy to help. You’ll have to leave that here,” he added, nodding at the laptop that Chet had just opened. “It’s Whitman-Selby International property.”

Chet closed the computer and stared at it a moment longer before shifting his gaze to the family photos on his desk.

Surprised at Chet’s calm reaction to the news, Jeff read and responded to email on his iPhone while Chet packed his possessions into an empty printer paper box, clearing shelves and drawers of sundry personal items. Both remained silent throughout.

Ten minutes later, when it was clear Chet had finished, Jeff stood.

“We’ll email you a severance agreement letter later today to your personal email address,” Jeff said. “Once you’ve signed and returned the agreement letter by mail, we’ll make a direct deposit into your account with the final check, which will include six weeks of salary, plus any unused vacation pay and sick leave. You should know that you’re only entitled to four weeks of pay, so we are being generous. I’ve alerted IT. Your access to the Whitman-Selby email server has been terminated. My admin will monitor your email account and forward any nonbusiness email to your personal account.”

Chet shrugged, grabbed the box containing his personal possessions, and slouched out the door and down the hall. Jeff followed.

The elevator door opened, revealing Susan O’Leary. She paused, startled at the sight of Jeff and Chet standing in front of her. She stepped off. Averting his eyes, Chet said nothing and walked past her into the elevator with his box. The doors closed on the silence of the three.

“What’s going on, Jeff? Did you fire Chet?”

“Don’t tell me you’ll miss him.”

“Oh, God no. You should have done it long ago, before we lost so many people. Chet’s worthless. He’s a negative force field dragging down this operation. So, what now? Who’s going to run the Boston office?”

“Come with me. Let’s go to Chet’s office—former office, I should say. We’ll talk about it.”

They walked in silence. A handful of staff had arrived. It was nearly nine. Jeff nodded and smiled at a couple of people. Apparently, no one recognized him. Probably took him for one of Susan’s clients. Well, that made sense. He hadn’t been in the Boston office for quite some time.

A senior vice president, Susan had joined Whitman-Selby two years earlier from Hannon & Partners, an independent Boston shop. Chet had hired her, one of his few good moves, Jeff thought. But he had to give her news he was sure she wouldn’t like.

“Susan, have a seat,” he said, closing the door. He turned and took Chet’s former chair behind his former desk. Chet’s coffee sat on the desktop, untouched and lukewarm, an unsavory oily glaze of artificial creamer on its surface.

“Am I going to be the new office head?” she asked, still standing, wearing a tentative smile.

“Sit down, Susan. Please.”

She sat.

“You’re a real asset to the agency and, more particularly, this office—”

“So, you’re saying I’m not going to be head of the Boston office?”

“Susan, please let me finish. I am fully aware of all the new business you’ve brought into this office and grown. It’s all good. You deserve a promotion. No question about it. But the Boston office is bleeding. Badly. Right now, at this critical juncture, I want a known quantity at the helm, someone I am used to working with. Someone who will bring this operation back in line with the Whitman-Selby way of doing business, get it stabilized and back on course; someone who will heed to the five-year strategic plan.”

“And who might that be?”

“Henry Bancroft.

She frowned.

He knew that Susan wasn’t a fan. At the senior management off-site in Hilton Head three months earlier, she and Henry had gotten into an argument during a roundtable discussion about the future direction of the company.

It made for an enlivened discussion, the kind of back-and-forth that Jeff wanted. There’s no such thing as a wrong answer. Let your hair down. Tell it like it is, he had told the group. But Jeff had to intervene as Henry got defensive under Susan’s verbal assault.

“I’ve worked with him for more than twenty-five years. He’s an even-keeled kind of guy, just what this office needs right now.”

“Jeff, Henry represents the old Whitman-Selby, what it can no longer afford to be. He barely acknowledges the value of social media as—”

“I know all about that, Susan. I was at Hilton Head, too. Remember? Look. Here’s how it is. Henry is a great judge of talent. He’s one of our best scouts. He knows how to read people and how to treat them well. The people who report to him in New York all love him. Right now, this office needs to be run by someone like that. Someone to start recruiting and, more importantly, retaining good people. Creative people. Thought leaders. People like you.”

She winced at the bald-faced flattery.

Jeff knew he had to win her over and hang onto her if the Boston office was to have any chance at revival and growth. It was well-known across the agency that she was expert at bringing in new business, and one of the best client relationship managers at Whitman-Selby, with a unique flair for getting to the heart of client challenges and bringing the right solutions forward.

“I mean it. We need you, Susan. I need you. For the future success of this office. For the agency. But Henry will settle things down, get our clients back on board, and reassure the team. I simply ask that you accept Henry as the operational guy who’ll bring some order, rhythm, and humanity back to this place. Give him a chance to succeed.”

She sighed and muttered, “Okay.”

“I got a call from Alan Mahaffey last week. He’s threatening to pull his sporting goods business. I promised him I’d replace Chet with Henry and that I’d put you, our best account director, in charge of his account permanently.”

“But I’m already overbooked. I can’t chase new business and manage one of the office’s largest accounts at the same time.”

“You and Henry will reconfigure account assignments and your team. The Mahaffey account is big and potentially much bigger. It’s too important for a run-of-the mill account manager—”

“Margaret Nguyen is hardly a run-of-the-mill account manager. She’s brilliant and she’s an asset to this agency.”

“I’m sorry. I know that, and that’s good of you to stick up for her. But Alan said she’s naïve and doesn’t fully appreciate the sporting goods category. Listen, we only have their sporting goods business, the second largest unit of their five divisions. But I think we should and can have them all, especially their housewares group, their largest. It would be a perfect fit for the firm—and this office. Shame on Chet for not aggressively pursuing housewares. It’s one of the reasons I let him go. You’re just the person to get that business—you and Henry as a team.”

She stared at him, saying nothing.

“I’m counting on your creativity, innovative thinking and aggressiveness. That’s what clients like Alan Mahaffey want. They want the steady hand of someone like Henry and, at the same time, the risk-taking and exciting new ideas that you bring to the table. That’s why I’m making you number two here.”

“Which means exactly what?” she snapped.

“Please, Susan, take it down a notch. Listen, I’m going to give you a ten percent salary bump effective immediately in acknowledgement of your increased responsibilities. I want you working closely with Henry. Bring him along to your way of thinking. Help him understand where the business is going—where it can go and where it needs to go, and how Whitman-Selby can lead the way. He’s open to it, despite your impression. I’m counting on you, Susan.”

He paused, leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and spoke softly. “Stick with us. Henry doesn’t want to be in Boston permanently. But he’s a company man and he’ll do as he’s asked. He pitches in where he knows he can make a difference. I’m sure he’s counting on this being a short-term assignment so he can come back to his teams and clients in Manhattan.”

He paused again, continuing to look at Susan. She was still frowning, avoiding eye contact.

“Look. Take the raise I’m giving you and help right this ship so it can sail forward. Chet was an anchor, but now he’s gone. Be an able, alert, and supportive first mate to Henry. Help him learn the ropes here. And then, when he comes back to New York, maybe you can take the helm. Okay?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek before saying, “Sure,” quietly. “But I want to be in regular contact with you.”

“Call me anytime. Are we good?”

“Can I report to you, instead of Henry?”

“Let’s call it a dotted line to me, and a solid line to Henry.”

She sighed, “Okay.”

“Thanks, Susan. You’re the best. By the way, regarding Mahaffey. I told Alan you guys would be in Pittsburgh as soon as possible to pay him a visit. It’d probably be a good idea to bone up on that housewares group, just to be prepared—as well as their other businesses. Our research team in New York can help you. Use them. They’re good.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know. They are good. I use them all the time.”

He stood, crossed the room and she, too, rose. He reached out for her hand. She gave him a brief, weak handshake, and a thin smile, met his eyes for a half-second, turned on her heel, and walked out.

After she left, he dialed Henry; told him it was a go; that he should start the wheels moving; make the necessary promotions and notify clients of the changes.

“Tell your clients you’ve been promoted to run the Boston operation.”

He also told him to make plans to be in Boston by Sunday evening, ready to be in the office early first thing the next morning.

“Oh, and Henry, you have a real asset here in Susan O’Leary. I want you to pay special attention to her. Encourage her. Support her. Flatter her. I have a feeling that you two are going to work well together.”

Seven

That same Monday morning Kirsten Olsen was in Findlay’s downtown Manhattan twenty-sixth floor headquarters offices meeting with Findlay Wealth Advisors’ CEO about the details of her strategy to expand Findlay’s retail operations into the Asia-Pacific region.

“This looks solid,” Kevin Hawkins said, smiling, his hand on the bound report she and her staff had prepared. “Glad to see you’ve included my earlier ideas. I have nothing more to add.”

Kevin wore a crisp, fitted Armani suit that enhanced his tanned, toned physique. The pocket square matched his tie. His full head of dark hair betrayed not a single gray lock. His fingernails were neatly trimmed and professionally polished. Clearly, he took good care of himself and paid close attention to his appearance.

“Terrific. I’ll have copies printed for the board meeting next week. As I said before, I like leveraging Singapore as the regional headquarters. Makes a lot more sense than Hong Kong. Too many unknowns there. You never know what the Chinese communists are going to do, what kind of crackdown is coming next.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Plus, it’s a real horror show negotiating with them for a toehold there. Believe me, I’ve tried. Not worth the hassle. I’m going to Singapore in two weeks. They’re much more reasonable and business-friendly. Then I’ll visit our other five cities over the following week-and-a-half. I want to make sure that our local contacts have done their due diligence. I intend to come home with six lease proposals and signed contracts with headhunters in each city.”

“Excellent.” He paused a beat. “You know what, Kirsten, I need to be in Singapore for a meeting, too. I’ve been postponing it for too long. I’ll go with you,” he said, smiling. “We can get business done on the way over, too. And if you need me for anything in Singapore, I’m happy to step in.”

“Okay. Sounds like a plan,” she said, grinning back at him. Kirsten knew that Kevin didn’t really need to go to Singapore. But on this trip, she knew that he wanted to take advantage of the distance to be alone with her. She and Kevin had become close lately. Very close. The relationship had blossomed on a West Coast business trip the previous summer, some ten months earlier.

It was pure happenstance, she knew, when they sat across the aisle from one another in first class on that flight. But she assumed it was also coincidental that they were both staying at the Four Seasons in San Francisco.

In fact, as he later admitted, Kevin had texted his admin from the plane to ask her to change his reservation after he’d learned where Kirsten was staying. He felt they’d been getting chummy lately and, Kevin admitted, he’d wanted to “close the deal.” They had dinner that night in the hotel restaurant, drank too much wine, and wound up in bed together in his room after he’d invited her up to his suite “for a night cap.”

In the following months, they’d made excuses to take trips together, spending their evenings in her room or his in various cities, making love into the night before the following day’s business meetings.

They’d also had several lunch-hour trysts—which they laughingly referred to as “nooners”—at the company’s guest apartment in Battery Park City. They were careful not to give clues that might arouse suspicions in the executive suite—or elsewhere, for that matter. Both knew the price of getting caught.

Kirsten and Kevin genuinely enjoyed each other. They had fun together, made each other laugh, and both relished the spirited sex.

She had taken good care of herself, exercising daily and, it seemed, was on a constant diet. Most people were surprised when they learned she was forty-four. She still weighed the same as she had as an undergraduate at Notre Dame, with the same shapely figure.

Kevin was fifty-nine, though she felt he had the energy and trim of a man ten or fifteen years younger. He also had remarkable endurance in bed, often able to bring Kirsten to multiple climaxes.

Both were in unhappy marriages, living empty lives with spouses who bored them. Their office romance was so much more exciting, staying at four-star hotels together in international capitals, dining at the best restaurants, drinking expensive wines. Half the fun, she thought, was the fact that no one else knew about the affair. It was their special secret.

Kirsten anticipated that each would divorce their respective spouses to be rid of the attendant guilt and necessary sneaking around that was so irksome and boring.

Was marriage in their future? Though they hadn’t talked about it, Kirsten hoped so.

Eight

Susan O’Leary commuted daily on the MBTA’s Green Line. Each morning, she’d walk the twisty, narrow streets of old Boston to the Milk Street office.

The other end of her journey in the evening was a five-minute walk from the station to her Newton home where she lived alone in a white three-bedroom neo-colonial that she and her ex-husband had bought three years earlier. She got the house in the divorce.

On Monday, however, in light of getting short shrift from Jeff Matheson, she thought she deserved a respite from another long, dreary ride on the crowded T, so she treated herself to Uber.

The traffic was lethargic, but it was thirty dollars well spent to be in quiet comfort for the duration—rather than the balky and unreliable T full of sweaty strangers with bad breath; leering men eager to brush up against her, accidentally.

Walking in the front door, she kicked off her high heels and walked straight to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

Then she sat on the couch, put her feet up and turned on the local news. Ten minutes of listening to the grinning happy talk mixed with news of the world and petty politics, her mind drifted and she muted the TV. Her thoughts shifted to her day.

Irritated all over again, she got up, refilled her glass, and called Janet Kohler, her buddy from their days at Hannon & Partners where they’d worked together for more than two years.

“Well, isn’t that just peachy?” Janet said after hearing Susan’s tale. “It’s the same old glass ceiling thing. A man refused to give you the job you deserve and gave it to another man instead. Typical. How many times a day does that happen in America?”

“I know. Really. Well, at least I’m rid of that worthless sack of shit, Tinsley. Trouble is, Bancroft’s no prize either. He’s got his head stuck in the past—if not up his ass, too.”

Janet laughed. “Well, maybe. But, as Jeff said, it’s temporary. It’ll give you time to solidify your reputation with Whitman-Selby—especially with Matheson. After all, it’s been only two years since you joined them.”

“True. But I just turned thirty-six and, believe me, that’s getting to be on the old side compared to the kids I’m supervising. I should be running that office.”

Janet urged her to take advantage of the president’s offer of the dotted line report and keep him up to date on the situation from her point of view.

“Of course. But how long should I put up with this? One year? Two? I can’t wait that long. Jeff should have put me in charge today. He said I should serve as Henry’s first mate. That’s a pretty sexist thing to say, if you ask me. Well, anyway, a first mate is second only to the captain. So, that means if anything happens to the captain, I take over, right? I could make like Fletcher Christian and stage a mutiny. That’d be fun.” She chuckled.

Susan paused a few moments, thinking, as she sipped her wine.

“Susan? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I’m just thinking.”

Then she grinned to herself. “I’m going to compress that timeline and make it worth the captain’s while to sail back to New York sooner rather than later—or maybe I’ll make him walk the plank.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. Just thinking,” and she laughed again.

Nine

Kirsten had been working out at her club when Henry left for Boston early Sunday afternoon, so he didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. He was unpacked and settled into the company’s downtown condo by dinner time.

The property management company had thoughtfully filled the fridge with fresh food and frozen prepared meals, giving him a few dinner choices. There were also a couple of nice bottles of wine and a six-pack of Sam Adams. Nice.

He opened a beer and took a swig as he surveyed his new residence.

It was a roomy place. Great vista over the Boston Common, the Public Garden and west up the Charles River. He got a stunning view of the sunset over the river that evening. And, his car was safely parked in the building’s underground garage, with Whitman-Selby picking up the hefty monthly tab.

Henry was in his office early on Monday. Getting there early was easy since the office was a short walk from the condo. He opened his MacBook and logged onto the office’s internal website. Scanning the Boston office staff list, he recognized only four names: Brad Mayfield, Margaret Nguyen, Susan O’Leary, and Andy Jones—the four senior VPs he’d met at past company off-site meetings.

Brad’s a good guy. Ditto Margaret and Andy. As for Susan, he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her, remembering how they’d locked horns at the off-site a few months earlier.

But he would take Jeff’s counsel to heart and approach her with an open mind. Treat her with respect. Try to win her over. If she proved intractable, he’d give her enough rope to hang herself.

He counted a total of seventy-five people in the Boston office, down from a high of eighty-seven a mere six months ago, largely due to Chet’s poor management skills. Henry wondered how many more now had one foot out the door, shopping their resumés around town. He was well into the staff bios when he was interrupted.

“Good morning, Mr. Bancroft. I’m Amanda Anders. I’m your administrative assistant.”

He stood and crossed the room to shake her hand. “It’s Henry. That will be the last time you call me Mr. Bancroft. Pleased to meet you, Amanda. Have a seat.”

They spent a few minutes getting acquainted before Amanda got up to answer her ringing desk phone. It was now past nine. Henry rose to get himself a second cup of coffee and wander around introducing himself.

Returning to his office twenty minutes later, he asked Amanda to call a brief office meeting in the main room at ten. He wanted to set minds at ease and answer lingering questions anyone might have.

After the ten-minute staff meeting—which, in Henry’s estimation, had gone very well—he asked the four senior vice presidents to join him in his office.

He told them he wanted to meet with them privately to answer any questions they might have that may have been inappropriate or awkward to ask in front the entire office staff. He paused and scanned their faces. They looked at one another. Apparently, they had none.

“Basically, the only thing that’s changed is that Chet Tinsley is gone,” Henry said, “and I’ve taken his place. But that will be a big change, a change for the better, I promise you. My primary goal, as I told the staff, is to steady this ship with a focus on a two-pronged goal. It’s not complicated. First, we will serve our clients with creativity, dedication, and reliability in a timely fashion. And second, but equally important, we will treat all our employees with the respect they deserve so that they can be their best. I need to connect with everyone, all seventy-five people. So, my first few weeks will be spent mostly listening, which starts with the four of you. You are my supplemental eyes and ears. I’m going to count on you. Each of you.”

He paused purposefully and glanced at each in turn.

“But also, I promise to stay out of your way. Do your jobs well and I will not second-guess you. But what do you need from me? What additional resources do you need? How can the agency and I best support you? Of course, my highest priority will be to replace the people we lost. What else? I need your help identifying those needs, too. Think about your answers to these questions because I want to have private meetings with each one of you. Please set up lunch meetings with me through Amanda.”

Brad and Susan were glancing at their smartphone calendars as Henry continued.

“What do you think this office should focus on going forward? What are our weaknesses and strengths? How have we disappointed our clients—and our own people? How can we do better? What are we doing right? Are we pursuing the right client mix? How can we better position ourselves as the go-to Boston shop? What’s standing in your way, preventing you and your teams from being your best? If we’re going to succeed, we have to be honest with ourselves. Right? I’d like to hear your thoughts on those issues.”

They all nodded.

“Henry, it’s good to have you,” Brad said. “We all look forward to working with you. The fact that you’re asking these kinds of questions speaks volumes. Chet never did that.”

The other three nodded, mumbling agreement.

“Thank you. And I look forward to working with you as well. Anything urgent I need to know about right now? For instance, are any clients heading for the exit?”

The four looked at one another blankly and said nothing.

Henry thought it revealing that Margaret seemed unaware of the tenuousness of her Mahaffey account—at least she wasn’t owning up to it yet.

“How about staff, both account managers and creatives? We’ve lost a lot of people lately. Are you aware of anyone on the verge of leaving? I want a chance to change their minds. Also, who are the rising stars that we should focus on to make sure they don’t leave us, too. Please bring me these kinds of insights to our lunch meetings—and anything else you think is relevant.”

He paused to let his questions sink in.

“Okay, then. Thanks. Susan and Margaret, would you two please stay for a moment longer? I need to speak with you about shifting some account assignments.”

As Andy and Brad filed out, Henry reminded them to speak with Amanda to set up lunch meetings with him.

“Please sit,” he said, turning to Margaret and Susan, gesturing at the chairs.

“We have to move some things around. Alan Mahaffey called Jeff Matheson last week and—”

“Mahaffey called the agency president?” Margaret blurted out. “Why?”

“Not to worry Margaret. I know you just started on that account a few weeks ago. So don’t take it personally. Alan told Jeff he’s been seeing too much account team turnover. I guess when Chuck Zahn left and Chet put you in charge of the account, it was the final straw for Mahaffey. Apparently, he had gotten accustomed to Chuck and liked him, and the first he heard of his departure was when you called him to introduce yourself. Anyway, Susan and I will double-team Mahaffey. Matheson’s orders. Obviously, we’ll have to rejigger the account lineup to make it work. Think about that and the three of us will sit down later this afternoon to figure it out and ensure smooth transitions on each account.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. Sure,” Margaret muttered, frowning as she looked at her shoes.

“Margaret, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. I know you do good work. Your reputation precedes you. It was probably just a chemistry thing. I’ll call Alan later this afternoon, introduce myself, explain our approach and how we’ll proceed. Okay?”

Margaret nodded and turned a feeble smile towards Henry.

“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Susan alone. And please see Amanda about that lunch date. Okay?”

“Okay,” and Margaret stood and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Henry waited a beat before turning his attention to Susan.

“Susan, you and I got off on the wrong foot at that off-site earlier this year,” he said. “You were right. I have a lot to learn, and I admit that I can be skeptical of new approaches.”

“Okay,” she said, making the two-syllables sound almost like a question.

“My sense then was that social media is just another platform to reach customers, that we shouldn’t focus our energies on it to the exclusion of everything else. But what you said at that off-site stayed with me. And since then, I’ve thought more about it, studied it, and come to a fuller understanding of what social media can do. So, I should say thank you.”

Her face flushed. “Uh. Sure. You’re welcome?”

“No, I’m serious. Thank you for opening my eyes to the possibilities. And by the way, I am well aware of the value you bring to Whitman-Selby and, more particularly, this office. Whatever Chet was doing that made your job difficult, that’s over. Also, what Jeff told you is true. I want you to be my number two, my right arm. Did he use the term ‘First Mate’?”

Susan nodded. Henry chuckled.

“He’s been big into nautical metaphors a lot lately. Probably because he got himself a big yacht last year and fancies himself some kind of a commodore. At any rate, stupid metaphors aside, I want you—no, I expect you—to tell me when I screw up or need to do something differently, or whenever you or anyone else confront barriers that I can help get rid of. I want your ideas and your fresh insights. Okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”

“Good. Now, as I said to the other three, please talk to Amanda to set a lunch date with me. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that right now. Anything else?”

“Nope. Thanks again.” He smiled, stood, came around his desk, and shook her hand.

As she walked out the door, Henry couldn’t get past the effect her beauty had on him. He’d felt a physical attraction to her the first time they’d met at the off-site, despite her brusqueness. Perhaps, her aggressiveness and self-assurance made her more attractive.

Now, after he shook her hand, he realized he’d held onto it a few seconds too long, probably smiled too broadly at her. He liked the soft feel of her hand in his own. Firm yet silky. He’d also held her penetrating blue eyes too long.

Ten

Friday morning, as she prepared for a client phone call, Susan’s phone rang. She flinched at the caller ID: “MATHESON, J.”

“Hi Jeff. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Susan. And you? Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Why?”

“Well, when I was up there a couple weeks ago, you were not pleased about Henry Bancroft taking over. I had been expecting to hear from you by now. How are things going?”

She paused. “No. Uh, yeah, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

“How’s Henry doing?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, actually, he’s okay. I think he’s turning out to be a good guy. We’ve been talking a lot. We went out for lunch yesterday. It was supposed to be a two-hour lunch, but we wound up staying all afternoon. In fact, we talked so long that we were there for cocktail hour, and we had a couple glasses of wine. We covered quite a bit of territory.”

She paused.

“Is there a but coming?”

“No. No. Not at all. You know, if it continues like this, I think this is going to work out just fine.”

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that. But I’m especially happy to know that you’re giving him a chance.”

“Of course I am. I told you I would.”

“Good, good. All good. Well, I don’t want to keep you. Just wanted to make sure everything’s okay. We promised to stay in touch and if I don’t hear from you, I’ll have to assume that all is well. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yes. Thanks. But, uh, I do hope you haven’t forgotten that I want to be in charge of this office eventually, when Henry returns to New York.”

“Of course. I haven’t forgotten. Well, bye for now.”

Putting down her phone, Susan paused to think. Actually, what she’d told Jeff was true. Henry was turning out to be okay. She’d been impressed by his eagerness to reach out, to listen, and to understand her concerns and her ideas, as well as his openness to trying her ideas. He had put her at ease. It was pleasant to be with him. He put her at ease instantly. She couldn’t deny it.

During their long lunch the previous day, she felt that she’d done all the talking. The few times he spoke were mostly to ask questions or to answer hers. She had to admit to herself that she felt attracted to him, which had completely thrown her. He’s a handsome guy, she thought. Very pleasant, personable, and easy to be with.

Did this please her? She wasn’t sure.

Eleven

Though she’d flown from New York to Singapore twice before, Kirsten could never cope with the jet lag of thirteen time zones and a nineteen-hour flight.

She and Kevin had taken the non-stop Singapore Airlines flight out of Newark, leaving on Friday morning, and arriving early Saturday evening local time.

Despite the pampering and the lie-flat seats in business class, she’d been restless and had barely slept. Now a half-day ahead of New York, her body clock told her it was Saturday morning. She was in a fog when she and Kevin arrived at their hotel.

“It’s a bit before seven-thirty,” Kevin said as he looked at his watch, standing with her outside her room. “Care for a night cap before bed?”

“Coffee and breakfast, or a night cap? No idea. I’m feeling upside down. Thanks, but I think I’ll opt for a hot shower and a full night’s sleep.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs at the hotel restaurant for breakfast tomorrow at eight. Okay?” He studied her face. “Are you all right?” he asked, grinning. “You seem off. I guess you didn’t sleep on the flight.”

“Barely. I can’t sleep on planes. Never do.”

“Okay then. See you at eight.” He gently clutched her upper arm, pulled her to him, and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She stepped into her room and closed the door.

After her shower, she got between the sheets and immediately fell asleep. When her alarm buzzed at seven, she forced herself to sit up and put her feet on the floor, fighting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep.

She had to get going. Despite her affection for Kevin and their frequent intimacies, he still was CEO. And a good one, at that; savvy, daring and hard-working.

Kirsten was a key contributor to the company’s evolution into a global player and, aside from their personal relationship, she knew she had to continue to measure up professionally and perform her job exceptionally well. No external urgings or prompts were necessary; she was her own toughest taskmaster. She would not be accused of sleeping her way to the top—not even in her own mind.

Kirsten made sure the company’s board and its chairman, Brian Hudson, were kept apprised of her work via updates at each quarterly board meeting—either in person or in written reports—and at every other opportunity she got.

In an email a couple months earlier, Brian had praised her Asia-Pacific expansion ideas, offering his assistance if she needed it. It was the high point of her week. It also went far in allaying her own self-doubts, that she was only there because of her relationship with Kevin. By God, she deserved to be Executive Vice President for Wealth Management.

The relationship she and Kevin had cultivated was not about power and position. It was about sex—albeit great sex, fun sex, exuberant sex. When not in bed, they enjoyed one another’s company and conversation. She relished their personal time together and thought she might be falling in love. She sensed the same feelings from him. It wasn’t one of those “friends with benefits” things, as kids these days referred to casual sexual relationships.

When she walked into the restaurant off the hotel lobby, Kevin was seated in a booth on the other end of the room, staring at his iPhone. He looked up and waved her over.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

“Oh yes. It was glorious.”

“Me too.”

“So, what’s on the agenda today before we start work tomorrow?”

“Pleasure. Pure pleasure,” he said, bending toward her and kissing her cheek. She grinned.

“Business starts tomorrow. So, let’s make the most of this afternoon and evening. Your meeting is at two tomorrow?”

“Right. I’m meeting the building owner’s team to check out the space that we’re going to lease. We’ll talk about the build-out and the lease particulars. At four, I meet with our local headhunter to discuss staffing needs. So, I’m free tomorrow morning. Got to get that old body clock rejiggered.”

“Great. Me too. My meeting isn’t until three. Let’s make it a twenty-four-hour party. Just the two of us. We’ll do the sites today and splurge on dinner tonight. I know one of the best restaurants in Singapore. It’s a small, out-of-way place. Fusion cuisine. It’ll be my surprise. After that, we’ll see what happens,” and he grinned broadly and winked.

She leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek.

Twelve

The time difference between the Far East and Boston made communicating with his wife difficult, but Henry knew from experience that it was possible. They’d spoken once by phone during her last trip there.

But Kirsten wasn’t trying this time. All he’d gotten was a brief email with her itinerary Saturday evening, saying it would be tough to call at a mutually convenient time. She hadn’t responded to either of his two emails. Now it was Thursday morning, and they still hadn’t spoken. He’d received no further emails or text messages from her. According to her schedule, she should be in Sydney, sixteen hours ahead of Boston, probably already in bed.

Perhaps what most troubled Henry was that their twenty-second anniversary had been the day before and neither she nor he had acknowledged it. He’d considered mentioning it in his email but thought better of it. Didn’t want it to appear that he was laying a guilt trip on her—which is exactly how she would have taken it. After all, he’d forgotten it, too.

Kirsten’s emotional distance of late gnawed at him at inopportune moments—like this one, as he prepared for a client meeting.

The Mahaffey Sports marketing team would be in from Pittsburgh later that morning. It was the agency’s first opportunity to re-establish lost rapport. They would be presenting a revamped, expanded strategy along with rough ideas for a new ad campaign to replace the tired, out-of-date one they’d been using for too long.

If they liked it, he and Susan would take it to a meeting in Pittsburgh with Alan Mahaffey the following week. He’d spoken to Alan already and sensed an engaged client, eager to get back on track with his agency.

“Good morning, Henry,” Susan said from his door. “Ready to talk Mahaffey Sports?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

“I want to give you some background on what I’ve been able to learn from Margaret on the personalities as well as some of the issues that arose under Chet and Chuck.”

“Gotcha.”

She came around the desk and stood next to Henry. Leaning over, she spread out her papers in an orderly fashion on the desk in front of him.

“You’re up to speed on our revised strategy?” she asked, as she put the bound plan down in front of him.

He nodded. “Yes. I like it. It hits all the right demos solidly.”

“These are roughs for the TV campaign we have in mind,” she said touching the three storyboards in front of her. She explained the commercials and said they would serve as the launching pad for a new series to carry the client through the various sports seasons. The TV ad campaign would be echoed in print ads in demographically specific magazines, plus targeted social media.

“Brad’s team is cleaning up their work right now, in time for our meeting with Cynthia and her team this morning. He’ll present a half-dozen print and social media ideas.”

“Uh, tell me what you know about Cynthia.”

Susan leaned across Henry, accidentally pressing her breast against his shoulder, to point at Cynthia’s biography page and photo with her index finger on the far side of the desk.

“Cynthia Wilcox. The overall head of marketing for Mahaffey Industries.”

“Right.”

“Cynthia’s new to the job. Got promoted when her former boss left last month. Based on my brief conversation with her and what Margaret told me, I think she’s in a bit over her head. I’m sorry I didn’t get these to you sooner. Charlie Stephens is coming, too,” and she leaned over a bit further to point at his photo and bio.

“Charlie’s in charge of marketing for sporting goods and reports to Cynthia. If this meeting goes well today, we’ll go see Alan Mahaffey in Pittsburgh next week.”

She looked at Henry’s face. He was looking down her blouse.

He quickly redirected his gaze to the papers on his desk and cleared his throat.

“I spoke with Alan on Monday. He seems like a decent guy. He wants to be closely involved in product promotion, which I find a bit unusual for a company of their size. But his name is on the business so I guess he can do whatever he wants. Besides, it’s not all bad when you have the CEO in your corner.”

“Right. But it has its downsides, too. Cynthia told me he thinks social media is frivolous and a waste of time and money. She and Charlie have been working on him. She thinks he’s coming around.”

“Hmm. Sounds a bit like me,” and he chuckled.

“Henry, you’re fine. It just surprises me that your New York clients haven’t been using social media.”

“Oh, they are. I just let my teams there run the accounts. I schmoozed the senior people and keep them and my teams happy. But I need to be more involved and get more familiar with the strategy for Mahaffey. Don’t you think?”

“Mm hmm. Especially Mahaffey. The potential for new business with them is huge. We should be able to pick up housewares if we do a good job on sporting goods. It’s a natural. Then there’s the industrial equipment division, foundry products, and their smallest unit, the financing and leasing operation, which is also their fastest growing and most profitable.”

“Glad to see you’ve been doing your homework.”

Susan had taken the seat across from him and they continued talking about the strategy proposal and the client team for the next twenty minutes.

Henry enjoyed looking at her. He was feeling an animalistic attraction and failing to stifle it as they continued to strategize about the client meeting that would start in forty-five minutes.

Thirteen

“Good morning, Susan. Problems?”

“No, Jeff. Not at all. I was just following up on your original suggestion to stay in touch. Is now a good time to talk?”

“Sure. I have about five minutes before I go into a meeting. But, yes, I do want you to feel free to call me any time.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I won’t need even five minutes, but I do appreciate you taking the time.”

“Of course. So, how are you? And how is Henry doing?”

“I’m doing great. And actually, Henry is fine. I wanted to tell you that I think we work well together.”

“Well, I’m very happy to hear that. I knew you two would make a great team. But I wanted you to discover that for yourself.”

“We met here last Thursday with the Mahaffey team. I ran the meeting and he said just the right things at the right time. He stayed out of the nitty-gritty of the strategy and let me and the team handle it. Brad Mayfield presented a strong creative package. And Candace Rankin gave them a very aggressive media buy. But what impressed me was how fluidly Henry talked about incorporating social media into the strategy and the rationale. He made a strong case for it. Henry, Brad and I are going to go out to see Alan Mahaffey in Pittsburgh next week. Hopefully, we’ll bring home additional new business with their housewares division, which is on the ropes with the incumbent agency, as you know.”

“This is all good. I’m so pleased. Any other news? How’s other new business going for our superstar?”

“Looking good. I’ve got a few new leads. I think we can begin to move on one soon. I’ll fill you in as I learn more because there may be supplemental business for a couple of our other offices, as well. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that this is turning out well. I think we have a great dynamic here. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. Andy, Margaret, and Brad have all said the same thing—as have a number of other people in the office. Henry’s easy to work with. And I’ll be the first to admit my mistake in doubting you, Jeff.”

“Good, then. Glad to hear it, Susan. Anything else?”

“Well, it’s just that, um. I don’t want to seem like I’m nagging, but even if Henry is doing a great job and even if we are working well together, he is eventually returning to New York, right? And I haven’t forgotten my own personal goal.”

“I understand. And you’re not nagging at all. I appreciate you keeping it on the front burner. Just to be clear, would any of our other offices be of interest to you, I mean, down the road? Because I think you would do a great job no matter where you were. And Lord knows, we could use your moxie and initiative in a couple of our struggling offices.”

“I don’t know. I mean, maybe. But I know Boston best. Grew up here. Went to college here. Always worked here. Nearly all my contacts are in the New England area. I guess I could adapt to a new city. But I don’t know. My first choice, of course, is the Boston office. I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

“Fair enough. We have a couple of retirements coming up within the next several months at other offices and I’m looking first for internal candidates to take over those operations. And I’ve got you at the top of my list for consideration—but only if you’re interested, of course.”

“Well, thanks for thinking of me, Jeff. Boston is my baby, but I’m open to considering other options when something opens up.”

“Great. Good to know. Well, I’ve got to ring off. But call me anytime. Always a pleasure to talk with you. Bye for now.”

Was another office a possibility, as he was suggesting? she thought after hanging up. He didn’t specify which offices would have an opening soon. Might it be the San Francisco office? That could be interesting. Lots happening out there; many exciting new companies starting up that need ad agencies. But the other offices? No, not likely. It had to be Boston.

Fourteen

Just as Jeff hung up, Clayton Blake walked into his office, carrying a three-ring binder. He closed the door behind him.

“Jeff, we have fifteen offices, including New York. Profitability is all over the map. In our meeting today with the executive team, I’d like us to get a handle on that and see if we can improve our weaker performers by identifying the reasons behind the strength of the others. Staff billability is at the heart of this business. You can’t be profitable if your people aren’t billing seventy percent or, preferably, more of their time. I’ve been studying the report that you asked Syd and our finance team to pull together. This wealth of data proves the point I’ve always made about the linkage between profitability and billability. I want you to go to each office and share it with the managers—especially the under-performing offices,” he said, tapping the binder with his index finger. “This is powerful stuff.”

“It sure is. And that’s exactly what I’m planning on doing.”

“Good job. Great idea to get these data pulled like this. They tell a very compelling story.

Clayton opened the binder on Jeff’s desk and flipped to a page displaying several charts and graphs.

“These charts are key, along with the backup data on the next page,” he said, pointing at the list of the company’s fifteen different offices. “We need to get to the heart of the problem in each under-performing office.”

Jeff nodded. “Yep. Dallas appears to be our most consistent performer,” he said. “Denver has been at or near the bottom for the past couple years. Boston’s revenue has been steadily rising the past couple years, but its profitability has been all over the map. We can assume that that’s going to stabilize now that Henry Bancroft has taken over.”

“Good to know. I’ve been worried about Boston.”

“We have a strong team there now. I just got off the phone with Susan O’Leary. She is our new business dynamo, bringing in new business not just for Boston but for some of our other offices, too. As you said, our revenue numbers in Boston were rising, and it was because of her. But if the office’s profitability has yo-yo’d, it was because of Chet, who was a shitty people manager. Now, with Henry in charge there, I’m confident he’ll stabilize the situation and we’ll see Boston’s profit numbers improve markedly. Billability is all about good people management and that’s Henry’s forte.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. That combination of Henry and Susan is a good call. But how can we keep Susan happy, make sure she stays with us for the long haul? We can have the best people but if we don’t have new business coming in, then we’ve got nothing. She’s what, a senior VP?”

Jeff nodded. “Right.”

“Too soon to promote her to executive VP?”

“That’s certainly worth considering, but I’d say it’s too early just yet. Give her a chance to get settled with Henry. So far so good. By the sound of what she just told me on the phone, Henry has worked his charms on her. She seems happy. So, let’s give it time.”

“Right. I trust your judgment on that.”

“One more thing. Susan is ambitious. We need to reward her. Best way to do that is to help her fulfill her goal of running the Boston office.”

“If she’s that good, we could use her running our Denver office. Pete Palumbo is retiring at the end of this year, and we need to replace him with someone whose strength is new business.”

“I asked Susan if she’d be interested in any other offices and she said she was mostly interested in Boston, though it sounded like she’d be open to considering other ideas.”

“Good. Let’s keep her in mind for Denver, then.”

“But, Clayton, to be honest with you, while her strength is bringing in new clients and servicing them, her major weakness is dealing with our own people. When I was in Boston to fire Chet, I stuck around for a few days just to prep everyone for the change in leadership. Without probing too deeply, I found out that Susan can be a bit abrasive and demanding. I saw that abrasiveness at our management off-site earlier this year. I’m hoping Henry can help her grow, but we may have to give her a little help if she’s going to take over that office. If not, we could have another Chet Tinsley on our hands.”

“Maybe, but I think Henry adds more value here in New York. How long are you going to keep him in Boston?”

“At least until he gets things settled down there and stabilized. Maybe a year? I’m monitoring the situation closely. We talk every week. He needs to rebuild that team. We lost something like twelve people within the past year, including a couple of vice presidents. I’ve established an open pipeline with Susan and encouraged her to call me anytime. We need to keep her on board.”

“Good, good. Stay on top of that.” Clayton glanced at his watch. “It’s three. Let’s go to the board room.”

Fifteen

Susan’s reputation as a rainmaker was well-deserved. No one else in the agency had her connections and networking acumen—particularly in Boston—which kept her well-apprised of new business opportunities, resulting in nearly half of all new accounts that had come in since she’d joined the firm two years earlier.

When she heard a credible rumor that Fitzer Advertising, a cross-town rival, was stumbling out of the starting blocks with an established biopharmaceutical firm in Cambridge, Susan was on alert.

With a little digging and a few discreet phone calls, she confirmed the rumor. Fitzer had landed the CamGene Therapeutics account five months earlier but had yet to present a cohesive campaign to the client’s liking, so the company had remained silent in its key markets about its new products and research work.

She checked LinkedIn.com to determine whether she had any connections within CamGene and, as luck would have it, learned that an HBS classmate had been hired there a few months earlier as its marketing director. She remembered Alberto Azzara as a friendly, handsome, easy-going guy. He’d once asked her out for a date, not knowing at the time that she was engaged to Frank Peters, a student in the class ahead of theirs whom Alberto also knew.

She let him down easy. Alberto was embarrassed to have missed the news of their engagement. So, no harm, no foul, and no bad feelings.

Leveraging that connection brought her and Henry to lunch with Alberto a week after she’d confirmed the rumor with him in a phone call.

“Your instincts were right, Susan,” Alberto said as they waited for their lunches to be served. “We terminated our contract with Fitzer two days before you called. I started scouting for a replacement agency a couple weeks ago. Whatever agency we bring in to replace them will have to catch a run-away train. There is so much work to be done that should have been done months ago. Fitzer dropped the ball. I was just starting my background research on Whitman-Selby when you called last week. Nice timing.”

Susan grinned.

“Yeah, Susan is pretty good,” Henry said. “Not sure how she does it. We’d be lost without her.”

Her smile broadened as she winked at Henry.

Over lunch Susan and Henry shared some rough ideas for potential approaches and possible themes that Alberto liked. Henry and Susan agreed to flesh out their ideas and come back for a formal pitch to Alberto and his boss the following Thursday.

“You’re sure we can turn this around that quickly?” Henry asked on their way back to the office. “That’s a pretty tight schedule.”

“It’ll be tight, yeah, but you heard him. They are behind the eight ball. If we respond quickly, we can nail this without an agency competition. I’ve got a good handle on this. I’ve had some biopharma accounts in the past. Don’t let the fancy technology fool you into thinking it’s any different than any other marketing challenge. It’s the same deal: Identify the target markets’ challenges. Then present the client and its products or services as the best solution. As soon as we get back to the office, I’ll meet with Brad and his team. They can do it. They’ll give us some rough print ads and a few possible tag lines. I’m sure Alberto and his boss will be pleased.”

“What about media? Do you want me to talk to Candace?”

“Sure. That would be great. She’ll know what to do. She’s had pharma accounts before. Give her the budget number that Alberto mentioned and tell her to come back with a proposal that’s about ten or fifteen percent higher. And she should be ready with an argument for the higher number. Remember what he said: They have to catch that run-away train. It takes money to do that.”

Henry laughed. “Smart. I like the way you think.”

She grinned and winked at him again.

Sixteen

It had been more than a month since Kirsten’s trip to the Far East. Her plans were starting to gel. She’d signed lease agreements for three of the six new offices and engaged headhunters in all six cities to find qualified staff. With the conclusion of her negotiations with Indian officials the previous week for the Mumbai office, all issues regarding local government matters had been resolved.

The board of directors was meeting in Boca Raton starting the next day, Tuesday, and she was first up on Wednesday morning’s agenda to give them a detailed status report in person. While the company had a firmly established U.S. base with one-hundred-ten offices and affiliates, its international footprint was incomplete, limited mostly to Canada and western Europe, with a handful of offices in Latin America and affiliates scattered around the rest of the world. So, the Asia-Pacific expansion would be a critical step toward realizing its long-term goals as a truly global investment firm.

Clearly, its long-term potential for Findlay’s future business could be huge. But it would also mean significant upfront costs and risks. The board wanted reassurance that the plan was on track; that the timeline would be met; that the project would be on or, preferably, under budget.

She glanced at her watch. It was eleven thirty, and she still had much more work to do before she got on the plane for Florida in twenty-four hours. She’d be staying late at the office that night, for sure.

Her ace assistant, Darcy Mahoney, was sitting at the other end of the room at Kirsten’s conference table with papers strewn about, updating the budget numbers and projections, and cleaning up the graphics in the PowerPoint slides for Kirsten’s board presentation.

Kevin Hawkins popped his head in the door without noticing Darcy. “How’re new accounts going in Europe?” he asked cheerily, using their code to suggest a lunch hour tryst.

“Can’t get away today. I’m slammed,” Kirsten said without looking up, forgetting she should have responded in code.

“Okay. Never mind,” Kevin said, grinning and winking as he left, without ever being aware that Darcy had witnessed their coded exchange and seen him smile and wink at Kirsten.

Darcy stared back and forth between her boss and the CEO, looking perplexed.

Oh shit, Kirsten thought to herself. Not good. The conversation would have made no sense to Darcy. She hoped they hadn’t raised her suspicions. Darcy was no dummy. She noticed things like that. Glancing at her a half-minute later, she saw that Darcy’s eyes had returned to her computer screen.

They had to be more careful. She’d speak to Kevin about it later.

Seventeen

On the first Thursday morning of June, the Whitman-Selby team entered the lobby of a new high-rise in Kendall Square, checking in with security so they could go upstairs and give their pitch to CamGene in a meeting set to begin at ten.

Alberto Azzara told Susan that his boss, Deb Young, the executive VP for sales and marketing, tended to get granular. So, while they would have an hour, he advised her to leave a cushion of at least thirty minutes for her questions.

With her trademark flashy PowerPoint overhead slides, Susan succinctly presented the strategy and the agency’s thinking on the challenges and opportunities CamGene faced. Brad Mayfield shared some preliminary ideas for print ads and how they would translate online to specific medical websites and social media.

Candace Rankin, the Whitman-Selby media director, presented her recommendations for media buys. Henry closed the pitch with a quick two-minute summary.

Though Deb did interrupt frequently with perceptive and delving questions, Alberto had prepared Susan well and the team handled her questions with aplomb.

At eleven twenty-five, well over their one-hour limit, Deb was still asking questions and had begun explaining the rationale behind the company’s sales and marketing strategy, a lot of which the Whitman-Selby team already knew—thanks to Alberto. Henry interpreted that as a good sign, that she trusted them enough to disclose the company’s internal thinking.

Deb glanced at her watch. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve talked a blue streak and used up all your time. Tell you what,” she said, looking at Alberto. “Why don’t we just cut to the chase here? I like what Whitman-Selby is proposing. Do you?”

“Absolutely. It’s perfect.”

“Good. It’s exactly what we need, and we don’t have the luxury of a lot of time to interview a bunch of agencies. We’re already way behind schedule. What say we just close the deal now? You win.” She smiled again, stood, and reached across the table to shake hands all around.

“I have to run to another meeting that’s about to start. Alberto, go ahead and get the NDA and contract squared away. Okay? We need them to get going now—yesterday, preferably,” and she laughed.

“Will do,” Alberto said.

“Well, that was a pleasant turn of events,” Alberto added after she’d left. “Makes my job a lot easier. Listen, I think you can get going on the initial positioning ads, Brad. Those are solid. Candace, please give me a tighter media schedule and budget as soon as you can so I can look it over and you can start buying. Your bottom line was more than my budget, but Deb seemed to like it, so I guess we’re good. I loved your idea for web placement on WebMD for symptom-specific direct-to-consumer advertising and Medscape to reach doctors by specialty. Deb loved that, too. That was a real coup. Fitzer’s media strategy never talked about that.”

“Great job, everyone,” Henry said as they waited outside at the curb for their Uber ride. “What say the four of us celebrate over drinks tonight after work?”

“Thanks, Henry, I’d love to, but today’s my birthday and my husband is taking me out for dinner,” Candace said.

“Happy birthday!” Henry exclaimed. “Susan? Brad?”

“Sure,” Susan said.

“Yep,” Brad added. “But I’ll have to be out of there by six at the latest.”

Susan, Brad and Henry had just settled into their seats when the waitress approached. “What’ll you have?” Henry asked them.

“Since we’re in an Irish pub, I’ll have a shot of Jameson, with a pint of Harp on the side,” Susan said.

“Good idea. I’ll do the same,” Brad said. “But make mine a Guinness.”

“Same here,” Henry said. “Guinness and Jameson.”

They toasted with their whiskeys, threw down the shots, gloated over their big win that day, and talked about their business. And like all advertising professionals, they were fixated on Mad Men, the ongoing television series centered on the fictional New York ad agency, Sterling Cooper.

The final episode of its fifth season would be aired the coming Sunday evening. The three of them speculated on how the season would end.

“Remember the very first show?” Brad asked. “Don Draper saved the agency’s biggest account, Lucky Strike cigarettes, as they were about to walk out the door.”

“Yeah. Amazing scene,” Henry said. “I was hooked.”

“Me too,” Susan added, going to elaborate on the details of the scene when Draper dissuaded the client from leaving by coming up with a catchy new ad slogan on the spot.

“Speaking of the ad business,” she continued, “we need to add more account staff if we keep bringing in so much new business—beyond the replacements you’ve been adding. At least two new entry-level account executives, and soon another account supervisor.”

“By the way, Henry,” Brad added with a chuckle. “I could use another copywriter and art director. My people are flat out. We’ve all been putting in a string of ten- and twelve-hour days for longer than I care to admit. I may have a mutiny on my hands if we don’t.”

“Ah, yes. The price of success,” Henry said. “I’ll crunch the numbers with New York, but I see no reason why we can’t. Do me a favor and pull together job descriptions so we can get right on it.”

Brad finished his Guinness with Henry close behind.

“Another round, Brad?”

“Thanks, but I have to get going. My son Todd’s moving-up ceremony into middle school is tonight. Can’t miss it.”

“Well, congratulate Todd for us. See you in the morning. Great work today. Thanks.”

“You bet. See you guys tomorrow.”

Turning to Susan, Henry proposed they stay for dinner.

They were well into their meals when Susan asked, “So, how is the commute back and forth to Westchester working out for you? Must be a real grind.”

“Initially, it was. But I’ve gotten used to it. I like listening to audio books. Makes the miles slip by when you can get lost in a good story.”

“How does your wife feel about it?”

“Well, she’s so busy at work and travels so much that I don’t think she even notices that I’m gone during the week. In fact, even when I do go home on the weekends, sometimes she’s barely there. A couple weekends, I just stayed in Boston because she was in Asia.”

“Really? What does she do that involves so much travel?”

Henry explained it in broad terms. “I’m proud of her, for all that she’s accomplished—including the MBA that she earned at NYU in her spare time while working her way up the corporate ladder.”

“Are you and she going to move here, then? How would that work for her job?”

“Not likely. We had that discussion when I first agreed to take this job. She was dead set against it, of course. She finally got to the executive suite two years ago and isn’t about to give that up. I mean, would you?”

“No. Of course not.”

As Henry sought the waiter’s attention for another round of wine, Susan thought for a moment and then asked him, “So, do you think you’ll eventually go back to New York?”

“Probably. I just don’t know when. But I’m thinking it’ll be at the point that we have the operation here ship-shape, back up to full staffing, and we’ve found a capable replacement. I suppose you can help us find that person.”

“Did Jeff have any thoughts about that?”

“We didn’t get into it. Right now, it’s all speculative and well into the future. The focus has to be on getting this shop back on the rails.”

“Of course. But you know, I’m interested in that job. And I think I’m qualified. I told Jeff that. I guess he didn’t mention it to you.”

“Uh, no. Not specifically. We didn’t get into that angle. But yes, I agree, you’re qualified for it. I’ll speak to him about it.”

“Thanks. You know, I like working with you and I hope you stick around as long as you can.”

“That’s nice of you to say. I like working with you, too. You’re about the best account director I’ve ever known. Plus, I’ve really come to appreciate you as a friend and advisor. You’ve given me a lot of good ideas, and a lot to think about. I like the way you challenge my thinking. It’s dangerous to believe yourself. Everyone needs a savvy first mate like you.”

He smiled at her.

Eighteen

At home the next evening, just as she finished pouring herself her first glass of wine of the evening, Susan’s iPhone rang. The caller ID told her it was Janet Kohler.

“Hey, Janet. What’s up?”

“Are you home alone on a Friday night again?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m beat. Long week. Just poured myself a glass of wine. Why?”

“Have you started making dinner yet?”

“Me? Make dinner? Very funny. I was just thinking I’d order some Chinese takeout and watch something on Netflix.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s go out for dinner. There’s a new Thai place in Newton Corner. It’s getting great buzz. I’m dying to try it.”

“Good idea. I’m definitely up for some pad thai and a chat.”

“Great. This place is BYOB so I’m bringing a bottle of wine. I’ll be by and pick you up in a couple minutes. Ready to go?”

“Yup.”

Susan ran out to Janet’s car at the curb six minutes later, carrying a bottle of wine, too.

After a quick side-arm hug, Janet pulled away from the curb.

“How are things going?” Janet asked.

“Great. Just great.” And she filled her in on the CamGene win.

“Nicely done, first mate. And how are things with Captain Henry? Or should I say Captain Bligh? Or is it Queeg? Which one is he like?”

Susan laughed. “Good memory, Janet. Actually, Henry’s been surprising me. He certainly is no Captain Bligh. I was just telling Jeff Matheson earlier this week how well everything has turned out. I think I misjudged him the first time we met.” And she proceeded to repeat the praise she’d shared with Jeff.

“Uh, for someone you’re hoping will go away, you sound pretty fond of him. Is there something you want to share with me?”

“Huh? What are you talking about? I mean, yeah, I like Henry. He’s turned out to be a great guy. We’ve gone out for lunch and dinner and had drinks after work a couple times. In fact, we had a celebratory dinner last night after we landed CamGene. He’s easy to talk to. Funny guy. Makes me laugh a lot. He’s very endearing. And he’s a bit of a hunk, too.”

“Okay. Sounds great. But what about your plans to ship him back to New York so you can take over?”

“He said something encouraging last night. His wife is a senior exec with a New York retail investment house and has no intention of moving with Henry to Boston. So, he’s pretty sure he’ll be out of here sooner than later. And then I can take over the Boston office.”

“That’s great. Did he say you would be his replacement?”

“I asked about that. But he didn’t seem to know anything. So I took the opportunity to tell him that I wanted the job. He said Jeff hadn’t mentioned it, but he agreed with me that I’m qualified to run the office and that he’d speak with Jeff.”

“What do you think that means? Why wouldn’t Jeff say something to him about your aspirations? You’ve been pretty clear with him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Sure have. Multiple times. But I suppose they were just focused on dumping Chet and getting Henry up here to straighten things out. But I think it’s all good. I’m not worried. I think this thing is in the bag. It’s all dependent on when Henry and Jeff feel confident that the shop has gotten back on an even keel, and Henry can leave.”

Nineteen

Kirsten got back to her desk in Findlay’s downtown headquarters offices a little after two that Friday afternoon—late for her. In fact, when she wasn’t traveling, she normally didn’t even leave the building for lunch, instead eating at her desk—if she had lunch at all. It seemed she was always dieting.

As they’d arranged, Kevin returned earlier to be certain that they arrived well apart from one another. To further disguise their tryst, Kevin left the Battery Park City apartment building through the service elevator and rear entrance ten minutes ahead of Kirsten and grabbed a cab around the corner. She stayed behind to freshen up. This day’s nooner had been quite torrid. Kevin practically ripped off her dress when she walked in. She’d carefully inspected it for rips as she touched it up with an iron.

Back in her office, as she checked her emails and messages—nothing urgent, thankfully—she contemplated her relationship with Kevin, considering it in the context of the one she had with her husband. Quite a contrast.

Both men were in their fifties, though Kevin was six years older than Henry. But they were quite different. Where Kevin was passionate, spontaneous, funny, and driven, Henry was predictable, placid, and boring. Henry was always eager to please. Kevin was often surprising and could be a bit impulsive. Always kept her guessing.

The sex she had with Kevin was also a lot more exciting. It always lasted a lot longer than she was used to, sometimes in unfamiliar, exotic positions. Aside from the sex, she felt more herself when she was with Kevin, more at ease. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Henry had had sex.

Henry had called her at the office that morning to say he would take care of dinner that evening, that he was leaving in the early afternoon and thought he would be home by five or six.

She wasn’t looking forward to that. Why was she staying with him anyway? It was time to end it. She and Kevin had discussed it a few times. Both wanted out of their failing marriages. Whenever he talked about his wife, Sharon, Kevin always referred to her as “the Bitch with a capital B.” They wanted to be together without all the secrecy and sneaking around.

Kirsten hoped marriage was in the offing, and they’d talked a little about it but, at this point, whether they did or not wasn’t a deal breaker. They just wanted the freedom to be together openly without fear for the jobs if they were caught.

Of course, they were both aware of the company’s stated policy against extra-marital relationships between employees. If you’re discovered, you’re fired… which was why they had to be so careful with their trysts, both in the city and while on the road together.

When would she follow through on the divorce from Henry? But then, he’s in Boston all week every week, so, for all intents and purposes, they were already separated. The next step shouldn’t be difficult. They were accustomed to being apart. On the other hand, he would be home all weekend, and she had no plans that would take her out on the road. So, they would be alone together for two days.

She grimaced at the thought. Well, she would definitely spend both Saturday and Sunday at the gym, as she usually did, and then go shopping. She would tell him that she had a hair appointment for Saturday afternoon. Maybe she’d get together with her old friend Helen Sykes for dinner. They hadn’t seen each other for quite some time.

She wasn’t sure what, if anything, Henry had planned. He had always taken his cues from her, and rarely offered ideas of his own for things to do together. She had planned nearly all the vacations they’d taken in their marriage, including their honeymoon. Whenever he tried to plan something, it was always a boring idea, something they’d already done, or something completely unworkable.

She considered whether to broach the idea of divorce this weekend and how to do it; what words to use.

Darcy Mahoney popped her head into Kirsten’s office.

“Oh, good. You’re back,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. I didn’t know you were going out for a long lunch today. Is now a good time?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“We have a problem. At least I think it’s a problem. Maybe it’s just a hiccup. Anyway, we need to sort something out with Legal.”

“What is it?”

“Legal reviewed our Osaka office lease and isn’t happy about it. The agreement includes an unusual rider. Something about exchange rates. Legal is pushing back on it. I don’t fully understand it. Do you have time to meet with Dan Ahearn and his team to talk about it?”

“Sure. Let’s go,” as she rose from her chair.

Twenty

Mid-afternoon that same Friday, Henry left Boston for Larchmont. As he transited Connecticut on the Merritt Parkway and neared the New York state line, he found himself pondering his marriage and why his wife had been so distant lately. He hadn’t been able to focus on his audiobook, so he turned it off and considered how they might reconnect. What sort of fun adventure could they share over the weekend before he had to head back to Boston Sunday afternoon?

After stopping to buy the fixings for dinner, he pulled into their driveway around six-twenty. Kirsten’s Mercedes wasn’t there yet, which meant she’d missed the 5:31 train. If she caught the 5:53, she’d roll into the driveway between six forty-five and seven. That gave him enough time to get dinner started.

Setting the table, he buffed two long-stemmed wine glasses until they sparkled. After polishing the good silverware, he arrayed it just so on the white linen napkins next to the plates from her grandmother’s antique china set that they rarely used anymore.

As he prepared the asparagus, he heard Kirsten’s diesel Mercedes idle to a stop through the open front window.

Poking her head into the kitchen, she said, “I want to take a quick shower. Can you hold dinner for a bit?”

“Uh, sure honey. A half hour or so?”

“Yeah,” she replied over her shoulder, walking away quickly and into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

What? No hi? No kiss? No hello, how are you? Jeez. They hadn’t seen each other for two weeks, Henry thought. It was getting painful. Had he said or done something wrong?

They sat for dinner at seven thirty, Kirsten wearing a bathrobe over her nightgown. Henry had opened a bottle of their favorite New Zealand Pinot Noir, the one they’d discovered together on their trip there five years earlier. But she said she didn’t want to drink anything that night. Had a headache. Wanted to go to bed early.

“Say, honey, I was thinking,” he said. “We’ve been talking for so long about going to the Storm King Art Center, but we keep putting it off. It’s supposed to be nice weather all weekend. How about if we go there tomorrow, stay overnight in a local inn, and come back on Sunday morning?”

He detected a wince.

She sighed. “I’m sorry. No can do. I have a hair appointment tomorrow afternoon and then Helen are I are getting together for dinner. We haven’t seen each other in months, and we’ll probably end up talking long into the night. We’ve been trying to get together for so long and tomorrow we’re both free. I’m going straight to her house from the salon. But maybe some other time.”

Trying to keep the conversation going, he told her about the evolving situation in Boston but could tell she wasn’t interested. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Henry chewed the now lukewarm, flavorless steak tips. The wine tasted dull. After that, there wasn’t much said.

His eyes dropped to his plate, and he speared a piece of asparagus, sipped his wine, and ate slowly.

Soon, she was done. As she took her plate to the kitchen, she thanked him for dinner. “That was tasty. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get to bed. I’m beat.”

“You’re going to bed at eight on a Friday night? Really?”

“Yeah. I’m exhausted. Long week.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What’s going on, Kirsten? Why are you so distant lately? I feel like I just ate dinner by myself.”

“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind. I’m juggling a lot of balls right now at work. I guess it’s taking its toll.”

“It’s more than that. And it’s not just tonight. You’ve been distant for some time.”

“Henry let’s not get into it now. I’ve had a tough week and I don’t have the energy for an argument.”

“I’m not looking for an argument. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on between us.”

“Not tonight, Henry. Please.”

He sighed.

She pivoted out of the room.

Staying at the table after she’d left, Henry finished his dinner alone, wondering what was going on.

He ran into Helen Sykes Sunday morning in town. While it was true that Helen and Kirsten hadn’t seen one another in a few months, Kirsten hadn’t even called her to set up the dinner date, Helen told him.

Where had Kirsten been Saturday night? She had come in after Henry had gone to bed and slept in the guest bedroom.

Twenty-One

It had always struck Henry as odd that, while Whitman-Selby had nine offices scattered around the U.S,, those offices did not necessarily service only regional clients. When he had been in the New York headquarters, he’d worked on clients based in Chicago, Dallas, and Denver, three cities where the agency also had satellite offices. But not one of those three offices was involved in those accounts.

Now in the Boston office, he was seeing the same pattern. Mahaffey Industries was headquartered in downtown Pittsburgh. He didn’t know how the Boston office had landed the account in the first place, even though Whitman-Selby had a Pittsburgh office within walking distance of the Mahaffey headquarters.

But that was the game. Besides, based on a bad experience he’d had with them a couple years earlier, he didn’t trust the people in the Pittsburgh office.

One of the key objectives that Jeff Matheson had included prominently in the agency’s long-term strategic plan was greater cross-office cooperation. So, he constantly nagged everyone to work together. To hell with that, Henry told himself, ignoring the directive by failing to mention certain cooperative opportunities to other offices on at least three occasions within the past year.

In Pittsburgh for a couple days of meetings with Alan Mahaffey and his senior people, he and Susan hoped to atone for the agency’s recent transgressions. Henry could sense in his phone conversation with him that Alan was still a bit leery toward Whitman-Selby—but he was softening.

Their conversation had rambled a bit, covering a few unrelated topics, and Henry had gotten Alan to laugh a few times—a good sign. He also learned that Alan shared his passion for flyfishing, so they swapped a few favorite fishing stories.

If they called on him on his home turf, impressed him with their strategic thinking, and then took him out for a nice dinner, they might settle his nerves and then grow the account by snagging the additional housewares assignment. Maybe they’d eventually get the other three divisions as well. He and Susan had developed a tentative strategy on the housewares unit, which they were ready to talk about should the opportunity arise.

Key would be how well he and Susan clicked during their meetings with Alan. Henry was confident that she would rise to the occasion. He had come to be very impressed with Susan: her savvy, brains, and poise, to say nothing of her business acumen. Plus, she was very agile and quick on her feet. It had become obvious why her clients liked her so much and why she’d brought in so much new business.

They got a rental car and met Alan south of the city at the company’s McKeesport manufacturing plant. Mahaffey’s downtown offices were near the hotel where they’d be staying that night.

“Once upon a time, McKeesport was the headquarters offices of the Mahaffey Manufacturing and Foundry Company. That was before we got too big for our britches, shortened our name, got ourselves a fancy logo, and moved into the high-rent district downtown to improve our image,” Alan explained, chuckling quietly.

“I come to the old office here pretty regularly to stay close to the operation and the people—but also for nostalgic reasons. This was both my dad’s and my grandfather’s office when they ran the company—fifty-eight years between the two of them. Other than the addition of this computer, I haven’t changed a thing.”

After they talked strategy in his office for more than an hour, he gave them a tour of the plant, which included a foundry operation, as well as an assembly operation that put together a range of products for both the sporting goods and housewares divisions. It was the company’s original production plant and still its largest, he explained, even though they now had manufacturing operations across the U.S. as well as in Europe and Asia.

“We kept our foundry here for weightlifting equipment for the U.S. market,” he said. “It’s prohibitively expensive to ship that stuff around the globe—bad enough shipping it around the US. We also have foundries in Germany and India.”

With considerable pride, Alan showed them one corner of the plant where they built automated baseball pitching machines, sold to amusement parks and professional baseball teams, “Nearly all the Major League teams have our pitching machines,” he noted with pride.

In the testing area—a batting cage—he demonstrated how one worked. Henry declined his offer to stand up to the plate and try to hit a few. Instead, Alan took a few cuts, hitting several of the pitches solidly and fouling off the rest.

“My dad invented it,” he said, pointing at the machine. “Well, actually, he stole the idea and perfected it. We own the patents and the market now. I use the testing area occasionally for a little upper-body work-out. Keeps my casting arm nimble,” he added, winking and grinning at Henry.

The three parted ways at close to four-thirty and agreed to meet at seven at Morton’s steakhouse downtown near their hotel.

“That went very well, don’t you think?” Henry said as they drove into the city.

“You were great, Henry. You had Alan eating out of your hand.”

“You weren’t too bad yourself, my friend,” he said, giving her a sideways grin. “Honestly, I think we make a great team.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. I feel like I can read your mind sometimes, like I know what you’re going to say next.”

She smiled broadly at him.

“So, how do you want to handle him tonight over dinner?” Susan asked. “Remember, we’re meeting with Cynthia again tomorrow morning. We can assume she’ll get a full debrief from Alan before she meets with us at ten. We need to make sure he’s up to speed on our approach and plans.”

“I think we’re in the groove,” Henry said. “He’s a good guy. Down-home and plain spoken. No bullshit about him. I was really impressed the way he was on a first-name basis with nearly everyone on the plant floor. There was genuine mutual affection with those folks. Did you hear him ask that woman how her son was doing after his car accident? How does he remember that kind of stuff?”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

“Anyway, I think over dinner we should just keep it on the same level with him. He knows the value we bring his company. By the way, did you catch the little dig he made at Hannon? I didn’t realize they were handling his housewares division. How did another Boston ad agency land a Pittsburgh account? Alan must like Boston.”

“Yeah, I caught that. Had to struggle to keep from laughing. Gary Hannon is such a jerk. I have no idea how he got this business. Must have met Alan at an industry function or something. Gary’s old-fashioned. Prospects a lot at industry trade shows and such.”

They were pulling into the basement garage under their hotel. After parking and getting on the elevator, Henry checked his watch.

“It’s now five. What say we meet in the lobby bar in an hour? Get an attitude adjustment drink and then walk over to Morton’s.”

Twenty-Two

Henry kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the hotel bed for a twenty-minute power nap. Upon waking, he decided to check in with Kirsten. They hadn’t spoken since he left on Sunday. He speed-dialed her cell phone.

From the background noise, he could tell she was on a Metro North train.

“Hi honey. How are you?”

“Oh, hi Henry. Fine,” she said, not sounding fine at all but, in fact, annoyed.

There was a long silence. Henry could still hear the rattles of the train in the background.

“Kirsten, are you still there?”

“Yes.” She paused again. “Say, listen, I meant to talk to you about this last weekend, but there was no opportune moment. But this can’t go on any longer.” She paused. Henry heard her take a deep breath.

“What can’t go on any longer? What do you mean? My commute to Boston every week?”

“No. No, not that. I’m sorry to spring this on you right now but, I’ve been thinking long and hard about this for quite a while.”

“Thinking about what?”

“It’s just that, well, I think it’s time we went our separate ways. I’m not happy being married anymore. We’ve pretty much grown apart. You’re in Boston all the time now anyway. I’m totally into my job and usually on the road. It’s been nearly two-and-a-half years since we lost Peter. Not a lot of reason to stay married any longer—”

“What are you saying? After twenty-two years of marriage, you’re telling me in a phone call from a commuter train that you want a divorce?”

“I said I’m sorry. But yes… I’m headed to Europe for meetings next week. I have a flight Friday evening, catching the red eye to Frankfurt. Why don’t you come down to Larchmont, get your essential stuff, and just move into that Boston place permanently?”

Henry thought her voice sounded oddly flat and wooden. He wasn’t sure she believed what she was telling him.

“I think you’re being awfully hasty, Kirsten. We should talk about this. We’ve never seen a marriage counselor. And then, all of a sudden, you spring this on me from out of leftfield while you’re on a train and I’m out of town? That’s just crazy. No, not just crazy. It’s disrespectful. Disrespectable of our years together and all that we’ve put into our marriage. How about we see a marriage counselor?”

“No. No, I don’t want to see a marriage counselor. If you gave it any thought at all, I’m sure you would realize it’s not sudden. And you’d reach the same conclusion, so—”

“I don’t know, Kirsten. At the very least, I would like to talk about it face-to-face, try to find a way to make it work.”

Neither said anything for a few long moments.

“My train’s pulling into Larchmont. I need to hang up. We’ll talk later. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Henry felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. What the hell had just happened? Could Kirsten have really meant that? Such a momentous decision, made without even discussing it with him? Why hadn’t she mentioned it over the weekend when they were together? Knowing her, she probably didn’t want a confrontation because she knew he’d resist.

He sat on the edge of his bed trying to get his bearings. Starting to stand, he abruptly sat back down, overcome by a wave of nausea and dizziness. It passed, though his sense of shock and dismay hadn’t.

He had to get ready to meet Susan downstairs. He stood, steadied himself with his hand on the wall and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face.

When he met Susan in the lounge for a quick drink before dinner, Henry buried his distress. Soon, they were laughing together. He relaxed.

Susan made him feel good about himself. They meshed like gears of a perfectly tuned machine. He felt on top of his game when he was with her—something that Kirsten had all but stifled in recent years.

He looked closely at Susan and smiled. Henry liked being with her. She made him feel like his old self, the way he used to feel with Kirsten earlier in their marriage. She made him laugh, just as Kirsten once had. Made him think. He felt on top of his game when he was with Susan.

At the start of his career, Kirsten had been his biggest cheerleader, always encouraging him and offering advice. No longer. Now, it felt as though Kirsten didn’t care if he failed. But Susan… well, she was fast becoming his best friend; no, more than that. She was his favorite person. He had come to rely on her for sound advice and insights into the business. They’d become accustomed to bouncing wild ideas off one another, often finishing each other’s sentences and laughing about it.

He loved listening to Susan, to the sound of her voice with its slight rasp, her breathy laugh, and her many wise observations about life and business. She was driven. Focused. Knew where she was going. He admired her work ethic, which she once summed up as, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

He liked the way she wove her personal philosophy about individual freedom and free market economics into her approach to business in a seamless way. He was continually impressed and had come to see why she was so good at account work. So quick on her feet. Always ready with the perfect riposte, joke, or anecdote that put people at ease, often evoking laughter of self-awareness. She connected well with her clients—and with Henry.

And he relished looking at her. She was indeed a striking beauty; silken auburn hair; brilliant blue eyes. Her youth and attractiveness buoyed his spirits. In her presence, he stood straighter and taller. Smiled more.

Later, dinner conversation with Alan Mahaffey went better than either had anticipated. After polishing off their first bottle of wine and ordering a second, Alan spoke directly about his frustration with the way Hannon & Partners had been handling his houseware business.

“Most agencies are the same,” he said. “It’s bait-and-switch. They close the deal with their senior executives and superstars. Then the neophytes come in. It goes from exciting and cutting edge to banal and boilerplate. That’s why I almost fired you guys. We’d gotten to like and trust Chuck Zahn. And then he up and quit. I never did find out why. Margaret’s okay, but clearly overwhelmed. Don’t get me wrong. Margaret’s smart and talented, too, and she’s a pleasant young lady. But she has no appreciation for sports. Chuck did. I never heard from Chet after Chuck quit. Margaret called me with the news one day and introduced herself as my new account team leader. I was sitting there thinking, who the hell are you? But, you know, I’m impressed with you two. I love your energy and your spirit—and I absolutely love the updated strategy and new approach.”

“Thanks, Alan. We’re pleased that you’re pleased,” Henry said, smiling. “Listen, I meant what I said earlier. We’re in it for the long haul. You’ll have Susan, me, and her team for as long as you want. And I’m going to make it my personal mission to keep her and her crew happy so that we won’t have a repeat like Chuck Zahn—which is where Chet dropped the ball: by not taking care of Chuck. We’re happy to come here anytime. I insist that you call me whenever you have an issue, but I doubt you will need to.”

Alan paused a moment in thought. “Tell you what. Gary Hannon is supposed to call me tomorrow at nine. I haven’t heard from him since last year when we gave them our housewares business. Now that I’m threatening to leave, he wants to kiss my ass. Well, he’s in for a shock. How would you guys like to pitch our housewares business?”

“Absolutely, Alan.” Susan grinned broadly and reached out to shake his hand. “It’s a deal. We’ve been thinking a lot about your housewares business.”

She briefly explained the broad outlines of their strategy.

“I like the sound of that,” he said.

“Maybe Henry and I could get together with your housewares team to share it with them, too?”

“Yes. I’d like that very much. You’ve got me intrigued.”

The waiter returned with the second bottle of wine and refilled the three glasses.

Alan raised his glass. “Here’s to Whitman-Selby and Mahaffey Industries. May we live long lives together.”

“Hear, hear!” Susan and Henry said in unison.

Twenty-Three

After dinner, Henry and Susan returned to the hotel bar for a celebratory drink.

“That may have been one of the best evenings of my professional life,” Susan said.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“I’ll drink to that!” she said. She clinked her wine glass to his.

After a sip, she leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He blushed in surprise.

“What’s that for?”

“Because I really like you. I think you’re a terrific man, Henry. I meant it when I said that we make a great team. I wish I’d started working with you long before now.” She paused and put her hand on his shoulder. “I admit it. Despite my initial misgivings, I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Thanks.” He sipped his wine and looked down.

“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? I thought we had a great day today.”

“Yeah. We were. It’s just that…” Did he feel comfortable enough with Susan to share his wife’s news with her?

“What? What’s wrong?”

He inhaled deeply, still not looking at her.

“Susan, this is my problem, not yours. I shouldn’t burden you with it.” He looked straight ahead across the bar at the colorful array of liquor bottles. The bartender whizzed past.

He turned towards hers and gave her a weak smile. “Let’s plan our next steps with Mahaffey.”

“No. Let’s not. Something’s eating at you,” she whispered. “You can talk to me. We’re friends. What’s the matter? Is this a personal issue, or is there something wrong at the agency?”

He told her about the call with Kirsten.

“Oh my God. That’s terrible. You sure did a great job holding yourself together over dinner tonight with Alan. How do you feel?”

“Actually, I feel awful. I mean, we were together for twenty-two years and she drops that on me in a phone call from a commuter train? Could anybody be more cold-blooded? What am I supposed to say to that? ‘Yes dear. That sounds like a fine idea, dear.’ What am I supposed to do? Honestly, I feel like I want to get shit-faced.”

He grabbed a cocktail napkin and dabbed at his eyes.

“But I can’t. We have a full day tomorrow and I can’t afford the hangover. I’ve probably already had too much to drink as it is.”

“Were you surprised?”

He paused and sighed before turning to her and answering.

“Well, yes. But no. I mean, as I thought about it after she hung up, I realized it’s been coming for a long time. Actually, the last time I saw her nearly two weeks ago, it was quite depressing. I guess we haven’t been very close the past couple years—at least not since we lost our son two-and-a-half years ago.”

She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “You lost your son? What happened?”

Henry spoke quietly, so quietly that Susan had to lean closer to hear. She moved her hand to his far shoulder, her arm across his back, and put her face near his, her cheek on his near shoulder.

“Peter was in his freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania. He’d finished finals week. The night before he was supposed to come home for Christmas break with us, he was out partying in the city. When he left the party, he stepped into the street from between two parked cars without looking and got hit by a passing truck. They told us he was killed instantly.”

Susan pulled away. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. It really was. It knocked us both for a loop. Kirsten didn’t go to work for a couple weeks. I could barely get her to eat anything. Neither of us slept much. The suddenness, the finality of Peter’s death was the most difficult truth we faced. It might have been more tolerable if we had lost him slowly over weeks or months because of some terminal illness. We’d at least have been able to say good-bye.”

“I can only imagine how that might affect a marriage.”

“Shortly after returning to work, she got promoted to the senior executive team. And ever since then, she’s grown increasingly distant. Lately, especially so. Like I was saying about the last time I saw her. I fixed her a fancy meal with a bottle of our favorite wine. She drank none of it and we barely talked. She was a thousand miles away. I felt like I was eating dinner all alone. She went to bed early. And then she lied about what she had done on Saturday night, as I learned later. I still don’t know where she was or what she was doing.”

He paused, looking straight ahead again. As Susan gave him the silence, she returned her hand to his back, rubbing it lightly.

“What I don’t get is, why so sudden? Why couldn’t she wait to talk about it face-to-face? We’ve been married for twenty-two years. Isn’t that worth something? What’s she so afraid of? What’s the big hurry? Does she think I’d change her mind?”

“I don’t know your wife and I certainly don’t know your situation,” Susan said, speaking softly. “But that does sound pretty cold. What did you say to her in response?”

“That I thought we should talk about it in person. But she just wants to move on. Without me.”

He was quiet again.

Susan asked the bartender for two more glasses of wine and continued rubbing Henry’s back and neck. They were leaning close to one another again, both speaking quietly, having a very private conversation in a public place.

“Do you think that she might be having an affair? Is that possible? That might explain her remoteness. You did say you didn’t know where she was on that Saturday night. That’s what it sounds like it to me. You’ve become an inconvenience.”

“I don’t know. Not her style. She’s a workaholic. No time for that nonsense. I think it’s more that she wants to be independent, on her own. I doubt she would even want to get remarried.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Henry. Have you and your wife seen a marriage counselor?” she whispered.

“No. I suggested it, but she said no. Said it wouldn’t help.”

“Can you talk to your therapist about it?”

“I don’t have a therapist. Maybe I should.” He looked away again and was silent for a moment before coming back to her.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading this crap on you. Let’s put it aside and focus on getting ready for our meeting tomorrow, okay?”

She shifted in her seat to be still closer to him and put her arm around him again, her hand on his far shoulder.

“No, let’s not, Henry,” she whispered. “I feel so badly for you, having to deal with this right now.”

She embraced him, pressing herself against his nearer shoulder, then put her other hand on his far cheek and turned his face toward hers. As she did, she moved closer, looked into his eyes, tilted her face, and pressed her lips to his.

And they kissed. Deeply. Susan broke it off after a long moment and looked into his eyes again. He returned her soft gaze.

“Come up to my room,” she breathed, so quietly, he barely heard her words.

Henry nodded his silent assent and slapped a couple of twenties on the bar as they got up to leave.

She was first into the room and as Henry turned after closing the door, Susan had already removed her shoes, blouse, and skirt. They embraced and locked in a kiss.

As he undid her bra, she hurriedly worked on his shirt buttons and then his belt buckle, as they continued their deep kiss. His shirt and pants fell to the floor along with her bra. Still, they continued to kiss. He worked his hands under her panties and kneaded her buttocks, pulling her hips snuggly to his as she tried to work his boxer shorts down over his rising erection.

Susan backed away, sat on the bed’s edge, removed her panties, as Henry took off his boxers. She grabbed Henry’s hands and pulled him onto the bed.

They continued kissing as he moved on top of her. He was fully erect. As he was about to enter her, he suddenly stopped and pushed himself up off the bed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Uh, Susan, I… uh, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he stammered.

“What? Why not? You know I’m very fond of you. I care about you. I want to make love with you.”

He stood, taking in her naked beauty as she lay back on the bed, partially sitting up, leaning on her elbows, her legs apart. His erection still standing tall.

“Susan, to be perfectly honest, this seems like a wonderful idea. You wouldn’t believe how tempted I am,” and he smiled weakly. “But I don’t think it’s the right thing to do. We’ve both been drinking. Our judgment is clouded.”

“But I’m feeling so good about you. So close. So connected. I want to feel you inside me.” She was almost whining.

Looking at his erection, she grinned and chuckled. “And it appears you want to put something in there.”

“Yeah. You’re right. And much as I also want to make love with you right now, we shouldn’t. We do have to work together.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but stared at him, sitting up further, now leaning back on her outstretched arms, locked elbows, still naked. Her bare breasts, stiff nipples, spread legs, and sly grin taunted and tempted him.

“C’mon, Henry,” she cooed. “You’re thinking too much. Be more spontaneous and less rational. Let’s just make love. I think it would enhance our working relationship. We do make a great team. How could it possibly hurt? We’d be that much closer.”

Henry picked up his trousers and shirt.

They were both silent as Henry got dressed.

“I’m sorry. I… I just don’t think it’s a good idea. We should probably call it a day,” Henry said, looking away. “It’s late, we’re tired and we’re both pretty drunk. Let’s meet for breakfast tomorrow. What say, uh, eight or so?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to make love to me? Because I think you do. And I know I want you to.”

“You’re right. I do. But no, we shouldn’t.”

Without making a move to get up, get dressed or cover herself, she watched Henry as he finished dressing, put on his shoes, and left, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Twenty-Four

Over breakfast the next morning in the hotel dining room, Henry and Susan didn’t discuss how the previous evening had ended. Before she could say anything, he opened the conversation by talking about the client and she picked up the hint that he preferred not to revisit the matter most on their minds.

At their meeting with Alan Mahaffey and the sporting goods team in the company’s downtown headquarters, they finalized the revamped and updated ad strategy for the sporting goods group. Alan also okayed the broad outlines of their housewares plan and theme as Susan explained it. They promised to come back to Pittsburgh when they had the strategy finished, along with some preliminary storyboards and print ads.

“I like your ideas a lot. This is so much more imaginative than anything Hannon ever offered,” he said.

“Alan, do you foresee a pitch against other agencies?” she asked.

“No. At least not initially. I’m confident you can deliver on your ideas. And when you do, then, no. No need for a competition. Besides, I hate those dog and pony shows. They’re such a waste of time and money—for everybody.”

He paused a moment. Looking at Susan and then Henry, he grinned and said, “You know, like I said last night, you two make a great team. You play off each other like naturals. Like you’ve been doing this for years. It’s almost like you’re married. Too bad you didn’t get together sooner. My business would have been much more profitable by now.”

The three of them laughed together.

“Yeah,” Susan said, still laughing. “I said the same thing to Henry last night after we left you. We do make a great team,” and she smiled at Henry, briefly clutching his shoulder affectionately. He smiled back at her before turning back to their client.

Looking at the calendar on the wall, Alan said, “Let’s see, today’s the twenty-eighth of June. Do you think you could have that fleshed out and then bring it back to me and my housewares team next month—the week of July twenty-third?”

Henry and Susan exchanged glances. “Absolutely,” Henry said, Susan nodding in agreement.

“I’m leaving Saturday next week for a two-week family vacation out west. Takin’ the wife and kids to a dude ranch out in Montana,” Alan said laughingly with a feigned western accent. “I’m also hoping to sneak away and get in a little flyfishing on the Gallatin, which isn’t too far from the ranch. I love fishing those beautiful Montana rivers.”

“Can I come, too?” Henry asked. “I’ve never fished Montana.”

“Nah. Our cabin is only big enough for the four of us. No room for an agency boy,” he said, winking at Henry.

“I’m kidding. Anyway, we have too much work to do to get ready for our meeting in four weeks.”

“By the sound of your proposal, it may blow our budget. But I would not be averse to putting more money into it than we did with Hannon, just to make sure it’s done right.”

“We’ll do our best to keep it down, but, yeah, it may go a bit high,” Susan said.

“Well, we’re in a good place. You guys made my week.”

Henry and Susan were quiet for first part of the ride back to the airport for their two o’clock flight. Then, they both started talking at once.

“Susan, about last night—” “Henry, I want to explain—”

“No, let me say something first,” Henry said. “I understand what happened. It all started because you were trying to comfort me in my moment of anxiety, and I appreciate that. I really do appreciate the gesture and your sensitivity. You’re a wonderful woman. You’re a beautiful woman in so many ways. But we got carried away in the moment. Besides, we were not very sober and weren’t thinking straight.” He stopped talking.

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“No, let me finish. To be perfectly honest, I am very fond of you. You know that. And you said the same thing last night, that you’re very fond of me. I mean, you did invite me to your room.”

She nodded. She inhaled. Her lips parted as though she wanted to interrupt.

“Wait. Let me finish. And I went. I went willingly. I wanted to make love with you. And we came very close.” His voice trailed off.

She kept looking at him as his eyes stayed on the road ahead of him.

“I have enjoyed working with you very much these past few months. I really have, far more than I’d expected I would. It’s funny when I think about how nervous I was about you at first. But that all went away when we started working together. You’re so smart, so quick on your feet. I’m endlessly fascinated to hear your take on things. You often see things different than everyone else, and you’ll say something that makes me want to slap my head and say, ‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that.’ And frankly, you’re so beautiful that I find myself struggling to take my eyes of you when I should be focused on the work at hand. It took a lot of strength to resist you last night, to stop when I did. Because I am physically attracted to you. Very much so.”

He stole a quick glance at her. Still she was silent, waiting for him to finish.

“I enjoyed kissing you last night. Holding your naked body against mine felt so good; and seemed so right. I so very much wanted to follow through, to make love with you. As I was getting dressed, it was killing me to look at you naked on the bed, so inviting. But I knew—I know on a realistic level that it’s unwise for us to be intimate. Still, that doesn’t lessen my utter desire for you.”

He paused and glanced at her again.

“Does that make any sense? I’m only trying to be honest.”

She paused a few moments before responding quietly. “Yes. I know what you’re saying. And yes, I am fond of you, too, Henry. Very fond of you. And, yes, I’m physically attracted to you, too. I’d love to make love with you, too. I still would. Even now.” She paused again and put her hand on his arm. “I understand what you’re saying. But I wanted to apologize for putting you in that position. Now I feel like I’m some sort of temptress.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize. That’s ridiculous. I think the world of you. You’re no temptress. You’re Susan, my dear friend. I guess I’m just as much at fault. Maybe I subconsciously communicated my desire for you. I don’t know. Like I said, I get so much pleasure just looking at you. Maybe that telegraphed something subconsciously to you—a desire for you.”

They were both silent again, lost in their own thoughts for several minutes as they neared the airport. But Susan was also plagued by the turn of events that his divorce likely implied.

She’d wondered whether his pending divorce meant his plans to go back to New York had changed, whether her goal of taking over the Boston office would be thwarted. Would he be staying now, still running the Boston office, since there would be no marriage to return to? Should she ask him?

She opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself, which he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

It probably wouldn’t be a good idea. The poor guy just found out about the impending divorce last night. He likely hasn’t sorted out anything about his personal life going forward, let alone his professional options with the agency. And she had likely complicated his feelings, too, by trying to seduce him. She stayed silent for the rest of the ride.

Twenty-Five

Kirsten and Kevin were both in town in Findlay’s offices on the Monday that started a short Fourth of July holiday week. Kevin stepped into Kirsten’s office and gave her the coded signal asking whether she was available for a nooner.

The invitation for a lunch-hour tryst, by either of them, was in the form of an open-ended question about some aspect of what the other was working on.

“How are things going with the new Mumbai office?”

If she could get away, she’d tell him things were good or improving. If not, she’d say that she hadn’t seen the most recent report but would have to get back to him, or something to that effect. That one time when she was under pressure preparing for the board meeting, she’d forgotten about the code and nearly blown it.

“Excellent. The situation is firming up.”

“Great,” he said, chuckling at the double entendre. “I’m pleased to hear that.” As he turned away, laughing to himself, he bumped into Kirsten’s administrative assistant, Lucy Del Rivera, who was coming through the entrance into Kirsten’s office with a quizzical look on her face, having heard the exchange.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Hawkins,” she said.

“Great” was code to let her know that he would leave the office at 11:45 and Kirsten would leave ten minutes later. If, however, he had said, “Okay, thanks,” then he would leave at twelve-fifteen.

Each would give their respective admins cover stories that would put them far apart in the city.

“I have to run Uptown to meet my lawyer,” Kevin told Karen Polk, his attractive, young administrative assistant, at 11:45. “I’ll be back by two or so.”

“But his office is on the Upper West Side. I doubt you’ll be back by two. Would you like me to get car service for you and have them wait?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just grab a cab. It’s personal business so I have to pay for it out of my own pocket.”

“Okay, Kevin. You’re right,” she said smiling prettily, briefly touching his hand that he’d placed on the corner of her desk.

Ten minutes later, Kirsten told her admin, Lucy, that she was having lunch with an old friend in South Street Seaport and wouldn’t be back for a couple hours.

Kevin withdrew from Kirsten and rolled onto his back. She tucked herself in next to him and laid her knee across his thighs. After a few minutes of quiet, she said, “Kev, I’ve been wanting to go visit the Storm King Art Center for a long time. But I haven’t gotten there yet. Have you ever been?”

“Nope. But I’ve heard about it. Read an article about it somewhere—the Times? New Yorker? I forget. Big outdoor modern sculpture garden, right?”

“Yes. I had an idea. How about if we spend the long holiday weekend together in that area. Stay in a local B&B, see the art center, and then explore the Catskills. They’re lovely this time of year. I could tell Henry that I’ve got an emergency in London to deal with. You could cook up something like that to tell Sharon.”

“Oh, that sounds great. And I’d love to. But I can’t. Sharon’s brother and his family are going to be in the area from the West Coast for the long holiday weekend before they head up to Vermont for their vacation. We’re all going to our place in the Berkshires. So, I’m stuck.” And he made a pout. “But let’s try doing that sometime in the future. That sounds like it’d be fun.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Damn, she thought. She’ll be stuck with Henry the whole weekend. Of all the luck. He’ll probably want to talk about their marriage. How could she get out of that? Could she just go ahead and tell him about that “urgent” trip to London and then actually stay in the city? Maybe go to the Metropolitan Museum. See a Broadway play?

Twenty-Six

That evening, as Kirsten cleaned dishes from her dinner of leftover take-out food, her phone rang. She dried her hands and glanced at the screen. It was Henry.

Oh shit. I’m in no mood to talk to him. He’ll be coming home tomorrow. Probably wants to tell me that we should spend the long weekend together working on our marriage.

“Hi Henry. How are you?”

“I’m all right, Kirsten,” he said. “How about yourself?”

“Good. What’s up?”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said last week when I called you from Pittsburgh.”

Uh oh. Here it comes.

“It doesn’t make me happy to say this, but I think you’re right. Yes, we have drifted apart and haven’t been close for a long time. I don’t think we ever really recovered from Peter’s death. Sadly, losing him drove us apart. Can we repair the damage? I think we could with a lot of mutual effort and love. But you don’t seem to think so. At least you don’t seem willing to try. I certainly can’t do it alone. So, I think you’re right—we should go our separate ways.”

She swallowed. “Really?” she rasped and cleared her throat.

“That is, unless you’ve changed your mind about seeing a marriage counselor.”

“No. No I haven’t. I don’t think that would be helpful.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought you’d say.” He sighed and paused a moment. “Look, let’s keep it simple. No point padding some lawyer’s bank account. I won’t contest it. You can continue living in the house. I’ve decided to stay here in Boston and keep running the office. I’ve come to like the place and the people I work with. There’s some great chemistry here. Anyway, all I want is enough money for a down payment on a condo or rent for an apartment. And when we sell the house, we can split the proceeds.”

“Okay.”

Henry waited several moments for Kirsten to say something more. Finally, he filled the silence, speaking quietly.

“We’ve had some good times together. We shared a lotta love and had some good fun. Our marriage produced Peter, who was a great kid. I still miss him so much, his zest for life, his positive attitude…” His voice trailed off.

“Anyway, we have a lot to be proud of. But it’s time to move on with our lives.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Yeah. Uh, yeah, that’s right. Henry, I’ll tell you what. I’ll get a lawyer to draw up the paperwork. And it’s nice of you to let me stay in the house, but it’s too big for just me. We both know that Peter is never coming home again.”

She sighed heavily.

“Besides, I’d prefer to live in the city closer to my office. I’m sick of the commute. How about we just put the house on the market right away?”

“Okay. Sure. Can you get an appraisal and a local realtor, or do you need my help? Happy to do it if you’ve got travel plans.”

“No. I can manage. We just have to get rid of all our junk. We can have an estate sale with whatever’s left over after we divvy everything up.”

“Sure. That’ll work.”

“Good. I’ll do that.”

There was another pregnant pause between them.

“Uh, Kirsten, let me say one more thing. All the time I’ve spent thinking about this, about you wanting a divorce, I thought about the years of our marriage. I remembered the beginning, the day we met and how electric the feeling was between us; how much I missed you the minute you left the room. I vividly remember when I proposed to you about a month later, and how thrilled you were—how excited we both were. Remember how amazing it was when Peter was born? Do you know that today would have been his twenty-first birthday?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she whispered as her voice cracked. She sniffed quietly and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Kirsten, we had some good times together, loving times. We loved each other deeply. And you know what? I still love you.”

He stopped talking.

“Uh…” was all that came out of her mouth. More of an accidental croak than an actual word. The silence lasted too long.

“Good-bye,” he said, and hung up.

Laying down the phone, she put both hands on the counter to steady herself and considered what she’d just heard.

She honestly had no response, which was why she had remained silent. She stood still. Her mind was a blank. Was she relieved? Surprised? Sad? Yes. All of that. Staring blankly into the middle distance, she dabbed at her eyes with the dish towel.

Part Two

Twenty-Seven

Though Susan was the office’s champion networker, Henry knew he had to start getting out among his Boston peers and bring in some new business, too. He had come to realize that he was in Boston permanently—that there would be no return to New York. Just the way Jeff had wanted it from the beginning.

Susan was a member of the Marketers’ Club of Boston and had suggested that Henry join, too; that he should go to their next meeting a week-and-a-half after the holiday. She would have to miss it due to a conflict.

The club met for dinner once a month on a Wednesday evening. Forty-five minutes of cocktails, schmoozing and milling around the Copley Marriott ballroom preceded the dinner and a featured speaker. As Henry picked up a glass of wine from the bar, someone spoke his name behind him.

As he turned, the man met his eye and said it again. “Henry Bancroft?”

Henry did not recognize him.

“None other. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” he asked as he tentatively reached out for a handshake.

“Gary Hannon,” he said, shaking his hand.

Henry felt a momentary twinge of panic. Whitman-Selby was about to pick off one of his clients, Mahaffey Housewares.

“Pleased to meet you. Your reputation precedes you.”

“All good, I hope?” Gary said in response.

“Of course it is. You’re one of the esteemed old warriors in Boston’s ad community, from what I hear.”

“Emphasis on old,” he said, a hint of a question in his voice.

“Not what I meant. How did you recognize me?”

“Your photo was in Ad Week a couple months ago when you took over Whitman-Selby’s office here. Remember?”

“Right. You have a good memory.”

Like everyone else in the room, they talked advertising for the next twenty minutes. Gary was in mid-sentence when the emcee asked everyone to take their assigned seats so that dinner could be served.

“Well, good to meet you, Gary. Hope to see you again at one of these.”

“Same here. Uh, say, Henry, before you go, a word of advice?”

“What’s that?”

“Watch out for Susan O’Leary.”

“What?”

“Don’t trust her. She lies like a rug.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She screwed me over—me and my agency—but good. Give her half a chance, she’ll do the same to you.”

“I doubt it. I think you’ve got Susan all wrong. She’s terrific. I’ve been in this business a long time and she’s the best I’ve ever worked with.”

“Mm hmm. Right. Me, too. That’s what I thought—until she stabbed me in the back.”

“What are you talking about? What exactly did she do to you?”

For a second time, the emcee urged everyone to be seated and the overhead lights flashed three times.

“Happy to tell you over lunch someday. She’s not all she pretends to be. She’s fast and loose with the truth. And she knocks over anything or anyone that stands in the way of her getting what she wants.”

Henry glared at him.

“I can see you don’t believe me. All I can say is, be careful.”

Then he half-smiled, shook Henry’s hand again, turned to cross the room and take his seat, leaving Henry standing there gaping.

Later, back at his office, Henry was befuddled, feeling unsure of his next move. He shut his door so he could think.

On top of what he’d just learned about Susan, he’d been worried about how and when to confront her with an accumulation of complaints about her treatment of staff members.

A couple weeks earlier, Margaret Nguyen had spoken to him privately about Susan.

“Henry, we have a problem and I think you need to do something about it. I’ve been getting feedback from staff about Susan for a few weeks now. I apologize for not coming to you sooner, but I thought—I hoped, I guess—that it was just a blip, that maybe she was bringing some personal problems to the office. But this has been going on for too long and it’s persisting.”

“What’s the problem?”

“She’s abrasive and can be tyrannical. One of her team members approached me asking if he could work for me instead.”

“Anything specific?”

“She’s demanding. When something isn’t to her liking, she lets people have it with both barrels.”

“Hmm. That’s not at all good. Have you said anything to her about it?”

“I tried, but she cut me off before I could make my point.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It doesn’t jibe with what I know of her, but I’ll speak to her to about it.”

“Also, I was comparing notes with Brad and Andy. Brad told me that he’s had to speak to her on more than one occasion because she’s been abusing his staff, going around him and letting his creative people know when she’s displeased with their work.”

Later that same day, Henry spoke to Brad and Andy, both of whom confirmed everything Margaret had told him, adding further examples.

Twenty-Eight

Though Whitman-Selby had only had the account for five weeks, the rush work required to get CamGene Therapeutics’ advertising program underway had succeeded, coming in on time and on budget, exceeding the client’s expectations. Alberto called Susan on Friday morning to thank her for the agency’s work.

“Deb is very pleased. She told me to pass along her thanks. She’d do it herself, but she’s out today; left mid-afternoon yesterday for a long summer weekend at her place on the Cape.”

“That’s nice to hear. Thanks for saying so, Alberto. It’s a real pleasure working with you and your team. You guys understand this business, and you make our jobs much easier than most clients.”

“Say, Susan, I was thinking. If you don’t have any plans tonight, would you like to go out for dinner? My treat. My way of thanking you for getting this program under way so flawlessly and making me look good.”

“Uh. Sure. That’s a nice idea.”

“Ever heard of Metropolis in the South End? Cozy bistro type place. Mediterranean style dishes. It’s my favorite. I’m a regular there because I live right around the corner.”

“Sounds great.”

When Susan’s Uber car pulled up to the curb, Alberto met her at the door of the restaurant.

They lingered over dinner for nearly two hours, talking about old times at school while downing a bottle of wine. Their dinner talk had meandered and as yet had not included any mention of business. Knowing he was Argentine, Susan wondered how he came to be in the United States.

He’d grown up in the Buenos Aires suburbs, he explained, where he lived a comfortable upper middle-class life, supported by his father’s successful legal practice in the city. When he was sixteen, he participated in the American Field Service program that placed him at Belmont High School for a year.

“Belmont as in Belmont, Massachusetts?” Susan asked.

“Yes. I loved it here. I loved Boston.”

“No kidding. I went to Lexington High School. Probably about the same time.”

“Really? I played soccer for Belmont. We played against Lexington a couple times.”

“No doubt you were the star.”

“Well, I was no Lionel Messi, but I wasn’t bad.”

After high school, he said, he decided to go to college in America, getting accepted to Rochester Institute of Technology where he studied mechanical engineering and business administration.

“Then, after graduation, I took a job in Rochester with Bausch + Lomb. They helped me get my green card. Using their tuition assistance program, I applied to and got accepted at Harvard Business School. While there, I became an American citizen. And, well, you know the rest of the story.”

“Wow. That’s a wonderful American success story.”

He paused.

“Remember that time our first year at B-School when I asked you out?” and he asked, grinning.

“Of course. How could I forget? I was flattered. I remember thinking you were handsome, smart and a very kind man. Still are,” and she laughed. “Alas, Frank Peters got there first.”

He laughed, too. “It took me a long time to steel my courage to ask you. I felt pretty awkward. I mean, I worried about my accent—”

“Which I thought was sexy.”

Alberto grinned. “Really? I thought it made me sound like a dumb foreigner. I wanted to fit in. I was so self-conscious.”

They exchanged smiles.

“Well, I’m glad we finally got that date, even if it is, uh, what? Like ten years late?”

“Hah. Yeah. That’s about right.”

As he paid the check, Alberto looked up and met Susan’s eyes with his own.

“Uh, it may sound cliched, but would you care to come back to my place for an after-dinner drink? I’ve got whatever you want. I’m only a block and a half away—which, as I told you, is the reason I come here so often.”

She had anticipated this, recalling his request for a date so many years ago. Clearly, he had more on his mind than an after-dinner drink, something she wasn’t ready for just yet. Besides, he was a client, which gave her pause. She’d prepared a plausible excuse.

“Thanks for the invitation, Alberto. But I have a full day tomorrow. I have to be at my parents’ house first thing. We’re all going up to their summer place in Vermont to celebrate my dad’s seventieth birthday.”

His smile disappeared.

“Oh. Of course. Well, maybe some other time.”

“Sure.”

Twenty-Nine

“I love it,” Alan Mahaffey exclaimed, applauding softly after they wrapped up. “The theme and tagline play out perfectly across the entire product line,” he said, delight in his voice.

Henry, Susan, and Brad were back in Pittsburgh in late July for a full presentation of their strategy to Alan Mahaffey and his team, proposing a hard-hitting new promotional campaign for Mahaffey Housewares.

“Cynthia, what do you think?” he asked, turning to his marketing director.

“It’s terrific. It works. But I have a big problem. It’s way over budget. This media buy is very aggressive and too rich for our blood.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Cynthia and I agree,” Alan said. “But honestly, you and I both know that that budget number was prepared on the basis of the old ways of promoting our products and Hannon’s proposal, which turned out to be pretty inadequate for the task. I think this is the breakout that Housewares needs.”

Alan went on to echo the case that Susan had made for a substantial budget increase. He promised to transfer money from discretionary accounts to cover the difference.

“Just as Susan said, we have to sustain the momentum going forward in the individual categories to the specific demographic groups. We can’t just make a big splash and then go away.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I agree,” she said, nodding and then looking at the Whitman-Selby team and smiling.

“Let ‘er rip!” Alan shouted, grinning and clapping.

Back at the hotel bar, Brad, Susan, and Henry celebrated.

“Great work, guys,” Henry said, raising his glass in a toast. “We’re on a roll.”

As they wrapped up hashing out the possibilities for new prospects and new staff, Brad stood after swallowing the last of his beer.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to duck out of the celebration, guys. I’m having dinner with a couple old college buddies here in Pittsburgh.”

They both looked at him quizzically.

“You do remember that I’m a Pitt alum, right? I still have a lot of friends here.” They nodded and smiled.

With that, he shook Henry’s hand, gave Susan a hug and left the bar.

“Well, that was sudden,” Susan said, watching Brad leave the room.

“Yeah. He might have mentioned that to me earlier. I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay. But I thought the three of us would enjoy a long leisurely dinner together. So, I guess it’s just you and me, Henry.”

“Works for me, a long leisurely dinner with my star account manager, rainmaker, and best friend,” and he smiled affectionately at her, recalling the last time they drank together at this bar and where it had led them.

As they waited for their entrees to be served, Henry revived the topic of their previous Pittsburgh visit. “Susan, I’ve continued to think about our evening together here last month.”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer with his hand on hers.

“I confess I still have a strong urge to make love with you. I just can’t shake it,” and laughed quietly as she raised her eyebrow. “I’m still angry with myself for not following through. Care to come up to my room after dinner?” and he grinned.

“I felt the same way, Henry. But I’m in a new relationship now. We’ve only had a couple of dates and I’m not sure how long it will last or if it will go. But I’d like to see what it leads to.”

He took his hand off hers.

“Oh. I see. Of course. Well, he’s one lucky guy, whoever he is,” he said.

She returned his smile. “Thanks. I’ll tell him you said so.”

They were silent for several moments, sipping their drinks, until their waiter appeared with their dinners.

Talk meandered while they ate, and they put aside any further talk of their brush at love-making.

Susan paused.

“Henry, I don’t mean to pry, but it’s been a few weeks since you told me about your wife asking for a separation. Is everything okay? I mean… are you all right? Did you guys patch it up okay? Did you convince her to see a marriage counselor?”

“Yes and no,” he said, and then leaned back in his chair looking away into the distance over her shoulder, taking a sip of wine before responding.

“I’m sorry. Do you mind talking about this?”

“No. It’s okay,” he replied quietly. “Actually, I realized there was no point in fighting her. She wasn’t interested in saving the marriage and, obviously, I couldn’t save it by myself. So, just before the Fourth of July holiday, a week after she broke the news to me, I called her and told her I wouldn’t contest it if she wants a divorce.”

“I’m sorry it came to that, Henry. How did she react?”

“I think she was pretty surprised. It’s not like her to be caught off-stride, but she was speechless. So, yeah, we’re going ahead with it. It’ll be amicable—as much as any divorce can be. We’ll split everything down the middle. We’ll sell the house and share the proceeds.”

“That’s not a bad outcome, I suppose. But how do you feel about it?”

He sighed, looked at his wine, took another sip and brought his eyes back to hers. “Not good. You know, marriage is a—”

He cleared his throat and resumed, speaking slowly and quietly, leaning closer to Susan, and looking into her eyes.

“Successful marriages evolve over the years as we get older, as we mature together and share life’s many experiences, good and bad, joys and disappointments. We argue and make up. We confront challenges together, persevere, comfort one another through our trials—both our own challenges and those we face together. But if the marriage is static and doesn’t or can’t evolve, it’s doomed. I mean, Kirsten and I had twenty-two years of marriage. We shared some good times. And, well, we shared a profound tragedy that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

He paused again and looked down. Susan reached out and put her hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked up at her, feeling the warmth of her beautiful eyes and her soft hand.

Her touch felt right. Reassuring. Their eyes connected and he broke a small self-conscious smile.

“Susan, your hand feels so nice.” He turned his hand over, so they were palm-to-palm. Then he placed his other hand on top of hers.

He continued looking at her. “I do love looking at you.”

She smiled again.

“Susan, how serious is this new relationship, really? You’ve only just started dating. You mean so much to me that I’d hate to lose you to another man. I blew it with you. I want to fix it.”

“Oh, Henry…” and she sighed.

“Okay, okay.

He looked away, withdrew his hands, picked up his glass, and took a long sip of wine while looking away again. When he put the glass down, he resumed.

“Anyway, the past few years haven’t been great. How do you get past the death of your only child? After we buried Peter, she got busy getting back into her career. And I doubled down and put my nose to the grindstone, spent a lot more hours at the office and on the road than I had the previous several years. That coincided with an expansion period for the agency, and I was helping merge two West Coast acquisitions into the agency, so we weren’t together much in the year after Peter’s death. I suppose we were postponing our grief—or just avoiding it. I don’t know. I guess we grieved separately, while we should have shared more, talked more.”

Susan stayed quiet, looking at him closely as she listened.

“For the past couple years, we didn’t spend a lot of quality time together. Just made decisions together about household maintenance. Taxes. Boring stuff like that. No intimacy at all.”

“Yeah, I know. Been there; done that.”

“You were married?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t know that.”

“I suppose there’s a lot about me you don’t know, Henry. I met my husband at B School. He was a year ahead of me. We married two weeks after I graduated. By that time, he was already working for Boston Consulting Group. My concentration had been marketing because I wanted to go into marketing—advertising, wherever it took me. The subject fascinated me. So, after graduating, I joined a boutique shop and cut my teeth there for a couple years before moving over to Hannon & Partners. My husband traveled a lot for BCG, made partner pretty quickly and earned a helluva lot of money. Like you and your wife, our time together became a series of banalities. He was always working—even when we were on vacation.”

She leaned back, and looked across the room for a moment, reflecting.

“I remember the time he surprised me by renting a lovely little beach house in the British Virgins for a week. It was idyllic—and very expensive. But I didn’t know that he’d made sure the house had Wi-Fi and good cell service. He spent most of the time inside on his laptop and phone, dealing with client business, despite my pleas for us to enjoy the area, especially the beach that was right outside our door. It was the final straw. I spent a lot of beach time alone that trip, reading cheap novels—and being pissed off. He was consumed by his work and had no time or interest in our marriage, not even on a trip like that. Not long after that, I asked for a divorce, which he didn’t contest.”

“Guess it wasn’t meant to be."

“Which were my exact words at the time.” She paused. “So, what now, Henry?”

“What do you mean? Like, am I on the prowl again? Nope. You won’t find me in the singles bars. Just got to get used to the idea of being single again. Seeing as how I’ve been pretty much living a bachelor’s life for a while now, I don’t think it’ll take a lot of getting used to.”

He paused a moment and looked closely at her.

“Susan, to be perfectly honest, the reality of the divorce kind of got me thinking about you again in an intimate way, about wanting to follow through and make love with you, to consummate our wonderful relationship—which is the reason I brought it up tonight. I’ve spent a lot of time these past few weeks thinking about you—thinking about us. I think you’re an amazing woman. You’re so smart, so talented. And you’re so beautiful. I feel strongly attracted to you. And I feel like I really blew my big opportunity to be with you in a serious relationship. I want to fix it.”

“Well, like I said...” Her voice trailed away.

He didn’t hide his disappointment.

After several moments of silence between them, Susan asked, “So, what are you going to do now? I mean at the agency.”

“I guess I’ll probably put even more time into work and our clients. No more time wasted on weekly commutes to and from Larchmont. I’ll spend more time with Alan and his team, which will relieve you for what you do best: networking and bringing in new business.”

She stayed quiet, pondering the meaning of what he was saying.

“Speaking of which, I want to do a lot more networking myself in the Boston area. Maybe you can give me some more ideas on organizations in the area like the Marketers Club, which was great. Oh, by the way, guess who I ran into at the Marketers Club lunch last Wednesday.”

“Who?”

“Your old boss, Gary Hannon.”

She scrunched up her face. “Ugh. How did that happen?”

“He recognized me from the Ad Week announcement and introduced himself.”

“What’d he say?”

“Oh, we talked shop, of course. I mean, it was the Marketers Club after all. Needless to say, Mahaffey Industries did not enter the conversation.”

They both laughed.

“But, as we parted, he said something odd.” Henry stopped again and looked at her over the rim of his glass. Their eyes met.

“Which was?”

“He warned me to be careful of you. Told me not to trust you.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Tell me he didn’t! He’s such an asshole. He can’t stand it that I left him. He said he had big plans for me, and then I left. Of course he’s bitter.”

“Yeah, I thought it was a strange thing to say. What the hell happened between you two that he would say such a thing? We couldn’t finish the conversation. The program was getting started.”

She collected her thoughts a moment before speaking.

“Well, I guess he had some sort of fantasy that he was grooming me, that I was his star pupil. He even called me that a few times—his star pupil—which was humiliating. He talked about how he thought I might take over the agency some day when he retired. But the way he treated me was like he expected me to worship him, like he wanted me to be grateful all the time. It started getting weird the way he acted toward me. And then one time, when we were on the road, he made a clumsy pass.”

“Really? What happened?”

“We were having dinner together in Chicago after a successful pitch. He was drinking a lot more wine than I was. He ordered a second bottle before I’d even finished my first glass.”

“Uh-oh. I think I know where this is going.”

“We were in a quiet restaurant, in a corner banquette so that we were sort of sitting next to each other. He put his hand on mine and started talking about how much he admired me. Then things really got weird. He started talking about my physical appearance. He told me he thought I was gorgeous, that I had nice legs. And then he said I have lovely breasts. As he was saying that he moved his hand to my leg and moved it way up my thigh almost to my crotch and leaned over to kiss me. I pushed his hand away, stood up, and left the restaurant. Fortunately, the restaurant was in our hotel, so I just went up to my room.”

“Not cool. Let me guess. The next morning, he had no memory of it.”

She snorted. “Of course. As soon as I saw him at breakfast, before I sat down, I confronted him and told him I didn’t appreciate him pawing me, the attempted kiss, or his sexist remarks. He said he had no idea what I was talking about. Needless to say, the conversation was over. That effectively ended our working relationship. He became formal with me; stopped including me in some important agency decisions. I took the hint and went looking for a new job.”

“Which brought you to Whitman-Selby?”

“Right. I contacted a couple of headhunters. One gave me a lead for the senior VP opening at Whitman. I bit. Chet interviewed me and we hit it off. He hired me after our first interview.”

“So, how did that work out?”

“Initially, it was good. I liked Chet. He mostly left me alone. But then, after a while, he started trying to get involved in my new business pitches—something I was already pretty good at. I think he was looking for an opportunity to horn in and to take credit for some of the new business I was bringing in. He wasn’t producing much of anything. I didn’t need his help or his poor coaching. He was mostly annoying me and getting in the way, making my job more difficult. Meanwhile, he was also alienating a lot of the staff, which is when we started losing people. Then, he got strange with me. He made some odd comments when we were alone. Told me how beautiful I was. Unlike Gary, he didn’t make any overt comments about my body, try to touch me, or try to kiss me. But I figured he was headed in that direction, and I cut him off before he got too far. Told him to knock it off, that I knew what he was up to. He got defensive and denied it. I thought I’d jumped out of the frying pan into the fire; that it was Gary Hannon all over again. And then Chet started isolating me the same way Gary had—putting me at arm’s length. He scheduled office management meetings when he knew I’d be out of town. Of course, I had to get the hell out. I reached out to the same headhunter again in April. And then, the next Monday morning, there’s Jeff Matheson in the office, telling me he’d fired Chet.”

“Enter, Henry Bancroft, taking the job you thought you deserved.”

She flushed. “How did you know?”

“Jeff told me. Listen, Susan, I get it. There’s no question you’re capable of running the Boston office. And you deserve it. I don’t need it pointed out to me. I had every intention of making this a temporary gig. I intended to go back to New York—”

“You intended to go back? And now you’re staying?”

“Yes. I want to stay in Boston. I like the client mix. I like the town. I like the smaller office. I love our team. And I especially like you. I really enjoy working with you. You know that. We’re quite the dynamic duo. Throw into that the fact that I have no home in Larchmont or marriage to return to and, well then, there’s not a lot of reason to go back to New York now, is there? I’ve been shopping for a condo. As soon as we sell our house in Larchmont, I’ll be able to buy it outright—no mortgage, I hope.”

Susan chewed her lower lip and looked down.

“I’m sorry, Susan. We’ll work it out.” She stayed silent and avoided his gaze.

“Let me talk to Jeff. He doesn’t know about my divorce yet, and my change of heart. He may have some ideas.”

“Like what? Send me to another office and run that? Denver? Dallas? Atlanta? No thanks.”

“No, of course not. We want you in Boston. I want you in Boston. I couldn’t stand to lose you. Besides, it’s high time you were promoted to executive VP. You’ve certainly earned it.”

She took a large swallow of wine and then stared at him. “Trying to mollify me with a fancier title and another raise? That’s not what I’m looking for.”

Thirty

“We have a problem, Jeff,” Henry said, his first words in his weekly Friday morning call with his boss.

“We do? What is it?”

“It’s Susan. She’s not happy. In fact, she’s probably pissed off and I’m afraid we’re going to lose her.”

“What? Why? What’s she so angry about?”

“Me. I told her I’m going to stay on permanently in Boston.”

“You are? Well, that’s news to me. But that’s what I wanted in the first place. So, what’s changed?”

“Well, number one, Kirsten and I are getting a divorce and—”

“A divorce? When? Why? What’s going on?”

Henry told him.

“So, let me guess. When you told Susan you’re staying, she thinks she’ll never run the Boston office.”

“You got it. I’ll bet she called her headhunters yesterday morning as soon as we got back from Pittsburgh after our meeting with Mahaffey Housewares.”

“Well, you can’t let that happen, Henry. You must keep her. She’s too valuable to Whitman-Selby and the Boston office.”

“I agree. But what are my options, other than quitting or demoting myself?”

“First of all, let’s promote her to executive VP, with another salary bump. But let’s think this through and be creative because I doubt that will mollify her.”

“Hah. ‘Mollify’ is exactly the word she used when I suggested the same thing Wednesday night. She wants more than a raise and a new title.”

“What else can we do to stop her from leaving?”

“Well, last night I couldn’t sleep thinking about this. I had an idea. I’m not sure she’d go for it, but how about a shared leadership position? I don’t know exactly how it would work. I mean—"

“Wait a second. I think you’re onto something there. Listen. Your strength is people management and operations. Right?”

“Okay.”

“And hers is networking, new business and running accounts. Right?”

“Absolutely. She’s the best.”

“How about if we split those duties between you two? Put her in charge of account management and new business, and let you run operations: people and the office budget. Then, you guys run the show jointly. You said you like her. That you work well together.”

“Yes. That’s true. We’ve become quite a team.”

“She told me the same thing. She also told me she enjoys working with you. So, why not?”

“Okay. Makes sense.”

“Are you comfortable with a co-leader arrangement like that?”

“If it’ll keep Susan, then sure. But you’re right. I have to run the people side of the business. You should know that she is not good with people. I got some negative feedback about her a few weeks ago from my senior managers. Susan is rubbing a lot of staff the wrong way.”

“What are they telling you?”

“She imposes high expectations on people and is abrasive about it when they don’t measure up to her standards.”

“Did you talk to her about it?”

“Not yet, and now is not the best time to raise that subject, not as we’re trying to hang onto to her.”

“True. Good point. Well, anyway, let me call her and feel her out on this idea. See if it will make her happy.”

“Fair enough. But I’m afraid it’s just a temporary fix. She wants the whole enchilada, and I doubt she’ll stop until she gets it.”

“Perhaps. But let’s give this a try. See how it plays out. We can make adjustments as we go. Thanks, Henry. That’s another sacrifice you’ve made for the company. I appreciate it and won’t forget it. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Thirty-One

“Hi, Susan. I haven’t heard from you lately. How are you?” Jeff asked.

“Let me guess. Henry told you that I’m pissed off—or whatever words he used. And he asked you to call me to talk me into staying.”

“Susan, Henry and I talk every Friday morning. You know that. It was the first thing he said this morning on our weekly call. He’s very upset. Said he couldn’t sleep last night worrying about you. It was the first time since he went to Boston that he reported a problem to me. And this is a serious one because it concerns you and your happiness—or lack thereof.”

“Jeff, you promised me that I would become head of this office when Henry returns to New York. But now he’s decided he’s staying—which leaves me exactly nowhere.”

“I hope you’re not talking to headhunters.”

“I am.”

“Please don’t, Susan. Let me make you an offer. First of all, you’re going to be promoted to executive VP, effective immediately. With a salary bump to match.”

“Whoop-di-do.”

“Please, Susan. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“Henry had an idea that I liked. He proposed that you two become co-directors, a shared leadership role—”

“A what? Co-director? A shared leadership role? How exactly would that work? What does that even mean?”

“Take it easy, Susan. Let’s consider your respective strengths. Henry is a people person. His strength is finding, attracting, and keeping good people; that and running the operation, dealing with the office budget. Do you agree?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. He is very good with people. The folks here really like him.”

“Here’s the idea. You two will share the responsibility of running the Boston office, making decisions together. But your primary areas of responsibility will be new business and account management, while Henry’s will be operations—people and the office budget. Make sense?”

She was silent for a moment. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“You guys would consult regularly on your respective roles, help each another as needed. For instance, Henry would still go on new business calls with you, as needed, and you could participate in decisions about new hires, raises, and the like. You told me yourself that you guys work well together, right?”

“Yes, we do. I do enjoy working with Henry. We’ve become real friends. On paper, this arrangement makes sense. Sure. But down the road, what happens when we disagree on a major decision. Who’s the tiebreaker? You?”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but, yeah, that makes sense. Realistically, how often is that going to happen? How many major decisions are we talking about that you might disagree on? Both of you have told me separately that you get along well. What would you disagree on?”

“Well, for example, should we or should we not pursue such-and-such piece of new business if it means a conflict with an existing account, which would necessitate resigning that client? That does happen, you know, and usually it’s the head of the office who makes that call after consulting with the team. What if we disagree?”

“Okay, if you can’t agree on something like that, then, yes, I’d get involved. What else?”

“Suppose we have an account manager or creative person who Henry likes and I hate, or vice versa. I want to fire him, but Henry wants to keep him. Who prevails?”

“I’m confident that most times, you two would be able to talk it out and reach an amicable decision. Susan, let’s not try to imagine worst-case scenarios. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice that Henry is making to keep you. By the way, this co-leader thing was his idea, not mine. He wants to make this work. He values you. He likes you. A lot. He genuinely admires you. I can hear it in his voice, the way he talks about you. He doesn’t want to lose you. He wants to keep working with you. He said that, by the way. That’s why he proposed this idea of the shared leadership role. So, what do you say? Let’s give it a try, okay? If six months or a year down the road we find it isn’t working, we’ll revisit it and consider alternatives.”

“Like what? Ship me off to Atlanta to run that god-awful place? Or maybe bye-bye Susan, here’s your generous severance package. Have a nice life?”

“Please, don’t be dramatic. Let’s give it an honest effort. If you’re amenable, I’ll get the paperwork started and make this official by Monday, okay? Then we’ll make a public announcement.”

She sighed aloud. “Okay. Fine.”

“Good. And one other thing. Starting next Friday, my weekly ten o’clock call with Henry will become a weekly call among the three of us. In addition to keeping abreast of the Boston office, we’ll keep tabs on how the co-leader thing is going and identify any brewing issues before they become problems. You guys will promise to be open and honest about it. Okay? Sound fair?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Great. Thanks for working with us on this, Susan. I think this will turn out just fine.”

“Yeah. Okay. Bye for now, Jeff.”

Jeff knew that things had just gotten a lot more complicated. He felt it unlikely that the co-leader arrangement would work out in the long haul. And he had few options when it did fall apart—which he saw as a certainty. He had to keep Susan, so eventually he’d have to let her run the office by herself and bring Henry back to New York eventually. Besides, that’s what Clayton said he wanted: Bring Henry back to the home office. And Clayton was always right.

Thirty-Two

A week after their second date, Susan invited Alberto out for dinner. It would be her treat and she laughed as she promised not to bill it back to CamGene. They ate and concentrated on being alone together. As they were finishing, Susan told him about her change in status.

“Congratulations!” he said, raising his wine glass to toast her.

She didn’t lift her glass, instead glowering at him.

He gave her a quizzical look. “What’s the matter? You’re co-leader of the Boston office now. And you’re an executive VP, making more money. That’s a big deal.”

“Henry was supposed to go back to New York, leaving me in charge of the office. By myself. But he’s not going anywhere. This feels like a solution to try to make me happy.”

“But you said it was Henry’s idea. He respects you. He cares about you and wants you to stay. I know Henry. He’s a good guy with a big heart. It seems to me that he made a sacrifice for you. In case you weren’t aware, you guys make a great team. It’s been fantastic working with both of you.”

“I guess you’re not paying attention. Jeff told me that Henry would go back to New York and that I’d then take over the office. Now, Henry is staying put and, to keep me happy, he and Jeff cooked up with this half-baked solution.”

“But no one anticipated Henry getting a divorce. That changed everything, didn’t it?”

“You’re not being very sympathetic.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “Susan, I’m on your side. Please. I just don’t get your company’s office politics, I guess. Help me understand.”

She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset. And disappointed. This isn’t what I’d been working toward. It’s like someone keeps adding rungs to my career ladder.”

“Susan, I care about you and want you to be happy. Help me appreciate what it is you want and why.”

“That’s a silly question,” she snapped. “It’s simple. I told you. I want to run the Boston office. I deserve it. This isn’t complicated.”

“Yeah. But beyond that, beyond your immediate goal of running that office, deep down, what is it that you want? Years from now, after you’ve retired, what do want to look back on that will make proud of your years of work?”

“When I retire, I expect to look back on a career where I ran a successful operation.”

“I mean, maybe you ought to branch out, get out of advertising. Try consulting. Lots of big consulting firms here in the city. They pay good money and have some really interesting assignments.”

“That’s not what I have in mind. I like the ad business. I don’t want to work for McKinsey or some bullshit outfit like that. I saw how BCG ate up Frank. He had no life outside work.”

“Okay, okay. Look. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to be helpful, trying to be sympathetic, but this is above my pay grade. You know I support you. I’m with you. Please. Susan, what would make you happy? Is there something I can do?”

She looked at Alberto. Frustrated and failing at hiding it, she exhaled heavily.

She put her other hand atop his and smiled weakly. “Thanks. I appreciate your support, Alberto. Really, I do. I’m just letting my disappointment intrude on our time together. I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.

He smiled back at her.

“Are we done?” she asked. “Let me get the check and we can go to my place to drink some real wine. Not the plonk they’re serving here—at fourteen bucks for five ounces, I hasten to add.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t call this plonk. It’s pretty good, as a matter of fact. And so was the dinner. Thanks. But if you’ve got something better, then by all means, show me the way,” he said, grinning.

Thirty-Three

Auberge du Soleil in Napa Valley was the site of the annual “Future of Investment” conference. While informative and helpful for attendees, the conference was mostly an excuse for a hundred or so senior managers of global retail investment firms to get out of their offices, rub elbows with their peers, eat great food, drink premier Napa Valley wines, and swap insider jokes at one of the plushest resorts in the world.

Kevin usually attended the three-day event alone or with the company’s Chief Investment Officer. But this year, he invited his Executive Vice President for Wealth Management. They arrived the afternoon of the program’s opening evening cocktail hour and dinner.

To keep up appearances, they took separate rooms but arranged for connecting suites, so it was like sharing one big fourteen-hundred square foot condominium with two of everything: bedrooms, sitting rooms, sumptuous bathrooms, and adjacent outside private patios.

Each room cost almost twelve-hundred dollars per night, bringing the total two-night lodging cost for Findlay Wealth Advisors to forty-seven hundred dollars. Adding their conference fees, the first-class tickets to San Francisco, plus extras like ground transportation, it became a nearly sixteen-thousand-dollar tryst.

Kevin didn’t waste time once they’d settled into their respective rooms, dropping his suitcase, and rapping on the locked divider door. Kirsten unbolted it. When she opened it, he embraced and kissed her, pulled her into his room, undressed her and picked her up to lay her on the bed as she giggled.

After an unhurried love-making session, they lay still in bed together, both panting quietly.

“That was quite nice. I completely lost track of time. Not sure how many times I climaxed,” she chuckled.

“Yeah, that Viagra hasn’t failed me yet.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know you were using Viagra. Since when?”

“Oh. I thought I’d mentioned it.”

“No,” she said, elongating the single syllable.

“Been using it all along. Don’t want to disappoint you,” and he tickled her under the chin and laughed.

“Do you use it with your wife or save it just for me?” she asked, grinning.

“I don’t remember the last time I made love to my wife,” he said, looking away. “How about you? When was the last time you made love to your husband?”

“I don’t remember either. As I told you a couple months ago, Henry and I are going through with the divorce.”

“When will it be final?”

“Probably by the end of October. It’ll be amicable. We’re selling the house and will split everything down the middle.”

“Well, that’s good. Nothing like a nasty divorce. Been there, done that.”

“What? You mean you’ve been married before?”

“Yup.”

“Once again, I am uninformed. Do tell.”

“Um, not much to tell.” He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Fortunately, there were no kids involved, but she turned into a real harpy and made things quite difficult, especially after she found out about my girlfriend, Sharon.”

“Sharon, as in your current wife?”

“One and the same.”

“So, what about her? Are you going to follow through with a divorce from her?”

He glanced at her before returning his gaze to the ceiling. “Uh, not sure.”

“You’re not sure? What does that mean? Are you or are you not getting a divorce?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Why the hesitancy? I thought you were only waiting for the right opportunity.”

“We’ve been seeing a marriage counselor.”

Kirsten sat up, pulled the sheet up to her neck and stared at him.

“Again, I was not aware. How long have you been seeing a marriage counselor? And whose idea was that?” she asked sharply.

“Calm down, Kirsten. Sharon is trying to meet me halfway and is working hard on saving our marriage. The least I can do is reciprocate.”

“Reciprocate? Reciprocate! Whatever happened to what you’ve been saying all along, that you’re going to divorce ‘that bitch with a capital B as soon as possible’?” she said, raising her voice. “As you may recall, this is topic number one when we’re together. And I clearly remember your stated intention to divorce Sharon, but that it was a delicate matter of timing. More than once. In fact, many times. So I never pressed. But now you’re saying that it’s probably off the table? When did you decide that? I mean, what the fuck, Kevin?” she shouted.

“Come on, Kirsten. Let’s not spoil a nice couple of days together in Napa Valley with an argument.”

“Argument?” she shouted.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood. Reaching over, she picked up her clothes from the adjacent chair and covered her nakedness as she walked toward the door.

“Please, Kirsten. Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like what? Like, where the fuck do I stand?” she yelled. “We both said we were going to get divorces so we could stop sneaking around. I am. But now you’re having second thoughts? Fuck you!”

“There’s no reason we can’t maintain our relationship. Sharon doesn’t know about it. Nobody does. We’ve been careful.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of fool do you take me for? You mean Sharon doesn’t know about us yet, just like your first wife didn’t know about your affair with Sharon. Until she did. You stupid asshole!”

Then Kirsten laughed. “You just don’t get it, because deep down, you’re a piece of shit who just uses people. And I’m only realizing that now. Shame on me.”

“C’mon Kirsten. No need for all the drama. We can talk about this,” he said.

“Drama? Drama! I’ll give you some fucking drama! I’m going to my room. I will take a long shower to cleanse myself of you and get ready for the evening’s festivities and dinner. You may see me across the room at cocktail hour but stay away. I will not be sitting with you at dinner. There are several people here I’d like to meet and talk with, and I intend to devote myself fully to them. Maybe I’ll find a new employer. I’m damn good at what I do and I’m sure it wouldn’t be difficult to find a new job with a more trustworthy boss.”

“Kirsten!” he shouted, as she hurried through the door, slamming and rebolting it behind her.

Thirty-Four

In the five weeks that Alberto and Susan had been dating, they’d spent time together on four occasions. On their third date, she’d invited him back to her house. She asked him to stay overnight and, as she had wanted, they wound up making love.

They’d dated once since then and slept together again. But their time together wasn’t enough to suit Alberto, who she sensed was getting infatuated with her. Repeatedly, he’d suggested going out, only to be rebuffed by Susan’s business commitments, constant travel, and the demands of pursuing new clients.

During business meetings, they hid their relationship so that no one at either Whitman-Selby or CamGene knew about it—so far as they could tell.

Susan sensed that Alberto was falling in love with her. But she was ambivalent about him. While she liked him, found him engaging on a range of topics, and enjoyed their intimacies, she wondered whether she had time to cultivate and maintain a long-term affair with him—or even if she wanted to.

Based on the way he talked about it, she sensed he was looking for a wife, someone to settle down with and bear his children. He spoke often of his desire for children. Whenever he did, she would cringe to herself. Children were not on her horizon, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be so involved with him that he would think of her in that way.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Was she in too deeply now to end it gracefully?

How would she feel about him if he weren’t a client? Would she see him differently and perhaps care more for him? Or less? Would theirs have been simply the casual fling that it had been up to that point? Was she holding herself in check because she feared the agency would lose the business if she broke off the relationship? Or was there something else about him that was giving her pause?

The first Friday of August, he invited her to his place so he could fix her dinner. It would be his own native Argentine cuisine, he promised. Something special.

She arrived at seven-thirty, as he’d suggested, bringing a bottle of red wine.

“Come on in,” he said, giving her a quick kiss. “We’ll be barbecuing in my rooftop garden. But we have to stop first in the kitchen to finish getting everything ready.”

Susan was impressed with Alberto’s attention to detail, the elaborate spread he’d been preparing for their dinner: meat and vegetables for the grill, some exotic South American grain she’d never heard of mixed with something else. And some sort of green sauce. It looked like pesto, but she wasn’t sure. Her kitchen skills were minimal, at best.

“We’re barbecuing steak tips. This is a traditional chimichurri sauce. I was just finishing it when you rang the bell. Want to taste it?”

She dipped a fingertip. “Mmm. Tangy, with a bit of heat. That’s for the steak? What’s in it?”

“Si, si, señorita. It’s a dipping sauce for the steak, made with shallots, jalapeño pepper, garlic, a little red wine vinegar and a few of my secret ingredients. Would you care for some vino Argentino? Yo tengo un Malbec y un Barbera. I think we should have the Barbera first while we cook and save your zinfandel con nuestra cena.”

She giggled at his sprinkling of Spanish in the monologue, which he’d done a few times before.

“What did you just say?”

“I said I have a couple bottles of Argentine Melbec and Barbera and that we should have your zin with our dinner.”

He opened the bottle of Barbera and put it and two glasses on a tray. Then he grabbed the platter with meat and vegetables. They went up a spiral staircase to his rooftop garden.

Plush patio furniture was bordered by a gas grill on one side and, on the other three sides, deep planter boxes holding thriving, thick bamboo and a variety of other foliage that helped convey a sense that they weren’t in the city at all. The sky was a deep, early evening blue, and utterly cloudless; the sun was nearing the horizon.

The table had been set for two with cloth napkins, utensils, plates, and candles. Alberto had turned on the strings of lights crisscrossing overhead on poles. The effect was warming, Susan thought, as she settled into a cushioned settee next to the barbecue.

“This is really nice. You told me you had a garden up here, but I had no idea. This is amazing. You did all this yourself?”

He nodded.

“You’re quite the Renaissance man, Alberto. A chef. A gardener. A marketing genius. An interior designer. And an engineer. What else don’t I know about you?”

“Stick around. I may surprise you,” and he grinned.

She rose and stood next to him while he put the meat on the grill.

As he closed the barbecue lid, he turned to her, wrapped his arms about her and embraced her in a long kiss.

As they broke off the kiss, he looked closely into her eyes, inches away. Speaking quietly, he said, “Estoy enoamorando de ti. Quiero estar contigo siempre.”

“What did you just say?”

“What do you think I said?”

“Not sure, but it sounds very romantic.”

“It is. It means, I’m falling in love with you. I want to be with you always.”

She averted her gaze and took a half-step back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Did I say something wrong?

“It’s just that I… Alberto, I just don’t want to hurry into this. We’ve only been dating for a month. I’m enjoying being with you. But—”

“But what?”

“Look, Alberto. You’re a sweet guy. Charming, handsome, smart. Obviously multitalented. And I enjoy our time together. But I’m having qualms about getting too involved right now. My job is pretty stressful, and I’m afraid that either my job or our relationship would suffer if I fell in love with you. Besides, you’re a client and that makes me nervous sometimes.”

“Susan. You’re being silly. People fall in love all the time and they still have time for their full-time jobs. They even get married and have children.” He grinned and winked at her.

She frowned. “Yeah, I know all about that Alberto. Of course. You know I was previously married, and it didn’t work out. In hindsight, I don’t know why Frank and I got married at all. As soon as we got married, right away I knew it was a mistake. I think he did, too. It took us less than two years to finally admit it to one another. I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Susan, I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m just telling you that I’m falling in love with you. That I want to be with you. I think that’s a good thing. Don't you?”

“Yeah. But I feel like I have to reciprocate by saying the same thing to you. I’m not going to lie if I don’t feel that way.” As she talked, she was looking down. He continued staring at her.

She met his eyes again. “Look, Alberto, I’m fond of you. You know that.” She clutched his shoulders and briefly nuzzled his neck. “I like being with you. But to use the word love is, to me, a bit too much just yet. It feels weird. Let’s just be together and see where things take us. Let’s go with the flow. Okay?”

“Sure.” He turned around and took a couple steps back to the barbecue, opened the lid, and prodded the meat.

Oh shit. She’d blown it. But she had to be honest with him, didn’t she?

His back was to her as he fidgeted with the meat and vegetables on the grill. She took two steps to him, put her hands on his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes and kissed the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Alberto. Let’s just take it slowly, okay? I enjoy being with you. Let’s not mess it up. Let’s just see where this goes, okay?”

He turned and embraced her again and they locked in another prolonged kiss.

Thirty-Five

Six weeks after meeting Gary Hannon at the Marketers Club dinner, Henry bumped into him again at a Boston Business Council forum. Henry invited him to lunch the following Tuesday, intending to learn the full story behind his falling out with Susan O’Leary.

“Good to see you again, Gary,” he said, as they greeted one another in the Capital Grille on Boylston Street.

“You, too. So, to what do I owe the honor of lunch?”

“It was your suggestion the first time we met. Our conversation got cut short by the program. Besides, I still feel like a newbie. I need to get better acquainted with the local ad community, and what better way than to tap into one of the veterans.”

“There you go again, bringing up my age,” and Gary laughed.

They each ordered lunch as they plunged into a discussion of Boston.

Henry quizzed him about the business community in general and the local advertising business in particular. Gary was forthcoming with a wealth of solid information on both counts. He was also sociable, well-informed, smart, and completely at ease. Henry found it hard to believe that this friendly guy was the same one that Susan hated. Did he really deserve her loathing?

“Boston is just an over-grown small town with all the same kinds of gossip, biases, and small-mindedness as a town out in the middle of the country. We are certainly not cosmopolitan like Manhattan. And I like it that way.”

“Are you a native?”

“Born and bred. Well, actually, Brookline. Still live there. I’m a triple eagle, as we say. Boston College High, Boston College for my BA, and my MBA at BC’s Carroll School. I worked my way up to partner in a small agency before starting my own shop in 1992.”

“Impressive.” Henry paused a moment, and said, “Listen, there was something else I wanted to ask you about. When we first met, you were pretty rough on Susan O’Leary. We didn’t have time to get into it then, but you said you would over lunch. So here we are. Care to elaborate now?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. We both know that Susan is brilliant and hard-driven, right?”

Henry nodded. “Absolutely.”

“We also know that she’s drop-dead gorgeous with some nice curves.”

“Okay.”

“Hah! Like you hadn’t noticed.”

“Of course. Yeah, it’s a real bonus to have her in my field of sight during meetings. But I’m hard-pressed to see the negative side of that.”

“You just haven’t yet. But you will. She is very feminine, along with all the wiles that can go with that—which she uses quite effectively and expertly. Let me ask you this: How’s your succession plan going for the Boston office? How soon before you go back to New York and Susan takes over?”

“Wait, how did you know about that?”

“I told you, Boston is a small town and gossip flows quickly and widely. The whole town knows. So?”

“Um, I don’t think I’m leaving. I’m getting a divorce, so there’s not a lot of reason to go back to New York.”

Gary raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Really now? And how did that sit with Ms. O’Leary, seeing as how she’s single-mindedly focused on running that office?”

“You know that, too?”

“Like I said.” He shrugged and grinned.

“It didn’t go over well. But we’ve worked out a compromise. We’re sharing leadership responsibilities.”

Gary guffawed. “Sorry,” and he chuckled some more. “That’s rich. So, how’s that working out?”

“Frankly, I don’t see the humor. And I don’t know why I’m telling you about this. It’s an internal matter. But, yes, it’s going fine. We divvied up responsibilities. We just started it a couple weeks ago. It’s supposed to be in Ad Week and Boston Business Journal this week. She’s head of accounts and new business, and I run the operational side. And by the way, it was my idea. I didn’t want to lose her. I like working with her. We make a great team.”

“Want a little insight into our friend? Whether she has said so or not, I’ll bet you that she’s not happy with that arrangement. She wants it all. She’ll bide her time and then fuck you over the first chance she gets. Just like she did to me.”

“What exactly did she do?”

“Like I said, in addition to her smarts, Susan is skilled at using her femininity to her advantage. She put me in an awkward situation, leaving me no choice but to give her a generous severance package the agency couldn’t afford, just so she’d go away and not sue us.”

“Sue you? For what?”

Gary cleared his throat. “She tried to seduce me.”

Henry gasped and immediately thought of what had happened two months earlier in Pittsburgh. The image of her sitting up naked on the bed came back to him.

“We were drinking wine at our hotel bar in Chicago, just the two of us. We were celebrating a nice piece of business we’d just won. She told me she had grown fond of me, and I told her essentially the same thing in response. We made some small talk and then she invited me up to her room. Said she wanted to get to know me better. I told her I was married and said, furthermore, it would be highly inappropriate for the agency president to be intimate with his number two.”

“What advantage could she possibly have thought she’d get by seducing you? How could she possibly sue you? On what grounds?”

“Listen to the rest of the story. After that, our relationship soured. She avoided me and kept me at arm’s length. A few weeks later, she threatened me if I didn’t make her partner and give her a stake in the agency.”

“How? Threatened you in what way exactly? She was the aggressor, wasn’t she?”

“She came into my office late one day after most everyone else had left. She closed the door and said if I didn’t make her partner in the agency, she would go public saying that I had tried to seduce her. I laughed in her face, called her a liar. But she said: ‘It’s your word against mine. And who do you think people will believe?’ Let’s just say we negotiated a severance package.”

“That’s not the way she tells it. After what you told me a month ago, I put her on the spot and asked about it. From her telling, it was the opposite. You put the moves on her when you got drunk. You put your hand on her thigh and tried to kiss her. And she rebuffed you. To be precise, she said you’d ordered a second bottle of wine before she’d even finished her first glass. After that failed encounter, you iced her out. She had no choice but to quit.”

Gary laughed. “And no doubt she neglected to tell you about the severance package. She threatened to use that same story on me. I told you, she’s a liar, a skilled liar. I like wine, but I’m no drunk. Truth was, she was drinking at a faster clip than I was. She’d ordered her third glass of wine when I was still on my first. Believe me. Look at what she did to me. She’ll do the same to you, too. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re vulnerable right now since you have what she wants—and now that you’re single, she’ll use it against you. She’s going to try to seduce you, too. Just you wait. I would suggest that you not take trips alone with her.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. That’s ridiculous. I have no reason not to trust her.”

As he said it aloud, he felt a nervous twinge as he remembered what had happened in Pittsburgh when they’d been alone.

Gary chuckled. “Okay. Just don’t come back to me saying I didn’t warn you.”

Their lunches were served and the two resumed talking about the Boston business climate while they ate.

Later, on his way back to the office, Henry mulled over the incident in Pittsburgh and his subsequent suggestion to Susan that they pick up where they’d left off. He got a feeling he didn’t like.

Unlike what had happened to Gary, Henry had gone to her room with her, and they had come very close to making love. And then, less than three weeks ago, he confessed to her his desire for her, that he had wanted to have sex with her. Her new boyfriend was probably all that had prevented the consummation.

Where Gary had been a blameless victim, Henry was guilty of lusting for her, taking it nearly as far as possible. God help him, he still fantasized about sex with Susan, and still remembered her beautiful naked body vividly.

Thirty-Six

As the various deadlines for her Asia-Pacific strategy approached, Kirsten found herself back in the Far East in September for most of the month, visiting the six new branch offices that were in various stages of start-up.

By now, the Singapore office and three others were fully staffed and operational, and the remaining two nearly so. She held two-day employee meetings in each office to get everyone up to speed on the “Findlay Way.”

On this trip, she traveled alone. Kevin had shown no interest in accompanying her—nor had she invited him—though it would have been nice to have the new teams meet their CEO. In fact, since Napa seven weeks earlier, they hadn’t been alone together.

Other than discussing business matters in the office, they’d barely spoken to each other. Initially, she didn’t care. Though her anger and bitterness had not subsided, as time went on, she missed the great sex they’d had.

As she settled into her business-class Japan Airlines seat for the return flight to JFK from Narita on Thursday, September twentieth, she received an email from Brian Hudson, Findlay’s chairman. He’s up awfully early, she thought, doing a quick calculation in her head. It’s only five-thirty in New York. What could be so important?

Kirsten – I need to speak with you when you return to the States. We have to clear up some irregularities in our travel expense reports that our outside auditors uncovered. – Brian

Irregularities? What the hell does that mean? And how could she help? Why doesn’t he just talk to accounting?

She arrived back at JFK in the early evening, Thursday, exhausted from the thirteen-hour flight, her body clock telling her it was morning. Once home, she took a long shower and went straight to bed.

When she walked through Findlay’s executive suite Friday morning, it seemed as though people were avoiding her. No one bid her good morning, instead averting their eyes as she walked toward her office. Though he was often among the first to arrive in the morning, Kevin wasn’t in his office yet. Nor was his administrative assistant at her desk outside his door. That’s weird, she thought.

She stopped at Darcy Mahoney’s office, adjacent to her own. Darcy wasn’t there. Damn. She needed to talk with her, ASAP. Lots to follow up on after this trip. As she walked toward her own office, she saw that her admin, Lucy Del Rivera, wasn’t at her desk yet.

She stopped and scanned the executive wing. Lucy was at the other end of the hall, outside the break room talking to someone. Kirsten waved at her. Lucy stared back at her over her coffee mug.

Kirsten turned around and stepped into her own office, startled when she found the chairman of the board sitting behind her desk.

“Uh, hi Brian. Got your note. What’s up?”

“Please, sit down Kirsten,” he said, frowning as he gestured toward the seat cross from him. He picked up the desk phone and dialed a four-digit internal number. “Tell Sam she’s here.”

“Sam? Sam Hendricks? What are you doing? And why are you sitting at my desk?”

“It pains me to do this Kirsten, but we’re going to have to let you go—with cause.”

“Cause? What cause?”

“Mismanagement of corporate funds and other illicit activities.”

Kirsten got a queasy feeling.

Sam Hendricks, the company’s CFO walked in, accompanied by a younger man toting a fat file folder.

“Eric Tanner here is with our outside auditing firm working with Sam’s team. Eric, tell us what you have uncovered,” Brian said.

Looking at Brian, Eric began.

“Well, sir, during our annual audit, we discovered that executive expenses were far higher than usual over the past two or three quarters versus comparable periods from previous years. So, we delved into the individual expense reports, matching them as best we could to comparable travel expense reports from previous periods. Several of Ms. Olsen’s reports popped up as unusually large. Of course, she’d been traveling a lot to the Asia-Pacific region the past half year or more, so we took that into account. But then we looked more closely at the individual line items and did some cross-checking with the company’s travel agency to determine normal expense levels for such travel. And then, going through her reports receipt by receipt, we discovered that she consistently stayed in the most expensive hotels rather than the hotels recommended by the travel agency. She also often ate at the priciest restaurants, sometimes flew first class rather than the recommended business class, and put unexplained expenses on her company American Express card—”

“Brian, this is crazy. This can all be explained. Besides, many of those trips were taken with Kevin. He set them up. He made the reservations.”

“Then I guess you didn’t hear. We let Kevin go yesterday. Same problem, only worse. He has been padding his expense accounts with numerous personal charges, in addition to other illicit activities.”

Kirsten grabbed the arms of her chair and leaned back, her mouth open.

“While he came clean on his fraudulent expense reports, Kevin also confessed to your little affair, which helped explain these exorbitant expenses. Like that three-day trip to Napa to the investment conference last month that cost the company… Let me see,” he said, pausing to look down at his notes through his half-frame glasses that hung on the tip of his nose.

“That cost the company fifteen-thousand one-hundred fifty-five dollars and fifty-six cents. For what? To listen to some so-called experts tell you what you should already know? To schmooze with our competitors? Well, maybe. But it was mostly so you and Kevin could have sex in—”

“But Kevin made those arrangements. He invited me.”

Brian shrugged. “So, you’re not denying it? By the way, you should know that Kevin is a serial philanderer. You weren’t his first fling with Findlay women. Just his latest. Also, you weren’t the only woman he took to the corporate apartment for lunch hour trysts. We’ve been looking into some rumors lately. We talked to your administrative assistant, Ms. Del Rivera, as well as your executive assistant, Ms. Mahoney. Both told us of their suspicions about your relationship with Mr. Hawkins. Both had witnessed some unusual communications between you and Mr. Hawkins, and some odd comings and goings on workdays. They also noted the number of out-of-town trips you two took together. We confronted him yesterday with what we’d learned. Let’s just say, it loosened his tongue. He admitted, under probing, that in his ten-plus years with the company, the last five as our CEO, he has had affairs with seven different women inside the company—that would include you. Only one of those women is still with the company—again, that would be you. Soon to be none.”

Kirsten’s face was ashen, her eyes wide, her jaw slack.

“Those other women left at Mr. Hawkins’s urging—after he ensured their generous severance packages. Our auditors brought those severance packages to our attention but, at the time, we didn’t make the connection to Kevin. As Eric and his team sorted this out and started asking questions of these women’s colleagues, it became apparent that these packages all went to attractive young women. By the way, some of those affairs were concurrent, including over the past several months when he was sleeping with both you and his administrative assistant, Karen Polk, often in the corporate apartment in Battery Park City. Ms. Polk was let go yesterday. We gave her a generous severance package in exchange for an NDA.”

Kirsten’s hands still gripped the chair’s arms, her teeth clenched, as she silently seethed at the realization that Kevin had been taking Karen Polk to that apartment, too. For God’s sake, Karen was young enough to be his daughter.

“Ms. Polk was swept up in an affair with her boss, the CEO. She’s all of twenty-nine. Clearly, she was flattered by his attentions. More a victim than co-conspirator like you. Unlike you, she was not a member of the senior executive team.”

Brian paused to look directly at Kirsten.

“Your exorbitant expense reports were sufficient cause for your termination,” he continued. “But, as you well know, Findlay has a strict policy about extra-marital relationships between company employees, particularly among the executives who should know better, who should be setting an example for the rest of the company. Your affair, in and of itself, justifies the firing of both you and Mr. Hawkins for the harm it might have done to the company’s reputation for ethical behavior.”

He paused. Kirsten’s knuckles were white, her hands still grasping the chair’s arms, her jaw beginning to ache.

“Tell you what we’re going to do. We’re not going to press charges—though we certainly could. And we won’t sue to recover some of those expenses—though we’d have a strong case.”

“What about a severance package?”

He guffawed without smiling. “Very funny. You have your stock options. Be thankful we’re letting you keep those. However, according to the company’s policy manual—which you accepted with your signature when you joined Findlay twelve years ago—we could revoke your options. That will be your severance. We’re letting you keep those in acknowledgement of the good work you’ve done. That was my decision, by the way. There’s also your 401(k) and your last paycheck, which will include any unused vacation time.”

“I’m going to sue. This is sexism at its worst.”

Brian’s face hinted a grin.

“Be my guest. Have your lawyer talk to our chief legal officer. In fact, if you would like, I can invite Dan Ahearn in here right now, so he can explain it to you more succinctly.” He picked up the phone and started to dial.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quietly. Her gaze fell to the floor in front of her.

“I thought not,” he said, replacing the receiver. “If he were here, he would tell you that you can fight this, if you wish. But you’d just end up spending everything you have on a losing case. I’m sure your lawyer—if he’s any good at all—would tell you the same thing. We hold all the cards here, Kirsten. You’ve got nothing but sour memories of a failed love affair with a disgraced, sleep-around former CEO.”

He stopped talking and glared at her. She was still staring at the floor, her pallid face a blank.

“The past few days have been particularly difficult for me. First, learning about all this; then, yesterday confronting and terminating our CEO—a CEO, incidentally, who we felt was doing a superb job—except for his shocking personal failings, that is.”

He stopped talking. She looked up. He held her eyes.

“I have to say, Kirsten. I’m especially disappointed in you. You know how pleased and impressed I’ve been with all that you’ve been able to accomplish with the global wealth management operation, particularly in the Far East. I told you so, more than once. The board was also very pleased. You knew that. You were whipping things into shape, and I could envision Findlay finally becoming a truly international retail investment house—just what I’d always hoped it would be. Thanks to your hard work. As a matter of fact, that was Chad Findlay’s vision: to eventually expand into that region years ago. And now we’re on the verge of doing it. Chad would be delighted—God rest his soul. But he must also be turning in his grave at the knowledge of your disgraceful behavior, which is unacceptable from a Findlay executive, regardless of your contribution. You betrayed our trust. For that, we must part company.”

Kirsten heard a footfall at the door. She turned to see a very large, uniformed security guard filling the door frame, an empty box in his hands.

Brian nodded at the guard. “This is Mark Williams. He will help you pack your things. He will then escort you out of the building. Please leave your security card and your laptop computer here on the desk. Your email account has been closed. Your corporate American Express card has been cancelled, so you can leave that here, as well.”

With that, Brian stood. Mark stepped aside as Brian walked out without looking at Kirsten. Sam and Eric followed.

Thirty-Seven

After two months of sharing leadership duties for the Boston office for two months, Henry and Susan had found the arrangement was working as planned. Each was sticking with their respective areas of responsibility as Jeff had laid them out.

Their friendship continued as before. They still went out for drinks and/or dinner after work on occasion to talk shop as well as discuss personal issues.

In addition to running the operation, Henry had been spending time on the Mahaffey business, traveling to Pittsburgh with the agency’s Mahaffey team, sometimes with Susan, sometimes without.

Susan’s account team managed Mahaffey’s day-to-day matters—small and large—on what had become the agency’s biggest client. As they’d hoped, Henry’s direct involvement and friendship with Alan Mahaffey gave Susan more time and freedom to pursue new business.

Henry and Alan had become good friends. They’d spent a four-day weekend together in August at Alan’s private flyfishing club in northern Maine, getting there in Alan’s twin-engine Piper Comanche, which he flew himself.

Henry had continued to join Susan on some new business pitches, as before. So far as Henry could tell, if Susan was disappointed or discouraged, she wasn’t showing it.

As they did most weeks, Henry and Susan got together late Thursday afternoon, the last Thursday of September, to prepare for their weekly call with Jeff the following morning.

After wrapping up their agenda items and what they would talk to Jeff about, Henry decided to use the opportunity to finally confront her about the negative feedback he’d gotten from Margaret, Brad, and Andy Jones—feedback they had all reiterated in the interim.

In addition, Margaret said she was annoyed that Henry had not yet addressed the problem, particularly since Susan’s behavior toward staff hadn’t changed. Henry hadn’t wanted to confront Susan, roil the waters of their relationship. So, he kept postponing it.

“Something has been troubling me, Susan. We need to talk about it. I apologize for not bringing it up sooner.”

She looked up from her notepad. “What’s that?”

“I’ve heard from a few people that you’ve been upsetting individual members of the staff.”

“Really? How so?”

“They’ve told me that you’ve been abrasive and confrontational.”

“Who said that? If it was Margaret, I know what she was talking about. We already dealt with it. It’s not a big deal. Let’s call Margaret in here so she can explain it to you.”

“It doesn’t matter who told me. What is important is that staff members are feeling that this is becoming a negative work environment, which is not conducive for people doing their best work—nor for our clients getting the service they deserve.”

“So, what do these spineless anonymous sources tell you that’s so bad about me?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Susan. They’re concerned about the work environment and shared those concerns with me. Apparently, you expect perfection and then you rail at people when they fall short.”

“Guilty as charged. I expect perfection from myself. Why shouldn’t I expect the same from my people, too?”

“If I may, I think I sense a problem in your word choice just there.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“My people? Susan, all of us here, all seventy-nine of us in the Boston office—soon to be eighty-one—are on a common mission together. Yes, some people here report to you, some to me. Some report to Brad, some to Margaret, and some to Andy. But we don’t refer to them as ‘my people,’ like they belong to us. That they report to us does not give us license to be possessive, nor does it mean we can come crashing down on them and belittle them in front of their peers. You know, when people don’t perform up to my expectations, I take them aside and quietly explain to them where they’ve fallen short. I try to make it a positive learning experience. We explore how they might do things differently to achieve better results. The goal here is to build up their skills and self-confidence, to help them improve, not to tear them down, humiliate them, and make them feel unworthy or incompetent.”

She glared at him.

“Think back to your early days in this business, at your first agency, when you were new to advertising. How did you learn the ropes? I’ll bet it was because someone more senior took you under their wing, encouraged you, and helped you understand the nuances of the business. Right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Do you recall that person’s name?”

“Sure. Melissa Pierce.”

“And would you characterize your memories of Melissa positively?”

“I suppose so. She was a good person; generous; smart; helpful.”

“You see? How do you think some of the junior account people here will remember you ten years from now after they’ve moved on in their careers?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I don’t have time to worry about that touchy-feely crap. I’m slammed as it is. Sometimes I feel like a juggler with way too many balls in the air. I can’t get sidetracked with people’s personal feelings or shortcomings. You’re the people person, Henry. Remember? That’s your half of the co-leader thing. That’s your job.”

He sighed before speaking again. “Look, I’m not going to presume to be your teacher in such matters. We’re peers. In fact, we’re friends, right?”

She nodded but he could see she was fuming.

“As your friend, I’m just trying to get you to see how your actions affect other people.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“I think it would be a good idea for you to take a course in people management. I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty to investigate. I found a course at Harvard Extension School that sounds promising. It’s called Collaborative Leadership.”

He handed her the course catalog open to the page on the people management course.

“You might want to look into it. In fact, the course description sounds so interesting, I may take it myself. Maybe we could go together. Make it a real learning experience.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

“Will you think about what I said? Please? No need to mention this to anyone else. It’s just between you and me. We can work it out,” he said, smiling at her.

She glowered at him in response.

That evening, once she’d gotten settled on her couch with her glass of wine, Susan called Janet.

“Is now a good time? I know it’s Friday, but I need to talk to a friend.”

“Um, I’m about to go out. But I can talk for a couple minutes. You sound upset. What’s the matter?”

“Someone ratted me out at the office. Said I was abrasive to the staff. I’m pretty sure it was Margaret. She never liked me.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Henry confronted me. I’m telling you this so-called co-leader thing isn’t working.”

“Susan, it’s an unusual arrangement. Besides, it’s only been two months. Give it some time.”

“But now Henry is playing a holier-than-thou game on me. That’s hardly what a co-equal manager would do. Yeah, I know. He’s the people person, Mr. Perfect, and I’m supposed to bow down to that. But that confrontation today was humiliating.”

“How exactly did he humiliate you besides tell you that you can be abrasive? I assume he told you that in private; that no one else heard his criticism, right? Because, Susan, as I recall, I had a similar conversation with you once at Hannon and—”

“That was different. We were friends and you handled it like a friend would. Henry was so heavy-handed. He even had the gall to look up a class for me at Harvard Extension and told me to take it. People ratting me out to the guy who’s supposed to be my co-leader. What’s up with that? I’m going to talk to Jeff about this.”

“Um, are you sure it’s a good idea to drag the agency president into your little spat with Henry?”

“It wasn’t a little spat! He insulted me.”

“Susan, I can see why it felt that way. Yes, it sounds like Henry might have gotten a little high-handed in the way he expressed things, although he probably thought he was just giving advice to a good friend. I mean, you guys are friends, right? Anyway, maybe take it with a grain of salt and try to see the wisdom in it. Never mind how Henry found out.”

“I strive for perfection. I always have—all the way through school, sports, college, graduate school and now on the job. I came out of high school with a perfect GPA. Aced my SAT and my GMAT. You know that. And I can’t stand people who work for me who don’t aim for perfection. They just make my job more difficult. I wind up having to fix their mistakes.”

“I know. I know. Look, Susan, I gotta run. My ride is here. But I’m happy to talk about this later. Maybe have dinner sometime soon? It’s been too long since we got together. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt at least to look into that class. The Extension school has some great offerings. And the instructors are excellent. They know their stuff. I’m sure it can’t do any harm.”

“I don’t have time for that crap.”

“Susan, just look into it. Please? For me? Your friend? Okay? I’ll talk to you later. Bye. I love you!”

Janet was as bad as Henry. Who has time to take a fucking class?

She mulled it over as she poured herself another glass of wine and she considered what kind of take-out food she wanted for dinner. Chinese? Italian? Sushi? Maybe a pizza.

Thirty-Eight

Shirley Drake at the Hendry Executive Placement Agency had found Kirsten Olsen a promising opportunity at Eastman Investments—a perfect position for someone with her background, she said.

Eastman was about half the size of Findlay, Shirley explained, but they aspired for major growth in offering their personalized services to so-called ultra-high-income clients. To do so, its board had decided to spend the money necessary to expand its market reach. So, the company was looking for the right senior-level people to help them achieve its aggressive targets.

Kirsten and Shirley talked about the company and the job opening in Shirley’s Midtown office for more than an hour, as she prepped Kirsten for the interview. Wrapping up the conversation, her final question pertained to the reason Kirsten had left Findlay.

“It was due to a difference in style between the board and me,” Kirsten said.

Shirley pressed and finally got Kirsten to admit that, actually, she’d been fired because of her affair with Kevin Hawkins, the former CEO. But Kirsten was reluctant to go into detail.

“Kirsten, you have a great resumé, and your experience is exactly what Eastman needs. But you have this one glaring problem. I understand what you’re saying—that Mr. Hawkins used you, that you were only one of his many affairs, some of them concurrent. You might even say you were a victim of a preying sexist beast. But that doesn’t excuse your lack of judgment in getting into the relationship in the first place, particularly in light of the fact that you were a member of the senior executive team and reported directly to him.”

“I know.” Kirsten looked down at her shoes for a moment before returning her eyes to Shirley. “How do I explain this to Eastman?”

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m having second thoughts myself about referring you to them. I have my firm’s reputation to think of. But your CV is strong.”

She paused, still studying Kirsten’s resumé.

“Look, I insist that you be completely honest with Michelle Barry—the head of HR who you’ll meet. All you can hope for is that she feels your strengths outweigh that one big negative. I know Michelle well. She’s smart and she’s a straight shooter. She’ll give you a fair hearing. Just tell her the truth.”

Kirsten took a cab downtown to the 1930s Art Deco-style office building on lower Broadway where Eastman’s headquarters were housed. On her ride up in the elaborately ornamented and mirrored elevator to the tenth floor, she rehashed in her mind the conversation she and Shirley had had and Shirley’s warning.

Apprehensive at the thought of owning up to her affair almost made her abort the meeting. With her finger poised over the “G” button, the elevator doors opened on Eastman’s plush reception area. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the reception desk to announce herself. A few moments later, a young woman came to fetch her for her appointment with Michelle Barry, Eastman’s executive vice president for human resources.

After introductions, Michelle began quizzing Kirsten about the work she’d done at Findlay building, growing, and running its global wealth management team. That part of the interview continued for more than forty-five minutes. Kirsten relaxed as she felt her confidence returning, easily handling Michelle’s probing questions about her approach to wealth management.

She explained in detail the strategy she’d developed and implemented for expanding Findlay’s operation into the Asia-Pacific region, and her rationale for focusing on one country versus another based on the demographics and data about rising household incomes in various cities and regions in that part of the world.

“This is all very impressive. This is exactly what we need. You really have a handle on the global market. And Shirley, who I completely trust, was very high on you.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that.” Kirsten smiled broadly and nodded slightly. She was leaning forward, her feet together and tucked to the side of her chair.

“This is all excellent. Um, let me see,” she said, scanning Kirsten’s resumé again. “I made a note to myself here on your resumé, a question that I jotted down here earlier. Ah yes, here it is.”

She looked up and returned her smile to Kirsten.

“You’d been with Findlay for nearly twelve years and had climbed to the top ranks. I mean, you were one of a dozen members of the senior executive team—the only woman, in fact, as I discovered. So what happened? Why did you leave? You clearly had achieved quite a lot. But I don’t understand why you’d walk away from that.”

Kirsten cleared her throat, lowered her gaze, shifted in her chair, sat back, and moved her feet in front of her.

“Well, Shirley insisted I be completely honest with you. And of course, I will. The truth is that I got caught up in a personal relationship with Findlay’s CEO, Kevin Hawkins.”

At the mention of Kevin’s name, Kirsten noticed that Michelle flinched.

“Both of our marriages were failing—my divorce will be final week after next. We found comfort in each other’s company when we traveled together. And, well, one thing led to another. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not going to deny it.”

“I see.” Michelle’s previously welcoming face had stiffened; her warm smile had vanished.

“I learned later that I was not his only Findlay girlfriend, if you will. In fact, both Mr. Hawkins and I were let go because of the affair, as was his administrative assistant with whom he was also having a concurrent affair—as I was later informed.”

“Oh dear. That is most unfortunate,” Michelle said. She paused and put her elbows on the desk, the tips of her fingers together.

“Do you think… Um, how to phrase this. Do you believe the relationship affected your ability to do your job? I mean, did your relationship with your boss get in the way of your effectiveness? Did you ever feel intimidated by your relationship with him?”

“Oh no. No. Not at all. Definitely not. I mean, no. We kept our affair completely separate from our work. And I worked hard. Put in long hours. Built a solid international organization. As I told you already, in addition to over-seeing our domestic and offshore offices, one-hundred-ten in all, and nearly six hundred wealth advisors, I was personally involved in setting up the six new branch offices in the Asia-Pacific region. Working with the local government officials. Hiring the staffs. Leasing the office space. Getting the new teams up to speed. I’m happy to share with you the many complimentary memos and emails I received from Findlay’s chairman and other board members praising my work.”

“If we have a follow-up interview, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring them along. But I take it then that you did not get a letter of recommendation from the chairman, since Shirley hasn’t shared one with me yet.”

“No, I did not,” and she dropped her eyes to the floor again.

“Okay.” Michelle exhaled audibly. “Well, I have no more questions. Do you?”

“Yes, just one. Um…” She paused for an uncomfortably long moment, inhaled, and exhaled deeply before bringing her eyes back to Michelle.

“I know that the reason for my sudden departure from Findlay is a strike against me. A big one. I understand that. But do you think you can overlook it in light of my otherwise sterling work and strong results?”

“Perhaps. I need to think about this some more and discuss it with our CEO. You would be reporting to him, of course, and he will need to feel comfortable working with you. Obviously, your next interview would be with him.”

She picked up Kirsten’s resumé and placed it atop a stack of papers on her desk, which she then picked up, straightened, and replaced on her desk before bringing her eyes back to Kirsten.

“I will be in touch with Shirley. Anything else? Any other questions?” Kirsten shook her head and tried to smile, but it turned into a sad imitation as her gaze slipped down again.

“Okay then. Well, thanks for coming in.” With that, she rose and reached out to shake Kirsten’s hand.

“My administrative assistant will see you out.”

While riding down the elevator, Kirsten admitted to herself that she would not get the job. Nor, for that matter, would she likely get any other job similar to the one she’d held at Findlay. She ought to just rethink her entire life and start over; maybe leave New York altogether. Her forty-fifth birthday was in two days. She suddenly felt much older than that—but not necessarily wiser.

“What a fool I was,” she muttered aloud.

The elevator doors opened on the lobby. Lost in self-torment, she walked blindly toward the exit: a pair of heavy old-fashioned wooden revolving doors with bevel-edged glass, etched curlicues, and bright, highly polished brass details. As she entered the doors, a man was entering the opposite side from the street.

Kevin Hawkins. He was looking to his right and didn’t notice her. Her cheeks flushed and she was lit by a rush of adrenaline.

Kirsten stayed in the revolving door and returned to the lobby, stopped, and watched his back as Kevin walked briskly toward the security desk and elevator banks. Wondering if he, too, was there for an interview at Eastman, she considered confronting him as the distance between them grew. Her cheeks were hot, her whole body quivered in quiet rage.

She started to call out his name, intending to confront him. But “Kevin” caught in her throat and came out as a quiet croak.

No, she thought. No. She turned back to the revolving doors and the street. If he’s headed to Eastman for an interview, then he’ll be seeing Michelle Barry. Kirsten had seen Michelle’s reaction to her mention of his name. Michelle knows all she needs to know about Kevin Hawkins. Michelle would undoubtedly ask him the same question she’d asked Kirsten: Why had he suddenly left Findlay?

Kirsten smiled.

Thirty-Nine

That same early October Monday morning, as Jeff Matheson approached the board room for the start of the quarterly board meeting, he spotted his father-in-law, Clayton Blake, coming from the opposite direction, stopped, and waited for him at the conference room door.

“Good morning, Clayton.”

“Hi Jeff. How was your West Coast trip?”

“Terrific,” he said as they walked through the double doors together. “We’re all squared away with the new leadership team in LA. I think we found ourselves a winner in Rich Kempton. He’s a real hustler. Already has a good chemistry with the team there.”

“Good to hear.”

The other board members were in the room already, and several greeted their chairman warmly.

“Clayton, a private word?” Jeff asked quietly.

“Of course.” They stepped over to a corner, away from the coffee and pastry table, around which three board members were hovering, talking quietly.

“Listen, that Boston headache has come back to haunt us. I’m going to have to make some changes again. I’m afraid the co-leader arrangement isn’t working. Susan O’Leary sent me a note the other day complaining about Henry. I called her to talk about it. She said that he—"

“I don’t need to hear the details, Jeff. Do what you have to. You don’t need my permission.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts about it. Just do it.” Clayton turned toward the long conference table and called the meeting to order. First up, as usual, was the report on the previous quarter’s financial results and projections for the coming quarter. Committee reports followed, none of which called for any immediate action—until that of the Executive Compensation Committee.

The CFO reported that his committee had determined that executive salary costs were rising at an untenable rate. In particular, expenses related to interoffice transfers were unacceptably high, largely because such transfers entailed charges associated with relocating people, he explained.

“We need to rethink these transfers. In the past three years, we’ve seen thirteen transfers, and each was very costly. Perhaps we should put a cap on the number and develop a clear rationale for transfers. I’m not averse to the idea of transfer, per se. But I sometimes wonder if they’re necessary or just a means of advancing an individual’s career.”

But the crux of the issue, he said, were the raises typically given to those who were senior executives—senior vice presidents and up—acknowledging their added responsibilities. Salary increases were recurring expenses and not the one-off type incurred in moving households, he noted. Altogether, the obligation was growing considerably year-over-year. It needed to be brought under control, he said.

“We reined in our compensation costs a bit at our meeting in July when we capped severance packages at a maximum of twelve weeks of salary. But that’s not enough because, again, those are just one-off, sporadic expenses. We need to cut more. So, the Executive Compensation Committee is recommending that when executives return to their home offices, they be paid the same salary they had before their initial transfer—plus normal cost-of-living increases, of course. Because that might result in a temporary hardship, we recommend they be given the opportunity to supplement their salary via an increased commission rate on the new business they bring in. That higher commission rate of twenty percent will be in effect for their first full year, and then revert to the standard ten percent thereafter. We feel that would also encourage more effort toward bringing in new accounts while helping get our long-term costs under control.”

He waited for everyone to look it over.

“Any questions? Thoughts?” he continued. The room was quiet. “If not, I move that we accept the formula as spelled out in the materials.” Another board member seconded the motion.

Jeff was caught off-guard. He had not had a chance to review the proposal ahead of time, having returned the night before from Los Angeles. In light of Susan’s complaints, he’d been considering bringing Henry back to New York, but this new compensation methodology would cause a problem. Henry’s Boston salary was higher than what he’d been earning in New York, commensurate with the increased responsibilities of running an office. Now, under this new rule, he would have to revert to his New York salary level. No doubt Henry would not be happy at that prospect.

When the motion came to a vote, every hand went up. Jeff hesitated and was the last to raise his hand.

When the board broke later for lunch, Jeff pulled Clayton aside again.

“Uh, Clayton, I mentioned the Boston problem earlier?” Clayton nodded. “Well, this change in our executive compensation is going make that problem worse.”

“How so?”

“I think we’re going to have to change leadership in that office again and bring Henry Bancroft back to New York.”

“That’s good. I told you before that I wanted him back here. He’s a solid guy. After all, he saved the Carolina Weavers account, an account that you nearly lost. It’ll be good to have him back on the team here. He’s a real asset.”

“Uh, yeah. But, anyway, that was supposed be a temporary assignment for Henry initially and I promised him that he could come back to his old job here at his new, higher Boston salary. Now I can’t do that.”

“So what’s the problem? He’s an earner. He’ll probably do better with the new commission formula anyway. As you just heard, it’s far more generous than it was before.”

“Does this cover temporary assignments like his?”

“Of course it does. That’s exactly the problem that this seeks to address. Most transfers are temporary.”

“But what about the promise I made to Henry?”

“Put on your big boy pants and tell him there’s a new compensation formula.”

“Can’t we make an exception here?”

“If we make an exception here, then we’ll have to make exceptions every time and the point of the change would go out the window. Deal with it, Jeff.”

He thought it best not to say anything further. The conversation was over.

Forty

Susan was shameless in mining her Harvard connections for new business. Scanning the online alumni bulletin the morning of November first, she spotted the news that Bob Bullock, a classmate who had also concentrated in marketing, had been hired three months prior by Findlay Wealth Advisors in New York as their chief marketing officer and member of the company’s senior executive team.

She cold-called him and they caught up in a friendly ten-minute conversation.

“So, Susan, I know you,” he said. “You didn’t just phone me to congratulate me and schmooze about the good old days at the B-School from more than ten years ago. What’s the real reason for your call?”

“You’re direct, as always, Bob. Listen, I’ve been studying Findlay’s advertising and, no offense, but it doesn’t make any sense. I’m not sure what your point is or who your audience is. Do you even know? It just seems like a vanity campaign with some handsome young models posing in plush settings, stamped with your logo and tagline. It doesn’t hang together.”

“Well, that’s the Susan O’Leary I remember. Blunt, to the point and brutally honest. To tell you the truth, we’re working with Chapman Steele. I inherited them when I came aboard and I’m not at all pleased with their work. Also, they don’t seem to think we need an update. They say the campaign is working. I don’t agree and they can’t prove I’m wrong. I think they’re happy to just keep collecting the media commissions on their placements in expensive lifestyle magazines like Town & Country, plus Barron’s and the Wall Street Journal. I haven’t gotten around to replacing them yet. Care to make a pitch? Got any bright ideas?”

“Thought you’d never ask. Of course we can. Let me talk to my team and work up something for you. Send me some relevant background materials, just so we’re on the same page.”

“Of course. I’ll email some stuff to you later this afternoon.”

“Perfect. And then I’ll get back to you in a week or so with some rough ideas. Does that work?”

“Definitely. Listen, I gotta go. I need to be in a meeting that started a couple minutes ago. Take care. Glad you called.” And he hung up.

“Pay dirt again. I’m a fucking rain machine,” she muttered to herself, grinning. She popped out of her chair and strode next door to Henry’s office to tell him the good news.

“What? Findlay Wealth Advisors? No way. We can’t touch it. Conflict of interest.”

“What are you talking about? We don’t have any clients in wealth management. That’s a whole new category for us. There’s no conflict.”

“There’s a conflict because my wife is a senior executive there. But since they’re headquartered in Manhattan, you should give the lead to the New York office. I’ll see that you get credited for it and get the commission.”

“No fucking way! It’s my contact. Bob Bullock is an old friend of mine from the B-School. He likes our work and wants to see what we can do for him. He wants to work with me. Not some schlub in New York. By the way, don’t you mean your ex-wife?”

“The divorce isn’t finalized yet. So, no. Do not pursue Findlay.”

She stormed out of his office, into her own, slammed the door and called Jeff Matheson.

“Jeff, I’ve had it. This is the last straw. Henry just nixed a hot new prospect I found because his soon-to-be ex-wife works there. I cannot work with him anymore. This so-called co-leader thing is bullshit. He humiliates me. He vetoes all my best suggestions. I’m going to bail out of this hot mess.”

“Susan, slow down. We can work this out—”

“Jeff, I swear to God, either he goes, or I go. There’s no other way.”

“Don’t be rash. I’ll talk to Henry and get back to you.”

“I mean it. I’ve had it.”

Forty-One

The closing on the sale of their house was scheduled for the next afternoon, the first Monday of November, and Henry would be coming down to sign the paperwork with Kirsten at the real estate agency office in Larchmont.

As she wrestled with the numbers on the purchase and sale agreement, Kirsten called him on the pretense that Henry might help clear up her questions. While she was expert with numbers, the concepts of agency commissions, escrow and title insurance flummoxed her.

After they got everything squared away, she turned to the real reason for her call.

“Henry, um, I haven’t told you, but I got fired from Findlay last month.”

“Whoa. Really? Why? What happened?”

She opened up with the whole story.

“So, that’s why you wanted a divorce,” he said, his voice taut.

“I don’t think so. I doubt it was a factor because, frankly, I don’t think we’ve been that close for a long time, not since Peter was killed. Certainly, before I hooked up with that lying son of a bitch.”

“What do our friends know?”

“What friends? I haven’t said anything to anyone except you right now.”

“Let’s keep it that way. But you’d better figure out how you’re going explain that you lost your job and why because someone will surely notice that you are no longer commuting into the city and no longer employed by Findlay. And when you sort that out, let me know so that we’re in synch.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t thought that through yet. I guess I’ll keep it vague for now.”

“So, what are you going to do now? Look for a new job? Good luck with that albatross on your resumé.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Yes, I am looking. But I’m afraid I’m tainted goods. Not sure I’ll ever get a job suited to my background and skills. Shirley Drake, my headhunter, got me an interview for a senior position with a smaller wealth management firm here in Manhattan four weeks ago. But I had to be honest about the reason for leaving Findlay and, frankly, it went over like a lead balloon. I haven’t heard back from them yet and doubt I will. I’m thinking of just leaving New York altogether and starting life all over again. Who knows? Maybe I’ll move to a tropical isle in Polynesia.”

“Sure. You gotta do what you gotta do. Listen, when I told Jeff I’d be down there tomorrow for the closing, he asked me to drop by to talk. He wants me in his office in the morning. What time is the closing again?”

“One o’clock in Larchmont.”

“Right. I’ll tell Jeff that I’ll meet him at ten.”

“The closing is at the real estate office, Coldwell Banker in Larchmont. You know where it is?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you there at one.”

“Okay. Oh, and Henry?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for what I did. Believe me. I am truly sorry. Please forgive me.”

“You bet,” and he hung up.

Forty-Two

“Henry!” Ginger cried out, rushing to him and hugging him. “What are you doing in New York? You didn’t tell me you were coming down.”

“Jeff wants to see me. The meeting starts in a couple minutes,”

he said, glancing at his watch. “How are you? What’s going on?”

“Everything’s great. Can you stay for lunch? I’d love to catch up. I miss you.”

“Sorry. No can do. I’m headed to Larchmont after my meeting with Jeff to sign a bunch of legal papers. We’re selling our house.”

“Really? So is your wife going to move to Boston with you after all?”

“Uh, no. No, she isn’t. Listen, Ginger. Kirsten and I are getting a divorce.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, I guess that’s why you’re selling your house.”

“Yeah. Uh huh. Say, I’d better get to Jeff’s office. You know how he is about punctuality.”

“Okay. Henry, it’s so good to see you again. We all miss you. Please come back again and visit soon so we can have lunch—or maybe drinks after work.”

“Sure. Will do, Ginger. Be well.” And she hugged him again.

Henry walked to the far corner where Jeff Matheson reigned with his view of the East River and Queens.

He had his face in paperwork. Henry rapped gently on the door frame. Jeff looked up.

“Hi Henry. Thanks for dropping by. Come on in. And could you please close the door? Have a seat.”

“Everything is the same, Jeff. Just talked to Ginger. She sounds her usual chipper self. All going well here?”

“Yes. Sure is. Your recommendation of Ginger as your replacement was perfect. I admit I was a bit taken aback by the twenty-thousand dollar raise you gave her, but she’s earned it. She is hitting everything out of the ballpark.”

“You know that we would have lost her if we hadn’t topped Huffman & Piazza’s offer, right?”

“Yeah.” Jeff nodded.

“Anyway, that’s good to hear. Doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Um, listen, I was sorry to hear about your divorce. Tough break. How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Anyway, what did you want to talk about? Anything in particular? Just want to catch up? What can I tell you that we haven’t covered in our weekly calls?”

“Look, you know me. I cut right to chase. Here’s the deal. We want you to come back to New York.”

“But why? I love Boston. I’m selling my house this afternoon. That’s why I’m down here. I told you that in my email. I have a short-term mortgage on a new condo up in the Boston area that I’m going to pay off as soon as I get that check at the closing this afternoon.”

“Yeah. Well, look, here’s how it is. The problem is, this co-leader thing with Susan. It isn’t working out.”

“What do you mean it’s not working out? Did Susan call you again? Is she pissed off because I told her not to pursue Findlay?”

“Henry, that’s just her latest complaint. I see your point, but then Kirsten won’t be your wife much longer. So, no conflict.”

“Well, for that matter. She doesn’t work for Findlay anymore, either. She got fired.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, the short answer is, she was screwing the CEO. They got caught and both got fired.”

“Whoa. Kirsten? No kidding? Wow.”

“Yeah. Seriously. I didn’t know about any of this last week when I told Susan not to pursue the account. In fact, I didn’t even know about it until yesterday. So I guess it’s a moot point now. I’ll just tell Susan to go ahead and pursue the account.”

“Actually, it’s too late for that, Henry. She gave me an ultimatum. Either you go or she goes.”

“What? She said that? I don’t believe you. Susan and I are getting along just fine. When did she say that?”

“Thursday, right after you told her not to go after Findlay. But, like I said, this is just her latest complaint about the arrangement. She also said you’ve been second-guessing her; and that you’re a bit heavy-handed in your criticisms of her style.”

“Heavy-handed about her style? I was just trying to get her to be more empathetic with people.”

“Yes, I know we talked about that. But apparently you really upset her with your criticisms—the way you handled it with her. Her complaints have been accumulating and I’m afraid she might leave if we don’t make her sole head of the office. And frankly, she’s too good to lose. That’s why I want you to come back to New York. You’re more valuable to us here anyway. Everybody loves you here. You’ve got New York in your blood. We just want you back in here. Clayton does, too. He just said so last month at the board meeting.”

Henry sighed and looked down. Considering what Gary Hannon had told him and what had happened that night in Pittsburgh, Henry was surprised—and relieved—that Susan hadn’t thrown sexual harassment into her litany of complaints, too. He brought his eyes back to Jeff.

“Okay. I’m listening. I’ll consider coming back to New York, assuming you’ll make it worth my while.”

“Well, there’s something else you should know. The board changed the compensation policies around inter-office transfers of executive level people.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about that. What’s the upshot?”

“When you come back to New York, you won’t get your current Boston salary. It’ll revert to what you were earning here before you left, plus a cost-of-living increase.”

“You’re actually cutting my salary? Are you kidding me? I sacrificed everything for you. I went to Boston. I pulled your nuts out of the fire. Probably lost my marriage because of it, too. And by the way, this is the first I’ve heard of this. You could have at least told me about it. When did this happen?”

“At the quarterly board meeting five weeks ago.”

“When does it take effect?”

“Already has.”

“This is un-fucking-believable!”

“Please calm down, Henry. You know, under the new arrangement, you could wind up making even more money. You’ll be able to earn twenty percent commissions based on the new business you bring in for the first year you’re back. The commission rate reverts to the standard ten percent after—”

“You’re not paying attention,” he shouted. “I don’t want to work on commission! I just want the salary you promised me, what I’m earning now. I’m not even looking for a raise or a bonus—though I certainly deserve both for straightening out Boston. I agreed to the co-leader arrangement so we wouldn’t lose Susan. Remember? In fact, it was my idea. You said you’d make it up to me. You promised me you would. This is how you’re going to do it? Really?”

“Nothing in writing. That was just a verbal agreement.”

Henry stared at him, mouth agape. “Nothing in writing? Just a verbal agreement? Are you for real? Why should I have wanted that in writing? I trusted you. I’ve known you since college. I shouldn’t have to have everything in writing, especially when you make a promise like that—more than once, I might add.”

“Sorry, Henry. It’s out my hands. It was a unanimous board decision.”

“Which means you voted for it.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t know, Jeff. Seems to me you could have gone to bat for me. You are the president and a member of the board, after all. Get the board to make an exception. C’mon. Your own father-in-law is the chairman and CEO, for Christ’s sake. Get him to make an exception. He could do it. You told me a year ago when I agreed to go to Boston that I could have my old job back. That was the condition under which I accepted the transfer. I trusted you.”

“I appealed directly to Clayton myself. No exceptions, he said.”

“You appealed to Clayton? How hard did you try? Did you cave at his first no?”

Jeff said nothing.

“Bro. We’re Kappa Alphas. Remember?”

Jeff shrugged.

Henry paused.

“I trusted you. I guess that was my big mistake.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s it? You’re sorry. That’s how it’s gonna be?” Henry glared at him, silent for a few moments, as though waiting for the response that wasn’t coming from Jeff’s blank stare.

“Oh, I get it. You’re doing the hazing thing all over again. You’re fucking with me. I thought this felt familiar,” and he grinned.

“Henry, don’t be like that—”

“Oh, now you’re talking down to me—me a lowly Kappa Alpha pledge. ‘Get down on your knees and lick my shoes, you worthless scum.’ I remember. Oh, how I remember the humiliation. That’s why this feels so familiar. And you’re loving every second of it. You’re a piece of shit, Jeff.”

“I’m sorry. That’s the way it is. There’s nothing I can do.”

Both were silent for several moments. Henry stared out the window into the distance at the Queens skyline. An American Airlines 737 hung over Woodside on its final approach into LaGuardia. It had always seemed odd to Henry to see jets on approach like that. The angled perspective and distance made them seem like they were hovering in the air for a few moments.

Jeff broke the silence.

“So, what do you want to do? You can think it over and get back to me in a couple of days if you want.”

Henry turned back to Jeff, breaking off from the airliner as it disappeared into the haze.

“You mean, my choice is either come back here, kiss asses, and chase new business like I did when I was twenty-seven years old? Or lose my job altogether? That’s the choice?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way. But, yes, I’m afraid so, Henry. Sorry. Nothing personal. Just business.”

Henry paused a beat. “Well, if that’s the way it is, then I just made my decision. I quit. But I want a big, fat severance package that reflects my twenty-six years of service and loyalty to this company, which means at least twenty-six weeks of salary, if not more. One week of salary for every year, plus a few weeks more for the humiliation.”

“Well, first of all, Henry, when people quit, they’re not entitled to severance packages, which are really for people who get laid off. Even so, I think we could make an exception here and give you a decent severance package. But it won’t be twenty-six weeks. The new policy caps severance packages at twelve weeks of salary.”

“Bullshit.”

Jeff crossed his arms on his chest and said nothing.

“When did that happen?”

“At the board’s summer meeting in July.”

“Sorry. I missed the memo. I said I want at least twenty-six weeks, one week for every fucking year of my life that I wasted here. Which was the policy when I made this move. Hell, that has been the policy the entire time I’ve been with Whitman-Selby. You can’t make up new rules that retroactively impact people like me who joined the company under the old policy. It’s a violation of my contract. Plain and simple.”

“Yes, we can. The agency’s bylaws allow it. Look, I’ll talk to Clayton. But twenty-six weeks is not going to wash. It’s twelve max. Sorry.”

“Fuck the agency bylaws! You’d better do more than that or I’m going to sue your ass.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Henry. But I can’t promise anything.”

“How about an extension of health insurance for a full year?”

“I’m afraid there’s a twelve-week cap on that, too.”

Henry glared at Jeff, his eyes narrowing.

“Shame on you, Jeff. The loyalty I showed you and the agency all these years and that’s the thanks I get. And shame on me for trusting you.”

Jeff looked down at the papers on his desk, picking up the one closest to him and studying it.

Henry took a deep breath. “So that’s it. Here’s our thanks for your decades of loyalty, Henry. Shove it up your ass sideways and have a nice a day.”

Jeff cleared his throat. “Well, Henry, it’s just that—”

“Never mind. I get it.” He stood and took the few steps toward the door. As he opened it, he turned and looked at Jeff one last time.

“You know what, Jeff? Fuck you. Just fuck you, you cocksucker!”

Walking briskly across the broad expanse of the open office floor, his face a dark scowl, he noticed Ginger off to his right, sitting at her desk.

Her eyes followed him, her mouth agape. She gave him a tentative wave and timid smile as he strode purposefully toward the elevator.

Afraid he might do or say something he’d regret if he stuck around, he waved back at her briefly, gave her a weak smile, and kept walking.

Forty-Three

When he saw Kirsten at the closing that afternoon, Henry didn’t mention what had happened. After her news the previous day, he was in no mood to say anything to her beyond the few words necessary to complete the transaction. He didn’t look at her or even say good-bye as he left the real estate agency office. She stared at his back as he walked out the door.

Returning to Boston in a haze of rage alternating with depression, he was not listening to his audiobook or the radio; he wasn’t listening to anything but the blood pulsing in his ears.

Arriving at his condo after rush hour, he had picked up a pizza at Domino’s and a six-pack of beer at a liquor store next door.

After a few glum bites of pizza and gulps of beer, he opened his MacBook, wondering whether the toadies in HR had sent him the severance agreement he had to sign and return in order to get his measly check.

There it was, among his many unread emails, from some woman in HR he didn’t know. He clicked on the PDF icon and began reading. Slogging through the legal mumbo-jumbo, he learned they were offering him twelve weeks of salary plus unused vacation time and twelve weeks’ extension on the health insurance—just what that shithead had said.

Clearly, Jeff hadn’t spoken with Clayton; probably just called HR and told them to send along the standard severance agreement, including the wholly inadequate twelve weeks of salary and extended health care premiums. The agreement was the typical legal bullshit, so he skimmed it. Section 9.3 caught his eye.

“Employee promises never to file or prosecute a lawsuit or claim, charge or complaint of any kind against any Releasee in any forum for any reason based on any act, omission, event, occurrence or nonoccurrence, covered by the general release.”

“Oh, really? You mean I can’t sue you bastards?” Then there was Section 10.2, which he found amusing.

“Employee promises not to reapply or otherwise seek employment with the company at any time in the future.”

“Dammit,” he said aloud, laughing. “That’s exactly what I intended to do: Apply for another job at that fucking abattoir. I want to start all over at the bottom. You assholes have an ironic sense of humor,” and he guffawed, draining another can of beer. Reading further down the page, Section 13.1(b) jumped out at him.

“Employee agrees not to make any

disparaging or defamatory comments to any third party concerning any Releasee or the Company’s clients, employees, products, services, methods of doing business or employment practices.”

But there’s so much dirt to share, starting with that bastard Matheson, his sexist attitude toward women, and the way he stabs long-time employees in the back. Well, there’s always the anonymous GlassDoor.com reviews. First chance he got, he would go there and blast those sons of bitches. Give both Jeff Matheson and Clayton Blake the lowest possible ratings.

The handcuffs clause was at the end, simply stating that failure to “strictly abide by the terms of the agreement,” basically for all eternity, would result in forfeiture of the entirety of his severance check. And they repeated the number, just to make sure he was paying attention—$64,615.38, gross for twelve weeks of salary plus two weeks of unused vacation time. Henry calculated that that would net out at about forty-eight thousand bucks after withholding.

Much as he hated those bastards and wanted to screw them as they had screwed him, that money would give him a cushion for a while and enable him to coast a bit while he figured out what he wanted to do—and where. Besides, he doubted he could win a court settlement sufficient to top that severance check.

He printed two copies, signed one, and stuffed it in an envelope that he would mail the next morning. While he was up, he grabbed a third beer and another couple more slices of pizza. As he walked back to the kitchen table, his phone rang. Caller ID said, “SIMMONS, G.”

“Hi Ginger. How are you?”

“Henry, what happened this morning? I heard you swear at Jeff. I mean, the whole office heard it.”

He sighed. “I am no longer a Whitman-Selby employee.”

“Well, we all assumed that. Do you feel like talking about it?”

He exhaled again. “With you Ginger? Sure. But you have to keep it to yourself.”

“Of course. What happened?”

“Well, to make a long story short, Susan O’Leary gave Jeff an ultimatum: Either I go, or she’ll leave. She forced his hand. He had to bring me back to New York. But at my former salary—which I refused, and then quit.”

“But that’s not fair. What was her reason for the ultimatum?”

“Susan claimed I was heavy-handed in criticism of her. You know me, Ginger. That’s not my style. She also said I’ve made it difficult for her to bring in new business, basically because she was pitching my wife’s company—which was before I knew Kirsten had been fired.”

“Your wife was fired? Why?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you about it some other day. Anyway, Jeff basically chose Susan over me. It’s obvious that he prefers all the new business she brings in—which is typical of Jeff. His focus has always been on the revenue side, never the people side. He doesn’t give a shit about the people who do the work, people like you and me who make it possible for him to have the rich man’s lifestyle he enjoys—his yacht, custom-tailored suits, and expensive cars. I’m telling you, Ginger, get away while you can. These people are snakes. And Jeff is the worst of them. Get away. You know I will give you the highest recommendation possible. You can count on me.”

“I don’t know, Henry. Things are going well for me right now. But I feel awful for you. Is there anything I can do?”

“You know I care about you, Ginger. Just give me peace of mind and tell me you’ll leave that hellhole.”

He checked himself when he realized that everything he had just said to Ginger was in violation of the severance agreement.

“On second thought, Ginger, forget about it. We never had this conversation, okay?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“My severance agreement prohibits me from bad-mouthing the agency. So you didn’t hear what I just told you. But you really should shop your resumé around. Do you think that Huffman & Piazza might be still interested?”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it. Henry, I’m so sorry that it’s come to this. I hate it that you’re not with the agency anymore. Regardless of where you end up, is it okay if I call you now and then to stay in touch—and for occasional advice? I value our friendship. You’ve been such a great mentor to me. I’ll miss you so much.”

“Of course, Ginger. Call anytime. It’s always nice to hear your voice.”

“Thanks. Well, it’s late. I should let you go. Take care of yourself Henry.”

“Thanks, Ginger. You, too. Bye for now.”

After hanging up, Henry rebuked himself for being so voluble with Ginger. He probably overwhelmed her and upset her needlessly. Besides, he did violate his severance agreement. He had to watch himself.

Part Three

Forty-Four

A week after the November fifth closing, Kirsten returned to the house alone. The new owners would soon take possession. Henry had been down from Boston over the weekend and tagged the pieces of furniture, kitchenware, knick-knacks, and keepsakes that he wanted.

He took what he was able to cram into his car—mostly clothes and boxes of books and other odds and ends. The selected furniture and larger boxes he’d tagged had been taken by the movers to his new place outside Boston earlier that day.

Kirsten also supervised the movers in a second van who were hauling other items to her new Minnesota residence—her childhood home, which was still occupied by her ailing eighty-four-year-old mother.

She was in no mood to hang onto much of anything else that remained. Leftovers would be picked up on Wednesday by the people running the estate sale. The housecleaners would be in after that.

After a couple hours, she’d dealt with most of the house. The movers had placed a couple refuse bins around the house, now half-full of half-forgotten memories and life’s assorted detritus.

Devoid of most of its furniture, rugs and drapes, the house echoed her footsteps and gave up two decades’ worth of hidden dust and the odors of daily life. Standing next to the waste bin in the living room, she put her hands on her hips and sighed.

“What else?”

Oh yeah, the entry hall closet right next to her. She’d completely overlooked it.

As she opened the door and looked inside, she saw that Henry had taken his Burberry raincoat, umbrella, assorted gloves, parka, fleece vest, and boots.

In the left rear corner of the closet floor, she also noticed the absence of the flat metal box that had contained the World War Two-vintage Soviet-made pistol Henry had inherited from his father, a retired Army general who had passed away nearly six years earlier. Kirsten had always hated having that gun in the house.

Henry had never used it or even taken it out, preferring to just leave it alone, forgotten in the dark corner of this closet. She’d only seen it once when he received it after his father’s possessions were distributed according to his will.

So far as she knew, the gun had never left that dark corner—until now. In its place were a few gray dust bunnies.

Not much left to sort through aside from a couple of her old coats, which she was taking to Goodwill.

On the floor in the other corner was a cardboard wine box, closed with the four flaps folded into one another. Opening it, she discovered Peter’s trove of video games: his old Nintendo Wii system, a couple remote controllers, numerous game cartridges, and a several well-thumbed issues of Nintendo Power magazine. What should she do with this stuff?

Reclosing the box, she skidded it across the floor with the toe of her shoe to the front door. She’d put it in her car when she was done and drop it off at Goodwill, too.

Looking one last time into the closet, she looked up. Atop the shelf above the near-empty coat rack sat The Hat, all by itself. The much-loved hat. “Kirsten’s Hat.”

She’d bought the Panama during the trip she and Henry had taken to Aruba twenty-one years earlier when she was six months pregnant with Peter. It was to be their last vacation alone together for many years, of that they were sure at the time.

The Hat became her most treasured keepsake of that idyllic vacation during which she and Henry had fallen in love all over again. She’d chosen the hat on a whim. As she walked down the sidewalk with him, hand-in-hand, through the heart of old Oranjestad, it caught her eye as they passed the shop window.

She wore it every day during their two weeks on the island, its broad brim shielding her sensitive skin from the intense Caribbean sun as she basked in the warm glow of Henry’s eyes. Back home, she wore it initially as a reminder of the nice time they’d had in the tropics. Soon, it became a part of her.

In the Larchmont summers, when friends and acquaintances saw The Hat approaching from afar, they knew it sat atop Kirsten Olsen’s head. It signaled her identity as a Larchmont housewife, mother, and woman about town.

She turned it over repeatedly in her hands, this way and that, absent-mindedly studying the details that spoke of years of wear and special memories: its sweatband, comfortably frayed here and there; its scent, so distinctly hers; the dark smudge on the rear corner of the crown, a reminder of the time she’d lost it to a wind gust in Manhattan and it had landed upside down in a bit of a muddy puddle.

It would fit no one else as well as it did her. The one-inch dark brown grosgrain band with its little faux bow tie lent The Hat a flair that had once appealed to her sense of quiet fun.

Standing in the front room, she continued examining it; letting it stimulate memories; turning it over in her hands and feeling the worn brim with her fingertips; remembering the many places it had traveled with her—three times to the Caribbean, once to Bermuda, many times to Florida and Cape Cod, and most summer days around town and the city. It was “Kirsten.”

She hadn’t worn it in years. Five years? Six years? Probably longer than that. Definitely not since Peter had been killed. She couldn’t remember. Oh sure, she had spotted it on the closet shelf a few times and occasionally considered wearing it, each time closing the door and walking away without it.

Abruptly plunking it on her head, she recalled the special way it sat, the comfortable reassurance it gave her. Glimpsing the hallway mirror, she caught herself in a smile; stopped; then frowned; and took off the hat. It wasn’t Kirsten anymore, not the newly independent Kirsten. It wouldn’t be right for Minnesota’s winters anyway. It just wouldn’t do.

“No,” she said aloud. That was the old Kirsten. Not this Kirsten, this new Kirsten.

She flipped it like a Frisbee into the rubbish bin.

Her memories returned to twenty-one years before. She had been so young, only twenty-four then.

She looked back at the mirror. She’d just turned forty-five three weeks earlier. The years, the worries, and the grief all showed in the creases of her face, she thought, as she fingered the tiny crows’ feet around her eyes, and the curious frown line on her brow. She looked at the backs of her hands. The skin looked a bit wrinkled and leathery, she thought, as she kneaded one with an index finger.

She turned from the mirror.

Time to get going, she told herself. Leave these memories behind.

Forty-Five

Susan and Alberto had been dating on and off for six months. They’d broken up once over a petty argument but made up a few weeks later. She was often too busy to spend as much time with him as he desired. Actually, when it came right down to it, she wasn’t really sure she wanted to much spend time with him at all.

She hadn’t told him that she loved him—nor would she. He had avoided using the “L” word again himself, aware of her sensitivity on the issue. But he had also expressed his frustration more than once.

The relationship was stuck in neutral, he complained. Its purpose had become solely about hanging out together and sex. She knew he wanted more of a commitment from her, though he never outright said so. That word repulsed her.

Wednesday morning in mid-January, she called him for their weekly client catch-up call. They always stuck to business, avoiding personal matters, because members of their respective teams were usually on the call, too.

But on this call, it was just the two of them. He took advantage of the privacy and turned the conversation to them.

“Susan, how about if we go away this weekend.”

“Not sure I can get away. I have a lot of prep work to do for a new business pitch on Monday morning. What do you have mind?”

“Cape Cod. A friend of mine has a house in Eastham. It’s a beautiful location, on the ocean, looking due east into the Atlantic. He said I could have it this weekend. It’s winterized and has a big fireplace. I’d like to get away, be alone with you somewhere that’s… I don’t know. Neutral? When we’re together in Boston, we’re always looking over our shoulders, afraid that someone we know might recognize us. I want to be alone in a special place with you. I feel like we’ve forgotten why we’re together. We need to reconnect. I love the Cape in the winter. It’s a special place, for someone special like you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that and its romantic implications.

“I don’t know, Alberto.”

“Susan, I’ve suggested several times we go away for a weekend. But you always resist. Last month, I found that great B&B in Vermont. But you had an excuse not to go, like you always do. Like you did just now. When are we actually going to do it?”

“Let’s talk about it later. We have business to deal with right now.”

“Sure thing.”

He always hid his irritation poorly, she thought.

“So, it’s time for our weekly update. Give me your perspective on how things are going.”

“Yeah. Everything’s great,” he said sourly. “No issues with the work you’ve been doing for us. But, um, listen, we do have a billing issue here on your latest creative invoice for that brochure for the December medical conference, the one for the oncologists in Chicago.”

“Right. I remember that. It turned out well. It’s a nice-looking brochure. Ties into your campaign beautifully. What’s the problem?”

“We budgeted fifteen thousand. But the invoice is for more than twenty-one. I know we had some rush charges on that job, but Deb is on my ass for going over budget. Wonder if we could get that down to fifteen. Anything over budget she has to approve. And I’d rather she not review this. We can make it up to you later, on other work.”

“Let me talk to Brad. I’ll call you back.”

Susan walked to the creative department and stood outside Brad’s door. He was on the phone, glanced up, waved her into the room and gestured to a chair.

As she waited, Susan rifled through her cache of unopened email on her iPhone. It had been a hectic morning and, though it was just now a little after ten, she still hadn’t dealt with the fresh batch of emails from overnight and that morning.

Brad hung up.

“What can I do for you, boss?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. My name is Susan.”

“That’s what I called Henry and it didn’t bother him. But, okay, Susan. What’s up?”

“Alberto Azzara from CamGene is asking about our most recent creative department invoice, the one from December thirty-first. He said it’s too high.”

Brad turned to his computer screen. “Let me find it… Ah, yes, here it is.”

He stroked his beard while studying it, a habit that Susan found irksome. In fact, ever since he’d returned from his summer vacation with the beard, she’d never liked it; thought it look like a mass of pubic hairs. Besides, it didn’t suit his face.

“I remember this. It was the brochure they needed for that oncology conference in Chicago the second week of December. They’d budgeted fifteen thousand. But it became a rush job because they changed the copy at the last minute. And uh… Let me see… Oh yeah. We turned it around over the long holiday weekend. Three of us were here the day after Thanksgiving. I warned your account team that there would be rush charges, which are typically a twenty percent bump. Alberto okayed it. Hence, the high bill. Actually, I didn’t bill them as much as I should have. I didn’t include my own time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. As I said, I worked on it myself. I remember we were all pissed off that we had to come in on that Friday after the holiday. Alberto told the account team not to sweat it. It was too important to worry about additional expense.”

“Okay. Anyway, can we eat some of that?”

“Are you kidding me? I already buried at least a couple thousand on it, and I’m supposed to eat more of it, even though he okayed it? We just did that for HexMark a month ago. You had me write off nearly five thousand for them. This stuff is screwing up my department budget. What kind of write-off are you proposing on this one?”

“Well, the tab for creative was around twenty-one thou, right?”

He looked back at his computer screen. “Yeah. Twenty-one-thousand one-hundred eighty-five dollars, and thirty-six cents, to be precise. He picked up the printing and shipping charges from a different line item.”

“Alberto needs that to be at or below the budget, which was fifteen. Otherwise, he’ll need Deb Young to sign off on it and she’s been busting his balls lately about him being over budget.”

“So now it’s our problem because he screwed up? Fine. I just don’t want you yelling at me at next month’s budget review that I overspent my house budget—which is exactly where these write-offs go.”

“I don’t yell, Brad. But okay. I promise. I have to go call Alberto back.”

She returned to her office, muttering to herself, “I don’t yell. Typical sexist remark. Brad can be such a jerk sometimes.”

She phoned Alberto but got his voice mail.

“We’re all set Alberto. We’ll resubmit the invoice. It’ll be fifteen thousand even. Talk to you later.”

She purposely avoided responding to his proposal about the spending the weekend on the Cape. Her answer would be ‘no.’ She’d already given herself an out—about having to work on Monday’s new business presentation—which was true. Besides, she didn’t like the Cape in the winter. Too windy. Too cold.

She also didn’t like the idea of being alone like that, all romantic and such shit. He'd probably cook one of his fancy meals and bring along some special wine, too. An engagement ring, too? Sounded like a set-up for a marriage proposal. She wouldn’t allow herself to be trapped in a situation like that.

It was only mid-morning and Susan already felt like she’d been in the office for eight hours. The job was becoming a grind, dealing with a lot of crap she didn’t enjoy. After giving Alberto the news he wanted, Susan turned to her day’s calendar.

“Oh shit,” she said aloud, realizing she had two people coming in for interviews that morning for the open account supervisor position. The first one would be there in five minutes. God, how she hated the hiring process. So many decisions to make. Review resumes. Prepare a bunch of questions. Spend valuable time with people she might not even like.

She either had too many qualified candidates or none. No middle ground where the ideal candidate just popped in and there was no need to interview anyone else. That never happened.

As it turned out, both candidates were solid and presented themselves well. But Susan felt like she was flailing during the interviews, with little idea what she should be asking or what kind of responses she should be looking for. Both had responded to her meandering questions with aplomb, and she was moderately impressed.

After getting rid of the second candidate shortly before noon, she exhaled and fell back into her chair. She had no idea whether either was worthy of the job, or even if one was preferable to the other. Each had their pluses and minuses. She wasn’t sure whether it made a difference.

It was urgent that the position be filled. She couldn’t afford to waste time interviewing a lot of candidates. The account team was overwhelmed with all the new business Susan had been bringing in. In fact, she probably should hire two people. Maybe she should just hire these two and be done with it. Both seemed capable. Give one the account supervisor job and make the other a senior account manager. But which should get which job?

Maybe it would be a good idea to get Margaret and Andy to interview them, too, she thought, just to cover her butt. Get them to decide which one gets which job.

“Amanda, would you please ask Margaret and Andy to interview those two candidates as soon as possible. And then set up appointments for them?”

“Okay, boss,” she replied with a smile. “Will do.”

“Thanks. And please don’t call me boss. My name is Susan.”

“Sorry, Susan.”

This was not an area of strength for Susan O’Leary, she admitted to herself. And now, after two awkward interviews, there was no doubt in her mind she was in over her head. She did not know the right way to do it and wondered whether it would reflect badly on her if she asked the New York HR department for guidance and training.

Maybe going forward she should reverse things: Let the account team find and interview candidates and then she’d just do a quick follow-up to make sure they weren’t complete flakes.

In the meantime, she would wait to get Margaret and Andy’s reactions. If they liked the two candidates, then she would hire them both.

Her dilemma brought Henry to mind. He’d always handled this chore so well. My God, how many people had he hired in his time here? At least a dozen. No. It was more than that. She wished he was still doing it. He was a natural. How did he do it? He seemed to enjoy it. She hated it.

She missed him—for more reasons than his recruiting and people skills. She missed his positive energy, his contagious joyfulness and sense of fun, his spirited engagement both with her and the Whitman-Selby team, but also with clients. He and Susan had interacted perfectly. A classic Frick and Frack duo.

Remembering the Mahaffey pitch and their success landing the housewares business and the night they’d celebrated, she smiled to herself. She could still hear Alan Mahaffey saying, “You two make a great team. You play off each other like naturals.”

He was right. She smiled. They had been a great team. Then she remembered how she’d tried to seduce Henry that night and wondered what the real reason was that he had resisted her. It was so disappointing. She had honestly lusted for him that night. Was it as he had said, that he feared their intimacy would mess up their working relationship? She wasn’t sure she agreed. Hell, she was sleeping with Alberto, a client, and that hadn’t affected their working relationship. Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure.

Maybe if she and Henry had made love, maybe if they had had a long-term affair, it would have made them an even better team. Why not? He’s divorced. She had been on the loose at that time. They could have been an item. Maybe it would have made them an even better team.

The physical longing she’d felt that night for Henry washed over her again, and she remembered that shortly after she had started dating Alberto, Henry had suggested they go ahead and sleep together. She should have. But her mind had been on Alberto. Why? Was she afraid she’d lose the account if she broke it off with him?

Her desire for Henry hadn’t diminished, despite what she had done to force him out of the agency. Now, nearly three months since she’d taken over, she regretted what she’d done; wished it undone; wished she’d given the co-leader arrangement more time.

She felt sad: sad for both Henry and for herself. She really did miss him.

Forty-Six

A couple weeks after they’d closed on the sale of their house, Henry told Kirsten about his separation from Whitman-Selby, though he didn’t pin it on Susan, blaming it all on Jeff.

In his own mind, he couldn’t blame Susan for what had happened to him. Oh sure, she could have been more accommodating. She could have been more up-front with him and worked out a solution. She could have given the co-leader thing more time to work out the bugs. But he understood her burning desire to assume control of the Boston operation.

He had once felt that way about his career progression—when he was about her age. Though he’d never deliberately forced a situation as Susan had, he had maneuvered himself into the most favorable position against his peers to snag the open executive vice president job that he had felt was his due.

So what if Tom Ingraham was more senior? Henry had earned it. Subsequently, Ingraham’s bitterness at being passed over led to him leaving the agency shortly thereafter.

Yet, Henry had outgrown that kind of urgent desire. Susan would too, he told himself.

Similarly, in the intervening time since their separation and divorce, Henry’s bitterness toward Kirsten had dissipated. He’d reconciled himself to her betrayal and their failed marriage. Though he hadn’t said so to her, in his own mind, he’d forgiven Kirsten for her infidelity and gross errors in judgment. Mostly, he blamed Kevin Hawkins.

Other than a couple of cursory business-only calls, they hadn’t spoken in the past three months, not since late October, when she confessed the affair. In the ensuing three months, Kirsten had moved back to her old hometown in Minnesota and opened a retail gift and knick-knack shop.

Now he was calling her—ostensibly to deal with income taxes, but really, he wanted to check in with her because he admittedly still felt a visceral connection and appreciated her thoughts on things.

“Hi, Kirsten. It’s that time of year again. We have to get started on our taxes for 2012. Not urgent, but I’m hoping you can gather your stuff and send it to me. I’ll pull it all together and send it to the accountant.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll try to do it tomorrow.”

“You know, this will be the last time we file a joint return.”

“Oh, you’re right. I’ll need to talk to the accountant at some point about the stock options I had to cash out to give me something to get this store going. Plus, I need some advice about expensing the start-up costs for my gift shop and the kind of information and receipts he’ll need. I suppose we’ll be filing a Schedule C for me, which we’ll have to do on this tax return since the store was opened in November last year.”

“So, how is the shop doing?”

“Actually, it’s great. It opened the week of Thanksgiving, early enough to catch a lot of Christmas buyers looking for special gifts. I think the novelty of the town’s first classy gift shop brought in a lot of curious browsers who also bought a lot of stuff. I’m trying to stick with seasonal gifts, as well as locally made crafts, which go over well. I sell their stuff on consignment, but several have told me that my commission is more generous than other shops in the area. So, they’re eager to put their work in my shop. Anyway, much to my pleasant surprise, I’ve been profitable from the start.”

“That’s good to hear. And how’s Betsy?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry to say that Mom’s not doing well. I moved her into the assisted living facility in early December. Though she’s in a wheelchair, she’s mostly fine physically. It’s her balance that’s a problem. Besides that, I think she’s slipping into dementia. From one day to the next, I never know if she’ll recognize me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I always liked Betsy.”

“Well, she loved you. Like a second son. You know that.”

“And how about the house?”

“I had to clear out a lot of accumulated crap before I could move in, but it’s fine, though the kitchen needs updating and most of the rooms could stand repainting—some of which I’ve already started on. I have a contractor lined up for next month to start on the kitchen.”

“Everything else okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve made a lot of new friends here, as well as reconnecting with some old school chums… Say, Henry, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something that’s troubling me, so I’m glad you called.”

“What’s that?”

She paused a long moment. “I already confessed to you several months ago my affair with Kevin. And I apologized. But I also want to say this… I’ve had a good life. Not a lot to complain about. I’ve had few regrets in all my years. Of course, my biggest regret was having that stupid affair. I don’t know what got into me. Maybe his position of power transfixed me. Maybe it was the thrill of world travel with him. I don’t know what I wanted or what I was thinking. I’m not even sure I know now. But it certainly wasn’t a life with that shithead. I regret that. Deeply. And I, uh… Anyway, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m not sure our marriage would have survived, not after we lost Peter. But the affair didn’t help things. And I’m truly sorry.”

He waited a couple of beats before responding quietly.

“I understand, and I appreciate you saying so. We all make stupid mistakes. I certainly have made my share. I do hope that this little business of yours and being back in the place where you came from will help you reconnect with yourself, and help you discover what it is you truly want.”

“Thanks. That means a lot to me, coming from you. And what about you? What do you want? It sucks the way Whitman-Selby treated you. I shouldn’t say I told you so, but I told you so. I never trusted Jeff. Never liked him. But the fact that Jeff didn’t go to bat for you speaks volumes. He was no friend.”

“Nope. He certainly was not. That was my big mistake: trusting him. Shame on me. And yes, you were right. And I don’t mind you saying so.”

“How’s the job hunt going?”

“I have my first sit-down meeting with a headhunter on Tuesday. But otherwise, frankly, the job hunt sucks. I’ve had a couple of phone interviews and one in-person interview with an in-house recruiter. But they went nowhere. I’m thinking of dying my hair and getting some Botox treatments. I’m fifty-three and you’d think I was seventy-three the way interviewers look at me. No one wants my twenty-seven years of experience. I feel like an old fart.”

“You are not an old fart. And it doesn’t help to think of yourself that way. Listen, Henry, I should go and get down to my store. It’s nine-thirty now and the sign on the door says I’m open at ten. I’ll get my paperwork together tomorrow and send it to you. It’s been nice talking to you. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Kirsten. Let’s chat again when you have more time.”

Forty-Seven

It was late January, nearly three months since he’d lost his job. Patricia Hennessy was the first executive recruiter Henry had managed to get a meeting with.

“Look, Patty, I’m not choosy. A small agency would be fine. And I don’t need the same salary I was making at Whitman-Selby. I don’t have to be in the city, either. The suburbs are okay. Or maybe something on the client side? I’d make a great marketing director for some start-up, or a consumer goods company. Any possibilities like that?”

He could hear the pessimism in her sigh before she’d resumed speaking.

“Henry, you have a very impressive resumé. No question about it. The broad range of clients and industries you’ve been exposed to and the work you’ve done, the way you moved up the ladder at Whitman-Selby. But I have to be honest with you. There are a lot of people like you out there right now, so there are more applicants than openings. Also, the people being hired these days by ad agencies are in their twenties and thirties—occasionally forties for people with a lot of experience who can bring clients with them.”

“But I can’t bring clients with me because of my severance agreement.”

“I know. You mentioned that.”

“Is that kind of restriction enforceable?”

“If you don’t mind tangling with their lawyers. You might win, but then, you might not. And is that how you want to spend your severance, on a losing lawsuit? Is it worth the risk?”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Anyway, rarely do I see men fifty and older get the senior level positions they’re qualified for. Fifty-year-old women, maybe. Don’t repeat that. But it’s true. It’s not to your advantage that you’re an older white male. There is bias in the ad business today. Definitely. I’ve seen it firsthand. Anyway, the unspoken rationale is that they can’t afford to pay for that level of experience—that someone with thirty years of experience is going to expect a salary that reflects that—”

“But like I said, I don’t need the same level salary as before. I’d be fine with less. I just want the opportunity to stay in the game, to prove myself again. I love the business.”

“Henry, it’s kind of a Catch-22. The fact that you’d be willing to accept less than you deserve would make you immediately suspect. ‘What’s he hiding? Why is he so eager to get hired at such a low salary?’ they would wonder. But are there any agencies in the area you can think of that you might have connections with? You know, the networking thing?”

He thought for moment.

“Well, I do know Gary Hannon.”

“Oh, I know Gary, too. Good guy. Very creative.”

“Yes, he is a good guy. We’re not exactly friends but, yeah, I’ve talked to him on a few occasions, and we had lunch once last fall while I was still employed. But I don’t know if his agency is in a growth mode. Besides, I don’t think he’d hire me. We stole his biggest account, so he’s probably not too happy with me. That’s why I didn’t call him. Other than Hannon, none occur to me right now. But let me think about it.”

“Don’t be too sure about Gary not wanting you. You never know. The fact that you managed to pick off one of his clients could be seen as an asset that he’d like to have. I’ll give Gary a call and float your name. I haven’t talked to him recently. I owe him a call.”

“Thanks. And what about the client side?”

“Nothing, really. I’ll keep my eyes open but, honestly, they generally don’t hire former agency people. They think agency types have a short-term focus; that they change jobs too frequently. They also want people with specific parallel industry experience, like going from one software firm to another, or within the pharma industry. Another strike against you is that, as a fifty-something applicant, you don’t have that many years left to give an employer. In their minds, that is. It’s ageism and it’s discriminatory, plain and simple. And it’s illegal, but it’s nearly impossible to prove.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. The handful of face-to-face interviews I’ve had have all been with kids, some of them young enough to be my own children. They take one look at me, and I can sense their minds slamming shut: ‘How can I get rid this old fogie as quickly as possible?’ They don’t want me. They don’t want my experience. I must intimidate them. Or maybe they think my approach to marketing is old-fashioned and out-of-date.”

“Look, I’ll ask around. We just need to keep plugging away, stay positive, and hope for the best.”

She stood. He took the cue and stood, too, reaching out to shake her hand. “Well, thanks for trying. And thanks for your time.”

Walking across the parking lot through falling snow, he got in his car, started it, and sat. He wondered whether he was wasting his time even looking for marketing jobs. He’d responded to countless online job ads, to no avail.

The truth was, he was out of his element in the modern job hunt. He hadn’t looked for a job in more than twenty-six years, not since he’d found the account executive position at Whitman-Selby through a help wanted ad in the New York Times. In the intervening years, classified newspaper ads had gone away, replaced by the online job boards he so loathed.

Initially, he’d struggled getting up to speed on the various platforms and their offerings, trying to determine which were most fruitful, and which were total wastes of time. He persevered, but probably responded to more openings than he should have. Frankly, applying for some of those jobs was grasping at straws.

Among the positions for which he felt especially suited, he’d done thorough research to determine what the agency or company really needed. He carefully customized each cover letter to appeal specifically to what he inferred as their actual needs—beyond what was stated in the posted job descriptions. Then he carefully edited the letters to make them as succinct and clean as possible.

A couple of those yielded feelers in the form of phone interviews. But those went nowhere, and he never heard from them again. He got a couple of face-to-face interviews with in-house recruiters—all twenty-something kids. The rest of his carefully written cover notes drew nothing beyond the automatic email replies acknowledging receipt that he’d receive mere seconds after hitting the send button.

What the hell was he going to do? He sat in his car staring at the snow-covered windshield, his hands on the steering wheel, the vents blowing cold air as the car warmed up.

What did he want? That was the question Kirsten had asked him on the phone the other day. What did he want? If he could go back in time and ask his twenty-seven-year-old self the same question, how would he have answered that? Probably no different than his answer now—which was, “I don’t know.”

What had he been striving for twenty-six years ago when he joined Whitman-Selby? To earn a decent paycheck? To climb the corporate ladder? Why? To make a difference? What the hell does that even mean? That’s so clichéd. To grow and learn and improve himself? Another tired cliché. To what end? Why?

What had he been striving for along the way as he progressed up the ladder? To grab the next rung for its own sake? Was it all about bragging rights? Getting more money? Why? So he could buy more stuff? Get a nicer car? Take fancier vacations to more exotic places?

Thinking back over those twenty-six years, he recalled how Steve Whitney, his mentor, had bucked him up time and again when he’d had crises of confidence. Steve was his rock.

Even after Steve retired some seven years earlier, he and Henry maintained their long-standing relationship. Henry tapped him for occasional advice and counsel. Steve and his wife, Louise, had moved out of the New York area and retired to their vacation home in the Berkshires, on twenty wooded acres, complete with Steve’s own private trout stream. Henry, Kirsten, and Peter—when he was alive—had been frequent weekend guests there. Kirsten and Louise had become buddies, too.

Maybe Steve could be helpful now. He dialed him on his iPhone.

“Henry Bancroft. Well, I’ll be. How are you doing? Long time no see. What’s it been? At least a year.”

“Doing well, Steve. Yes, it’s been too long. I’m sorry not to have called sooner. How are you doing? And how’s Louise?”

“Well. I’m fine. But, to tell you the truth, Louise isn’t. Actually, you caught us at Columbia-Presbyterian. Louise is here for some tests. We’re hoping for the best but…” His voice trailed off.

“What’s wrong with Louise?”

“We’re not entirely sure. She’s been feeling pretty poorly lately with a range of complaints: fatigue, nausea, and miscellaneous aches and pains. Her doctor up in Pittsfield suggested we come down here for a battery of tests.”

“Oh, well, Steve, I’ll leave you alone. We can catch up some other time.”

“Henry, I’m just cooling my heels here in the waiting room, skimming boring, out-of-date magazines. What’s on your mind?”

And with that, Henry unloaded.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. But I have to say I’m not the least bit surprised that Jeff folded up on you like a cheap suitcase. The guy has no spine. Of course he wouldn’t dare ask Clayton to intervene. He’s too busy groveling at his feet. He’s deathly afraid of his father-in-law. But then, you knew that already. So, what can I do for you now?”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling kind of… I mean, what am I going to do? Nobody is hiring fifty-something men these days. The headhunter I just talked to was pretty discouraging. Any ideas?”

“I’ve never known you to be a quitter, Henry. Don’t quit on me now. Just keep plugging away. Something will come along. Reinvent yourself. Think deeply about your strengths beyond the simple notion of being a marketer. What does that actually mean to you? What do you like about the field and what don’t you like? Maybe you could start your own shop. Regardless of what you decide to do, maintain your positive attitude. You’ve always been an upbeat kind of guy. And—Oh. Wait. Listen, Henry, I gotta run. My wife’s doctor just came out. I have to talk to him. We’ll catch up later.”

“Okay. Thanks, Steve. Please give my love to Louise.”

Henry now felt doubly awful, whining to Steve who had troubles far worse than his own.

Still, he was stuck with the same question he’d had before calling Steve. What had he wanted when he’d started his career? And what does he want now? What should he do?

“I don’t know!” he said out loud in frustration, hitting the steering wheel softly with the palm of his hand. He was cold. The snow had continued accumulating on his windshield and the temperature was below freezing. He flipped on his windshield wipers, put his car in gear, and drove home.

Forty-Eight

Susan thought it odd that Brad had asked the previous day to meet privately with her on a Friday morning in early March. When he needed to talk with her, he usually just popped into her office. The reason quickly became clear.

“I’ve had it,” he said to her. “I can’t work for someone who tells me to do something and then squawks later because I did it. I’m in danger of losing my mind. I’m giving my two-week’s notice. My last day will be Friday, March twenty-second.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Brad. Where are you going?”

“I’ve accepted the position of creative director at Worthen Advertising.”

Her eyebrows arched. That’s where Janet worked as executive VP. Perhaps she should warn her that temperamental Brad Mayfield was on his way.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this. But I understand. You have to do what you have to do.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Bob Bullock from Findlay Wealth Advisors had finally gotten around to engaging Whitman-Selby for a one-off trial project. Susan needed some creative ideas to take to them the following week. With Brad leaving, she’d be left flapping in the breeze. Dammit. Could she change his mind? A raise?

“Brad, I hate to lose you. What can I do to get you to change your mind? A raise, perhaps?”

“I doubt it. Craig Worthen is giving me twenty-five percent more than what I’m making here, plus a chance to make partner and put my name on the door. ‘Worthen and Mayfield’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Can you top that?” he asked, grinning broadly.

She sighed. “Of course I can’t. You know that. Well, good for you. You’re a good man with oodles of talent. I’ve enjoyed working with you. We’ve had a lot of fun. I’m sorry we’re losing you. I’m going to miss you.”

She stood and shook his hand.

“I hope I can count on you these last two weeks to help us get ready for those two pitches,” she said as she released his hand.

“Of course, boss. I do have some integrity, you know.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

Aside from his irritating use of the term ‘boss,’ he was clearly insinuating that Susan didn’t have integrity. Screw him.

After he left her office, she flopped back into her chair. Dammit, she just wasn’t good with people. Not like Henry. He was expert at the art of understated empathy, and subtle ego-boosting. That was how Brad had described him after Henry left. Susan had to admit that he was right. And she missed Henry. Now she would miss Brad, too. Despite their frequent disagreements, she liked Brad, and considered him a friend.

Great. On top of everything else, now I have to find myself a new creative director, she thought. Can I just promote Rachel Brantley? Is she up to the job? Shit. I have no idea. I’m not even sure how to figure that out or what questions to ask Rachel to find out. I may have to call the HR folks in New York for help on this one.

Since Henry had left, the office had lost two vice presidents—now three, with Brad. Finding his replacement was going to be tough. Rachel may just be in for a surprise promotion, whether she’s qualified or not.

Susan was kidding herself. She just didn’t have what it took. Maybe she should hire a senior-level HR person to handle the people side of the business. Susan might not be good with people who worked for her. But client-type people? That was another matter altogether. She was the best. The clients loved her. No one was better, in fact. She grinned.

Was there some way for her to transfer her client management skills to how she worked with her own employees? Maybe she should take a class. Jeff had suggested it a couple of times. What was the name of that Harvard Extension course that Henry had mentioned? But when would she take a class? She had no time for that. Dammit.

Forty-Nine

As tempting as it was, Susan resisted calling the headquarters HR department for advice. After considering it over the weekend, she decided to do this on her own. She was the head of the office, after all, and she should be making these kinds of decisions without outside guidance. She would tell New York after the fact.

On Monday morning, just to play it safe, she checked with Brad for his opinion. He concurred. As she walked past her administrative assistant on her way into her office, she said, “Amanda, would you please ask Rachel Brantley to come see me?”

Five minutes later, the diminutive senior art director was outside Susan’s door.

“Hi Susan. You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Yes, come in, Rachel. Please close the door and have a seat. Please,” she added, pointing to the chair opposite her desk when Rachel hesitated.

After Rachel had settled, Susan cleared her throat.

“How are you today, Rachel? Everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine. Everything’s great. Thank you for asking. How about you?”

“Great. Great. Um, the reason I wanted to see you. Have you heard about Brad?”

“Um, not sure what you mean.”

“He tendered his resignation, effective in two weeks—Friday, the twenty-second. So, we’re in need of a new creative director. What do you think about that?”

“Uh, he didn’t mention anything to me about it, but I’ve heard rumors that he might be leaving. As to your other question, I’d say we should probably replace him pretty quickly. We have a lot going on and we need someone to run creative.”

If my boss had asked me that question, Susan thought, I’d have jumped out of my seat and said, ‘Give me the job!’

“What would you think if I told that that someone is you?”

Rachel’s eyes widened. She leaned back in the chair and blushed. “Oh, wow. Are you serious?”

“What do you think? Are you up to the task?”

“Um, I guess so.”

“Well, then let’s make it formal. If you’d accept the position, then I’m offering it to you, effective Monday, March twenty-fifth.”

“Wow. Just like that?” She coughed. “Uh, sure. I’d be happy to take the job. If you really think I’m qualified, that isq.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. And Brad agreed. But your hesitancy is making me wonder.”

“No. No, it’s not that. It’s just that it’s such a surprise. That’s all. But definitely. I’m ready. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She started to stand.

“Don’t you want to know about your new salary?”

She sat again.

“Oh yeah. Sure. How much is it?”

“You will get an immediate fifteen percent increase. Does that sound okay with you?”

“Oh wow. Yes. Yes. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Okay then. I want you to work closely with Brad between now and then to ensure a smooth transition. Shadow him as much as you can. Of course, he’ll still need your help on the current work, so you can’t slough that off just yet. You also need to start thinking about candidates for the senior art director to replace you—either promote someone from inside or hire someone from outside. But either way, we’ll need to fill a slot in the department. And we’ll need to do all that quickly. I can help, if you need me to. As you just said, a lot’s going on and we need all hands on deck. I will put you in touch with New York’s creative director, Tim Branch, as an outside resource, once Brad has left.” She paused, still looking at Rachel, who appeared a little stunned.

“Any questions?”

“Uh, no.”

With that, Susan rose and came around her desk to shake Rachel’s hand as she, too, stood.

“I’m counting on you, Rachel,” Susan said, looking her in the eye. “I know you can do it.”

“Thank you, Susan. And thank you for your vote of confidence. I know I can do it, too.”

Susan walked her to the door and patted her on the shoulder as she left. She turned back once to smile at Susan as she walked away.

Returning to her desk and sitting, Susan was immediately plagued by doubts.

Is she really the right person for the job? She didn’t sound very sure of herself. Was it just because she was surprised, as she’d said? I know if I were in her shoes, I’d have been jumping up and down. She seemed more nervous than happy. I’m going to have to watch her closely.

She turned to her computer to write the internal email announcing Rachel’s promotion. The first couple sentences were easy. Our creative director Brad Mayberry is leaving, and Rachel Brantley, our senior art director, is taking his place.

But then she drew a blank, realizing how little she knew about Rachel. Aside from discussing specific assignments, they’d never exchanged more than a few words over the past two-and-a-half years.

Where had she gone to school? How long had she been with the agency? What had she done before she became senior art director? Before she came to Whitman-Selby? She had been here when Susan joined the firm and, at that time, had seemed pretty much part of the furniture.

“Amanda, could you please bring me Rachel’s personnel file?”

Awaiting Amanda’s return, Susan sat back to think.

Am I doing this right? All this office personnel stuff is so intimidating. Chasing new business is so much easier.

As much as she had craved and fought for the top job she now held, she found herself longing for the way it had been, when she was a member of a thriving team. That had been so much fun. Now? Not so much.

Tomorrow, March twelfth, would be her thirty-seventh birthday. Likely, no one in the office would mention it, much less celebrate it. Her old pals Henry and Brad would have taken her out for drinks after work. But she didn’t have any friends in the office anymore.

Fifty

As she swept the dusting of early spring snow from her shop’s front stoop, Kirsten came back to a recurring thought: It was so surreal to be back living in her old hometown twenty-five years after she’d left.

When she’d gone off to college, she assumed she’d never return—except for holidays with her family. But here she was again, a middle-aged newly divorced woman living in the house she’d known through her childhood and teen years.

Now, after more than four months, her little business was showing a steady, modest profit.

A woman she’d known since kindergarten—Emily Lindstrom—surprised her one day during the Christmas rush, dropping into her store, curious about the town’s fancy new gift shop. The two of them later shared a chatty lunch and caught up on all the lost years and memories, amidst much laughter and a few tears.

That so many of her classmates had stayed astonished Kirsten, She talked at length with Emily about other classmates. An escapee, Kirsten was among the minority that had left the state altogether to attend remote colleges and, later, take jobs in faraway cities.

Emily was among her many classmates who had commuted daily the thirty-some miles to the University of Minnesota campus for their bachelor’s degrees. Others had stayed in Kimball and landed jobs in the area on the strength of their high school diplomas.

Emily was a vice president at Kimball Savings & Loan. Others worked for the local car dealerships, insurance agencies, or the Kimball police and fire departments, as well as various clerical jobs in town hall that make a small town function.

One owned the local Ace Hardware store, and another was one of Kimball’s three dentists. But most commuted daily to jobs in the Twin Cities area, Emily told her.

At Emily’s urging, Kirsten had joined the Rotary Club in February where Emily introduced her to some personable people. A single man about her age, Emily told her, had been asking about her marital status.

Emily also invited her to join her book group. Kirsten was considering it.

Kirsten had returned to Kimball Lutheran Church where her father had been pastor since before her birth—until six years ago when he died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage.

Some of the older members—friends of her parents—still attended and remembered her, sharing their fond memories of Kirsten’s childhood years. Others reminisced a bit too long with her about her father, his wisdom and kindnesses, and their favorites among his many thoughtful sermons over the years. Several asked after her mother who, due to her infirmities, hadn’t attended services for several months.

This morning, the second Monday of April, Kirsten moved about her shop fluidly, preparing for its ten o’clock opening. Dusting shelves, she put things back in place that had gotten nudged or picked up and put down incorrectly, using a chamois cloth to rub fingerprints and smudges off shiny items.

She lit a couple of her favorite scented candles in opposite corners of the shop—both lemon. All the while, she wondered what might have been.

The slower-paced, simpler life of Kimball evoked paradoxical memories of the world of the high-powered executive she’d left behind in Manhattan. And she wondered. What if she had not gone upstairs that night in San Francisco? She sighed and glanced at her watch. Already ten. Time to open for the day.

Fifty-One

It had been nearly twenty-three weeks since Henry had gotten his severance check. He’d managed to stretch twelve weeks’ pay that far. But now it was nearly gone. He toted up his monthly living expenses to determine how much money he needed to avoid tapping his IRA.

Fortunately, he had no monthly mortgage payments for the two-bedroom Medford condo because he’d bought it outright with his share of the proceeds from the sale of the Larchmont house. He had invested the balance of that in a variety of conservative blue-chip stocks that paid small but steady dividends—not enough to live on but a nice supplement to his meager weekly unemployment checks.

He had to cover the homeowners association fees, condo and car insurance, utilities, and payments on his car loan. But his biggest expense was his health insurance premium, a shocking discovery for someone who had never given it much thought because his employer had paid the bulk of that expense for his entire professional career.

In short, despite scrimping, Henry needed some additional income.

When the remnants of the severance check had dwindled down to the very low four digits the previous month, he decided to drive for Uber—the so-called ride-sharing service that was essentially the same as driving a cab—just to have some income until he landed a new job.

Brain dead work, he thought. He didn’t even need to be familiar with the bizarre, haphazard layout of Boston area streets—not with the Waze navigational app on his iPhone to guide him.

He thought it might help him stay connected to the real world, and real people. He also hoped that it would provide him some networking opportunities to help him find a job. Without a lot of effort, he figured, he could earn enough to cover his living expenses and then some.

It was surprisingly easy to become an Uber driver. All they asked for was his Social Security number, driver’s license, and proof of valid insurance. Period. He sent scans of all three to the provided email address. That was it. He never talked to a human. They claimed they did a background check, but how could they when he got approved in less than two days?

So, forty hours after applying, on March twentieth he got the confirmation email: “We're excited you've chosen to partner with us!”

By now, he had three weeks of experience that had opened his eyes to a new world. On this day, Friday, April 12, his first customer was a pickup in the Back Bay.

“Are you Henry?” the gentleman asked him through the open passenger side window as he stood at the curb on Boylston Street.

“Uber at your service,” Henry replied, smiling. “And you’re Craig?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hop in.”

After Craig had closed the door and buckled in, Henry asked, “Where’re we going?”

“West Cambridge. Fifty-nine Acorn Park.”

“Got it.” Henry keyed it into Waze. It would take them twenty-three minutes to get there from the Back Bay, according to the app.

“Help yourself to a bottle of water, if you’d like.”

“Don’t mind if I do. I’m actually pretty thirsty. Thanks.”

While Craig plunged into his iPhone email, Henry ruminated about what had happened that fateful April day. Tomorrow would be the one-year anniversary.

It had started as a typical Friday in the New York office. Henry had felt on top of his game as he met with Ginger Simmons, Adele Sanders, and Christie Chan, laying plans to launch a big new ad campaign for Ashford Frozen Foods, a new client that promised to be financially rewarding. Henry and Ginger had landed the account together.

A typical day, that is, until Jeff sprung his news on him, telling Henry he wanted him to relocate to Boston. ‘Opportunity’ was the word Jeff liked to use when he wanted you to do something he knew you wouldn’t like.

Jeff had a knack for making something bad sound good when, in fact, it was a lateral move, at best, and would more likely than not put his career in the ditch—a premonition that had proved correct.

It wasn’t really a choice either. Not when it came from the agency president. It was a command. If he had declined, Jeff would have made his life miserable. Henry had seen it happen to others. Despite his misgivings, he played the requisite role of the team player and accepted the assignment with as much enthusiasm as he could muster—which wasn’t much.

But here he was a year later, out of a job. Out of the industry altogether, in fact. Just some schmuck driving for Uber. Maybe if he’d opted not to go for the ‘opportunity,’ he might have toughed it out and persevered under what would have been a pelting of shitty assignments. He might have endured and still been working in the New York office with his old friends.

Craig finished with his iPhone and started watching the street scene pass by for a few moments before striking up a conversation, initially about it being Friday and their respective weekend plans before getting into a discussion of the current business climate and then Congress’ proposed corporate tax reduction. Henry had strong, detailed opinions on the subject, and the two were in agreement: A cut in the tax rate was overdue and would likely stimulate the economy.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” he said, “you’re an unusual Uber driver. I mean, most of the drivers I get are blue-collar types, many with barely a working knowledge of English. They drive beat-up ten-year-old cars. But you. You’ve got this new Acura SUV. You’re business savvy. Current. You seem like you should be sitting in a corner office somewhere, running some company.”

Henry sighed. “Actually, you’re right—sort of. But it’s a long story. Too long for the five minutes we have left before we get to Acorn Park. Let’s just say this Uber thing is a temporary gig until I get a new job.”

“What’s your field?”

“Marketing.”

“You don’t say? Agency or client side?”

“Agency. Whitman-Selby.”

“No kidding. They used to be our agency.”

“Really? What company you with?”

“Frankfort Systems.”

“Oh yeah. That was handled out of our Boston office. Right?”

“Yeah. I’m head of operations and only have a peripheral role with our agency. Our marketing VP is a good friend of mine. He managed the relationship with Whitman-Selby. He changed agencies early last year. Wasn’t happy with their work. Sorry to hear about your situation. Been there, done that. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.”

They were pulling into Acorn Park.

“Thanks for the encouragement. I hope you’re right.”

“Say, Henry, do you have a resumé on you? Or a business card or something I could hang onto in case something occurs to me? You know, in case I hear about an opportunity? Maybe I could share your name with my buddy in marketing.”

“That’s very kind of you, but no, I don’t. Good idea, though.”

“Give me your name and number anyway. I’ll jot it down and hang onto it.”

Henry did so, and Craig added it to his iPhone contacts.

“Thanks again, Craig.”

“Best of luck to you. And thanks for the ride,” he said, handing him a five-dollar tip before climbing out of the car.

Luck. That’s about all I can hope for, Henry thought, as he pulled away from the curb. Luck.

As he pocketed the five-dollar bill and left Acorn Park, Henry continued thinking about that day a year earlier, mulling over the stark contrast between Ginger and Kirsten. That was the last day that he and Ginger had worked together.

Ginger was a real go-getter. She would do anything for Henry—just as he would for her. If he were twenty years younger, he would have pursued her, and they would have fallen in love. She was his kind of woman. He was sure she would feel the same toward him.

Kirsten, on the other hand, had become a real bitch by that point, and living with her—even if they weren’t in the same house very often—had become a grind with little or no pleasure. He couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had sex—which actually hadn’t been that great anyway.

Though he’d made numerous efforts to reach out to her, to get intimate, to somehow renew their relationship, she hadn’t responded, hadn’t even tried those last months of their marriage.

He should have seen it coming. But he was naïve about those things, ever the optimist, always expecting to find the pony under the pile of horseshit, as his father used to say when he teased him about his persistent optimism.

Why had she turned away from me and our marriage and had that stupid affair with Kevin? he thought. Could I have saved the marriage somehow? Did I fall short as a husband in some way? Was I not giving her what she needed? Lord knows I supported her in her years-long quest to get back into the business world full time after Peter was in middle school.

It had been Henry’s idea that she pursue an MBA in her spare time. Many a night he’d cooked dinner for just Peter and himself while Kirsten stayed in the city to go to classes at NYU. And it had paid off handsomely, giving her the foundation, knowledge, and confidence to advance quickly at Findlay, despite the all-male executive team.

As he pulled onto Route Two westbound, his Uber app dinged. The call came from the far side of Lexington, about five miles away. The customer turned out to be a young Asian family of four—husband, wife and two toddlers. Loading them up took about ten minutes, what with two car seats to secure and a couple of heavy, oversized bags that Henry had to wrestle up and strap onto the roof of his SUV.

The father sat up front and introduced himself as Tony. He said they were headed for Shanghai for the wedding of his younger brother and a family reunion. They planned to be there for three weeks and would be catching a 4:35 non-stop from Logan.

My God, Henry thought, they sure left themselves plenty of time. It wasn’t yet eleven. They’d be hanging out in Terminal E for five hours. Whatever. If airport lounges are your thing, he wasn’t going to argue about it.

Tony made some small talk with Henry but was more focused on helping his wife amuse their children. They spoke Mandarin among themselves, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts as he drove them to Logan.

This would be a fat fare, which pleased him, but didn’t take his mind off his situation.

Kirsten had been right. His transfer to Boston had been doomed from the start. Though he doubted Jeff had purposely set him up for failure, in hindsight it sure felt that way.

After dropping the family at the international terminal, Henry headed home for lunch where he decided to spend the afternoon cruising the online job boards. A futile activity, no doubt, but it was a requirement of his unemployment check that he devote some deliberate activity everyday toward landing a new job.

Fifty-Two

Emily Lindstrom finally convinced Kirsten to join her book group and had invited her over for dinner—along with Bill Schultz and Mike Healey—that Friday evening. Despite Emily’s assurance that Kirsten had met them before at Rotary, the names didn’t ring a bell.

They, too, were members of the book group, Emily said, which wouldn’t meet again until the end of the month in two weeks. She had yet to say what book they were reading. Nor had Emily mentioned that the book group included men. Kirsten had assumed it was women only. Now, she wanted to rethink joining the group.

When she arrived that Friday evening at Emily’s house, she realized she had indeed met both Bill and Mike at Rotary. She soon learned that she and her three dinner companions were all divorced, and that Bill had been dating Emily for a couple months.

Kirsten inferred that she was being set up with Mike, Bill’s workmate as well as hunting and fishing buddy, she would later learn. She guessed that he had been the one asking about her marital status.

The evening wasn’t what Kirsten had expected. She was not on the prowl for a new boyfriend.

Though the three were welcoming and chatty, she held back, uncomfortable with their shared sense of ease.

After a glass of wine, she began to relax. Mike seemed pleasant and intelligent.

The two men laughed when Kirsten referred to herself as a “Kimballer.” Unlike her and Emily, the men weren’t natives, so they were intrigued to learn that Kirsten had returned to her hometown.

“I’ve lived here for five years and never heard that term,” Mike said, still laughing. “Sounds like some character out of a video game. I’m going to steal it.”

“Be my guest. It’s an old term for the local natives. In high school, we all referred to ourselves that way. Emily remembers. We were the Kimball Cougars, but everyone called us Kimballers,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Emily?” She nodded, grinning.

Aside from a few inside jokes between Mike and Bill, much of the first part of the evening was spent quizzing Kirsten as to why she had returned to her old hometown.

She tried to be vague with her answers, initially bristling at the inquisition. But under Emily’s gentle prodding and a second glass of wine, the story gradually was told: of how she’d been a high-flying Manhattan executive with an MBA; a married suburbanite; now a divorcée running a retail gift and craft shop in this small town.

She omitted details of her divorce and exactly why she’d left New York.

“I just got tired of the rat race,” was all she said about it. “But enough about me,” Kirsten finally said with poorly concealed exasperation. “Tell me about yourselves. Who wants to go first?” she asked sipping her wine, smiling obligingly.

“I will!” Kirsten had already heard much of her story during their earlier chats but was grateful to get out of the spotlight. Emily went on to tell an abbreviated version her life story: Her childhood in Kimball; a bachelor’s degree in business from the University of Minnesota; a young marriage with twin sons; a hard-driving, often absent business executive husband; a subsequent divorce three years ago when her sons were in high school. Now she was a vice president in charge of home loans with Kimball Savings and Loan, her sons off to college. “Etcetera,” Emily concluded, smirking. “All rather boring.”

Bill and Mike, Kirsten learned, worked together as mid-level sales executives with an international conglomerate headquartered outside Minneapolis. Bill had two teenaged kids; Mike had a teenaged daughter. Mike bad-mouthed his ex-wife who had “cheated on him several times with several different men,” he said. “Damn floozy.”

Bill’s marriage had “come undone,” he said. “We just got tired of each other. Got tired of arguing all the time.”

As the evening wore on, the men poured themselves multiple glasses of wine while Emily and Kirsten switched to tea. Returning from the kitchen with a fresh glass of wine, Mike plopped down next to Kirsten on the sofa, a bit too close in Kirsten’s estimation. She chose that moment to excuse herself to go to the bathroom.

When she emerged, she told them she had a headache—which she didn’t—and needed to go home. Mike’s face telegraphed his disappointment. He jumped up from the couch and walked her to the door, Emily trailing them both, where he asked her out for a date the next weekend.

“Thanks, Mike. But let’s hold off on that. I’ll see you at Rotary in a couple weeks, okay?” She turned and left.

Fifty-Three

When Kirsten went to the front door of her shop that mid-April Saturday morning to open for the day, Ray Norris was outside, rubbing his hands to ward off the cold, waiting to come in.

Ray was a pleasant man. She guessed he was about twenty years her senior. He’d become a regular customer in her gift shop the past few weeks, clearly because he was interested in her as a possible serious friend. But he was clumsily unsubtle about it. He would come in, walk a few silent circuits around her shop’s narrow aisles, browsing a little too long.

She’d caught him staring at her from across the shop a couple times. Each time, she’d smiled blankly in reply, and he’d looked away, embarrassed at being caught gawking. He would compliment her selection of wares, make awkward conversation about mundane topics, and then leave, looking flustered.

Ray was a retired executive who had worked for a diversified Minneapolis manufacturing company for thirty-nine years, a “lifer,” he’d said. His last position with them was running one of their plants on the south side, out near the airport. At age sixty-three, he’d taken a buy-out and early retirement when the offer came around. “I’m no fool,” he’d said, grinning. “That kind of offer doesn’t come around often. You gotta grab it when you can.”

Ray lived alone in the house in which he and his late wife, Edith, had raised their three children—the youngest of whom was now studying for his master’s degree in biology at the University of Minnesota. The older two were both married with kids, living in the metro area. Ray was “bouncing off the walls,” living by himself like that, he told her.

Kirsten was friendly with him, of course. Not a good idea to give a good customer the brush-off, even if he was bit obvious about his intentions. She anticipated an invitation for a date sooner or later.

“Good morning, Ray,” she said as he entered, accompanied by the tinkle of the bell she’d hung at the top of the door. “How are you this chilly morning?”

“I’m well, Kirsten. It’s nice to see your pretty, smiling face on this gray day. I do hope that the weather will warm up soon. It’s mid-April, but winter seems reluctant to let go,” he said as he stamped his feet to warm them.

“Indeed, it does. What are you looking for today?”

“Not sure. Something for my granddaughter, Sally. For her birthday. Edith used to handle that stuff—gifts for the grandchildren and such. I’m trying to keep those traditions alive. But I’m not creative the way Edith was. I thought I might be inspired by something in your shop. You have such a wonderful selection. Perhaps you might have some suggestions?”

“Okay. How old will Sally be? What does she like?”

“She turns thirteen next Thursday—going on twenty-one, it seems. She’s quite the sophisticated young lady,” he chuckled. “Already wearing make-up.”

“I get the idea. Well, let’s look around and see what we can find. Something feminine and lady-like.”

He nodded and smiled, watching her closely.

She offered him several suggestions as they moved around the shop, none of which he cared for.

“Say, Kirsten, I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner date sometime. My calendar’s wide open. How about yours?”

“Oh, Ray, that’s so sweet of you. But, as I mentioned last week, I just went through a nasty divorce. I’m trying to get back in touch with my old self. I thought it best that I not date for a while. But thank you for asking.”

His cheerful face shifted. “Okay. I understand. When I lost my Edith nearly two years ago, I guess I felt the same way for a long time. Like I was lost, like I had to get reacquainted with myself.”

Kirsten nodded. “I am sorry about your wife.”

He glanced down for a second and came back smiling.

“Maybe instead we could have coffee some morning.”

She pursed her lips to consider the idea. “Well, I guess so. No harm in that. Technically, it’s not a date, now, is it? How about Tuesday next week? I open the shop at ten, as you know. So, I’d have to be here by nine-thirty to get things ready. Say, eight-forty-five at Caribou Coffee on Tuesday? Does that work for you?”

Ray’s face glowed again. “Great. You’re on. Now, let’s figure what I’m going to get for Sally.”

Fifty-Four

It was Sunday, April 14, Henry’s fifty-fourth birthday, which he would celebrate that evening alone with pizza and beer. Or maybe a special bottle of wine. Kirsten had sent him a nice card, signed merely “Kirsten,” without the usual “love.”

Nearly a year earlier, Henry had come to Boston to do Jeff Matheson’s bidding. It had been almost six months since he’d been pushed out of Whitman-Selby. How far he had fallen since; how much he’d lost; how bleak his future.

Early in his days among the unemployed, he’d landed a couple of short-term assignments from old New York ad industry friends who took pity on him—a truth that hit home when there were no follow-up assignments, and they didn’t return his calls.

There were no permanent positions either, not for a fifty-four- year-old white man. Not in twenty-first century America.

Weighing his options, he considered pulling up stakes as Kirsten had done when she moved to Minnesota to start a new life in her old hometown. He’d lived longer in Larchmont than any place in his life, but there was nothing to go back to there.

Where would he go? Unlike Kirsten, he had no hometown to return to, not this army brat. Henry had moved a dozen times before he’d finished high school in McLain, VA, where his family had moved because his father, by then a brigadier general—Gen. Adam Bancroft—had been assigned to the Pentagon.

While Gen. Bancroft was no Great Santini, he had been a bit of a tyrant, with high expectations of himself and his son. He’d readily shown his disappointment whenever he felt Henry had fallen short, which was often the case, starting at a young age.

Once Henry had gone off to college, he had never been eager to spend much time with his parents. By that time, when he was visiting infrequently, his father had demonstrated a forty-eight-hour window of patience, after which Henry’s continued presence clearly annoyed him.

Henry’s start at Whitman-Selby in 1987 coincided with his father’s retirement from the Army when his parents had settled in an adult community outside Fort Myers, FL, which certainly was not Henry’s idea of a hometown—a moot point now, given that both had passed away within months of each other some six years earlier.

Henry had been surprised by his father’s will, which left him, in addition to a little money and some keepsakes, a collector’s quality handgun from his time in combat as a lieutenant colonel in Vietnam.

His father said he had taken the Soviet-made Tokarev TT-33 pistol off a dead Vietcong officer on a post-action jungle battlefield. His father explained that VC officers carried a variety of sidearms into battle, but by the mid-1960s, most had adopted the eight-round World War 2 era Soviet handgun.

“I’m hanging onto this sucker,” his father had told Henry. “It’s worth a shitload already and will probably be worth a lot more in a few years.”

Henry stashed it and the handful of bullets his father had also picked up in a post-battle mop-up in a metal box in the hall closet in his Larchmont house and forgotten it—never taken it out—until he retrieved it the day he cleared the house of his belongings. Now, it sat in his apartment closet in the same metal box, similarly buried deeply and untouched.

By now, after nearly a month of driving for Uber, he was finding the work a panoply of surprises, both good and bad. He was meeting some interesting people, some of whom were brilliant. But then, some were boring and others just plain stupid.

Occasionally, there were some real doozies—like the wedding party he’d picked up one Saturday afternoon outside a Cambridge brew pub.

Because there were six of them, Henry got out and opened the rear seat to make room for them all. The maid of honor, who had pinged him, got in the front seat next to Henry. Three bridesmaids climbed in the back seat and an usher got in the far back seat. The best man, who obviously had gotten a big head-start on the wedding reception at the brew pub, stumbled in, falling across the laps of the bridesmaids—accidentally on purpose, Henry surmised. They giggled as they pushed him into the far rear seat.

Henry wondered how this shithead would manage his wedding duties, all the while fearing that he might vomit in the car.

The best man proved to be second-worst jerk of Henry’s Uber career. Slouching in the rear-most seat, with his feet up on the back of the middle-row seats, he talked loudly about his production assistant job for The Daily Show in Manhattan. The guy couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He dropped Jon Stewart’s name at least a dozen times—like they were best of friends. “Jon this and Jon that.”

As they got out at the wedding venue at the Copley Plaza, the maid of honor quietly pleaded with Henry not to give her a low rating because of the jerk’s behavior and handed him a twenty-dollar tip.

Henry smiled and said, “No problem. Five stars it’ll be.”

She smiled sweetly and said, “Thanks.”

Tips came few and far between. Uber promoted itself as a “frictionless” service—meaning that, unlike taxicabs, people could just jump in and out without stopping to exchange money, since it automatically went on their credit card. So, there were no obvious opportunities for tips.

So, whatever tips did come his way were the occasional dollar or two here and there thrust into his hand as generous riders got out. He once got a ten-dollar bill for a fifteen-dollar fare. That had made his day and gave him a big smile. That twenty from the bridesmaid was nice recompense for having to listen to that drunk clown talk about himself for twenty minutes.

There were heart-warming experiences, too. His first week on the job, still feeling his way, he picked up a middle-aged woman wearing a Dunkin’ Donuts uniform outside the West Medford shop where she worked. As he pulled up to her apartment in Malden—a fare of eight dollars—she pressed a three-dollar tip into his hand.

Henry tried to refuse it, feeling she needed the money as much as if not more than he. But she insisted. “People like us need to stick together,” she said, smiling sympathetically.

People like us? Well, that would take some getting used to. Was Henry cut out to be an Uber driver for the rest of his life, or, as the company prefers, an Uber Partner? More to the point, this woman was implying that Henry was a working-class stiff, just like her.

Well, in truth, he was. He was humbled by the sudden realization, and grateful for her kindness, but also depressed by the notion of doing this from now until forever.

Was this to be Henry’s destiny, to be a full-time Uber driver? Was this how his working life would end? What had he been chasing for so many years? Had he just been going through the motions? Had he ever in his life had any notion of where he wanted to be in five, ten, fifteen years? And what about now? Hell, eleven years from now, he’d be on Medicare and probably collecting a monthly Social Security check, too. And then what? An unhappy, lonely death? Was that what he had to look forward to?

Henry cruised areas like Brookline, Newton, and Wellesley in hopes of pick-ups in Boston’s tonier suburbs, expecting that he’d get generous tippers. At least it was better than getting stuck doing short five-dollar hops around Dorchester, Jamaica Plains, and Roxbury, which had happened to him more than once. Five dollars was Uber’s minimum fare, which netted Henry $3.20.

Following the advice of Craig, the gentleman he’d taken to Acorn Park the previous week, he kept a stack of business cards in his center console, along with a few pre-folded resumés in number ten business envelopes. The business cards were bogus. He’d designed and printed them himself using perforated sheets of Avery printable business cards.

He’d created a fictitious consulting business—Prosper Consulting Inc., Marketing Counsel—and a logo, and given himself the title of President. Prosper had just one employee and no clients—unless he counted those two free-lance assignments. The card included his mobile phone number and email address, which was the point, of course.

He’d given out one the previous day after providing a ride to a businesswoman who expressed interest in his marketing insights. He did know what he was talking about. But in the end, he knew he was only kidding himself.

Would he listen to some fifty-four-year-old loser driving for Uber who told him he was a marketing expert? Of course he wouldn’t. The thought depressed the hell out of him. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

Even more demoralizing was all the time he’d wasted bouncing around the online job boards with forced optimism, posting his resumé repeatedly, responding to dozens upon dozens of promising ads. He got nothing in response or, at best, an email response saying thanks but no thanks. Shit, they may as well have added: “Go away. We don’t hire old white men.”

Once, three months earlier, he’d finagled an in-person interview at a company in the Back Bay. It was for a position as marketing director for an office products supplier. He knew he would be perfect for the job, but he had to convince the hiring manager—if he could get the opportunity to meet him or her.

He arrived five minutes early and was escorted from the lobby to a young woman’s office, the in-house recruiter. He knew the recruiter was just a sentry, on the lookout for common riffraff like Henry Bancroft so that hiring managers wouldn’t have to waste time on dead-enders.

Henry would have been shocked if she was a day over thirty. Her dismissiveness became obvious by the shift in her facial expression the moment he walked into her office smiling. Clearly, she’d hooked an old fart. How to get rid of him politely. Well, that was her job, and she’d managed it expertly. Henry was out of there in under fifteen minutes.

“Thanks for coming in this morning, Mr. Bancroft. We’ll be in touch.”

“Like hell you will,” he muttered under his breath as he turned away from her, his waxen smile melting instantly.

His most hopeful opportunity arose early in his quest when Patty Hennessy, the headhunter he’d met two months earlier, got him an interview with a shoe company in the suburbs west of Boston for an opening as brand marketing manager. Henry’s hopes rose when it went to a second round of interviews.

He’d impressed the in-house HR department screener, a man a little younger than Henry. After chatting for an hour, he walked Henry down the hall to the senior vice president of marketing, a man about Henry’s age, to whom the job would report. They hit it off and talked for more than hour.

It turned out that the fellow had cut his teeth in the New York advertising agency world, just like Henry, so they spent most of their time swapping war stories and laughing a lot. They had a lot of mutual acquaintances. As they wrapped up, he asked Henry to come back later that week to meet his boss.

The subsequent interview with the executive VP of sales and marketing went very well, and Henry felt certain that he was going to be offered the job. But, three weeks later when he hadn’t heard anything, he called Patty.

She told him he’d been their second choice, but they would hang onto his resumé in case their first choice didn’t accept the job.

“Second choice? Patty, those people were on the verge of hiring me. I’m surprised they didn’t offer me the job on the spot. I hit it off with both the hiring manager and his boss. I understand their business and I gave them a lot of good ideas. Are you telling me they actually found a better fit?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes they did. You didn’t hear this from me and if you repeat it, I will deny that I told you. But they had to hire a minority applicant. They’ve been getting heat lately for their lack of diversity. A few weeks ago, a Boston Globe columnist referred to the company as a ‘white man’s club.’ They asked me to refer some minority candidates. I found a highly qualified black woman who filled the bill, and she got the job offer. I’m sorry, but that’s the state of the industry today.”

“So, that’s the way it is. I have three strikes against me. I’m white, I’m older, and I’m a man. Terrific.”

“No, Henry. That’s not necessarily the case. I’ve placed plenty of men like you. We’ll find you something yet. Be patient.”

“Right.” Henry paused. “By the way, did you reach out to Gary Hannon?”

“Yes. I spoke with him the same week I met with you. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything. In fact, he had had a layoff earlier that month, so they weren’t in a hiring mode.”

Henry went to one Marketers Club meeting hoping he might scout out some opportunities. But it felt awkward. Everyone he knew there was aware that he’d been sacked by Whitman-Selby. It felt like he had a mole the size of a quarter on his forehead that everyone was staring at when they talked to him, since no one would look him in the eye. He didn’t go to any more meetings.

He tried other local networking groups, but they were far more depressing. Nearly all the attendees at the events were his clone: middle-aged or older, and unemployed. Almost all were white males.

To be sure, there were a few younger men and women, and even some people of color. But they came once and rarely returned. Henry assumed it was because they’d gotten jobs. More likely it was because they couldn’t cope with the soul-crushing scene of hanging out with a bunch of has-beens like him.

He’d wasted countless hours on 2qLinkedIn, reviewing all his connections to see if they might yield some ideas. Nope. Whenever he’d begin preparing a response to an online job ad, he’d always scan his LinkedIn connections to see if he knew anyone at his target company. Usually nothing of any help turned up. GlassDoor.com was an even bigger time dump—and equally worthless for job hunting.

This coming Thursday, he would have his second interview with a headhunter. In their brief phone conversation on Friday to set up the meeting, Suzanne Wickford had been vague about opportunities for him, but not altogether discouraging.

As he drove through Brookline that Sunday afternoon cruising for Uber customers, he spotted a Cumberland Farms store and pulled into its small lot so he could grab a quick snack.

“Such crap,” he muttered to himself as he studied the shelves of packaged junk food: chips, cookies, nuts, and pretzels. All fat, sugar, and carbo-loaded garbage. He grabbed a bag of Doritos.

An elderly man greeted him from behind the counter. Reaching for the five-dollar bill Henry tendered for the Doritos, he asked, “Would you like a PowerBall ticket with your change? The jackpot has gotten very big.”

“Huh? Oh. How much?”

“Almost six-hundred million dollars.”

He’d meant, how much did the ticket cost? But it sounded like a good idea. What did he have to lose? Hell, he might even win. Six-hundred million would be a nice payday.

“Uh sure. How much for the ticket?”

“Two dollars. Would you like to include the Powerplay? That’s another dollar.”

Powerplay? PowerBall? What’s the difference?

“Uh, okay. Sure. Powerplay is fine.”

“Do you want to pick your own numbers or have the computer do it for you?”

This guy was beginning to get on his nerves.

“Yeah. Sure. Sounds fine.”

The machine spit out a ticket. The man took his five, handed back a dime, a penny, his receipt, and the lottery ticket, all of which Henry jammed into his left front pants pocket, admitting to himself that he had about as much chance of winning that damn lottery as he did finding a new job in advertising.

But, oh, that would be so sweet if he won. What would he do with six-hundred million? As he drove away, he fantasized about buying a company so he could hire Whitman-Selby and then make them grovel and jump through endless hoops. In the end, he would fuck them over, just as they had fucked him.

He laughed at the mental image of Jeff Matheson bowing and scraping at his feet. He’d tell him to shine his shoes with his tongue while he was down there.

He was still grinning as he turned right onto Beacon Street, heading westbound. A couple more fares and he’d call it a day. Get home, have lunch, check his email, get on the online job board hamster wheel for a while, and then get back on the road for Uber.

At the moment, his desires were minimal: a fare that would take him near home, or at least in that general direction.

His wish was granted by an Uber ping. The customer was nearby—less than two miles away in Brookline—and he wanted to go to Logan. Henry accepted it and took the next left turn as commanded by Waze.

When he arrived at the Brookline address, his customer was at the curb, a graying late middle-aged businessman, maybe a bit older than Henry. After closing the door and buckling in, he said he was heading to Terminal C to catch a JetBlue flight to Syracuse, NY, for business meetings the following morning.

They chatted amiably as they cruised through the city toward the airport. Henry managed to learn enough about the guy’s business—a privately-owned regional bottler of soft drinks called Iceberg Beverages—to offer a few insights into product positioning and brand promotion that the rider found intriguing. He asked a few thoughtful questions, which Henry easily handled.

Responding to Henry’s insights, he opened up with a bit more information before finally introducing himself: Jim Spencer, company co-founder, owner, and president.

Whoa. Henry had hit the jackpot. He’d have to up his game. There were few industries that Henry didn’t know something about, having spent more than two-and-a-half decades providing marketing counsel to just about every imaginable type of business. But consumer products were his forte, especially consumables sold in supermarkets.

As they pulled up at the terminal, Henry gave Jim a business card and an envelope containing his resumé.

“If you want more ideas like those, give me a call, Jim. Happy to help,” Henry said, before handing him his suitcase from the back of the car.

Jim took the card and envelope, tucked them in his inner jacket pocket, and smiled.

“Thanks, Henry. Pleased to meet you,” and shook his hand. He turned toward the terminal wheeling his suitcase behind him.

Who am I kidding? Henry thought as he pulled away from the curb. The guy saw right through me. Probably tossed the resumé and business card in the trash once inside the terminal; wondered why the hell someone so well-versed in marketing doesn’t have a real job.

Maybe he would assume that I’d crossed my boss and got fired. Or he thought I was a drunk who couldn’t hold down a full-time job. Or perhaps he thought I’d had an office affair and gotten myself shit-canned. Like Kirsten and Kevin.

Actually, that would have been closer to the truth. And that led him to recall that night in Pittsburgh. Maybe he should have gone ahead and had sex with Susan. At least he’d have that pleasure to remember now in these dreary days. Wouldn’t that have been nice, he thought, as he recalled Susan sprawled naked on the hotel bed.

He grinned to himself as he left the airport.

Fifty-Five

“Thanks for coming in this morning, Henry. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. You have some interesting insights and fresh perspectives into the ad business. Unfortunately, as I said, I don’t have anything that’s right for you at this time, but things do pop up. Uh, I do have one last question, though, if you don’t mind. Maybe you could clear something up for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m a little hazy on exactly why you left Whitman-Selby International. You’d been with the agency for twenty-six years and had risen to its top ranks. I mean, executive vice president at any agency is a plum. But at an agency with an international footprint like Whitman-Selby? Well, that’s impressive. You earlier said you’d had a disagreement with management. What happened? What kind of disagreement? I’m only asking because you will likely get that question in interviews, and you should have a ready answer.”

Henry cleared his throat, looked away a moment before coming back to Suzanne Wickford, the second headhunter with whom he had met with since leaving Whitman-Selby seven months earlier.

“Well, I had a disagreement with the agency president.”

She peered at him over the top of her reading glasses, remaining silent.

“Look. Suffice it to say that we had a difference of opinion as to how the business should be run. He’s the president so, of course, his approach prevailed. I couldn’t continue working under those circumstances, so I left. I wasn’t fired. I quit.”

“After twenty-six years of working together and all of a sudden you two don’t see eye-to-eye?”

“I guess it had been brewing for some time.”

“Hmm. You can’t say anything more than that?”

“That’s all there was to it. A difference in approach. I could no longer operate that way. It felt dishonest to me.”

“Are you implying the president of the agency was engaging in illegal practices of some sort?

“No. No, it wasn’t like that. He just… Let’s just say he and I disagreed over agency compensation practices.”

“Severance packages are generally given to people who are let go, not those who quit, as you did. Why did they give you one?”

“We agreed to call it a resignation by mutual consent.”

“I see.”

She continued gazing at him quizzically, expecting further explanation. When none was forthcoming, she stood.

“Well, again, Henry, thanks for coming in. I’ll let you know if anything comes along that fits your strong background.”

It was a short walk from her downtown office to the T station, and a brief wait on the platform for the outbound train. On the ride back to the suburban station where he’d parked his car, Henry mulled over the interview and his incomplete answer to Suzanne’s last question.

Yes, he had not left Whitman-Selby on the best of terms. But he didn’t need a headhunter calling Matheson to check. No telling what that shithead would say to her. Maybe he should call Suzanne back and give her the full story.

But what was the full story? What should he have said? What had happened? Did he really know? Had Henry brought it on himself? Was he as good as he thought he was? Maybe he’d never deserved to fly so high. Or was he a victim who didn’t deserve to be let go?

On the other hand, was he just a go-along get-along kind of guy, rolling along in the moment, latching onto the latest opportunity? Was he really the rising star that Steve Whitney had always told everyone he was? He really had never been much of a proactive kind of person. Maybe he deserved to be axed. Maybe he wasn’t the type that the agency needed in order to grow for its future.

On reflection, it occurred to him that the people who excelled in agencies were the aggressive types who didn’t shy from confrontation—people like Susan O’Leary. Sure, she had a soft side. Or was that just her playing a role?

It was all such a soul-crushing crash-landing of an ending. Things had started out so well that first day in Boston. No. Not just the first day. The first several months had been great. Everything was clicking. The situation was improving. Office morale was on the uptick. But then... But then, what? What had really happened? How had it all ended so badly?

And now he was driving for Uber, barely earning a living, while groveling for a job, any job. Henry had recently read about the founder of a Boston start-up who’d become a billionaire when his company was acquired. Just to see what the experience was like, this guy drove his new Tesla S for Uber.

He wrote about it for a local magazine in which he said his riders were always doubly startled: surprised at the car and then more so when they discovered who was behind the wheel. He said it was great fun, but he got tired of it after a month or so and quit. Then, he went out and founded another new company based on an idea that arose during a conversation he’d had with a rider. He’d actually cut the rider in on the deal, who was one of his first hires.

Henry wished he could be as cavalier about his Uber gig, able to start and stop on a whim. Of course, it would also be nice to be a billionaire. It would also be nice if he had the same entrepreneurial genius as that guy.

He was now dependent on Uber for his livelihood since his career in advertising was probably over.

Fifty-Six

Just as Kirsten had anticipated, it didn’t take long for Mike Healey to make his next move: at the Rotary Club meeting two weeks after Emily Lindstrom’s dinner party where he’d been a bit too forward.

She was late arriving, having missed the cocktail hour, and took a spot at a table with two empty seats at the far end of the room. In Rotary Club fashion, they all introduced themselves and shook hands.

No sooner had the introductions been concluded than Mike sat down in the empty seat next to her—cocktail in hand. She noticed that he had been sitting elsewhere and had gotten up when she came in. They hadn’t served everyone’s dinners before he asked her out for a date that weekend.

“That’s very nice of you, Mike. But I can’t.” And she lowered her voice. “As you know from our Friday evening dinner at Emily’s, I’ve just gone through a nasty divorce and I’m really not up for dating right now. Maybe some time in the future.”

She may not have been dating libidinous men like Mike Healey, but she had finally conceded to a dinner date with harmless Ray Norris the previous Friday evening.

Kirsten and Ray had become friendlier since their first coffee date nearly three months earlier. She’d come to like Ray, like an older brother, and felt at ease in his presence—though she was pretty sure his hopes about her went far beyond that of a surrogate little sister.

After a couple morning chats over coffee in late April, she’d finally consented to a dinner date, some four months after they’d first met.

They went to Brindle’s, the local steakhouse. She’d nearly forgotten her youthful Kimball dining experiences there with her parents and older brother, Ben. She grinned to herself, amused by this re-immersion, recalling how sophisticated she had thought the place was when she was young.

Her mother had made Kirsten wear her best Sunday school dress and patent leather flats. It was that special. In Ray’s world, too, it was a fancy place.

Waiting for their orders to be delivered, they visited the salad bar. When her porterhouse steak and baked potato—with a hearty dollop of sour cream and chopped chives on top—were placed in front of her, again she smiled to herself, remembering the lavish, trés cher meals she’d eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants less than a year ago in Paris, Munich, Rome, Lyon, Hong Kong, London, and other gastronomic meccas.

Ray noticed her smile.

“How’s your steak?”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Isn’t this a nice place? Admit it. You’ve missed Kimball.”

Her smile broadened. “Yes. Yes, I have. I can remember Brindle’s from my childhood. It was a major event when my parents brought me and my brother here for dinner. We couldn’t afford to eat out very often on a minister’s salary. So when we did, it was a big deal.”

He smiled back at her and continued eating.

Sure, she enjoyed Ray’s company, but it wasn’t going to lead to anything serious, despite his obvious hopes. He had asked if he could help occasionally in the shop. He didn’t need to be paid, he said. His pension was enough.

He usually came in on Saturdays, her busiest day of the week, as well as a couple weekdays for a few hours.

Besides, he was bored and needed something to do with his days. And, he confessed, he enjoyed being in Kirsten’s presence. She had consented, with a shy grin. He said she was smart, a great conversationalist and very pretty with a nice figure. She’d blushed appropriately when he said that.

Kirsten found Ray agreeable company. They didn’t have a lot in common, which was probably for the better. As yet, she’d only hinted at her previous life, omitting the most important details—such as why she’d left her senior-level job at an international investment firm. He was curious but didn’t press the issue—until that night over dinner.

He put down his fork quietly and looked at her. “Kirsten, I don’t know much about your life in New York, and I suppose it’s none of my business. I know you said it ended with a nasty divorce. You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t feel comfortable doing so. I’m sure it was nothing like Kimball.”

She could feel her gut tighten. Her smile folded. She remained silent and looked aside.

“That’s okay. Someday, when you feel like it, would you tell me more? About your job and why you decided to leave the big city and come home? I think it’s interesting that someone as pretty, smart, and successful at you would come back to the little town where they grew up. I’m sure it’s quite a story. Might be worth a book,” he added, smiling.

She relaxed. “Sure. Sure, I will, Ray,” she said quietly. “But not right now.”

She managed a weak smile.

Fifty-Seven

Twenty-nine weeks of unemployment checks supplemented by Uber income, along with his economizing, had enabled Henry to survive. But the unemployment insurance was expiring. One more week and that would be the end of it.

Fortunately, he had that tidy Charles Schwab investment account that was producing some regular dividend income. He hadn’t tapped it yet but would have to soon because his car was due for its thirty-thousand-mile check-up—which would likely run him at least a thousand bucks. This Uber gig was putting a lot of miles on his car. The rising gas prices eating into his profit margin made him consider the wisdom of continuing.

As money got tighter, he grew more determined to make as much from Uber as he could. So, he’d committed himself to full days of driving—as much as he could stand—rather than the mornings and half-days of his usual schedule. This would be the first week he’d try, aiming to net a thousand dollars in a week, as Uber had promised he could.

He was also trying a new strategy. He’d park in a lucrative area like Brookline and turn off his engine. While he read a book, he’d wait for a nearby Uber ping. At least he wasn’t cruising around burning expensive gasoline and adding wear and tear to his car.

It was Friday and he hadn’t yet hit the thousand-dollar mark; wasn’t sure he could. But if he did, it would cover his health insurance premium for that month, with a little left over. During the first four days of the week, he’d netted nearly eight-hundred dollars. That thousand-dollar goal was now within reach if he got lucky with some generous tippers and long rides.

Having just dropped off a fare at Logan, Henry headed back into the city. As he drove through the Sumner Tunnel, he got pinged for a pickup in Cambridge for a ride to downtown.

The pickup was two young businesswomen in Kendall Square. They climbed into the back seat together through opposite doors. The first to get in—blonde, probably in her mid-thirties, he guessed—asked him to take them to 138 Milk Street.

Hmm. That’s where Whitman-Selby’s offices are. He didn’t recognize them.

His insight proved correct when, within a minute of climbing in, they dropped the agency’s name. Clearly they’d been hired by Susan since he’d left. They had barely gotten settled when they started talking about the client meeting they had just left and what they needed to do as soon as they got back to the office.

He listened to see if he could determine who the client was, then was shocked to hear the blonde bad-mouth the client liaison by name—first and last. Yikes.

As they talked strategy and rehashed the highs and lows of the meeting, he strained to keep a straight face. Their naïveté astonished him.

The cardinal rule he’d learned years ago—perhaps it was the first rule he’d learned in advertising—was never to talk client or agency business in the presence of strangers. That included cab drivers and people in elevators; in other words, anyone within earshot that you didn’t know.

And these women were blabbing away, treating him like he wasn’t there, not knowing his background and what he might be able to do with the information they were spewing so freely if he were so inclined.

Then, much to his surprise, they started complaining about Susan O’Leary.

“Susan wants me to go on that pitch in Worcester next week with her, but I’m the one who has to do all the grunt work. She gave me nothing. No background—just the company’s name and her contact. She’s expecting me to do the research and pull together a strategy and the PowerPoint deck out of thin air,” the blonde said.

“And it was only last Friday that she first told me about it. Guess how I spent my weekend: same as I’ll spend this weekend. Shit, I am so overloaded right now with accounts, I can’t even think straight. Last time I told Susan that I needed some relief, she bit my head off. Told me to work smarter. Work smarter? What the fuck! I hardly have a personal life anymore. Greg is starting to complain that he never sees me anymore. I’m always working or too tired to do anything. I am so sick of her. I’ve only been at Whitman for three months but I’m ready to quit—with or without a new job.”

Henry struggled to keep from laughing. Then the other started talking.

“Hey, did you hear the latest about her?”

“No. What?”

“She’s sleeping with a client.”

Henry perked up.

“No kidding? Which one?”

“That guy at CamGene.”

“Wow.”

“He’s that hunk from South America. What’s his name? Alberto? Alfredo?”

“I don’t know. I’m not on the account.”

“I heard about it from Bruce in creative who works on CamGene.”

“That won’t end well. That kind of relationship rarely lasts and when it ends, the business usually goes with it.”

So, Susan was screwing Alberto. That’s a surprise. He had sure missed that. It must have been Alberto she’d been talking about that day when she had told Henry that she was in a new relationship.

When they got to Milk Street, the blonde blurted out to Henry the only words either had directed at him during the whole ride: “The far-right corner is fine.”

The two climbed out and closed the doors without another word—certainly not a thank-you. Nor a tip.

He’d been on the road since the crack of dawn and had taken only a half-hour off to eat his bag lunch and stretch his legs in a park he’d passed in Watertown a couple of hours earlier. Prior to his lunch break, he’d stopped at the Trader Joe’s on Memorial Drive in Cambridge to use their bathroom, as he did nearly every day when driving.

All told, he’d been driving for about ten-and-a-half hours. He couldn’t feel his butt anymore and his back ached. Tallying his income in his head, he was pretty confident he’d topped a thousand dollars for the week. Maybe he’d blow off Saturday.

Rather than risking a ride in the wrong direction to some distant suburb like Quincy or Stoughton, he shut off the Uber app and aimed for home, a short driving distance from downtown. However, with the rush hour congestion, it took him nearly forty-five minutes.

After parking in his assigned space, he grabbed his mail from the common mailbox station. Nothing but junk mail. Why bother checking? he thought. That’s all he got most days.

Walking in the front door of his condo a few minutes before five, he changed clothes, washed his face and hands, and settled down in front of his computer.

Going straight to his email account, he skipped past the spam and mundane crap before spotting an email from Wincoat Products, a Framingham-based maker of auto repair tools and auto parts for do-it-yourselfers.

Aha. He’d applied for the marketing manager position there a month earlier. Like the shoe company, it was a consumer goods business, perfect for his experience and talents. And they were in a growth mode, expanding into new territory outside the Northeast. They needed an aggressive, experienced marketing guy like him if they were going to succeed. A perfect fit.

For nearly two days he’d labored over the cover letter and adjusted his resumé to respond to the specific job requirements as outlined, hitting the right notes, highlighting his work on comparable consumer goods clients. An old friend of his in Whitman-Selby’s research department, Oscar Garcia, did a little digging for him and got some excellent inside information about Wincoat’s corporate positioning, product line history, and competition.

His carefully honed and tightly edited cover note alluded to some of this inside knowledge. He thought it was compelling and insightful but with an economy of words. This was a winner, for sure, he had told himself at the time, smiling proudly as he proofed it for the umpteenth time before hitting the send button.

He was finally getting a reply. They were probably writing to set up an interview date.

Dear Sir/Madam:

Thank you for your interest in Wincoat. While your resumé and background are impressive, they do not suit our needs at the present time. We will keep your resumé on file in the event our needs change in the future.

Sincerely,

Wendy Mancini

Recruitment Counselor

“Dear sir slash madam? You fucking asshole!” he shouted at the computer screen, pounding the table once with his fist. “Did you even read my Goddamned cover note?”

Probably just another twenty-something twit, fresh out of some expensive, hoity-toity liberal arts college, still wet behind the ears. He vowed never to buy anything Wincoat makes.

Time for a drink. It’s only a bit after five. Fuck it. He got up and poured himself three fingers of bourbon and returned to the depressing online job boards. But then, he didn’t.

Instead, he flopped down on the sofa and turned on the local TV news to get the latest on the weather. Rain was predicted for the weekend, according to that morning’s Globe. And though he hated driving in the rain, demand for rides usually soared.

Plus, when demand was heavy like that, Uber’s dynamic pricing kicked in and what would normally be a ten-dollar ride out to nearby suburbs could be twenty, thirty, sometimes even forty bucks. Maybe he would drive tomorrow after all.

As was his habit, he immediately muted the TV. He hated the local news programs. Boston’s were as bad New York’s. So much bullshit. Shootings, stabbings, drug busts, house fires, multi-vehicle pileups on some interstate, corruption on Beacon Hill, and the sports reporters waving their pom-poms for the Red Sox. The usual crap every day.

But he did unmute the local ads so he could stay current with what his former cohorts were up to. He amused himself trying to guess which agency produced which commercials and passed judgment on their quality.

While waiting for the weather report, he sipped his bourbon. His mind wandered and he continued to think about his job hunt.

What’s the use? He’d tried everything: shortened his resumé to disguise his true age, dropping the year of his college graduation and lopping off early jobs to make it appear that he was in his forties, and not his real age of fifty-four. He’d done the same on his LinkedIn profile.

Knowing that most companies and agencies now used screening software, he always customized each submission, carefully reconstructing his resumé and cover letters to include the right words, in the right order, in the right frequency. He’d inflated particular experiences and deemphasized others to match the requirements specified in each job opening.

But no matter what he did, regardless of how carefully he researched and wrote his cover letters, it made no difference whatsoever. He was still an unemployable wash-out.

If he’d been paid at the going rate for all the hours wasted looking for a new job, he’d be able to retire comfortably now. How many jobs had he applied for? How much time had he wasted? No idea. An awful lot, that’s for sure.

He stood and went back to his computer where he kept a careful log on an Excel spreadsheet. A quick scan of the left-hand column told him one-hundred seventeen submissions in seven months—and not all in the Boston area. He’d reached out for positions in six cities outside New England: New York City, of course, but also Philadelphia, San Francisco, LA, Denver—even Syracuse.

The graduate school of communications at Syracuse University had advertised for a full-time instructor position in advertising management. He would be a perfect fit. He’d drafted a tight but comprehensive cover letter to the dean citing his many years in the business. His resumé was heavy on accomplishments, naming most of his better-known clients.

No response, which was typical, he had already learned. Not even an automated acknowledgement of receipt. Fuck them. Probably only hired alumni anyway.

Across the top of his spreadsheet were the headings “Company/ Agency Name,” “Position Advertised,” “Source,” “Application Date,” “Date of Reply,” and “Next Steps.”

The “Date of Reply” column was mostly empty. Which is to say, most companies and agencies didn’t even have the common courtesy to acknowledge receipt of his application, other than meaningless automated responses.

The last column was completely empty. There were no next steps.

He thought back to his years as a hiring manager. He had never operated in such a callous, impersonal way, at least insofar as the candidates he interviewed were concerned—though he couldn’t vouch for the recruiters at Whitman-Selby. Maybe they were heartless bastards like the ones he was dealing with now. But not him. Never.

Whenever he’d interviewed somebody—even if they were unqualified—he’d still write each a follow-up note afterwards, letting them down easy. He did, however, sometimes tell white lies when he wrote back.

To a few, he said that they had been his second choice, when in fact he had had no desire whatsoever to hire them. Hell. That shoe company told him that. That was probably a lie, too.

So far, his one-hundred seventeen responses to ads had netted him three in-person interviews and five phone interviews. Except for the footwear company, all had been with either in-house recruiters or contracted external recruiters. As yet, only once had he gotten past them to talk to an actual hiring manager. And that was the damn shoe company.

With each passing month, the growing time gap on his resumé since he’d left Whitman-Selby was having an increasingly negative effect on his appeal to prospective recruiters and hiring managers.

Why continue to beat his head against the wall? Maybe he should reinvent himself the way Kirsten had. But as what? And where? At least Kirsten had a hometown, strong selling skills, and good sense of design and décor, enough so that in a mere six months, her new business was making a handsome profit—at least, that’s what she’d told him.

Henry couldn’t see himself in retail like that. Henry is a talker, a raconteur, able to home in on people’s personalities and interests. How do you monetize schmoozing? There’s no category like that on the online job boards.

He had to face facts. His career in advertising had come to an abrupt, painful end. In toto, it had amounted to nothing. Advertising is bullshit. It’s all an illusion. Twenty-eight years down the toilet. For what? Well, he had made some good money over the years, helped raise a kid—who’s now dead. He had that much to say for himself. But his marriage had vaporized, and he was living alone like a superannuated bachelor.

Once upon a time, he’d been a big wheel, an executive vice president for God’s sake. And now he’s just a fucking schmuck driving for Uber, wasting his mental energy trying to figure out how to make as much money as possible driving, trying to earn more than fifteen dollars an hour—maybe sixteen or seventeen. Pathetic.

He refilled his bourbon glass and returned to the couch to stare at the muted TV. His mind wandered. He remembered the Tokarev.

Standing, he went to the bedroom closet to dig out the metal box from the back beneath a pile of shoes. Kneeling on the carpet, he opened the lid and gently lifted the gun. Cradling it in his hands, he stopped to admire its workmanship.

The box of nine-millimeter bullets stared up at him. He picked it up and dumped a half-dozen into his hand. How do you load this thing? Surely, it’s intuitive. Studying the gun a moment, he could see it loaded at the base of the stock in a removable spring-loaded magazine that held several bullets.

It popped out easily with the click of a latch. He loaded the six bullets, snapped the magazine back into place, and cocked the gun. He put his finger on the trigger, stretched out his arm, aimed across the room at the door. Made a bang sound with his mouth.

At the window, he peered out through the crack in the curtains. Some guy was walking from the parking lot to the condo next to his. Henry aimed the gun at his head.

Stepping away from the window, he turned the gun around to look down the barrel.

It would be so easy, he thought. So easy. The barrel went into his mouth, so easily, his finger still on the trigger. The muzzle’s metallic taste was not unpleasant.

Fifty-Eight

“Thanks for the invite,” Susan said as she opened the bottle of wine she’d brought. “You’re a terrific cook, far better than me. Hell, I’m lucky if I can scramble a couple of eggs without burning them. Give me a reservation or a take-out menu every time.”

“You’re not that bad,” Janet said.

“I’m just being truthful. Have I ever cooked anything for you that you liked? Actually, have I ever cooked anything for you?”

Janet looked down and considered the questions.

“See! You’re too nice to tell me that my cooking sucks.”

Janet’s invitation for dinner on Sunday turned into a long, chatty evening with lots of laughter and multiple glasses of wine. They both lost count.

Janet could see that the evening was having a positive, therapeutic effect on Susan, which had been her mission. She’d sensed that Susan was feeling down and so was pleased to see her friend smiling and laughing so easily.

But the small talk, jokes and teasing tapered off as Susan slipped into a confessional mood, her tongue loosened by the wine.

“You know, I miss Henry. I really do. At the time, I didn’t realize how much he brought to the game. I was too obsessed with my own career to fully appreciate his value.”

Janet stayed silent.

“Henry’s a solid guy. Gets along with everyone. He’s a great listener and knows how to connect with staff—skills I really don’t have. Now I realize it. When Henry left, people in the office were really bummed out and didn’t understand why he’d left. I struggled to explain it. Probably told a few white lies, that he had wanted to go back to New York. But when people found out that he’d left the agency altogether, I had no ready explanation, so I said I didn’t know. But I knew perfectly well why he left. I just couldn’t admit it.”

Susan paused in thought, looking away. Janet held her silence.

“You know, to tell you the truth, I was rather fond of him. I told him that more than once. I guess I still am. The feeling was mutual. He said the same thing to me.”

She looked away again for a moment before bringing her eyes back to Janet.

“I do miss him, Janet. I really do. But I blew it. I admit it. Henry got the shaft and it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Janet replied quietly. “Henry’s a big boy. He made choices. He didn’t have to come to Boston. He could have taken a pass.”

“Oh, no he couldn’t. You don’t know Jeff Matheson. A response like that doesn’t go down well with him. He may tell you it’s up to you, but down the road, you’ll pay the price for not asking how high when he tells you to jump. Maybe the co-leader thing was doomed from the start. I suppose I could have compromised a bit more with Henry. But that Findlay lead was the last straw. I just lost it. I wish I’d stopped and thought about it. I should have counted to ten or slept on it before I exploded. I might not have flipped out the way I did.”

“Did you ever get that business?”

“Sort of. Bob Bullock gave us a one-off assignment. A test, I suppose. We finished that work in March. It was the last thing that Brad Mayfield did for us, and it was great, of course. But Bob has been stringing me along ever since. Said the work was a home run, but he’s been silent about a long-term commitment to bring us in for the whole enchilada. Probably because he knows that the guy who did the creative work is no longer with us.”

Janet ignored the allusion to Brad, a sore subject because he was now working with Janet at Worthen. Anticipating further mention of Brad, she changed the subject.

“But why did Henry oppose pitching Findlay so vehemently?”

“His wife was a senior level exec at Findlay, so he said it was a conflict and off-limits. Trouble was his wife had been fired the previous week. He just didn’t know it yet.”

“Fired? For what? And why didn’t Henry know?”

Susan grinned. “Henry didn’t know it because they were in the middle of getting a divorce and were barely talking. But get this. She was having an affair with the CEO. And it turns out that this bastard—who was married, by the way—was also having an affair with his twenty-something admin the same time as he was doing Henry’s wife. Oh, and by the way, he screwed several other women at Findlay before he got to Henry’s wife. When he got tired of them, he eased each one out of the company with hefty severance packages. Talk about an asshole. I’d say he got what he deserved. They fired his ass—the day before Henry’s wife got the axe.”

“Wow. That’s some serious inside baseball. How do you know all that?”

“Bob Bullock, under the strictest of confidences. And if you ever repeat what I just told you, I will hunt you down!”

She mimed a zipper across her lips. “My lips are sealed.”

“If I’d waited just a couple more days, Henry would have found out about his wife getting fired and we could have gone ahead and pursued the account. But me and my hot head. Sometimes I’m just so impetuous. I’m my own worst enemy.” She groaned, shaking her head.

“How’s your shop doing? Still adding accounts?”

“We’re doing all right. The new business is coming in—thanks to me. Trouble is, we’re barely keeping pace with the accounts that we’re losing. I got a call a couple weeks ago from Alan Mahaffey. They fired us. I guess I can’t blame him. We can’t service him at the level he deserves and is used to. I’d suggested to him we get our New York creative team involved, but he nixed that idea. I’ll tell you what, there is so much bullshit to deal with when you’re running an office. I hadn’t counted on that.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Janet said grinning, ignoring the mention of Mahaffey, another subject she was eager to avoid, since Alan Mahaffey had followed Brad to Worthen and was now the agency’s biggest account.

“And how’s your boyfriend?”

“No longer.”

“Really? Why? What happened?”

“We dated on and off for eight months. I broke it off three weeks ago.”

“What was the problem?”

“Alberto’s a great guy. Handsome, smart—brilliant, in fact. But he was champing at the bit for a commitment, something long term. He mentioned marriage and kids a couple times, and he wasn’t too subtle about it. You know, he’s Argentine, so I guess he has that machismo thing in his DNA. I wasn’t up for that. It just became too much of a burden. The relationship was starting to feel claustrophobic.”

“Sorry to hear that, kiddo. You had to do what you had to do.”

Sometime after ten, after trying to help Janet with the dishes—which included dropping and breaking a plate—she ordered an Uber and went home.

Fifty-Nine

What time is it?

Henry rolled over and looked at the digital clock.

One twenty-nine?

“Oh shit,” he said out loud.

It’s already Monday. Will I ever fall asleep? I have to get up in less than four hours for the Monday morning traffic to Logan.

Continuing to cruise through the vicious cycle of his thoughts made him evermore wakeful. His mind was racing, rehashing his regrets and what-if scenarios. It had started when he awoke just after midnight. He began fretting about his current unemployed state and finances, wondering what he was going to do.

He knew the worrying was just a waste of time and he was losing much needed sleep for no good reason. He also knew that at one-thirty in the morning, he wasn’t going to find a job or puzzle out how the online job boards might work to his advantage. Nor would he find the magic solution to his financial difficulties.

There was nothing he could do about his troubles by lying awake in the dark obsessing about them. But the circular thinking only worsened his insomnia. And his awareness of his insomnia made falling asleep all the more difficult.

It had been two days since he’d tasted the Tokarev’s muzzle and nearly pulled the trigger. The gun wouldn’t solve anything; hadn’t solved anything.

Why hadn’t I done it? What stopped me? Chicken? A gun would be a hasty exit from all my troubles. Easy exit. No. Actually, not easy at all—which is why I didn’t pull the trigger. No one anticipates the thoughts that race through your mind as you actually begin to pull that trigger.

Though he’d been drunk at the time, the realization that he was about to end his life sobered him instantly—and stopped him.

Now that I’m unemployed—unemployable, really—I have the luxury of time. No. That’s not it. It’s not the luxury of time. Time is not a luxury. It’s a curse, a curse that makes me think in circles.

Anyway, I have a lot of slack time in my days to reflect on my past—both good and bad. Mostly bad. But why is evasive sleep forcing on me nothing but regrets and negative thoughts at this godforsaken hour?

In his nearly thirty years in the ad business, he had worked with dozens of different people—client liaisons, team members who’d struggled with him on tough client pitches and then won together; managers he’d reported to; and people who had reported to him. The good, the bad, the ugly and the in-betweens. And it seemed they were all coming back to him now, haunting his persistent sleeplessness.

Susan. I admired her. But how naïve I’d been to trust her. How stupid I was to lust after her. To lust after her exactly as she wanted me to. Had she done that on purpose, or was it spontaneous? Did she really have affection for me as she’d said? She’d displayed her sweet cleavage to me in the office repeatedly, once without a bra, and often cuddled up to me making sure to mash a breast against me. That night in Pittsburgh when I told her about Kirsten wanting a divorce, she sympathized with me at the bar and rubbed my back as a prelude to inviting me up to her room—which I was only too happy to accept. She almost succeeded in seducing me. It sure was nice to be with her like that, to hold her naked body against mine. I wish to hell now I had made love to her. But was it a setup? Was Gary right? Was she trying to lure me into a trap that she could reverse and expose me in a lie to Jeff? But then, Jeff hadn’t mentioned anything about that the day I quit. Was Gary’s experience unique? I’ll never know because I can never share that with him.

Henry’s mind continued to race, as he struggled to focus on relaxation, trying to bring on sleep, using a technique that Kirsten had tried to teach him: Relax your body one part at a time. Start with your toes and work your way up to the crown of your head.

Then Ginger slipped into his consciousness.

Ginger. Dear sweet, lovely Ginger. She’d always been my favorite of all those I’ve worked with. No one I’ve known lived life as joyfully or fully as Ginger did. I admire her for that. She was the smartest person who ever worked for me. Uniquely Ginger. I miss her. I truly miss her.

And Steve Whitney. Perhaps my best friend. No, definitely my best friend. My most reliable friend. Which is what friendship is all about. Steve did so much for me, put himself on the line for me repeatedly. How can I ever repay him? I can’t. And Louise. Louise. So loving. So giving. I hope she’s okay. I have to call Steve. See how she’s doing. I’ll call him tomorrow.

Henry rolled over onto his left side.

Jeff Matheson’s face came into his consciousness.

Jeff. My least favorite boss of all. Perhaps the worst boss in the world. My least favorite person. Such an asshole. Stabbed me in the back when it served his purposes—so he could run the operation without my wiser judgment. And, to increase his bonus, no doubt. Instead of swearing at him, I should have just punched him in the mouth. Fucking bastard. Prick.

Gary. A competitor who’d befriended me. Should I call Gary in the morning? Ask him out for lunch? I haven’t yet asked Gary for a job, or even for career advice. I wish I’d tried harder to form a friendship with him. But would he have taken it the wrong way? Would he think that I didn’t want his friendship so much as I wanted a job?

A fucking job, for God’s sake! That’s all I want right now. Yes, I’ll call Gary in the morning. He already knows that I’ve been tossed out on my ass from Whitman-Selby. Patty Hennessy told him. He’s probably wondering why I haven’t reached out to him yet.

Am I ever going to fall asleep?

Focus, focus, focus. Focus on nothing. Don’t think. That’s what Kirsten had told me.

Kirsten. I loved her—how I loved her—and been loved equally in return, for more than twenty years—until… Until what? Until she didn’t? Was it when we lost Peter?

And Peter. Poor Peter. What a great son he was. He was always so happy and positive. He used to kickstart my day just coming downstairs every morning with a big smile, quick to give me and Kirsten hugs every morning and every night. He was such a lovable son. I miss him so much. God how we mourned him. Me and Kirsten. Was that when we drifted apart?

I’d never stopped loving her. I told her that in our last conversation before the divorce was final. Only later did I discover the affair she’d had with her boss, Kevin, that had cost them both their careers. Now that was justice.

I met that prick once. He thought he was something else. So superior. Thought he was so suave. Razor-cut hair. Fingernails professionally manicured and polished. I remember looking at those fingernails. They were actually shiny, like the hood of a freshly waxed car. Pocket square that matched his tie. Custom-made Armani suit. Fucking dandy. Where did I meet him? Oh yeah. It was at that Findlay company Christmas party, nearly a year before I discovered that he and Kirsten had been having their affair. I found out later they’d been screwing even before I’d met him. Kevin got what he deserved. Fired. Disgraced. Jobless. Fucking piece of shit.

Henry’s sleepless turmoil brought him back to Susan as he flipped back to his right side.

I remember Susan’s warm, moist kiss. Feeling her nude beauty pressed against me. The delicious shape and feel of her full breasts. Her erect, caramel nipples. Her total, alluring nakedness. Her legs spread wide on the bed. Taunting me. Telling me to come to her.

He was getting an erection recalling the images from that night.

Christ! Why did I stop that night? Why didn’t I just make love to her and lose myself in pure gratification for once in my life? Why do I always deny myself the pleasures I deserve? It would have come to the same end, but at least I’d have that delicious memory now.

What time is it?

Don’t look at the clock again. Just lie still. Don’t move. Just breathe in. Breathe out. Relax each part of your body. Listen to your breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Sleep. Sleep.

Sixty

When Susan got home Sunday night, she stumbled through her front door, took off her clothes, and fell into bed naked. With a midday flight the next day, she’d opted not to go into the office Monday, to take the morning off for a little me time instead. So, she’d be able to sleep in.

Eight-thirty was about two hours later than she normally started her day. She stood in the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her aching head. The hangover was well-deserved, but she had to shake it because she would be getting on a plane in a matter of hours, headed for Cincinnati and a new business pitch. Tim Branch, the New York office’s creative director, would meet her there and handle the creative side.

She’d uncovered the prospect, but she knew right away that it was too much for the Boston creative department—too much for Rachel, actually—to handle. After talking it over with Jeff, they’d agreed they would position Boston as the account lead with New York handling creative.

As the warm water poured over her, she thought about what she would say, but her head was too foggy to concentrate fully just yet.

She thought about Alberto and what she had told him three weeks earlier when she finally broke up with him. She’d been of two minds about their relationship. She liked him and enjoyed being with him. But, as she had said to Janet the evening before, their expectations didn’t align.

He was too needy, always wanting to spend our free time together. Sure, it was nice to hang out with him, do things, eat at nice restaurants, go places, and make love. He’d recently suggested a weeklong vacation to the Caribbean—I can’t remember the island he’d mentioned. But when I told him I couldn’t go, well, that was it. He blew up.

I wasn’t ready to settle down—as he clearly was. I felt squeezed. If I broke up with him, I knew, we’d lose the CamGene account. But if I didn’t, I’d be stuck in a relationship that I had serious reservations about and he would be unsatisfied, ultimately leading to a break-up anyway. I couldn’t string him along like that just to keep the account. That would be unfair to him. I liked him too much to do that to him.

Thinking further about her conversation with Janet, she reflected on what she had done to get to be head of the Boston office.

I stabbed Henry in the back and then climbed over his dead body, for all intents and purposes. That’s what I did. I wonder how he’s doing. What I had said to Janet last night was true, despite her polite disagreement. Henry was a decent guy who’d been treated shabbily. He’s a good man with a good heart.

She remembered that night in her Pittsburgh hotel room. She still wished he hadn’t balked, that they’d made love.

That would have been nice, she thought. Maybe things would have worked out differently. Maybe we’d have become lovers. That would have been great. Our two-person team would have been stronger for it. We’d go on pitches in distant cities and make love after winning new accounts. We really did play off each other perfectly. The bad ending was my fault.

She grimaced at the memories.

The shower, a couple of aspirins, a piece of buttered toast, a cup of coffee and another hour had done the trick. She felt better. After getting dressed and doing her makeup, she finished packing her small handbag. It was just a one-nighter, so she didn’t need a lot of stuff.

She and Jim would have dinner together that evening to plot their approach. The meeting was at nine on Tuesday morning. After that, she’d get an eleven-thirty flight and be back in the office by three.

She ordered an Uber. A driver accepted immediately. He was only five minutes away. Shit. She’d have to hustle. She ran back up the stairs to fetch her birth control pills that she’d just remembered.

Sixty-One

Henry’s stomach grumbled. It was nearly ten-thirty, and he hadn’t eaten anything since his five o’clock cup of coffee and piece of toast with peanut butter. Though he usually packed a sandwich and an apple for lunch, he’d wakened in a haze, having gotten only three hours of poor sleep after his insomnia.

Wanting to get on the road as early as possible that Monday morning, he figured he’d be able to get home somewhere within an hour or two of midday for a civilized lunch of reheated leftovers at his kitchen table.

Bleary-eyed and tired, he was nevertheless on the road early, when the traffic was light and the getting was good. On Mondays, he was usually able to grab three or four fares to and from Logan Airport before getting bogged down in rush hour traffic. Far more people went there early Monday mornings than on any other day of the week, he’d discovered.

Fares to and from the airport paid the best and the riders often tipped generously, happy not to be stuck in the back seat of a stinky cab in need of new shock absorbers, with dirty, shredded back seat upholstery well past its prime.

No sooner had he walked out his condo door a bit after five o’clock than he got pinged. Some guy less than a mile away wanted to go to Logan. Great. That would be an easy fifteen bucks profit—more if the guy was good tipper, which, it turned out, he was.

At the airport, he picked up a pleasant older woman who’d come in early on a red-eye flight from Los Angeles. She was headed to Needham to her daughter’s house to take care of her seven-year-old grandson, who had been home from school sick the past couple days. Had to be there in time for her daughter to leave for work. Perfect. That would net him at least twenty, maybe thirty bucks.

And so it went. By the time the rush hour had congealed the traffic, he’d made another round trip to Logan and grossed about a hundred-thirty in fares, plus another thirty in tips.

Another ride out to the suburbs was followed by a ping and what turned out to be the biggest asshole of his short Uber career. The young man was going into the city to a business meeting, he said.

Upon settling into the back seat, he ordered Henry, “Turn on the radio and switch it to FM 94.5.”

There was no “please,” no “thank you.”

It turned out to be an especially obnoxious hip-hop station.

“Turn it up,” he commanded. Henry was practically retching.

The guy was in a hurry. Instead of letting Henry’s Waze app direct them around congestion, he insisted on his own route, which took them right into the maw of a massive traffic jam on the Mass Pike.

That pissed him off mightily. The traffic was Henry’s fault. Yelling to be heard over the awful noise coming from the radio, he harangued Henry to find a quicker route—an impossibility since they were now stuck on the mired Interstate, past any viable exit ramps.

The guy arrived at his destination five minutes late. Told Henry to “Go fuck yourself” as he slammed the door far too hard. Henry couldn’t turn off the radio fast enough.

“Fucking prick,” he muttered, and drove off.

Later, Henry discovered he’d been given a single star rating out of five. He’d never gotten anything but five-star ratings. Shithead.

Henry later got even with him, giving him in return a one-star rating that evening when he sat at his computer. A one-star passenger rating required an explanation, which Henry was only too happy to provide—in great detail. A few days later, Uber wrote him back to say the passenger had been expunged from their systems—which meant he could never use Uber again. It was the one and only time Uber had done him any favors.

After that nightmare, he was pinged from the BU area. Probably another pain-in-the-ass cross-campus jaunt netting him the minimum $3.20.

When he arrived, he found a girl outside her dorm with her phone pressed against her ear, looking irritated. She wore flannel pajama bottoms, Ugg slippers, and a big floppy sweatshirt—along with some godawful perfume. The argument on her phone was with her boyfriend, Henry surmised. She never spoke to Henry; she just pointed west down Commonwealth Avenue and commanded, “Go,” after she’d jumped in and slammed the door, still on her phone.

She hadn’t keyed in an address, leaving Henry guessing as to where she wanted to go. As he drove past the heretofore unknown destination—a classroom building—she interrupted her argument long enough to shout at Henry.

“Stop here!”

Bitch. And, of course, no tip.

He continued heading west after dropping her off. Passing the Boston College campus reminded him of Gary Hannon and his insomniac thoughts the previous night. He pulled over to the curb and called him. Got his voice mail.

“Hi Gary. It’s Henry Bancroft. Long time no see. I was wondering if you’d like to get together for lunch again. My treat. I’d like to pick your brains. Give me a call when you get a chance. Thanks.”

As he pulled back into traffic, his Uber app dinged again. It was a Newton Highlands pickup wanting to go to the airport. The pickup was close. Perfect. He could go home after that and have a decent lunch. He accepted it.

Five minutes later, he pulled up at a white neo-colonial and stopped at the curb. Within seconds, the front door opened and out stepped Susan O’Leary.

Oh, shit. Henry considered driving away, but it was too late. He’d already accepted the ride, and she’d seen his car and would be climbing into the back seat within seconds. Nothing he could do now.

She only had a small overnight bag and her purse, so he didn’t have to get out to put it in the back for her. When she opened the back door and saw who was driving, she gasped.

“Henry? Is that you?”

“Uber at your service, ma’am,” he said, as he smiled at her over his shoulder. It was all he could come up with.

“Well, I’m not going to sit in the back seat.” She closed the back door and climbed in next to Henry.

“I am surprised. So, after Jeff fucked you over, you had to resort to Uber?”

“Well, it’s a job, or sort of a job, I guess. Just trying to make ends meet until I can find something more along the lines of my experience. By the way, which terminal are we going to?”

She seemed startled by the question, as though she’d forgotten that she was headed for the airport.

“Uh, yeah. Terminal A. I’m flying Delta to Cincinnati. New business pitch.”

She strapped on the seat belt and settled in.

“It’s great to see you, Henry. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. How are you?”

“Oh, fine. Just fine.”

“My God. How long’s it been?”

“Well, it’s been seven months since Jeff screwed me over.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I was so pigheaded. And you suffered the worst of it. I’ve been feeling awful about it.”

Henry could think of nothing to say, but was curious where Susan’s thoughts would take her, so he stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the road, letting her talk.

“Henry, I mean it. I was out of line. I didn’t realize it at the time. I miss you. I miss laughing with you. I miss going out for drinks after work. And your wisdom. Your people skills. Your positive energy. We were such a great team, and I was just too arrogant to see that. I can never make it up to you. I was telling Janet last night how awful I feel, and I was wondering what I could do for you.”

She paused, looking at him.

Henry let the silence settle. He still couldn’t think of an appropriate response. They would have about twenty minutes to talk. Where was this conversation going to go?

“I don’t know. I don’t have an answer for you, Susan.”

“Why Uber? Couldn’t you get another agency job? Or something on the client side?”

“That’s been one on-going, very frustrating experience. You have no idea. I missed the memo. Apparently they’re not hiring older white men anymore. I was even told in confidence that a company didn’t hire me for a job I was perfect for because they had to hire a minority candidate. Some sort of threatened lawsuit. They had the gall to tell me I was their second choice. I can’t tell you how many resumés I’ve sent out. Basically, I’m thinking I might move to Alaska. Maybe I’ll become a fur trapper or a gold miner,” and he laughed, a laugh Susan didn’t recognize.

“Oh, God, Henry. It’s worse than I thought. You’re so talented. You have so much to offer. And it’s all going to waste. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

They stopped at a red light.

He paused a beat, inhaled, and turned to face her. “Yes. I can forgive you, Susan. I know you got caught up in your ego, your desire to make your mark. You’re not the first one to let your ego run your life.”

“Henry, when I realized you weren’t leaving Boston, not going back to New York, I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, if you did go back, it would mean losing you. But at the same time, if you stayed, it would mean I wouldn’t be taking over the Boston office as I’d always wanted. At the time, that was clearly more important in my mind than having you, than continuing our great working relationship. But in hindsight, I know now I was wrong. I guess that’s what I’m most sorry about. My own short-sightedness. I really am sorry that it wound up hurting you most.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. I’m a big boy. I made my choices.”

“But you wouldn’t have had to make those choices if I hadn’t done what I did.”

“I forgive you, Susan. Okay?” He glanced at her and smiled. “I had insomnia last night and spent a lot of that time thinking about you. I miss you, too.”

She sighed and looked away a moment before bringing a smile back to him. “By the way, I met one of your old New York account supervisors.”

“Which one?”

“Ginger Simmons. In New York, back in August. I was there for a meeting of the office heads.”

“Did you talk with her?”

She laughed. “Oh yeah. Actually, she talked at me. I was standing at the mirror in the ladies’ room during a break, and she came in. I guess she recognized me and introduced herself.”

“Ginger is my superstar,” he said with a grin.

“She’s also your biggest fan. She told me I’d been unfair to you. She didn’t give me a chance to get a word in edgewise. Just talked right over me, told me how wonderful you are and said I had blown it. That losing you was a big loss for the entire agency, not just for Boston. Then she turned on her heel and left in a huff. Clearly, she doesn’t like me.”

“That’s my Ginger,” he said, grinning.

They were approaching the airport.

“Henry, what can I do for you now? Anything.”

“There is one thing.”

“Name it.”

“I would like to have dinner with you. Can we do that? It’s kind of awkward talking right now, the surprise of meeting up like this, and me being your Uber driver and all. I’d like the have the leisure of talking over a long dinner, drink some wine with you again. Just like old times,” and he glanced over at her to give her a small smile.

“Of course,” she said and laughed, the same breathy laugh that Henry remembered so fondly.

They were at Terminal A. Henry pulled up to the curb.

As she opened the door, she stopped, turned, looked at him, and leaned over to him. Her lips met his. They kissed and held it for several seconds.

Pulling away, she looked into his eyes again.

“I’ve missed you, Henry.”

She turned again and put her feet on the ground.

“Gotta run for my plane,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder with a wide smile. “I’ll call you later this week to set up that dinner date. Bye.”

Henry waved. He, too, was smiling; still smiling long after he’d driven away from the terminal.

Part Four

Sixty-Two

It was late May and, for the second time in two months, Kirsten was out on a dinner date with Ray Norris—again at Brindle’s Steakhouse. She’d found him to be a decent man: generous, thoughtful, utterly without duplicity. Exactly what he seemed.

Unfortunately, he was also a bit boring and provincial—but in a charming way. He spoke with the same flat A’s of Minnesota that had once so embarrassed the seventeen-year-old Kirsten Olsen when she went off for her freshman year at Notre Dame. She’d worked hard to erase her accent. No one else there had sounded like her and she hadn’t wanted to stand out.

Just as she’d grown more at ease with him, he too was loosening up. His quirky sense of humor had come to the fore in unexpected ways. He liked to tell corny jokes, usually involving puns.

“Hey Kirsten,” he asked. “Did you hear about the kidnapping at the school?”

“Oh, no!” she said, alarmed. “What happened?”

“It’s okay. They woke him up.”

She laughed and groaned at the same time.

“I also heard that a dentist and manicurist here in town are having a rough time of it in their marriage.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. They fight tooth and nail.”

“Stop it,” she said as she laughed.

They were the sort of jokes that likely amused his grandchildren while making his grown children groan just as Kirsten had. His kids had probably heard them dozens of times.

While they ate and talked, Kirsten confessed that she was tiring of the six-days-a-week grind. Of the assistants she’d hired in the past six months, none had stuck around long enough to earn her trust so that she felt comfortable taking a day off now and then or coming in late. Every day, she had to open the shop at ten and close it herself at six. It made for a long day.

“Why don’t you let me run the shop a day or two a week so you can take some time off? I don’t mind. I enjoy working there.”

“That’s sweet of you, Ray. And maybe we can do that. But actually, I need to start paying you. It doesn’t feel right that you’re not making any money while you’ve become so much a part of the shop, so helpful and so good with the customers.”

“That’s okay. Like I told you, I have a good pension and plenty of money in the bank. I’d rather see you plow what you don’t pay me into growing the business. I’ve been thinking… Maybe you should move into a larger space so you can expand your offerings. You have a natural instinct for products that Kimball folks like. I know of a vacant retail space the other end of town that’s larger. Would you like me to look into it for you? Find out what the rent is?”

She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know, Ray. Thanks, but like I said, I’m getting tired of the grind. I love the business, but it’s the hours that are getting me down.”

“How about if you let me find you a full-time assistant? Heck, over the years, I’ve hired tons of people. Let me look for someone. They can open and close the shop a few days a week. That should free up more time for you. And then your attitude toward the business might improve.”

“Thanks, Ray. I’ll think about it.”

They had ordered desserts and coffee, which were now being served.

Afterwards, when the waitress brought their bill, she grabbed it. “Let me get this, Ray. It’s the least I can do since I’m not paying you.”

“No way,” he said, shaking his head firmly and frowning. “I invited you. It’s my treat.”

They argued gently for a few moments before Kirsten finally relented and handed him the check.

They walked to Ray’s car in the dark parking lot. He leaned forward to open the door for her. But instead of taking hold of the handle, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, simultaneously bringing his lips to hers.

She pushed him away.

“Don’t do that, Ray.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back.

He opened the door for her, and she climbed in.

Both were silent for the duration of the trip back to town. Soon, he was pulling into Kirsten’s driveway.

“I’m sorry for my oafishness. I guess I’m just out of practice,” he said quietly, sighing.

Kirsten glanced at him and gave him a weak smile.

“I understand, Ray. Thank you for dinner. Good night.”

She got out of the car, closed the door, and walked to her front door.

Ray sat in the driveway until she’d gone inside and switched off the porch light.

Sixty-Three

Henry was out driving for Uber on a Tuesday morning in late May. The weather was ideal: sunny and warm with a light breeze. He had just dropped off a ride in the South End when his iPhone rang. The caller ID said “OLEARY, SUSAN.”

“Hi, Henry. Sorry I’m so late getting back to you. Last week just got away from me. It was really nice to run into you last week. Such a wonderful surprise.”

“Me, too, Susan. It was a nice coincidence. Made my day.”

“How about dinner this Friday? My treat. Can you come to my house? Say, six-thirty or so? I’ll drive us to a special place.”

“You’re on. See you then.”

Henry was smiling to himself as he resumed driving, trolling for a ride, when his iPhone dinged, alerting him to a new email. At the next traffic light, he looked. It was from Jim Spencer, that guy from the beverage company he’d taken to Logan a few weeks earlier.

He pulled over to the curb so he could read it.

Henry – It was a real pleasure to meet you last month. You have an impressive grasp of marketing and gave me much to think about. I wonder if you could come in for a more substantial chat. Please give me a call when you can at my direct number below so we can set up a mutually convenient time.

Thanks.

Jim

“Fuckin’ A! Yes!” Henry shouted as he punched the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn. An elderly woman with a cane walking by on the sidewalk jumped and then glared at him. Henry waved at her apologetically, grinning sheepishly.

Should he call him right now? Obviously, if he’d just sent the email, that meant he was likely available for a call. He took a couple of deep breaths and dialed.

“Jim Spencer here.”

“Hi Jim. It’s Henry Bancroft.”

“Hey, Henry. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Listen, I have some ideas I wanted to bounce off you. What’s your availability this week? Happy to pay for your time.”

“Any time. You name it.”

“How about Thursday afternoon? Say two-thirty?”

“Perfect. And your office is in the Seaport at the address on the email?”

“Right. Tell the guard at the gate that you’re here to see me. Come to the front desk in the lobby. See you then.”

After hanging up, Henry shouted and punched the steering wheel again, careful to avoid the horn.

“Holy shit! This is fucking great!”

Henry shut off the Uber app and drove straight home. He wanted to do his research on Iceberg Beverages so he could be fully informed, loaded with more information than Jim would expect. And he wanted to come to the meeting with a lot of fresh, relevant ideas.

As soon as he got home, he called his old friend Oscar Garcia in Whitman-Selby’s New York research department. Within two hours, Oscar had forwarded a load of valuable information.

The package included a story from the Boston Business Journal from ten years earlier. Iceberg was a thirty-five-year-old company, founded by Jim Spencer and Ben Richards right out of business school, based on a paper they’d co-authored for their entrepreneurialism class. The partners had had a falling out. Ben left the company and Jim bought him out, which is what the ten-year-old article was about.

According to a recent feature in Beverage Industry magazine, sales had been strong and growing in New England for the past several years, paralleling the company’s broadened product line into flavored seltzers and expanded distribution in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine.

Since the company was privately-held, there was a dearth of financial information, Oscar wrote Henry. But he did find a recent story in Advertising Age, which indicated that Iceberg was looking to expand its distribution outside New England, and cross-brand into other consumable categories like snack foods.

Henry rifled through his ample store of memories about similar clients in the past, clients that had grown by leveraging their brand names into new and different product categories as well as through expanded distribution. It’s difficult and requires significant up-front investment, but it’s a sure road to long-term success if executed well. And marketing—the right kind of marketing—was key.

Old client files on his computer helped him refresh his memory of the finer details. He reread some of the marketing plans he’d helped develop, finding much of it pertinent to the current case.

Sixty-Four

Thursday morning, Henry drove out Seaport Boulevard past Legal Seafoods and Harpoon Brewery. Iceberg Beverages was kitty corner to Harpoon on Seafood Way, its loading docks and bottling facility dwarfing the attached office space.

He was banking on becoming Iceberg’s newest employee, perhaps marketing director. In his eagerness, he had given himself plenty of time to ensure he arrived on time. In fact, he was at Iceberg’s gate nearly a half hour before his appointment.

He pulled to the curb, shut off his engine, and sat for a while to review the notes he’d made to himself about the company and Jim Spencer.

At two-twenty-five, Henry parked in the visitors’ lot. Entering the lobby, he introduced himself to the young woman who met him there. She smiled, shook his hand, and introduced herself as Cindy O’Connor, Iceberg’s marketing director. Henry gulped. He didn’t realize they had a marketing director already. She escorted him into Jim’s office.

“I like the neighborhood, especially Harpoon across the street,” he said, shaking Jim’s hand.

“We were here first. But, yes, we’re glad to have them as neighbors. They’re good people—though they have stolen some of our bottling line employees. They’re also driving up property values out here. We’re cramped for space and will have to move soon. But when we do, we’ll make a tidy profit on the site, I have no doubt. The Harpoon folks have asked that we let them make an offer before we put it on the market. They’re growing like a weed and need more space, too.”

“Understandably. They’ve got a great product line-up. I love their IPA,” Henry said.

“Me, too,” Cindy said.

Jim grinned. “Before you ask, yes, we do drop in there often for after-work beers. It’s our favorite watering hole, isn’t it Cindy?”

She nodded and smiled.

“How many bottling plants do you have?” Henry asked.

“Two. This one and a larger, newer facility out in Pittsfield, which serves western Massachusetts, Vermont and Connecticut.”

Henry nodded.

“That’s where we stand today. But the reason Cindy and I wanted to talk to you is that we have big growth plans. I’m trying to line up the financing now to do it right. Looking ahead the next five years, we want to expand considerably, with some brand extensions. We’re going to introduce a line of Iceberg snack foods, starting with potato chips and corn chips this fall. Maybe salsa, too. We’re looking at a significantly enlarged distribution area, too. Initially, we’re going after upstate New York, but I envision that could ultimately include New York City and its suburbs, Long Island, New Jersey, and maybe Pennsylvania as well. After that, who knows?”

“Very ambitious. This all rings a bell. When we talked a few weeks ago, you hinted at an expansion.”

“That’s true. I was on my way to Syracuse to look at some real estate east of the city near the New York State Thruway for our next bottling plant. Anyway, this all points to the reason we wanted to see you today—to get more explicit about our thinking and to get your thoughts and reactions. We have the operational angle figured out. And we’re still working on the financial side. The key missing piece is marketing. Cindy is managing that for us on a day-to-day basis, dealing with our ad agency, and I’m quite pleased with her work,” he added, smiling at her.

“But this has to be an ambitious long-term plan. We need to get off on the right foot. We thought we could use your help—and your experience—in shaping the long-term marketing plan. Interested?”

“Uh, sure. Are we talking about a full-time position?”

“I’d say so, yes. Cindy has what we need in terms of marketing chops. But your deep experience will come in handy as we develop these new marketing plans. I’m not sure about job title. Does marketing strategist suit you?”

“Sure. Sounds fine.”

“We’ll work out the financial package later. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”

Cindy butted in. “We have Worthen Advertising—our agency—to do the heavy lifting.”

“We’re pleased with their initial efforts,” Jim added. “But we really could use your experience and expertise to help get us squared away with a long-term strategy, particularly in getting Worthen aligned into that. I’d like you to work with Cindy and Worthen. I was impressed with your insights and thought you could give the plan that special spark that we may be missing. Does that work?”

“Absolutely,” he said, continuing to smile.

“Okay then,” Jim replied. “How soon can you start?”

“Right away. Tomorrow?”

“How about Monday. We have to get you sorted out with HR first. When we’re done here, I’ll walk you over and introduce you to Dolores Finch, our head of HR.

Later that afternoon, back in his condo, Henry called Steve Whitney to share the news.

“Henry, that’s great news. Like I said, you’re not a quitter. This will keep you in the game. And if their expansion plans take off, they’ll owe you big time.”

“Thanks, Steve… By the way, how’s Louise doing?”

Steve sighed. “I’m afraid we don’t have good news. She’s got stage four pancreatic cancer. It’s terminal. Apparently, this type of cancer doesn’t exhibit obvious symptoms until it’s well established. We had no inkling.”

“Oh my God, Steve. That’s awful. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Just give her your prayers.”

“Are you still in New York City?”

“No, we’re back home. She wants to be here so she can go to as many dance performances at Jacob’s Pillow and musical events at Tanglewood as possible this summer. Doesn’t want to spend the end of her life in hospitals and hospice care. You know Louise. She’s pretty adamant about it. We have a home health aide coming in every day. She’s a big help. But I have to be honest with you, Henry. She’s not doing well.”

“I want to come out and see you guys. Would that be okay? Maybe the weekend after next, June eighth? Does that work?”

“Sure. Louise would love to see you. Hope you don’t mind, but I told her about Kirsten’s affair and your divorce. She was very upset to hear about it. She’s been very worried about you. And I know she’d like to talk to you about it. Would that be okay?”

“Of course. I treasure Louise’s opinions. And yours, too. But I just like hanging out with you guys.”

“Let’s plan on it.”

After hanging up, Henry sat still at his kitchen table, stunned.

Louise is dying and she’s worried about me? That’s Louise for you. The most selfless, generous person I’ve ever known.

Sixty-Five

“I have a confession to make,” Susan said during a lull in their meandering conversation over dinner.

They’d been at their table for nearly two hours, lingering over their wine, considering the dessert menu, talking, and laughing about shared experiences.

“It’s time to clear the air,” she said. “I plotted your downfall before I’d even met you.”

Henry sat back. “Oh, really? Why?”

“I was determined to run the Boston office and wasn’t going to let anyone, or anything stand in my way. I felt cheated when Jeff didn’t give it to me outright the day he fired Chet. After we ran into each other in your car last week, I got to thinking again about what had happened, how I’d forced myself into the position of office director. In the process, I screwed up everything for everyone: for you, for me, and for the Boston office. I lost you. I lost Brad. And I lost a few other good people. I admit it. I was naïve. I gave myself more credit than I deserved. I was a real jerk.”

“So, what was your plan?”

“I didn’t really have a plan. But even before you came to Boston, in my mind you were in the way. I just thought I’d make your life so miserable that you’d want to go back to New York sooner rather than later. But I hadn’t counted on finding you such a wonderful person to work with—and so handsome, too,” she added, grinning. “So, I thought the first chance I got, I’d seduce you and turn that around as a sexual harassment charge against you.”

“You would have lied like that?”

“At that point, I thought so. But, as I got to know you better and came to enjoy working with you, I… Well, I really developed a soft spot for you. You know that. Even so, I could never give up on the idea of taking over. I figured you’d be going back to New York eventually anyway, so I could wait. But then your damned wife came into the picture with the divorce and that changed everything.”

“So, you went ahead and forced me out, despite your soft spot for me?”

She grimaced. “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry. You know, Henry, I’ve learned a lot since I forced you out, about myself and my weaknesses. The main thing I’ve learned is that I don’t have the skills necessary to run an office of nearly a hundred people. But you do. I know that now, and I wish we were still working together as co-leaders. We had a good thing there, the two of us—with that co-leader thing. I should have let that mature, given it more time. If I had, we’d still be working together today, and Brad probably wouldn’t have left either.”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s too late to fix it. My severance agreement prohibits me from even seeking employment with Whitman-Selby. So, there’s no way we could work again together there.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I actually thought we might work out some deal to bring you back.”

“Was that on the agenda for tonight?”

“No. No. Not at all. I asked you out for dinner because I wanted to see you again, to talk, catch up, to be with you. Only later did this idea of bringing you back occur to me. But that’s a moot point now, I guess.”

“Yes, it is.

“Can you accept my apology? I screwed up.”

“Susan, I told you. Everything’s cool. I’m okay. But, are you? Are you okay?”

“I guess so. But it is nice to be with you again,” and she smiled.

He grinned. “By the way, whatever became of Alberto? I understand you had an affair with him.”

“How did you know that?”

“A couple of your account managers told me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know their names. I picked them up in Kendall Square a few weeks ago and drove them back to your office. They were blabbing as though I wasn’t there. And believe me, I got an earful, both about their client work, their low opinion of the client liaison—Bruce Finch, they said—as well as their opinion of you. They mentioned your affair with Alberto. Neither could remember his last name. They felt your relationship with him was jeopardizing the account. So, what happened?”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Those bitches,” she said quietly. “I know who they were.”

“Never mind that. Tell me about Alberto.”

She sighed. “Look, Alberto is a great guy. You know that. We had fun, but I didn’t deserve him. He’s looking for a serious, long-term relationship—a loving wife and mother to his children—and that’s not the role I was looking for. Earlier this month, I broke off the relationship. As much for his sake as for mine. I told him that he deserved a woman who would be his life partner. But he took it badly and got nasty. It came as no surprise when, two weeks ago, I got an impersonal email from him invoking the thirty-day clause cancelling the contract. The stated reason was the agency’s creative product, which he said had been suffering since Brad Mayfield left. But I knew the real reason. At least he gave me a credible cover story. Which was nice of him.”

“So, you’re on the loose again,” he said grinning.

“Yes,” she said, laughing softly and smiling at him, picking up her glass for another sip.

As she held the glass to her lips, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. When she put the glass back on the table, she offered rather casually, “You have me all to yourself. If you still want me, that is.” She smiled and reached out to hold his hand.

He returned the smile and clasped her hand. “An enticing proposition, m’lady.”

He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. They held it for several seconds.

“But finish your story about plotting to get rid of me. You say you originally intended to seduce me and use that against me. But you didn’t. At least, Jeff didn’t mention it—which he certainly would have if you had. What changed your mind?”

She sighed. “I had it all figured out; how I would use that against you. But by the time I invited you up to my room, I was really feeling… Well, I don’t know how I was feeling. Torn? No. That’s not the right word. I had strong feelings of affection for you. I cared about you. I liked you. I felt so connected to you. I really wanted to make love with you—not just seduce you. And I was so disappointed when you changed your mind. I guess you meant it when you said it wasn’t smart to mix business and pleasure like that.”

“I did—at the time. And even though I may have been right, I’ve regretted it ever since. Many times. You know, the night before I gave you the ride to the airport last week, I had a bad case of insomnia—mostly because of you, thinking about you. That night in Pittsburgh was preying on my mind. I wish to hell we had made love. And as I lay there thinking about it more, picturing you sitting up naked on the bed, I… I uh, I actually started getting… um, aroused.”

She laughed. He blushed. A few moments later, he continued.

“Little did I know that I would bump into you that very same morning.”

“Yeah, nice coincidence.”

He returned her smile. “I’ll say. You know, it’s so great just being with you again.”

She laughed. “There you go again, completing my thoughts. Just like old times.”

They both laughed.

She looked at him closely, leaned forward and took both his hands between hers.

“Henry, you say you’ve forgiven me, and I believe you. But I can’t even forgive myself. It amazes me that you can. I don’t deserve it. What I did to you was deplorable. It’s caused me a lot of anxiety and sleeplessness the past few months. And—”

“Susan, it’s okay—”

“No. Let me finish,” she interrupted. “Would it be inappropriate or presumptuous of me to ask you to come home with me tonight, to pick up where we left off in Pittsburgh?”

He smiled. “Presumptuous? That’s not the word I’d use. I just told you that I was turned on simply by the memory of nearly sleeping with you. No, in fact, it’s highly appropriate and, yes, I think it would be a fine idea to resume what I so stupidly interrupted nearly a year ago.”

She grinned. “Well then, how about if we pass on dessert? I’ll pay the tab so we can get out of here.”

Henry grinned broadly.

“Works for me. And thanks for dinner.”

She leaned forward and kissed him.

Sixty-Six

Account supervisor Kendra Smithson—the same blonde woman Henry had overheard in his car—walked out of Susan’s office after giving her two-week notice. On top of that bad news, Susan remembered it was time for her weekly Friday chat with Jeff. She usually originated the call, but as she turned to her iPhone to do so, it began vibrating on the desk. It was Jeff.

“Hi Jeff. I was about to call you.”

“I’m feeling antsy this morning, Susan. I’m getting very nervous about the Boston office. And I don’t like to be nervous about any of our offices. You’ve lost your creative director and two senior account managers in the past two months. Plus, Mahaffey Industries walked away three weeks ago and followed Brad Mayberry to his new agency. Alan didn’t even bother to call me this time. All this troubles me. It’s beginning to remind me of Chet Tinsley. What’s going on?”

“Uh, much as I hate to admit it, I lost another account supervisor ten minutes ago. Kendra Smithson gave me her two-week notice.”

“What? Another one? You’re bleeding staff and clients, Susan. Why? What are you doing up there?”

“I’m shaping the team to suit my management style. Some of the people I inherited just don’t fit in.”

“Well, they fit in just fine when Henry was in charge. And he inherited them all. Is your management style that much different? And, by the way, didn’t you hire Kendra yourself?”

“Uh, yes, I did. It just wasn’t working out. I was about to let her go but she beat me to it. At least that saved us a severance package.”

“Susan, more than a year ago when we fired Chet and brought in Henry, I told you that Henry’s a people person: a truth that you discovered first-hand by working with him. He had a unique flair for finding the right people and then making them happy, making them feel like they’d come to the right place. Now, those people are leaving. This is not good. Are you sure you’re up to this job? Because I’m starting to have to my doubts. I’m wondering now whether it was such a good idea to pull Henry out of Boston. Maybe we should have given the co-leader thing more time. You know, I didn’t push back on you. Maybe I should have.”

“It’s just been a bit rocky lately. I admit. But I’m getting things under control.”

“Well, I’m worried and I think we need to make some changes there.”

Sensing she was about to be fired, Susan shuddered. “Jeff, I think you’re being hasty. Just this morning—”

“Let me finish, Susan. Yesterday, I called Dan Sprague, my operations troubleshooter. He’s agreed to be reassigned from San Francisco to the Boston office to help you out.”

Susan gulped audibly. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Jeff. I don’t need any help. I can work this out by myself.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. I think you’re in over your head. There’s no question that you’re talented, smart, and driven. And you’re the best we’ve got at client management and new business. But running an entire office takes a lot more than that. It takes people skills. And, honestly, I think you’re deficient in that department.”

Ouch. That hurt.

“Uh, what exactly is Dan’s role supposed to be?”

“He’s our roving whiz. He’s been in our San Francisco office the past ten months helping Jerry Adamson, who was struggling, too. Like you, Jerry is a crackerjack at bringing in and servicing business, but not so hot with the people side of the equation or the budgets. Now that Dan has straightened out that situation, I think he could help you a lot in Boston. Take some of that weight off your shoulders so you can focus on what you do best.”

Susan was silent.

“You should call Jerry to get his take on Dan and what he has done for him and the office out there. I’m sure he’ll ease your mind. Okay?”

“Sure. Okay, I will.”

“Dan is gung-ho. Said he loves Boston. Knows the area well. He’s a Tufts alum and hasn’t been back since graduation. He’s eager to return. Today is Thursday. I’m going to give Dan a week off, so he’ll be there Monday next—which is June eighteenth. He’ll be living in the company condo. I want you to help him get settled and bring him up to speed on everything. He’s sharp and he won’t need a lot of your time. But I do want you there the first few days to show him where everything is and to introduce him to the team. Okay?”

“Sure. Sure, I can do that, Jeff.”

“Susan, this is just a short-term thing. Please don’t let it discourage you. I think we may have been a little premature in putting you in charge. I’m confident you’ll appreciate Dan’s guidance and insights. He’s super organized and a great teacher. At first, like you, Jerry Adamson was skeptical and unhappy about the arrangement. Hell, he even threatened to quit when I told him I was bringing in Dan to help him. But now that he’s doing much better as an office manager, he realizes the value. He told me so last week.”

“Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

Sixty-Seven

It hadn’t taken his first week in his new assignment for Henry to conclude that Iceberg’s marketing was a mishmash. There was little in the way of a unifying theme for its advertising other than a tedious jingle used for both radio and TV ads.

While Cindy was bright and hardworking, her marketing skills were typical of someone her age, which Henry guessed as about thirty. They had a lot of work ahead of them to develop Iceberg’s long-range marketing plan and launch a new comprehensive ad campaign that would work in both the existing and new territories.

But his focus was blurred that Monday morning by his recollection of the weekend he’d spent with Louise and Steve Whitney in the Berkshires—a bittersweet time. While he was eager to see and be with them, and he enjoyed their time together, it was also painful to see how much Louise had deteriorated.

The threesome spent most of their time together sitting on their screened porch, talking quietly, laughing occasionally, sharing their common memories of swimming, tennis, fishing, hiking, and skiing when he, Kirsten and Peter would visit.

Wearing a heavy sweater and wrapped in a quilt despite the temperate June weather, Louise sat deeply in an overstuffed wing chair, her legs propped up on an ottoman.

Occasionally, Henry could see the old sparkle in Louise’s eyes, her playfulness and sense of fun flashing. But he could also see that she was in a great deal of pain, trying desperately not to show it.

Her once robust, healthy, muscular body had thinned, weakened by the cancer and chemotherapy, her face wizened, her head wrapped in a scarf to conceal her baldness. She was a pale imitation of her former self.

Louise ate little when the three of them sat for the dinner that Steve had prepared on Saturday evening. A couple of sips of wine, a bite of salmon, a little risotto, a forkful of salad—and many quiet words of comfort for Henry.

Indeed, Louise was less focused on her own misery and more concerned with Henry’s well-being—in keeping with her personality that Henry knew so well. Along with sympathy and words of solace for Henry, she had a few strong opinions about Kirsten’s waywardness, admitting to having been shocked at the news of her affair with her boss.

She was displeased with the way Kirsten had treated Henry and didn’t mince her words. It didn’t add up, she said. That wasn’t the Kirsten she knew and loved.

She said she remembered her as a loving, caring wife and mother, and recalled Henry and Kirsten’s shared grief at the death of their son.

Her recollections stirred those same painful memories for Henry. Louise had moved in with them for the two or three weeks after the funeral. She’d seen to it that meals were served, and that he and Kirsten were doing as well as they could under the circumstances.

As they talked about those dark days of grief, he thanked her again for her strength and bent over to embrace her, carefully and as best he could.

Louise promised to get in touch with Kirsten to give her a piece of her mind. Henry asked her not to, but doubted he’d dissuaded her.

Their parting Sunday afternoon was loving, sad, and agonizing all at the same time. She was too weak to rise from her chair, so Henry bent and kissed her forehead.

Driving away from the house, he had sobbed to the point where he had to pull over on the narrow country lane less than a mile from their house, unable to see the road well enough to steer.

Back in his office eighteen hours later, he had to focus on the matter at hand: a comprehensive strategy to see Iceberg Beverages into a major expansion. Actually, he’d come to realize that there was a bigger challenge: Reinvent Iceberg.

The demographic research they had on hand was more than five years old, and there was a dearth of the relevant, current market data they would need to prepare for an expansion into Upstate New York.

Jim and Cindy had only recently hired Worthen Advertising, which would be presenting a new campaign soon. They had let the existing TV and radio spots continue in the same cycle and media buy for the time being. Likely the target audience had long ago grown sick of that jingle and the grinning, loudmouth guy pitching the product. Listening to and watching the ads only a few times, Henry was already tired of them.

One pleasant surprise was learning from Susan that Worthen’s creative director was Brad Mayberry. Until she said so, Henry had been unaware of Brad leaving Whitman-Selby a few months earlier.

Well, good for him. That would be a real plus going forward for Iceberg’s big plans.

Sixty-Eight

Summer had just started, and Kirsten had finally found satisfactory part-time assistants for her shop. She’d conducted a half-dozen interviews and found three solid candidates for part-time work in the summer for Kimball Gifts & Décor.

A local housewife, Christine Comstock, said she could work part-time in the summer and maybe shift to full-time once school resumed and her two children were back in the classroom.

Kirsten also hired a couple of pleasant, presentable high school girls on a part-time basis who would be available for the summer. So, between the three, Kirsten was able to develop a schedule that gave her some time off now and again.

She closed her shop and headed home, tired as usual. Another evening falling asleep in front of the TV or into a book. After pouring herself a second glass of wine, she sat down and perused the offerings on TV. Nothing appealed to her. She’d just finished a book and didn’t feel like starting a new one just then.

The truth was, she was lonely. Though she’d made many new friends and become reacquainted with childhood friends, she did not feel close to any of them; at least none she would call on a Saturday night to talk about what was really on her mind. In fact, the only person she felt she could talk to was Henry.

“Hi Kirsten. How are you?”

“Good. And you? Is now a good time.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m feeling lonely. No one to talk to. Do you have time to chat?”

“Now’s as good a time as any. I’m not doing anything. How are things?”

“Oh, the shop is thriving. I’ve shown a profit every month since I opened—nothing big, but certainly enough to cover my overhead and put some money in my pocket. I did just hire three women to work for me part-time. Two are high school girls who are only available for the summer. The third is a young housewife. If she works out, I’m hoping she’ll stay with me full-time when her kids are back in school in the fall.”

“Well, that’s good news. Is that fellow still working for you?”

“Ray? Funny you should ask. We’d been having coffee occasionally. I finally agreed to go out for dinner with him. It was a pleasant evening. He seemed harmless enough. Then we went out a second time about a month ago. And don’t you know, he put the moves on me.”

“What’d he do?”

“Henry, I really like the man, and you would, too. He’s very sweet. But Ray is at least twenty years older than me, old enough to be my father. After dinner in the parking lot, he grabbed me and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.”

“Wow. Is he still working for you?”

“Apparently not. He hasn’t shown his face in my shop since. I think he’s embarrassed. I’m sorry it came to that. Next time I see him, I’ll square it with him. I don’t want him to feel badly. That wasn’t my intention in pushing him away.”

She continued to share her frustrations with her life and, as she was accustomed with Henry, he listened sympathetically and asked pertinent questions that provoked some constructive ideas in her mind.

“Something else has been bothering me lately,” she said, after a long pause.

“Oh?”

“It’s Peter. I miss him so much,” and her voice cracked. “I don’t feel like I’ll ever get over him.”

“Will we ever, Kirsten?” and Henry sighed.

“You sure seemed in a hurry to do so.”

“What are you talking about? I think about him every day.”

“You were in an awful rush to clear out his bedroom and get rid of his stuff.”

“Kirsten, that was something like eight months after his funeral. I don’t consider that rushing.”

“You were so emotionally disconnected those months afterwards. You dove into your work and just weren’t there for me in my grief. I think you purposely made lots of travel plans just to be away from me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Kirsten. We were both grieving. People grieve in different ways. I don’t think it’s fair of you to assess the quality of my grieving. Besides, that was a particularly busy time for the agency. As you may recall, we were in an expansion mode, and I was helping organize a couple of new offices out west, those two local agencies we bought in Seattle and Phoenix. Remember?”

Kirsten didn’t say anything. The silence between them continued for a few moments. He could hear her sobbing softly.

“Kirsten, I remember reading a book by Tim Russert several years ago, a book he wrote about his father. Can’t remember the title. But in it, he told a story that really resonated with me. His boss at NBC News experienced a similar tragedy, losing his only son when he was away at college. Do you know what Russert said to him?

“No,” she replied quietly and sniffed.

“I can’t recall the exact words, but the upshot was that he asked him whether he would rather have had his son for eighteen years or not at all. In other words, would he be better off never having had a son that he’d loved, or losing him at that young age. His boss thought about it and said he’d rather have had him for those eighteen years. I kind of feel the same way about Peter. That anecdote came back to me as we were grieving Peter. I should have shared it with you at the time but wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

He could still hear her sniffing.

“Are you okay?”

“No. My life is fucked up,” she said through her tears. “I miss you, Henry. I blew it. I know that.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he stayed quiet.

“I’m sorry, Henry. It was the stupidest thing I’ve done in my whole life. Can’t we patch things up?”

“Not sure what you’re looking for. I mean, we’re talking right now. And do we talk periodically. I’m not holding a grudge.”

“I don’t know what I have in mind. I just miss you as a companion and friend. No one knows me as well as you do. I need someone to talk to, someone to share my highs and lows with. Would you… I mean, do you think that there’s a chance that we might get together again?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Kirsten. I’m still trying to sort out my own life. But I’m happy to talk to you anytime. I’ll lend an ear whenever you need it.”

She felt better after hanging up, though she was sorry to have brought Peter into the discussion and castigated him; sorry, too, that she’d been so forward about getting back together. She thought more about Henry, reflecting on what had happened over the past twelve months.

She had been on top of the world in her ideal job, the one for which she had scrambled and worked so hard. And then she blew it all by getting into a poisonous, self-indulgent relationship with her boss.

“I was such an idiot,” she said aloud.

That was nothing but selfishness for temporary pleasure that had cost me a dream job and a good husband.

The thought brought her back to Henry again.

He hasn’t changed. Still so sweet. Despite what I put him through, he was cordial on the phone with me and given me a compassionate ear. Henry’s a good man. I was just seeing him through the distorted lens of a stupid affair.

Maybe we should get remarried. I’d like that. Where would we live? Kimball? Boston? How would he react to that idea? Or am I being selfish and thoughtless all over again to even consider it? Would he want me back? Do I even deserve him?

Sixty-Nine

The long July Fourth holiday weekend—actually, a holiday week because it fell on a Wednesday—was in the rearview mirror. It was time for Susan’s weekly call with Jeff Matheson, the first in three weeks because he’d been away on vacation.

“How’re you and Dan Sprague working out?”

“Good,” she said, knowing that if she nitpicked Sprague as she was wont to do, it would not go over well with Jeff. “He’s been here for less than a month and I already feel like I’ve got a handle on my office again.”

“I heard. I spoke with Dan earlier this week.”

“Yeah, he’s terrific. I want to thank you again for proposing the idea and then putting it in motion. I’m sorry I didn’t have the guts to admit I was a bit overwhelmed.”

“That’s fine. It happens to the best of us. In the meantime, at the risk of stating the obvious, I want to remind you that this does not take you off the hook for responsibility for Boston’s success. It just gives you a boost to get it done; a little breathing room, as it were. While Dan is fulfilling much of the same role that Henry did in the co-leadership model, you ultimately are the sole decision maker. You can’t fob off the tough ones on him, or me or anyone else—though I would encourage you to bounce ideas off him. He’s good.”

“I understand completely and I’m up to it. Again, I do appreciate you working with me on this.”

“On another note, Susan, have you signed up yet for that course in people management, like I suggested? I mean, ultimately, I’ll have other assignments for Dan, and he’ll have to move on. You need to be prepared to handle the people side of the business when he does.”

“Uh, I’m still investigating it. I did find a course at Harvard Extension School that starts in the fall. It’s called Leadership… Uh, Collaborative Leadership.”

“Terrific. That sounds good. Have you enrolled?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

In fact, she hadn’t even begun looking and had surprised herself that she was able to recall the course title that Henry had suggested several months earlier. She was still trying to get herself unburied and had continued pushing it to the back burner.

“Anything else going on that I need to know about?”

“Oh, you probably heard about Henry Bancroft.

“No. What about him?”

Susan ignored the frostiness in his tone. “He landed a job as marketing strategist for Iceberg Beverages.”

“Really? No, I hadn’t heard. Good for him. I read a story about them recently in Ad Age. Said they’re looking to expand outside New England and add some brand extensions. I wondered if you might have pitched them.”

“Uh, no, I looked into it, but they just hired had a new agency a couple months ago. I’m trying to figure out an angle to get some business out of it. I thought I’d give Henry a call for old time’s sake. Maybe we can help him with the strategy.”

“Do you think he’d actually take your call?”

“And why wouldn’t he? You’re the one who let him go—”

“At your urging, I hasten to remind you. Remember, you gave me an ultimatum. You didn’t leave me much wiggle room.”

“Yeah, but you could have welcomed him back to New York a little more generously. After all, he did come up here at your command.”

“Not my call. It was a board decision.”

She let it drop.

“It’s up to you whether you call Henry. Leave me out of it.”

“Right.”

Seventy

Henry and Cindy fetched an Uber for a ride to Back Bay where they were to meet with the Worthen Advertising team, their third meeting since Henry had come aboard. The driver was Middle Eastern. He wanted to chat.

The young man told Henry and Cindy he was twenty-one and had just gotten his American citizenship. Henry congratulated him and learned, upon asking, that he had come to America with his family from Iraq some twelve years earlier.

He’d graduated high school in Malden and then gotten an associate degree in accounting at Bunker Hill Community College. While he looked for a full-time bookkeeper job, he said, he continued to help support his family by driving for Uber and waiting tables in the family’s restaurant in the evenings.

“We’re the only Iraqi restaurant in the Boston area,” he said, reciting the restaurant’s specialty dishes—which Henry had never heard of.

Henry was impressed by his gumption and told him so before sharing the fact that he, too, had driven for Uber. The young man was visibly shocked. “You?” he exclaimed, looking at Henry in his rear-view mirror.

Cindy also looked at him in surprise.

“Oh yes. I drove for about three or four months. Uber is a great way to support yourself while you figure out where you’re going.”

“You no longer drive for Uber?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I stopped when I got this job,” he said, nodding toward Cindy. “And maybe you’ll stop soon, too. Maybe you will get a job as an accountant and won’t have to drive for Uber.”

Arriving at their destination, Henry asked for and got the young man’s name and phone number and gave him his. “Keep me posted on your job hunt, Hashim. Who knows? I might have some leads for you.”

“That’s very kind of you Mr. Bancroft,” he said after glancing at the card. “Thank you. I will.”

“Call me Henry, please. I’m happy to help if I can. Everyone needs a break. I got mine while driving for Uber and maybe I can help you get yours.”

“Were you really an Uber driver?” Cindy asked as the car drove away from Worthen’s offices.

“Sure was. It was a real eye-opening experience. I’d recommend it to anyone. Kind of knocks the edges off your ego and teaches you a bit of humility. Plus, you meet some interesting people. That’s how I met Jim. I guess he didn’t tell you that.”

“No. He just said he had met you somewhere. Wasn’t specific.”

The agency team of Brad Maybury and Janet Kohler shared with Cindy and Henry the refined ad campaign they’d worked out after their previous meetings, including print, radio, and TV. They also had rough ideas for a social media campaign that was contingent on fleshing out the campaign as a whole.

The campaign would start with a phasing out of David Daly, the loudmouth jerk Henry abhorred. Turns out, Janet explained, that Daly is an established Boston area comedian well known to people in New England. Being an outsider, Henry had never heard of him.

In the first part of the campaign, Daly would basically be saying good-bye and subtly introduce the new theme, centered on young families doing fun family-type activities. By the second phase, two or three months out, Daly would be gone.

“This is all great. It’s really starting to gel,” Henry said. “It should work really well in both markets after we phase out Daly: in the New England campaign where Iceberg is well-known, and as a complementary campaign to introduce the company and its product lineup to upstate New York. In fact, I think it’s got potential for staying power when the expansion continues into New Jersey.”

“Great. Glad you like it,” Janet said.”

“We’re still working out the details of the strategy and talking with Daly’s agent, but you have the general outline, and this campaign responds well to what we have so far. We hope to have it finished and back to you soon. But in the meantime, keep feeding us any insights you might think pertinent.”

Henry thought how great it felt to be talking about these new, exciting ideas. He was back in his element after eight months in the wilderness, disconnected from the business he had known so well and loved.

“I appreciate what you’ve done here,” Henry said as he stood to leave. “Let’s plan on getting together again after we’ve buttoned up the strategy, okay? In the meantime, we’ll talk on the phone. Call me anytime.”

“Thanks, Henry. This is a lot of fun. It’s so good to be working with you again,” Brad said as they shook hands in the lobby.

Seventy-One

It was the first Sunday of September, Labor Day weekend. The Sunday edition of the Boston Globe was the fattest edition of the week, with far more to consume and more time in which to consume it. And he had plenty of time to read the paper, now that he was unemployed again.

Henry’s job with Iceberg had come to an abrupt end. He had delivered the finished marketing strategy to Jim Spencer in mid-August. After some back-and-forth with Jim to refine it, they’d finalized it the week before the holiday. When Jim signed off on it that Monday afternoon, he praised Henry’s work and they talked about the next steps.

Two days later, he called him back into his office.

“Henry, I’m sorry to say that the financing we were counting on for this expansion is not going to happen. The bankers got cold feet.”

“Did you share the marketing strategy with them? I think that demonstrates the viability of your business plan and its likely success.”

“Only the broad brushstrokes, verbally. They’re nervous about the whole arrangement. Felt we would be overextending ourselves, going about this too quickly and too aggressively. They suggested a much more modest approach, which I’m not interested in.”

“So, now what?”

“Well, here’s the other bad news. I’m going to have to let you go. I can’t justify your salary if our expansion plans are on the shelf. And we don’t have the credit line to support it.”

“I see.”

“I’m really sorry. We’re looking at other financing opportunities, but none look promising yet. If something comes through, would you be interested in coming back?”

“Sure. Of course. It’s been great working with you guys.”

“Great. Well, if anything changes, I’ll give you a call.”

As disappointing as that was, Henry was glad to have had the assignment, pleased to have gotten the fresh infusion of three months’ salary into his depleted bank account, happy to have gotten back in the game again—even if only for a short time.

When he got to the Globe’s Metro section, the lead story was about a large unclaimed lottery prize. A winning PowerBall ticket worth six-hundred twelve million dollars had been sold back in mid-April at a Cumberland Farms store in Brighton. No one had yet come forward to claim it.

Accompanying the story was a photo of the store and the clerk who had sold the ticket. The store looked familiar. So did the clerk.

As Henry read the story and studied the photo, he realized it was the same store where he’d bought his ticket—the one and only time in his life he’d ever bought a lottery ticket. He’d gotten it in a moment of depression, when he was feeling like his life was spiraling out of control, thinking that maybe winning the lottery would save him. Was that the same week that the big winning ticket had been drawn? He recalled that the clerk had mentioned a six-hundred-million-dollar jackpot.

He looked at the photo of the clerk. That was definitely him. Where was that ticket? Maybe he had the winning numbers. Let’s see. He’d probably shoved the ticket and his change into the left front pocket of the blue jeans he was wearing that day. He always put change and receipts into the left pocket, iPhone in the right.

But he had to have washed that pair of pants a few times since then. He dug a couple pairs of jeans out of his bottom drawer and felt in the left pockets. Nothing in the first pair. But there something was in the pocket of the second pair.

Turning the pocket inside out, he discovered a small wad of dried-up paper—desiccated pulp, really—in the bottom corner of the pocket. Taking the paper wad into the dining room for better light, he started gingerly picking it apart with his pen knife, trying carefully to open it up to see whether it was that lottery ticket and whether the numbers were still legible. No question, it was a lottery ticket. Bits of fiber flaked away as he picked at it.

After a few minutes of slow, painstaking work, he finally got it partially opened. As he peeled it back, he could make out a little “PB” followed by a colon and a number in parentheses: “43.” That was probably the PowerBall number.

He checked the string of numbers in the Globe. Sure enough, the winning PowerBall number had been 43. A few strands more revealed “55”—which matched the last number. Next to that was “37.” Again, it matched the number string in the Globe. The remaining winning numbers were 12, 22 and 30.

So, he had the PowerBall number plus two of the other winning numbers. But the rest of the paper wad was just too pulverized to pick apart.

Was there some laboratory somewhere that could restore the ticket? He thought of the implications of winning such a staggering amount of money—all the things he could do with it, the places he could go, and the help he could provide friends, needy strangers, worthy charities.

He pictured himself handing out fistfuls of hundred-dollar bills to surprised panhandlers, and he smiled. He thought of what his favorite charities could do with a major six- or seven-figure donation—anonymously given, of course. Didn’t want everyone chasing him around asking for hand-outs.

He imagined a world tour, flying first class to see the places he’d always wanted to see, do all the things he’d dreamed of. Or maybe he’d buy his own jet.

Golf in Scotland. Flyfishing in New Zealand. Scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. A photo expedition in the Galapagos. He’d always wanted to see the pyramids, the Himalayas, go on an African photo safari…

He picked at the wad a little more, but it just flaked apart, turning into dust. That was it. He had half of the winning numbers but couldn’t prove the remaining three.

“Dammit!” he shouted. “That’s the story of my life in a nutshell.”

The front door opened. Susan had returned from the bakery with the fresh croissants both had craved. He wouldn’t mention the lottery ticket to her.

“Did you get my chocolate croissant?” he asked.

“Sure did. Got two.”

Seventy-Two

After more than four months of dating, relations between Susan and Henry were good, though their time together was sporadic. Her work kept her busy, traveling frequently; he was again unemployed; Susan was settling in with Dan Sprague; and Henry was considering whether to return to Uber, since the job market was just as arid as it had been before.

After their first dinner in late May, they’d gotten together for dinners and sleepovers several times during the summer. They had gone away for a four-day weekend to a Vermont bed and breakfast in late July—something she had never been willing to do with Alberto. At the time, neither was looking for a permanent relationship, so it suited them both fine.

Or so they told themselves.

Henry enjoyed being with her and longed to have what she had: a job in advertising.

She, too, had come to look forward to their time together and thought a lot about how they might again work with one another, realizing how anchored in the ad business their relationship was. Did she love Henry? The question gave her pause and made her smile.

They would be having dinner again that night, at Henry’s house where he would prepare a special meal, he promised. He had plenty of time on his hands now, so he’d thoroughly cleaned his bachelor pad and even washed the bed linens, knowing they would get a work-out that night.

But of more immediate concern was his lunch meeting that day with Gary Hannon. Gary had finally returned his call—five months after Henry had left him the voice mail.

Now he was standing in the Hannon & Partners office lobby as Gary walked toward him with a welcoming smile and extended right hand.

“Henry Bancroft. So good to see you again. Let me grab my blazer and we’ll head out for lunch.”

After ordering cocktails, Gary said, “So, I heard from Patty Hennessy earlier this year—I think it was February. Which is how I learned you were out on the street. She said you’d left Whitman-Selby back in October last year. And then I got your voice mail a few months ago. I’m sorry you didn’t get in touch with me right after you and Whitman-Selby parted company. I might have had something for you then. At least, short-term. In February, I didn’t so I had to tell Patty no.”

“Yeah, I wish I’d called you right away. I don’t know why I didn’t. Pride? You know what I mean? I guess I couldn’t own up to the fact that I’d been shit-canned by that asshole Matheson.”

“Was I right? Did Susan screw you over the way she did me?”

“Not exactly. Nothing about sexual harassment. But she did get her shorts in a bunch over the way I was running the office and gave Matheson an ultimatum. Her or me.”

“Well, I was right about one thing. She is one determined woman. She will do what it takes to get what she wants.”

Now that they were dating, Henry didn’t want to get into a rehash of Susan’s faults. He was past all that. So, the conversation drifted into a discussion of the Boston ad game and circled back to Gary’s business.

Hannon & Partners was now thriving, he said. They’d just landed a couple of big pieces of business and were scrambling to find the talent to service them.

“Glad to hear you’re doing well. Not to be presumptuous, but any chance you might have room for an ad agency veteran like me? Anything I could help out on, even on a short-term consulting basis?”

“Actually, yes, there is. Which is why I was glad to hear from you again. Sorry it took so long for me to follow up. Anyway, what I have in mind for you has more to do with helping me retire than account work.”

“You’re retiring? You’re too young. What are you, fifty-six? Fifty-seven?”

“Thanks, but I’ll be sixty-five next month and on Medicare. Anyway, my wife retired last spring from her teaching post at Tufts University. We’ve decided to chuck it all. We’re selling the house in Weston and moving to Colorado where our son, daughter-in-law and three grandchildren live. But I’ve got to button things up here first to ensure the agency continues to thrive after I’m out of the picture. Last year, I hired a terrific successor. Her name is Rachel Huff. Mid-forties. She’s got an MBA and nearly twenty years in the ad business, including time in New York. She really knows her shit. But she’s a bit rough around the edges, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay. So where do I fit in?” Henry asked, figuring he already knew the answer.

“I’d like to engage you for as long as it takes. I want you to work alongside Rachel and groom her. She’s a good woman and smart as a whip. Very strong, but also pretty headstrong. She will appreciate your coaching. I don’t mind if you get involved in any client work where you think you might add value or participating in new business pitches. Of course, I would leave that up to Rachel.”

Henry liked what he was hearing.

“Also, we have a few open positions that need to be filled. Can you handle that for Rachel? She’s kind of swamped right now and I’d like to back out of that aspect of the business.”

“Sure. Can do. Account managers? Creatives?”

“Yes, we need a new account supervisor. But more critically, you can help us find a new bookkeeper. We lost ours last month and we’ve been using temps. We need someone permanent really soon to help us as the year ends and we have to close our books.”

“Coincidentally, I may have the perfect candidate for you. Let me make a phone call. I know a hard-driving young man who just earned his associate degree in accounting. I think he’d be ideal. You’d want him to start immediately?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll let you know. Anyway, I’m very interested in the job. Can you guarantee me a six-month minimum? I’d like to have something I can count on.”

“Certainly. It may wind up being more than that. Hell, if you and Rachel work well together, she may want to keep you permanently after I’ve left. But that’ll be her call, because I will be long gone to Boulder by then—I hope before your six months are up.”

“Deal. When do you want me to start?”

“No rush, but if you can see your way to starting within the next couple weeks, I’d appreciate it.”

“How about Monday?”

“Perfect.”

Seventy-Three

On October twelfth, Henry learned through a mutual friend that Louise Whitney had passed away three days earlier after her long fight with cancer. The memorial service was being held that Saturday afternoon in Lenox, followed by a reception in the country inn across the street.

A large crowd was filling the sanctuary when Henry took his seat. Two of Steve and Louise’s three sons gave moving eulogies, bringing back to him the memories and joys of knowing Louise Whitney. It also brought him to tears, so he was glad he’d remembered to tuck some Kleenexes in his pocket.

Henry didn’t know most of the attendees at the reception, likely friends of Steve and Louise’s from the Berkshires area. Henry recognized others from the New York advertising community who had come up from the city for the service, and he chatted with them during the reception.

Several long-time Whitman-Selby colleagues embraced him. He noticed Jeff and Marilyn Matheson standing at one end of the room with her parents, Clayton and Susanne Blake. Henry avoided making eye contact with Jeff and his father-in-law and steered clear of that part of the ballroom, preferring to avoid having to talk to either them or their wives.

Later, as the crowd thinned. Henry made his way across the room to be with Steve, who sat in a chair against a wall, looking spent. Henry pulled up another chair and quietly sat down. He waited a few moments before speaking.

“As I said earlier, Steve, I share your loss. Louise was like a mother to me. I loved her very much. You know that. She’s gone far too soon.”

“Thanks, Henry. Yes, I know. And she always loved you, too. Always spoke fondly of you. She really appreciated your visit earlier this summer. She talked about you for days afterwards, and I know she called Kirsten to give her a piece of her mind. But, yeah, it’s been tough, and her final days were pretty uncomfortable for her, I’m sorry to say. But my sons and I all got to say good-bye properly and there was joy in that.”

He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes to the floor.

“You know, Henry, we all think we’re immortal,” he said, speaking softly, looking at nothing in particular.

“We think that dying is something that happens to other people. Then, it comes to pay you a visit. And there’s not a lot we can do about it.” He sighed.

“It’s funny, but we cannot foresee the date of our death,” he continued. “Yet we pass that day each year, an anniversary we will never know. It’s odd to think back to last year on October ninth, exactly a year before I lost Louise. She was so full of life, so much herself, not a hint of what would hit her only a few weeks later. Little did we know.”

Steve went quiet again, his elbows still on his knees, still staring at the floor. Henry put his hand on his shoulder, and they were silent for a while longer.

“So, what now, Steve? Staying here?” he asked quietly.

He sat up. “Of course,” he said, finally looking at Henry. “No place else for me. Lots of nice spots on the Westfield River where I can fish all day and not see another soul. And, of course, I have my own little private stream on our property. I hope I can entice you to come up for a weekend of fishing in season.”

“Absolutely. I’d love to do that. We haven’t fished together in years.”

“I love it here. We have some wonderful friends. We all look out for each other. They stepped up during Louise’s final days, bringing us meals, running errands. I don’t think I’ve cooked anything in the past month… How about you? How’s that new job working out?”

“It’s great, but it was over as of Labor Day. I was hoping for a permanent gig, but it didn’t happen. Iceberg didn’t get the financing they needed for the expansion. So, I jumped back into the job hunt grind. The good news, though, is that just last week, I got another assignment from a Boston shop.”

Henry detailed the Hannon job.

“That’s great. And a perfect job for your skill set. I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman brings you on full-time. You’ve got a lot to offer her.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“In the meantime, have you sorted out your issues about life’s purpose?” and he nudged him, giving him his signature grin and glint in the eye that Henry remembered so fondly from their years working together in New York.

“Honestly, I don’t know, Steve. I still wonder what it’s all about. But being so busy and making a little money again, I guess I haven’t been spending a lot of time obsessing about that.”

“Look, you’re going to land on your feet, one way or the other. You have a lot to offer. And you have a lot to be grateful for.”

“No question about it. And I am grateful. But that was pure luck. I was in the right place at the right time to get that assignment with Iceberg. And now, the same thing with Hannon.”

“Give yourself some credit, Henry. You never would have gotten that gig—or this new one—had you not been your usual personable, out-going self—to say nothing of your marketing chops. You clearly impressed both the Iceberg guy and Hannon—enough that they wanted to bring you in to help.” And he clapped him on the back.

“You know, to your question about happiness and life’s purpose. Don't overthink this, Henry. Appreciate the moment. Be glad for your good health. For your friends and your colleagues. Be present with them in the moment—just as you are with me right now. It’s not a stretch for you. You’re a great guy and a good friend to many people who admire you, value and love you. It’s true. Don’t doubt me, Henry. A lot of people do love you. And you’ve always loved them back. You’ve given a lot of love to a lot of people, and it will all come back to you in spades. And count me among that group. I hope you’ll come up here regularly to go fishing with me and share old stories over bourbon and cigars.”

On the drive home, Henry mulled over what Steve had said—and he had given Henry much to think about. Lot of truth to that, he thought, and smiled. But was he happy? He still wasn’t sure. And what exactly did he think would make him happy? He had no idea but felt something was missing from his life.

He also thought about Steve’s remark regarding the unknown date of our death and wondered about the anniversary he would never know.

Seventy-Four

With Halloween less than a week away, Kimball Gifts & Décor was well stocked with appropriately themed goods. The shop was hectic on Saturday, the products were moving, and traffic steady.

Early hints of winter were already in the air, that feeling that had been so much a part of Kirsten’s childhood Halloweens in Minnesota. She remembered the year when it started snowing Halloween afternoon as she walked home from second grade. The heavy coat and boots she had to wear to go trick-or-treating that night ruined the effect of her Cinderella costume—her faux glass slippers left behind at home in lieu of boots; her coat concealing her pretend ball gown.

But her mother had insisted. Kirsten had stewed in disappointment and anger for days, unappeased by the full bag of candy—which she managed to stretch out until Thanksgiving.

The memory brought a smile to her face, and then back to her shop where she sat, surrounded by orange and black items.

Christine Comstock now worked in the shop full-time—that is, while her kids were in school on weekdays. She was opening the shop most every morning but Saturday, giving Kirsten more personal time and the opportunity to sleep in occasionally.

Christine had a head for business and frequently offered solid ideas for expanding the shop’s offerings, as well as ways to draw more traffic. She also was good with customers, many of whom were her friends and acquaintances. She had assumed the tasks associated with getting the shop ready for each new day. So, when Kirsten came in late, there was little for her to do but bookkeeping, inventory, and ordering new stock.

In a shop like hers, there was downtime when there were no customers. Now that Christine was doing the prep work, she and Kirsten used the found time to cultivate their new friendship. Often, the two sat on stools behind the counter and just chatted about nothing and everything, laughing as Christine kept Kirsten abreast of the latest Kimball gossip.

Kirsten shared snippets from her former life traveling the world as a corporate big shot, which fascinated Christine, who had studied business administration at the University of Minnesota. She had dropped out during her junior year when she became pregnant by her boyfriend, Frank, to whom she was still married. She never had pursued a career in business. Nor had she finished her degree.

Frank commuted into St. Paul each day to his job with the state Department of Transportation where he directed the design engineering operation and made enough money that Christine didn’t need to work. It was daytime boredom that compelled her to respond to Kirsten’s help wanted ad in the Kimball Villager weekly newspaper earlier in the summer. She enjoyed the shop and agreed to increase her hours after the two high school girls had returned to their classes.

Christine left the shop at two-thirty each day to pick up Mary, her youngest child, a fourth grader at the nearby elementary school, and then drive to the middle school to pick up her son, Jimmy.

Kirsten was fond of both kids, whom she’d gotten to know because Christine and Frank had invited her over to dinner several times since she’d first met Christine earlier in the summer. She usually brought little gifts or sweets for the children from her shop, despite Christine’s admonition not to.

Kirsten would be going over again that evening and hadn’t yet figured out what to bring for the kids—maybe some special Halloween treats they wouldn’t likely get on their neighborhood rounds—in addition to the bottle of wine she’d promised to bring to accompany dinner.

As she had done with Ray, Kirsten said little to Christine and Frank about her past, leaving it vague as to why she had abandoned her New York career and “globe-trotting lifestyle”—as Christine had referred to it—to come back to Kimball.

She’d finally settled on a simple explanation: Deep down, she explained, she wasn’t cut out for that life; she was and always would be a Kimball girl, where she felt most at home. Besides, she had to be near her mother, who now lived in the assisted living facility on the outskirts of town.

That explanation had satisfied Christine and Frank, who found it to be a positive message about the little community they had known all their lives and adored.

When she was last at their house for dinner two weeks earlier, a gentleman divorcé was also in attendance. Patrick Wagner worked with Frank at the DOT. Christine had checked with Kirsten ahead of time to be sure she would be comfortable meeting him. Kirsten said it would be fine.

The two had hit it off. Kirsten could see that Christine and Frank were pleased. When the evening was over, after Christine had put the kids to bed and the adults had finished their after-dinner drinks, Kirsten and Patrick left together. Outside at the curb before turning to their respective cars, Patrick asked if he could call her.

“Yes, that would be nice,” she said, giving him her number and smiling. As yet, he hadn’t called.

After closing the shop, as Kirsten crossed the parking lot to her car, she shivered in her light coat, insufficient for the brisk northerly wind now mussing her hair; a foreboding, penetrating chill rolling in off the Canadian prairie; that same north wind that had been so much a part of her childhood autumns; an early omen of the coming long, bitter season that she had known so well in her sixteen Kimball winters.

How much longer did she want to run this shop? The banality of the business, in contrast to the fast-paced, ever-challenging work she’d done at Findlay, had become tedious, with little in the way of excitement. She felt as though her talents were being wasted, her mastery of business and its many nuances evaporating.

Nearing her first anniversary as a Kimball retailer, she doubted there would be a second. Perhaps Christine would be interested in taking over the business. She was clever and had demonstrated a knack for both the financial and marketing sides of the business.

As Kirsten stepped into her empty house, the urge to talk about it to someone she trusted struck her deeply, in a place she hadn’t felt for some time. She would call Henry again. She hadn’t spoken to him for several weeks.

She needed to talk to someone who knew her, who knew her life before, her desires and how she thinks. Henry would have an opinion about whether to abandon the shop. He would have some good ideas. Though she still had to get ready to go out for dinner, she called him anyway.

“Hi Kirsten. How are you this Saturday evening? Home from your store?”

“Yeah. Is this a good time for you? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“It’s okay. I can talk a few minutes. I’m going out shortly. What’s up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m feeling at sixes and sevens.”

Oh, God. Where am I going with that? she thought.

She’d forgotten how to confess weakness, something she’d sloughed off as she climbed the corporate ladder. In that world, people didn’t have weaknesses, at least none that they would ever acknowledge, especially not to anyone they worked with—least of all to their boss.

“What can I do for you? I’m happy to listen and offer ideas if I have any. By the way, how’s your mother doing?”

“I’m afraid Mom is failing. Her memory is shot. She doesn’t recognize me anymore. It’s really sad. She’s only eighty-four but she seems much older. Spends most of her day in bed. She has more health issues than I can keep track of. I doubt she’ll last out the year. I’m going over there tomorrow to have lunch with her—not that I’m looking forward to it. She spends most of our time together fussing about this and that, ordering the nurses about, barely acknowledging me.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, not really. But thanks.”

“Uh, I assume your store is still doing well.”

“Yes. I told you before about Christine Comstock. She shifted to full-time with the start of the school year.”

“Well, that’s good. I guess that means you’re getting more time off and aren’t working eight- and nine-hour shifts all week.”

“Yeah, there’s that. Sure. And it’s good to have someone to talk to during the day. Although, she’s a bit naïve and provincial—like a lot of Kimball women. But I must say, Christine is terrific. She’s smart and thoughtful. We’ve become good friends. I’m also friendly with her family. She has two charming kids—Mary and Jimmy—and a good husband, Frank.”

“I’m glad to hear that… Anything else happening?”

“Not really. Oh, and Henry, before I forget, I was really sorry to hear about Louise Whitney’s passing. She was such a remarkable woman, and friend. Do you know she called me earlier this summer?”

“I suspected she might after I visited her and Steve in June. She said she would, even though I asked her not to. What did she say?”

“She scolded me for the way I treated you. Of course, she was right. I promised her I would try to make amends with you.”

“Is that what this call is all about?”

She hesitated for a beat. “Um, I suppose so. She got me thinking about our marriage again. She suggested I spend some time remembering our years together. And when I did, I got hit with some special memories. Like that time just before we got engaged, we bumped into each other at that mid-town restaurant a couple weeks after we’d met. Remember that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Purely coincidentally, we were both there separately on business, eying each other from three or four tables away, grinning like school kids. We’d only dated once. I think it was that day in the restaurant I decided I wanted to marry you.”

“Yeah,” he said, and retreated into silence.

Kirsten felt ridiculous.

“That’s out of leftfield, I guess. You probably think I’m silly. Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay… So, are you dating anyone?”

“Nope, although Christine and Frank are trying to set me up with a workmate of Frank’s. We met a couple weeks ago at their house. He asked for my number, but he never called. Guess he changed his mind… Look, Henry, remember when we talked a couple months ago, I asked if you’d consider getting back together again? Have you given it any thought? I do miss you.”

“Um, not a lot. I haven’t reached any conclusion. I hope that’s okay. I just got a new assignment with an ad agency here in Boston. It’s kind of an open-ended thing, so I don’t know how long I’ll be there. Besides, I like Boston. Not sure I want to leave.”

“That’s great about the job. I’m pleased for you,” she said, without enthusiasm. “Well, think about it. Listen, I should go get ready for that dinner at Christine and Frank’s house. Take care of yourself, Henry.”

“You, too, Kirsten. Nice talking with you.”

Now she felt like a damn fool. What had she expected him to say? That he would rush to Minnesota and get back together and get remarried? That he would welcome her back with open arms? That he wanted her back in his life—after the way she’d treated him? And why had she brought up that stupid old memory?

But she did miss Henry. And at the same time, she deeply regretted what she had done to their marriage. It was entirely her doing. She knew he would never have provoked the separation himself. And the only reason she did was because she thought she’d fallen in love with that horrible human being.

At one time, she’d actually believed she and Kevin might get married. She shuddered at the recollection. What the hell was she thinking? That they might have a future together?

Christine Comstock may be naïve in a small-town way, but there are different kinds of naïveté and Kirsten was certainly naïve in her own way: the worst, most self-destructive way.

Seventy-Five

Henry sat still on his couch, thinking about what Kirsten had said. Would he ever want to live in Minnesota? Winter was coming on and that would be the first season he would experience there if he did.

He remembered several winter visits there when Peter was young, including a few Christmases. It was brutal. Aside from a couple of expeditions to go skating on a local pond where everyone’s feet froze, they usually spent the entire time inside.

More to the point, did he want to rekindle their failed marriage? Clearly Kirsten did. Could he trust her? She seemed contrite. He’d lost track of how many times she’d apologized. But the thought of her screwing that shithead Kevin still rankled him.

Besides, he wasn’t ready to give up on Boston yet. And his feelings for Susan were strong. They were now seeing each other twice a week or more. When they got together, they always enjoyed each other’s company. They talked shop, for sure, and she sought his advice frequently, including the occasional mid-day phone call from the office.

But there was more to it than that. He had always appreciated their conversations on a wide range of topics: business and advertising, sure, but also music, art, politics, and the books each was reading. She was so smart and well-informed.

He often found himself almost hypnotized in her presence; still dazzled by her physical beauty. And they always wound up in bed—either hers or his—and that was always great fun. Sex with Susan was terrific; much better than he’d ever had with Kirsten.

They were going out for dinner that night. She’d been traveling and they hadn’t been together in a week. She would be by soon to pick him up. He considered whether to tell her about the new assignment with Hannon that he’d landed two weeks earlier. He still hadn’t mentioned it to her, knowing her history with Gary.

As he waited, he picked up the latest issue of Advertising Age, which had come in that day’s mail. The front-page lead headline read: “Agency President Admits to Financial Shenanigans; Resigns.”

As he began reading, he realized it was about Jeff Matheson. One of Whitman-Selby’s major vendors—a videography studio—exposed him, the article explained.

It had all started when Whitman’s creative director asked the studio to reduce its fees and they said they could cut them considerably if they didn’t have to kick back a percentage to an unnamed senior executive.

There was an internal investigation and Matheson’s name entered the story. As more details came to light—including double-billing—he was forced to resign. Now, both the New York State Attorney General’s office and the IRS had begun investigations. Multiple indictments were anticipated.

Clayton Blake had taken over the operational side until they found a successor. Henry chuckled.

“I guess those kick-backs help explain how he could afford that big stinkpot yacht he bought a few years ago,” he said aloud. “That and his fully loaded BMW 750i. Plus his custom-tailored Paul Stuart suits and his fancy Italian shoes.”

It wasn’t Henry’s nature to gloat over other people’s misfortunes, but he had to laugh at Jeff Matheson’s downfall.

“Karma can be a bitch,” he said aloud, continuing to laugh.

He heard Susan’s car horn.

“So, Jeff Matheson got shit-canned,” he said after getting in her car. “Just read it in Ad Age.”

“Actually, the Ad Age story is a bit incomplete. That all came down last week. The involvement of the Attorney General’s office is what brought it to the media’s attention. It’s all over the local New York TV news channels. Made the front page of the New York Post in a banner headline: Ad Man Busted – Hand In Cookie Jar with a photo of a fistful of Oreo cookies.”

Henry laughed loudly. “I love it!”

“The board of directors fired him. There was no resignation, as the media are saying. The press release called it a mutual parting of ways. Something about spending more time with his family. The usual bullshit. But he’s got a lot to answer for—in court. Apparently, he’s been taking kickbacks from vendors for something like fifteen years, maybe longer.”

“Wow. But then, all this doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’d long wondered about Jeff’s lifestyle upgrades.”

“Yeah, no kidding. They estimate the total is close to a million dollars over the years. Indictments are expected soon. And you know about the IRS. In the midst of all that, his wife filed for divorce just this week.”

“Oh dear, what a shame,” Henry said with a smile.

“Yeah, I know. I’m heart-broken, too,” and they laughed loudly together.

“Meanwhile, his soon-to-be former father-in-law Clayton has filled the void,” Susan added. “You know Clayton far better than I and I’m sure you can imagine what it’s like having him running things. He’s just a cranky old bastard, well past time retirement age. It’s become a real shit show.”

“You’re right. The first half of my career there, Clayton was president. And frankly, comparatively speaking, Jeff was easier to work with. But that ain’t saying much,” and he laughed again.

They pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Once seated, they resumed the conversation.

“I’m honestly thinking of quitting,” Susan said. “I told you about Dan Sprague. He’s really getting on my nerves.”

“I know Dan. He’s not a bad guy. But you know that he’s New York’s eyes and ears. That’s his main mission.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m nothing but sunshine, unicorns, and please-and-thank-you with Dan. But he’s such a pain in the ass. I’m just tired of it all. I feel like I’m having to prove myself all over again.”

“Try to ride it out. If they choose the new president from among the executive VPs, there are some stinkers, to be sure. But if they pick Barbara Coffin or Brian Blake, it’ll be a vast improvement over both Jeff and Clayton.”

“Enough talk about that hellhole. What’s new with you? Any job prospects? I hope you’re not contemplating going back to Uber.”

“Fortunately, not. But I did meet with Gary Hannon a couple weeks ago. And he’s given me a job.”

She frowned.

“Susan, he’s good guy. Can you leave all that behind you? If I can forgive you, you can forgive him, too. Okay?”

“We’ll see. What are you doing for him?”

Henry told her the details. “I’m impressed with Rachel Huff. Gary was worried that the transition would take a long time, but I don’t think so. She’s a quick study. I think Gary and his wife will be able to move to Boulder much sooner than they’d planned.”

“That’s nice,” she said with a scowl.

“Let it go, Susan. Please. Listen, I want to clear the air about something Gary told me. He gave me the whole story about how things ended with you two. He shared it with me two weeks after our Pittsburgh… how shall I say, our Pittsburgh near-love fest.”

“And?”

“He told me about how you’d turned the facts around. And it scared the hell out of me. I assumed you had set me up to do the same thing. Is that what you were planning?”

She replied with silence, narrowed her eyes, and sipped her wine.

“Well, I have to say I was relieved when the subject of sexual harassment was not mentioned in my so-called exit interview with Matheson. Why didn’t you use that against me? You had a lot more substance on me than you did on Gary.”

She sighed and looked at him closely. “Because I liked you too much to do that to you.”

“But not enough to not force me out?”

She turned away before speaking again, quietly, still without looking at him.

“I was conflicted. At the time, I was fed up waiting for my chance to run that office. It seemed like an elusive brass ring, always just out of reach. When you nixed the Findlay opportunity, that was it. That was all I needed. I figured the sexual icing on the cake would have been overkill.”

“That was kind of you.”

“I’m sorry Henry.” Now she was looking at him again.

“Yes, I know. And I’ve accepted your apology. You know, in light of the fact that you took a severance package from Gary you didn’t deserve, I don’t think I’m going to tell him about us. At least not yet. Do you agree?”

She sighed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Are you suggesting I should return the money to him?”

“It hadn’t occurred to me, and it’s not my call. But it would go far in clearing the air. I mean it: He really is a good guy. Life is too short to hate someone for so long. I’m sure he would accept your apology. Some recompense wouldn’t be out of line, either.”

“I’ll think about it. Here comes the waiter. What are you going to order?”

Seventy-Six

The next morning, as Henry and Susan were chatting over breakfast in Susan’s kitchen, Kirsten called. Her mother had passed away in her sleep that night. Natural causes, she said. Old age and a cascade of problems including kidney failure.

As she was telling Henry the news, she broke down sobbing. Henry was at a loss to comfort her.

“Kirsten, how can I help you? Can I do anything long distance? Maybe help with the funeral service people?”

“Oh, Henry. I wish you were here right now, just to hold me. Can you come tomorrow? I’m feeling so helpless right now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. When is the service?”

“A week from today; next Saturday. Of course, it’ll be in my father’s old church. I expect there will be a fairly good-sized crowd. Mom knew so many members of the congregation. We can have the reception there in the church hall. I don’t want to bring people back here to my house.”

Susan sat by silently, sipping her coffee and perusing Saturday’s Wall Street Journal.

“I think I can be there by Friday evening. I’ve just started a new job, as you know. I can’t really skip out on short notice. Is Friday evening good enough for you?”

“I guess it’ll have to be. But if you could come sooner, that would be nice. I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed right now and I don’t have any real friends here I can lean on.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’m really sorry, Kirsten. Your mother was a terrific woman. I’m sure you’ll miss her, as will I.”

They wrapped up the conversation and Henry hung up.

“You probably guessed what that was all about. I won’t be able to leave until Friday midday. But I don’t think she really needs me to help plan. She is always ultra-organized; she could do it in her sleep. She’s angling to get us back together. At least, that’s what she said the last two times we talked.”

Susan’s eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

“I think that’s the real reason she wants me there sooner than later: She wants time to work on me.”

“How so?”

“She’s asked me a couple times to move in with her. She’s dropped an unsubtle hint a couple times about getting remarried.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not crazy about the idea.” He sipped his hot coffee. “Not sure I can really trust her again after what she did to our marriage.”

He leaned forward across the table, looked closely into Susan’s eyes, and reached out to hold her hand.

“Frankly, Susan, I’m torn—torn between you and her. Kirsten and I have a lot of history together. Yeah, she fucked me over. But even if she did betray me, it’s still hard to turn your back on a marriage of that duration. At the same time, I’m here with you, right now… Can I ask you a question?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

“Do you think we have a future together?”

She looked at him.

“I know that’s a leading question and you’re probably not ready to answer it. But I know that Kirsten thinks she needs me now and you can imagine how that will express itself next weekend when we’re together. I would feel stronger and better able to give her a firm answer if I knew I had a future with you. In fact, I would like to tell her that I’m in a relationship, that I’m in love with you. Because I am in love with you.”

Susan blushed.

“I mean it. I’m not asking you to say the same thing to me. I know how you feel about that. You told me how irritating Alberto was. I’m only asking because I feel like we have something special between us, and I care about you deeply.”

“Look. I am far more comfortable with you. Okay? We have a lot more in common, you and me. I enjoy being with you. You don’t always make me feel pressured when we’re together. As for a future together, I don’t know. But the idea doesn’t repel me the way it did when Alberto suggested it—in Spanish, I might add.”

“No. Really?” and he chuckled. “In Spanish. Suave devil.”

“He did.” She paused and continued looking at him.

“I’ll tell you the truth, Henry. Reflecting on it lately, I don’t think I was eager to commit to Alberto because I was still thinking about you and what you meant to me. Some part of me longed to have made love to you that night in Pittsburgh, to have begun a serious personal relationship. But apparently, it wasn’t to be—at least not then. I’m willing to let it develop. Are you?”

“Sure.” They both smiled.

She squeezed his hand. Then she leaned across the corner of the table and kissed him on the lips.

“You’re a terrific man, Henry Bancroft. I’m serious. You mean a lot to me. I care for you very much.”

They sat still, silently smiling at each other, holding hands.

“Now, speaking about the future,” she said, “I have something I want you to think about.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve had a crazy idea lately. Actually, the past few weeks. I can’t shake it. Don’t answer me now. Don’t say yes or no yet. I want you to think about it. We can talk about it when you get back from Minnesota.”

“What is it? You’ve got me intrigued.”

“Remember when we had that first dinner after you gave me the ride to Logan? You said that your severance agreement prohibited you from seeking employment with Whitman-Selby. You also said there’s no way you could work with me again there.”

“That’s right.

“There, meaning Whitman-Selby. But we could work together somewhere else. Right?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“What would you think about the two of us starting an ad agency together?”

A smile began to spread across his face.

“I know I could bring in enough business to make it a go. And I know you are the best at running the shop—finding and keeping the best talent. Would you think about that for a while? O’Leary & Bancroft? Or Bancroft & O’Leary?”

Both were smiling broadly, staring intensely into each other’s eyes, still holding hands.

“I keep fixating on it, mentally planning all the details. I can even see the logo—our names in a cursive script with a big O and a big B overlapping. Maybe we could lure Brad to join us. And maybe Janet, too. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“I like it. I really like it. I’d love to have our team back together again. I really miss working with you guys. And Janet would be a great addition to the team. I really like her. She’s quite a talent.”

“We’d probably have to make them partners, which is okay with me. Well, anyway, just think about it. Be honest with yourself. Consider the pluses and minuses, about us working together as co-equal partners. You know my weaknesses and I know yours. But I also know your strengths—and they’re substantial. And I’m sure you appreciate mine. It could be like our old co-leader days, but better because it would be ours. The profits would be for us, not some corporate board in New York.”

She continued smiling at him.

“We’ll talk about it when you get back from Minnesota.”

Seventy-Seven

Henry’s plane landed in Minneapolis at five. The thirty-five-mile drive to Kimball would take about an hour since he was in the middle of Friday afternoon rush hour traffic. He had made reservations at the Comfort Suites Inn just outside of town, ignoring Kirsten’s invitation to stay at her house.

In addition to the rush hour, he was also slowed by the previous night’s first substantial snowfall of the season, the remnants of which were still on the roadways, the occasional snowplow roaring past in the opposite direction.

After checking in at the hotel, he drove to Kirsten’s house, arriving a little after seven. She hugged him at the door.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I am not looking forward to tomorrow. Will you sit with me in church?”

“Of course I will. But it’s kind of chilly out here on the porch. Can we go inside?”

She laughed. “Sorry. Silly me. Where’s your suitcase? You’re not staying at a hotel, are you?”

“Yes, I am. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay with you overnight.”

She did a poor job of hiding her disappointment.

“Dinner should be ready in an hour or so. Come into the kitchen and keep me company while I finish. I’ll pour some wine. Is Pinot Noir okay?”

“Sure,” he said as he scanned the room. “I like what you’ve done with the house. It’s not at all like I remember it. Much brighter. And it feels more open,” he said, taking a stool at the kitchen island.

“Thanks. That was the plan.”

“Wasn’t there a wall here between the kitchen and dining room? And there was a door over there toward the corner, right?”

“Good memory. I had it all taken out just to open up the room.”

As he sat, she opened the wine—the same New Zealand Pinot Noir that Henry had served at their last meal together some sixteen months earlier.

“Thanks for the wine. I love it. Last time I drank this, it was not a pleasant evening, as you may recall. Our last meal together as husband and wife, in a manner of speaking.”

She cringed.

“Is this what you served that night? Oh, dear. I guess I didn’t realize that. I just remembered that this was one of our favorites, from that wonderful trip we took to New Zealand. I was so pleased to find it here in Kimball. Gee. That night is a bad memory, so I guess having the wine tonight was a bad choice. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Where did you go that Saturday night? I saw Helen on Sunday morning at Starbucks, and she told me she hadn’t been with you. Hadn’t even talked to you in weeks.”

She reddened. “Actually, I stayed at the gym quite late. Soaked in the hot tub and then sat in the sauna. I didn’t leave until it closed. And then I went out for dinner by myself at a little place in Rye. I couldn’t bear to face you.”

Henry looked doubtful. “Really? You told me you had a hair appointment, followed by dinner with Helen. But you stayed late at the gym and dined alone?”

“I’m telling you the truth. And no, I wasn’t with Kevin that night as you no doubt imagined.”

“So why did you sleep in the guest room?”

“Same reason. Enough about that. Tell me about your new job.”

He went into detail, preferring that rather than continuing to talk about the failure of their marriage. By the time he’d finished, and she’d exhausted her questions, dinner was on the table.

While they ate, the conversation rambled, but both avoided talking about their relationship—either past, present, or future.

“I’m pleased to see that you’ve got a nice life here in your old hometown running a successful retail business,” he said as he helped her clean up. “You apparently no longer want it. What do you want? You asked me that same question a few months ago. Your turn.”

She sighed and looked down. “I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want to go back to my old life. Glad I left that behind. Even if Kimball is a bit dull in comparison to New York, it does have its charms.”

She turned silent and looked at Henry.

He looked away and glanced at the clock on the stove. How had it gotten so late?

“Kirsten, I should go. I’m tired. And you have a full day tomorrow. What time would you like me at the church?”

“You don’t want to stay here tonight?”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

She sighed. Her eyes dropped.

“What time do you need me tomorrow?” he asked her again.

“The service starts at one. Could you be there at, say, noonish? I need to meet with the minister again. I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you there.”

Seventy-Eight

Henry stood by Kirsten through both her mother’s memorial service and the reception afterwards. Nearly everyone in attendance knew him and knew he was there as her ex-husband. Many were pleased to see him support her in her grief.

One woman complimented him for being “such a gentleman, despite their divorce,” which embarrassed both him and Kirsten.

He thought she bore up well. Her older brother, Ben, arrived minutes before the service got underway. During the reception, he hid his skepticism about Henry poorly. They’d never gotten along.

Ben was one of the first to leave. Said he had to get back to Chicago for a business engagement the next day. “On a Sunday, Ben? Really? I thought we might have dinner together tonight.”

“Sorry, long-standing commitment,” as he gave her a quick hug and briefly shook Henry’s hand.

“Ben can be such a pill,” she said to Henry as they watched him leave the reception hall. “There’s always something more important for him than family. He probably has a racquetball game tomorrow morning at his fancy club. He’s always been that way. Well, I guess that leaves just the two of us. What time’s your flight tomorrow?”

“Uh, a little after twelve.”

“Can I treat you to dinner at our favorite local steakhouse, Brindle’s?”

“You’re on. Say sixish? I want to go back to my hotel, take a power nap, and change. Can I meet you there?”

“It’s a date. Thanks for being here for me, Henry,” she said, hugging him and smiling.

This was the first time Kirsten had been back to Brindle’s since her ill-fated date with Ray six months earlier. Henry joined her right on time at six.

They enjoyed themselves and both let their hair down, sharing many old memories. Some involved their late son, Peter, which evoked both laughter and tears.

“Henry, remember that story you told me earlier this year about what Tim Russert had said about losing a child?” He nodded.

“I’d never thought of it from that perspective. It meant a lot to me. I miss Peter so much that I can hardly stand it sometimes. But how lucky we were to have such a wonderful son for eighteen years.”

He nodded. She reached out to hold his hand. She grasped it firmly as tears began to streak her cheeks.

“I feel so badly about how I treated you, Henry. Will you ever forgive me?”

He laughed softly. “Kirsten, stop. I’m losing track of how many times you’ve apologized. And how many times I’ve forgiven you.”

“I still love you, Henry,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“And that’s what I said to you that last time we talked on the phone when I agreed to the divorce.”

She flinched. “I remember. I was so deluded. I know now that I never really stopped loving you. I was blinded. What a fool I was.”

“It’s time to forgive yourself, Kirsten.”

“You’re such a good man. I’ve always known that. You’re honest, loving, and faithful. And I’m a self-centered bitch.”

“Stop it. You are not. You just got off track there for a while. That’s all.”

They sat quietly, looking at one another.

“Henry, will you come home with me for a nightcap?”

“Is that such a good idea?”

“I thought it would be nice. But you think not? I don’t want to press.”

The silence between them lingered.

“What time did you say your flight tomorrow is?”

“Just after twelve.”

“Oh yeah, you already told me that. Then would you like to come over to my place for breakfast?”

“Sure. Does eight work for you?”

“Eight it will be.”

Seventy-Nine

Over breakfast in Kirsten’s kitchen, aside from a few brief comments of little import, both were mostly quiet, each in their own thoughts.

She looked at Henry. His eyes were unfocused, elsewhere.

“What are you thinking, Henry?” she asked quietly.

He turned to her. “About how nice it’s been to see you again,” he lied. “I’m just sorry it had to be for your mother’s funeral. But I am glad to see that you’re settled in here. I think Kimball has mellowed you.”

She smiled.

“Henry, do you think we could make another go of it with our marriage? I’m willing if you are. Could you see your way to move in here with me?”

An audible sigh. He considered telling her about his relationship with Susan.

“You asked me that already. I don’t think it makes sense, Kirsten. Also, you should know that I have a possible opportunity in Boston to cofound a new ad agency.”

“Really? Who with?”

“Susan O’Leary. You don’t know her. We used to work together at Whitman-Selby in the Boston office.”

“No. You never mentioned her. Is she someone you’d be confident with as a partner in a business like that? That’s a big responsibility, you know, and a lot of work. A partnership like that requires a lot of trust in one another. Almost like a marriage. You have to work at it continually to make it succeed.”

Henry nearly gasped at the audacity of her observation, both in application to what she’d done to him and their marriage as well as to what he was contemplating for himself regarding Susan.

“You’re right. I’m confident in her. She’s quite a dynamo. She has her flaws, that’s for sure. At least I know what they are, and I have a pretty good idea of how to deal with them, too. I also have a very solid appreciation for her strengths. She has a keen intellect and a sharply honed instinct for winning. When we worked together, pursuing new accounts, we were quite the team. I was very comfortable and liked working with her very much. Those are the facts I’m weighing right now. But, at the same time, she’s probably considering my flaws, too.”

Am I laying it on thickly enough? Is she getting the message? he wondered.

“You don’t have any flaws, Henry.”

“That’s nice of you to say that, but you’re wrong. I certainly do have my flaws. Susan is still at Whitman-Selby but is fed up and wants out. I told you about Jeff getting fired. Now Clayton is in charge. She can’t stand him and doesn’t want to stick around long enough to find out who will take Jeff’s place permanently. Anyway, this new agency concept was her idea, which she only dropped on me last week. I’m thinking about it seriously. My gig with Hannon will probably run into next spring, which would give Susan and me plenty of time to get everything set up. And honestly, the idea really does appeal to me.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re committed to staying there.” She hesitated, looking away for a moment. “Maybe I could move in with you in Boston. Do you think that might work?”

“Um, I think it’s premature to talk about plans like that, Kirsten. I mean, we’re both still trying to sort out our lives right now, aren’t we? And you still have your shop and your life here.”

Henry had to discourage that line of thinking.

Should I tell her about my feelings for Susan? he thought. How would that go over? Probably not worth the scene.

“I was going to see whether Christine would like to buy the shop from me. She certainly loves the place and enjoys working there. She’s a natural. I’m sure she would do a great job—probably better than me, especially since she’s so much more a part of the Kimball community. I’ve been trying to figure out some deal for her to buy me out in a way that she could afford—you know, like a long-term deal where she would give me a share of the profits over a few years.”

“You’re serious. You don’t want to run that shop any longer?”

“No, not really. But… But I don’t know what I want to do instead. And I don’t know where I want to live. Kimball is nice, but it’s boring. New York is a madhouse. I’d never go back. I don’t know Boston. Sounds like a nice place.”

She’s not going to let go of that idea, Henry thought.

“Kirsten, I need to get going.”

He stood.

“Yes… Of course,” she said, looking blankly into the far corner of the room momentarily.

She stood, came to him, and held him tightly. They’d been standing together for several moments before Henry sensed she was sobbing quietly.

“Henry, I love you. I need you. We need each other,” and she said, her voice quavering as she buried her face in his shirt.

“Kirsten, it’s going to be okay,” and he kissed the top of her head before gently disengaging.

“Call me when you get home tonight, will you?” wiping tears from her cheek.

“Sure.”

With a brief parting kiss at the door, he stepped into the chill of the outdoors. As he got into the car, he glanced back. She waved tentatively with an uncertain smile. She watched him from the front porch, hugging herself against the cold.

He gave her a soft smile and a tender wave, and then abruptly looked away as he started the car and put it in gear. He didn’t look again but knew instinctively that she was still standing on the porch, watching him go.

Minus the rush-hour traffic, Henry drove at a leisurely pace and wasn’t focused on his driving, instead thinking about Susan and Kirsten.

Good thing I turned down Kirsten’s offer to come home with her last night. Undoubtedly, we would have wound up in bed. That was the right decision. Don’t know who or what was guiding me last night, but it was the right thing to do.

He sighed out loud.

Why am I so ambivalent? Why is this so difficult? Susan or Kirsten? Kirsten or Susan? And why couldn’t I tell Kirsten the truth about Susan; that we are in a serious relationship? People face tougher questions than this every day. Somehow, they work it out. And they survive to see another day.

As he stewed over the questions and doubts in his mind, he remembered one person he once met who was deft at sorting out life’s little dilemmas. He was perhaps the most remarkable and inspiring passenger he’d had in his brief Uber career; remarkable not just for his life story but also for his attitude, quiet determination, drive, and calm, clear-headed focus on where he was going.

It was only his third day driving for Uber when he got pinged for a pickup in West Cambridge for a ride to the airport.

Still feeling his way as a new Uber driver, he was surprised to receive a follow-up text message asking him to park at the curb at the designated address. “Dan” would be on the sidewalk. Henry would recognize him by his white, red-tipped cane and black handbag. Henry should call out his name and guide him to the car.

Of course. He’s blind, Henry thought as he confirmed his understanding in a return text.

Once in the car, he introduced himself as Dan Hirsh. Turned out that Dan was talkative and personable. As Henry soon learned, he had been blind nearly from birth. Henry was astonished when, despite his single small duffel bag, he told Henry he was headed to Newcastle, England, for a month.

“England? For a month? Why such a small bag for such a long trip? Or did you ship a trunk ahead?”

“Nope. I’m a man of few needs,” he said.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing there?”

“Not sight-seeing,” he said, and started laughing. Henry joined in and laughed along with him.

“Actually, I’m teaching echolocation.”

Henry got a crash course in his technique where blind people can get around without assistance through attentive, thoughtful use of their keen sense of hearing with a soft, repeated click of their tongue. Dan demonstrated from the back seat, explaining that bats and dolphins use echolocation to navigate the world.

“I just stole the idea,” he said, laughing again.

Dan had written books and given a TED Talk on the subject, and he had taught the method to hundreds of other blind people around the world, as well as to dozens more who would become teachers—which was his mission on this trip to England.

As amazing as his life story was, Henry was even more impressed by the man’s relentlessly positive approach to life, evident in the stories he told about his experiences and his readiness to poke fun at himself. Here was a truly remarkable man, a true contributor to humanity, making people’s lives better. And he managed it all with humility, smiles, and the occasional joke.

Henry was also struck by Dan’s stripped-down lifestyle, exemplified by his simple handbag. There was a lesson there for Henry, about ridding one’s self of excess baggage, both physical and emotional.

On their way to Logan that morning, Dan delved into Henry’s quandary over his unemployment status and gave him some sound ideas for approaching the challenge: mostly a reset of his mental attitude about himself and the task. After dropping him at the international terminal, Henry had a fresh mindset and felt better about his situation.

Dan Hirsh would have had no difficulty sorting out Henry’s quandary this particular morning. Henry wished he was with him in the car right then to help him think it through. Susan or Kirsten? Kirsten or Susan? Or, rather, was it neither? He loved them both. Did he want to commit himself to either one?

Did either want to commit to him? Kirsten sure did. But he wasn’t certain whether Susan did. Was her hesitancy somehow more of a challenge for Henry and therefore making her more attractive?

He remembered how, upon first meeting Susan at the off-site, he’d been taken aback by and oddly attracted to her aggressive style simultaneously. Was her strong personality still drawing him to her?

What questions would Dan pose? How would Henry respond?

Both Kirsten and Susan fulfilled certain of his needs, albeit differently. But he found each wanting in other ways. Kirsten had become too needy, while he wondered whether Susan truly felt she needed anyone in her life.

What about himself? Could he make either of them sufficiently happy, give them what they truly needed and deserved in a long-term relationship?

Could he even be certain of a long-term relationship with either? Did he want to grow old with either of them?

Would they want to grow old with him? Kirsten? Probably. But Susan? She was about ten years younger than Kirsten with more of her life ahead of her; still young enough to have children. Would she want to have children? With him? Would he want children at his age?

There were no guarantees in life. Much of it involved leaps of faith. Love and compatibility on the one hand, but on the other: trust.

Kirsten’s infidelity was the worst sort of betrayal. Could he ever get over that? Could he ever erase from his mind’s eye the image of Kirsten having sex with Kevin?

He still was uncertain whether Susan’s seduction was genuine or contrived. Had she been out to entrap him, or truly been physically and emotionally attracted to him? He still didn’t know, even now after he’d grown so close to her, after they’d slept together so many times and had such great sex.

This ambiguity about her motives gave him pause. He recalled her teasing grin as she sat up naked on the bed while he got dressed. What did that mean? Could he put his full faith in her and expect it to be returned in kind tomorrow and the day after that? Would she betray him if and when it suited her purposes?

Both Kirsten and Susan had abjectly and repeatedly apologized, which he had accepted. Yet, why had he been so quick to do so? Had he not been betrayed by both? Did he not suffer deeply for their treachery? Had he accepted their profuse and repeated apologies too readily, too easily, as a matter of convenience, just to put it behind him?

Which did he trust more? Susan or Kirsten? Or neither?

Yet asking himself these questions called into doubt the sincerity of his acceptance of their apologies.

And then there was the same old questions that had haunted him since he lost his job: Was he happy? What was he seeking?

What had he always been seeking from his earliest days, not just as a working adult but as a child, as an adolescent?

What would make him happy? Or was he already happy and just too caught up in this aggravating internal debate to realize it?

How would that quest impinge on or enhance his relationship with Kirsten or Susan? Would either of them fulfill his happiness? One more than the other? Or not at all? Could he fulfill theirs?

His inability to answer those questions had preyed on his mind many sleepless nights, and it was still plaguing him now.

In this moment of profound indecision, anxiety, and confusion, his phone rang. He glanced at it on the passenger seat. The caller ID said, “OLEARY, SUSAN.”

Why is she calling? To ask whether I want a ride home from the airport? More thoughts about the proposed ad agency? Or was it something more personal, more profound?

Was it something about our relationship? Was she ready for a commitment? Was she calling to tell me she wanted a future with me? Or that she didn’t, to let me down easy, just as she had Alberto?

He picked up the phone and cradled it in his right hand, glancing at her name again on the screen.

It rang a second time.

Am I stringing Kirsten along because I’m ambivalent, hoping that Susan will make a commitment? Is Susan stringing me along? Will she continue to balk at commitment? If so, how much longer? She had broken up with Alberto after refusing his urge for commitment. For how many months, did she say? Eight? Will she do the same to me?

Still holding the phone, he took his eyes off the road long enough to look at Susan’s name once more. It rang a third time.

Sequels

Does Henry answer Susan's call? If so, what does she say? What does he say? If he doesn't, then what happens?

More to come...