The Paris Affair (22 page)
Claire set her glasses on the polished mahogany surface of her desk and rubbed her temples. Funny how the traditional style of her father’s office furniture had grown on her over the past few months.
A message popped up on her flat-screen monitor, reminding her of her four o’clock appointment. Gracefully hiding all of the power and network cables had been one of her decorator’s biggest challenges in updating the space for its new occupant. James Sheffield had preferred to keep his computing equipment tucked away out of site and to ask his assistant to print his emails, schedule, and reports. Claire had no intention of giving up that much control.
The intercom on her phone buzzed. “The rep from the U of Chicago is here.”
“Thanks, Steph. Send her in.”
“She’s on her way. I’m headed out, Claire. I will see you in the morning.”
“Have fun on your date tonight.”
Claire slipped her glasses back on her face as she stood and smoothed the blouse she wore over her tailored slacks. She glanced around for the stylish pumps that complimented her outfit. She spotted them next to the reading chair on the far side of the seating area just as her door opened.
Too late. She’d have to conduct this appointment barefooted. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Claire smiled as the woman crossed the fifteen feet from the door to her desk, glancing around the room in apparent appreciation. She looked around fifty-five, with graying brown hair and a plain, but pleasant, face.
“Miss Sheffield,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maureen Glancy. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“And you. Please have a seat, Mrs. Glancy.”
“Please call me Maureen.” The woman smiled as she settled into one of the dove gray chairs opposite Claire. “I’ve never been in here before. Your office is lovely. All of that dark wood could look so imposing, but instead you have made it so very welcoming.”
“Thanks.” Claire glanced around. She had changed out the leather of the sofa and guest chairs for a crisp microfiber upholstery. Men could never appreciate how the bare backs of your legs stuck to chairs and sweated when wearing a skirt. And the fridge in the wet bar was now stocked with Diet Coke and bottled water instead of whiskey and imported vodka.
Maureen slipped a manila envelope onto the desk in front of Claire.
“You don’t need to open it just yet. I want to start off by thanking you, on behalf of the University of Chicago, for your company’s generous support. As the director of development, I like to meet with our donors in person, if possible, about once a year. As you are aware, Sheffield & Fox has traditionally sponsored two students, one in the arts and one in engineering. I know I don’t have to remind you how tough the economy is these days.”
Claire nodded. Everyone in the company had felt the bite that their lower stock price had taken out of their paychecks. Of course, most of S&F’s financial woes had more to do with losing their Shadow Fly contract than with the economy.
“Miss Sheffield, can I count on your company to continue its generous support of our scholarship program?”
“Yes. In fact, I would like to add a third scholarship.”
Maureen sat back in her chair, surprised. “Why, that’s wonderful news.”
“I would like to add a scholarship for a business student. Ideally, for a woman entering the field.”
Claire smiled as the other woman thanked her profusely, and warmed to the praise. She knew that Maureen’s flattery and graciousness were well rehearsed, but she didn’t care. This was her own idea, and she had diverted some of the CEO’s own discretionary budget to fund it. In her father’s regime, that money would have been used to woo customers with golf outings and sports tickets. That kind of marketing and goodwill were still important, but so was investing in the future. And she told Maureen exactly that.
“I could not agree more, Miss Sheffield. Now, inside that packet are the donor contracts for renewing your scholarships with the university this year. My office will draw up the papers for your new award right away so we can get it finalized and start putting your money to work.”
“I am looking forward to it, Maureen.”
Both women stood and they shook hands. Claire came around the desk and walked her toward the door.
“I have to say, this visit has been the highlight of my week. Most of my other appointments have gone the other way.” Maureen stepped through the doorway and paused next to Steph’s vacant chair. “Oh, Miss Sheffield, can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, what do you need?”
“I always get so turned around in these big office buildings,” Maureen said with a self-deprecating smile. “Could you point me toward Mr. Forrester’s office?”
Claire’s stomach did a flip flop at the name.
“Helmut Forrester?” She hadn’t seen him in over two months now. Not since Paris.
“Yes, Helmut Forrester. I thought he was on the twelfth floor, or was it the thirteenth?” Maureen looked at her expectantly.
“May I ask why?”
“I have a packet of paperwork for him, too. Usually our office just mails it, but since I was going to be in the neighborhood, I thought I could save the postage. Every penny counts in my job.” The woman smiled at her own joke.
Claire was dumfounded. After all of the bad press at the Air Show, she was sure that every citizen of Chicago knew all about the botched contract. And their affair. “Well, Mrs. Glancy, Helmut Forrester doesn’t work here anymore. He left a couple of months back to pursue other opportunities.”
Maureen’s face fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that. I was hoping to say hello. His fiancée worked in our office in her undergrad years.”
Claire’s heart caught in her throat and she practically croaked her next words. “His fiancée?”
The woman nodded. “She was such a beautiful girl. And so talented musically, of course. Such a sad story.” She paused, then visually collected herself. “Well, I guess I will be using that stamp after all. Thank you again, Miss Sheffield.”
After the woman left, Claire quietly closed the door to her office and sank down in her desk chair. She contemplated her laptop. She had no claim on Helmut. Not an employee. Not a boyfriend, or even a lover. But whether he knew it or not, he still had a claim on her.
Over the past few weeks, no one at the office had mentioned Helmut. The man worked here for over fifteen years, and everyone acted as though there had never been another CFO before his replacement, a top-notch executive that they’d lured away from one of their much bigger commercial airline competitors.
Or maybe no one mentioned him in front of Claire.
It was normal for some conversations to halt when she walked in the door, but that was something every manager faced. No one wanted to get caught venting in front of their boss. But more than once in the past two months, Claire had suspected that she was interrupting gossip of a less professional nature.
She flipped open the screen. Human Resources records were kept online, and she had a password. But that data was confidential. Personal. When she was preparing to fire Helmut, she hadn’t looked in his files. Then, she hadn’t wanted to know if he had any blemishes on his record, any extenuating circumstances.
And now it was too late. He didn’t work here. She had no right to dig into his life. But there was another option.
Fingers pounded furiously on the keys as Claire brought up a web browser and began searching.
Forrester was a fairly common name, but Helmut was not. And he hadn’t been living like a hermit. He’d been written up in Aviation Week, in Business Week, in Forbes, in the Sun-Times. She found his name on a racquetball bracket at a club not far from the office, and even found him on the title to his condo in the city records. There were a few false hits, too, but it was easy to dismiss the logging safety equipment links.
Finally, she found a link to a campus newspaper article from the University of Chicago, dated more than a dozen years ago. Claire clicked on the link and read what appeared to be a tribute to a student who had passed away.
A sob caught in her throat as she read the words “...survived by her fiancé, Helmut Forrester, who was not injured in the accident.” She highlighted the woman’s name—Olivia Redbloom, how beautiful—and began searching again.
Olivia’s life was not as well documented as Helmut’s, and many of the links that Claire found were broken and out of date. But there was enough. Originally from a small town in Nebraska, Olivia had been a music student with a lot of talent. She had played and sung with a cover band who specialized in weddings, apparently worked as a waitress, and in the past year of her life been increasingly photographed on the arm of a young and serious-looking accountant. They had made a beautiful couple, with Olivia looking sweet but striking, and a young Helmut always gazing adoringly at her.
Claire found a short write-up in the newspaper’s archives about the accident. Helmut had been at the wheel. She was thrown from the car. He sustained minor injuries. The police called him a distracted driver. No charges were filed.
Claire sat back and tried to reconcile the Helmut she knew with the staid-looking young man he had been. She checked the date of Olivia’s obituary. Helmut would have been about twenty-six or twenty-seven.
At that age, Claire and Frank were still deeply in lust for each other and their startup company. They were busy and focused, and dreaming huge dreams of the future. Marriage was a far-off concept, at the bottom of the ever-growing to-do list. It never made it very high on the list.
What had Helmut been dreaming at twenty-seven? Of his future with the musician? Of marriage and a family? Would he have been a hands-on kind of father or the kind who was married to his work, as Claire’s father always had been. Would his youthful love for Olivia have survived a corporate career, or would they have been another divorce statistic, trading kids every other weekend the way Claire and her brothers were traded?
He’d never had the chance to find out. Instead, his thirties had been full of press releases, golf outings and benefit dinners, with a different woman on his arm at every photo op. The life he lived sounded a lot more glamorous and carefree on paper. And in the company gossip.
But the man she knew held a lot more emotion in reserve. She remembered the way he had made love to her after their own small car accident in Paris. The haunted look in his eyes, the desperation in his kisses, in his touch. There was nothing carefree about the way he had held her that afternoon. Claire shivered.
Maureen Glancy said that Helmut donated a scholarship to the school. Claire searched the website one more time and found a link to the Redbloom Memorial Scholarship. Founded eleven years ago in memory of one Olivia Redbloom.
Helmut hadn’t attended that concert last spring on behalf of Sheffield & Fox.
Claire leaned in and studied the face of this year’s recipient. He looked vaguely familiar. She searched for his name and found him right away on MySpace.
“Heh,” she said out loud as she read his latest update. “So long, Mr. Hon. Thanks for all the egg drop soup.” Stevie was the Chinese food delivery boy from her favorite restaurant. And he’d apparently been offered a plum job composing for Disney.
“We ordered from the same place,” Helmut had told her that first night in her office. She closed her eyes and remembered how she’d spilled sauce on her blouse, and been mortified—and turned on—when he’d helped her clean it up.
Claire spun around in her chair, surprised to see orange rays of sunset sneaking around the buildings of the Chicago skyline. She hadn’t meant to stay so late.
On impulse, she picked up her phone and dialed Helmut’s home number. She regretted it the moment she hit the last number. What would she say to him when answered? Hi, I was googling you and found out all about your past.
The phone rang on the other end.
She could tell him about Maureen Glancy’s visit. It was a weak excuse, but it was the best she had. Maybe he would want to get together for a drink and talk?
The phone rang again. Maybe he wouldn’t answer.
But someone did.
“Hello?”
Claire’s heart seized. The voice was female, and youngish. Would he have a housekeeper? At eight at night? But it was too late. Her number was on the caller ID, now. He’d know it was her.
“Is Helmut there?”
Please tell me it’s the wrong number
.
“Um, no. Can I take a message?”
Claire exhaled. “No, thanks.”
“You’re calling from Sheffield and Fox, right?” the woman asked. “Is it about the paperwork he’s waiting for? Helmut said that if HR called to tell you to forward it to his Florida address.”
Claire almost smiled. Of course she’d called from her desk phone, not her personal cell, and the caller ID always showed up as something generic. But it gave her the opportunity to pry a little further. “Um, great. Can I get your name? I have to, um, record who I talked to. For the record.” Geeze that sounded lame.
“Sure. This is his sister, Kelsie Forrester.”
Claire felt like kicking herself. His sister. That was the second time she’d let her jealousy take over about Helmut’s
baby
sister
.
“Thanks, Miss Forrester. Let him know that we’ll be in touch.”
She hung up the phone and popped open another web browser. Kelsie had mentioned an address in Florida. With a few clicks she had it. Big Pine Key, Florida. Helmut owned a beach house.