Tilting at Windmills (28 page)

I had not missed the overcrowded transit system, the crush of strangers against me, or the ritual of scrambling to get to work each morning. In fact, I was grateful that I had to go only three stops. When the train screeched into the station at 59th and Lexington, I shuffled my way through the clot of passengers and then found my way to the stairs that led to the N train. I got on again—along with a teeming horde of others—and we were off, rattling down the tracks toward the West Side. I got off at 49th Street and joined the sweaty stream of New Yorkers as they headed topside. How I had lived like this day after day, year after year, was suddenly incomprehensible to me.

At street level, I headed to Broadway and 50th, bypassing the overpriced deli I’d always stopped at for a bagel or muffin on my way to the office. Food wasn’t on my mind this morning. Instead, I walked along and replayed the phone conversation I’d had with Justin four days ago. He’d taken the call immediately, unctuousness seeping from every pore of his body. Couldn’t wait to see me; how about tomorrow?; not doable, huh?; whenever, buddy; name the time. I did, and now it was just fifteen minutes until our face-to-face. Uncertainty paralyzed me. In all those years of playing corporate drone, no other meeting had held such importance for me, no other meeting had had so much riding on it. My future was before me. And this time, I was going to meet it head-on.

I’d left Linden Corners on the seventeenth of July, the day after Annie and Janey had gone for a vacation. Watching them go had been the hardest thing I’d done since I’d made the decision to leave New York City. Now, it was as though those two events were conspiring against me, mocking me until I could do nothing but take the reins, take control. And that was what I was going to do now. I was reminded of that last day I’d seen Annie, a day without wind and energy, a day when the sails of the mighty windmill were silent and unmoving, as though its life were on hold. Just like mine and Annie’s. But there I sat, on the roof of my car—atop Brian’s Bluff, as Annie had dubbed it—waiting for a breeze, hoping for some sign of life. At some point, I gave up waiting, and I left town the next day with about as much fanfare as I’d entered it, speaking only with Gerta. The bar needed a new keep.

A week alone gave me time to think as I finally made my way up the coast of Maine. Time and the open road had cleared my mind of the clutter of the past six months, and finally I knew what I needed to do. Annie had been right about one thing: I needed to resolve certain issues before we could pursue a future, our future.

I arrived on the eighteenth floor at nine-fifty and was met by a receptionist I didn’t recognize and who didn’t recognize me. But my name rang a bell with her, since I had a meeting with the chairman. That was the title she used, and I refrained from comment. I took a seat in the lobby, watched people walk by, and realized how much had changed in such a short time. No one looked familiar. It was like seeing a play for the second time, and even though the set was the same, all the actors were different.

“Mr. Duncan? Mr. Warfield is ready for you. If you’ll come this way?”

I followed the shapely blonde down the corridor and was ushered into Justin’s sanctum sanctorum. That, at least, hadn’t changed—all thick woods and framed prints, very tasteful, very masculine. Those latter two descriptions could also have been used to describe Justin Warfield himself, who rose when the door opened and I was announced.

“Well, Brian, we meet again,” he said, extending his hand. He was dressed impeccably, three-button suit, tie perfectly tied, black hair slicked back, revealing maybe a bit more gray than I remembered. John’s statement about no one but idiots wearing suits popped into my mind, and I actually grinned. Of course, the joke wasn’t that funny, since there were two idiots in the room. I stood, feeling nervous. My stomach was turning somersaults.

“Justin, uh, thanks for seeing me.”

“Of course. Please, have a seat. Coffee?”

“Sure. Black,” I said as I accepted the chair situated in front of his mahogany desk. Justin instructed “Corinne” to bring me some coffee, and she left the room. I crossed my legs one way, then the other. Was it as obvious to him as it was to me how uncomfortable I felt?

No sooner did I settle on a position did Corinne return with my coffee; Justin already had his, and he took a generous gulp from his mug before setting it down on a coaster.

“Your ten-thirty appointment . . . what shall I do—”

Justin cut her off. “Just let me know when he arrives. I’ll handle it from there. Thank you, Corinne.” He smiled devilishly, his eyebrows dancing along with his grin.

“Oh, and Corinne?”

She looked up.

“Close the door on your way out.”

She nodded once, and then she did as commanded, the click of the door louder in my head than it actually was. Everything, actually, had a sense of taking place inside my head, as though this were a dream and at any moment I would wake up. Just another nightmare to count among the many others I’d had lately.

I didn’t wake up. This was real and I was in Justin Warfield’s office. He wore a supercilious grin like an accessory to his suit.

“Brian Duncan,” he said as he took off his jacket. Rolling up his sleeves to expose those hairy arms, he took a seat and then stared across at me. He drew a pen across his upper lip, like he was smelling it. “So you’re back.”

“Back?” I asked. “Depends on what you mean by that.”

“In New York City—and in my office. To me that means you’re back, and I hope for good this time.” His grin widened; I was pleased to see a poppy seed from his morning bagel stuck between his two front teeth. It reminded me that Justin was just a person, another human being, and no different from—no better than—me. Blood surged through my veins, my confidence returning.

And so I jumped into it.

“Am I back? Well, yes and no, Justin. Sure, I
am
back in New York City. But have I returned for good? No. And who’s to say what’s ‘good’ anyway, since no doubt you and I have different definitions of that word. For you, good is merely what pleases you; there’s no concern for others.”

He let my remarks slide off, staying as cool as the room. “I sense hostility, Brian, and I’m not sure it’s warranted. Look, you asked for this meeting—that’s fine. But I put off a very important client to give you the thirty minutes you requested. You’ve got twenty minutes left and the clock doesn’t have room for any time-outs. So let’s keep playing, okay? The ball, I think, is still in your court.”

“Nice metaphor, Justin. I’m not sure what sport we’re playing, but I think you’re about to strike out.” I paused, pulling my thoughts into words, remembering that the high road was best. “I originally asked for this meeting because I wanted to apologize. For my behavior this past spring. I’m sure my quitting was the last thing you expected—needed, actually—and believe me, that wasn’t how I envisioned things happening. On my way over here, I thought you deserved to hear why I left as I did.”

“And now?”

“What do you think?”

“What I think is this: You came to get something off your chest, and you can’t leave until you do. I sense you’re looking for closure, Brian. So let’s dispense with the double-talk and get on with it.” He checked his silver Rolex. “You have sixteen minutes.”

His condescension annoyed me.

“The day you and Maddie returned from your meeting with the Voltaire executives was the same day I returned to work. I can’t tell you how much I needed to come back after being so sick—being confined to my apartment—hell, my couch. Being tired all the time, not wanting to see anybody, do anything, that can drive a person crazy. So I was eager to get back to work, to throw myself into it. But circumstances, uh, intervened, and I was unable to stay on here.”

“A medical condition?” he asked. “Maddie hasn’t said anything about—”

“No, Justin. And contrary to the popular opinion around this office, it wasn’t jealousy over Maddie’s promotion, either. What precipitated my decision to leave happened before you even made that announcement. Suffice it to say I received some rather upsetting news regarding my personal life, and I let it affect my professional life. I just couldn’t figure out what really mattered anymore.”

“A midlife crisis, Brian? At thirty-four?”

I shrugged. “If you like.”

“So you wanted to apologize and let me know . . . what? That you’ve got your head screwed on straight and you want to get back in the game? You want your job back, huh?” I started to interrupt him, but he cut me off. He was speaking his favorite language now, and I was curious to see where he was going with this. I had a feeling he’d misjudged the situation; he still didn’t know the specifics of why I quit, and I was certain that once he did, he would change his tune.

“Brian, I’m willing to put aside your lack of consideration for my business, as long as I get you back on the payroll. What do you say—do you want your old job back?”

The expression on his face, the eagerness in his voice—there was only one response that came to me. I laughed. Outright and heartily.

“Justin, you just don’t get it, do you?”

He feigned betrayal; but I knew he was faking, because I knew what true betrayal looked like.

“Okay, Brian, I’ll give you the presidency and your own staff—plus the salary and the perks. Anything, Brian; just put the past where it belongs and come back to work for me.”

“No, Justin.” It wasn’t like him to reveal his desperation, and I have to admit to a certain satisfaction of being on the receiving end of it.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

Was this the moment for me to finally reveal what I saw that day in Maddie’s apartment? I was definitely in the power position here, and I was tempted to move in for the kill. I was about to open my mouth when Justin’s intercom buzzed and Corinne announced that his ten-thirty appointment was waiting in the lobby. He looked at me squarely, then said, “Send him in.”

“We’re not finished,” I said. “There’s something else—”

Justin waved off my protests, concentrating instead on readying himself for his guest by rolling down his sleeves, unnecessarily slicking his hair back, and throwing his jacket back on. He was back in uniform, and I realized then that whoever was coming in, he was important. And I hadn’t been asked to leave. A power play had been set in motion, and only at the last second did I realize how naive I’d been. Justin had to have had an alternate plan in mind in case he couldn’t convince me himself. He wouldn’t be Justin otherwise.

The door opened and Corinne, all perky smiles, announced Justin’s guest, a silver-haired gentleman with skin as tan as an island dweller and a suit that made Justin’s look off-the-rack.

“Justin,” Dominick Voltaire said, shaking his hand. Then he turned to me, smiled an incredible wealth of white teeth, and said, “Brian Duncan, wonderful to see you, wonderful to have you back. Can’t tell you the scare you put into us. I trust you’re back to full health, huh?” And he laughed, patting me on the shoulder like we were old pals ready for a friendly round of golf. Truth was, we’d met only twice before during those tentative days of corporate courtship. I’d been part of the team that had won them over, and from the sound of it, he thought I was still an influential part of the team. He was shockingly unaware of the actual situation.

I gave Justin a harsh glare, but he only smiled back, challenging me to say no to his job offer now. The job offer. Something was terribly wrong with that, and it hit me only then. All of his promises—the presidency, the staff, the perks—he was offering me Maddie’s job. Which led to the obvious question: Where did Maddie fit into this equation? My gut provided an uneasy answer. Justin had finally overstepped his bounds, overestimating his ability to sell himself and the job.

For once, he’d fucked himself.

“Mr. Voltaire, it’s very nice to see you, too, sir, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken about a few things.” I caught Justin’s wavering expression out of the corner of my eye, saw him shake his head. He’d bypassed desperation; this was pure fear. “Justin just offered me quite an opportunity, but just prior to your arrival, I found myself in the unique position of turning down his incredible offer. I won’t be returning to the company, and I won’t be working on the Voltaire account.”

Voltaire’s affable nature crumbled, transforming him suddenly into the powerful executive he obviously was. “Warfield, what’s the meaning of this? This young man is obviously confused . . .” He stopped, turned back to me. “What do you mean, ‘not returning’? When did you ever leave?”

“Uh, Dominick, let’s have a seat, talk this through.”

Voltaire simply raised his hand to Justin, immediately shutting him up.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Duncan.”

And to Justin’s absolute horror, I told my story about the ‘personal crisis’ that led to my leaving in the spring, how I’d come today to apologize for my sudden lapse of professionalism, how I was doing it solely so I could put it past me, move on. Voltaire listened, his displeasure increasing as the story unfolded. When I’d concluded, his attention was focused on someone else. Justin had gone an unhealthy shade of white, despite his well-cultivated tan.

“Is there anything you’ve done in the past four months that I asked you to do?”

“Uh.” Justin attempted to say something, his voice quavering nearly uncontrollably. “I did as you asked the other day—Ms. Chasen no longer works here.”

Although Justin confirmed my suspicion, it had little effect on Voltaire. Maddie’s presence—or in this case, the lack thereof—was the least among Voltaire’s cares. He turned on his heel and said, “Mr. Warfield, I believe our relationship is severed. The attorney will handle the details—today.” He didn’t bid me farewell.

Justin and I were alone.

“You sabotaged me, you bastard,” he said.

“You invited Voltaire into this mix, not me. So, if anyone has sabotaged anything, it’s you, Justin. But if it’s any comfort, nothing you could have said or done would have convinced me to work for you again. You see, Justin, I don’t like it when my boss manipulates my life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”