Page 59 of The Client
“Even if he did, fate would have intervened again. He would have lost Eurydice again.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s defeatist to think of it that way. If you follow that line of thinking, why bother with love at all?”
“Now you see my point,” he teases.
I laugh. “I see your point but I disagree. Because love is…it’s the most beautiful thing about the human experience. We’re here to live and to love. With open arms. To eat the cake, to run in the cow field in the spring thaw, to dance and sing and…and go to the opera.”
“And what else?” he asks.
“And this,” I say, grabbing his lapels and crushing my mouth to his, feeling emboldened by my passionate speech.
He kisses me back like he means it, like he’s hungry for me, like he needs this connection just as much as I do.
“I appreciate your perspective,” he says breathlessly when we finally break apart. “Why don’t you share some more of it?”
I climb into his lap and we kiss the entire drive home. Once we’re through the front door, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs to his bedroom.
In the middle of the night, I wake up in his bed to find that he’s spooning me, his arm wrapped around my waist. His breath is warm against the back of my neck, and I feel a peacefulness inside myself like nothing I’ve ever known. And that’s when some part of me starts to wonder…if maybe there’s a chance we could actually work together after all.
22
RHYS
“You can’t continueto add money to your expense accounts without clearing it first with the CFO.”
My father scoffs and rolls his eyes. Our roles have been reversed many times over the years, me acting as the parent instead of the son, but this is the first time it’s happened at work. Or, in front of my grandfather.
I’m not the only one who considers my father to be a self-indulgent, compulsive over-spender. My grandfather doesn’t trust his own son to manage, well, anything and do it well so he’s reduced him to nothing more than a glorified secretary just to keep him on the payroll. Yet, somehow, my father managed to not only give himself an expense account, but a business credit card, too. I’m sure he sent the paperwork through with my grandfather’s forged signature on it, knowing full well the CFO wouldn’t ask too many questions.
“If the CFO had concerns about my spending, he would have approached me about it.”
“He approached me, Rupert.” My grandfather’s voice trembles slightly with age. “After you bought yourself twenty-thousand dollars’ worth of office furniture that you certainly didn’t need.”
“Oh, I did need it. Celine wanted my old desk to turn into a changing table for the baby. Something she saw online.”
“Thatold deskwas a turn of the century British antique, a gift from a descendant of Queen Victoria!”
My grandfather’s face turns red, the color shocking against the white of his beard and thinning crown of hair. My father nods nonchalantly. “Yes, that’s why Celine wanted it.”
“Do you think money grows on trees, Rupert?”
“Obviously not, which is why it’s sheer foolishness that we’re not building new factories in India right now!” my father is saying as he paces my grandfather’s massive office. “Everyone else is doing it! It’s the cheapest manufacturing hub in theworld. What about this isn’t making good business sense to you, Dad? Are you going senile?”
I clench my jaw, squeezing the armrests of my leather chair, suppressing the urge to tackle my father to the ground. It wouldn’t be a good look for the Vice President to tackle the Senior Vice President in the office of the President and CEO, would it?
Not to mention, my grandfather Reginald might be in his eighties, but the man can fight his own battles—and he prefers to do so. Me intervening on his behalf wouldn’t be seen as heroic, but emasculating. A lesson I learned years ago and have taken care to remember.
Leaning forward over his mahogany desk, Grandpa (whom I address as “Reg” when we’re around our colleagues; my father always calls him “Dad” which I personally think demeans both him and Reg in professional situations, but that’s just my two cents) clears his throat and dryly says, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my medical records don’t support that accusation. My mind is fit as a fiddle.”
“Really? When’s the last time you got a checkup? These things can creep up out of nowhere, and you’re not getting any younger. You know, I worry about you. Maybe you should get reevaluated soon,” Dad says. “I can make you an appointment with my own doctor.”
Grandpa would actually have to be senile to agree to that. There’s no way he’s going to let my dad’s personal physician decide whether he’s mentally fit enough to serve as CEO of McConnell Enterprises. He might as well hand the throne over to my dad on a silver platter with a bow on top.
“Though it’s clearly of little true concern to you,” Reg says evenly, “I am assessed both physically and mentally by a team of professionals every three months, after which I meet with my lawyer to confirm the details of my legacy. I’m of sound mind and body, rest assured.”
I already know about my grandfather’s regular health assessments. My father, however, looks absolutely crestfallen. If he had big plans to get Reg fired by the board due to mental incapacity, those plans just went right out the window.
“Just give me one good, solid reason why we shouldn’t be making these components for less,” Dad wheedles, refusing to drop the subject. “Cheaper manufacturing costs means higher profits, which is the whole point of a successful business, is it not? That’s all I care about. It’s what I live for! The continued success of this company, of your legacy…”
