A Baby of Convenience (4 page)

Chapter4

Neal blinked at the open space in front of him. It felt like he was falling, but he took a step forward and the ground seemed steady beneath him. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Can you repeat that again,” he said calmly, “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

The sound of Clifford’s voice was deep, resonating and sympathetic. He repeated the same thing that Neal had heard the first time. Again, Neal felt as though someone was playing a cruel trick on him. There was no way what Cliff was saying was making any sense.

“Neal?” Cliff’s voice sounded concerned. “Neal, are you listening to me?”

“I… I was up late last night,” Neal said apologetically. “I think I’m still a little hung over, and nothing you said is making sense. I’ll call you back when I can get my head on straight.”

He heard Cliff’s protests but he had already cut the line. He shook his head again for good measure and sank into his couch. The glare from the open windows was giving him a migraine and so he got up and walked into his bedroom, turned down the blinds and got into bed. He was really getting too old for those kind of parties,

Neal told himself, enjoying the cool comfort of the dark room. His next birthday would be his thirtieth and he was starting to realize that while his mind seemed to be firmly fixed in his twenties, his body was aging unapologetically. He pushed a pillow under his head, turned on his side and settled in for a little nap.

“When I wake up,” Neal told himself severely, “I’ll call Cliff back and he’ll tell me about some boring board meeting that I have to attend. That’s all he’ll tell me. That’s it.”

Neal drifted off to sleep, having convinced himself that his hang over was responsible for the strange things that Cliff had been saying to him. His last thought before he finally fell asleep was
George should be flying back home now.

The shrill shriek of his doorbell woke Neal from his troubled sleep. His sleep had been plagued with dreams he couldn’t recall now that he was up, having been jarred awake. All he had was the dull sense of foreboding that told him his dreams had been nightmares. Again, the bell screeched, making Neal’s head spin. He went into the bathroom to wash the sleep from his eyes and then rushed to the front door.

He pulled it open to find Harry standing there in a grey suit, wearing a somber expression. Neal was puzzled, it was an odd time for Harry to be visiting; it was the middle of the day. He held the door open for him and motioned Harry inside.

“Hi, bud,” Neal said, his voice still groggy from sleep. “What brings you here?”

Harry seemed cautious as he walked in.

“Hi, Neal,” he said slowly, “are you OK?”

Neal shrugged lightly. “Why wouldn’t I be? It's nothing more than a little hangover.”

“Clifford said he called you.”

Neal remembered. “Oh right. He did. I’m still recovering from last night, man. Everything he was saying, I was hearing wrong. I’ll call him back later tonight.”

Harry walked into the living room and took a seat on the sofa.

“Why don’t you sit, Neal,” he said gently.

Neal looked at Harry in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Neal asked, sitting down.

Neal couldn’t read the expression on Harry’s face; it was starting to alarm him. Harry and George had been best friends growing up, and Neal had been included in some of their capers. He remembered how much fun he and George used to have when they went over to Harry’s. His mother was Japanese, his father was Chinese, and every meal in that house had been delectable. He knew Harry well enough to be able to read him, but today, all he seemed to be able to feel was his own sense of unease.

“Harry?”

Harry seemed to take a deep breath.

“Neal, what Cliff was trying to tell you when he called earlier…"

“Yes?”

“Neal – it’s about George’s plane –"

“What about it?” Neal asked sharply. That feeling of foreboding was coming into sharp focus.

Harry looked down at his hands, wringing them together as though in violent prayer.

“It crashed,” he said, after a pregnant pause, “… it crashed somewhere over the Atlantic.”

He was starting to sound like Cliff, but this time, Neal found it hard to convince himself that he was the one hearing everything wrong. His nap had removed the confusion and the hopeful delusion from his eyes, and he was hearing and seeing everything in startling clarity.

“I, uh… George…"

“George…” Harry seemed to prepare himself before he spoke again. “Neal, it’s unlikely that George would have survived the plane crash.”

He rushed the words out, as though in saying them fast he could somehow minimize the pain of hearing them. Neal sat there in stunned silence, hearing his own heart beat in an unsteady rhythm that made his chest feel tight. His hand went up to his shirt to try and loosen the buttons, but he realized they were plenty loose already. The tightness he was feeling, had nothing to do with what he was wearing.

He felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder, he could hear his voice, muttering words that held the hollow tone of comfort. Neal closed his eyes and leaned against the couch, hoping that when he opened them again, the world would go back to one that he recognized.

   ***

Neal couldn’t bear to sit at the head of the boardroom table. That was George’s seat and sitting there would be like admitting that he was really gone. He sat in his usual place, the chair on the immediate right of George’s. Harry sat next to him. Slowly, they filed in, all wearing somber expressions; all wearing clothes in shades of black and grey as a symbol of respect. Neal resented them all. It was as if they had already gone into mourning.

‘We don’t know that he’s dead yet!’ Neal wanted to shout at them.

For once, he managed to restrain himself. Slowly, they took their places. Jennifer Perez, America Lewis, Dustin Nessman, Raj Pinto. The last to walk in was Cliff. He always sat on George’s immediate left. He seemed more preoccupied than the rest, but then, Cliff had been friends with their father, it must be hitting him harder than the others, Neal assumed.

Neal waited for someone to say something, but no one spoke up. It seemed that perhaps they were waiting for him. He cleared his throat unnecessarily.

“I… thank you all for your support at this time,” he said awkwardly, the words falling flat.

Thankfully, Cliff spoke up, drawing attention away from Neal.

“I called this meeting to discuss several pertinent issues. At such a time as this, having a clear understanding of our future course is necessary. I’m sure George would have wanted us to secure the business.”

Neal stared at Cliff, taken back.

“Umm… I’m sorry,” Neal interrupted, “I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘secure the business’?”

Cliff’s face was a mask of composure, but the atmosphere in the room had changed. Neal was aware that Harry had tensed beside him. He had a stack of files in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out legal jargon that was foreign to him. Neal looked around the table, at each face that surrounded him and he had the same feeling once again. Like he was falling.

Twenty minutes later, Neal flew out of the conference room throwing curses at everybody in sight. He could hear them call after him, but he ignored them all. He didn’t stop until he was out of the building, under the blinding glare of the noon day sun. He rested his hands on his knees, trying to come to grips with his collapsing reality. He heard someone call his name and he was about to turn around and throw a punch in their face, when he realized it was Harry.

“Neal –"

“What the hell was that, Harry?” he demanded in fury.

“Ninety days?” Neal yelled, unconcerned with the looks he was being thrown. “Ninety days and the board will declare George dead and steal his shares!”

“I’m sorry, Neal… I’ve been poring over the contracts the last few days,” Harry said in defeat. “Legally, everything is sealed up tight. The board has the power to make this decision.”

“We don’t know that he’s dead yet,” Neal all but screamed. “What if we find that he’s alive after the ninety days have passed?”

Harry couldn’t seem to meet Neal’s eyes.  “It will be too late by then.”

“Meaning,” Neal said through gritted teeth, “my brother will have lost his company. I will have lost this company. The company our father built up from nothing.”

Harry’s silence was confirmation.

“What about me?” Neal asked desperately. “I have shares in this company.”

“You’re not a major shareholder, you have only ten percent of the stock Neal, which means only ten percent of the vote, and,” Harry said miserably, “the combined strength of the board will bury you.”

Neal shook his head in angry frustration.

“This is a nightmare,” he said forcefully. “So there’s nothing I can do?”

Harry paused a moment. “There is a codicil –"

“Yes,” Neal said impatiently, “tell me.”

“It states that if George had an heir, his stock would automatically transfer to the child in the event of his death,” Harry said mechanically.

“If the stock can pass to George’s child,” Neal spoke fast, “why can’t they pass to me?”

Harry shook his head. “The codicil is very clear. George’s shares’ pass directly to his child, but you would retain control of those shares, until the child in question turns twenty one.”

Neal paused, and looked up. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he had ten minutes ago. He looked appraisingly at Harry, wondering if he should take him into his confidence, but he decided against it almost immediately. Before today, he had thought he could trust Clifford Stanley, too. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He could not save his father. He could not save his brother. He had meandered through life on their shoulders, and they had carried him willingly, but he would not let their business go without a fight.

His resolve hardened to steel and he walked back inside the building, a half formed plan making its way to the forefront of his mind. He heard Harry call after him, but he ignored him and walked on. He knew that what he was thinking was crazy, there was a high probability that it wouldn’t work, but it was all he had.

He was about to lose everything and that gave him courage. He went up to the ninth floor where Cliff’s office was located. His receptionist stood when she saw him and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, Mr. Hargrove,” she said, flustered, “my condolences –"

“Thank you,” he said, cutting her off. “I have something to ask you.”

She seemed surprised but willing.

“Of course, Mr. Hargrove,” she said.

“The event we had… almost two weeks ago. The one at the ballroom.”

“Yes?” she said in obvious confusion.

“Mr. Stanley ordered a sculpture for the event.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Would you happen to have the sculptor’s contact details?”

“I’ll find them for you, Sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, straightening back up.

“Lola,” she said quickly.

“Thank you, Lola,” Neal repeated with a nod of his head, and then he added,  “… and Lola?”

“Yes, Mr. Hargrove?”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit between the two of us.”