Corporate Affair (2 page)

Aiden’s sisters had lived through the hard times, but Aiden was the child of his parents’ success. Born right after his father’s first real profitable business coup, Aiden had been raised in the lap of luxury. He had foggy memories of the house being renovated and his mother’s careful planning and execution of those renovations. He also remembered his father asking her repeatedly if she didn’t want to move and build a new house. Aiden was glad his mother had wanted to stay where they were. It always impressed people, especially the women he brought home, to see the place with its magnificent views of Casco Bay. Aiden liked to bring them down the steep wooden stairs, gray with age, that ran across the face of the cliff to the small private, pristine beach. He enjoyed watching how obviously impressed they were when he opened the boathouse door and revealed the sleek and shining
Nellie Bly
, his father’s prized wooden sailing yacht.

“What are you thinking about, Aiden?” asked his mother. “You’re staring off into space.”

“Oh, uh, I was just looking out the window. It looks like spring is finally here. The lilacs are blooming. They weren’t even budded the last time I was here.”

“Yes! And about time. It’s been a long winter. I’ll open the windows today and let the smell of lilacs fill the house. Are you coming back here to your condo, Aiden, or are you staying in Vermont?”

“I think I’ll just wrap it up and come back to the condo. I have a date.”

Gordon snorted. “You had a date last night.”

Aiden laughed “Well, I have another date tonight.”

“You should date less and tend to business more.”

Aiden cut the conversation short. “I better get going,” he said, rising from his chair. His parents stood, and hand in hand, followed him to the door. Aiden bent down and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Love you, Mom,” he said.

Gordon caught him in a great bear hug. “Do your best, Aiden! Get this thing in the bag!”

An hour later, Aiden was driving through New Hampshire on the old Route 4, headed for central Vermont. His thoughts drifted. He thought about his date the previous night with Jennifer Webb. They had gone to Hugo’s, one of Portland’s finest restaurants in a city of fine restaurants. He didn’t know why he couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for Jennifer. He genuinely liked her. They had known each other a long time and had dated sporadically—sometimes seriously, sometimes not—since high school. Jennifer was a tall, attractive girl, Harvard educated in economics, a broker for the upper echelon clientele at Greater Bank of Maine in Portland. Her family, although not close friends with his, was a familiar entity. She had an abundance of energy and they shared similar interests in sailing, skiing, and hiking, but the relationship would not progress beyond a certain point. Last night they had had sex, which Aiden could only describe as rather clinical, on the sofa of her house on Cape Elizabeth. She had not invited him to stay the night, and he had been relieved because he hadn’t wanted to.

Then there was Alexis, the cool blonde he would sleep with tonight. She lived in Boston, and he had met her at a business seminar there. She had driven up the night before and had spent the day with her college friend. He’d had only been on two dates with her, but Aiden knew she was ready. She had a body most men would salivate over, and he knew was in for a night of physical pleasure. He had even called his cleaning lady to ask her to put flowers on the dining room table and in the bedroom and to have the bed freshly made. He was that sure of himself.

Aiden’s thoughts moved on to his parents. Perhaps they were part of the reason he went from woman to woman, or juggled two or three at once. Where, he thought somewhat sardonically, would he ever find a woman who made him feel the way his mother obviously made his father feel? Where could he possibly find a woman who loved him as completely as his mother loved his father? It was hard, especially these days, to live up to such an example. Every time Aiden thought of marriage, he thought of his parents. That was what marriage was. It was love, respect, sticking together through all the ups and downs of everyday life. It was someone who squeezed your hand at breakfast. It was being kissed on the top of your head as you sat brooding over your books.

Aiden stared at the ribbon of road stretching out ahead of him. He heaved a deep sigh and dismissed his idea of marriage, one like that shared by his parents, as unattainable.

Chapter Two

A
IDEN
P
ULLED
I
NTO
C
LARK’S
C
ORNER
, Vermont, exactly three and half hours after leaving Portland. The BMW’s GPS instructed him to turn left and follow the road along the river for two-point-four miles. He slowed to the posted speed limit of forty miles per hour.

“Destination on right in point-one miles,” said the metallic voice of the GPS.

Aiden saw the sign on the front of an old brick factory building that followed the edge of a canal that came off the river. CHAT.COM
Communications For Today and Tomorrow.
He turned as instructed and crossed a narrow bridge to a newly paved parking lot, pulled into a spot marked for visitors, and shut the engine off. He opened the door, stepped out into the sunny spring day, and stretched. It was ten thirty in the morning.

Aiden looked up at the building. It had obviously been an old paper mill or perhaps a tool company, built along the rushing river during the heyday of the New England industrial boom. The building had been skillfully renovated, and the artistic details imparted by bricklayers of long ago were again visible. It was quite a grand structure, curving gracefully along the lip of the canal. Whoever had overseen the renovations had done so with an eye to not spoiling its original character, and the many windows winked once again in the morning sun. Aiden could almost see the droves of immigrant Irish, Poles, Italians, and Scots who came to this country early in the twentieth century for jobs in factories like these and the new lives such jobs would provide. He had always liked history, and he felt oddly comfortable as he walked through the door into the spacious lobby.

The floors were the original hemlock wood of the factory. In those days the floors were oiled and swept daily until they weathered to a dark mahogany-colored finish. Today it was easy to see that they had been meticulously redone, shining brightly with the original dark-blond color of the natural wood. In the middle of the lobby was a circular, marble-topped desk, behind which sat a pretty young receptionist.

“May I help you?” she asked politely. Her hair was long, unmoving, and unnaturally jet black. Her eyes were rimmed in smoky shadow, and the mascara had not been spared.

“I’m Aiden Stewart. I’m here for a meeting with M. Jordan Fitzgerald.”

“Oh. Oh my,” said the receptionist, warming ever so slightly, “you’re from Trade Winds. The company that wants to buy us. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Stewart. I’ll announce you right away. Just wait here. Can I get you coffee or anything?”

The girl’s agitated manner amused him.
My reputation must have preceded me
, he thought.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Take your time. I’ll wait. And I prefer to call it a merger, rather than ‘buy.’”

The girl hurried away through two big glass doors behind her desk, muttering, “Merger, yes, merger. That’s the word.”

Aiden put his hands in his pockets and looked around. He wondered if CEO M. Jordan Fitzgerald was as excitable as his receptionist. He gazed at the reproductions of historic photographs that hung on the walls. Some were pictures of rows of men in front of the behemoth machines that once filled the building with their clanking metal voices. Others showed teams of horses bringing in wagons filled with hay, while still more were of the river, jammed with logs upon which balanced wool-clad men wielding their cant-hooks. How odd it was that one of the most successful small Internet providers should be cloistered away in the backwoods of Vermont.
Well, the Internet could flourish anywhere
, he thought,
and that’s why we want to own these companies. We have to own them.
As much as he tried to dismiss his father’s irritating lecture before he left Portland this morning, Aiden couldn’t. He knew in his heart that even at his advanced age, his father was still a consummate businessman. Aiden squared his shoulders as the receptionist came back through the big glass doors.

“Follow me,” she said.

Aiden walked after her around the reception desk and down a short, wide hallway. On either side of him were glass walls through which he could see people working in their cubicles or gathered together around conference tables. At the end of the hallway was a solid wooden door with M. JORDAN FITZGERALD printed on it in gold letters. The receptionist opened the door, slipped through, and shut it again, leaving Aiden standing, and rather surprised, in the hall. Soon she reappeared, slipping back through in the same manner and closing the door behind her again.

“You may go in now,” she said formally, stepping aside to allow him access to the door. “You are actually early. Your appointment is for eleven o’clock.”

Aiden found her comment strange as he reached for the handle of the door, making him wonder what Fitzgerald would be like. “Thank you,” he said pleasantly to the receptionist as he gripped the handle.

He pushed down, opened the door, and stepped into the room.

Aiden felt the shock hit him between wind and tide. A young woman who appeared to be not yet thirty stood behind a large desk. Her dress might have been too casual for office wear, except for the blue linen blazer she wore over it.

“He” was a “she.” Fitzgerald was a woman. Aiden grappled visibly with his surprise, having assumed something entirely different.

“Welcome, Mr. Stewart,” she said, extending her hand over the desk. She didn’t smile, but her expression was not unfriendly.

Aiden blinked and closed the door behind him. He crossed the room, offering his hand in reciprocation. She took it in a firm grasp. He noticed she wore no rings. She gestured with an open palm to a seating area at the end of the long room. On an oriental rug, two wing chairs faced floor-to-ceiling windows that proffered a beautiful view of the river as it flowed between the old factory and the wooded bank on the opposite side. A bottle of Pellegrino, an ice bucket, and two crystal glasses sat on a low table between the chairs.

“Let’s have a seat over here. It’s so pleasant to look out on the river,” she said and then she smiled warmly. “It helps the powers of concentration.”

Aiden was having problems with his powers of concentration at that moment. As she came around from behind her desk, he tried to remain professional and not stare at her long, shapely legs complemented by high heeled pumps. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on her face, but there was little relief there for a man trying to keep his mind on business.

He hadn’t imagined it. She was beautiful. Her eyes were bright blue, like the sky, and her deep auburn hair, worn pulled back in a conservative twist, was so thick that her head seemed to tilt backward ever so slightly with the weight of it. Her skin was fair without being pale, yet it seemed to glow with an inner blush. Her mouth was soft with inviting full lips.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Her remark jolted him, and he felt the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He quickly recovered his composure. “I’m sorry,” he said smoothly, “I wasn’t staring. I was only—”

“Surprised I was female?” Jordan Fitzgerald gave a hint of a smile. She had been here before.

Aiden chuckled self-deprecatingly and looked down at the floor. “Well, to be honest, yes. I had you pegged as a cranky old man on the verge of retirement.”

This time her smile was spontaneous. “I can assure you I am not on the verge of retirement.”

“And you’re obviously not a cranky old man. Jordan is an unusual name,” said Aiden as he followed her across the room to sit down in one of the wing chairs. “What does the M. stand for?”

Jordan continued to smile sweetly as she answered him. “That’s really not what we’re here to talk about, is it?”

“Ah,” Aiden countered as he took his seat in one of the chairs. “Put in my place. Fair enough. Let’s get down to business, then. I’m here representing Trade Winds, the communications company. We’ve admired ChatDotCom for a long time now. Its successful growth over the past five years is a testament to a solid foundation and talented management.”