Small Town Girl (31 page)

“When are you going to find yourself a real woman and grow up?”

“Dad —”

But his father was not listening. The older man sputtered as he changed the subject back to business. “Now this Fenton creep is going to make a move. He’s going to make a move to undercut us and try to snatch Chat Dot Com. He knows we don’t have a lot of cash right now and we’re expanding.”

“Now, Dad, you don’t know that.”

“Trust me, I know the type. Fenton is smooth and cagey. Just a little older than you. Clawing his way up. And he’s not a spoiled rich kid, either. That makes a difference. Aiden, you’re a grown man now. It’s your job to make sure Trade Winds acquires Chat before Fenton gets wind of it. If he found out we were going after it, he’d try to steamroll us right under. And believe me, that guy will stop at nothing!” Aiden glanced at his father as he straightened the knot of his tie. The old man’s eyes bored into his. “Trust me,” he repeated, “I know the type.”

Aiden sighed. It was pointless to argue with his father. It was like trying to drown fish. Instead, he slipped on his sport coat, a dark blue linen and silk blend appropriate for the warm spring day. He said, “Hey, Dad, what do you know about this Fitzgerald guy? Is it mandatory that he come with company? What if we don’t want him?”

Aiden’s father shook his head vigorously. “I don’t know anything about him,” he said, “except that Gene Palmer, who owns Chat, won’t consider a sale unless we take Fitzgerald too, and in full capacity as CEO, and for five years.”

“So that means he’s in control of Chat Dot Com for the next five years, even as part of Trade Winds?”

“Yes, unless we find a loophole. Now, if the guy’s doing his job, then we leave him right where he is. It’s your job to find out what’s going on.”

A female voice called up the winding staircase. “Gordon, are you up there bothering your son?”

It was Aiden’s mother, Eleanor. Immediately, Aiden saw the old man soften. “We’ll be right down, Nellie. Hurry up, Aiden, your mother’s waiting breakfast on us.”

Aiden followed his father down the stairs and into the large kitchen at the back of the house. They sat down at the big antique farm table in front of steaming mugs of coffee, and Nell Stewart set their breakfasts of sausage, scrambled eggs, and English muffins in front of them as she had been doing since Aiden could remember. Then she took her own seat opposite her son.

Nell Stewart was seventy-six years old, still lithe and active. Her few gray hairs softened the color of her thick wavy hair from its original dark brown to a lighter, tan color. She wore it caught back in an elastic at the back of her neck. Her face bore the wrinkles of her age, but it was easy to see the beauty she had been. Gordon Stewart reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. It was a gesture of affection familiar to Aiden. He watched them in silence for a minute as they all started to eat, and his mind wandered.

Aiden was the youngest child. His two older sisters were nearly grown when he was born. They had been raised during the lean times. He had heard the stories of how his father’s business dealings had nearly failed several times, threatening the family with bankruptcy. His sisters had told him how they’d had to move into this beautiful, gracious home when it had been an old, decrepit, and neglected house with a leaky roof and no insulation against the Maine winters. It sat on a spit of cliff, so close to the Atlantic’s waters that the salt spray coated the windows during the autumn storms. The family had lived downstairs in the house for the first ten years, heating it with wood stoves, but both Gordon and Nell knew the value of ocean view land and the potential of the house itself. They just had to stay afloat until that became a reality.

Aiden’s sisters had lived through the lean 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 might 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 path that ran across the face of the cliff to the small pristine and private beach. He enjoyed watching how obviously impressed they were when he opened the boathouse door and revealed the sleek and shining Eleanor, his father’s prized sailing yacht.

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

“Oh, oh, 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 tonight, Aiden, or going back to Boston?”

“I think I’ll just go back to Boston. 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 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 found himself driving through New Hampshire on the old Route 4, headed for central Vermont. His mind wandered. He thought about his date the previous night with Jennifer Webb. They had gone to Grace, 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 on and off, sometimes seriously, sometimes not, throughout the last five years. 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’d had sex, which Aiden could only remember as being rather clinical, on the sofa of her condo. She had not invited him to stay the night, and he had been relieved because he had not wanted to stay.

Then there was Alexis, the cool blonde with whom he would sleep tonight. They had only been on two dates, but Aiden knew she was ready. She had a body most men would salivate over, and he tried to entertain himself thinking about the physical pleasures he was looking forward to. He had even called his cleaning lady to ask her to be sure to put fresh flowers on the dining room table and in the bedroom and to make the bed up crisp and fresh. He was that sure of himself.

Aiden’s thoughts drifted 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 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 like the one shared by his parents as unattainable.

Aiden pulled into Clark’s Corner, Vermont, exactly three and a half hours after leaving Portland. The BMW’s GPS system instructed him to turn left and follow the road along the river for 2.4 miles. He slowed to the posted speed limit of forty miles an hour.

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

Aiden saw the sign on the front of an old brick factory building along 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. He pulled into the spot marked “Visitors” and shut the engine off, 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 hay days 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 building. 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 had always liked old things, and he felt oddly comfortable as he walked through the door into the spacious lobby.

There was a circular, marble-topped desk in the lobby behind which sat a pretty young receptionist.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely.

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

“Oh. Oh my,” said the receptionist, slightly flustered. “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 around. 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 them. We have to own them
. As much as he tried to dismiss his father’s irritating lecture before he left Portland this morning, Aiden could not. 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 tersely.

Aiden walked after her down a 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 gold lettering that said M. JORDAN FITZGERALD on it. The receptionist opened the door, slipped through, and shut it again, leaving Aiden standing in the hall. Soon she reappeared, slipping back through in the same manner, closing the door behind her again.

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

Altogether weird
, thought Aiden as he reached for the handle of the door.
I wonder what Fitzgerald is like.