Windward Whisperings (5 page)

Two guys from maintenance arrived at Garrett’s corner office with the contents of Kitzie’s
cubicle on a trolley. He directed the setup of her desk, two chairs, a bookcase, and file cabinet in the
alcove. His cell phone rang, but the guys had emptied the trolley and were heading out.

He glanced at the ID on the panel and took the call from his only staff member in New York,
Louis Amaretto.
His Sicilian bodyguard had proven himself to be not only reliable but smart. Louie doubled as
his administrative assistant. “Catch ya at a good time, boss?”
“Now is good, Louie.” He listened as the man updated him on mundane topics. He’d collected
rent from Garrett’s building in Tribeca, paid bills, and forwarded mail having to do with his business
engagement proposals.
“How’s things? Big shot still out of town?”
“Biltmore won’t be back until my stint here is over. Louie, I need you to find out who he does
business with, what investments he holds. I’ve picked up discrepancies between Naiad’s prospectus
and the initial public offering. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“Ya said Biltmore took the company public.”
“Looks like investors bought more shares than the company was worth.”
“Ya want, I’ll check on things.”
“He sailed to Aruba.”
“D’ya want me to make the trip, listen to his tune with my own ears? May be a carnival song,
going round and round.”
“It’s an unfortunate possibility, and yes. Would Tessa like to go?”
“I’ll ask the wife. Shows respect.”
“Go ahead and charge two tickets.”
“She’ll never go. Tessa will say, ‘Down there, ya want sausage, calamari, braciole, where ya gonna
go on those islands?’”
Garrett heard a knock on the door and motioned in another guy. This one was from tech
support, there to hook up Kitzie’s equipment. His presence forced him to speak to Louie in oblique
generalities. Currents flowed between the men that the tech wouldn’t tap into. When the tech left,
his phone conversation was over, too.
Garrett tilted his head toward the boxes. Unopened, they cluttered the alcove. To speed things
up, he decided to put books, manuals, and other cubicle contents away for her. He walked across the
room, lifted a box to her desk, and opened it. Leaning down, he brought out a brass ship wheel
letter opener. As he placed it on her desk, the blade caught intermittent light from shifting leaves
outside the window. He recognized the aqua slogan for Piermont Sails along the blade,
Navigate with
us.
He picked up a bottle of lotion and read the label, Bath and Body Works Midnight Pomegranate.
He unscrewed the cap, sniffed, and realized that was the only perfume she wore.
He was halfway through a box when he ran across two sterling frames. He picked up the first
photo. A dog grinned back at him, and he set the pooch on her desk. Next, he pulled out a photo of
a teenage girl. A stranger to him and probably not a Piermont relative because the girl in the photo
was white, she wore her black hair short. A largish nose overshadowed a smile. Suddenly, looking at
Kitzie’s photos felt too personal.
He stowed them back in the box, disgusted with his half-cocked idea to think he could work
with her in the same room, especially a woman who made his brains go to his groin. He told himself
he knew better than to smuggle a woman into his office. He’d never done that before.
He had full power of authority at Naiad, but she had indomitable will. Their struggle here would
be grim at best.
He walked across the plush gray carpet to the credenza. On top of the gleaming wood was a
coffeemaker. He poured himself a cup of sludge made by Sedona hours before and sipped as he
shuffled about the huge office in agony. He didn’t know what had made him want to capture her
into this cubby hole.
He blew out a breath, knowing she’d wiggled from his territorialism in the past. Her long lunch
would give him time to scout out space for her in the finance wing. He started for the door when his
intercom buzzed. “Yes, Sedona?”
“Miss Piermont is here, sir.”
“Send her in.”
Damn, I’m certifiable.
Kitzie stepped in and closed the door behind her. Carrying a bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of
paper towels, she moved toward him with fluid grace.
“Hello, Kitzie.” Awaiting her fury, he felt his palms sweat.
The disarray of boxes in the alcove caught her eye, and she shook her head. “I had no idea. My
cubicle is an alcove.” She looked beyond toward an executive bathroom. “Lucky for Biltmore, he
didn’t require a guide to the bathroom.”
“Inside joke?” He didn’t know the CEO and major stockholder well. He might not recognize
him but knew he’d smell him coming—this man of forty who had not learned to tone down
aftershave.
She lightly touched his arm, and her eyebrows flashed in a friendly exchange before her hips
swayed to a stop. With legs astride, she let out a breath. “I like my alcove. It’s sunny.”
Relieved that she wasn’t ranting, he watched her walk toward it. She raked her hand along blue
walls and built-in mahogany bookcases, giving him the opportunity to finally get a good look at her.
She was medium height, around five-foot-five, more slender than he remembered. Her hair
framed her face in long, straightened layers that made her look softer than he knew her to be. She
was a life-affirming fighter who could rally with other employees and challenge him. He needed her
on his side.
As she walked away, she blew out a puff of air. “The higher-ups will never go for this
arrangement.”
“I
am
the higher-up.” He liked telling her that. “But I’m concerned with your mutiny. By the end
of the week, you’ll know if close proximity doesn’t work. You can move out.”
“You won’t make me walk the plank?”
Nervous, he let go of an exasperated sigh. “You can move out now if you want.”
“Not yet. This co-officey thing might work.”
“I have something to ask of you. No leaks. Details about Naiad stay within these walls, between
us. Promise?” He needed a verbal contract for business confidentiality.
“Of course, Gar.” After she slipped past him, her perfume, a subtle fruity scent drifted about.
He didn’t try to ignore it.
In her alcove, she planted her tight little rump in one of the two swivel chairs and searched
through a box. She reached in and snatched up the ship wheel letter opener. Bouncing the blade end
against her palm, she pointed it toward the corner windows. “Mind if we open them? This office
smells like Biltmore’s eau de toilette.”
“Toilet water. Allow me.” He walked around the office and slid open windows.
“Thank you.” She placed the letter opener across her desk, putting her personal stamp on the
space. Next, she pulled out a file folder. Her expression became serious. “About my fiberglass
production assignment, a yacht builder in Wisconsin has developed a new process.”
“What process?” He plopped into her guest chair, situated adjacent to her.
“Fiberglass hulls are made while wrapped in big plastic bags. It reduces toxic chemical emissions
by seventy percent.” She held pages toward him with an outstretched arm.
He put an ankle on the opposite knee, took the papers, and looked it over. “No.”
“Why not?” Her arms fell to her sides.
“Any modification adds cost in time. Time is money, and I only have six months.” He shrugged
slightly.
Her eyes lifted to his face. “I’ll work some overtime, no charge. I’d like to see this process in
place here. You must know fiberglass production produces styrene. It’s a toxic gas that affects the
nervous system.” She wanted it. He could see that.
He lagged, trying to choose his words carefully. “If our sales volume increases, we’ll use the bag
method. I admit my reasons aren’t humanitarian. They have to do with increased credits from air
quality regulators.”
“As I said, you’re a perfect boss.” She’d always been a force to be reckoned with. She gestured
with the letter opener as if it were a sword before putting it down.
“Did you just call me a perfect asshole?” He decided she had a point. She was willing to bear the
time-cost to make things happen on her terms. “Look, I’m getting together with Edgar and his
entire department on Monday. I want you there to talk about it.”
“Okay, general.” She placed manuals and books on shelves but stopped to look at the dog
photo.
“Figures for resins and catalysts are reported to environmental regulators. Who in production
measures them?”
“A machine does it. You can invite its data. Edgar sends in the report. Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to mix with the troops a bit. Have your meeting on the shop floor.” She wiped off the
frames of the black-haired teenager and yellow dog with a paper towel, set them on her lacquered
beech veneer desk, and gingerly angled them toward her with the tips of her fingers.
He shifted his gaze to the photo she held. “Who’s the teenager?”
“Coral, she’s sixteen. We met at the amputee wing of the hospital where I volunteer. She was
thirteen when she lost a foot to a propeller.” She cleared her throat, as if she couldn’t find words to
dignify the girl’s condition.
“Sounds terrifying, especially at thirteen.” He pictured himself at that planning and dreaming
age. “As a volunteer, you’re caught up in their pain. What good can you do?”
“Well, we don’t have to be experts.” Her voice was soft. “We’re assigned to a patient based on a
personality test. We attend physical therapy sessions with our charges. Their families feel so bad for
them that they can’t help them face challenges.
“I see.” Actually, he’d pictured her doing a million other things in her free time.
“We’re thrilled when they set themselves on a new course. I’m proud of Coral.” Kitzie beamed,
giving him the impression they were still in contact.
“Tell me about the yellow Lab.”
“This is my only child, Thor.”
“Does your child have any vices?”
Like biting?
“Only one, howling when sirens go by.” She was back to talking as if they were old friends. Or,
lovers.
“I’d like to meet Thor sometime. My place is too quiet.”
“You can meet him tonight if you’re free. I’m cooking crab cakes.”
“How about I take you out for crab cakes at Duke’s tonight?” He wanted to show off. Now he
could afford memorable dining with an endless ocean view. Located at the foot of the Huntington
Beach Pier, she and her parents dined there often.
“How sweet of you to remember. You and I wandered the beach. I must have rattled off their
Pacific Rim menu selections.” She frowned. “I was obnoxious, trying to impress you with my
sophisticated taste.”
“Hey, don’t strain your personality. Let’s pay homage to the restaurant’s namesake, Duke
Kahanamoku, famous surfer.”
“You no longer have the island bug, lack-of-moola.”
“Lack of . . . I get it. So, you’ll come?”
“No thanks.” She set a live topiary tree at the back of her desk, adjusted a thin, narrow table at
an angle and set her laptop on it. “About dinner, Gar, I bought ingredients an hour ago. If you can’t
make it, I’ll make them anyway and have my own candlelight dinner.”
“Really. You got a start on dinner?”
“I picked up the coleslaw and biscuits at KFC, but I’m making an orange dill sauce.”
He liked the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. “You cook.”
“I cook healthy.” She planted a toe of one stylish pump against the thick gray carpet and
swiveled her chair to push a steel wire wastebasket under her desk. She tested a halogen lamp on her
desk. She turned it on, and then off. “Dessert is store bought. Do you like Kit-Kats with
champagne?”
“Ms. Françoise Chocolate, you’ve become a chocolate binger.” He liked how he’d made the
wattage of her smile spike.
She placed steel-cornered file compartments on a shelf and filled them with notebooks. “So you
know, I keep current projects on top of my desk. Everything else is filed, in case you need to find
anything.” She nodded toward a rolling three-drawer birch file cabinet. She placed pens, clips, and
rubber bands in steel mesh cups.
“The alcove looks brighter with you and your trendy storage containers in it. You double as a
work of art.”
“I’m not perfect.” The rustiness in her voice was ragged. Maybe she wanted to tell him
something.
Silence.
He knew she wasn’t mad because her nose didn’t wrinkle before she stamped her foot or kicked
something. But, he suspected, he’d hit a nerve and focused back on business. “We have a surplus of
fourteen-foot sailboats in inventory.”
“Those would be Starr-14s.”
“That’s right. I compared our sales figures with our competition in Newport Beach. They’re
backlogged with orders. Our Starrs are gathering dust.”
“At least we know they aren’t being sold out the back door.” The slit of her skirt fell open,
exposing a sharp-boned knee.
He spread his legs and pulled her between them. “I’d give my left nut to be inside you.”
“I want your right nut.”
“You can have them both.”
“Not here.”
He picked up her desk phone and punched in a single code for the receptionist. “Sedona, snap
and bite when you set up appointments with me. My time is at a premium.” He hit the speaker
button.
“Absolutely, Mr. Mackenzie,” Sedona said and clicked off.
“No way, Mr. Mackenzie. Here, we are all business.” Kitzie seemed to be studying the wall
behind him and then blinked with a shudder. She moved like a jungle cat across the room.
He followed her movement toward the credenza.
She pointed to a wire not quite buried under a stately portrait of a sloop. Under the ropetrimmed frame, she gently pulled on it until she exposed a tiny microphone. “Will you look at this!”
She stomped a foot. Her nose wrinkled with crankiness.
He bolted over and followed the wire with his fingers. “It’s hooked up to a battery pack, but the
batteries are facing the wrong way. This wire-tap job was rushed, incomplete. Someone thought
lunch at the wharf would last longer.” He stuffed the wire back under the picture frame.
From under the credenza, she rummaged out some coffee beans and dumped a few handfuls
into a grinder. She punched the grind button and gritted her teeth.
“Would you like to stick the microphone in there?”
Her answer was a low growl. She dumped out old coffee, put in a fresh filter and ground beans,
and measured water. “We’ll probably beat Sedona in tomorrow. We’re set with coffee and a
forewarning.”
He shrugged, knowing the office would eventually be tapped. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll script
our shop talk. We won’t have to curb other activity.”
“There won’t be any. Anyway, it’d feel like we were doing it in church.”
“So much the better.” He pulled himself back on task. In a way that seemed abrupt and
mysterious, he was overwhelmed with the thought of being monitored. Unaccustomed to being
observed, he was insulted by it but couldn’t let his attention falter.