Someone is trying to take control of my company.
That’s the thought on my mind as Steve drives through the tree-lined streets of Ashford, the small town where I came to do a friend a favor.
The favor is Rick Cruzman, a community college dropout who has developed an innovative software application for managing virtual money, and has been trying to market it for months. He got a few minutes to sell it at a mediocre software conference at Ashcroft Hills, a business resort about thirty minutes from Seattle, and because my friend, who’s happily retired from business, asked me to look into him, I took the half hour drive from my office.
I was also curious, restless, and in need of space to think.
It didn’t take me long to decide that Rick Cruzman’s software had some potential. After his presentation, I approached him and made an offer. He jumped on it, like I knew he would.
I turn to look out of the car windows, my mind going back to my original thoughts. Someone has been stealthily acquiring Preston Corp stock directly from shareholders in the open market, operating behind a group of small compani
es, which I am sure, are all linked to one person. I shouldn’t be worried, I’m the largest shareholder in my company, and I have voting agreements with the majority of the initial investors, giving me total voting control.
Marshall Banks was one of those original investors, and now, Carole owns his substantial shares. As the second largest shareholder, if she sells, I’ll lose the shares that make up a large amount of my voting power. I could lose control.
And she knows it.
The memory of our last phone conversation brings a frown to my face. Carole’s breathy voice sounded smug and self-satisfied as she invited me to lunch. I accepted because if I were a corporate raider intent of wresting control of Preston Corp, I would approach her, as I’m sure someone already has, hence the smugness. I know Carole well enough to know that she wants something in return for not selling.
I feel a flash of irritation. Carole at her best is selfish and greedy. At her worst, she’s calculating and vindictive. I’d rather not have to deal with her at all, and I plan to make it so that in the future, I don’t have to.
Steve slows down to take a turn. From the back seat, I can see his smooth shaved head, still the same as when he used to drive me as a teenager. He’s a little bulkier now, but still as taciturn as the day we first met. I’ve stopped trying to imagine what goes on in his head beneath his silence. I know now that there was a time when he was different. He told me himself, in a rare unguarded moment, about his wife and little daughter dying while he was on active duty, when a shooter opened fire in a crowded mall. He’s never forgiven himself for not being there to protect them.
Guilt can do worse things to a man than make him reserved, so I don’t begrudge Steve his silence.
I’m about to go back to reading the documents I have on my lap when my eyes go to the window again, and I see the girl.
Her hair is pale gold, wavy, and held back in a loose ponytail, with a few escaped tendrils framing her face in delicate wisps. Her figure is slight, yet curvy, and her eyes, as she gazes at the car passing by, are a deep, innocent green. She looks lost. Beautiful and lost.
Something happens to me as I look at her. I forget about takeovers, shares, and software. In the space between dreaming and longing, all I can do is stare. I watch her turn around and walk through a doorway into what looks like a shop. I don’t stop looking even as Steve picks up speed and I have to crane my neck.
“Stop.” I say the words without thinking.
Immediately the car stops. If Steve is surprised, he doesn’t show it.
“Back.” I say, still looking towards the girl. I can still see her through the clear glass front of the shop she entered. I wait impatiently as Steve puts the car on reverse and backs up until I tell him to stop. He parks by the spot where a few seconds before, the girl had been standing.
I only pause for a moment before I follow my instincts and step out of the car.
Through the glass, my eyes meet hers again. She’s looking at me, standing as still as a statue. Briefly, I wonder what I’m doing, going to her.
I consider getting back in the car.
But I don’t. Instead, I push open the door and walk into the shop, straight towards where she stands staring at me.
Her eyes are bright, her cheeks red, and her soft pink lips gently parted.
I have an insane urge to take her in my arms and kiss those lips until I’ve tasted every inch of them. It makes no sense.
“Good afternoon.” I say quickly, trying to keep a hold of myself. I don’t want to do something crazy and scare her.
She is gazing at me, a confused frown on her face, almost as if she has no idea what to say in response. “Good afternoon.” When she finally responds, her voice is soft and light, like a gentle breeze on a moonlit night.
The fact that I’m having poetic impulses makes me want to laugh at myself. Any minute now and I’ll be writing her sonnets.
“Would you like to buy something?” She asks in that soft voice. There is a very distinct flush staining her cheeks. Is she blushing? I stare at her, fascinated.
I realize that she’s waiting for a response. “Of course.” I look around, taking in the collection of pretty things in ceramic and glass. “I’d like ah... a gift for my mother.” I turn back to her and watch, captivated, as her eyes widen slightly, their green depths darkening.