Paradise (Second Opportunities 1)

"That's wonderful," she said, and she meant it.

Now, more than ever, Meredith wanted her entire division to shine. Her father's cardiologist was insisting that he either retire from Bancroft's presidency, or, at the very least, take a six-month leave of absence. He'd decided to take a leave of absence, and yesterday he'd met with the board of directors to discuss who should be named interim president while he was on leave. Beyond that, all she knew was that she desperately wanted a chance to fill in for him while he was away. So did at least four of the other executive vice presidents. She'd worked as hard for it—harder—than any of them; not as long as two of them, but with ferocious diligence and indisputable success. Moreover, there had always been a Bancroft in the president's chair, and if she hadn't been born female, Meredith knew the interim presidency would belong to her automatically. Her grandfather had been younger than she when he took over, but he hadn't been hampered by his father's bias against his sex or by a board of directors who had such awesome control over decisions. That last was partly Meredith's fault. She'd been the one who campaigned and fought for Bancroft's expansion into other cities. To do that had required raising enormous amounts of capital, which could be accomplished only by taking Bancroft & Company public—selling shares of its stock on the exchange. Now anyone could buy a share of its stock and each share carried one vote. As a result, the board members were accountable to, and elected by, the public shareholders instead of merely being puppets chosen—or dismissed— by her father. Worse for Meredith, all the board members held large blocks of stock themselves, which they could vote and which gave them even more power. On the good side, many of them were the same twelve men who'd been on Bancroft's board for years; they were friends and business acquaintances of her father's or grandfather's, so they still tended to do as her father suggested.

Meredith needed the six-month term as interim president to prove to her father and to the board that when her father did eventually retire, she could handle the responsibilities of the presidency.

If her father recommended that Meredith be appointed to succeed him while he was on leave of absence, then the directors would surely give their approval. Her father, however, had been infuriatingly noncommittal about his meeting with the board and even about when the board would announce its decision.

Putting her coffee cup down on Mark's desk, Meredith glanced at the tiny snowsuit that had been stolen by the woman in the waiting room, and she felt the same ache of sadness that gripped her whenever she faced the fact that she'd never have a baby of her own. Long ago, however, she'd learned how to hide her emotions from coworkers, and her smile was untroubled as she said, "I'll talk to the other woman on my way out. What's her name?"

Mark told her, and Meredith went into the waiting room. "Mrs. Jordan," she said to the pale young mother who'd stolen the children's garments, "I'm Meredith Bancroft."

"I've seen your picture in the papers," Sandra Jordan retorted. "I know who you are. So what?"

"So, if you continue to deny that you stole those things, the store will have to prosecute you."

So hostile was her expression that if Meredith hadn't known what the woman had taken, and she hadn't seen the glint of frightened tears in her eyes, she might well have abandoned her attempted charity. "Listen to me carefully, Mrs. Jordan, because I'm telling you this out of compassion. Take my advice or take the consequences: If you deny taking those things, and we let you go without prosecuting you and proving you did, you could turn around and sue us for unjustly accusing and detaining you. The store cannot risk such a lawsuit; therefore, if you deny it, we have to go through the entire legal ordeal now that we've detained you. Do you understand me so far? There is a videotape of you stealing children's garments that was filmed by one of the cameras in the ceiling in that department. We can and will produce the tape in court in order to prove not only that you are guilty, but that we are innocent of wrongly accusing you. Are you following me?"

Meredith paused and stared at the young woman's rigid face, unable to tell if she was grasping the lifeline Meredith was offering her.

"Am I supposed to believe that you let shoplifters go so long as they admit they took stuff?" she said, looking dubious and disdainful.

"Are you a shoplifter, Mrs. Jordan?" Meredith countered. "Is that what you are—a common, habitual shoplifter?" Before the woman could strike back verbally, Meredith softened her voice. "Female shoplifters of your age ordinarily take clothes for themselves, or perfume or jewelry. You took winter clothes for a child. The police have no record of any prior arrest on you. I prefer to think you're a mother who acted out of desperation and a need to keep her baby warm."

The young woman, who evidently was more familiar with confronting adversity than compassion, seemed to crumple before Meredith's eyes. Tears rose in her eyes and began to trace down her cheeks. "I seen on TV that you shouldn't ever admit to doing anything unless your lawyer is present."

"Do you have a lawyer?"

"No."

"If you don't admit you stole those things, you're going to need one."

She swallowed audibly. "Before I admit it, would you put it in writing—legal like—that you won't set the police after me if I do admit it?"

That was a first for Meredith. Without consulting with the store's attorneys, she couldn't be certain that doing so might not later be construed as some sort of written "bribe," or cause some other sort of ramifications. She shook her head. "You're complicating this needlessly, Mrs. Jordan."

The young mother shuddered with fear and doubt, and then she drew a long, shaky breath. "Well, if I was to admit what I did, would you give me your word not to set the police after me?"

"Would you take my word?" Meredith quietly asked.

For a long moment the other woman searched Meredith's face. "Should I?" she asked finally, her voice shaky with terror.

Meredith nodded, her expression soft. "Yes."

Another hesitation, a long, strangled breath, and then a nod that she accepted Meredith's word. "Okay—I— did steal those things."

Glancing over her shoulder at Mark Braden, who had silently opened the door and was watching the scenario, Meredith said, "Mrs. Jordan admits to taking the clothing."

"Fine," he said tonelessly. In his hand was the statement of admission she'd have to sign and he handed it to the forlorn woman, along with a pen.