Enright Family Collection (65 page)

Well, maybe I should have followed my own instincts, Delaney thought as he paced, and said the hell with the damned shrink. Maybe I should have packed Ben in the car every damned weekend, sulking and moody or not, and driven him to Westboro myself. Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have chosen a career that kept him on the opposite side of the ocean from April through November every year.

And lately, Delaney had begun to fear that Ben’s choice of a career was someday going to lead to something far more serious than a broken leg. The very thought terrified him.

Still, maybe it wasn’t too late. . . .

Delaney wasn’t a superstitious man, but he knew that there were times when Fate reached out a hand and made you an offer you couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t help but believe that this was one of those times. All the signs were there, and taken as a whole, they added up, in Delaney’s mind, to one such offer. Ben’s accident that took him out of racing for at least a year. That young pup from the finance department proposing that he buy that shopping thing that just happened to be located in eastern Pennsylvania. And there, as if a lucky charm, had been Delia’s girl flashing that smile along with that gold bracelet. It just all fell into place too neatly to be ignored, and Delaney had learned a long time ago that an opportunity missed was an opportunity mourned. He had no intentions of mourning this one.

All he had to do, Delaney had reasoned, was to find a way to get Ben to come back to the States and run the Home MarketPlace.

Which Ben could, conceivably, offer to do, if, perhaps, he understood that his grandfather needed him.

Delaney would have felt a great deal more confident, would have been pacing a great deal less, if he had been able to figure out just
how
to do that. Playing up his illness a bit was the only thing that came to mind.

It might work. After all, he
was
an old man. And he did have a legitimate heart problem, though with medication and proper diet it was well under control and posed no immediate threat.

He was still trying to figure out how much of
that
hand he could play—after all, he didn’t want to out-and-out
lie
when innuendo alone might do the trick—when simultaneously the clock struck a subdued eight bells and a knock was heard on the door.

“Come in, come in, Ben. Son. I’m so very happy to see you.” Delaney stretched forth his hand, wondering for just a moment if Ben considered himself to be too old to be hugged by his grandfather.

“Delaney.” Ben leaned heavily on the left crutch and took his grandfather’s hand. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Delaney put his arm around Ben’s shoulder under the guise of helping him into the room. The boy felt solid under his hand. Muscular. Strong. It was the closest Delaney had been to him in six months, since the racing season had begun, and he was in no hurry to end the contact, however brief.

“Sit, son. Let me get something for you to rest that foot on. How does it feel? Are you uncomfortable?”

“It’s all right, Grampa. It only bothers me if I’ve been on it too much. I took it easy today, knowing I’d be coming out tonight.”

Oddly touched by that admission, that Ben had planned his day around seeing him that evening, Delaney patted the boy’s shoulder as he passed by.

“Let me bring this footstool over for you.” Delaney dragged a heavy round cushioned stool over to the sofa. “Now, what can I get you to drink?”

“Club soda would be fine,” Ben told him. “Alcohol doesn’t mix well under the circumstances.”

“Ah. Right you are. It wouldn’t do to take another tumble now, would it?” Delaney went to the bar and spooned ice into a tumbler. He poured in some club soda, slid in a peel of lime, and walked back to the sofa, handing it to Ben and saying, “I’ve been unable to drink alcohol for so long now, I forget why I used to like it.”

“Lost your taste for it?”

“Not really. I still love a good tumbler of fine Scotch as much as I always have. But, unfortunately, it’s a poor mix with my medication,” Delaney said, trying to look suitably concerned and yet blasé at the same time.

“What medication is that?” Ben frowned. Was his grandfather ill?

Delaney tapped lightly on his chest with his right fist and said, “Well, the heart’s been giving me some problems, son.” No lie there, Delaney gave himself a mental nod.

“What kind of problems?”

“Nothing I want you to worry about, son. Now, tell me, are you planning on going back into racing?”

“When I can. If I can. Delaney”—Ben turned around in his seat to face his grandfather—“is there something I should know? I thought that you had made a good recovery from your heart attack.”

“Ah, Ben, I’m an old man.” I
am
an old man, Delaney assured himself. Still on honest ground here. “Old men have old hearts. Old hearts are neither predictable nor reliable.” All true.

Delaney had practiced this part all afternoon. He was going for
brave but philosophical,
hoping to come off a bit like an Apache chief he had seen in a movie once, who, knowing that death was impending, had announced stoically, “It is a good day to die.” He stole a sideways glance at his grandson, wondering how he was doing.

Another knock at the door announced that their dinner had arrived. He excused himself to Ben and went to the door, slowing himself down from his usual pace, favoring his own arthritic knee just a little more than usual, going so far as to hunch his shoulders just slightly. Wishing he had eyes in the back of his head, he hobbled slightly on his cane to the door, and opened it.

“Would you mind setting up near the sofa?” Delaney asked, taking just a moment to lean against the door frame, as if weary.

“Not at all, sir.” The tuxedoed waiter went about his business of moving the table closer to the sofa, where Ben sat watching his grandfather with anxious eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Delaney said as he lowered himself into the chair with careful deliberation, “but I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Ben replied, leaning back slightly from the table to permit the waiter to place a covered dish before him.

“Let’s see now.” Delaney peered across the table. “Yours does have the cream and herb sauce, does it not?”

“Yes. It smells wonderful.”

“Ah, yes, so it does,” Delaney’s nostrils sniffed at the air wistfully. “Delightful.”

“Did you order yours plain?” Ben frowned, noticing that his grandfather’s plate contained a portion of broiled fish, naked without the fragrant herbed cream sauce, some sliced carrots, rice, and a few slices of lemon.

Delaney sighed deeply. “I’m afraid everything in that sauce except for the tarragon is off limits for me.”

All through the superb dinner, which Ben barely tasted, he watched the old man and wondered if his grandfather’s health was worse than he had been led to believe over the past few years.

“Are you in London on business, Delaney?” Ben asked, hoping to draw him into conversation.

“No, son,” Delaney replied softly. “I just wanted to see you again.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it home for Christmas this year.” Ben pointed toward his leg.

“Tough to board a plane when you’re strapped to an operating table.” Delaney tried to smile, but the fact that Ben had had to undergo surgery two days before Christmas had made for a very lonely holiday.

“Knowing how you avoid flying under any circumstances, I’m surprised you didn’t take the QE II.” Ben had the uneasy feeling that he was only getting half the story. Delaney hated to fly, and yet for no apparent reason at all, he had flown to London, with no plans except to have dinner with Ben. Chilling thoughts began to form in Ben’s mind. How much was Delaney not telling him?

“Well, you’re right. I still do hate to fly, Ben, and I had thought about taking a ship. But, well, I just thought it might . . .” He paused, staring at his plate with what he hoped to be just the right degree of implication.”. . . . take too much time.”

The fish lay in Ben’s stomach like a lump of sandstone.

“Grampa, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Ben, I am closing in on eighty years of age. Need I say more?”

They ate in silence. The clock on the mantel chimed nine.

“So, tell me, son. What are your plans?”

“I don’t really know, Delaney. I won’t be able to drive for months. It may be a long time before I regain full mobility and control of my foot. The ankle fracture was pretty bad.”

“That so?” Delaney knew just how bad the fracture was, having had Ben’s X rays sent to his office immediately after Ben’s accident. “What do you see as the earliest you might be back behind the wheel again?”

“Competitively?” Ben frowned. “Not for at least a year. If ever.”

“I’m sorry, son. I know how much you love the sport.”

“Thank you, Grampa. I appreciate that.”

“What will you do in the meantime? Between now and when you can start racing again?”

“I wish I knew. There aren’t many options.”

“Hmmm . I wonder . . .” Delaney began, then stopped.

“What’s that?”

“Ah, nothing. Just an old man’s fancy.”

“What are you thinking, Delaney?’

“Nothing, my boy.” Delaney dismissed the thought. “Besides, I’m sure that it wouldn’t work. You have established your life here. And besides, I really couldn’t impose on you.”

“What, Delaney?”

“Well, it seems that I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a bind.” Delaney smiled what he hoped would appear to be a
sheepish
smile. “You see, I recently bought a company, one that has tremendous potential, in the long run, but it’s been badly mismanaged. I have wonderful plans for it, and I know the right person could go in and turn it around.”

“You’ve done it a dozen times before.”

“This time it might be a little more of a challenge than I can deal with right now. I’m afraid I should have given
more consideration to . . . well, to
circumstances
before I gave in to the impulse. It was just such a natural reaction for me. After all these years, you know, of buying companies in distress and turning them around. I’m afraid I’ve bitten off more than I can possibly chew this time.”

“Well, how long do you think it would take to make a go of it?”

“Oh, perhaps a year. Eighteen months at the most.”

“That’s not a very long time.”

“Not for you, Ben. But for me, at my age, well, a whole
year
. . .”

A waiter removed their dinner plates while the other poured coffee for Ben.

“Aren’t you having coffee?”

“Doctor won’t permit it. Haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in . . .” He paused, meaningfully. “Well, in some months now.”

“So, are you going to tell me about this new business of yours?” Ben asked uneasily, watching his grandfather with wary eyes.

“Ah, yes. The entire concept is very exciting, innovative, challenging.” Delaney’s eyes took on a familiar shine as he settled back to cast the bait and reel him in.

It had been, Delaney later reflected, almost embarrassingly easy. Ben had opened the door for Delaney to give him the rundown on his new venture, and Delaney had smoothly stepped right through it.

Ben himself wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but before he had left his grandfather’s hotel room that night, he had offered to give Delaney a hand with the Home MarketPlace, at least until his foot healed and he could resume driving again. For the time being, he would analyze sales and investment patterns from the computerized records that Delaney would have sent to him first thing in the morning. If Ben had any second thoughts, they had come only when Delaney had mentioned casually, as if an afterthought, that this new business was
located near Lancaster, Pennsylvania—painfully close to Westboro and a past Ben had spent most of his adult life trying to forget. The dark thoughts could be pushed aside, to be dealt with when the time came.

After all, his grandfather needed him, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter
9
 

The news had hit the Home MarketPlace with all the devastating force of a tsunami. For the second time in roughly two years, the network had been sold.

The nerves of those whose offices lined Executive Row—particularly the nerves of those stalwarts who had survived the first sale—were frayed just about to the limit. And, to make matters worse, no one was quite certain who the buyer was. The sale had been crisply executed and smoothly accomplished, the paper trail long and twisted, with as many kinks and curls as a corkscrew. A company named Duval Industries had made the purchase, but seeking the principals had led to Kerry & Company, which in turn led to The Sikes Corporation. By the time the sun had risen on Connor International, Delaney O’Connor was on his way to the big office in the front corner of the second floor, and even as “ConnorCast” was being emblazoned on the side of the building, Pauline was guarding the door to the executive suite and preparing for Delaney’s arrival.

“I’m sorry that I have so few hard facts to share with you.” Ted Higgins stood at one end of the hosts’ lounge
and addressed the uneasy group that had gathered to try to sort out fact from rumor. “All I can tell you is that the new CEO will arrive here sometime this morning. He sent a memo to the personnel manager stating that he wanted to personally interview each one of you over the next week, starting immediately. His secretary is already in the building and has provided me with a schedule of the interviews.”