Mikalo's Flame (12 page)

“If that’s not love, I don’t know what
is.”

I waited, not quite willing to revisit the
bombshell from last night.

Taking a deep breath, I spoke.

“He wants his own place.”

Bill looked at me, his eyes finding mine from
over the rim of his coffee cup as he stopped halfway through a
sip.

“Really?” he said, swallowing and then
putting the cup down.

“Really.”

“Any idea what brought this on?”

I shook my head.

“Nope, no idea. All I know is things are
going great between us, really, really good, and then, boom!, there
it is. He wants his own place.”

Bill leaned back in his chair.

“Is this such a bad thing?” he asked.

“It sure feels that way!”

“Why? So, it moves a little slower. It’s not
the end of the world, is it? And weren’t you the one getting all
defensive about only knowing him for a few months or something and
how you weren’t racing to the altar and, you know, check with you
guys in a year or two years or five years and see if you’re still
together?

“Him living on his own doesn’t mean he’s not
going to see you or you’re not going to see him or you guys aren’t
going to be together.

“All it means is you won’t wake up next to
each other every morning or go to sleep with each other every
night. That’s all.”

“But that’s a lot,” I said. “I like that. I
love having him there every morning and every night. I love feeling
him next to me when I wake and having his arms around me when I
drift off to sleep.”

“So now when that happens, you’ll appreciate
it even more, right?” Bill asked.

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“As for this Abby bullshit, with the Byzans
and swooping in to buy Mikalo’s business, I’ll get a word into
Richardson and see if there isn’t something we can do.”

I stood to go.

“I’m sorry for ambushing you and stalking you
and then screaming at you.”

“No worries,” he said as he sat with the
phone to his ear.

“Besides,” he continued. “It woke me right
up.

“I should be drinking less coffee anyway,” he
then finished with a wink.

She sat next to me, uncomfortable, the stiff
fabric of her predictable Chanel suit, rubbing against her chin as
she waited for Rainier Richardson to speak.

On the other side of her sat Marcus, eagerly
leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his toe tapping
impatiently. The poor boy completely misreading the mood of the
room, convinced, one would think, that he was here to be promoted
to Grand Poobah or given the keys to the kingdom or something.

Across from us sat Rainier Richardson,
silently angry, quietly furious, the gentle blush of his cheeks
betraying the rage he felt.

He cleared his throat.

I felt Abby take a deep breath as she
straightened her shoulders.

Rainier’s grey eyes turned to me.

“Ronan, if you will,” he said, his voice low
and courteous.

“Not with him here,” I said, indicating
Marcus.

“I have every right to be here,” he quickly
said, his voice rising. “My department has a great deal to do with
--”

“Your department,” Richardson interrupted
quietly.

Marcus had the intelligence to at least
stammer his reply.

“Yes,” he said. “My department. The one I
--”

“And what would that be?” Richardson asked,
his fingers at his lips, his thumbs at his chin.

“M&A,” Marcus finally said. “Mergers and
Acquisitions --”

“I know what M&A means,” Richardson
interrupted. “And I don’t remember it being ‘your’ department.”

He turned his gaze toward Abby.

“Is Mr. Blazen aware of this change in
leadership, Miss White?”

She cleared her throat.

“I think what Marcus means to say is --”

“No, no,” Richardson said. “He clearly said
what he meant to say.”

He turned to Marcus.

“Hear me, understand me, and do not forget
what I’m about to say,” he began. “And for god’s sake stop bouncing
your foot.”

Marcus put his hand on his knee, immediately
silencing what had become an increasingly distracting nervous
tick.

Richardson continued.

“You are not the Head of M&A. You never
were and, as long as I’m here, you never will be. Bill Blazen is
your boss. He is the one you listen to. He is the one you answer
to. If this is something you cannot handle or refuse to handle, I
have no doubt you can find employment elsewhere.

“Is this understood?”

“You see,” Marcus began. “Here’s the thing.
It’s my belief that this Firm, and that department specifically,
needs new blood. A new way of thinking. Of finding business.”

Richardson raised his finger to silence
him.

Marcus continued, standing to make his
point.

“Blazen and Ronan --” he continued.

“Miss Grace,” Richardson said.

“Miss Grace, Ronan, whatever,” Marcus said.
“We could be doing so much more with different people in
charge.”

“Do you see this?” Richardson asked,
indicating his raised finger.

Marcus stood there, silent and confused.

“Do you see this?” Richardson repeated, his
tone damn near parental.

“Yeah.”

“And do you know what it means?”

“Your finger?”

“Yes,” Richardson said through gritted teeth.
“My finger. When you see a finger raised like this, do you know
what it means?”

“Rainier --” Abby began.

“Mr. Richardson,” he corrected her, his eyes
never leaving Marcus.

“Do you know what it means?” he asked again,
his finger still in the air.

“It means to be quiet,” Marcus finally
said.

“Ah, so you do know,” Richardson said, his
finger finally leaving the air. “You just chose to show a galling
disrespect and a stunning lack of manners by ignoring it.

“You can go now,” he then said. “Go home,
take a long weekend, we’ll talk about your future on Monday.”

“I really think --” Marcus began.

Richardson’s cheeks blushed a deeper red.

“Go.”

He then rose, his hands on the desk, leaning
forward, his grey eyes cunning and cruel and very, very angry.

“Now.”

Abby spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

“Marcus, we’ll speak later.”

Marcus took a step away from the chair,
turning toward the door to go before looking back at her.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked Abby.

“Don’t you dare respond,” Richardson warned
her, his square jaw set in anger.

He looked to Marcus.

“She is not your boss. She’s not Managing
Partner and she’s not calling the shots. I am. You listen to me and
to only me.

“I’m waiting for you to leave,” he then
said.

Marcus finally opened the door and, after
another look back, left, the door closing a bit too hard behind
him.

Richardson picked up the phone and
dialed.

“Yes, please escort Mr. Marcus Marunder from
the building. Use force if necessary.”

He hung up with a loud click and turned his
gaze to Abby.

“So, Miss White,” he began, flashing her his
pearly whites. “Let’s talk about you.”

I couldn’t see the sweat rolling down her
neck, but I could feel it.

And, although she still sat to my side, I was
almost tempted to break protocol, look unprofessional, and turn to
the side to take a look, savoring the sight of that single bead
sliding from her perfectly sculpted dark coif to wander down her
pale neck.

But I didn’t. I just sat, listening in
disbelief at the shit she was shoveling.

“I don’t know why Miss Grace, who we all love
and respect, wasn’t invited to any of those meetings,” she said
again. “Really, I blame myself for leaving those small details to
my secretary, a horribly unprofessional young woman -- and we can
speak about replacing her another time perhaps -- or to Marcus, a
man I obviously shouldn’t have trusted.

“You know,” she continued. “I’ve never had
anything but warm feelings for Miss Grace.”

“And yet this doesn’t answer why you’re
offering tax planning advice, income tax advice, estate planning
advice, all issues handled exclusively by Miss Grace and her
department, by the way, to Mr. Byzan,” Richardson said.

“Oh,” Abby said, pushing the thought away
with a little laugh. “I don’t know where you heard that. I’d never
do anything that bold. And I obviously could never dream of
matching wits with someone as brilliant as Ronan.”

Oh Jesus.

“Mr. Byzan,” Richardson said.

“I’m sorry?” Abby asked with a small
smile.

“Mr. Byzan was curious why you and Marcus
were offering him advice instead of Miss Grace,” he said. “He also
asked me if I’d please send his best wishes for Ronan’s speedy
recovery from, well, whatever it was keeping her from attending all
these meetings and dinners.”

“Well, I ...” Abby began before falling
silent.

Richardson sat back in his chair, his hands
folded in his lap.

He waited quietly.

Then he spoke.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me Mr. Byzan,
one of the Firm’s wealthiest clients and a man you’ve worked very
hard to ingratiate yourself with, a man I’ve personally known and
liked for several years, is a liar.”

He watched her.

“Is he?” he then asked.

God, what I wouldn’t give to see her sweating
now.

I slightly turned my head and snuck a
peek.

Her chin was trembling and there were tears
in her eyes.

Shit.

I felt horrible for her now.

She was watching her career circle the toilet
and I was the reason for it.

No, wait. That’s not right.

She’s the reason for it. I was just here
calling off her dogs and salvaging what I could of my quickly
diminishing reputation. Wounds she was inflicting.

So, no, it was her fault. Not mine.

And if she wanted to cry for her career, let
her.

I wasn’t going to feel sorry for her.

Or at least I was going to try not to feel
sorry for her.

“No,” she finally said, her voice quiet.
“He’s not a liar.”

“Would you care to explain why there was this
concerted effort to damage Miss Grace’s reputation with the
Byzans?” he asked.

She took a deep breath.

“I need to be honest with you,” she began. “I
have no idea why Marcus was doing this. I don’t know what got into
him and, really, in all honesty, I didn’t have anything to do with
it.”

Oh my god, that lying bitch!

“I didn’t even know what was happening until
the end,” she continued, the lies coming easily and effortlessly,
her ability to throw her soon-to-be son-in-law under the bus both
impressive and terrifying.

“One minute, he was hard working, brilliant
and fantastic. Truly impressive and, in my opinion, moving toward a
fantastic future both at Macfarlane, Schaal, as well as in the
industry at large.

“The next, I hear he’s making up stories
about Miss Grace, arranging dinners with the Byzans. Meetings and
what not.

“Of course I go,” she continued, her hand on
her chest in a Bad Acting 101 show of sincerity. “You know, to
protect Miss Grace and the Byzans and, of course, the Firm.

“But before I even knew what was happening,
it was almost too late to stop him. And believe me, I tried and
tried and tried.”

Going for Top of the Bad Acting class, her
voice slightly broke.

“The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt
our Miss Grace,” she finished.

Richardson paused, watching her, before
turning to me.

“And what does ‘our Miss Grace’ think about
this?” he then asked me.

He waited, the smallest of smiles curling the
very edge of his lips.

“It’s bullshit,” I said. “You know it’s
bullshit, I know it’s bullshit, and even dear Abby over here knows
it’s bullshit.

“That’s what I think,” I finished, sneaking a
look at Abby.

She sat as stiff as a board with her eyes
closed.

“You know what I think,” Richardson began. “I
think Ronan’s right.”

“Rainier --” Abby began.

He cut her off.

“You lost the right to call me Rainier when
you sat there and lied to my face, Miss White. For over ten years
I’ve supported you and encouraged you. Allowing you great leeway in
building your department and going after those really big deals
that would put you on the map. Put your name in the papers.

“After all that, you sat there and lied
through your teeth.

“So, no,” he continued. “From now on, it’s
Mr. Richardson when you speak with me.

“If you speak with me, that is.”

She took a deep breath and then spoke.

“Am I to take it I’m no longer welcome at
Macfarlane, Schaal? That you’re firing me and I’m to pack up and
leave?” she asked, her eyes avoiding his.

“If you wish,” he said. “But, to answer your
question, no, I’m not firing you. You’re welcome to stay at
Macfarlane as long as you wish.”

I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he
was doing.

Firing her would be easy. She’d be the
victim. Poor Abby White suffering at the hands of the horrible
Rainier Richardson and evil Ronan Grace.

She could use that, pivot, and land at a new
Firm, if she wanted. Or at least soak up a bit of sympathy.

But for her to remain at Macfarlane would be
unbearable, though not as unbearable as hitting the streets, cap in
hand, meeting with other Firms in the hope of landing a comparable
position with a comparable paycheck, a near impossibility at her
age.

And, of course, that didn’t even mention the
questions surrounding why she would want to leave Macfarlane.
Questions followed by phone calls. Phone calls followed by gossip.
Gossip followed by the unmasking of her lies, her deception, her
underhanded backstabbing.