One thing he’d learned from politics was that sugar always worked better than salt, unless salt was all you had to work with—which usually wasn’t the case. Ashley seemed oblivious to the difference.
“Who am I going to talk to about this?” she asked. “You’re the only one who knows anything.”
He looked at her. “You both made a lot of mistakes. They’re not going to get fixed in a day. You know, I could talk with Catherine—”
“No. Absolutely not. He never wanted his mother involved then, and I’m sure not now either. Leave her out of this.”
He sighed. “You two are some piece of work. Do either of you have any idea what you’re doing?”
She finished her juice. “Not really or I wouldn’t have screwed things up to start with.”
And that she had. Big time.
He knew about Brent’s breakup with Paula. And he was one of the few to know it had been suicide. No one blamed anybody. Sure, there’d been talk of something between Brent and Ashley. But when Brent left for Atlanta alone, the talk left with him. People moved on to other gossip.
Now he was back.
He said, “Little one, you have to give this time.”
Her eyes were watery. He could tell this was hard.
“I’m trying, Daddy. I really am. But I love him.”
8:02A.M.
CHRISTOPHERBOZIN GAZED UP IN AMAZEMENT. AT THIRTY STORIES,compared with the monstrosities surrounding it, the Southern Republic Tower rose puny into the Atlanta skyline. But what the structure lacked in stature was more than made up for in elegance. The building was a relative newcomer, there less than a dozen years. An unusual hexagon shape, its architecture gradually smoothed until culminating in a point, appearing from the ground like a gigantic sharpened pencil resting on its eraser. The exterior was all glass, tinted in a classy dark-blue hue, and provided both solar insulation from the constant Georgia heat and the building’s more common, and simple, name—the Blue Tower.
Southern Republic occupied only the twenty-ninth and thirtieth floors. The remainder was leased commercially. In years past the company dominated more of the tower, but that changed four years ago when most of the corporate departments were moved three hundred miles south to Concord, only the sales force and owners themselves remaining in Atlanta. The salespeople werekept because, along with satellite offices in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, Atlanta proved a more convenient access point for the worldwide purchasers of the company’s main products—paper, lumber, bags, and building supplies. The owners stayed because none of them wanted to live full-time in the heat and humidity of middle Georgia.
He entered the busy mezzanine and rode the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor. His two-room suite of offices faced northeast and befit his status as a co-founder and one-third owner of Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company.
“Good morning,” he said to his admin assistant. “Beautiful out there today.” He kept walking into his private office and Nancy followed. “What do we have on tap this morning?”
“It’s not going to be that easy,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
He stood at his desk. “You know I don’t like you mothering me.”
“Any pain?”
“Not yet,” he said, before adding, “but thanks for asking.”
He knew she cared far more than either of them would ever admit. He’d never married and she was divorced. He’d often thought himself the cause of her marriage ending, though neither one of them ever discussed it. His own bachelorhood at nearly seventy years old was, perhaps, the only overtly odd thing about him, a fact that repeatedly sparked gossip, some even suggesting he was gay. But Nancy knew better.
“Could you try and not let Mr. Lee get you worked up?” she asked.
“That’s much easier said than done.”
“You want me to make a doctor’s appointment?”
He smiled. “Determined, aren’t you?”
“Just concerned, Chris.”
She was much more informal when other people were not around.
“I appreciate it. But no, I don’t need a doctor. I’m truly fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
