Page 6

“I kept telling your grandfather that he had to get you in the loop sooner rather than later. But he’s been all over the place… mentally.” Chuck shoots an eyebrow upward. A challenge of sorts, a silent question. Did you know about Poppy’s diagnosis? Because it’s clear that Chuck knows, and has for some time at least.

“He told you?” Alex lowers his voice even though no one can hear them.

“I was the only one he told here. But I suspect Barb probably knows. Can’t put anything past her.”

They both look out the door to the cubicle outside the office where Barb, Poppy’s longtime secretary, is clacking away on an honest-to-God Selectric typewriter because she doesn’t trust computers. “No thank you, they’re always up to something,” she says whenever she’s asked if she wants an upgrade to a desktop. But she’s loyal, and Alex would no more have replaced her than changed the name of the company. And he’s willing to bet she of all people was well aware Poppy was slipping.

“I did,” Alex murmurs. “But he demanded that I not tell anyone in the company.”

“We’re in the same boat there, sport.”

There’s something soothing about being back to being “sport.” But the look of doom on Chuck’s face quickly offsets any comfort Alex may have taken.

“He made a bad call. Would he have made it before… who knows? I don’t think so. That’s why I kept telling him to retire. Said it over and over. But he never did listen. Not until he didn’t have much of a choice, and then I told him maybe we needed a long-term succession plan, promote Rick or Josh into the role. No offense, they just have more experience, you know.”

Has the caveat “no offense” ever prevented someone from being offended? But Alex couldn’t exactly offer a rousing counterargument—Rick and Josh did have more experience, also probably more passion. Alex had only one thing in his favor: the Hartwell name.

“Well, yeah, I guess you’re stuck with me.” The lightness Alex tried to infuse in this comment did not materialize.

“Oh, Alex, it’s not like that. You’re going to do a good job. I believe in you. I really do.”

As much as Alex wants to blame Chuck—someone, anyone—for this, it’s as much his own fault. Chuck never should have let Poppy make a decision like this when he knew his once brilliant mind was failing him more every day. But Alex is just as guilty. Why hadn’t he taken more action, told the board about the dementia, sounded the alarm much sooner? But he didn’t, for the same reason Chuck didn’t: they were intimidated by Poppy and believed the man’s own mythology, that he was infallible.

“He’s a real son of a bitch.” Chuck says this with a grim smile, because at the end of the day, Chuck loves that real son of a bitch. The smile disappears as he goes on. “Look, the situation isn’t good. It’s not good at all. We got a deal on MedLine, but the unsold inventory is piling up in valuable warehouse space and we inherited their payroll. Our own inflow of cash isn’t great, as you know, ever since those tech companies started eating into our business. There’s also the loans. Your grandfather mortgaged a couple of stores to balance the books and thought we would refinance them by now, but interest rates keep going through the roof.”

“What the fuck?” Alex probably should be doing a better job of hiding his alarm, but it’s impossible. The beads of sweat forming on his forehead are a dead giveaway.

“I know this isn’t how you thought you would be starting out as CEO. It’s a tough situation, but I’m going to do what I can to help you here, to stop the bleeding. There are ways to balance the books, but we’ll need to be straight with the board and we’ll have to tighten our belts, maybe even close a couple of stores.”

“Hell no! We can’t do that. Hartwell has never closed a store. Not once. Poppy prided himself on that. Always said we made it through two recessions without a single closure. Then suddenly I take over and we’re closing stores? No way.”

“We don’t have a lot of options here,” Chuck says. “And we… you… should have a sound plan to present to the board that accounts for… all this. You’re in charge now, and you’re going to have to start making some hard calls.” His tone is patronizing enough that Alex is starting to feel like that little kid plodding around in his grandfather’s wingtips once again. Maybe he should take another spin in the chair to clear his mind.

“Also, not sure you’re aware of this either, but Larry’s been forgoing his own salary for the past year or so. You might consider doing the same until we can get on more solid ground?”

“Jesus Christ. You’re kidding me, right?”

“Afraid not.”

As if it couldn’t get any worse. Now Alex is supposed to make no money at all?

“Look, with these and some other drastic measures, we can turn this around. It’s premature to even utter the word ‘bankruptcy’…”

But here’s Chuck uttering the word. Alex has a fleeting moment of wondering if he’s being punked, if this is a way for his grandfather to haze him or test him on the very first day of the job, to see how he’ll deal with the pressure. Then he clocks Chuck’s sober expression, and the dream that this is all a perverse joke dies.

“I need some time to look through all this. Could you maybe step out, and we can circle back later this afternoon?”

“Sure thing. And, Alex…”

It was suddenly Alex again.

“I’m sorry.” Chuck swivels his wheelchair toward the door. “But this will all work out in the end. Hartwell’s been through worse.”

Had they? Poppy has always made it look so easy, has always acted like the growth of Hartwell and his abundant personal bank account were some kind of manifest destiny. Alex only manages a slight nod. He pretends to be absorbed in the paperwork as Chuck leaves, but as soon as the door closes, he drops his head into his hands and tugs frantically at the facial hair he’s still getting used to. Why the fuck did he even decide to grow a beard? Yet another attempt at dressing up as someone else. He clenches his fists into balls, digging his nails into his palms until he feels pain, and then bangs his forehead against the desk. With his head still pressed against the cool wood, he feels his cell phone vibrate. He glances at the screen.

A text from Tilly lights up his phone: Yep. Got the contract. All set!

Alex’s stomach doesn’t just drop—it plummets through the floor, through the foundation, straight to the center of the earth. The offer he’d been so smug about less than an hour ago now seems like a cosmic joke. Laughable. Absurd. How the hell is he supposed to take on a massive mortgage when he can’t even guarantee himself a salary? When the entire company might implode by next Tuesday? But it’s also impossible to get his good-faith, nonrefundable deposit back. All that money gone, poof, just like that.