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Glancing at his watch again, he wiped his palms on his slacks and thought the hell with it. Weston came and went as he pleased, never seeming to punch in. The old man handled it, but with Harley it was different. Never having shone as much as his older brother, whether it be on the football field, in school, or at the job, Harley was expected to try harder, spend more hours at the desk, kiss more asses.
Too bad. Tonight he was going to see Claire, and he didn’t give a damn what his father had to say about it. He was on his feet and had reached for the door when his father’s secretary’s voice called over the intercom. “Mr. Taggert?”
“Yes.”
“You have a call on line two.” Harley’s insides congealed. What if it was Jerry Best? What could he say to the man? How could he save the account? He wasn’t a salesman; never would be. “It’s Miss Forsythe.”
Harley wanted to climb into a hole and die. This was worse than pretending he cared about the price of milled lumber. Why did Kendall keep chasing him? Didn’t she understand that it was over? He snatched up the receiver and barked out a greeting. “Hi.”
“Oh, Harley, I’m so glad I caught you.” He imagined her face—all blue eyes and pink cheeks, pouty lips turned down at the corners.
“What’s up?” Not that he cared. He flicked a piece of dirt from under one fingernail.
“It’s—it’s that I have to see you.”
“Kendall, don’t, I already told you—”
“It’s important, Harley. I wouldn’t have called you at work if it wasn’t.”
Holy shit, she was pregnant. Hadn’t she said she wanted to be? Harley’s knees went weak and he sagged against the desk for support. His stomach cramped so hard he thought he might lose his lunch. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk over the phone. Meet me at my parents’ beach house tonight.”
“I can’t.”
A beat. “Please.”
“I have plans.”
Her voice sounded strangled. “Harley, listen, this is a matter of life or death.”
The baby. She was pregnant and considering the abortion.
“I’ll see you at eight.”
“I can’t.”
“You really don’t have a choice,” she choked out, then slammed the receiver in his ear. For a second he thought he might pass out, the blackness in the corners of his vision threatening to blind him, but slowly he caught his breath. Kendall was right—he had to meet her. With shaking fingers he smoothed his hair from his face and tried to appear calm.
As he left the office he managed to wave to the woman in the steno pool who was assigned to be his secretary. Linda Something-Or-Other. Fair, fat, and forty, but pleasant and efficient enough to make him feel foolish, that her smile was often at him not with him. Stop it, Taggert, you’re the boss.
His Italian loafers crunched on the gravel of the washed-out parking lot. Potholes scarred the dusty asphalt, and no tree dared offer shade in an operation that was meant to reduce forest giants to two-by-fours. The fresh scent of sawdust mingled with the overpowering odor of diesel, and Harley hated every second of it.
His father, like Dutch Holland, was president of a corporation made up of many divisions. This sawmill was only one of the small companies under the umbrella of Taggert Industries. So it seemed ridiculous for Harley to be stuck in the mill when there were resorts and restaurants to operate.
“It’ll do ya good,” Neal had explained when he’d told Harley about his summer job. “Mix with the men who are the backbone of this company. Next year you can work at the resort in Seaside.”
An empty promise, Harley thought as he pushed a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose and Weston’s Porsche convertible roared into the parking lot.
Crystal Songbird, Jack’s younger sister and a girl Weston dated off and on, was slouched in the passenger seat of the convertible, her fingers tapping the rhythm of Bruce Spring-steen’s “Hungry Heart.” Her black hair shimmered blue in the afternoon sunlight. If she saw Harley, she didn’t acknowledge him, but Weston was out of the car in an instant and bore down on him as if with a single purpose. Jaw set and hard, fists clenched, he crossed the parking lot.
Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack . . .
Wes looked angry enough to spit nails.
Harley braced himself for what appeared to be a showdown. Weston’s lips were white with determination.
“Where’s Dad?” he demanded.
