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Oh, sure. He had nothing better to do than to be at the beck and call of his grandfather’s shenanigans. What had happened to the hard-nosed captain of industry who had brought their company into the twenty-first century? Where had the iron-fisted, no-nonsense head of the most successful chain of small department stores in the South gone?
Because the man who’d flown a kite from the top of the building last week wasn’t him. If the past few months were any indicator, Malcolm Henry, Jr.’s cheese had slid off his cracker.
Hell, the man sat up front with his driver holding a wiener dog he’d named Izzy in his lap. If that wasn’t damning evidence, Brennan didn’t know what was.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around the change in the man who had skipped most of his grandson’s birthday parties because there had been work to attend to. His grandfather had even arrived late at Brennan’s graduation because of an emergency board-of-directors meeting about an acquisition of a small chain of stores on the East Coast. Malcolm Henry had been the sharpest businessman in the Crescent City…and now he called bingo at the local homeless shelter on Friday nights.
Brennan picked up the phone. “Get me Ellen. Please.”
The VP of communications and community relations, who was also his second cousin, answered on the third ring. “Bivens.”
“Ellen, tell me my grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo idea.”
“Your grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo.”
“You’re lying.”
“Of course, I am.”
“We can’t afford this foolish campaign. Giving a random stranger millions of dollars is irresponsible in this economy. We have investors who will walk out when they discover MBH is capriciously tossing away capital.”
“You know he’s not using company money?”
“You mean he’s usingourmoney for this?” Something hot slid into his gut. It wasn’t as though his grandfather couldn’t do what he wished with his own money. But over the past six months, the man had shelled out huge chunks of money to pet nonprofit agencies. Giving money away to a perfect stranger, declaring him or her theSpirit of Christmas,and mapping out some crazy publicity stunt sounded dangerously negligent.
Worry started eating away at Brennan. What if the heart attack his grandfather had suffered six months ago had done other damage—like to Malcolm’s head? Maybe a mild stroke that had gone misdiagnosed? His grandfather had always been extremely careful in spending money, both in business and his personal life.
Brennan wasn’t ready to watch his grandfather turn dotty in his advanced age. He wasn’t ready to let go of the one solid presence in his life.
“That’s what he indicated,” Ellen said, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “I assumed you had spoken with him about this. We’ve been working on this for three months.”
His grandfatherhadspoken to him. Brennan had just failed to “hear” the plan. “I was unaware of the particulars, and, honestly, I had hoped this crazy idea would fall by the wayside. After all, we have the Magic in the Lights gala coming up benefiting Malcolm’s Kids. Grandfather has plenty of charitable causes to pursue, all of which demonstrate the Spirit of the Season.”
“Actually, this idea of his is brilliant from a marketing perspective. All that’s required is a splashing of the story on the front of theTimes-Picayune,and we’re golden. You can’t buy this sort of goodwill.”
Brennan frowned. “Story?”
“He didn’t tell you how he found the person he wants to use as the center point?”
“No.”
An awkward pause hung on the line, and he could tell Ellen didn’t know if she should be the bearer of the news or not.
He saved her the trouble. “I’ll get to the bottom of it when we meet in Boardroom B at ten. I’ll see you then.”
“Meeting? I can’t attend—I have a report I have to submit to Don before the end of the day.”
“Grandfather called it regarding this foolishness.”
“Oh, well, then I guess I can’t refuse Malcolm.”
Of course, you can’t. He still writes the checks around here.
Brennan set the phone in the cradle and looked at his desk. He had too much to deal with to worry over his grandfather’s stunt. He had a conference call at 9:00 a.m. to pacify a new cosmetics line by some Hollywood starlet the company was partnering with, and he still needed to look at the reports Mark had sent so he could talk to the CFO, Don Angelle, about procuring extra commercial spots to be aired over Mardi Gras.
No time for crazy Spirit of Christmas ideas. Not when a healthy bottom line demanded more than mistletoe and Yule logs.
Bah, humbug.
