A Kiss Too Late. Ellen James
skull to subside. He swore fluently. Maybe last evening he’d been a little drunk, but this morning he was stone-cold sober. And he knew it had been a mistake. No matter how good it had felt to hold Jenny, it had damn well been a mistake. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone? He harbored no illusions: there’d be trouble because of the night he’d just spent with his ex-wife. Big trouble. Knowing Jen, he could count on it.
He made a circuit of her small apartment and found that she’d left. He wasn’t surprised. She’d run away from him a year ago, and she still seemed to be running.
No longer able to ignore the sour taste in his mouth, Adam went into Jen’s cramped bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Only one toothbrush poked out of a mug on the shelf. Adam smiled faintly. It was obvious that Jen didn’t make a habit of sleep-over guests.
He closed the cabinet door, rinsed out his mouth with a glob of toothpaste and then went to get dressed–not an easy proposition, considering that his attire seemed to be strewn willy-nilly across the room. They had both been impatient last night–very impatient.
After what felt like a scavenger hunt, Adam finally managed to find all his clothes–suit jacket tossed over a chair back, pants strewn on the floor, shirt crumpled at the end of the bed. At last, fully dressed, he glanced around again. He still couldn’t get over the sorry state of this place. The bedroom window was barred like a jail cell. Water stains pocked the low ceiling, and pipes rattled in the flimsy walls, as someone in the apartment next door used the plumbing. This place was a genuine dive. What did Jen think she was doing here? What was she trying to prove?
Okay, so she’d been making some cockeyed bid for independence ever since their divorce. She wouldn’t accept any money from him. He’d had his lawyer contact her a dozen times, but to no avail. Yet Jen obviously couldn’t even afford a decent place to live. Was this her idea of happiness and self-fulfillment? He just didn’t get it.
Adam took his wallet from his back pocket and extracted several bills in the largest denominations he had. He tucked them under a bottle of lotion on the bureau. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about his ex-wife’s starving to death.
He left her apartment and stepped onto a musty elevator that shook all the way down to the lobby. Outside, the blare of car horns greeted him. This was what Jen came home to every day. What the hell was going on with her?
He flagged a taxi and settled in for the drive downtown. He had plenty of time to stare at the graffiti-scrawled walls, the abandoned scaffolding of once-ambitious construction projects, the trees barricaded behind iron fences. Adam disliked New York and always had. Boston was his city–big, rowdy, friendly. New York was just too damn tense.
At last the taxi burrowed its way among the skyscrapers of the financial district. A perpetual dimness lurked here, the old stone buildings rising like muted brown ghosts. Adam swung out of the cab and strode into one of the buildings. Now a perfectly noiseless elevator took him gliding smoothly upward. The atmosphere was hushed, as if the preoccupations of investment bankers demanded absolute quiet. That was something else Adam disliked–investment bankers. Yet today he had an appointment to meet with one. It had finally come to that.
The offices of Fowler, Meredith and Company on the forty-ninth floor were sleek and bland, all the walls and furniture in the reception area a subdued off-white. Even the sunlight filtering in through the blinds seemed off-white, a watered-down version of the real thing. An equally subdued secretary brought Adam a cup of hot coffee. He could use that, all right. He’d almost finished with it by the time he was ushered into the office of Jefferson Henshaw, a partner in the prestigious acquisitions-and-mergers department.
Henshaw looked too young for the exalted position he held, a shock of wispy blond hair falling over his forehead like a schoolboy’s. Adam grimaced to himself. The last thing he needed was to deal with some hotshot fresh out of Harvard business school. He glanced at the framed diplomas on Henshaw’s wall. Adam’s list of dislikes was growing this morning. He didn’t trust a guy who framed his diplomas in teak like they were works of art.
“Mr. Prescott,” said Jefferson Henshaw. “Pleasure to meet you. Have a seat.” He spoke a shade too heartily, his handshake a bit too firm, as if he’d been coached in some business-etiquette class to present a forceful image. With heavy misgivings, Adam sat down on the other side of his desk.
“I can tell you I already have Darnard Publishing very interested in your newspaper,” Henshaw said, still in hearty mode. “You’ve picked a good time to sell.”
More like sell out–that was how it felt to Adam. If he sacrificed the Boston Standard, he’d be betraying his family heritage. The problem was that family-owned newspapers didn’t thrive in today’s economy. It was a knowledge that Adam had been fighting for a long while. He’d put everything into the Standard, and the paper still wasn’t breaking even.
“I’m looking at various possibilities,” Adam said grimly. “Going public is an option.”
“You start selling public stock, and you run the risk of losing any control of the paper at all. Let Darnard buy you out, and you can probably work a deal to stay on as editor.” There was the slightest condescension in Henshaw’s voice, as if he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be the editor of a middling New England paper like the Standard. Hell, was this what it had come to? Adam was being patronized by some snot-nosed kid who was supposed to be the newest financial wizard. Today Adam felt every one of his forty years, and then some.
“I don’t enjoy the idea of editing a newspaper I don’t own,” Adam said.
“Darnard is the best way to go, believe me.”
Adam shrugged. He knew that Darnard Publishing was a corporate conglomerate currently expanding into television, as well as gobbling up newspapers and magazines. If Adam agreed to the deal, the Boston Standard would become just another link in a nationwide media chain. It would no longer be the family paper that Adam’s great-grandfather, Benjamin Prescott, had founded more than one hundred years ago.
Adam stood abruptly. “I’ll think about it.”
Henshaw frowned. “I’m ready right now to go over the details.”
“I’m not.”
“Mr. Prescott, I thought you were ready to seriously negotiate. You can’t keep these people dangling–”
“Let them dangle.”
Several minutes later, Adam was striding down the street, hands jammed into his pockets. It took him a while to realize where he was headed–Battery Park, to the pier where you caught the Statue of Liberty ferry. Although Adam disliked New York, he’d always had a fondness for the Lady, and there she was, with her great flowing robes and spiked crown. To the world she might represent freedom, but to Adam she held a much more personal appeal–she reflected belligerent determination, a determination to choose what was right despite all obstacles.
If only Adam could choose what was right for his newspaper. As for his ex-wife, hell, he’d never been able to figure out what was right where Jen was concerned. Last night had proved that all over again.
Adam turned and began striding in the opposite direction.
* * *
THE LUNCH RUSH at Gil’s Deli in midtown Manhattan started to pick up speed at around eleven in the morning. Nearby office workers sought out the place, intent on beating the crowds for Gil’s famed homemade sausage and potato salad. Jen, one of the deli’s newer employees, still worked the sandwich bar, not yet trusted to mix the secret recipe for potato salad. She stood behind a long counter, lackadaisically slapping mustard and mayonnaise on slices of whole wheat bread.
“What’s up?” asked her friend Suzanne, coming along to replenish Jen’s supply of pickles, romaine lettuce and Swiss cheese. “You’ve been distracted all morning.”
“Nothing,” Jen muttered. “I’m fine. Just fine and dandy.” She tossed a lettuce leaf and two slabs of ham on the thick, crusty bread. One decisive cut of her