Only I don’t quite make it out of my office before running into Mr. Welles.
“Aerin, I was hoping I’d catch you before you left. You have a moment?” he asks. A leather folio rests beneath his jacketed arm. He must have just finished up with the board meeting.
“Of course.”
We head back into my office, Mr. Welles closing the door behind him. I take a seat at my desk.
“Everything okay?” I ask. If I’m lucky, Calder pulled some strings or worked some miracles and his father’s coming in to tell me I’m free to go.
“Oh, yes, yes.” He smiles, taking the seat where Lillie sat moments ago. “Everything’s going great, actually. I just wanted to see how things were going with C.J.?”
It’s so weird hearing someone call him “C.J.”
It doesn’t fit him at all. He doesn’t look like a “C.J.”
He very much looks like a Calder. Dark, broody, mysterious, and unlike anyone I’ve ever known before.
“Fine,” I say, keeping a tight lid on things. I have no idea what Calder has or hasn’t told him about us.
“Great, great.” His hands form a peak in front of his face. “Then I have one additional … task … I’d like to add to your load while you’re here.”
“Okay?”
“I need you to keep a close eye on him,” he says.
That’s a first.
“In what sort of ways?” I ask. I don’t dare tell him that Calder specifically requested just this morning that we see each other as little as possible the next four weeks. “It’s just that, he’s very busy—as you know. I don’t see him that often as it is.”
“I know,” he says, swatting his wrinkled hand. He clears his throat, which turns into a cough that quickly dissipates, but he dips into his pocket and retrieves a cherry cough drop anyway. “You see, I’ve missed the last ten years of my boy’s life. And I don’t want to miss a minute more. He still wants nothing to do with me. Won’t talk anything but business with me. And it occurred to me just this morning that my son is nothing more than a stranger who shares my name. I want to get to know him, Aerin. I want to know who he is. What he likes. What makes him tick. What makes him smile.”
Mr. Welles flashes a quick, toothy grin.
“You’re the only one with that kind of access to him,” he says. “I need you to tell me everything, no matter how mundane or nuanced.”
“Mr. Welles … I don’t know …”
“There’s something about being face to face with the end of your life, with your own mortality, that changes a man,” he says. His gaze passes my shoulders and he stares through the window behind me, pausing as if he’s lost in thought. “Makes you want to grab everything you can, as fast as you can. Like one of those machines where the money blows all around you and you’re grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. Even if you’re only getting singles, it’s better than nothing.”
It breaks my heart to say this, but I have to be honest. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not comfortable doing that.”
His melancholic demeanor darkens and his bushy salt and pepper brows meet in the middle. “I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, Ms. Keane. And for three hundred grand, I should be asking you to do a hell of a lot more.”
Mr. Welles stands, running his hand down his red tie. His face is flushed, his ears red hot. I take it he isn’t used to anyone standing up to him, refusing his requests.
“You asked me to be your son’s assistant,” I say. “That’s what I was hired to do. Not spy on him. I don’t appreciate being taken for a ride. I’m a person of my word. I thought you were too.”
I realize I’m ridiculously brazen to talk to this man in this way, but the worst thing he could do is fire me, which is ironically also the best thing he could do.
“I want to know everything,” he says, teeth almost gritting. “What he does, where he goes, what he likes, how many fucking sugars he takes in his coffee.”
He doesn’t drink coffee, but I don’t share that little nugget.
As much as it pains me to defend his progeny, I’m the one who has to look myself in the mirror every day. I’m the one who has to lie awake at night with my own thoughts, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to fall asleep without a heavy conscience than with one.
“Keep that in mind, Ms. Keane,” he says, pointing. He heads to the door, stopping just before he goes. “And might I recommend re-reading your contract when you have a moment?”
Of course.
There’s probably some vaguely-worded non-compliance clause buried in there.
“Yes, sir.” I shove my purse back in my drawer.