Colin
“We were finally able to break ground on the Chadwick Street project two days ago,” Mason says. “We're excavating the foundation now, and we've made plenty of progress.”
“How much progress?” I ask.
I pace my office with Mason, my foreman on the project, on speakerphone. I stand at the window of my office, which affords me a terrific view of Boston Common. Personally, autumn is my favorite time of year – the leaves are turning, and the world is bedazzled in shades of reds and orange. It's simply gorgeous out there. I'm half-tempted to go take a walk through the Common, just to enjoy it.
Not that winter doesn't have its own appeal, but that is a cold, stark beauty – and one that is best viewed from indoors. In front of a fire. With a warm drink in your hand.
“We're almost back up to speed,” he reports. “We've made up for most of the time we lost after the – vandalism.”
The scene at the site was just that – a scene. It didn't turn into a full-blown riot, but it seemed precariously close for a while. Trying to get the people unshackled from the equipment they'd chained themselves to was problematic. There were a few skirmishes between the cops and the protesters, some blood was shed, and quite a few arrests were made. And my car was absolutely trashed.
It forced us to shut down the site for a couple of days, until all the damage could be cleaned up, and replacement equipment brought in. Luckily, I tend to pad the timelines for construction a bit, just in case something unpredictable happens, but I never like to use up those extra days. I much prefer my crew to come in on time, and under budget. It's something my clients appreciate, and what keeps us landing such lucrative deals.
I'm glad we're almost back on schedule, but I'm still pissed off about the property damage and the lost time.
“That's good news, Mason,” I say.
“I have the crews going hard,” he replies. “I'm keeping them on task.”
My crews always go hard, simply because they're sufficiently motivated to do so. But, if Mason wants to think he's the one driving that train, I won't deprive him of the notion. My crews have been with me long enough to know that if we come in ahead of schedule and under budget, I'm always happy to share some of the spoils of war. They get bonuses for completing a project early and cheaply. I think of it as profit sharing, and I know the crews are always appreciative of it.
It may not seem like much to me, but it’s enough to keep them firing on all cylinders, and motivated to push the production envelope. That holds even more true at this time of year, with Christmas bearing down on us like a Boston winter.
God, Christmas. I don't even want to think about it. For the fourth year in a row, I'm hosting my brothers – and their families – for our annual holiday get together. It's become an Anderson tradition – whoever’s territory was the least profitable the previous year is the one who gets stuck hosting the event.
It's not that I mind. I always love seeing my brothers – we don't get to spend nearly enough time together. In fact, we barely get to see each other anymore. Liam, Brayden, and Aidan all have wives and kids now, so that keeps them busy. The holidays are the only time we have to get together and just enjoy being around each other.
Truth be told, I miss my brothers. I miss hanging around with them like we did when we were younger. I know it's stupid. You have to grow up, and that entails taking on adult responsibilities. But, being with them for a week every year always takes me back to those carefree days. Everything was so much simpler back then.
Oh well. At least we have Christmas. That's something I always look forward to. Even if I'm the one who's hosting the damn thing every year.
All of us Anderson boys are competitive as hell, and this holiday deal is just an extension of that. I'm a bit handicapped in that, while I was in the Navy, they were all already setting up their territories. They were figuring out how the business ran and how to get things moving. I didn't have that advantage. In that regard, they got a running start over me.
It's a bit of a competitive advantage I'm having to overcome, but I'll get there. The last two years, I've managed to cut into the lead the others have over me. It won't be long before I'm passing them. I have the drive, and I'm accumulating the know-how on the fly. It's my personal formula for victory, and I’ll surpass them soon enough.
“Good. I'm glad to hear it, Mason,” I say. “We need to make up some more ground. This is a new client, so we want to be sure to impress. I'm counting on you.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Colin.”
“Good. Thank you, Mason. I'll touch base with you again soon.”
I disconnect the call and grab the water bottle from my desk. I'm taking a long swallow of it when my phone buzzes again. The call is coming from my receptionist, Maureen. I set the bottle back down and punch the button.
“Yes, Maureen?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Anderson,” she says, her voice as crisp and efficient as she is. “There's a young lady in the lobby here to see you. Bailey Janson?”
I stare at the phone for a long moment. That's a name I didn't expect to hear today. I look out the window at the gorgeous fall day and decide it's too nice to be cooped up.
“Have her wait a moment, Maureen,” I say. “I'll be right out.”
“Very good, Mr. Anderson.”
I disconnect the call and shake my head. No matter how many times I've tried to get her to just call me Colin, she refuses to do it. Says it blurs the line between employer and employee. Maureen is very much a by-the-book kind of woman. She takes no shortcuts and suffers no fools. And I love that about her.
Grabbing my coat from the rack near the door, I throw it on and head down the short hallway that leads to the lobby of my office. Maureen is seated behind her desk, her back ramrod straight, her hair in a severe bun at the back of her head. She's a middle-aged widow with soft, clear skin, blue eyes, and her hair has more gray than brown at this point. She refuses to color it and believes in allowing herself to age naturally and gracefully. She's a grandmother who does a spin class three times a week, hot yoga twice a week, and MMA classes twice a week.
As big as I am, I would not mess with Maureen because she might be capable of kicking my ass.
When I see Bailey though, standing over by the coffee machine Maureen dutifully stocks and runs every day, my breath catches in my throat. She's staring down at her phone and doesn't see me right away, so I have a chance to admire her for a moment.
She's wearing a red and white dress with black tights underneath, and a black cardigan that falls to the middle of her thighs. Her raven-black hair flows out from beneath her white knit cap, and her cheeks are ruddy from the chill outside. Bailey looks up at me, her dark eyes piercing me to my very core. Her full, red lips curl upward into a small smile as she slips her phone into her bag.
I look over at Maureen and find her staring at me with an inscrutable expression on her face. She's suppressing a grin, but there's a mischievous twinkle in her eye. I open my mouth to put a pin in what I know is going through her mind. Then, I remember that Bailey is standing right there, so I close my mouth again without saying a word. Maureen just quietly chuckles to herself and turns back to her computer.
I sometimes forget she's not always so uptight and straight-laced. The woman has a wicked sense of humor and an oftentimes subtle, but cutting, wit.
“Mr. Anderson,” Bailey says.
I clear my throat and turn to the raven-haired beauty. “Ms. Janson,” I greet her. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“I hope not a bad one,” she says.
I can't be certain, but I almost thought I heard a flirty, almost seductive tone in her voice. Which would make no sense, given our combative history. Feeling the woman's eyes on me, I cut a quick glance at Maureen. She's still grinning to herself and starts to quietly hum – and if I'm not mistaken, she's humming the wedding march. She turns back to her computer again as I roll my eyes and reorient myself to face Bailey.
“No, not at all,” I say.
“I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time,” Bailey says, pointing to my coat.
“Not at all,” I respond. “It's a gorgeous day out, so I thought I'd take advantage of it and go for a walk. Would you care to join me?”
“I'd like that,” she replies. “As long as I'm not intruding on your time.”
“No, please,” I say.
I hold the door open for Bailey. When she passes by and has her back to me, I point my finger menacingly at Maureen, which only makes her laugh out loud.
I let the glass door close behind me as I put my hand on the small of Bailey's back, ushering her down the long corridor that will take us through the main lobby of the office to the elevators.
“Your receptionist –”
“Yeah, I'm firing her when I get back,” I say.
The elevator doors open and Bailey steps into the car, a puzzled look on her face that makes her already large doe-eyes look even bigger.
She obviously doesn't know I'm being facetious.
“I'm not going to fire Maureen,” I say. “Truth be told, I couldn't function without her.”
She nods, but still looks hesitant and a bit uncertain. The ride down to the ground floor is quiet, and the atmosphere is tense and filled with a strange electricity – like the air after a storm has rolled in, right before it breaks.
The chime sounds and the doors slide open. I wait for Bailey to exit first, then follow her out. She turns to me, not sure where we're going.
“How about a cup of coffee to start?” I ask.
“Uhh... sure,” she replies hesitantly. “That'd be great. Thanks.”
I step away and walk into the small Starbucks that occupies a corner of the ground floor of the office building. I get a couple of drinks and head back out, handing one of the cups to Bailey.
“I hope a pumpkin spice latte is okay,” I say.
She gives me a long look. “Are you calling me basic?”
I let out a small laugh when I realize she's joking. “No, personally, I’m addicted to the stuff,” I say. “Don't tell anyone, but I'm always happy when they bring it back this time of year.”
“Wow,” she replies. “Big, strappin', Colin Anderson is a basic bitch. Who knew?”
“No one,” I answer. “And if anybody does, I’ll know who snitched on me and where to find you.”
The comment, though a joke, seems to cast a bit of a pall over her. She looks down at her cup as a shadow crosses over her face, and I'm not sure why.
“You okay?” I ask.
She puts on a smile that I can clearly tell is forced. “Fine,” she says. “Shall we walk?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
We head out of the building and out into the cool, crisp air of the afternoon. Work crews are busy putting up holiday decorations – shiny tinsel and oversized ornaments on light poles, and sparkling, off-white Christmas lights on the trees, among other things. Now that Thanksgiving is over, the city has squarely turned its attention to the Christmas season.
The sidewalk is choked with people, but Bailey and I manage to make our way over to the crosswalk. When the light turns green, we head across the street, and head into the Common. With the leaves turning, as the calendar crawls closer to winter, the Common is a riot of festive colors. The world around us is dazzling in vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold, and I can't help but admire it all.
Growing up where I did – along California's central coast – autumn was never this dazzling. I never got to experience the leaves turning or feel this growing chill in the air. And I certainly never got to experience an all-out, city-crippling blizzard before.
Still, something about autumn and winter in Boston really appeals to me. After all these years, the first snowfall of the season still charms me. It still has a powerful magical atmosphere to me.
“How long have you lived in Boston?” she asks, finally breaking the silence between us.
“Eight or nine years now, I suppose?”
“And before that?”
I take a sip of my drink and smile as the flavor explodes on my tongue. I'd heard people raving about it for years before I tried the pumpkin spice myself two Christmases ago. Now I’m hooked.
If that makes me a basic bitch, I’m okay with it.
“Before that, I was in the Navy,” I respond. “I lived all over. After I rotated out, I settled here. Went to Boston College, got my degree, and loved it so much, I decided to stay.”
She chuckles softly. “So, where did you grow up?”
“California,” I answer. “Central Coast. Small town near Big Sur. Have you been out that way?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never been outside of Boston.”
“Never?”
A look of irritation crosses her face. “Not all of us have the financial independence to go wherever we want at the drop of a hat.”
I hear the hard edge and bitterness in her words. She obviously grew up without the privileges I did. I'd say, she probably grew up working class, if not poor, judging by her attitude – not to mention her strong advocacy for the downtrodden.
We stop in front of a place the locals call the Frog Pond. In the summer months, it's a spray pool, where you can come down on a hot day, and cool off. In the winter, it's frozen over and turned into an ice-skating rink. It's a popular place, and usually attracts hordes of locals and tourists alike. Which is why I try to avoid it.
“Have you ever been ice-skating here?” she asks.
I shake my head and take a sip of my drink. “Nope.”
“Never once?”
“Never.”
She looks at me like I'm a space alien who just descended from the mothership. I turn to her and grin.
“What?”
“You've been here almost a decade and you've never been ice-skating on the Frog Pond.”
“Not really my thing. I just enjoy walking around the park and taking it all in. Especially, this time of year. It's so beautiful. Inspiring, really,” I reply.
She gives me an odd look. “That's kind of surprising coming from you,” she counters.
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Why is that?”
She shrugs. “You just don't strike me as the being awed by nature type, I guess.”
“No? And what type do I strike you as then?”
She chuckles and takes a sip of her drink but doesn't answer. I'm curious – though, I'm sure I can guess. She and I are on the opposite end of the spectrum in – probably every conceivable way. Despite that, I find her opinion matters to me. I don't know why, but I don’t want her to think badly of me.
Which is strange, because ordinarily, I couldn't give a damn what most people think of me.
But, there's something about Bailey that’s just different. Different in ways I don't understand. I can't quite put my finger on. I can’t make any sense of my feelings toward her.
Feelings and emotion often don't make sense to me. They're messy, complicated, and can lead to all sorts of crazy, impulsive, and stupid things. More than that though, they can also blind you to the truth. Keep you from seeing what's literally right in your face. It's why, at least for now, I tend to shun anything emotionally driven. I don't want or need it in my life. No, right now, I need to focus on building up my slice of the ADE empire.
Maybe, after I get this ship sailing in the waters that I want it to be sailing in, I can revisit the issue.
Until then, it's better for me to stay on the sidelines. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that.
Still, despite my best efforts to shut down the emotional side of myself – something I've been successful at for quite some time now – there's something about Bailey that's threatening to undo the knot I've tied around my heart. I can't say what it is. It makes no sense. But, despite our enormous differences, I find her incredibly attractive and appealing. She intrigues me. Compels me.
Which is why I need to get the hell away from her.
“Honestly,” she finally answers, “I see you as more of the Captain of Industry type. Sitting up in your ivory tower, sipping brandy, smoking a big fat cigar, and doing everything in your power to avoid us – the unwashed masses. Those of us you consider less than yourself.”
“Wow,” I say. “I see you've given this some thought.”
She shrugs again. “I just know your type.”
“And what type is that?”
“The corporate, wealth-before-people type,” she snaps. “The type who values money and things over the health, welfare, and dignity of people.”
Ouch.
“That seems a touch harsh.”
“The truth often hurts,” she says, her dark eyes boring into mine.
“You don't even know me,” I retort angrily.
“I don't know Charles Manson, but I feel pretty comfortable saying he's repulsive.”
A wry laugh escapes me. “So, now I'm Charles Manson.”
“That's not what I said,” she responds, her tone growing more hostile by the second.
This conversation is starting to spin out of control, and I'm not sure how we got to this point, or how to stop it. I only wanted to enjoy a nice walk in the autumn air. I didn’t want to have a sociological debate with her.
“Listen,” I say. “I'm just a guy doing a job. My clients tell me where to build, what to build, and I do it. It's no different from you doing your job at work.”
“Yeah, except my work doesn't displace people from their homes,” she says. “In fact, we fight to help keep people in their homes.”
“What do you want from me, Bailey?” I growl. “I'm not the bad guy here.”
“You sure about that?” she hisses. “Because I'm not.”
I'm really trying to keep my cool. Trying not to lose it. She's not making it easy. We’re coming at this issue from two very different sides, so I don't blame her for how she feels – but, she's just so wrong about it.
“Look, I'm just a guy doing a job,” I say coolly. “And if I don't, somebody else will. I guarantee you that.”
“I know that. That's the problem,” she snaps. “There's an endless stream of you vultures lined up, ready to pick at the carcasses of those less fortunate than you.”
“What do you want me to say, Bailey?”
“That you care about people. That you're not just some evil, mindless, corporate – whore,” she practically shouts. “I want to hear you say that displacing all these people, buying up their neighborhoods, and sending them to shelters or the streets, bothers you on some level.”
I grit my teeth and take a long moment to collect my thoughts, trying to keep my temper in check. I keep reminding myself that Bailey is young. Idealistic. Naive. She doesn't understand how the world works – and she knows even less about how my business operates.
“Bailey, when a property is purchased for redevelopment, the people in those homes are given more than fair market value for their homes. I'm not just tossing people out on the street.”
“No? What about people who rent? Do they get a cut of that? What about the apartment complex over on Walford you tore down about six months ago?”
“They were given at least ninety-days notice that the property was being redeveloped,” I answer. “They were given first right of rental in the new property –”
“Yeah, like any of them could have afforded it,” she snaps.
I shrug. “That's not my problem,” I reply.
“Like I said, I'm running a business. Not a charity.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but I know that if I let her, and this debate continues, it's only going to become more intense and more heated – and there are already enough people subtly eyeballing us. Curious onlookers who want to see the drama unfold.
“Listen,” I say coldly, cutting her off. “I'm not going to stand here and debate this with you. What was it you came to see me about today?”
She closes her mouth and suddenly looks deflated. And for a moment, she looks lost. But she quickly regains her footing and clears her throat.
“I wanted to come by to thank you for saving my job,” she says, her voice stiffer and more frigid than the air around us. “And to apologize, again, for the damage that was done to your car.”
“You're welcome,” I respond formally. “And don't worry about the car. With the salary I earn as a corporate whore, I'm sure I can afford to get it fixed.”
We stand there awkwardly, staring at each other for a minute, neither of us knowing what to say.
I can't tell you exactly what I expected or wanted from this walk with her, but I can tell you, this wasn’t it.
I guess I was hoping for a good conversation, and to get to know the captivating woman in front of me. Obviously, I need to learn to manage my expectations better.
“Is that all?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I can see the uncertainty on her face. She looks like she has more to say, but the moment passes, and she looks away from me.
“Yeah, that's it,” she says softly.
“Great,” I reply. “Then I appreciate you stopping by. Have a nice day.”
I turn and walk away, my mood deteriorating quickly. Part of me wants to go back to her and talk things out. To return to the free and fun conversation from before things went south. But, I don't turn back. I simply keep on walking and fasten another lock on the chain around my heart.