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Chain of Mercy (Coming Home) (Volume 1)

By Brenda S. Anderson

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“The good news is that the company only lost a million this quarter.” Richard Brooks smirked at his assistant and slapped the quarterly report down on her desk.
“That’s the good news?” Verna stopped typing and turned to him, propping a hand on her hip, her Southern accent always a welcome sound in this sea of nasal New Yorkers. “Young man, in my day people didn’t make a million dollars, much less lose it. Now, tell me, if that’s the good news, what’s the bad?”
He stared at the Picasso print above Verna’s desk. Reminded him of his life. “It looks like we’re going to have no choice but to close the Phoenix plant.” How had he missed the unmistakable signs of its mismanagement? Now, because of his lack of foresight, hundreds of people would lose their jobs. In all his years in New York City, he’d never made such a costly blunder.
“Goodness. And you’re blaming yourself. I can see it in those beautiful blues of yours.”
“I should have seen it coming months ago. All the signs were there.”
“It just so happens you’ve had a few other things on your mind lately.”
The muscles in his cheeks tightened. “I’m not paid to think of other things.”
“You stop putting yourself down. It’s time I see that gorgeous smile again.”
He chuckled. “Happy?” Only Verna could make him smile under these circumstances.
“That’s more like it. Now for my good news.” She handed him several pink message slips. “Your wonderful family is sending you love and birthday greetings. There were two very disappointed little ladies by the names of Katydid and Lillykins who couldn’t wait to talk to you.”
“I missed their call?” He peeked at his watch. Not enough time to call them back now, but definitely later. They always brightened his day, and today he could use some sunshine.
“They called about ten minutes ago and told me to make sure I gave you this.” Verna reached beneath her desk and pulled out a shoe-sized box covered in Little Mermaid wrapping paper and what looked like an entire roll of tape.
His Katydid’s work most likely. He accepted the box and shook it. A slight rattling. They probably used an overabundance of tissue paper too. He tore at the paper, revealing a shoebox. He lifted the cover and grinned. Just what he expected. Nestled among balled tissue paper were several plastic toys from kid’s meals. He pulled out a Spiderman figurine and moved its arms. This one he’d center on his desk.
“Those darling girls love you, you know.”
“Not as much as I love them.” He replaced the toy and covered the box. They’d be perfect additions to his shelves back home. He’d keep his favorites on his desk here at work. His colleagues could scoff all they wanted.
“Then when are you going to take a weekend off and go see them?”
Oh boy. Here it comes. “I saw them at Thanksgiving.”
“Which was seven weeks ago”
He massaged the back of his neck. “It’s not like Minnesota is right next door.”
Verna poised her hands on her hips. “And it’s not like your bank account doesn’t have a few dollars, not to mention frequent flier miles to spare for plane tickets.”
“And when do I have spare time to fly out there?”
“I’m very glad you asked.” She struck a key on her keyboard, and turned the monitor toward him. With a pen, she pointed at the screen.
His schedule. Crafty woman. She aimed her pen toward three open days in the coming week. “And you’re booked on Delta’s six a.m. flight.”
“Fine. I should know better than to argue with you.” He shook his head. What a blessing this woman had been to him. If not for her mothering, his life would be in even worse shape than it was now. “Verna, you’re something else.”
“You just remember that.”
“You won’t let me forget.”
She resumed typing on her keyboard. “Speaking of not forgetting, the board meeting’s about to begin, and you have the privilege of explaining that little million dollar loss.”
Yeah. He scratched his head. Not something he looked forward to. Especially since that loss never should have happened. He carried the shoebox into his office, set it on his desk, then walked to his wall-sized window and stared out at Manhattan’s skyline. If only he could turn back the clock. Make the right choice this time. Then he wouldn’t have been distracted from doing his job. None of this should have happened.
One reckless decision devastated so many lives.
With a sigh, he snatched his Versace suit coat from the back of his leather chair, slipped it on, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the conference room. He had fifteen short minutes to come up with a viable explanation for the company’s doldrums.
Keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact, he walked down ACM Technologies’ carpeted aisle. He’d heard enough of his co-workers’ sneers these past seven plus months to last until the next century. And now, this company loss heaped on top of all his other problems. Just what his life needed.
He rounded a corner and strode past his CEO’s assistant, praying she wouldn’t notice him. Only a few more steps to the safety of conference room.
“Hey, Richie.”
He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking back at her. “Patrice.”
She tucked a bra strap back into a skin-tight sweater that dipped way too low to be professional. “You got a minute, darlin’?”
“Sorry.” Not for her. Hard to believe he once dated the woman. His standards once dipped as low as her sweater, but not anymore. Never again.
He nodded toward the conference room. “I’ve got a meeting.”
“Oh, well it’s busy.” She waved fingers with half-inch long red nails. “They’re not ready for—”
“They? Who’s they?” He looked down the hall at the room reserved for board members only. The doors were closed. His heart rate accelerated as he glanced at his watch. Still ten minutes early. “What’s going on, Patrice?”
“A board meeting. Mr. Entenza asked that you wait here.” She pointed to a visitor’s chair. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Whoa. Back up. A board meeting? I’m a member of the board.”
“I know, Richie, they—”
“It’s Richard.” He stared at the room’s closed door and panic tingled through his body. This couldn’t be happening. He was too valuable to the company. The failings of these past seven months were his first blip in four years as a vice president. No one could match his record for saving the company money.
He wiped perspiration from his forehead and squinted at Patrice. “How long did they say they’d be?”
“Oh, a few more minutes.”
Good. Enough time to gather his wits and steel himself against the accusations he knew were coming. To prove they needed him.
“I haven’t seen Marissa around lately.”
His jaw tightened, and he glanced at his watch again. The board’s accusations would be more pleasant than Patrice’s inquiry.
“Did she quit or something?”
Or something. “She’s at the White Plains office.”
“You break up? I mean, if you did, I just broke it off with—”
He glared at the assistant, praying daggers would shoot from his eyes. “Yeah. We broke up.” Marissa had single-handedly destroyed his personal life. Now, it looked like he was about to lose his career. All because of her.
“You don’t need to get testy about it.”
Testy? Patrice was lucky he didn’t hit women. He glanced toward the conference room and dragged his arm across his forehead. No more waiting. He’d barge in there and show them he wouldn’t be walked on.
He strode down the hallway and tugged open the heavy wood door. Eight other men sat around the mahogany table, relaxing in their plush seats. Each one looked up at him, surprise written on some of their faces, but scorn on the others. Or, was it gloating?
“Gentlemen.” He rolled out his padded leather chair and laid his briefcase on the table. “I apologize for being late. My memo told me two o’clock.”
The CEO, Montegue Entenza, leaned back in his chair and rested hands on his ample stomach. “Actually, Richard, your memo was correct.”
Richard’s stomach twisted, but he tried to hold his poker face. Don’t let these men see his fear. He sat, folded his hands on the table, and looked around trying to connect with each man, but most looked away. Cowards. He glared at Entenza. “Please enlighten me.”
“The facts are right there in your quarterly report. I don’t take kindly to losing money.”
“Come on, every business on Wall Street is losing money right now. Besides, most of that loss comes from the Phoenix plant. Once we close that, our losses will be negligible, and with the new manager in Atlanta, I foresee profits coming from them in—”
“Mr. Brooks.” Mr. Entenza leaned forward. “The fact is, someone has to pay for the loss.”
“So you’re scapegoating me? Over the past four years, I’ve been your top performer.” He pointed to the man seated kitty-corner from him. “What about Edwards? Wasn’t he responsible for a three million—?”
“Quiet.” Entenza raised his voice and sat up straight. “This isn’t about Edwards, or Constapoulas, or anyone else. It’s about the image you present of ACM Technologies.”
Richard laughed. “So this has nothing to do with my performance.”
“Our shareholders don’t take kindly to having a member of our board with a police record.”
“Ahh, I see.” Just as he thought. How could he win a battle against the truth? “Let me save you and the shareholders a little trouble.” He pushed away from the table, grabbed his briefcase, and stood. Neither a demotion nor an outright firing was acceptable. “I’ll have my office cleared in an hour. Other companies have been begging for my expertise. I guess it’s time I answer them.”
“So be it.” Entenza pushed a button on the conference phone. “Patrice, will you send in Cowell?”
“Cowell?” Could this possibly get any worse? “A security escort?”
“Protocol, son. I’m sure you understand.”
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perfectly, sir.” He gave Entenza a mock salute and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Happy unbelievable birthday.
Cowell, dressed in a complete security officer’s uniform, glanced warily at him and shook his head. “Sorry about this, Richard. Entenza has no clue you’re one of the good guys.”
“Right. Good guys don’t get themselves thrown in jail, now, do they?”
“You paid your dues.” Cowell slapped his back.
“I’ll be paying for the rest of my life.” He muttered under his breath. As well he should. If he were still a drinking man, tonight would have been a perfect time to drown his sorrows with a few Coronas.
With Cowell at his side, Richard hurried through the hallways, keeping his head down. The snickers he heard from passing co-workers told him they already knew of his dismissal. He flew past Verna’s desk without acknowledging her. She was the one person he was going to miss.
“I’ll wait outside for you.” Cowell reached into Richard’s office—make that his former office—and closed the door.
Richard fisted his hands. How could he have thrown away everything? One lousy night … One moronic choice.
Well, standing here feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t solve anything. It was time to move on. Maybe Chicago. Close enough to drive to Minnesota. Far enough to make those drives rare. And with all his connections, he shouldn’t have a problem linking up with a Fortune 500 company. Out there, his tarnished reputation wouldn’t be slapping him in the face at every turn. Yes, Chicago was a good choice.
After stuffing his laptop in his briefcase, he pulled a copy paper box from his closet and packed the few personal possessions he kept in his office. Some novels, the gift from his girls, pictures of his family, his nephews. What would they all say now? Would his brother laugh that the high and mighty Richard Brooks had been laid low? Again?
No. Not even Marcus would be that small.
He covered the box and took one last look around the office. He wasn’t forty yet, and other corporations had frequently sent headhunters his way. This setback wasn’t going to stop him. He’d prove to Entenza, and all those finger-pointing shareholders, they’d fired the wrong man.
With a grunt, he picked up his briefcase and the box and carried them out the door.
Verna sat at her desk, sniffling. Tissues overflowed her garbage can. “Richard, I am so sorry. It just breaks my heart to see you go.”
“It’s been a good run, Verna, and you’ve been like a mom to me.”
She dabbed a tissue at her eyes. “Before you leave, I do have one little smidgen of good news for you. Something I know will bless your heart.”
“I could sure use some good news.” He propped the box on her desk and managed a smile. “You have another grandchild on the way?”
“That would certainly brighten my day, but I’m afraid all my children are done having babies for now.”
“So, what have you got?”
She handed him a pink message slip. “Some much needed mercy.”
He read it through once, and his heart dipped. He read it through a second time. The message stayed the same. No. No. No! He balled up the paper and hurled it against his former office door.
Forget New York City.
Forget Chicago.
Much needed mercy? Mercy was the last thing he deserved, and God knew it too.
God couldn’t have exacted a more perfect revenge.

#

Trembling, Sheila Peterson grabbed Joe’s hand as he pushed away from the restaurant table. “Please, let me explain.”
He jerked his hand from hers, disgust darkening his milk chocolate eyes. His silence said more than words as he snatched the velvet box off the table, grabbed his leather jacket, and strode through the dimly lit room toward the exit, weaving around diners with the grace of a natural athlete.
“I had no choice,” she whispered, perhaps only to convince herself, and clutched a hand to her chest. Her heart pounded like waves against the shore of a storm-tossed lake.
Joe stopped by the arched exit and turned his head her way.
Her breath stilled. The contempt in his eyes wasn’t visible from here, but she knew it was there. He’d made it clear that her offense against him was unforgivable. If he would only listen, understand her perspective, perhaps his ache would ease.
She curved her hands on the edge of the table, about to push back and go to him, but he heaved the box into a planter decorating the door’s entrance.
She gasped and covered her mouth.
A second later, he disappeared out the door.
Eyes stinging, she slumped into her chair.
Abandoned. Again.
Joe was just like her parents.
She closed her burning eyes and drew in a trembling breath. Grilled sirloin. Joe’s favorite. It sat uneaten. She couldn’t blame him.
I will not cry. She opened her eyes and scanned the dining room, a setting groomed for a romantic proposal. Window shades were purposely drawn. An amber glow emanated from candles set at the center of tables draped in burgundy linens. Nearly all the seats held customers, mostly with couples seeking intimacy in a public setting, talking in whispers that created a low buzz throughout the room. Shadows highlighted faces, hiding imperfections.
Joe had no physical imperfections to hide.
Sheila no longer had anything to hide.
How many other couples would end their evening apart? It was too dark to tell. But, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that there was no one familiar, no one glancing her way, no one gloating over her humiliation.
He’d embarrassed her.
In public.
Anger tensed her body. How dare he?
Abandoned. Yes. But no longer a victim. Not this time.
She snatched her Kenneth Cole clutch off the table. A link on her bracelet snagged and tugged the tablecloth, knocking over an untouched goblet, and red wine gushed toward her silk sheath. She jumped up, her bracelet pulled free, and she released a grateful sigh. Her new Vera Wang was safe.
Even if her heart wasn’t.
Steadying her breath, she laid her mulberry pea coat across her arm, and with her chin raised, she walked toward the exit intending to glide right past the planter.
But, she couldn’t.
Blowing out a breath, she scowled at her professionally manicured nails then squatted and dug into the soil. “Aha,” she said softly as her fingers found the box and pulled it out. She wiped residue from its velvet exterior and checked to see if anyone watched before focusing on Joe’s unanticipated gift. Her chin quivered, and her eyes moistened as she raised the indigo cover.
She stroked the marquis for only a moment then closed the lid to the box, effectively sealing off her heart.
The ring would never circle her finger. She’d have a courier return the diamond along with a note expressing her apologies, but she couldn’t be sorry for what she’d done. It was the only thing that made sense. She didn’t regret her actions even if it meant losing Joe.

#

Shivering in January’s thirty-one degree temperatures, Richard zipped up his leather jacket and pulled on gloves. He rested against the U-Haul that stored his surprisingly few meaningful possessions. It had taken him all of one week to pack and sell his Brooklyn Heights condominium, with a nice little profit even. A sure sign he was meant to flee New York.
He stared out beyond the Louis Valentine, Jr. Pier. This would be his final journey here, a rare place of tranquility in this unsleeping city. He pulled the truck’s door handle, making sure it was locked, then walked across Coffey Street’s cobblestone, down the sidewalk that split snow-coated parkland, and onto a pier quieted by cold. Once upon eight months ago, he’d dreamed of fishing side by side with a son off this pier. Now, that would never happen.
Winter’s wind gusted off the water as he leaned into the railing and gazed out over New York Harbor, at the Statue of Liberty rising above it. The country’s symbol of freedom.
Freedom, huh! He kicked at a guardrail, and it made a clinking sound. He glanced down. A chain necklace, coated with snow, circled the post.
He squatted and loosened the chain, then stood and ran his thumb over its filthy oval links. This must be a gift from God himself to remind Richard of mercy’s shackle. He stared out at the Statue, the chains of tyranny lying broken at her feet, and tugged at the necklace’s cold links. They held firm. Unbroken. Perfect.
He shook snow and dirt from the chain, removed his gloves, then pulled a tissue from his pocket and polished it. It had been exposed to the elements too long for it to have a burnished shine. All the better. He retrieved his keychain and removed the key he should have left alone eight months ago. If he had …
No. Not going there.
He unclasped the grimy chain, slipped the key onto it, and then fastened it back together. His palms clammy despite the cold, he grasped the chain in both hands, hefted it over his head, and anchored it around his neck, tucking the key inside his sweatshirt.
In moving back to Minnesota, he would no longer encounter the stabbing reminders that living in New York brought him. But, with this chain forever circling his neck, he’d certainly never forget.

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