Page 9 of Imperfect Arrangement
RAYMOND
“Raymond, my boy. How’s our shark doing?” Jack’s voice slithers through the phone, smooth as oil but with just enough edge to make my jaw clench.
I can picture him right now, his skin tanned like an overripe pumpkin after too many lazy days of doing nothing but soaking up the sun on a beach.
The collar of my silk shirt suddenly feels like sandpaper, the Windsor knot digging into my neck. “Perfect as always, Jack. How about you?”
“Well, that depends on how our little land deal is moving along.”
I can practically see his self-satisfied smirk.
“Everything’s on track, exactly as planned.” My fingers dig into my forehead, suppressing the irritation bubbling up. Shareholders and their obsession with micromanaging—especially Jack—are just about my least favorite part of this whole industry. Their constant need to “check in,” to question and poke at every move. Whatever happened to trusting the man who built this empire?
“Great! That’s what I wanted to hear. Wouldn’t want a repeat of last time, now would we?” He chuckles, but there’s a pointed edge to it, a jab he knows is sharp enough to sting.
My fist tightens around the phone, and I grit my teeth. This bastard really has the nerve to bring that up? Instead of reminding me of the millions I saved us all by halting that deal, he keeps acting like it was my screwup. My team uncovered evidence of sinkhole activity that had somehow been “missed” by the inspection company—an oversight that turned out to be a payoff from our competitors to sabotage us. We filed a lawsuit on the spot and won, but Jack seems hell-bent on acting like I should be begging for forgiveness.
And that’s why the Pershing land isn’t any other deal. It’s my chance to shut him up—for good.
I grind out my reply, each word a battle to keep calm. “Like I said, I’ve got everything under control. And, Jack, I don’t appreciate underhanded comments. What happened last time wasn’t a failure. It was my team saving all of us from a very costly mistake.”
He’s quiet, probably reeling from the fact that I actually called him on his crap. I can hear his uneven breathing, like he’s scrambling to cover up his misstep.
“Hey, Raymond. I was just reminding you, you know…after last time, every shareholder’s watching this one closely. I’d hate for your reputation to take a hit. Your father and I go way back. You know I care about you and the reputation of Elixir Estates.”
The lie is almost laughable. He barely knew my father. They probably crossed paths a handful of times, at best. But one thing he’s not wrong about: everyone’s eyes are on this deal. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip.
A dull ache starts building at my temples, like a ticking time bomb, and just when I think my head might actually implode from this conversation, someone pats my back. I turn, ready to snap at whoever’s adding to my already frayed nerves, only to find Grandpa Will standing there. Relief is fleeting, though, as my pulse jerks, immediately scanning for a sign of Quill.
“Where’s Quill?” I mouth as worst-case scenarios flash through my head. All the dangers, all the what-ifs start piling up, one after the other.
But Grandpa Will, calm as ever, gives me a smile that lifts his bushy white beard. His eyes crinkle with that signature ease that’s somehow immune to my panic as he points toward the large glass windows of the restaurant, out into the bright festival chaos beyond.
I squint, scanning the colorful swirl of yellow-and-red decorations. Cherrywood is in full celebration mode. If there’s one thing this town does well, it’s throwing a festival. Mayor Coggeshall really missed her calling in event planning. Amid the streamers and paper lanterns, the town’s Ferris wheel stands out, decked in matching yellow and red. I notice it’s not moving, though there are still a few people in those hot-air-balloon-shaped cabins, suspended high in the air.
Odd. But right now, I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
I try again to spot my daughter in the crowd. I’d brought Quill out for lunch, and when she’d begged to check out the town festival, Grandpa Will had offered to take her so I could handle some work calls. But now here he is, standing beside me, while Quill’s…where exactly? I’m not worried about her being alone, because there’s security watching my daughter twenty-four seven. I’m just worried about her.
“I can’t see her from?—”
Before I can finish, Grandpa Will hands me a pair of binoculars.
Where in the world did he get these?
Then again, “resourceful” doesn’t even begin to describe the man. He’s my father’s former butler, a pseudo-grandfather for me, and when Quill came into my life, I didn’t even have to ask him to move in. He was already there, with his unfailing dedication, ready to take care of another Teager generation.
The phone is still pressed to my ear, with Jack rambling about his golf match, but his words turn to static as something outside the window catches my eye. And suddenly, there’s silence—deafening, pounding silence. My stomach flips, threatening to bring up every bite I had at lunch right onto the shiny marble floor. But somehow, I keep it together.
My hands tremble as I take in the sight: Quill, my daughter, sitting in the topmost cabin of the Ferris wheel, wearing her favorite sparkly purple dress. She’s so high up, so tiny and impossibly far away, but it’s unmistakably her.
I hit the end call button mid-sentence, cutting Jack’s voice off abruptly. Every instinct in me screams to bolt downstairs and demand that someone—anyone—get that damn Ferris wheel moving. But my feet feel anchored to the spot.
Because Quill is laughing.
I can’t hear it from this distance, but I can see it in the way her whole face is lit up. And then, as if fate wants to make absolutely sure I’m not hallucinating, she speaks. Not with those tiny fingers, but this time, it’s her lips moving.
Six months. Six excruciatingly long months of waiting, of hoping for even one word. And when she’s finally speaking, I’m too far away to catch even a syllable.
