the private boys’ school he was enrolled in, drop him off and drive away without a backward glance.
The housekeeper told Rick, Colson wasn’t comfortable around children, but Rick knew his grandfather was only uncomfortable around him. The evidence of his mother’s indiscretion. Consequently Rick and Colson didn’t spend a lot of time together, which cut down on the opportunities not to say goodbye.
Once Rick graduated and moved away to college, their farewells were limited to Christmas, Easter and occasionally Thanksgiving. So his grandfather’s new interest in Rick’s life was too little, too late.
Rick retrieved his dinner from the microwave sat down at the table and set his food in front of him. He paused a moment. Habit, more than anything. Colson Ethier always prayed before meals and had taught him to do the same. The boarding school he attended tried to instill the same religious beliefs.
After his mother died, Rick didn’t trust God much. Living on his own didn’t help. When he started traveling and started seeing what the world could be like for people less privileged, cynicism and reality slowly wore away any notions of a loving God in charge of the world.
Rick ate mechanically. The reheated food tasted lousy, but he had eaten so many different kinds of foods in so many different places that he had come to view it simply as fuel. A steady need that had to be responded to at least twice and, if he was lucky, three times a day.
Which reminded him, he had to talk to some of the restaurant owners about participating in a contest he hoped to run in conjunction with the launch of the new magazine. He’d had to scale down his original plan when he sat down with Trixie and the reality of the finances stared him in the face.
He dug through his papers and found his Day-Timer. It felt heavy in his hand and seemed fatter than usual. Frowning, he flipped it open.
The pages were crammed with scribbled notes written in every direction in various shades of ink. Butterfly stickers danced across the page and flowers decorated another. Phone numbers were written sideways.
He flipped back a page, scanning over the dates, trying to make sense of what he read. Was someone at the office playing a practical joke on him?
Then he saw his name, stopped and read, “What am I going to do about Rick?” The question was heavily underlined.
He read the words again, then checked the front of the folder. The initials R.E. were imprinted in the soft burgundy leather. He and Becky must have accidentally switched agendas.
Rick glanced over the rest of the pages, looking for other mentions of his name before he realized what he was doing.
Snooping. He closed the book with a guilty flush and set it on the table. He should let Becky know right away he had it. From the look of the jam-packed days, she was going to be lost without it.
“What am I going to do about Rick?”
The words snaked into his mind. Why had she written them?
He went back to the articles Gavin Stoddard had written.
“In order to move into the ‘new’ market, the Internet market, local business owners will need to rethink their calcified methods of doing business. The name of the game is education, or how to teach an old dog to double-click.”
Rick forced himself to concentrate on the rest of the column. But the little leather folder beside him drew his attention like a magnet.
“What am I going to do about Rick?”
What did she think she had to “do”? And what was the problem?
And why did he care?
“…this new way of doing business can be a boon for savvy business owners and a stumbling block to diehard traditionalists.” He continued to scan.
He wasn’t a problem that she had to solve, he thought, throwing down the paper in disgust. He was supposed to be her boss. If there was a problem to be solved, it was his problem with her.
His chair creaked as he pushed himself back from the table, dragging his hands over his face. He had too many things on his mind to be concerned with what his bossy editor thought of him. Tomorrow he was going to be attending a meeting with the chamber of commerce to talk about the magazine and its potential for the town. He had to get a speech ready, a spreadsheet together. He was operating on a shoestring budget and he didn’t think he was going to make the ends of the string meet, let alone keep them tied.
He dropped his supper dishes in the dishwasher, tidied the counter then went back into the dining room. As he straightened the papers on the table, he glanced at the burgundy folder again.
And opened it before he could convince himself otherwise.
While his agenda only had a week per page, hers had a page per day and held two months’ worth of booklets. Each page was crammed full of notes. She had a busier schedule than the prime minister.
He flipped the pages back to the day they first met, and started reading. “Met Rick Ethier, new boss and old enemy this morning. Too good-looking and I made a fool of myself. Of course I was late for important first meeting.”
Rick felt a moment’s surprise. He hadn’t imagined that brief spark of attraction after all, and the thought kindled a peculiar warmth that was extinguished with the words following. But “old enemy”?
“Got interview with premier.” Several exclamation marks followed that one. Obviously excited. “Call secretary and get background information.”
“Meeting with Rick. Again.” The hard double underline clearly showed her frustration. “Don’t like the direction but at least there is some. Praying for patience. Constantly.”
Prayers again.
He flipped the page over, skimmed over notices to call friends, an appointment with her hairdresser, a meeting that evening at the church, a reminder of another meeting the next night. Wondered who was the Trevor of “Trevor’s back,” written with a little heart beside it.
“Rick is driving me crazy.” No heart beside his name, he thought with a surprising flicker of envy. “He’s hired Gavin. Big mistake. Mom and Dad told me I need to pray for him. Said I need to see him as a child of God.”
Rick slapped the book shut and pushed himself away from the table. He knew he had made enemies at the magazine. If he’d had a couple of years to make the changes he wouldn’t have had to be so aggressive.
He glanced back at the Day-Timer. “I need to see him as a child of God” replayed through his head.
He wasn’t a child of God. Wasn’t a child of anyone.
He had to return this. Thankfully she’d written two phone numbers inside. No one was at home, so he tried her cell phone.
“Hey there.” Becky’s voice was almost drowned out by music and voices in the background.
“This is Rick,” he said, wondering what place in Okotoks could generate that volume of noise. “I think you’ve got something of mine.”
“Just a sec. Can’t hear you.” She said something unintelligible. The noise receded and was suddenly shut off. “Sorry about that. Who is this?”
“It’s Rick. I think you’ve got my Day-Timer,” he repeated.
“You’ve accused me of that before, but I’ll check.” A rustling noise and, “Oh, brother.” Deep sigh. “You’re right. This isn’t good.”
She was probably remembering some of the things she had written.
“Where are you now?” he asked. “I could meet you so we can swap.” He didn’t have time, but a mischievous impulse made him want to see her face when they made the exchange. Impulse and a bit of bruised pride. He didn’t usually generate hostility in the women he met.
“I’m at the church, but I can come over.”
“No.