a conversation on my personal life.”
Ben shrugged. “I was curious, that was all.”
She tapped her pen on the long wooden table, not meeting his eyes. “Why did your father invite you to the product launch meeting? I wasn’t aware that the Director of Security would be involved.”
Ben winced, and he was sure she noticed. “With Sylvia’s broken leg, I think my dad wants everyone to pitch in and help cover for her. Even Security,” he added, more sarcastically than necessary, which ruined any effort at a nice recovery.
Director of Security, my ass. Being offered the gimme position had been a low blow, but he could prove to his father that he’d underestimated him.
He’d come back to Dallas to help his family out, thought that maybe he could make a difference. MacAllister Beds had never been Ben’s idea of excitement, but this time he was determined to sweat it out. He’d never cared much about the company; his family was the reason he was here instead of completing number thirty-seven on his “list of things to do before I die.”
“So you’re going to work on the product launch?” she asked, either overlooking his sarcasm or else not noticing it. He’d bet good money it was the latter.
“If I’m needed, sure.” The new Dreamscape line was scheduled for product launch at the ISPA trade show in Las Vegas three months from now. Ben had hoped to be a part of the project.
She nodded coolly and stared back at the paper, dismissing him.
But he wasn’t ready to be dismissed. Yet. “The new mattress is ready to go?”
“Certainly,” she said.
He wanted to ask more questions, ask how many lines were on that yellow legal page, ask her if she hated all men, or should he take it personally. Before he could annoy her further, his father walked in, and that was Ben’s cue to sit back and watch. Ben took out his notes for the meeting, not sure what he’d be doing, but he still wanted to be prepared.
Ben’s father was the undisputed head and Ben’s brother, Allen, was the heir apparent to MacAllister Beds.
MacAllister Beds, the last bed you’ll ever buy.
Too bad MacAllister marriages didn’t last as long as their mattresses.
Ben clenched his folder a little tighter.
Martin MacAllister sat down at the end of the conference table, situating his big frame into the old chair. His brown hair—the same light shade as Ben’s—had just now started to turn gray, but his dark eyes were full of humor and youth. He settled back, sighing in relief when he finally got comfortable.
Allen trundled in, late as usual, then sat down at their father’s right hand.
Martin MacAllister put on the bifocals that Ben knew he hated and looked at his meeting agenda. “Ben, glad you could join us. Got big plans today?”
“I thought I’d write some new security procedures,” he answered, almost as a joke.
“Procedures, huh? Good, good. Let’s get started, shall we?”
And for the next forty-five minutes, Ben might as well have been wallpaper. His father asked Hilary all sorts of questions about the launch, what time the press conference was scheduled, what media contacts they had, shipping timetables and meeting plans.
And absolutely nothing about security at all.
Ben carefully took his notes and folded them into a paper airplane.
He could be in Colorado right now, breathing fresh mountain air at the J&D ranch, number thirty-seven on his list of things to do before he died. But he’d put that off, because he thought it was important to be here—for the company, for his family.
He almost laughed.
While the others were occupied doing real work, he got up and walked to the windows. For a while he simply stared out of the diamond panes at the modern gray lines and squares that made up the skyline of downtown Dallas. He was slowly going out of his mind.
The constant drumming of the rain on the roof should have been relaxing, but instead his knee got stiff. The same knee he’d broken when he was working as a ski instructor in the Alps.
Absently he rubbed the stubborn ligament. He had thought coming back home would be the right thing to do. Helping out his mother and father, easing their burden while they went through such a painful divorce. Only, apparently, no one else thought it was a painful divorce.
For once he’d thought he could come back and help, take the painful job and try to pick up the pieces. But everyone in his family seemed smiling and cheerful, as if nothing had happened.
Everyone except Ben.
MARTIN MACALLISTER SAT DOWN in the chair across from his son, his glasses slipping on his nose. “You wanted to see me, Ben?”
His father didn’t look distressed; on the contrary, he looked more relaxed than he had been in years. Ben rubbed the ache at his temples and settled back behind his desk, remembering his purpose. “Yes. I want to do more with the product launch. Maybe I could coordinate, or manage, or just help.”
Martin frowned, which was a bad sign. “You do?”
“Well, yes,” Ben answered.
The room was silent, only the whirring of the air conditioner and then finally a long, painful squeak as his father shifted in the heavy chair. “I’m sorry. Sure, we’ll think of something. Glad you called me in here. I’ve been meaning to ask your advice.”
At last. Ben nearly sighed in relief. Instead he put on his serious I’m-listening face. “Yes?”
“You remember that fall you went to Alaska as a fishing guide? I’ve been thinking about going up there. Just me and the halibut, alone in the great outdoors.”
Running away. His father wanted to run away. Classic. “It’s a lot of fun, Dad, and I know that with what you’re going through now—”
“What?”
“The divorce.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Got a lunch date with your mom on Wednesday. We need to put the house on the market.”
What?
Ben struggled for calm. No, for today, he would be productive, happy, at peace. According to his sister-inlaw, Dr. Tracy MacAllister—the Love Doctor—he should put his anger behind him. Not that he put much stock in her advice. You’d think she could have stopped her in-laws’ divorce if she wasn’t such a quack.
Ben’s voice sounded completely normal when he asked why.
“It’s too big for just your mother and I’m going to get a Winnebago.”
Ben closed his eyes. The company had been in Dallas for eighty-three years. Three generations of MacAllisters and no telling how many mattresses had been passed through these walls. And now his father wanted to buy a motor home. “What about the company?”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
Ideas. Ben knew lots about ideas. Ideas were dangerous. Ben opened his eyes, but the pain still throbbed in his head. “What sort of ideas, Dad?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. Imagine this instead. In a couple of years, we’ll be out shooting wild game in Africa together. Bang…bang.” Martin’s watch alarm sounded. “Whoops. Got a meeting with Hilary to go over a couple more details on the new line. Great lady. Lots of potential. See ya, son.” He stopped in the doorway. “And remember, if you need anything, just ask. We’re all here for you.” Then his father disappeared.
Ben stared, wondering who the man was that had just left. Wild game in Africa? Hell, his father fainted at the sight of blood.
He paced around his small office, hands locked behind his back. So what was he supposed