1 Chapter 1
1: Ashland Construction
August 21. The office at Ashland Construction is comfortable-looking: mahogany desk, two leather chairs for clients, shelf of accounting books, single window overlooking the Comataw River and part of downtown Comataw, New York, and a sliver of Lake Erie. The walls are bare; I have to find some paintings for them. An oriental area rug on the cherry floor. A water cooler in one corner. On my new desk sits a laptop and phone, and on the credenza behind me is my printer/copier. I open a folder on my laptop me and see numerous Ashland Construction files. I’m eager to begin my work, but can’t resist the urge to raise my head and check the bronze nameplate on my door: NOLAN HAWKINS, C.P.A.
My assistant, Sissy Special, pops her head into my new office. She says, “Can I get you a coffee, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Come in here,” I tell her, straight-laced and professional. “I have a few things to share with you.”
She steps in. The woman looks like Gwyneth Paltrow from head to toe: stunning, eye-catching, a complete head-turner. She carries a pen and pad in her right hand, stands across from my desk, and says, “Yes, Mr. Hawkins?”
“One: You can call me Nolan.”
“Yes, Nolan.”
“Two: I take my coffee black.”
“Yes, Nolan.”
“Three: that Anne Klein dress is marvelous.”
“Thank you, Nolan.” She takes in my five-eleven and muscular frame, 210 pounds, piercing blue eyes, curly blond hair, clean-shaven cheeks, and pretty-boy face. I imagine she’s unsure of my age—twenty-nine—as people usually are.
“I think you and I’ll have a great working relationship, Sissy. I like you already.”
“I don’t mix business and pleasure,” she says.
“You will,” I reply, and send her on her way.
* * * *
Brian Ashland, the oldest of the three Ashland siblings, pops into my office a little after ten in the morning. He tries to smile, but can’t really muster one up. The bald, heavy-set straight man with hazel eyes asks, “Did you get my message?”
“What message?” I really have no idea what the six-four ogre is talking about. My In basket is flooded with tasks, bills to pay, balances to create, taxes to review, and other accounting chores, but no message from him. He’s stern, a master at pissing employees off, the backbone of the company, a tyrant with a pretty foul temper. He says, “Joanne Hintley is suing us. I need you to review the numbers in her file and see how much she owes us for the work we completed at her estate.”
“The swimming pool dig?” I confirm, having already reviewed the file.
“Exactly.”
“Twenty-two thousand dollars and seventy-six cents, Mr. Ashland.”
“Send it to me in an e-mail. I need to forward it to our lawyers. The case is going to court tomorrow. I musthave all my ducks in a row.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, happy with my new position at his construction company, able to please the beast, and set about enjoying my first day of work.
It’s a busy day in the office and now Joseph Michael Ashland, the youngest of the three Ashland siblings, calls me. I let the phone ring twice before I pick up. He jumps in on the end of my courteous hello, and says in a rough, masculine voice, “Nolan, are you getting settled in?”
I haven’t yet met this bear-sounding man. Patricia, his older sister, interviewed me twice, hired me, and runs the office. Her siblings work on the job sites, managing excavation, their crews, and construction projects. Patricia, unlike her older brother Brian, is a dove, soft-spoken and mellow, perhaps gentle and sweet to the core.
“I’m settling in just fine, Mr. Ashland,” I tell the youngest owner.
“Joey. You can call me Joey. Never make me sound like my asshole brother.”
“Of course not, mister—I mean, Joey.”
He chuckles. “You learn quickly.”
“I try.”
“Hopefully, I can stop by your office and we can meet in person.”
“I would like that, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir, either. It’s Joey or nothing.”
“Yes, Joey.”
Again, he chuckles, and adds before hanging up on me, “You have some spunk, Nolan. I like that in my men, just so you know.”
* * * *
Sissy and I do lunch together. We leave the office and have tuna fish sandwiches and side Caesar salads at Patoni’s Deli on Carbon Street. We drink sugar-free iced teas, clink glasses together in a friendly toast: “To great days of working together in the near future.”
She tells me about herself: no children, Italian boyfriend who models underwear, parents in Texas, went to school for design at Temple in Philadelphia, enjoys shoe shopping, likes Captain Morgan and Cokes, wants to have three children, and thinks I am one of the most handsome blond men she has ever seen.
