Second Chance Love, page 13
And we now have friends, as a couple, thought Elizabeth. If we lived near them, we would have them over. Chona would teach me how to make this adobo stuff.
Elizabeth sat by the fire, leaning comfortably against a smooth log. Steve lay with his head resting in her lap, staring up at the brilliant array of stars above. A full moon rode low in the sky, bathing the whole beach in silvery light, while the waves coming ashore provided a quiet soundtrack.
“Look at this place,” Steve said, his voice wistful. “Can you imagine what it would have been like?”
Elizabeth looked around, ignoring the crumbled buildings, roads and fences behind them, and said, “I don’t know if it could have ever been anything better than what I see right now.”
Steve smiled, but ruefully. “I’m glad we came. It was the right thing to do. It’s given me something to focus on besides my crumbling company. When we get back, I’m going to be overseeing the dismantling of everything I’ve worked for.”
Elizabeth nodded. “And I will be right there with you. I can’t help with that, but I can make sure that we find things to laugh about. When it’s all done, no matter how it turns out, we’ll have each other. I never wanted anything else from you, but you.”
Steve nodded thoughtfully, then lifted his head and kissed Elizabeth long and slow.
“Not exactly what we had in mind for our 4th of July picnic, but when you kiss me like that, I still see fireworks.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Steve Larson had always claimed not to care about money or material things. He was beginning to realize that he hadn't known what the hell he was talking about.
Steve's fall from affluence had been hard and fast. Three months earlier, all had been right in his world. Then a storm washed over Palawan and destroyed Larson Industries' newest investment. Now, thanks to associated commitment, his own fortune was gone as well.
Until this precise moment, that destruction had felt abstract—dwindling numbers on a balance sheet. Today they entered practical reality. Steve was on his way to turn in his almost-new Mercedes SLS for something more modest. Elizabeth had offered to come with him, but he wanted to do it on his own.
Steve thumbed a button on the steering wheel. “Suzi?”
Suzi, the artificial intelligence that organized his life, answered from the Harman/Kardon speakers. “Yes, Steve?”
“I need you to wipe yourself completely from this vehicle's system. Return it to factory specs, please.”
“Yes, Steve. When would you like me to execute this command?”
“Now, please, Suzi.” The Beethoven symphony that had been playing in the background ended in mid-crescendo, leaving only the thrum of the Mercedes' engine and the hum of its tires on pavement. Steve sighed, turned on his blinker, and pointed the SLS into Bannister Mercedes/BMW. Bill Young, his personal salesman for the last fifteen years, was waiting by the front door, his face somber. Steve pulled into a space next to the front door marked “For Returning Bannister Customers Only,” stepped out of the car, and shook Bill's hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Larson.”
“Hello, Bill,” Steve said. “We never expected to have a meeting like this, but it's not all bad, is it?”
“No,” Bill agreed. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am—"
"Don't worry about it," said Steve with a wave-off. “I appreciate you coming in this late on Labor Day Friday to take care of this. I’m sure you’ve got other things you could be doing.”
Bill shook his head. “Really, Mr. Larson, it’s nothing. I’ve enjoyed leasing you a new car every few years, but it’s more than that. When I needed advice about where to buy my own home, you took my call. You’ve always been easy to work with and a fair negotiator. I can’t say that about all my customers.”
"Thanks, Bill." Steve handed him the key fob with one last, quick glance at his Mercedes. “Is the other one ready?”
“Still seems hard to imagine you in it, but yes. I had my garage go over it bumper to bumper yesterday. It shouldn’t give you any trouble.”
“Then you did everything you could. Thanks again. If I'm ever in the market for another car, you'll hear from me."
“It’s right around here, then,” Bill said, pointing around the back of the building.
When they turned the corner, a brick red 2001 Ford Taurus sat forlornly amid the luxury cars. Steve looked at it for a moment, laughed at the absurdity, then said: “Keys are in it, then?”
Bill nodded without meeting Steve’s eyes.
“Looks well-kept for its mileage. Nice choice. Anything I need to sign before I drive it off the lot?”
Bill shook his head. “No, we’ve already got everything we need.”
Steve put his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “I really appreciate you looking out for me with this,” he said, and opened the Taurus's door. He waited for the seat to adjust to fit him. When it didn’t, he opened the door again. “Bill? I’m too far back. How do I adjust the seat?”
“In this particular model, it's not automatic; you have to do it yourself. Here, let me show you.” Bill moved to the driver’s door, leaned down, and pushed a button on the side. The seat slid forward.
“Guess I should have remembered that. Thanks again, Bill.” Steve glanced around for the gearshift, slid it to D, and eased out of the parking lot. “Suzi.”
There was no answer. “Suz…oh, crap. Right.” He slid his phone out of his pocket, tapped it awake, and tried to keep most of one eye on the light traffic. “Suzi?”
“Yes, Steve?” Her voice sounded distant and tinny coming straight from his phone.
“Please download the Owner’s Manual and specs for a 2001 Ford Taurus LX four-door sedan. I have a hunch I’ve got a lot to learn, starting with how to open the gas tank.”
“I have that now, Steve.”
“Good. Keep it in memory. Now, what do I have on my schedule the rest of the day?”
“You have instructed me to remind you to begin packing up your condominium for ten days now. This is your daily reminder.”
“Suzi, you are such a nag. Anything else?”
“You programmed me that way, Steve. You also have a reminder set to watch Guest House Gestapo with Elizabeth at 8:00 PM tonight.”
Steve snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Gail goes for all the money tonight.”
Perspective is a funny thing. When Gail first went on that show, I couldn’t understand why she would subject herself to all that humiliation for only a hundred grand. Now I'd seriously consider trying for it myself, even if it meant a little public exploitation.
“Suzi, call Elizabeth.”
“Calling.”
Elizabeth’s warm alto answered. “Hi, Honey.” He could almost hear her biting her lip over the phone. “How’d it go?”
“No problems. You are speaking to the proud owner of a sleek and sexy 2001 Ford Taurus. The Mercedes SLS is so 2013, I had to make the switch.”
“Good. Are you on your way home, then? Max and I are whipping up something for dinner before we watch Gail.”
Steve choked off a small laugh. When he had first found Elizabeth again after twenty years apart, her cooking skills had run toward boxed mac-and-cheese and microwave pizza. With Max's helpful instruction, including an endless supply of online recipes and tutorials, she had made great culinary strides.
“Sounds great, Honey. Be there in twenty.”
Twenty minutes later, Steve stopped at the security keypad just ahead of his high-rise condo's automated gate. He punched in his code; the gate swung up. He drove through, then braked to a halt when a man appeared in his path. It was Santo, one of the security men for the Eagle’s Crest Condominium Homeowners' Association. Steve shifted the Taurus into park, caught himself ordering Suzi to roll down the window, tried to find the right button, failed, swore, then opened the door and got half out of the car. “Santo?”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Larson. My apologies. The computer didn’t recognize the plate and sent me an alert.”
“It’s what all the former millionaires are driving. I’ll send down the paperwork to get this on the list tonight.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry again, Mr. Larson.”
“Just doing your job. ’Night, Santo.”
Steve got back in the Taurus and pulled into the underground garage. Three minutes later, he stepped out of the elevator on the top floor and punched his code into the security pad outside his condo's private entrance. Until the past year, the dwelling had always smelled like a model home that had never been occupied. Tonight, it smelled like a home: potted plants in the entryway, something good cooking in the kitchen, and books. Lots and lots of books. Her tiny apartment was too small for her book collection, and she had talked Steve into storing some of her collection.
“Lizzie, I’m home.”
Elizabeth hurried around the corner. She put her arms around Steve and kissed him. “Welcome home, Honey. I’m not sure I want to ask how your day was.”
“It just improved remarkably, thank you very much.”
Even after nine months, her smile retained its natural shyness. Steve found it endearing.
“Aside from the car, what else happened with you today?”
“I think I need a drink, then I’ll tell you about it.”
“Two steps ahead of you,” Elizabeth said, handing him two fingers of Glenfiddich, neat. She led him toward the couch, where he set his briefcase on the coffee table and sat down. Elizabeth slipped her shoes off and tucked her legs up under her. “So, what's up?”
“Well, I had an informal meeting with a few of the Larson Industries Board of Directors today. I’ve got some hard choices to make, and I wanted to run things by them.”
Elizabeth nodded. Steve's eyes had taken on a sleep-deprived look of late. Several times in the last few weeks, she had woken up in the middle of the night to find Steve sitting perfectly still in bed, staring off into the darkness.
“Everyone’s pensions are okay, though they won’t be worth as much, because Larson Industries won’t be around and adding to them as long as we had hoped. Still, they’re funded and up to date, and it could be a lot worse. That was where Enron screwed up. At a minimum, none of us are going to jail for embezzlement. My dad didn’t teach me a lot, but he did get it through my head that cooking the books and cutting corners doesn’t pay off.”
“That all sounds good,” Elizabeth said. “So why are you so stressed?”
“Because that doesn't mean that everything is okay for the staff. They put their faith in me. Some of them, like Betty Spencer, are ready to retire and have just been sticking around to take care of me." He sipped at his Scotch. "Others have it a lot worse. Real estate got wiped out in the recession. We were just working our way back when this hit. No one's hiring.”
Steve pulled his iPad out of his briefcase, turned it on, and tapped an icon. After flipping through several screens of thumbnail images and documents, he double-tapped a picture. Up popped the image of a pretty, dark-haired, young woman.
“Take Maria Sanchez, in our Property Management division. She started out on minimum wage as a custodian in our apartment buildings. She was too bright and took too much pride in her work to spend her life vacuuming common areas. Now she’s in our entry-level management program, and working on getting her GED. She’s a single mom with a first-grade daughter at home. Is she going to be able to find another opportunity like we’ve given her?”
“I don’t know, but I know that you can’t take responsibility for the whole world.” Elizabeth reached out and touched his face softly. "What about you? Since we’ve been together, we’ve never really talked about money. You had so much more of everything than I did, I couldn’t even comprehend it. It seemed like your assets were limitless. Will this bankrupt you, too?”
Steve smiled, a little bitterly. “Not quite. I am protected from debtors of Larson Industries by the corporate veil. They can’t come after my personal assets. Everything I had invested in the company is completely gone, and that’s most of what I had, but between cash reserves, my own pension, and assets like the condo, the Mercedes, and some of my collectibles, I could have been pretty comfortable.”
“Could have been?”
“Yes. And you had a role in that.” She looked shocked. Steve took her hand between both of his. “Lizzie, when I was sitting in my office, the day the storm washed over Eden’s Bay, all I could think about was what it meant to me. How it impacted me.”
“That was a big blow, Honey, it’s only natural—"
“It is, but still. When I told you the news, what was your first reaction? It wasn’t, ‘Oh there goes all our money.’ It was 'We’ve got to go see if we can help those people.’ There’s an entire family alive in the Philippines because of your reaction. That showed me something about myself, and I didn't like it.”
Elizabeth’s head took on that pensive tilt. She remained silent.
“Losing my business was bad, but it wasn’t the worst thing. At that moment, I felt like I didn't deserve you. That would have been a lot worse.”
“Oh, Steve…” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. Her eyes brimmed up with tears.
“This is the chance to set that right. The company is wiped out and there’s no saving it, but Bernice Sanderson has figured out a way that I can fund a pool for everyone that worked for Larson Industries.” He began swiping through the pictures and personnel files. “Based on the assets I have, I think I can give everyone six months' severance pay. It doesn’t solve all their problems, but it gives them a leg up. It’ll let Maria finish her GED so she has a shot at the opportunity she deserves. That money will do a lot more good for them than it would us. Anyway, if I get market value for the condo and some of my collectibles, we’ll be okay, too. I won’t be driving a $200,000 car any more—"
Elizabeth mis-swallowed her iced tea, choking a bit. “What? Your car cost two hundred thousand dollars?”
Steve nodded ruefully. “The latest and greatest does not come cheap. I’ll tell you, though, I like the Taurus just fine. As soon as I figure out how to roll the windows down and change the station on the radio, I’ll be good to go. Anyway, after I fund the six months of severance, we’ll have a little bit left to start over with. I built a company once. I can do it again.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Honey. This is a lot to digest, but let’s start at the beginning. I love you. That wouldn't change just because of your first thought in a moment of disaster.”
Steve opened his mouth to interrupt, but Elizabeth held up a finger. "Just listen. I know your heart. I never want you to worry about mine." The waterworks finally won. “I’m proud of you. All you've built, all your hard work, has just gone up in smoke, and you’re more worried about your employees than you are yourself. When you found me last Christmas, I was looking for my last ten dollars to buy a Christmas tree. Do you think I care about driving a car that costs such a ridiculous amount?”
“I doubt it?”
Elizabeth smiled. It lit up the room, and his life.
“I don't care about any cars, or fancy toys. Not a bit. I care about spending time together. Nothing else matters much to me."
Max's voice issued from the surround sound speakers. “Elizabeth, the casserole you put in is due to come out now. Also, you asked me to alert you five minutes before Guest House Gestapo came on. That time is now.”
“Thank you, Max. Please turn on the television and put it on channel 117.”
A Samsung 60" television rose from a large stand. It was already on, showing a promo for America’s Next Top Model. Elizabeth uncurled herself from the couch and went into the kitchen to get the casserole.
The Guest House Gestapo logo, a fist superimposed over stylized chains, appeared on the screen to music that sounded like a shotgun marriage between Wagner and the Monday Night Football theme. Skip Corcoran, the host, stepped from behind a curtain wearing a solemn expression that ill fit his face.
“Good evening, America,” began Skip. Steve paused on Skip's close-up, loathing the man's colored-lens blue eyes one last luxuriant time. Steve was not a violent man, but more than twenty hours of Skip's supercilious mug had taken a toll over the summer. If I ever get the chance, thought Steve, I may just wipe that plastic smile off that little twit's face with a right cross.
“Lizzie! It’s starting!”
Lizzie hurried out of the kitchen with two steaming plates of food, announcing: “Broccoli casserole, a la Elizabeth.”
Steve's tastes ran more to meat and potatoes, but he had been trying to lose weight. Elizabeth was pitching in with healthy meals. “Looks great, Honey. Thanks for cooking.”
Elizabeth handed him a plate and sat down. “Okay. Ready.”
Steve pushed a button on the remote. Skip resumed his intro: “Tonight is the night we’ve been waiting for all season. Tonight, we will crown our first ever Guest House Gestapo champion.”
"Tonight is the night we get shut of Skip Corcoran, ideally for eternity," Steve remarked.
Skip did not add that he would also be crowning the show's last and only champion. GHG had opened to anemic ratings, which had fallen every week. Even on the CW, where any ratings pulse at all was a moral victory, the show was a failure. Production had decided to cancel GHG after the fourth episode, but aired the remaining shows because they had a contractual obligation to choose and pay a winner, and they felt they might as well wring whatever benefit they could from the mess.
“Tonight, the former detainees will be the ones casting the votes, choosing between stockbroker Ron, Valerie, the roller skating waitress, and Gail, the chatty retail clerk. We’ll have that vote and reveal our winner…right after this message.”
Six weeks into the show’s run, Gail met her first serious challenge. Jamaal, a linebacker at Grambling, and Bruce, the waiter from Vallejo, California, had formed an early alliance. Both were students of reality TV and were playing to win. Seeing danger in Gail's unassailable popularity, they hatched a lie in hopes of having her 'arrested.' They told everyone that the gabby homemaker routine was just an act. In reality, they said, Gail was a serving military intelligence officer keeping secret dossiers on all of them. When the time came, they claimed, she would drop the hammer.
