Beginner's Luck. Kate Clayborn

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СКАЧАТЬ Since we talked, I met again with Greg,” Jasper says, his voice serious. Greg is head of R&D, basically our boss, though Jasper and I work with more independence than probably anyone at corporate headquarters. “He’s decided Averin is his top prospect. And if we get her, he says he’ll let us out of the non-compete.”

      Holy shit. I drop a piece of slate.

      If we get out of the non-compete, Jasper and I have our shot, what we’ve been working toward for the last seven years. We could go independent, start our own consulting firm—rather than being employed by a single company, doing their R&D recruiting, we go out on our own. We scout talent, we shop it. Sports agents for scientists, basically. We’d work all over the world. We’ve built up contacts everywhere.

      It’s the non-compete that’s kept us at Beaumont, and if we get out of it, we can make this happen.

      If I can get Averin.

      “I’ll get her.” But even as I say it, I think of that firm set to her mouth, that sharp-eyed look she gave me. She looked at me like I’d come to steal the eggs from her nest, and while I’d dealt with targets that were protective of their work, I got the sense that there was something else to the way she’d looked at me as a threat.

      “You have a plan?”

      “No,” I say honestly, picking up one of the shards from the piece of slate I’d dropped. My life is chaos right now, being away from the office and here taking care of my dad. And yet I’d worked my ass off for seven years, for longer than that, really, and all of it had been for this kind of chance. If I need Averin, I’ll find a way to get back in her good graces and to ignore the inconvenient and entirely unprofessional effect she has on me. “But I’ll make one.”

      * * * *

      I’m back at my dad’s place by seven, but it feels like midnight to my body, which hasn’t seen that kind of hard labor in years. In Texas, on the road, I work until I’m dead tired, and while I get to the gym almost every day, it’s nothing like a day at the yard, which is standing, lifting, pulling, stacking, cranking.

      My dad got hurt doing this kind of work, and I’m struck with a fresh wave of guilt. I have that guilt generally, have had it since I left home, but it’s not even close to what I’ve felt since I got the call last week from the hospital. Your father’s taken a fall, the nurse had said, and I’d had to ask her to repeat it, just to let it sink in.

      Sharon, my dad’s neighbor and part-time employee at the salvage yard, is in the kitchen, stirring something that smells delicious on the stove. “Potato and leek,” she says, as I set my wallet and keys on the counter. “Want some?”

      “Thanks, Sharon. How’s he doing?”

      “I think he terrorized the home health aide today,” she says. “He made her take apart some clock he’s trying to repair. When I got here, she said he wouldn’t even let her do the sponge bath he’s supposed to get.”

      Shit, I think. Guess I’m doing the sponge bath. “I’ll call the service tomorrow and apologize.” It’s only for this first week, the home health service, but still, I want to stay on their good side.

      Sharon shrugs. “You know, by the end of it I don’t even think she minded. She asked where she could leave all the tools so she could work more on it tomorrow when she comes.”

      I have to laugh, imagining this. My dad is eccentric, no doubt about it, but he’s charming as hell too, and he’s always getting people interested in the same oddities that preoccupy him. When I was growing up, my favorite days at the salvage yard were when the polished, wealthy clients would come in, looking for something mint-condition, some high-priced sideboard or chandelier. They’d talk to my dad for twenty minutes, and all of a sudden, they’d be devoted to some wreck in the back, something they’d have to put all kinds of money and elbow grease in to restore fully. “You’ll hate it for a while,” he’d tell them, “but then you’ll love it more for hating it.”

      “You okay?” Sharon asks, handing me a bowl of soup. I accept it gratefully, comforted by the familiarity of having Sharon here. She moved in next door three years after my mom moved out, and at first I was sort of terrified of her. She was six-foot-one and wore old baseball jerseys and jeans almost every day, and within two months of moving in she’d built a garage in the backyard entirely by herself. She and my dad argued about tools and cars and politics, but she was his best friend, and she certainly took better care of me than my own mom did.

      “I’m all right. Busy there today.”

      “It always is on Saturdays,” she says. “I’ll open and close tomorrow so you can stay home with him. The aide’s on the schedule for the morning, if you need to get out at all.”

      “Sharon,” I sigh, once I swallow a bite of her delicious soup, “you’re saving us.”

      “Don’t be an idiot. It’s just soup. Anyways I usually work Sundays.”

      “Okay,” I say, because I know Sharon. If I thank her too much for this food, she’ll probably put a laxative in the next thing she makes me, just to teach me a lesson. I shove in a few more bites, set down my bowl on the kitchen table so I can grab a beer.

      “Your mom came by for a bit today,” Sharon says from behind me, and I’m glad to have my face stuck in the refrigerator at that moment, so I can school my features. I saw my mom earlier this week, at the hospital, and it was awkward as all hell, as it usually is with us. My parents probably had one of the most amicable splits in the history of divorces, despite the fact that my mom left this house and moved straight into the downtown condo of the partner at the law firm where she worked as paralegal. When dad and I went to her wedding, barely a year later, my dad hugged her and shook Richard’s hand, and it was basically as if he was seeing an old friend get married, no hard feelings at all. Sometimes, when I’d have my weekly dinners with Mom, Dad would come along so they could catch up. The best thing about that was I didn’t have to do much talking.

      “That’s nice,” I say, popping the tab on one of my dad’s shitty beers and leaning against the counter.

      “Ben. It is nice.”

      “Sure. That’s what I said.” Sharon gets along fine with my mom too. Actually, everyone gets along fine with my mom. I’m the only asshole around who holds a grudge, and even though I do my best with Mom—I call her every couple of weeks, I always see her when I’m in town—I still feel as tense and resentful around her as I did when I was a kid. “You should get out of here, Sharon. Get some rest before tomorrow.”

      “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps, but she’s wiping her hands on the towel, heading toward the door. “Henry!” she shouts, that big, gritty voice of hers always a surprise that makes me smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to take the stool softener the aide left!”

      I wince, and my dad shouts back, “I’ll call you in the morning, let you know if it worked!”

      She rolls her eyes at me. “Good luck,” she says.

      I take another drink of my beer and almost grab one for Dad but remember he’s off the stuff until he’s not taking his painkillers at night anymore. Instead, I get him a glass of water and head into the living room, where he’s sitting in his recliner, a TV tray covered in clock pieces in front of him. His left arm, heavy from the cast he’ll be in for the next two weeks, is held tight on his abdomen with a sling, but he’s tinkering СКАЧАТЬ