It Takes a Rebel. Stephanie Bond

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      She picked up the greasy bag of food and shoved it into his hand. “Looks like you’re having a working lunch.” Dismissing him, she turned back to the mound of mail and began to toss junk letters into the trash.

      He gaped. “Wait a minute. Who the devil are you?”

      Without glancing up, she said, “Tuesday Humphrey, your new office manager.”

      He wondered if the woman was unstable, but her eyes were intelligent, and her hands efficient. Exasperated, Jack lifted his arms. “But we’re not hiring an office manager!”

      “I know,” she said calmly. “Because the position has been filled.”

      The phone rang again, and she snapped it up. “Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?” Her voice smiled. “Mr. Stillman is in a client meeting, but just a moment, and I’ll check.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Alexandria Tremont’s secretary confirming your appointment at the Tremont headquarters at ten in the morning.”

      Jack squinted. “But she just canceled the appointment.”

      Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “It was Mr. Stillman’s understanding that the appointment was canceled. No? Hold, please, while I see if his schedule will still allow him to attend.”

      She covered the phone. “It’s back on—are you in?”

      He nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief.

      Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “Yes, ma’am, please tell Ms. Tremont that Mr. Stillman is looking forward to a productive meeting. Thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and returned to her sorting task. “Guess you still have a chance to impress the Tremonts.”

      “Guess so,” he said, his mind racing.

      “Well, get moving.” She snapped her fingers twice. “We both have a heap of work to do.”

      Jack hesitated. “An IRS agent is supposed to come by.”

      “You already told me, remember?” She flung a water sports equipment catalogue into the trash.

      His hand shot out in a futile attempt to retrieve the catalogue—he could use a new water ski vest. But at the challenging expression on Tuesday’s face, he emitted a resigned sigh. The crazy woman couldn’t do more damage to their business or reputation than he had. They had no money to steal, no trade secrets to pilfer, no client list to filch. And at least he wouldn’t have to answer the damn phone. “Knock yourself out,” he said, splaying his hands. “But I can’t pay you.”

      He stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind him to tackle the lopsided sign first. Within a few moments he’d rehung the smooth plaque of walnut upon which their father had painstakingly lettered and gilded the words “Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency” nearly twenty-five years ago. Without warning, grief billowed in his chest as his father’s easy grin rose in his mind.

      At his wife’s encouragement, Paul Stillman had abandoned his modest home studio to become an entrepreneur when the boys were pre-teens. Jack had viewed the move as an act of treason against his father’s natural calling. He’d admired his father’s independence, his ability to adequately, if not luxuriously, provide for the family with the lively paintings he sold to local designers and businesses. He hadn’t wanted to see his father saddled with overhead and commuting and sixty-hour work weeks, but his father said the earning potential was better, and he owed their mother a retirement fund.

      Indeed, his father had set aside a nice nest egg doing graphic artwork and ad plans for small-to medium-size businesses in Lexington, and later, mail order catalogs. Stillman & Sons had been a true family business—their mother ran the office, Derek had cut his accounting teeth on the books. Even Jack had pitched in on occasion, brainstorming with his father on the more creative projects, although the business itself had held—and still held—an unpleasant association for him. He banged down the hammer, connecting with his thumb instead of the nail head, then cursed and sucked away some of the pain.

      He’d watched the stress of the agency take its toll on his otherwise carefree father. His hair had seemed to gray overnight, and worry lines had plowed deep into his forehead. His paintbrush and easel had languished, and little by little, Paul Stillman’s zest for root beer and whistling and people-watching had drained away.

      Oh, his father had remained easygoing enough, but his good cheer seemed forced, and he’d stopped visiting the local art galleries, once a favorite getaway for him and his younger, more creative son. Jack missed those outings and he blamed the family business for taking his father away from him. At thirty-four, he recognized those feelings as childish, but he stubbornly clung to them nonetheless. From his perspective, responsibility sucked the life out of a man and left him with less to offer the very people he was trying to provide for.

      Jack pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wiped dust from the plaque. Frowning wryly, he scrubbed especially hard on the ending s in “Sons,” half hoping the letter would disappear. If truth be known, Derek was the son who deserved the agency—Jack wasn’t sure why his brother vehemently insisted he remain a partner.

      Predictably, Derek had joined the agency full time when he graduated college, and the family expected nothing less of Jack. Instead, two years later he’d skipped his own graduation ceremony and hitchhiked to New Orleans where he’d put his two degrees—art and international business—to use by becoming the premiere artisan in Blue Willie’s infamous tattoo parlor just off Bourbon Street. By some stroke of divine luck, Jack had decided to return to Kentucky two years ago only weeks before a heart attack had claimed his father.

      And except for a few “sabbaticals” here and there, he’d remained in Kentucky to help Derek run the agency, which had lapsed into a slow decline after their father had died. Their mother had turned to traveling with her sister, and Derek…well, Derek had turned into a tyrant—although, Jack conceded, he himself hadn’t been the model business partner. An unpleasant feeling ballooned in his chest, but he’d always refused to waste time on useless emotions like guilt, remorse, love, or hate. Funny, but all kinds of strange sensations seemed to be rolling around in his empty stomach this morning. It was as if Alexandria Tremont had set the tone for the day. Jack kneaded the tight spot just below his breastbone. The sooner he ate that sandwich, the better.

      Swinging open the door, he was startled by a cheerful humming sound. He’d nearly forgotten about the self-proclaimed new office manager. Poor lady—she was probably bored and neglected by her son, looking for some way to kill time. Wonder what Derek would say?

      Oh, what the hell, Derek had left him in charge, hadn’t he?

      To her credit, Tuesday had performed small miracles in the few minutes he’d been in the hallway—the mail lay in three neat piles, and the desk and bookshelves fairly gleamed. She had found a radio and tuned in a local light-rock station, which provided the background for her spirited humming.

      “Two phone messages,” she said, handing him pink slips of paper. “Bill collectors, both of them. I told them our accounting staff was preparing for an audit, and bought you a few days.”

      Jack grinned. “Great.”

      “Just a few days,” she warned, as she moved around the room, cleaning with what he recognized as his favorite tie-dyed T-shirt, which he’d been looking for. She stopped long enough to shake her finger at him. “So СКАЧАТЬ