Out of Options

By Sharon V. Agar

The tiny Caribbean isle of Ste. Anne seems like the perfect vacation spot for three New York professionals in search of sunshine, underwater adventure, and perhaps a little tropical romance. But when Eddie Bell, Eve MacFarland and Julian Carteret embark on an afternoon dive, they soon discover that still waters can run deadly. In this business suspense novel, three young professionals must use their wits, financial savvy, and the expertise of a band of unlikely and colorful characters to discover the truth and neutralize the threatsbefore it is too late.

Sharon Agar is a delicious writer with a gift for the utterly hypnotic twists and turns that put your day on hold. Out of Options is intelligent and propulsivea suspenseful, sometimes funny novel about New York professionals slogging through the unexpected.

Norb Vonnegut, NYT-acclaimed author of The Trust

With dazzling realism, chess-like intricacy, witty dialogue, wry humor, and profound emotional insight, in Out of Options Sharon Agar marvelously and suspensefully fashions a skein of mystery, drama, romance, and corporate behavior that will not let go of you, long after youve turned the final page.

David M. Darst, Author, Educator, and former Chief Investment Strategist, Morgan Stanley Wealth Management

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480804524

Sharon V. Agar

Sharon V. Agar grew up in England and came to the United States to attend Yale College and Harvard Business School. She has worked in investment banking and at large multinational corporations. She now lives in New York City.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"S hit! What’s going on with Sherbo urne?"

Arnie Dutton sat up so suddenly that his chair rocked, threatening to dump his Italian-suited posterior on the floor of Silverman Gable’s trading room. It was 10 a.m. and something major was happening to the stock of a small chemical research company named Sherbourne Incorporated. Whatever it was, was not good. As Arnie watched, the price bumped down another 50 cents, then another 30.

He turned to Pete Jones, his trading partner, to see if Pete had any words of wisdom on the subject. The chair was empty.

Goddammit! Arnie jumped to his feet and stormed toward the corridor. His outburst went un-remarked by the other sixty-five traders on the floor, most of whom were either intent on their screens or busy with tantrums of their own.

Shoving open the men’s room door, Arnie rapped hard on the only closed stall.

Pete, get the hell out of there! Sherbourne’s stock is tanking.

Oh man, a muffled voice replied.

The rustle of papers followed and the lock slid back. There was no hint of flushing water, confirming Arnie’s theory that Pete had not been using the stall for its generally accepted purpose. When Pete emerged, Arnie grabbed his arm and pulled out the incriminating evidence: Black Belt Kendoku, Book 4.

What is it with you and Kendoku, man? Don’t you get enough of numbers on the desk?

He followed Pete around the Equity Capital Markets desk and swerved to avoid colliding with a currency trader carrying a huge cup of coffee. The trader looked as though the Asia desk had woken him up once too often, and Arnie had already lost two Furayama ties that way.

Sherbourne? Pete replied. No idea. As far as I know they’re in the middle of being acquired by I.A.L. Group. Friendly takeover, both sides happy with the terms, no other bidders. The offer’s something like $58 a share and the deal’s supposed to close any minute. The stock’s been almost up to the offer price since the bid was announced, so the market clearly thinks the deal’s going through.

Arnie shook his head. Not any more. Take a look.

Pete reached his spot and looked. Sherbourne was now at $48.20 per share. Sliding into his chair, he entered Sherbourne’s ticker symbol ‘SHER’ into the system and called up the latest news. There was nothing to explain the sudden decline.

He checked the trading volume for the day. In the half-hour since the markets had opened, the number of Sherbourne shares exchanging hands had been three or four times the usual rate. His trader’s instinct kicked up a notch.

The screen flashed up a new bulletin. The Exchange is suspending trading in Sherbourne stock pending an announcement by the company, which will be forthcoming shortly.

Wowzer, Pete muttered unconsciously.

Yeah, Arnie concurred. Wowzer. And I’ll bet if you weren’t a Midwesterner you’d say something even stronger.

Pete ignored him. Bad news for Sherbourne was not necessarily bad news for the trading desk. Profits could be made on downswings as easily as upswings, and the bigger the swing, the bigger the opportunity.

He came to a rapid conclusion. The Exchange would not have suspended trading unless they felt the stock was headed for a freefall. The look that his wife called the ‘shark smile’ slid onto his face. When a company that was soon to be bought out at a nice premium suddenly lost a huge amount of its stock value and issued a public announcement, the most likely reason was that it was not soon to be bought out after all. Something had happened to crater the deal. Pete would bet on it. In fact, that was exactly what he planned to do…just as soon as trading resumed.

________

Across the river in New Jersey, the offices of Sherbourne Incorporated resembled a wedding hall after the bride has said I don’t.

The classic stages of grief were evident, though not necessarily in correct order and not all on the same people. Senior managers and anyone who had been part of the deal preparation had passed through denial, followed by an attempt at bargaining (which I.A.L., the now ex-acquiror, had rejected out of hand). Those who had already spent their bonanza money, whether literally or only in their imaginations, were profoundly depressed. Those without a big stake went straight to acceptance, and—since fortune had favored the lowly in this instance—some very junior people privately cheered that for once, they had lost the least.

The person who had lost the most was Sherbourne’s C.E.O., Alan Wheeler.

Alan was third generation Sherbourne. His grandfather had started the company with $5,000 and a strong aptitude for chemistry, both of which he had inherited from his mother. Sherbourne’s first product made brilliantine smoother to apply and held the hair in place longer. The next products improved the texture of hand and body lotions, and (though the companies that bought the additives knew this was untrue) customers swore the new lotions smelled better. Grandpa Wheeler had been a charismatic man and knew what appealed to chemists. Before long he had built a team of researchers that regularly turned out innovative products and had a reputation for excellence. By the time his grandson Alan took over, Sherbourne had almost three hundred employees and their pick of some of the best chemists going.

The decision to sell had not been taken frivolously. But Alan was now in his sixties and had run the company for half his adult life. The offer from I.A.L. had provided the impetus, but he had been thinking of moving on anyway. In the weeks since the acquisition had become public, he had allowed himself to indulge the fantasies of what it would be like to be worth seventy-odd million dollars. Mostly to him it meant freedom. Hobbies he could only occasionally get to could become mainstream; Sotheby’s real estate ads were no longer hypothetical. People in his community were already treating him differently. His wife had flourished—had lost weight and spent hours on the phone with local charities and new friends. Those same people, he now thought angrily, were probably right now inventing excuses for backing out of those events. Not that it would matter: Susan would be too mortified to talk to them anyway. Damn it all!

________

Three floors below the Trading Desk, on the Research floor of Silverman Gable, Becs Decker was at her glossed-cherry desk with her office door closed. She was deep into an analysis of Green Fields, an up-and-coming specialty foods retailer. Her right hand worked the highlighter pens while her left provided support and the occasional scratch for her curly-blonde head.

Becs was a Research Analyst, ranked #1 by at least one major investment magazine three years in a row. It was her job to know the retail food industry inside-out and to develop a point of view on the major players. This view, and the recommendations for ‘buy, hold or sell’ that went with it, she disseminated on a quarterly basis to her clients: the large-scale investors who wanted to know where to park their cash.

While Pete Jones upstairs was planning his next trading move, Becs was engrossed in a footnote. When the phone rang, her hand reached for it before her eyes registered the caller ID.

Hey, Name-Game! A gravelly Brooklyn voice said.

She swallowed her come-back, reminding herself that she was a professional, and that just because someone was a dork-head didn’t mean she had to tell him so. As long as he didn’t sing the stupid song.

The gravelly voice chuckled. Rebecca Deck-a, bo Becka, Bonana fanna fo Fecka, Fee fy mo Mecka…Becca!

Okay, now he had sung the stupid song. As if she hadn’t heard it a million times. As if that wasn’t the reason she went by ‘Becs’.

What’s on your mind, Harold? she asked.

Just thought you might want to know that the Exchange has suspended trading in Sherbourne pending an announcement that should be coming out, oh, any time now.

Her irritation vanished. Thanks for the heads-up. Gotta go.

She flicked her computer to the news site—nothing yet—and gathered the papers she had been working on into a pile which she shoved to the back of her desk. From her credenza she pulled out the file-case on I.A.L., which included the special work-up she had done on Sherbourne when I.A.L. first announced their bid. She scanned the work-up quickly then reached into the very back of her desk’s top drawer for a small pouch full of single dollars. Her most urgent priority now was at the end of the corridor.

Like the proverbial army, Becs Decker marched on her stomach. At the vending machines she pumped in a string of singles and retrieved the motley assortment of candy bars, salty snacks and caffeinated sodas that rustled and clanged their way to the bottom. Now fully armed for the siege she knew was imminent, she returned to her office.

By the time she reached her desk, the announcement was out.

Sherbourne Inc. and I.A.L. Group have announced that the proposed acquisition of Sherbourne by I.A.L. will not be proceeding. A conference call with investors is scheduled for 11:30a.m.

Becs mused a moment. The I.A.L.-Sherbourne merger had seemed a match made in heaven. I.A.L. desperately needed better R&D; Sherbourne had it in spades. So what had happened to nix the deal?

She called Sherbourne’s head of investor relations, James Wells.

Hi, James; Becs Decker. I’d say Happy New Year, but it doesn’t look that way, does it? What’s going on over there?

Becs! I, ah… His voice trailed off as though his thoughts had suddenly deserted him. As they probably had, she reflected: most likely scuttling away like roaches under a light. She felt sorry for him. A premium-priced acquisition offer was corporate man’s version of the fairy-tale goose. Now the goose had died, the golden egg was melting in front of Sherbourne’s eyes, and James was responsible for keeping what was left from running through the cracks in the floor.

Give me the straight scoop, James, she said into the silence. No-one’s going to be served by losing credibility later. Meaning: Don’t try to snow me, because if you make me look bad you’ll pay for it down the line.

Of course not, Becs, he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him. I.A.L.’s pulling out. Something came to light during due diligence that we hadn’t been aware of: some soil contamination at one of our warehouses. It’s not a…

Whoa up, Becs said. What sort of contamination?

She heard him inhale.

I just can’t go into details right now—my phone’s going crazy, and I don’t know much anyway. But the point is that our stock’s fallen way beyond what makes sense. We’re still a good company, we have the best research in the business with great developments in the R&D pipeline. We’re worth a hell of a lot more than what the market’s showing right now. All I’m asking is for our long-term investors to keep their heads and remember the reasons they bought our stock in the first place.

Becs checked the price again and thought his point was valid. Tell you what, James. Send me updated financials and whatever you can on the contamination. I won’t steer the investors wrong, but if I think they’re over-reacting, I’ll put in a good word for you.

She hung up and started making a list of investors to call. She wanted to reach as many as possible before the 11:30 conference call—mostly to let them know she had already spoken to Sherbourne, and had the inside track. She scribbled happily, completely oblivious to what she was muttering under her breath: James, James, bo Bames, Bonana fanna fo Fames, fee fy mo Mames..James!

________

By the close of trading, Sherbourne’s major shareholders and senior management were a lot poorer and a lot angrier. Alan Wheeler led the field on both counts. He stood at the large picture window in the office that had been his grandfather’s, looking out on the brand-new research facility that he had added five years earlier, and thought how much smaller and more fragile it all looked than it had just days before.

When the team from I.A.L. arrived to do the due diligence, Alan had thought of it as no more than a formality. They would look into Sherbourne’s papers (and Lord knows there were enough of them: how could they even find a single important item in that mess?); they would conclude that the company was clean and the merger could proceed. Instead of which, they had found a single damning document, run a single ground test, and when the results came back yesterday they had called off the merger. Just like that!

All morning he had paced his office, one eye to the computer screen that was tormenting him with the latest information on Sherbourne’s plummeting stock price. He had emerged for the investor conference call and tried to sound upbeat, but for the most part he watched the day unfold in shock, re-calculating the loss in shareholder value at each new drop in the price. By the end of the day his anger had built to the point that it had to find release. In his mind there was only one person to take it out on, and that was the person responsible for the land mess. Jim Krakowski, the head of Logistics. It had been Jim’s job to dispose of hazardous materials; Jim’s name on the memo notifying them of the leak. The man had screwed up the lives of everyone connected with Sherbourne and damaged the company’s good name. Krakowski not only deserved to get fired, but should lose every last share and option of Sherbourne stock he owned. No matter what the rules about that might be. Alan picked up the intercom and buzzed his assistant.

Call Jim Krakowski. Tell him to come to my office now…and get someone from Legal to join us. And Cynthia, send some packing boxes down to Logistics. I want him out of here by tonight.

CHAPTER 1

J ulian Carteret jounced down the New Jersey Turnpike with a broad smile on his face. The nastier the weather had been all week, the happier he’d become, knowing the upcoming sunshine would be even sweeter if the rest of New York was contending with sleet meanwhile. Driving in lousy weather was fun too: the Cherokee could handle it, and in fact rain, or preferably snow, helped justify Julian’s buying it despite being single with no children, no pets… no appendages of any kind. Today was just the kind of relentless gray, drizzle-with-no-heart-in-it chill that kept the psychiatrists’ waiting-rooms full throughout the w inter.

The Manhattan skyline appeared on his left, the sharp contours still sending a quickening pulse through him despite their familiarity. He found the hump in the middle that represented midtown, searched out the zigzag of the Chrysler Building and the hypodermic needle of the Empire State. Further south, after the dip for Chelsea and the Village, the Wall Street skyscrapers flared upward like a stock market boom. He gave a mental salute to the silhouette of the two towers in his mind’s eye, then turned his attention back to the highway.

A station wagon crept past on his left, and a little girl in the back seat stuck out her tongue at him. He responded in kind, wondering if she could even see him through the morass of sticky fingerprints on the window. A golden retriever in the trunk area drooled happily over the back seat, misting the rear window with its breath.

Maybe it’s time I got a pet, Julian mused. The idea caught hold and he ran with it. I could bring something back from the Caribbean—a parakeet, maybe, dark green to match the car, the ultimate in color co-ordination. Could a bird go free in a car, or would it fly off when the door was opened? He glanced around to check that the windows were closed, then caught himself at it and laughed aloud. That was all he needed: a bird flying in his face as he drove, leaving droppings on his head—or worse, on the upholstery.

For a man unattached to material things, Julian was inordinately fond of his car. Sports had nothing to do with it, utility even less. First of all, he loved the name. Perhaps it was because his mother was so conscious of her Mayflower descent that Julian had always wanted to be the Indian not the Cowboy. The highlight of fourth grade had been selling the school playground to Tommy Dale in return for his sister’s costume jewelry. Julian had explained to Tommy that with enough money invested in it, the playground would eventually be worth mountains of money. Just look at Manhattan, he had argued (knowing Tommy would never spot the sarcasm): it had started out as a worthless spit of land, and after just a few hundred years and a few trillion dollars of white man’s investment, the place was now worth a fortune.

He overtook the station wagon on the inside, enjoying the feel of the accelerator under his foot. Beyond the name, he was a sap for the idea of an all-terrain—or more realistically, a ‘more-terrain’—vehicle. It carried the implication that at any moment he could leave files, paperwork and clients behind and race across the mountains to adventure. So far the implication had been stronger than the facts. The highest mountain he had scaled to date had been near Camelback ski area, a local bump that he’d once joked would vanish with a good dose of acne medication. And the impressive-looking scratches on his rear bumper had occurred inside his Manhattan garage, while accidentally backing over the front of a low-slung sports car, much to the fury of the owner, who had been in it at the time.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he found himself grinning at the recollection…then saw his grin broaden in automatic response. Odd, he thought. Was smiling back a friendly reflex, or a trained reaction after hundreds of client introductions? He looked again. It was a decently good-looking face in the classic WASP tradition: strong jaw-line, level eyes below straight brows, an equally straight nose connecting the two. Hair medium brown and long enough now not to stick up the way it did given half a chance; eyes his first girlfriend had described as amber, but which were downgraded to ‘brown’ on his driver’s license. The kind of face you could find by the dozen in any Ralph Lauren catalog, he thought dismissively. Would he smile at this face if he met it on the street? Probably. Today, anyway. In Julian’s view he had good and bad face days the way other people had good and bad hair days. Today seemed to be a good face day—which was just as well, because he was running late and might need a little juice at the airport.

The GPS told him to exit the highway. With luck, Eddie would have his gear by the door so they could make a fast turn-around to Newark airport. Actually, he suspected Eddie had been packed for days, with checklists for every suitcase. In the few months Julian had known him, Eddie had been mostly funny and good company, but occasionally had shown signs of pain-in-the-assdom. It was a good thing they neither wanted nor needed to share a hotel room: Julian had a feeling there would be days on this vacation when he would want his privacy.

Five minutes after exiting the highway, Julian was at the condo complex and ringing the bell marked, he noted with amusement, Bell. Everything seemed funny today. In a way it was a pity that he wasn’t working: in this mood he could have written some outrageous briefs.

Who is it? Eddie’s voice crackled through the intercom.

Your car is here, Mr. Bell.

"Dammit, Julian, you’re twenty minutes late.

Well, I’m here now. Come on down.

The static cut out, followed in around thirty seconds by Eddie’s lean frame and dark, almost-handsome face in the doorway. Judging by the speed of his emergence, the bags had in fact been right by the door. Julian grabbed one, slinging it easily into the back of the car and noting the familiar clank of diving regulator hitting face mask. He climbed back into the car and gazed in the rear-view mirror at Eddie, who was straightening out the bags before slotting the final one into perfect perpendicular position. Julian frowned. Eddie dusted his hands off before getting into the passenger seat, then caught Julian’s expression.

What?

Julian paused before speaking. You sure you’re ready for this?

Are you kidding? A whole week of play, no meetings, and I finally get to go diving. I picked up the fins yesterday—they look great.

Julian heard the words, but the tone was unconvincing. You seem tense.

Eddie turned to him with an expression of irritation. Well, I’ve got a lot going on these days. He stretched his neck out in both directions, the vertebrae cracking as he did so. I really need this vacation. I hope it’s all you’ve set it up to be.

Julian started the car, bothered by the notion that Eddie’s vacation had somehow become his responsibility. As they turned onto the highway, Julian’s cell-phone bleated softly, half-smothered by Eddie’s coat. Julian shifted the coat and hit the speaker button.

Hello?

A female voice emerged, confident and sexy. Eddie’s eyebrows raised in approval.

Hi there. Just wanted to make sure you got the package I left for you.

Yes thanks, Denise.

Did you open it? I put some things in there for you to take with you. The words pulsed with innuendo.

No, I didn’t have time. Julian’s voice was completely flat. I assumed it was work, and you may not have noticed, but I’m on vacation.

Oh, we’ve all noticed, she sighed melodramatically. Here we are slaving over opinions, and the one compensating factor we’ve come to rely on—Julian Carteret in casual clothes—is about to get even more bronzed and beautiful hundreds of miles away.

Denise, was there something I needed to know?

Yeah, afraid so. Her voice grew serious. Hamilton’s in his grim mode and complaining about you again. The chairman of Martex thinks they’re about to get raided, wants good advice on the cheap, and with you gone Ham’s afraid he might have to do some work himself, God forbid. He even showed his pointy head in cubicle country hoping you were lurking about here.

I hope you told him I was unreachable.

Of course. I said you were probably on the plane already. You owe me, Julian…and I plan to collect.

The air in the car was thick with long-distance pheromones.

I do have an important question for you, the voice continued.

Shoot.

Are you going to come back all streaky blond, like a true beach bum?

Nope. Just plain brown. He paused, then added: But the beard comes in red.

Oh! There was a long silence, followed by a pensive: "I wish you hadn’t told me that. Now I’m going to be dreaming about it. Hmmm…tell me, is it only the beard that’s red?"

Denise, you’re on speaker, and I have company.

"Shit! Pick up the phone!"

Can’t. I’m driving. Denise, Eddie; Eddie, Denise.

Hi, Eddie grinned.

Hi, the voice replied, all hint of flirtation gone. Julian, you know I’d never cover for anyone else but you. Now I’m going to be here all weekend on Martex myself, and I had other plans. And yes, I know you’d do the same for me, but I am feeling pissy that you’re gone and I’m not. I could say have fun, but I don’t think I’d mean it. See you.

Eddie pushed the ‘end’ button, caught the ‘Don’t ask’ look in Julian’s eyes and bit back his question. Why did women buzz around the man like this? There was the obvious, of course. Julian had the sort of model looks Eddie had always wished he’d been born with, set on an athletic frame and surrounded by the sort of cosmopolitan aura that women loved…or at least they did in Bond movies. Eddie, who really did have just plain brown hair, ditto on the eyes, and the beginnings of management butt, had plenty to be jealous about. But whatever this thing was with Julian went beyond the obvious. Eddie had seen it in action. There was some mystery factor going on that Eddie didn’t understand but would have given anything to have.

In the end he had to ask. So who’s Denise?

A third-year associate in my office. Yes, she’s beautiful and intelligent and I think she’s interested in me, but no, I’m not going to do anything about it. Mostly because she’s a colleague and I don’t need the headache.

Some headache! This happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? Are all the women in your office hot for you?

Oh, come on. I don’t even know why Denise does this. She could have her pick of any guy.

But she doesn’t want any guy, Eddie thought. She wants you. Like that other woman, the obnoxious guy’s assistant.

What about that other woman? he asked, The obnoxious guy’s assistant. She had that same reaction to you. It’s like some signal you give out that they can’t resist. I could use it, if you don’t want it.

They drove the next stretch in silence. Julian knew what Eddie was talking about; how could he not? There had always been some women whose pupils dilated the moment they saw him. And there had been a time, when sheer volume of conquest was important, when that had mattered. Now, however, it was irrelevant. The key fact was that Julian could not make the phenomenon work with any specificity: he might have a wonderful dog whistle, but he never knew which dogs would come running.

Julian had reached the stage where having many women was not enough. Now he needed just one. The tricky part was that he had no idea who she was or how to find her. He knew her characteristics, of course: intelligence, sexiness, humor, style, compassion. Just the usual, he thought, in any order…only what every man he knew was also looking for. Not much to ask, right? And as if that were not enough, there was an additional dilemma. Julian’s perfect woman would be independent without being so independent that she didn’t need him. She must want to turn to him for something profound: love, support, comradeship. Maybe all of the above. The need to be needed was growing, and Julian recognized something he had been quietly aware of for some time: he was more than ready to become a two rather than a one.

CHAPTER 2

I t was Anna Krakowski’s birthday. She had turned twenty-eight at exactly five-thirteen that morning (not that she’d been awake to notice) and had slept in until almost nine o’clock, a rare treat. On waking, she had torn yesterday’s page off her bedside calendar, smiling as she always did when she saw March 7th in writing. That made it real. Not long afterwards a delivery van had pulled up in front of the house she had grown up in, and a smiling young man had brought her yellow roses from the nurses in the pediatrics ward where she volunteered two afternoons a week.

At around ten she pulled her hair back into a neat light-brown ponytail, smoothed her jeans into cleaner lines, and headed out of her bedroom. On a normal day she would have headed straight downstairs and out of the front door to the garage. Because of the flowers, however, she detoured through the kitchen to take another look: yellow roses meant friendship, and she was touched to know these women and men thought of her as a friend. The journey led past the little office in which her father, Jim Krakowski, was supposedly managing his job search. In reality, she knew he was more likely just drinking himself into a stupor.

Since it was her birthday and she had not yet seen him, Anna decided to break taboo and go in. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. The faux-wood paneling made the room dark to begin with, but Jim also had the heavy brown drapes drawn so that the only light emanated from the goose-neck lamp on the battered desk. He was slumped in his office chair behind the desk, a smattering of papers spread in front of him. Anna inspected the pile for any sign of progress. She saw none. What she did see was a smallish metal object that she only belatedly recognized as a gun. He had placed it on the desk next to the whiskey bottle—a choice of deaths for the discriminating suicide: would you prefer yours fast or slow, sir?

Jim looked up, watery eyes in the broad potato face lacking the energy to register surprise at her presence.

Little pissant’s gonna get his, he mumbled. Him and his goddamn toxic waste. No way that sissy jerk can run my division. He’ll get what’s coming to him, goddamn little worm! His hand hovered momentarily over the gun before reaching for more whiskey.

Anna was shocked by the gun, but unimpressed by the speech. The principal sin attaching to Eddie Bell (a.k.a. the ‘little worm’) had been in discovering Jim Krakowski’s momentous screw-up and not keeping it a secret. In her view, that was not a sin at all. Of course, she didn’t expect Jim to see it that way. Any ability he might once have had to take responsibility for things that went wrong in his life had died along with Anna’s mother a year ago. The long and painful fight with cancer had eaten away at Jim almost as much as at his wife, and when the end finally came, Jim blamed anything and anyone. What was left of him was not strong enough to withstand any more blows to the ego.

As sympathetic as Anna had tried to be, Jim’s screw-up had been extremely costly for both of them. Up to that point, Jim had been in charge of Logistics at Sherbourne, a position which had given him job satisfaction and a place in society, plus solid financial footing for his family. The stock options he had lost would have been enough to cover the medical bills and provide for retirement. Instead of which Anna, who had left her own decent-paying job as a legal secretary in Philadelphia so that Jim would not be alone with his wife’s ghost, was left trying to support them both on a part-time administrative assistant salary.

Now, on her birthday, Anna became suddenly aware that she had been working so hard at standing by him without criticism—at being in every way the good daughter supporting the grieving father—that she had ignored something very important. Was her being here actually useful? She had turned her life inside-out on his account, and it seemed to make no difference at all. In fact, she wondered whether he even really noticed she was there.

For the first time in months, Anna looked at her father with objective eyes. Sitting behind that old desk in the darkened room he looked more like a bear in a cave than the loud, confident parent she remembered. He was pathetic, really: unshaved, stinking, shuffling the few pieces of paper on the desk as though he expected her to believe he was working.

Dad, what are you doing? she asked him.

He blinked slowly, as though trying to focus. What’re you talking about? I’m working, whaddya think I’m doing?

She was shocked at how thoroughly he had come apart, and even more shocked to realize how far down he had dragged her with him. At this time last year she’d had a real life: financial security, an apartment of her own, friends, a job where she was happy. Now she was struggling, bored and, with the exception of one key person in her life, painfully lonely. What had she done it for?

She shook her head in annoyance, trying to shake out the thoughts. The decision had been made months ago; regretting it would be pointless. But the question would not be brushed off. If all her sacrificing had accomplished nothing, if it had all just been about being a good daughter, what about Jim being a good father? Had it ever occurred to him that she might need support? That she was just as devastated by her mother’s death as he was? Not likely. Could he ever consider that her personal life, unassuming as it had been, was as valid and important as his? Certainly not. For all that he was everybody’s best friend at work, Jim Krakowski could be a selfish prick at home.

And look at the energy she was expending even now, trying to protect him. How many grown children would sneak out of the house like a guilty teenager to prevent their father the hurt of knowing whom they were dating? She felt a sudden urge to confront him with it. Dad, I’m dating Eddie Bell, the little worm. Why was she feeling guilty, anyway? His one and only child, and the jerk couldn’t even remember her birthday. She reached for the whiskey bottle and saw her hand shake, realizing only then that she had been wrong to imagine herself immune to the past year’s stresses. Jim glared as she took the bottle. She