Leslie's Voice

By Susan Hanafee

Public relations expert Leslie Elliott is trying to adapt to her new CEO, Brad Stewart, when he tells her of his plans to take over the neighboring electric utility and make himself the state's energy kingpin. When she agrees to join the battle, Leslie finds herself dealing with the twists and turns of corporate intrigue while struggling to handle the men in her life, including an unfaithful husband and a boss whose sexual aggression matches his business ambition. Colorful characters, breezy dialogue and a plot that keeps the reader guessing are the perfect background for the introduction of the savvy and independent Leslie. A fast-paced, intense depiction of corporate America and the perennial struggle of women seeking equal treatment in the boardroom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781735698809

Susan Hanafee

Susan Hanafee is an award-winning former journalist whose career as a reporter for The Indianapolis Star spanned three decades. She formerly headed corporate communications for IPALCO Enterprises and Cummins Inc. She resides in southwest Florida. Hanafee's blogs can be found on www.susanhanafee.com. Her previously published books include Red, Black and Global: The Transformation of Cummins (a corporate history); Rachael's Island Adventures (a collection of children's stories); Never Name an Iguana and Rutabagas for Ten (essays and observations on life); Leslie's Voice (a novel) and the Leslie Elliott mystery series, including Scavenger Tides, The End of his Journey and Deadly Winds.

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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or living or dead persons is entirely coincidental.

Revised third edition. Copyright © 2024 by the author.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

ISBN 978-1-7324894-9-3 print version

ISBN 978-1-7356988-0-9 e-book version

Comments and acknowledgements from Susan Hanafee

This book was originally written by me and self-published under the pen name of E. C. Thomas as Six Weeks from Tuesday. Times have changed and so has my thinking. After writing a sequel, Scavenger Tides, a mystery, I decided to rewrite the first effort and publish it under my own name. My editor and friend, Colleen O’Brien, said that famous authors and musicians sometimes redo their material, so someone like me could, too. Isn’t anything possible these days?

Many thanks to my friends who labored through the early versions and this extensive rewrite, sometimes more than once. Special thanks go to Ian Rogerson, my wonderful partner, and Bob Elliott, who gave me inspiration to continue, and to Colleen and Marcy Shortuse, both great and patient editors.

Everyone, at some time or another, sits down to a banquet of consequences.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

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About the Author

1

All his note said was see me. When she read it, Leslie felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck. It traveled across the skin below her hairline, demanding attention. Her fingers went to the spot and rubbed as she flipped through the pages of the speech, hoping for other comments from him. Did he like it, love it or hate it? Sometimes it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, Leslie thought as she steeled herself for an impromptu meeting with her new boss.

Since Brad Stewart became Metro Energy Company’s chief executive officer six months ago, Leslie’s job had grown in scope. Not only was she handling public relations, she was writing Brad’s speeches and overseeing investor relations. She wasn’t sure why he’d shown such confidence in her so early and without a trial period. Her promotion did give the company a female vice president at long last. She wondered if that was the real reason. Regardless, she was going to show him that he’d made the right decision.

She headed down the hallway with the stack of papers clutched in her hand, came to the CEO’s office and rapped on his half-open door.

It’s Leslie Elliott. You have a minute?

Come on in. Brad looked up and pointed to the chair in front of his antique rosewood desk. Give me a second.

While he scribbled on a yellow legal pad, Leslie scanned the room. Subtle changes had taken place in the chief executive’s office since Brad’s arrival. The world globe that once dominated the credenza had disappeared. In its place was a model car identified on a gold plaque as a 1937 Mercedes-Benz 540K Cabriolet A. A silver frame held a photo montage of twin boys, from infancy to adulthood. Stuck in one corner, in what seemed an obligatory gesture, was a snapshot of an attractive woman with chin-length gray hair.

Gone, too, were the leather-bound versions of the classics once housed on cherry wood bookcases. In their place were business books—Mergers and Acquisitions: The Essentials; The Art of the Deal; Temptations of a CEO. A framed poster of running horses with the phrase, Stay Ahead of the Pack in large white letters was partially hidden by the open door.

When Leslie’s focus returned to Brad, she thought back to the officers’ cocktail party where they met: The warmth of his grasp when they shook hands; the blond hair that fell across his forehead; the confident manner. Although she would only admit this to her closest friend, it was his good looks that first impressed her, followed by his words that she remembered well. Glad to have you on my team, he had said. The best is yet to be.

She snapped out of her reverie when Brad pushed the pad he’d been writing on to one side and leaned back in his beige leather chair. What can I do for you, Leslie?

She flashed the papers she was holding and slid them onto his desk. Moisture from her thumb had smudged one of Brad’s notes. She hoped he didn’t notice. She was still a little nervous around him. She didn’t want to think about why.

I found these on my chair. My draft for your Rotary speech with your comments. I was wondering … could we set up a time to work on it?

I like what you’ve done so far. How about Monday?

Monday? Fine. I’ll get with Lisa to confirm the time.

When she reached for the papers, Brad leaned forward and grabbed the appointment book on the corner of the desk. The fragrance of his cologne drifted her way. It was disarming. Floral—not a typical man’s cologne, but enticing.

The last time I saw you was at The Rendezvous . . . wasn’t it about a month ago? He settled back in his chair, grabbing the silver-and-black pen on his desk and twirling it in his fingers.

Leslie’s stomach tightened. The pen. Round and round. A feeling of nausea threatened, then passed. The Rendezvous?

Yeah, you know, the bar down the street? He dropped the pen. The clatter of metal hitting the wooden desk startled Leslie.

I don’t go there much. I was supposed to meet someone. I guess it was about a month ago . . .

I’m sure you saw me. Us. I was with, um, an old friend. You left before I could ask you to join us.

He reached for the pen, running it through his fingers again. You and I should have a drink there someday. I like to know my officers and their families away from work. Your husband is? Sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.

The pen moved back and forth and back and forth. The prickly sensation on Leslie’s neck returned. She tugged at her black turtleneck sweater.

Scott.

Scott. That’s right. Didn’t I meet him at the officers’ cocktail party when I joined the company? A doctor?

Dermatologist.

Yeah. Dermatologist. Maybe that’s why you have such beautiful skin, Leslie.

Beautiful skin?

Her twenty years in the corporate world had taught her to be cautious when dealing with what she thought were inappropriate remarks from men. With the current focus on conduct toward females, especially in the work environment, Leslie felt pressured not to let things slide. Still, rebuking Brad for saying something nice about her skin didn’t feel like a smart career move at this time. She cleared her throat.

Uh, thanks. Well, uh, I don’t want to keep you from your work. When she stood up, her foot caught the leg of her chair. It tilted backward, threatening to hit the floor. She grabbed it, scooting it into place by Brad’s desk.

Oops, sorry. Did Brad laugh or was it my imagination?

See you Monday, he said. A half-smile hung on his face.

Yes. Monday. Leslie backed out of the office and shut the door. Instead of going to her office, she made a detour to the ladies’ room. Inside, she dashed to the marble sink where she plunged a paper towel under the cold running water and applied it to her face. When she looked in the mirror, she was reminded of how she felt at fifteen: insecure and without a voice around the opposite sex. She hoped Brad hadn’t noticed her nerves, even as he’d witnessed her awkward departure twice now.

You outta here already? Hal, the security guard, inquired as Leslie marched up to the time sheet on his desk and scrawled her initials. He smoothed his thinning gray hair as he watched her sign. Not many people around here work on Saturday—except for you and the big boss.

If I had any sense, Hal, I wouldn’t have come in either. And made a fool of myself.

2

Have you seen this Macy’s bill? Meredith’s tuition’s due next week. You need to watch your spending, Leslie. Scott’s six-foot-six frame was stretched over the brown leather recliner purchased for him for Father’s Day. The blue tie with silver stripes had been loosened. His salt-and-pepper hair, sprayed to keep every shaft in place, still looked like it did when he and Leslie left the house that morning in separate cars.

Scott had beaten her home, and it seemed to Leslie like he was looking for ways to torment her before they headed out to dinner with friends. His comment made her bristle, especially since she brought home the larger paycheck.

Nice to see you, too, she responded, flatly.

Yeah, well? Scott drummed his fingers on the open envelopes on the table beside him.

Leslie sighed and tossed her coat onto a nearby couch. There’s a birthday present for Sue in there. Plus, stuff for the house. New towels.

She looked past her inquisitor and out the window at the half-frozen stream in the backyard. A blue heron was attempting to fish from the shore—its body stilled into attack position and directed at a small hole in the ice. Behind the bird, naked tree limbs were silhouetted against the setting sun.

Why don’t you fly south this time of year? Who doesn’t want to get away from this?

Doesn’t Metro pay its employees enough? Scott asked.

That’s not the point. She’s my right hand, my friend.

I bet she wasn’t there today.

It’s Saturday, Scott. You don’t expect your people to work on Saturday. Do we have to talk about this now? I need to change for dinner, Leslie said, as she headed down the hallway to the bedroom.

We aren’t finished with this conversation, Scott called after her.

Like hell we aren’t. Someday I will find the voice to respond to your demeaning interrogations. It’s not worth the hassle now.

She walked into the closet they shared. His side was filled with custom-made suits and shirts that cost a bundle. And he was questioning her spending? She slid the wooden hangers across the rod on her side of the closet, jamming the garments one against the other. She settled on a long-sleeved black dress with a modest V-neck she last wore to a funeral. So appropriate. There was no time for a shower. She applied fresh make-up, deodorant and sprayed the Bond fragrance Chinatown on her bare neck. When the spicy scent hit her nostrils, she thought of Brad and the moment he leaned toward her to compliment her skin and exposed her vulnerability.

The fraying sleeves on the waiter’s tuxedo jacket didn’t diminish the flourish with which the balding server greeted his returning customers.

Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott. My favorite couple. Welcome back to zu Tisch. You must try this! Phillip’s cheeks were shiny and pink. An exaggerated grin engulfed the lower third of his face. He shoved a bottle of red wine in front of Scott, who took a sip and gave the waiter a nod to pour two glasses.

Now taste, Phillip crooned, moistening his thin lips. Wait five minutes and try again, and see how the flavor unfolds like . . . like a flower opening to reveal its intoxicating perfume.

While Scott twirled, sniffed, and slurped the wine, Leslie’s gaze drifted to the couple at the next table. Mid-fifties. Well dressed. The thin gold bands on their left hands seem dulled. They sipped champagne and looked at each other like newlyweds. When the man reached for the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips, Leslie turned away.

Is that necessary? she said.

What? Scott responded from behind the glass.

The sniffing and slurping.

The sniffing and slurping, as you call it, helps one appreciate the bouquet.

Leslie rolled her eyes as Scott took another noisy drink.

So, your CEO. I hear he’s quite the womanizer, he said, as he set down his glass and reached for a brown roll and a pat of butter shaped like a rose.

Who told you that? That night at The Rendezvous. Brad and that woman.

One of my patients knows you’re a VP at Metro. Asked me how you liked him. She worked at the bank when he did. Said he was charming.

He’s okay. Better than Henry, the dinosaur. Brad got the union guys on his side his first week on the job. Their head guy had lunch with him, and they wrapped up the contract before dessert. Henry wouldn’t deal with the unions. They weren’t his kind, she said, grimacing.

If he likes women so much, maybe you can get a raise out of him. You know, flash that perfect smile his way. Lord knows your veneers cost enough.

Leslie went silent. She would never use smiles or wiles to gain an advantage at work. Never. Scott often complained about her work ethic, and now he was cheapening it with a sexist comment. When did he become such a prick? She took a long sip of wine to keep from saying anything. As she set down her glass a little too firmly, she saw the familiar couple striding across the dining room.

There was a twenty-pound gap between the button on the man’s outdated tweed coat and its corresponding buttonhole. Except for the color, the style of his white hair—combed to one side and needing a trim—hadn’t changed much from the 1990s photos Leslie had seen of him in a family scrapbook. His smile exposed large teeth with a gap in the middle.

Hello, my partner! Dr. Rajeev Chanders’ voice boomed over the chatter of diners and the background music of Viennese waltzes coming from the restaurant’s sound system.

Trotting behind him was Karen, his wife; a woman in her mid-forties and Leslie’s best friend. Her navy, square-necked dress hugged the slight muffin top around her waist. Her hemline stopped just above fleshy knees. Her black curly hair bounced as she hurried to keep up with her husband.

Sorry we are late. I had to pick up something for my little college sweetheart, he said, as he pulled out a chair for his wife. Our twentieth anniversary, you know.

Karen Chanders’ blue eyes sparkled as she patted her chest, drawing attention to a large yellow diamond suspended above her liberal cleavage. It’s four carats.

Four carats, Raj? You rob a jewelry store, ol’ buddy? Or maybe you’ve been skimming from our practice? Scott asked, grinning.

That is a good one, Scott. It belonged to my Aunt Amala. Her first husband was a successful businessman who died young. Then she married my Uncle Dinesh. They did not have any children so they have given the two best pieces of my aunt’s jewelry to me and my brother. What good fortune, he said, flashing a toothy grin at the nearby diners.

I guess so, Scott grunted. Leslie caught the envy in his voice and wondered if Raj noticed.

After placing their dinner orders, Leslie grabbed Karen’s arm. Let’s go to the ladies’ room. I want to get a better look at your necklace. She shot a glance in Raj’s direction. He was busy studying the wine list.

Raj wouldn’t mind if everybody noticed. He wants me to wear it all the time, Karen said, as she pushed open the door with Fraulein written on it. People will see how successful he is. That’s what he thinks. I don’t want people to think I’m a show-off.

Leslie pulled reading glasses from her purse and grabbed the stone between her thumb and forefinger, moving it back and forth to reflect the restroom lights. Wow. Let everyone be jealous. You deserve this.

Karen gave Leslie a hug. You always say the right thing, girlfriend.

Not always. Buoyed by two glasses of wine, Leslie shared the details of her meeting with Brad and her sighting of him and a woman at The Rendezvous a month earlier. Although she didn’t care for gossip, some pieces of information were too entertaining not to share with Karen, who was like a sister.

I saw his car by the Metro entrance. Asked the guard if Brad was working late. Seems he’d left the building about forty-five minutes earlier. I figured he’d gone to the bar down the street. Funny, he even mentioned that to me today—about having a drink there together. That was my intention at the time. To get to know him better in a casual setting. The men in our company do that all the time.

Of course, they do, Karen said, rolling her eyes and nodding her head. The woman you saw him with, was she another employee—or maybe his girlfriend?

I’m sure not. He’s married. But this woman was very close to Brad. Patting his hand. Stuff like that. Idiot that I am, I tripped over the steps in my rush to get out of there. God, he probably thought I was stalking him.

Karen laughed. Sounds like he likes the girls. If he’s the hunk you say he is, they probably don’t resist. Watch yourself.

He’s been married to Nan, I think that’s her name, for a long time. He made a point of telling me that the blonde was an old friend. Wonder why he said that?

Maybe he has the hots for you, Karen said, as she pulled out a lipstick wand and applied pink gloss.

Around him I’m jelly, and I hate that. I get this itchy feeling in the back of my neck, Leslie said.

So, Miss In Control is feeling a little out of control? You’ll handle it. You always do, Karen said, patting Leslie on the shoulder as the two left the ladies’ room for the table where the waiter was already delivering another bottle of wine.

Scott staggered toward the silver Buick, leaning on Leslie and jingling the keys in his hand. I’ll drive.

You think so? I don’t, Leslie said, climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling her own keys from her purse.

Scott clung to the car as he worked his way around to the passenger side. Once inside, he slammed the door and let his head fall back against the leather seat.

Home, he said, and closed his eyes. Leslie fumed as she pushed the starter button and backed her car out of its parking spot. She was tired of Scott and his orders. When she pulled into the garage, Leslie found herself wondering what would happen if she left him in the car overnight. A frozen body in her company car? That might be tough to explain. She chuckled to herself.

Come on, Scott. We’re here. Get out. She nudged her husband until his eyes opened. He looked blankly at her, then eased out of the vehicle and stumbled into the house.

It was close to midnight and Leslie’s head was aching above the right temple. It always happened when she drank too much red wine. She reached in the cabinet for the aspirin bottle and was heading for a glass when she spotted the cell phone on the kitchen counter. She left it behind when she and Scott were going out to eat. She cringed when she saw people checking their phones in nice restaurants—any dining place for that matter.

The first message was a routine notification from service dispatch about a power outage affecting a hundred and fifty people. No media interest in that, she thought. The second was from Brad.

Leslie. Brad Stewart here. I need to talk to you away from the office.

He wanted to meet her Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m. at the Blue Skies Café. She groaned. Why so early, and why didn’t he tell me about this today? She sent him a text saying she’d be there.

When she walked into the bedroom she slipped out of her dress, letting it drop into a pile on the floor. She pulled on a T-shirt that she kept tucked under the pillow and reached into the nightstand for earplugs. Sleep came quickly.

I’m in bed and Scott is . . . no, it isn’t a bed . . . it’s the beach. His face is hard against mine. The stubble from his unshaven skin is pressing into my flesh as he climbs on top of me. Ouch. Scott. Stop. His lips are all over me . . . growing larger and threatening to consume me. Stop. No, it’s not Scott; it’s Brad. His hands are everywhere. I’m squirming, but can’t get away. The sand keeps growing and threatening to bury . . . Brad. He’s being consumed by the sand . . . all but his hands, which keep moving as if in a frenzy. They’re gone. Brad’s hands are gone. Brad is gone and . . . I’m falling.

Leslie jerked awake and gasped for air. Breathe. Breathe. Her T-shirt was wet, clinging to her. She had an uneasy feeling; the dream felt like a warning. She looked over at Scott, mouth open, drooling. Dead asleep.

3

Through the window of the Blue Skies Café Leslie could see Brad sitting at a small table reading a newspaper. She took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The smell of bacon frying permeated the eatery. Leslie’s stomach growled in response. She thought of the crisp hash browns on the menu that oozed sweet butter. They wouldn’t make her doctor’s list of healthy foods but were too tempting to resist.

The neighborhood restaurant had changed little since it opened its doors in the 1970s. The photos of the rock bands and sports heroes that marked it as a gathering place long ago were still pinned to the walls. Brown tiles covered the floors, red-and-white checked plastic tablecloths hung over the bistro tables.

As she walked toward Brad, Leslie scanned the large area. A gray-haired couple in a booth were silently eating poached eggs and toast under a photo of Magic Johnson. Two cooks by the grill were arguing about a referee’s call in a football game, their voices carrying, getting louder.

Keep it down, boys. Leslie watched a scowling waitress shush them.

Brad stood when he saw Leslie and hurried to pull out a chair. Sorry to drag you out so early, he said.

She thanked him, slid off her fur-lined parka and draped it over the back of the seat.

The roads were pretty slick. Made for slow driving, she said, surprised at how calm she felt.

No problem. I just got here myself. Was catching up on the sports scores.

Yeah. I heard the guys over there discussing some referee’s call. Guess there was a big controversy.

That call cost Purdue big-time. And they were so close to beating Notre Dame.

Oh, too bad. I guess, Leslie said, wondering when Brad was going to get to the topic that required a Sunday morning meeting out of the office.

You want some coffee? the now-smiling waitress asked Leslie, while refilling Brad’s cup.

Hot chocolate, please. Not too much whipped cream. Leslie made a brrr sound and rubbed her hands together.

Late night? Brad asked.

She nodded. I guess it shows. Why did I say that? Sounds like I was fishing for a compliment.

No, no. You look great, he said.

Brad glanced around the dining room and then scooted his chair closer to Leslie. His gardenia-like cologne overpowered the restaurant’s cooking aromas.

To her surprise, Leslie found herself saying, The, uh, cologne you’re wearing. It’s so unusual.

Brad laughed. You like it? It’s from my first banking job. I was at a conference in Paris, taking in the scenery during a break. Saw a perfumery that had been in business since the 1700s and, honest to God, if they liked you, they’d create a personal fragrance for you. Cary Grant had been a customer, they said.

Leslie nodded, interested in his story.

He kept talking. Having something that was mine, well, I was young and wanted to be noticed. The perfumer said this scent would attract people and success. It might have been bunk, but I’ve been wearing it ever since.

Leslie nodded. Seems he was right. About the success, I mean. It’s a remarkable scent. Different.

I’ve been told that many times, Brad said. He cleared his throat.

Leslie wondered if she was now the one who’d crossed a line. And why he confused her so.

Guess we should talk about why I asked you to meet me here at this ungodly hour, instead of the office. I know it’s Sunday and you worked yesterday, but after you left, I decided this couldn’t wait. It’s confidential. Please don’t share with anyone including . . .

Scott? No problem. I know the drill.

The waitress set the hot chocolate in front of her. Leslie stirred in the whipped cream and tried a sip. Too hot. She set it back down in its saucer.

Yeah. Best not say anything, Brad said and then chuckled, pointing to his lip.

There’s some, uh, whipped cream.

Oh my, Leslie said, blushing. She grabbed her napkin and dabbed at her mouth.

Brad’s face grew serious. When you saw me yesterday, I was working on a report for the board. I made big money for the investors at the bank. The Metro board’s expecting a similar miracle.

Leslie didn’t know much about his banking success, so she just nodded.

There are two options. One is to merge with another utility. These days we need size on our side. The other is to sell the company to a bigger organization—an investment group, like I did at the bank.

Leslie couldn’t recall ever being part of a conversation with Brad’s predecessor about making more money for shareholders. She suddenly felt closer to Brad, liking the idea of being privy to something that felt big, important.

Both options are tricky. Public relations can be a nightmare. But times are changing, especially for electric utilities. The coal- and gas-burners. If we don’t do something, you and I will be looking for new jobs. It may be too late, but Lord knows, we can’t give up.

He’s talking about big changes. Will this be good or bad for Metro—and for me? Leslie realized she was chewing on her thumbnail and dropped her hand to her lap.

You all right? Brad asked.

The waitress interrupted before Leslie could respond. Take your order, folks?

Leslie scanned the menu. Poached egg on an English muffin and a bowl of fruit. And a small, very small order of your hash browns.

Make that two. And don’t be stingy with my potatoes. Brad grinned, waiting until the waitress was out of earshot before continuing.

"The board has authorized me to meet with the CEO of the utility we’re thinking about for a merger.