great kind of tiredness! Whether he
sticks around or not, I can’t thank you all enough for allowing me to join you
and to encourage me to find my inner cougar.
* * * * *
“That truck you drove Friday night to the Rib ‘N Draft. Is
that your personal vehicle? Or do you use it for the business?”
The offhand reference to Friday night made Giselle’s belly
do a little cartwheel, but Con was strictly business today, all refreshed and
alert after his gonzo week. It was Sunday afternoon and she sat in the client
chair at his polished walnut desk. Con alternately swiveled to face her and
keyed numbers into one of the two computers on the matching credenza behind his
desk.
She answered in the same businesslike fashion, sitting on
his businesslike chair in her businesslike jeans and button-down silk blouse.
“Both. I have a magnetic sign for the front doors when I go
out on jobs, but it’s also my primary mode of transportation, and if I don’t
necessarily want anyone to know my whereabouts…” She shrugged. “You know, like
if I spend time at the mall, I don’t need any clients wondering why a
Stonehedge truck is in the parking lot all day and why I’m not managing my
employees properly.”
Con nodded absently and continued perusing her tax returns.
In between answering questions, Giselle let her gaze roam
around Con’s office. When she’d been there before—right after his D-Day—she
hadn’t seen much beyond the reception room and the coffeepot alcove. A sunny
corner room held not only his desk and credenza, but a loveseat and two
well-cushioned side chairs for conferences around a substantial coffee table.
Another office of like size occupied the far corner of the second floor. It had
been his father’s, he’d said as she showed her around. A conference room plus
an office with two desks for associates completed the suite.
He’d suggested she gather all pertinent papers from the past
two years so he could plug vital statistics into one of his accounting software
programs. She’d been happy to have another opinion of her company’s health. Not
that she didn’t trust her own accountant, just an independent audit, so to
speak, of the data.
As he browsed through documents from the various files she’d
brought in two plastic bins with locking tops, she stood to inspect the photos
along one wall. Here was the Con Senior she remembered meeting, his arm draped
around a younger Con Junior’s shoulders, in front of the building they now
occupied. A photo of Con in cap and gown between his father and a tall, thin,
very attractive blonde—his mother?
She saw photos of the older man with a former and the
current governor of Pennsylvania. Hmm. That was interesting. In neither case did
it look like a posed shot of a politician with a voter, but rather two equals
engrossed in conversation. And both inscribed with personal notes.
With that kind of legacy behind them, surely Larry had been
mistaken in his accusation of malfeasance on the part of Trowbridge &
Trowbridge.
“Con?”
“Yeah, babe, just a minute.” He punched a few more numbers
then hit Enter. “I’m trying some alternative calculations that might make it
worth filing an amended return. When I see the numbers, I’ll do some more thinking
and get back to you.”
When the computer started whirring, he turned his attention
to her where she stood at his wall of photos.
“Your father seems to know a lot of high-ranking
politicians.”
“He did a lot of pro bono work, like with the Small Business
Administration, helping set up companies and consulting with start-ups, so he
got some citations and recognition. He showed me by example to give back to the
community. Hence the Senior Center volunteering.”
How to say this delicately? “Um, Larry told me that
your company had some legal difficulties a few years ago?”
Con huffed out a breath. “Difficulties. You might say that.
It was more like being railroaded.”
“What do you
sticks around or not, I can’t thank you all enough for allowing me to join you
and to encourage me to find my inner cougar.
* * * * *
“That truck you drove Friday night to the Rib ‘N Draft. Is
that your personal vehicle? Or do you use it for the business?”
The offhand reference to Friday night made Giselle’s belly
do a little cartwheel, but Con was strictly business today, all refreshed and
alert after his gonzo week. It was Sunday afternoon and she sat in the client
chair at his polished walnut desk. Con alternately swiveled to face her and
keyed numbers into one of the two computers on the matching credenza behind his
desk.
She answered in the same businesslike fashion, sitting on
his businesslike chair in her businesslike jeans and button-down silk blouse.
“Both. I have a magnetic sign for the front doors when I go
out on jobs, but it’s also my primary mode of transportation, and if I don’t
necessarily want anyone to know my whereabouts…” She shrugged. “You know, like
if I spend time at the mall, I don’t need any clients wondering why a
Stonehedge truck is in the parking lot all day and why I’m not managing my
employees properly.”
Con nodded absently and continued perusing her tax returns.
In between answering questions, Giselle let her gaze roam
around Con’s office. When she’d been there before—right after his D-Day—she
hadn’t seen much beyond the reception room and the coffeepot alcove. A sunny
corner room held not only his desk and credenza, but a loveseat and two
well-cushioned side chairs for conferences around a substantial coffee table.
Another office of like size occupied the far corner of the second floor. It had
been his father’s, he’d said as she showed her around. A conference room plus
an office with two desks for associates completed the suite.
He’d suggested she gather all pertinent papers from the past
two years so he could plug vital statistics into one of his accounting software
programs. She’d been happy to have another opinion of her company’s health. Not
that she didn’t trust her own accountant, just an independent audit, so to
speak, of the data.
As he browsed through documents from the various files she’d
brought in two plastic bins with locking tops, she stood to inspect the photos
along one wall. Here was the Con Senior she remembered meeting, his arm draped
around a younger Con Junior’s shoulders, in front of the building they now
occupied. A photo of Con in cap and gown between his father and a tall, thin,
very attractive blonde—his mother?
She saw photos of the older man with a former and the
current governor of Pennsylvania. Hmm. That was interesting. In neither case did
it look like a posed shot of a politician with a voter, but rather two equals
engrossed in conversation. And both inscribed with personal notes.
With that kind of legacy behind them, surely Larry had been
mistaken in his accusation of malfeasance on the part of Trowbridge &
Trowbridge.
“Con?”
“Yeah, babe, just a minute.” He punched a few more numbers
then hit Enter. “I’m trying some alternative calculations that might make it
worth filing an amended return. When I see the numbers, I’ll do some more thinking
and get back to you.”
When the computer started whirring, he turned his attention
to her where she stood at his wall of photos.
“Your father seems to know a lot of high-ranking
politicians.”
“He did a lot of pro bono work, like with the Small Business
Administration, helping set up companies and consulting with start-ups, so he
got some citations and recognition. He showed me by example to give back to the
community. Hence the Senior Center volunteering.”
How to say this delicately? “Um, Larry told me that
your company had some legal difficulties a few years ago?”
Con huffed out a breath. “Difficulties. You might say that.
It was more like being railroaded.”
“What do you
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