He spent the rest of the day with Allen, crunching numbers and making decisions about the portfolios of a dozen top clients. Sometime after eight o'clock that evening, Allen pushed back from his desk.
“That'll do it for today.” A grin spanned the short distance from one side of Allen's face to the other. “Lets go meet some women.”
Allen was thin and wiry, a diminutive man who ate little and drank less. He was fifty-three, and Eric figured the man weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds with his designer suit, dress shoes, and leather portfolio. He was so thin his shoulders and elbows looked knobby even through his clothes. The three wives he'd married and divorced had been nothing more than short-term mistresses, because his first love was without question Koppel and Grant.
But each of the wives had cost him, and Allen didn't intend to make the same mistake a fourth time. Allen and Eric spoke on the phone several times each week, and apparently Allen had become quite the player in the Manhattan nightclub scene. Allen was aware that generally speaking, women dated him for his millions. When they realized he wasn't interested in sharing his last name, most moved on. Allen had already complained that he hadn't had a date since August.
“You with me on this, Michaels?” Allen stood up and slid several folders into his briefcase.
“You're serious?” Eric studied his boss for a moment. “We have another hour at least.”
“Nah.” Allen waved his hand at the paperwork spread out across the desk between them. “We got further than I thought.” He smiled again. “Besides, the work'll still be here tomorrow.”
Every now and then, Allen did something like this. Surprised Eric and showed a side of himself less machinelike than usual. A side that was almost human. Eric shrugged. “I'll go.” He raised one eyebrow. “But no women, Allen. I'm married, remember?”
Allen made a brushing motion with his hand and frowned. “Marriage never lasts. Besides, with a face like yours, women'll line up.”
“No women, sir.” Eric gave his boss a crooked grin. “But I'll take dinner.”
Allen thought about that for a moment. “Okay.” He sighed. “I'll change your mind while we eat. Where to?”
“Your choice.”
“Well, then … Windows on the World, my boy. What else is there when you work in the World Trade Center?”
The restaurant was at the top of the World Trade Center's north tower, more than a hundred floors off the ground. The two men made a point of having at least one power lunch or client dinner there every time Eric was in town. This would be somewhat different, since no clients were involved.
An elevator led them to the ground level, where they walked next door and took another elevator up to the restaurant. The maître d' led them to a table against a wall of windows, and Eric slid his chair as close to the glass as he could. Darkness had settled over the city, and a sea of twinkling lights spread out before him. The view couldn't have been any better from an airplane.
“Amazing, isn't it?” Eric looked out and realized once more the incredible height of the Twin Towers. The two buildings stood like a couple of giants. Redwoods among a forest of saplings.
Allen ordered sautéed mushrooms and a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chardonnay. He waited until the waitress had served them each a glass before speaking again. “You're looking good, Eric. Taking care of yourself.”
“I try.” Eric settled back in his chair and sipped the wine. He drank only for appearances, at times like these. Never for any other reason. He couldn't afford for his mind to be anything less than sharp. Eric set his glass down. “Still running and lifting.”
“Good.” Allen leaned forward. “You need to stay fit, Eric. You'll be head of the company one day.”
A burst of adrenaline raced through Eric's veins. “Yes, sir … I hope so.” It was all Eric could do to stay in his seat. He'd always believed that one day the position would be his, but Allen had never come out and said so. Not until now. Eric took a slow, deliberate swallow of wine and managed an appropriate smile. “I'd like that.”
Allen winked at him. “Don't get me wrong. I still have a dozen good years left.” He leaned his forearms on the table. “But you'll take over one day. No one else is close.”
Eric didn't know what to say. The waitress appeared with their mushrooms and gave them each a small plate. Her demure smile conveyed more than an interest in their dining pleasure, and Eric noticed she lingered near him a little longer than necessary. They made small talk for a minute or so, then she took their order and turned back to the kitchen.
The moment she was gone, Allen raised an eyebrow. “She's crazy about you.” He whispered the words. “Give her your hotel number when we're done.”
“Now …” Eric chuckled and shook his head. His many years of marriage to Laura actually baffled his boss. Eric helped himself to three mushrooms and flashed his gold wedding band at Allen. “Laura wouldn't like that too much.”
“Ahh, Laura would never know.” Allen pushed his chair back and crossed one leg over the other. “Besides, look at you. Handsome, fit. Women fall all over you every time we're out together.”
Eric raised a single eyebrow. “The same way they've done for you.”
“They want my money. Nothing more.”
“And they got it—at least a fair amount of it if I'm not mistaken, sir. Isn't that right?”
It was Allen's turn to laugh. “You have me there.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “But women like that would be happy with a single night's entertainment, Eric. You're thousands of miles from home.” He took two mushrooms and cut into one of them. “Who would know?”
Eric was trying to think up an answer when something caught his eye.
At the table adjacent to theirs along the window, a family was being seated. A businessman, a woman who must've been his wife, and two children. A boy and girl about the same age as Josh. The woman helped them get seated and then tied a bouquet of red and white helium balloons on the back of the girl's chair.
A birthday party. Like the one he'd missed a week ago for Josh.
Allen was saying something about the oil companies and the impact an embargo could make on a host of reports the next quarter, but Eric wasn't listening. He was caught up in the drama unfolding just behind Allen at the next table.
The couple sat side by side, their elbows on the linen tablecloth, hands linked in a way that showed off the woman's wedding ring. The children were busy with their menus, and the man whispered something to the woman. Whatever he said, his wife giggled and kissed him full on the lips.
Just then the young girl looked up and clucked her tongue. Eric could barely make out her words. “Mom, you guys act like teenagers.” But instead of looking bothered, the woman kissed her husband again and said something Eric couldn't hear.
“Eric? You listening to me?” Allen finished his first glass of wine and poured a second.
If it was like other meals they'd shared, Eric doubted he'd finish it. One and a half glasses was his usual stopping point on the rare occasion when he drank.
“Absolutely, sir.” Eric snapped to attention. “Every word.”
“As I was saying, the prospects of an embargo may be slim, but those Arab nations are a finicky group. Back in the eighties when …”
Again Eric tuned out. The family at the next table was holding hands now, their eyes closed, heads bowed. The birthday girl did the praying. Eric strained to listen. “Lord, we're thankful for all we have. For Mom and Dad and for each other. I pray we have as much fun together this year as we did last.” She paused. “Oh, and thank You for the food.”
Eric averted his eyes so they wouldn't see him staring. He nodded his agreement to Allen and focused once more on the family. Distractions didn't usually affect his business conversations. But the family's interactions were spellbinding, as though Eric were seeing them unfold on a movie screen.
The man reached across the table and took hold of the girl's fingers. “Happy birthday, honey.” He patte
d her hand and grinned at the boy beside her. The boy puffed out his chest, his voice a little louder than the others. “Don't worry, Dad. I might be younger but I'll look out for her. When the boys come calling … I'll be ready.”
“Here you are.” The waitress was back, and Eric jumped a little in his seat. She set a plate of roasted chicken and vegetables in front of him, and shrimp for Allen. Then she stepped back, made direct eye contact with Eric and held it. “If there's anything else I can do for you, let me know.”
When she was gone, Allen pointed his fork at Eric. “See … I told you. Whatever you want, she'll do it. She's yours, Eric. Did you take a look at her legs? You're crazy if you pass this one up.”
Eric picked up his knife and fork, and for the first time in years, he thought about praying. Not out loud the way the family beside them had done. But quietly, in his heart out of thanks for all God had done, all Eric hadn't thanked Him for in the years since the death of their unborn daughter.
But the moment passed quickly.
It was too late for casual conversation with God—even words of thanks. He and God had parted ways long ago, and Eric doubted they'd ever make amends again. Besides, he was doing pretty well without God. Second in command for one of the most powerful financial groups in Manhattan, with the presidency looming just a few years away. A better house, car, and savings account than anyone his age had a right to.
And all of it a direct reflection of his own hard work. If anyone deserved a vote of thanks it was him, not God.
The family at the table beside them finished eating and left, while the meal Eric and Allen shared lingered another half hour. When it was finally over, Allen paid the bill, and Eric finished his third glass of wine. More than he'd had in months, years even. His head buzzed, and a warm feeling crept over him as they left the table.
Eric was careful not to look at the waitress as he left the restaurant. He didn't want to give her the wrong idea, because the truth was, he hadn't the slightest interest in her. Laura was his wife, and he wouldn't go out with other women behind her back. He might not have had the best relationship with Laura, but he wasn't about to complicate his life with an affair. Nothing about the idea appealed to him. He'd talked about it with Murphy at the Los Angeles office once a few months ago.
“Ever notice how the things you lust after change in a job like this?” They'd been waiting for the elevator late one night.
“Yeah.” Murphy huffed. “You got that right.”
“Used to be love and sex.” Eric had narrowed his eyes. “Now it's power and money. Success. And you know what?”
“You like it better?”
“I do.” Eric had been incredulous about the fact. “The things that make life exciting are within my control, no one else's. I like it that way.”
The conversation played again in Eric's mind as he and Allen rode the elevators down a hundred floors to ground level. Outside, Allen hailed a cab and grinned at Eric. “How 'bout some nightlife?”
It was after ten o'clock and Eric was tired. Maybe it was the wine, but he couldn't stop thinking about the family he'd watched earlier. “No, sir. I'm turning in.” A cab pulled up, and Eric flagged down another driver ten yards down the street.
“Okay, then. Two cabs it is.” Allen stepped into the backseat. “See you tomorrow. Eight o'clock.”
“Yes, sir.” Eric's cab pulled up as Allen shut the door of his.
Back at his hotel, Eric thought about turning on the television but decided against it. He hated TV, hated the way it wasted his time. And tonight he couldn't have focused if he'd wanted to. Not because of the wine. But because images of the family at the restaurant kept running through his head. The way the woman's eyes sparkled as she kissed her husband, the gentle way he touched his daughter's hand. The humor and closeness and determination to pray even in a public place.
Had he and Laura and Josh ever been that way? The picture of a loving, well-adjusted family? Had Laura ever kissed him like that, her eyes aglow with the joy of simply being with him? Eric racked his brain trying to remember. Certainly they'd loved like that at some point.
He hung his suit coat up in the mirrored closet and ran his hand over it so it wouldn't wrinkle during the night. Fifteen minutes later he turned the lights off and propped himself up in bed. He wasn't tired enough to lie down, and a glow from the city filtered through a crack in the drapes. His vision blurred some, and he felt his eyes close. As they did, a memory drifted in. Laura and him in their early days, back when they were still in college. They'd both been vocal about their faith, committed to God, determined to stay pure until they were married.
It was the reason they'd walked down the aisle when Laura was just eighteen, barely out of high school. Eric had been working on his master's degree back then, and money was scarce. When his parents arranged for them to live in Eric's aunt's guest house, he and Laura jumped at the chance. The place was small, two hundred square feet tops. It smelled old and musty, and they called it “the bunker.” When they weren't asleep or in class, they spent most of their time sitting outside on a weathered picnic table, him playing his guitar while they sang and talked about the future.
Back then life was simple. The memory Eric could see now was from a night like that, crickets keeping time in the distant background and a canopy of stars sparkling overhead. He could see himself, finishing whatever song he'd been singing. He set the guitar down and leaned closer to Laura. “I love to sing.” He'd brought his face closer to Laura.
“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes. “I love to hear you.”
“Know what else I love?” He'd leaned in and traced the outline of her lips with his finger.
“The bunker?” she giggled, wrinkling her nose in a way she never did anymore.
He waited until her laughter faded. Then he framed her face with his hands and gave her a kiss that was both long and unhurried. When he drew back, he let his forehead fall against hers. “No, crazy girl. I love being with you. Everything about you.” He eased back some and his eyes locked on hers. “I love you, Laura.”
And suddenly the memory was playing out before him as clearly as the scene from the restaurant earlier that evening. Yes, there it was … Laura's eyes had sparkled like the stars above them. Like the eyes of the woman in the restaurant. The memory blurred some, and Eric forced himself to think. What had happened next? Something important, wasn't it? Something he'd thought about often after that night until … until their baby girl died and life somehow fell flat. Until some point when it had stopped being important.
He opened his eyes and stared at the dark hotel ceiling. Gradually, the rest of the memory returned, and he closed his eyes again. Laura had stood up and made a small, slow circle, glancing at everything around her—Eric … his guitar … the picnic table … the bunker … even the cracked cement patio where they'd spent so many evenings.
“What're you doing?” He'd been amused by her actions.
“I'm taking it in.” She leaned her head back and breathed in deep through her nose. “Every single detail.”
“Of this?” Eric had given a short laugh. “This is nothing.” He stood and caught Laura in his arms. “But one day, Laura, one day I promise you'll have it all.” He studied her face. “You'll live like a queen, the way you deserve to.”
Laura had only smiled at him. “You don't get it, do you?”
“What?” He'd searched her eyes.
“I already do. No matter how much money we make when we're older, all I need is you, Eric. You and God.” She took another slow breath, as though she were trying to bottle the moment deep within her. “Nothing in the world could make me happier than I am right now.”
The images in his mind faded, and he opened his eyes again. Instinct turned his head to the clock on the nightstand. It was after midnight. He'd be going on fumes all day tomorrow if he didn't get some sleep. Yet as he lay there, still the memory haunted him. And in that moment, still groggy from the wine, his conversation with Murphy cam
e back to him. The one about power and money and success.
How had those things replaced what he and Laura had shared that night outside the bunker? And why had he stopped playing the guitar? The soft refrains had comforted him back then, mingling with the evening breeze and giving him the sense that all was right with the world. Playing the guitar had been one way he could slow down, focus on God and the people in his life and not just the tempting, all-consuming notion of getting ahead.
That was all that mattered to him these days. Eric blinked and rolled onto his other side. Was there anything wrong with that? With thinking and acting differently than he'd done a decade earlier?
It wasn't that he wanted to forget about physical or emotional love, really. It was just that there wasn't time for those things. Back when he and Laura first married, they'd had all the time in the world. That had changed as the years went by, and it didn't make life better or worse now. Just different. Anyway, love could wait; Laura wasn't going anywhere. She and Josh would be around when he was finished climbing the ladder and slowed down some. Either when he took over for Grant or sooner, if they picked up the right accounts.
In the meantime Laura didn't want for anything. In fact, these days if she stopped and looked around the way she'd done that night at the bunker, she'd see that he'd more than made good on his promise. A Cadillac SUV in the garage, five thousand square feet of custom home in the nicest area of Westlake Village. An in-ground pool and daily maid service. Memberships to all the right clubs and, for Josh, enrollment at Westmont Academy, an elite private Christian school.
Laura might not be perfectly happy, but one thing was certain: She lived like a queen.
The fact was enough to ease Eric's mind. In a matter of seconds, his eyes closed once more, and he could feel himself drifting off to sleep. He comforted his conscience with one last fact before he dropped off. The hours he put in at work were all for Laura and Josh. And love? Love would come later.
They had all the time in the world.