carrying liquid contraband-on small dirt tracks throughout the South. Ward loved the illicit history of his legitimate business.
The crude structure that had housed Raceway Graphic's first three employees-a two- thousand-square- foot Quonset hut built as an equipment garage in 1937-had since grown into a fifty-thousandsquare- foot complex of offices and design studios, an employee cafeteria, the stock warehouse, and shipping dock.
A tree- lined parking lot in the front was for office employees and visitors while another larger one to the side served warehouse workers and delivery trucks. Picnic tables, protected by a roof, allowed employees to eat lunch outdoors when the weather was pleasant. Ward's father had personally planted a number of the trees.
Ward had hardly gotten to the reception desk when his uncle waved at him from the mezzanine stairs.
Mark Wilson, sixty- three years old, had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Ward McCarty Sr., called Wardo by everyone who knew him, had started the company alone. But after a few months, when he'd needed both operating capital and help, he had sold his brother- in- law-then a successful car salesman- forty- five percent of the company's stock for five thousand dollars. Ward Sr. had been a thoughtful introvert with no marketing or sales experience, and no interest in learning any. Mark was the opposite, and together they'd made a dynamic partnership for thirty-eight years.
Mark and Ward's father had spent most of their workdays together, as well as countless long days and nights on the road during race season, peddling their merchandise at the racetracks from a small trailer.
Wilson played tennis and golf and knew the names of the coaches and players and the rankings of every professional and college baseball, football, and basketball team in the country, one of which was always sure to break ice with both suppliers and customers.
“How was your trip?” he asked, slapping Ward's shoulder paternally. Ward had always been the closest thing Mark had to a son, and for the past few years Mark was the closest Ward had to a father figure.
“Fine,” Ward said. “Same old bunch. My feet hurt as much as my eyes.”
“Always the same. Bunny enjoyed the slots more than seeing Wayne Newton.” He lowered his voice. “How did your meeting with the video game designer go Saturday night?”
Ward smiled. “Great. I saw the beta version of Driver's Seat and even got to play with it for an hour. The accelerator and braking are perfect, but the steering and suspension controls have to be adjusted. The handling is still sort of sloppy, but it has even better graphics than I'd imagined. Unk, it's so real on the monitor I swear I could smell the tires burning when I made my way around a six- car crash on turn two.”
“I'm glad to hear it. It's going to make you rich, nephew. Beyond rich. Look at Grand Theft Auto. Tens of millions. And with the race downloads available.”
“If people buy it, it'll make us both rich.”
Mark grinned, shrugged. “RGI was always your father's dream, and I know you came in because Wardo and I needed you. The game is all your dream, kid. And the first of many, I'm sure.
“So, how's your mother?” Mark said, furrowing his brows.
“No change,” Ward said. “At this point that's real good. She still thinks I'm my father.”
“I'm sorry, Ward. Hey, Bunny is excited about spending next weekend with you guys. My gal loves the spa, and it shows. Am I right?”
“What?”
“Next weekend. In Asheville at the Biltmore Hotel.”
“Sorry?” Ward asked, tilting his head.
“You said you and Natasha would join us. I made the reservations right after we spoke last night.”
“Yes,” Ward said uncomfortably. Bunny Wilson was Ward's age and she treated Mark more like a rich elderly uncle than a husband. Natasha believed that Bunny was far smarter and conniving than she let on. After the wedding, when Ward had made a “trophy wife” comment, Natasha had said, “I wonder who got the one for first place.”
Mark had met Bunny at the Speedway Club, where she'd been a bartender who'd spent her time flirting, mostly with men who should have been old enough to know it was their bankbooks that she found attractive. Natasha resented the fact that Mark and his wife of twenty- four years hadn't had children only because Mark hadn't wanted any. So naturally, when he left Ward's aunt because Bunny was pregnant with his child, it pissed Natasha off. Women took intimate betrayal personally. A week after Mark proposed and set a certain date, Bunny suffered a miscarriage while visiting an old friend in San Francisco. When Ward told Natasha that Bunny had lost the baby, she shook her head in amusement. “Surprise, surprise,” she said. “Imagine how she'd have looked pregnant in a wedding gown.”
Ward had never been close to his aunt Ashley because she'd openly resented the fact that her brother hadn't made Mark an equal partner in RGI. She had believed that Mark deserved to own the majority of stock in the company because he did most of the “real” work. And Ashley McCarty Wilson had acted as though she was somehow superior to Ward's mother in every way. When they were together the tension was palpable, but Ashley had been kind to Ward and Natasha and had spoiled Barney with expensive toys and lavished him with her attention. Since Barney's death she had all but stopped communicating with Ward and Natasha. Ward supposed it was because she couldn't face being reminded of her only nephew, and because Ward loved the man she now hated.
“I'm going to give you help with your golf game next weekend while the girls bond in the antique shops,” he added. “You need something to get your mind off work.”
“I don't have a golf game,” Ward said. “I'm surprised the PGA hasn't asked me to sell my clubs.” Ward decided that he would wait a day and tell Mark his wife had surgeries scheduled, or some such excuse. And, truthfully, he didn't believe Bunny actually wanted the four of them to spend a weekend together any more than Natasha would. “I still have to run next weekend past Natasha,” Ward said.
“You didn't clear it with her?”
“She was already asleep, and she was gone when I got up. If she has conflicts, you guys will understand, right?”
Mark looked disappointed, and Ward felt the way he always felt when Natasha refused an invitation to be with Bunny.
Ward went up the stairs. Checking his cell phone's log he saw that Mark had called him at ten- thirteen the night before. They had talked for eleven minutes. And Ward did not remember it.
TWELVE
Leslie Wilde had worked for RGI for two years and had been Ward's secretary for fourteen months. Anna Bost, who had been his father's secretary was seventy- eight when she'd finally retired and moved to a condo in Charleston. Leslie had been the first applicant. She was bright, efficient, attractive, and quick- witted, and since she already worked for the company and had a reputation, he'd hired her.
Leslie was busy at her computer terminal when Ward entered her office, which was just next door to his.
“Good morning, Leslie.”
“How was the trade show, Mr. McCarty?” she asked him, smiling.
“Busy,” he told her.
“I put the order sheets on your desk,” she said. “I also have a stack of letters for your signature, and the new inventory report. The calls you need to return ASAP are on yellow Post- its, the should-be-returned-at-your-earliest on blue, and the standard sales calls on green. No personal calls.”
Ward had resisted installing an automated messaging system because he hated listening to a recorded voice and punching numbers to navigate to an actual person. He did have voice mail, but Leslie always asked the caller if she could take a message, or if they wanted to leave a message on Ward's voice mail. Most left a message with her, which further reinforced his belief that given a choice, people preferred to interact with living, breathing humans. Please listen carefully, as our options have changed. Please press one because we're insensitive assholes who are too cheap to hire an employee to answer your call.
“Very good,” he said. “Listen, Leslie. There's something I want to mention. If a young lady calls to ask for a
