Jon-Michael hesitated, then supplied, "Thorton-Byer Machinery." He was familiar with old Ben's habit of barking out barely intelligible orders. "Phone number's in Contacts."
The secretary shot him a grateful glance and located the information she needed to finish filling in the slip.
It must have been she who had called to set up this meeting. Usually his dad’s summons were peremptory demands, but she had presented it as a request, saying his father wanted to discuss something with him. And he had gotten his hopes up.
He contemplated his feet. Could the old man have had a change of heart concerning the Ben Thorton situation? Thorton's bidding practices had been an on-going battle between Jon-Michael and his father the entire time he had worked in the family business. Thorton-Byer consistently submitted competitive bids, but the actual work was rarely done on time and Jon-Michael had argued for years that awarding them the job ended up costing Olivet's more in the long run than if they had simply accepted a higher bid from a competitor to begin with. Sitting outside his father's office, it surprised him how badly he itched to get hold of the most recent bid and check it against the specs to see if Richard had forced Ben to toe the line this time. Surprised and irritated him.
He did not regret having walked out on the company, dammit. It was the only choice Richard left him. He had more drive, more plans and just plain more to offer than the old man seemed willing to entertain.
Yet if Dad is ready to bend a little on the Thorton issue, then maybe… Eyes narrowing, he looked up at the secretary.
"Inform my father he has exactly one minute, then I am out the door," he snarled, then felt like a real prince when she jumped, flushed a deep red, and reached for the intercom, shooting him an agonized glance when she fumbled it. Way to go, Olivet—you’re a regular chip off the old block.
This was such a typical ploy of Richard's—calling a meeting and then leaving him to cool his jets. A moment ago Jon-Michael had been rather amused by it and willing to play the game. Now he was no longer in the mood. He shoved to his feet.
The door to his father's office opened at that moment and Richard stood in the doorway, staring at his son with disapproval. "Come in, Jon-Michael," he ordered.
Everything in Jon-Michael stilled as his patently uncalled-for hope deflated. His face stiffening into the blank expression he had perfected as an adolescent, hands stuffed negligently in his pockets, he ambled across the outer office and through the doorway. "Hey, Dad," he murmured as his father stood back to allow him by. He collapsed into the nearest chair and propped his feet up on the corner of his grandfather's mahogany partners desk. Giving Richard a lazy smile guaranteed to drive the old man crazy, he held his silence, awaiting his father's opening salvo.
Richard regarded his only son coldly. "When are you going to quit dragging the Olivet name through the mud and come back to work where you belong?" he demanded with icy displeasure.
Well, there you go, Jon-Michael thought derisively. Did you really expect he’d admit he was wrong? "Chasing after fourteen-year-old girls would be a case of dragging the Olivet name through the mud," he said flatly. "Playing my sax in a well respected blues bar hardly qualifies as a blemish on our exalted family. As for where I belong, it is sure as hell not in a company that holds no value for my ideas, education, technical and business expertise or opinions."
"Olivet's has always done perfectly well the way I have run it and the way my father before me ran it!"
"Yes, it has. But times are changing, Dad. And if we want to keep up we have to be prepared to change with it."
"We do not need to diversify," Richard categorically stated. It was an old argument.
"The hell we don't!" Jon-Michael's feet thumped to the floor as he sat up. He leaned forward. "That is exactly what we need to do. Look at the industry, dammit. It is not improving. If anything it has grown weaker. Boeing laid off forty-three hundred people last month. They have lost contracts, which means we’ve lost opportunities. And, hell, who is to say they won't decide to expand into the production of our part themselves, if it comes to that? I would if I ran the place. I would look into manufacturing the part in-house. It would have the two-fold benefit of eliminating one more middleman from the process and keeping some of the company's own people on the payroll." He looked his father in the eye. "Boeing comprises—what?—forty-one percent of our business? Or is it even still that much, given how many plants they’ve moved out of state? We need to diversify now. It is never smart to depend on one enterprise for the majority of our income, especially if the income we receive from them is shrinking."
"Our profits were up this quarter."
"And they could hit the skids next quarter."
"If you have so much faith in your ideas' viability, why don't you present them to the board?"
Jon-Michael's smile turned bitter. "I learned a long time ago not to smack my head against brick walls."
"No," Richard disagreed with flat condemnation. "What you learned, Jon-Michael, was to walk away instead of sticking around long enough to face a problem head on."
"You sanctimonious son of a bitch," Jon-Michael said as ice lined his stomach. "You are goddamn right I learned to walk away. I got tired of being disregarded, and I finally learned to recognize a futile proposition when I saw one." He rose to his feet. "You know good and well presenting my ideas to the board is the most futile proposition of all. I am nothing if not a fast learner. You have the board in your pocket." Shoving his hands in his own pockets he looked his father in the eye. "Well, I hope you’re all very cozy together. But do yourself a favor and put a little something aside for when the company goes down the tubes. Because it will if you do not diversify pretty damn soon."
Richard smiled coldly. "Leave the worrying to the grownups, son. You can run along now. Go toot your little horn."
Jon-Michael had to consciously brace himself against reacting to his father's ridicule. He could import a few home truths about how productive he had been each day before going to Bluey’s and how capable he was of starting a company that would put his father’s out of business. But why bother? Keeping his expression bland, he said coolly, "Yeah, why don't I do that. At least I will have steady employment when you drive the company into the ground."
Then, stomach churning, he turned and walked out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him with the greatest of care. Gazing stonily straight ahead, he strode through the reception area, the barely heard secretary's farewell going unacknowledged.
Dammit. Why did he keep setting himself up to expect something different? Why did he keep coming back for the same old shit when he knew in his gut nothing would ever change? Today’s meeting had gone exactly as they always had.
Just one more unproductive conversation between father and son.
Seven
"Yes!" Ignoring the startled looks around him, Ty Holloway hung up the phone and flipped his notebook onto the desk.
Leaning back in his chair, he grinned up at the ceiling. His persistence had finally hit pay dirt.
"Marie!" he called out and looked up in time to catch the intern staring at him from three desks over. He grinned and cocked an eyebrow, making her blush. "See what you can do about getting me a flight to Seattle, will you, doll? Oh, and take care of the car rental, too. I will definitely need a car once I get there."