There were more calls on his office line. He listened to them, but didn’t return any. Just like the others, he’d deal with them later.
He went through the mail. Pretty much standard fare, as the postal service didn’t move as quickly as telephone technology. There was a thank-you note from Amunet’s adoptive parents for his help with her service. Apparently Amunet had spoken highly of him when she’d finally come home to New York.
Had that been before or after she’d decided to take her life?
There was an invitation to give an address at the 61st Annual International Builders’ Convention and Exposition in Orlando the following January. It was easily the world’s largest annual construction trade show, for home as well as commercial builders—and under normal circumstances, Blake would have accepted the honor proudly.
But could he? They needed a response by early next month.
He dropped the invitation in the teakwood box on a corner of his desk to look at again in another week or two. Not that he’d have any better idea than he did now whether he’d be a free man in January of next year.
Blake’s computer beckoned. While he had a staff of talented architects, there were some design jobs he still took himself. It was the part of the business he loved best.
And that library project had been calling to him all week. This afternoon, all distractions aside, he intended to lose himself in trusses and structure and yet-to-be developed aesthetics. If he could sustain the drive, if the work could keep the demons at bay, he’d work all night.
But first, there would be e-mail. Since he did far more communicating electronically than by phone or post these days, he expected there’d be a lot.
He pushed the power button and waited while the machine booted up. It never ceased to amaze him that no matter how much he invested in computers, how much faster each new version worked, it never seemed fast enough for long.
That, he supposed, was why the leaders in the computer industry were so rich.
A noise sounded in the outer office. Blake glanced over, on edge. Expecting to be there alone, he hadn’t shut his door.
If it was a reporter, come to hound him…
“Sir?” He recognized Lee Anne’s voice just outside his door.
“Yeah, Lee, come on in,” he called, relieved and yet not. Lee Anne had a family to feed single-handedly. Could she afford to wait around to see whether or not she still had a job after July?
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Ramsden,” she said, coming in a little hesitantly. He’d never seen her in jeans before. A sundress once, at a company picnic the previous summer. But never jeans. They made her look younger.
“I just wanted to bring you this.”
She placed a decorated gift bag on his desk. “See you Monday, sir.”
“Thank you,” Blake called to her retreating back. And then he realized that he had no idea if there was anything to be thanking her for.
Still, in all his travels and studies and experience, he’d never heard of anyone quitting with a gift bag.
Curious, he pulled it closer, surprised by its weight. Underneath a wealth of white tissue paper, he found a triangular frosted glass paperweight. Inscribed in the center of it was his favorite quote from nineteenth-century author, songwriter and motivator M. H. McKee: Integrity is one of several paths. It distinguishes itself from the others because it is the right path, and the only one upon which you will never get lost.
Blake stared for a long time and then placed the paperweight in the center of his desk, where he would see it every time he looked up.
The ocean-scene screen saver he’d chosen was scrolling through scenes. Tapping an arrow key to stop it, Blake settled in to work. He opened his e-mail software but before it could download his messages, there was another sound from outside his door.
Stu Walters, his chief accountant, stood on the threshold. “Just had to leave this,” he said. Walking in, he set a small wooden box on Blake’s desk, and left. Blake glanced down and inscribed on the lid he read, The man who fears no truths has nothing to fear from lies. Sir Frances Bacon.
Bailey Warren, a talented young architect who’d been with Blake since college, was next. He brought a glass letter opener inscribed with words from someone named Jim Stovall. Integrity is doing the right thing, even if nobody is watching.
Melinda Nelson arrived just as Bailey was leaving. She was from Contracts. She left a water globe of a boat on the ocean with an inscription on a gold plaque attached to the block of wood that held it. From Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Our own heart and not other men’s opinions form our true honor.
His full-time construction attorney, Fred Manning, gave him a promise of full support and a plaque that read: Virtue, morality, and religion. This is the armor, my friend, and this alone that renders us invincible. Patrick Henry.
An hour later, Blake was sitting there completely bemused, speechless and dangerously close to blubbering like an idiot. He’d seen more than twenty of his hundred employees, many bringing gifts from groups of others. On the desk in front of him was seemingly every size, shape and design of plaque, wall hanging, paperweight, letter opener, caddy or other office gift, every single one of them inscribed with messages about integrity.
Character is the accumulated confidence that individual men and women acquire from years of doing the right thing, over and over again, even when they don’t feel like it. Alan Keyes.
Blake had never heard of Alan Keyes, but he felt a great fondness for him.
As he sat there, taking it all in, a quote from Molière caught his eye. If everyone were clothed with integrity, if every heart were just, frank, kindly, the other virtues would be well-nigh useless, since their chief purpose is to make us bear with patience the injustice of our fellows.
And there was the one he came to again and again, given to him by the group in the mailroom. A Chinese proverb. If you stand straight, do not fear a crooked shadow.
They forgot just one.
I am a very lucky man. Blake Ramsden.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, when Juliet and Mary Jane would ordinarily have been taking Marcie to the airport for her flight back to San Francisco and the drive to Maple Grove, Marcie and Juliet took Mary Jane, a blanket and a picnic outside to the beach, instead.
The day was deceptively perfect, a balmy seventy degrees, sun shining brightly.
“How come you don’t have to go back today, Aunt Marcie?” the girl half called over her shoulder, skipping along in the sand in front of them. It was a private stretch of beach, open only to the home owners in the area. This afternoon, no one else was outside. Several of the cottages near them were summer and vacation getaways and frequently vacant.
“I called Tammy and asked her to take my clients tomorrow,” Marcie said softly, sharing a worried glance with Juliet, a worry the pure blue sky overhead couldn’t assuage.
Juliet wanted to tell her sister that everything would be just fine. She tried to convey that with her eyes and her smile. But she couldn’t really. Because she was worried, too, about their futures—and, at the moment, about Mary Jane’s reaction to the upcoming conversation.
At least one of the things they had to tell the little girl wasn’t going to go well. Juliet was certain of that. Just as certain as she was that she had to tell her.
Wearing denim shorts with a long-sleeved pink T-shirt, Mary Jane bounced on ahead of them, their self-appointed spot picker.
Juliet was happy to let her go. She and Marcie had talked long into the night and both were pretty sure about what had to be done. For all of them. It just wasn’t going to be easy.
“Right here,” Mary Jane said, choosing a spot in the center