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“Okay, Miss Thing. You beautiful, long haired, high-cheekbone-having, sophisticated, successful, thick-lipped melting pot you,” he teased. “You’re certainly rich, though.”
“Excuse me, Miss Winston. Mr. Ray, the postman just dropped off the mail.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder. “You see that tray on my desk with the sign that reads Mail Here? Why don’t you drop it right there?” he asked sarcastically.
“Oh... Okay.” The young lady turned and hurried off.
“Thank you,” Kathleen yelled after her. Her eyes bored into Gilbert. “Really?”
“What?”
“Why are you so rude to that young lady?”
Gilbert shrugged. “She’s an intern.”
“And you’re acting like a mean girl. Stop it. It’s not a good look.”
“Fine.” Gilbert rose from his seat. “I’ll go buy the child a cookie or something. Speaking of buying things, when are you going to give me one of those black cards of yours and let me buy you some better chairs? Something nicer than these fake leather things you’re forcing your guests to endure. Better still, a whole new office set for us both.”
“This is a government office. We have to accept the furniture they already provided us. So deal with it.”
“At least you get to fix your office up with a few antique knickknacks and those beautiful and costly contemporary artworks that grace these ugly walls while I’m stuck out there in a world full of gray.”
“Oh please, talk about knickknacks. Your colorful accessorized cubicle brightens up the whole floor,” Kathleen complimented him, smiling.
“True. I do love all the colors in my rainbow flag.”
Kathleen laughed. “That you do.”
“What were we talking about?” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “Oh yeah, the fact that you’re rich and still hiding it.”
“No, we were talking about what Simpson did, and my father’s rich,” she corrected.
“So what do you call that mega trust fund you got when you turned twenty-five or what you’ll get at thirty?”
“My father’s legacy...not mine,” Kathleen stated expressionlessly. Her cell phone rang, and she looked at the screen. “Speaking of which...”
“You talk to him. I’m going to make a coffee run. Will you be having your usual?”
“Yes, thanks.” Kathleen answered her phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Kathleen. How’s my beautiful daughter?” he asked in his native French.
“I’m fine, Dad. How are you?” she replied in English. The phone fell silent, but she could hear background noises, so she knew what had happened. Kathleen repeated her statement and question, only this time in French.
Kathleen’s Creole father was from the North American island of Sint Maarten. Along with her mother, the product of a Caucasian and Afro Caribbean relationship, he raised their children to speak both French and English. However, her father preferred that they converse using his native language.
“I just want to confirm that I’ll be picking you up tonight at your sister’s place.”
“We talked about this, Dad. I have a lot going on at work and I really can’t afford to—”
“What? Take a little time out to celebrate your mother’s legacy and help raise money and awareness for her foundation’s mission?”
“That’s not fair, Dad. Of course the work of our foundation is important. But so is my job. I’m helping to ensure others don’t have to go through what we did.”
“And I’m proud of you for it too. Yet you have a responsibility to your family as well,” he reminded.
Kathleen sighed. “Well, it looks like my workload has just lightened a bit, so yes, Dad, I’ll be there.”
“Good. Make sure your sister is on time. You know how she can be and I hate being late,” he stated, his voice firm.
“Yes, Dad. We know. We’ll both be ready when you get there.” Kathleen heard her boss’s voice before he appeared at her door. “Dad, I have to go. Love you, and I’ll see you later.”
Simpson stood in the door with his hands in his pockets. “The French language is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed.
“You didn’t have to end your call on my account,” he stated as he entered the office.
“Are you all right, Mr. Simpson?” Kathleen frowned. His gray suit was a bit wrinkled; he could use a haircut and he looked like he needed a nap.
“I haven’t been getting much sleep, and I’m not feeling well.”
“Maybe you should go see a doctor,” Kathleen suggested.
“I’m on my way now, but I wanted to tell you that I think you’re right.”
“About the Kingsleys?” Her eyebrows snapped to attention.
“Even though all the allegations of wrongdoing by the Kingsleys and their company have been proven false, and Evan Perez, the man behind the false narratives, is behind bars, this most recent accusation didn’t appear to come from anyone Perez hired. I still can’t believe he thought he could get away with trying to ruin the Kingsleys, who were basically defending themselves from his many attacks. He was the one who started their war in the first place,” Simpson offered, shaking his head and taking a seat.
“No, it did not. Mr. Silva seems credible and is not a part of some big conspiracy,” Kathleen stated with conviction. “His only concern is about the safety of his fellow employees and ensuring their company has competent leadership.”
“Yet how can we know that for sure?” Simpson challenged.
“Because he’s still around. He didn’t pull his complaint, and he’s very specific with his concerns too.”
Simpson nodded. “That’s true. Yet his motives aren’t completely unselfish.”
“Fine, he has stock options he wants to protect against bad management. There’s nothing wrong with that either. He claims the Kingsleys are putting their employees in danger because they changed leadership to someone inexperienced and inappropriate who altered policies, and their safety practices now don’t follow OSHA standards. He states these changes are putting people at risk. That’s reason enough to do an investigation. The man didn’t even ask for confidentiality.”
Kathleen remembered the detailed and painful explanation of how her mother’s former employer had exposed her to dangerous chemicals, causing her to contract such rare cancers. It had been hard to take. Hearing Mr. Silva’s concerns made Kathleen wonder what might have happened if someone from her mother’s company had spoken out against the poor conditions in which they worked. The desire to make someone pay for what happened to her mother fueled Kathleen’s desire to act. Her need for revenge became a lifeline, a reason for her to keep breathing every day. Kathleen was determined to make sure no other family would go through what they had. The Winstons lost their matriarch within a year of that conversation.
“How long has he worked for the Kingsleys?”
Kathleen reached for the file that sat on her desk. “Let’s see.” She flipped through the pages. “Ten years.”
“It’s only one complaint, but all things considered it would be prudent to do a cursory and very discreet investigation at least. With everything this family has gone through we have got to be careful.”
“I can do that,” she promised, clapping her hands. “Be discreet and careful, I mean.”
“I’m serious, Kathleen. You have to go in under the radar and if—and that’s a big if—you find anything, then we will bring in the cavalry. I know you’re a professional, but you have to make sure your personal feelings and family history of dealing with bad chemical companies don’t interfere with you getting the job done...the right job.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Now, how do you propose to do that?”
“I can go in as one of our policy trainers. Offer them our free services. That always works and will give me access to one of the areas he’s complaining about too, not to mention free rein with their staff.”
Simpson shook his head. “They train their people themselves. Hell, we even sent some of our trainers to their sessions.”
Kathleen tapped her fingers on the desk. “They don’t have the new regulatory updates yet. I could offer to go in specifically to talk about them and help update their training materials.”
“That might work, but I still need to sweeten the tea.” Simpson reached into his pocket, pulled out a Kleenex and wiped his forehead.
“‘Sweeten the tea’?” Kathleen held back her laughter. She always found Simpson’s use of colloquialisms amusing. “Why?”
“The Kingsleys have been through hell this last year, and if we’re wrong we both could be out of jobs,” he informed her, concern written all over his face.
“I’m not wrong, and if I am, I deserve to lose my job.”
“Easy for you to say, Kathleen. You’ve been here seven years, and you come from money. I put in over fifteen years at this agency, and I can’t afford to lose my job,” Simpson stressed.
Kathleen came from around her desk and leaned against its edge in front of him. She reached for his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “You won’t. I promise. Mr. Silva has no connection to Mr. Perez. There have been a couple of recent changes in their senior management team and policies that have been altered that raised a few eyebrows in the industry. All these changes could be legitimate, but we won’t know that for sure unless we check into it. Now how do we sweeten the tea?”
“I’m going to offer our services as a form of an apology for all the false accusations they’ve had to endure from government agencies as a whole. Show it as a positive PR move on both our parts.”
“Do you think that will work?” Kathleen asked, feeling hopeful.
“I guess we’ll see.” Simpson stood. “I’ll let you know after I give their company’s chairman of the board and family matriarch, Victoria Kingsley, a call on my way to the doctor’s.”
“Great. I hope you feel better.”
“Talk soon,” Simpson said, walking out the office.
The moment the door closed, Kathleen stood in the middle of her office and did a happy dance. “I’m coming for you, Kingsley.”
Chapter 2 (#ua6d577af-6ea2-5bd9-8aca-d2027141437c)
Morgan Kingsley, the twenty-nine-year-old VP of field operations for Kingsley Oil and Gas, walked into the plant’s cafeteria, rubbing his hands together with one thing on his mind: food. It was a room designed to make the Kingsley employees feel at ease and have a sense of home. With all the hours they all spent there away from their families, the Kingsleys felt the least they could do was make sure their employees were comfortable doing their downtime.
He walked into the brightly lit tan-and-white room, which offered various types of wood-and-steel tables paired with large cream leather folding chairs, to find his plant manager, Adrian Jones, standing in the buffet line.
“What are you doing here so early on a Friday, boss?” Adrian asked.
Morgan picked up a tray and plate and surveyed his choices. “I’m about to have breakfast.”
“I can see that,” Adrian replied, accepting a plate with an omelet from one of the craft service members.
“Lately you’ve only been around for lunch or dinner.”
Skipping the special-order omelet line, Morgan filled his plate with eggs, bacon and pancakes. “Yeah, well, now that all those bogus investigations are over and that bastard Perez is behind bars, I can stay at my own place here and come right to the plant every day and enjoy some of the best breakfast in town.”
After spending a few moments at the juice-and-coffee bar, both men made their way to a vacant table. “Cool,” Adrian replied, pouring syrup over his stack of pancakes. “You’re wearing overalls and work boots. Where are you working today?”
“Maintenance is shorthanded, and I don’t want my welders falling behind.” Morgan reached for his glass of juice.
“I can pull a couple of people from the south bins to help out.”
“That’s not necessary. Ernest and I can handle it.” Morgan popped a piece of bacon in his mouth.
“Someone call my name?” Ernest Walker, the plant’s maintenance director, asked, approaching the table, holding a tray of dirty dishes.
Adrian and Ernest shook hands. “I hear you got the boss doing some heavy lifting today.”
“He can handle it,” Ernest insisted.
“Damn right,” Morgan agreed, diving into his food.
“There you are,” a small, gray-haired woman called out as she approached the table, wiping her hands with her apron.
Morgan and Adrian rose from their seats. “Good morning, Ms. Monica,” all three men greeted. Ms. Monica, as everyone called her, was the sixty-year-old craft service manager and head chef who had worked for the Kingsleys for nearly thirty years. She was like a grandmother to all the Kingsley boys and pretty much everyone else too.
Ms. Monica was just one of the many reasons Morgan was so happy to have the Perez fiasco behind his family and their business. The plant, located just outside of Port Arthur, Texas, and their oil rigs were his safe haven. The death of his father and uncle were beyond difficult, but his extended family at their plant made growing up without them a bit more bearable.
Often, their mother’s love could be suffocating, so when she finally allowed them to spend time at the plant with a few people she trusted who weren’t bodyguards, Morgan relished those moments. The plant became his second home and he was fiercely protective of it too.
“We need to talk about the menu that nutritionist lady sent over the other day.”
“What’s wrong with the menu, Ms. Monica?” Morgan pulled out a chair for her.
Ms. Monica took the seat. “Nothing’s wrong with it. Your mother was right. Healthier, balanced diets are something we should all strive for. None of us are getting any younger, you know. In fact, nearly half the folks working have been here since the doors opened. It’s just going to be too much money buying so many organic vegetables from that company they recommended. I know where we can get everything we need for much less money. I know y’all rich and all, but it never hurts nobody to save a little money.”
Morgan laughed. “You are so right, Ms. Monica, and I appreciate how you look after us—”
“But...” She crossed her arms.
“We have some pretty solid agreements with a number of vendors. Agreements that my mother negotiated personally.”
Ms. Monica laughed. “Well, in that case, I’m sure Victoria got you a rock-bottom price.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure she did.”
“Well, I better get back to my kitchen. It’ll be time to serve lunch before I know it. Speaking of lunch, my friend’s beautiful daughter—”
“Ms. Monica, we’ve talked about this already.” Morgan helped her out of her chair. Here we go again. I really wish everyone would stop trying to fix me up. Can’t a brother just get back to work and enjoy the fact that no one is coming after us for one thing or another? “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need help getting dates.”
“I’m not trying to help you get hooked up with some hussy,” Ms. Monica said and playfully swatted at his hand. Morgan pressed his lips together, preventing his laugh from escaping. “I’m trying to help you find a nice girl you can marry.”
