place. He blamed her for the vacations that suddenly were cancelled and he and Angie were sent to Aunt Judy's for several weeks in the summer without explanation. He blamed her for the divorce that ripped the family apart, and making the children choose with whom they wanted to live. Paul remembered his father saying that the girls were forever "ganging up" on the boys, meaning them.
This was almost too much to process.
How? Why? Why now?
His mother.
His heart ached.
He let an anguished exhale leave his body as his eyes settled on the dashboard clock and numbly watched the colon between the two-digit numbers flash.
"Timmons!" Paul shouted so loud it scared a woman who had just walked past his car.
Apologetic, he gave her a quick wave and managed a weak smile as he started the car and in seconds pulled out into heavy mid-day city traffic.
Rendezvous was only seven miles away, but, he couldn't let Timmons wait and...
As he snaked from lane to lane, he angrily hit the open palm of his hand against the steering wheel as he encountered not a first, not a second but a third red light in a row. A truck driver next to him looked his way and he ran the same hand through his dark, wavy hair. Traffic.
Into the Szechuan restaurant parking lot, Henderson found a spot, pocketed the glasses and all but ran inside the single-story fine dining establishment noted for its fancy cuisine.
The hostess did a double take as he bolted through the door and stopped short only to fix his tie and run a hand through his hair.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'm here to meet with Timmons...uh, Robert Timmons."
"He's over here." Henderson followed the hostess, a pretty girl of about 25, and walked toward the small table near the east windows. His focus was not on her svelte figure.
Mr. Timmons stood up as he approached and they shook hands. He stood above six foot, his head full of salt and pepper hair and he had a full mustache. The hostess smiled to them both and said, "your waitress is Kia and she will be with you shortly."
Timmons nodded and Paul uttered a quick, "thanks" and they both sat down.
"You okay, Henderson?" Timmons asked as Paul scooted his chair up closer to the table. He knew his heart rate was up, and the place was a damned hot box. The black and red decor seemed to accentuate the heat he felt.
"I'm okay," Paul said, offering him a quick smile. He was trying to catch his breath.
"I don't know," Timmons said, his brows coming together. Paul had met him only a couple times over the years but he never gave the impression of truly caring about his contractors. Like Paul's father, he was all business, strictly business. Or so he thought. "You look like you just ran a 10K or..." he leaned closer, "you're having a heart attack."
Paul took a sip of ice water from the tumbler that had already been delivered to the table. It ironically enough was half full.
Water? Christ, he's been here awhile.
"Never mind me," he said, "I apologize for being late."
"Have some water," Timmons urged as he pushed the clear tumbler closest to him even closer.
Paul took a long slug of water and sat back against the chair, only to sit straight upright again. He had to make a good impression, while Price and Rowe may not have had his "timing", he didn't have a signature on the dotted line, either. Not yet.
His father had told him over time, "never count your chickens until they're hatched." and "a deal's not good until the ink is dry."
"I'm okay. It's just that I've just had an eye opening experience."
"I'll say. You look like you're in shock."
Shock? That's was a mild term.
"I dealt with your father years ago, I feel good about this," Timmons spoke but his words became tangled in the images that rushed through his mind, like a torrent of flood water uprooting everything in its path.
His father.
Paul cleared his throat, he desperately needed the contract. The money would mean their doors would remain open, the business wouldn't have to close. The employees wouldn't have to be forced out.
"Mr. Timmons, I appreciate this opportunity," Henderson said, his voice stronger, his focus more on point.
"No matter. It's product that I want, and quality. I know your team can do it for me."
Paul nodded and gave him a smile, "Yes, Sir."
"Where's the contract then? I wasn't planning on eating."
Business. It was always business. Paul felt his stomach twist as he opened the envelope and extracted the contract. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, to focus on...business.
Timmons eyed Paul again from across the table, "are you sure you can handle this?"
The visions relentlessly flashed in his mind as Paul mopped his brow. Paul had a hard time sitting still. Paul straightened abruptly in his seat, "Yes, sir. It's just that..."
"What?" Timmons said, his mouth set firm.
"I just found out my mother's in the hospital, she's not doing well."
In what had to have been a nanosecond, Timmons' rigid lines, softened. His shoulders slumped a little and he tipped his head down. No longer looking like the gruff hard ass that was known to swallow contractors whole, he looked positively apologetic. And more than that, respectful.
Gossip had it that a near fatal heart attack had nearly killed him but that hadn't changed his reputation. He continued to be painfully perfectionistic and difficult to please. Some, privately, had hoped that he would have met his maker on that fateful afternoon, but God, obviously had other plans.
Paul knew his reputation but if he could actually win a contract from him, not only would it benefit the company, it would give them a wealth of marketing possibilities just by using his name.
"What are you doing sitting here then?"
"Business...," Paul began and stopped, "my father, he started, we...need the contract."
"Business," Timmons' said, his voice raised, this time irritated. "I know your business has been struggling, and I knew your father, he left all of this to you."
Paul nodded. It was more like he threw me into this when he became too ill to work. Couldn't work but he always had a beer in his hand..
The thought coursed through him and gave him a chill. Memories.
Paul remembered the day when he had to turn his back on being a commercial pilot.
He had sacrificed so much on his father's behalf. Defended him.
What else had he hidden from him? Was this even the truth?
"But, while I may be a sonofabitch in business, my family takes priority." Timmons had said as Paul's focus returned to the man across the small table from him.
Family, a priority? Really?
"My father didn't so much," Paul confessed.
"Frank, he was...hell, I didn't even know he had a family until after he died."
Only then did Paul remember seeing Timmons seated in the last row at the funeral home. He had come for the service.
"Listen, this ol' ticker just about gave out on me," he tapped his chest with two fingers. "You'd think that would have changed everything." He simply shook his head. "Then my Dad died." Timmons clasped his hands together and studied them, "I never had a chance to..." Timmons' allowed his voice to trail off, as his gaze shifted past him. He was lost in a momentary memory of his own.
In that briefest of moments, Paul saw Timmons' humanness, his vulnerability, his lament.
Steadfast, Paul said, "Mr. Timmons, ...I have a responsibility...," Paul started haltingly, "to my employees," and reached for the contract.
Timmons snatched the five page agreement back and out of Paul's reach.
"Don't hand me this 'holier than thou' speech, I know you're over your head and you need me to keep you alive. You don't want to dirty your own name. Employees...my ass."
Paul felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily as the corners of his mouth went south. He felt his face flush with e
mbarrassment.
Then his eyes flicked back to his and leaned closer, his mouth set firm, "You're wasting time!"
His words made Paul jump.
"You have the contract," Timmons' said and quickly scribbled a signature across the bottom of the last page. Paul reached out his hand to Timmons as he scooted out his chair and stood. They clasped hands and appreciated the strength he felt in his client's hand. He gratefully took the contract and envelope, threw down a twenty dollar bill and was back outside in a scant minute or two.
~~~
With the new images still firmly locked in his mind, Paul got to the intersection and the red light stopped him. From this side street he could easily go left or right.
"You're wasting time!"
"You're wasting time!"
"You're wasting time!"
Timmons' voice now echoed in his head.
To whatever defenses remained, these words clinched it. As the light turned green, Paul decisively turned left, away from his business and toward St. Anthony's Hospital.