13. Meeting with Grandfather Aims

MEETING WITH GRANDFATHER AIMS

ANDREW

It should have been snowing, with wind wailing around the eaves, and wolves howling. Or at least there should have been a dust storm with tumbleweeds hurtling by.

Instead, Ark-Ark and Grendel, two massive shaggy dogs, flank a guard in Moor Security uniform. A lovely sunset streaks the sky as our planet's star disappears beyond the curve of the horizon.

A man in Aims Corp livery with the flaming crown on the points of his collar, opens the back door of the stretch limo parked in the drive. I didn't envy the driver the contortions it was going to take to get that beast of a vehicle turned around and pointed out.

My mother's father grips the attendant's arm, and heaves himself out of the luxury car. He's gained weight since I've last seen him, and he was never a small man. He wears a silk Armani suit with satin lapels over a black silk shirt. Instead of a necktie, he wears a jeweled bolo, shaped like the flaming crown Aims Corp logo. The metal is silver in color, but I'm betting that it is platinum, and the flames are picked out in brilliant red gems.

The suit fits perfectly without a misplaced wrinkle or inappropriate crease, even though he has been traveling for hours. He shrugs his shoulders to settle the jacket, and I catch a glimpse of suspenders, even though he wears a belt with a buckle that matches the bolo.

"Well, Andrew," he booms, "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"Nothing I cannot handle on my own," I reply. "Come in and we will discuss what has brought you here to our small abode."

The old man does not sneer at the house, just casts an appraising look at what little he can see in the growing dark. "Settling in with that chippie you diddled before you went to Africa? Maybe you'll have better luck than I had getting the boy away from her."

It was going to be like that, was it? I wanted to throttle the old fool for the insult to Madeline. "I have no intention of taking my son from his mother," I say coldly, struggling to maintain civility. "If you'd had the courtesy to courier a message to me, I would have come home sooner. As it is, Ms. Northernfield has done a fine job rearing her son and taking care of both of them on her own."

"If you'll take my advice, you'll be rid of her at the first opportunity," Grandfather Aims growled.

"Memories of her warmed my bed many a lonely night," I say. "I am amazed and grateful to learn that she is real, still unwed, and has not sent me packing for the way I left her. If your goal is to remove Paul from her care, you can get right back in your fancy car, drive back to the airport, and return to your spiderweb in New York. You are not needed here, Grandfather. We have agreed to speak with you as a courtesy."

"I can see how it is," Grandfather Aims sneers. "But you'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth when you lose your medical license, your friends ditch you, and you are exposed for the traitor you are."

What the heck? I've been called many things, but traitor wasn't one of them. I lifted my eyebrows. "I am unaware that I am in danger of any of those things," I say. "But if you humble yourself enough to come in, you can explain yourself."

"Thank you," he says, his voice crisp.

As he enters, Aims looks around the living room. It seems to shrink under his malevolent gaze. He glowers at the shabby couch, grass mat, and Ikea coffee table.

"We are setting up in the dining room," I say. "Mrs. Quinn is providing dinner. She and her staff will be here shortly. Charles Emory will be here as a neutral party. He is bringing his physician with him. We also have a list of recommended specialists if you do not approve of his choice."

"Is that Emory of Spindizzy Industries?" Aims asks, a spark of interest showing. "I've tried to connect with him several times, but he always turns me down. Altruistic young fool. That's what happens when money marries down."

"I'm not sure Charles sees Kate as ‘marrying down'," I say, feeling a bit amused. "Rather, I think he sees it as marrying into one of the first families of Kansas."

Aims snorts. "Right. Married a young woman of farming stock with native blood. It is all over when a guy goes native."

Austin inserts himself smoothly into the conversation. "Kate Emory is a certified early childhood educator with a master's in child psychology and several papers to her name. She can boast some connection to the original inhabitants of this land. It has smoothed the way for several local programs supporting families at various levels of income."

"Bleeding heart liberals," the old man says derisively. "Can't believe you've fallen in with this lot. Bet they voted for the losing party last election.

"We do not discuss politics or religion when preparing for or eating a meal," Maddy says, entering from the kitchen. "Please respect the neutrality of the dinner table." Her face is drawn, and her eyes sparkle with what I suspect is rage, possibly laced with fear.

She is magnificent, a lioness defending her home and her cub. I want to go back and smack my younger self for not keeping contact. What an ass I was!

No matter. I am here now, and the old jackal will not have either of them. As for his threats . . . I am sure they are just so much hot air.

While I stood like a dolt, trying to think what the old man might mean, Madeline came over and wound one arm around my neck, leaning against me. She instantly has my attention.

"Andrew," she coos, "be a dear and reach the glasses off that top shelf, could you? The movers put them up there, and I can't reach them without a stool."

I bend my neck and kiss the top of her head. "Of course, Maddy," I say. "Is there anything else you will need that they have put out of reach?"

"The big strainer and the large salad bowl," she directs, "Mimi will want them when she gets here."

"We are having salad?" I ask, reaching up and pulling down the desired objects.

She nods. "With spaghetti squash, and herb-seasoned chicken breast. Old-fashioned apple pie with homemade ice cream for dessert."

Grandfather Aims' face lights up like a kid promised early Christmas. "Will there be cake?"

Madeline frowns. "She didn't mention cake, but I can call over and ask. I'm sure there must be a bakery open somewhere."

"Maybe one of those tiramisu things," the old man says enthusiastically. "That would go all right with pie, wouldn't it? Even if it doesn't, that's good stuff. Maybe get two, so there's plenty for everyone."

I wanted to pound the side of my head with one hand, and try cleaning out my ears. I could not believe what I was hearing. This was the infamous mafia lord grandfather who had the whole family terrified?

"Sir," one of the attendants hesitantly puts in, "Your diet . . ."

"Ah, diet be damned!" Aims swore.

There he is, the grandfather I remember. "I've got six months to live, I'm fuckin' well going to enjoy it!"

"Yessir," the attendant says, drawing back as if slapped. No doubt the man had been instructed to help Aims stick to his regimen.

"Grandfather," I say. "Has your doctor given you dietary guidelines?" I'm not fond of my maternal grandfather, but I don't particularly wish him dead. Besides, the longer he stays at the head of his corporation, the longer the time before I have to discover what he really wants and the best way to protect Madeline and her son.

Then I suppress a little grin. It is just like him to hire excellent physicians, then flout their advice. I had a sneaking liking for the old man, but no desire to follow in his footsteps.

He snorts. He's really good at it. "Of course he has. Leafy greens, skinless, flavorless chicken, boiled rice. I'm already sick of it…as if I wasn't sick already. He gives me six months to live, and expects me to eat weeds and cardboard."

"Why don't we have the meal Mrs. Quinn has planned?" Madeline suggests gently. "Knowing her, she already has your diet plan, and has created a tasty menu around it. She is a genius with food. You will scarcely know you have any eating restrictions."

"What rock did you crawl out from under, girl?" Aims scowls at her. "I'll know its diet food, right enough. I've had plenty of rubber chicken and weeds lately. I knew there was a reason I didn't want you in the family."

"Grandfather," I say firmly. "You are crossing some lines here. We are all adults. None of us are dependent on you for anything. You are a guest. I know it is a foreign concept for you, but do try to put on your company manners."

"Company manners, is it?" he sneers. "You sound just like your grandmother."

"Since I never met her, I wouldn't know," I say. "However, I do not doubt that she knew about manners."

"You came here to ask for something," I add, pulling out a sturdy chair placed at the head of the table. "Why don't you sit down and let us assemble dinner while you pull your thoughts together."

He looks belligerent as if he wants to explode, then he deflates like a football that has had its plug pulled out. "All right, all right," he says. "I do want something. I'm not sure if you can do it, but I owe it to my people not to leave them scrambling."

He sits in the chair.

"Tea? Coffee? Milk?" Madeline asks, cool as if she does not suspect him of being behind the kidnapping, as if she had not fled across the continent to get away from him. The courage of her! My admiration is growing by the minute. I want to kick everyone out and show her just how much I had missed her, and to share the fantasies that have filled all those lonely nights.

"Milk," he says. "I think my ulcer is acting up."

Grandfather was always the family ogre, giving with one hand and taking away with the other. I have no great love for him, but as I watch him slowly sip his glass of milk, I see something I'd not expected.

My grandfather is dying, and he is terrified of what is to come. And perhaps equally frightened by what his death might let loose.

The doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Austin says from the living room.

Mrs. Quinn is here. It is showtime.