Breeding Ground (8 page)

“I wanted to ask you something that—” He swallowed fast, and stared out her window, then started again. “It's nothing new. It's been in the back of my mind for a long time.”

“Yes?”

“I feel it's time I had more responsibility. You're head of Personnel. It should come from you to Dad.”

“You haven't talked to him?”

“No! No. Not till I spoke with you.”

“It normally happens the other way 'round, don't you think? Managers inform the people who work for them when they'll be given a new position?”

“It doesn't have to in a family business. Sometimes you have to speak out.”

“Maybe. But—”

“Dad's not getting any younger, and it's time he took things easier.”

“
He
doesn't think so, I can tell you that.”

“I know he doesn't. But if he gave up administrative control, he could concentrate on engineering. That's what he likes best, and then—”

“What position did you have in mind for yourself?”

“General Manager. I've been Office Manager for five years. I'm the one with the degree in business, and yet you consult Spencer more than you do me, and he's just the Production Manager.”

Alice wanted to say,
You think design and production are less critical than the office?
But she didn't say anything. She folded her hands on her desk for a minute. Then leaned back and pulled her suit coat together, and crossed her arms across her waist. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.” Richard didn't look at his mother. He stared at the wall to her left.

“Is this you asking, or Lily?”

Richard flushed, and his narrow shoulders squeezed even closer together before he said, “I don't know what you mean,” in a higher than normal voice.

“Lily's been dropping hints for quite awhile. I get the impression she thinks I should retire too. That she'd do a much better job than I do at Personnel and Public Relations, and that running event planning at the country club palled for her a long time ago.”

“She's talented. She'd be wonderful at it.”

“I think we should discuss this another time, when we can talk in real depth.”

“I was hoping we could—”

“Blue Grass Horse Vans is a small family business, Richard. We can't promote like a big business. There're very few layers between the men building trailers and the CEO, which your father and I think is the way it should be. Opportunities are limited. And have to be seen to be hard-earned, especially with family members. I'm sorry we can't discuss this properly now. I've got an appointment in five minutes.”

“I had to bring it up. You must be able to see that.” Richard still hadn't looked his mother in the eye, not for more than a second, and he gripped the arms of his chair again, while his soft pale face turned toward the door as though he'd rather be anywhere else. “The accounting department needs another vertical file.”

“I'll get one ordered this week.”

“Good. I also wanted to let you know I'll be taking Friday off to attend a model train meeting up in Cincinnati.”

“So you're taking a day of vacation?”

“Of course. Heaven forbid I should break the rules.”

“That's right, because—”

“It's a meeting of the whole Eastern Division of the national organization, and the presentations should be really good.” He was interested now, and easier with himself, talking about what he loved.

Alice saw it, the way she always had, and told him she hoped he had fun.

After he'd left she sighed and closed her eyes, then put on her glasses and went back to redrawing the convention booth counter, till a deep voice said, “Alice?” from just inside her door.

She looked up at her younger son – tall, broad-shouldered and smiling at her, as he sat down by her desk. She said, “You're looking pleased about something, Spence.”

“Maybe. Except you know me. Never satisfied.”

“Yes, I do.” She laughed, and set her glasses on her desk. “So what're you thinking about this time?”

“The morning meetings.” Spencer was leaning back in his chair, his strong-looking legs set squarely in front of him, his hands behind his head. “What do you think about tightening them up?”

“You think they ramble, do you?” She was smiling when she asked, smoothing the tracing paper on top of the plan as though she liked the feel.

“Yeah, I believe they do.”

“We started them when your dad and I were working here alone. Going over the mail, and what had to be done that day. But the business is so much more complex now, I s'ppose it makes sense that they'd need more structure.”

“The whole staff is in there. That's a big commitment of time and money. We could use organized agendas, and set daily and weekly goals that have actual execution deadlines. The next day results could be reported, and more goals set. Tasks that cross over between departments could get the conflicts hammered out with everybody there to discuss the details, and the long-term effects.”

Alice gazed at Spence for a minute, seeing the calm and the concentration, as she played with a colored pen. “Have you talked to Booker?”

“Dad's out with a distributor, but I will when he gets back.”

“Good. I know we need to become more professional. I can see that myself. Less ma-and-pa making it up as they go along.”

“I think that's exactly right.”

“But we'll both need to talk to Booker. He hates anything that even suggests bureaucratic constraint.”

“I've noticed,” Spence said, and laughed. “But nobody else can touch him when it comes to innovation and engineering, not in the whole industry.”

“Even our competitors have been known to say that. So what else is on your mind?”

“There is something actually.” Spence leaned forward with his eyes fixed on his mom's, and pushed his shirt sleeves up his arms, exposing three puckered shrapnel wounds. “I've decided to ask Tara to marry me.”

Five seconds of silence followed while Alice took the blow to the chest she'd been waiting for for sometime. “I don't expect she'll turn you down, do you?”

“No. Probably not.” The smile was gone, and the blue eyes were careful, as the deep voice got quieter. “Is that all you've got to say?”

“Spence, you know I want you to be happy.”

“Yes.”

“And that I've always hoped you'd marry someone who complements you, and completes you too, if that makes any sense. The way your dad and I do each other. Not in our way, I don't mean that. In whatever way fits you. It's the greatest gift you get on this earth, the right husband or wife. And I hope she's the right one.”

“But…”

“You're thirty-eight years old. You fought your way through the Second World War, for heaven's sake. It's not up to me to say.”

Spencer leaned forward, his arms on his thighs, his wheat-colored hair falling toward his eyes. “Then I guess that tells me where you stand. If you were thrilled you'd say so.”

“If there's anything I can do to help with the wedding, or to help her in some way, you know I will.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you. I'm going to tell Dad tonight. You coming out to ride?”

“Yes.”

“Alan Munro will be there to watch me use their experimental de-wormers. I think he's someone you'll like.”

“Good.”

“Mom? Is something bothering you? You haven't seemed quite yourself the last two or three weeks.”

“Nothing urgent really. There're a couple of things I think you should know. We just haven't had time to talk. Maybe we could have dinner when Booker's up in Boston.”

“Sure. Just let me know what night.”

Spencer Franklin had fifty acres of rolling pastureland on the south side of Versailles on a narrow road that meandered east from the main route to Shaker Village.

He had two horses of his own, and boarded two for his parents. And it was his lifelong love of horses, from what Alan had pieced together, that helped him make real contributions to the design of trailers and horse vans, in spite of the fact that he'd studied history instead of engineering.

Alan had met Spencer and his dad twice, though he'd only seen his mother in the hall at Blue Grass Horse Vans. But when Alan got to Spencer's a little before six he saw Spencer's mom, with a braid down her back, trotting a large bay gelding out of a patch of woods.

She brought him down to a walk, dropped her reins and leaned forward over his withers and rubbed both sides of his neck, as she walked him toward Alan across a large grass riding area, where he watched just west of the barn.

“Mrs. Franklin? I'm Alan Munro. Spencer is helping us test some de-wormers, and I'm here to see how the packaging works.”

“I thought that's who you must be. I'm glad to meet you.”

“It's good of Spence to help.”

“Spencer almost lost a horse years ago to an allergic reaction, and Bobby Harrison saved him with an experimental steroid. So Spence has worked with him ever since when whatever he's testing won't hurt a healthy horse. Ah… I see we've got company.”

By the time she'd dismounted, a red car had driven up behind Alan, but not before he'd seen the look of resignation on Alice Franklin's face, as a young woman and a little girl climbed out of the car.

Spencer came out of the tack room carrying two tubes of de-wormer, and found his mom and the woman and child looking as though there was circling going on, like dogs the first time they meet.

Spence said, “Alan, this is Tara Kruse who works in accounts payable at Blue Grass. This is her daughter, Giselle. Mom, you know Giselle.”

“I do. How are you?”

Gigi smiled but didn't answer. And Spencer said, “Alan works for Equine Pharmaceuticals. That's what I was telling you earlier, Tara, we're testing two new products of theirs. That's why he came tonight.”

Everyone made polite conversation for a minute as Tara leaned against Spencer, making it clear to everyone there that they were more than employees, or friends, and she wanted everyone to know it.

Spence's mom led her horse around the outside of the barn to the other end to unsaddle him and squirt him off with a hose, while Tara and Giselle stuck close to Spence as he led his own gelding out of a stall and put him in the cross-ties at the west end near Alan.

Spence leaned down to Tara, who was talking to him in a small high voice, and put his arm around her waist. “Why don't you take Giselle outside and go see Dad's horse in the paddock while I give the two in here their medicine? They're not going to like getting it, and I don't want Gigi to get hurt, wearing sandals and all. I need to talk to Alan too. That's why I said tomorrow would be better.”

Tara looked embarrassed first, but then irritated as well, as she glanced once at Alan. It seemed to him that she wanted to say something, but then decided not to, before she took Giselle's hand and walked out of the barn, long dark hair curling down her back, high-heeled boots clacking on the concrete, tight jeans making it obvious what her appeal might be.

Spencer said, “We'll treat my horses now, and I'll do Mom and Dad's later.”

“So you've used the de-wormers before in both types of packaging?”

“I have. Both of them are much better than the old method of tubing a horse to worm them, but neither of these is good enough. Wormer A-110 is too liquid. When you put the cardboard tube in the horse's mouth and push on the plunger, even if you cut the plastic tip so the hole is really small, it squirts out too fast and leaks out of their mouths before you can get them to swallow it all.

“Wormer A-227 is thicker, which is good, but the plunger is either too weak, or it doesn't fit right, and the wormer squirts out the back. You'll see what happens with Tracker. I'll give him the A-110.”

Tracker, who was a big dark bay Thoroughbred with two white feet, was watching everything the tall, blond-headed man he knew well was doing as though he was sure something was coming that he wasn't going to like.

Alan watched as exactly what Spencer had predicted happened. Tracker's de-wormer was too liquid. The other squirted out the back of the tube when Spence gave it to Bella, his young Thoroughbred mare. Both of them managed to avoid a lot of paste as they tossed their heads and squirmed.

“I probably got enough into them to do the job, but—”

“More work has to be done before we can market either one.”

“That's my opinion.” Spencer went on to suggest possible modifications, then asked Alan if he'd like to stay for dinner, saying he'd toss some burgers on the grill – as Tara and Giselle stepped back in the barn.

“I wanted us to go out to dinner.” Tara was looking straight up at Spencer. “'Course, Alan could come too.”

“Thanks, Tara, I appreciate it. But I've got to go see someone in the hospital before visiting hours are over.”

Tara didn't hide the fact that that was fine with her. Her chocolate eyes and straight black brows turned on Alan non-committally, her well-made mouth smiling, finally, when Spencer walked up to her again, after putting Bella in her stall.

Alan asked Giselle how old she was, as Spencer's mom stepped out of the tack room, and Giselle said, “Almost six,” as she skipped down the aisle-way, waving her arms and singing to herself, which made all three horses jump and spin in their stalls.

Spencer's mom told Giselle in a quiet voice that she shouldn't run and make a lot of noise, because it made the horses nervous.

Spencer glanced at all three women – and went back to talking about dinner. “I need to stay here, Tara, tonight. I've got chores to do in the barn, and I've got to worm Mom and Dad's horses too, and cooking here for all of us would be faster. Tomorrow we could go out.”

Tara said, “That's fine. I understand,” in a tiny quiet little girl voice.